Vintage Portsmouth

Monday, February 4, 2002

City’s Many Remnants of History Keep It Alive

(photo of North Church painted brown)

In many a recent conversation, an idea has surfaced: History — not designer beer or cutesy tourist shops or the hi-tech business sector — is Portsmouth's primary appeal.

Disregarding the nebulous "quality of life" factors that have served as the flame to every errant moth's migration to this town, Portsmouth boasts a fascinating — though perhaps not always "becoming" — history, which, if publicized, would certainly overtake franchise marketplaces as the principal marketing tool for attracting visitors.

This is something that has almost been forgotten by our town mothers and fathers in charge of promoting Portsmouth. The battle between commerce and history ought not to be so polarized, but this fair city has in recent years opted for the New Marketplace Makeover over its longer and much less pasteurized or glamorous archive of Pre-Franchise Happenings. Even Portsmouth's recent history would make a new resident's head spin with wonder. And, if talk is to be believed, the new demographic in town is young (mid- to late-20s) and completely unaware of what preceded it in this town.

Just take a step back in time along Portsmouth's downtown business district. At one point, a mere two decades ago, downtown had a sizable neighborhood of residents who had in their midst a grocery store, a cobbler, a department store, a drugstore and many entertainment venues to choose from. This was before the arrival of the malls and the predominance of retail space all over Market, Bow, Ceres, Daniel and Congress streets. A downtown dweller could go over to the A&P, set upon The Hill, near the Sheraton, to buy groceries.

Not anymore. Downtown residents do not have a grocery store, only specialty food stores with tourist-sized pricing. A few mom and pop stores still survive; otherwise, a longer walk down the length of Islington Street is required to fill a downtowner's larder.

A large fire ravaged the old Standard Plumbing building at the corner of Market and Hanover streets, giving rise to the 100 Market Street building. I have heard that the actual building of this structure was a great pain in the arse to those next door at the historic Moffat-Ladd House — what with menacing bulldozers and heavy construction. We all get to look longer at both the historic home and the new high-rise now that a stop sign at that corner stalls the increased traffic volume.

Of course, one of the biggest changes to the downtown streetscape was the closing of the forever-missed J.J. Newbury's. Like an old diner, J.J.'s offered pedestrians a luncheonette with stools, great for people-watching and coffee-bearing waitresses, who also knew all the town gossip. One could buy a parakeet, cosmetics, curtains, costume jewelry and other necessities at bargain-basement prices. This old-timey department store was open for more than a century, and has been replaced by The Gap. Many of us recall vividly the empty J.J.'s storefront as the backdrop to presidential campaign speakers, including Bill Clinton seeking his first term.

Other long-gone downtown stores include Green's Drugstore, now the home of Starbucks. Jim the cobbler, once on Daniel Street, moved to lower Islington. Teddy's Lunch changed hands to become Café Brioche. The Kearsarge Hotel — once a nice, little eatery and music room, and before that a notorious flophouse — now houses many offices.

Dives large and small have disappeared or been renovated much like the rest of the town. The Victory Spa, now gone, was a paragon of downscale dining. The Rosa's barroom, once the most splendid live-music dive — with its bar in the middle of the room always causing a people traffic jam — was smoke-filled, noisy and featured the best music in the area. Now it is more stately, interior-decorated and a prim remnant of its boisterous old self, though the food is so sublime the trade-off is not hard to take.

The Music Hall was built during the vaudeville area as an opera house and for a time was a favorite downtown movie establishment. At one time, the North Church was a dark-brown color, painted to emulate the then more fashionable brick or stone. An old poster of the dark North Church hanging at the Athenaeum gave me pause the first time I saw it. The landmark salt pile was once a hill of coal, a fact I learned from another old photograph.

Other often-mentioned Pre-Boom relics include the topless bar, which is now the stuff of legend. Gone too are the cracked sidewalks and a city square and steeple that sat in darkness.

Of course, in mourning these vintage storefronts, businesses and monuments, one has to appreciate even more those enterprises that have endured. The ones that come to mind are Eagle Photo (though the movie house that once stood next door will always be missed), Peavy's Hardware (located on Market Street amidst a barrio of boutiques and upscale everything), Alie's Jewelry store and the barbershop manned by John and Carl on Daniel Street. Please forgive this writer for missing any others. Let's just say they are a dwindling group.

Any historian worth their salt will contact the owners of these businesses to collect oral histories about a not-so-ancient time when the city was a work in progress.

The Portsmouth Athenaeum hosted a fantastic exhibit several months ago on Portsmouth's old neighborhoods. Even for a history buff like me, the photos and information in that exhibit provided a more detailed look at this river city, and ultimately, a deeper appreciation for her evolution.

At one time, Portsmouth's neighborhoods coalesced along ethnic lines. There was a downtown China Town. There was a thriving Irish neighborhood in Christian Shores (along Maplewood and Dennett streets), a vibrant Greek community and a rather large Italian North End that was torn down in the last of the government's urban-renewal projects in the early '70s. The few architectural gems spared in this demolition were pulled across the street to The Hill, now the site of retail space.

A black community also found roots in Portsmouth. At Strawbery Banke Museum, once called Puddle Dock, a large neighborhood of Poles and Jews resided. What is now called Prescott Park was named Palestine Beach.

During the World War II years, this city was as fascinating a place as any other.

For people of my age and older who recall an elder Portsmouth, the quaint houses and cobbled streets and waterfronts evoke distinct periods of time — when Portsmouth was grand and when she was shabby. It's rather difficult these days to find these snippets of history in one place; rather, a resident often stumbles across these chestnuts of information as reward for sticking around so long.

I'm hoping that the newer, younger population in town discovers some of this history, whether it's through a visit to Strawbery Banke or the Athenaeum, or by chance. I'm hoping that the reason they're here is not because of shopping, but because of something that runs much deeper.

For those of you wondering what inspired this bit of nostalgia, I confess that by sheer happenstance last week I viewed an old Betamax videotape about Gilley's Lunch Wagon, featuring the incomparable old wizard himself. Through some ingenious interviews, the documentary brought back Portsmouth's rowdier days, days I had almost forgotten. I just wish I remembered more clearly the parade given in Gilley's honor.

Monday, February 18, 2002

The Working Man’s Lunch, Circa 1970s

(photo of Gilley’s or Seagull Diner)

Just the other day I sat reminiscing with a long-time Portsmouth builder about the city landscape of 25 years ago.

I don't recall who brought it up, but our conversation turned to what I call the contractors' lunch circuit as it used to be in the late 1970s and early 1980s. The builder spoke excitedly and eloquently about the small lunch places all around town that he and other blue-collar types frequented in what could only be described as a picturesque grub crawl.

There were many such places — from cozy diner-style shops featuring two specials a day to the no-frills, stand-in-line counters. No food-boutique shops back then in downtown; no franchises either.

By far, the best deal for the hurried proletarian on a short lunch break was the luncheonette counter at J.J. Newberry's. A melted cheese, Coke and fries — or any other grilled or fried quick foods — were the currency of this particular counter, though the icing on the cake had to be the impromptu discussions and tidbits of gossip to be had. No place has come close to offering the consumer a haven of greasy food and a one-stop shop for such other necessities as underwear, fabric swatches and parakeets.

Another quickie-lunch landmark was the South Street Market, now a wine and cheese shop positioned to match a now much more upscale South End. Way in the back of this former mom and pop store, a man used to make great sandwiches. And his skills were the stuff of underground, word-of-mouth commerce, which is to say, this joint was jumpin' at lunch time.

Many will recall Jarvis', a Market Square restaurant decorated diner-style in chrome, with Naugahyde-covered bench seats and stools that lined a long counter. At a prime location next to the old cigar shop, this spot was quite popular with walk-in diners beginning in the '40s and '50s. Another choice right in the Square was Teddy's Lunch, now the home of Cafe Brioche.

Any discussion of food-on-the-fly must include Moe's, and my friend the draftsman recalled in great detail the former locale of the sandwich storefront — three doors down from where it is now on Daniel Street, next door to the long-gone pawn shop and Szechuan Taste. The deal at the older Moe's was the waiting-in-line, shoulder-to-shoulder experience and, of course, that special Moe sauce, which elicited the same sort of ingredient-guessing as, say, Flo's special sauce up Cape Neddick way.

For a more relaxed atmosphere, similar in ambiance to Jarvis', was The Rosa. Decades ago, diners could flip through and select music from the music boxes in each booth. And Italian, says my friend, was always a good choice at lunch time — fast, hearty and not too expensive. Also within walking distance downtown was The Harbor Sandwich, located where the Thai restaurant is now.

Where would working-class heroes be without their favorite greasy spoons? The Victory Spa had to be the most vivid, though I'm told a place called Eddy's — located at Jardiniere's first address, near where the world music store is now — was a smoky, barroom kind of spot for a cheap bite to eat.

Jimmy Canty's Fisherman's Pier, a precursor to the Pier II, had fantastic river views; its owner also operated the famous Seagull Diner in Kittery, Maine. An authentic diner, the Seagull was especially popular with the after-hours weekend crowd, tired and hungry after a night on the town. It is believed that Canty sold the diner and that it is fully restored and open somewhere in England.

The working public also had a few other eateries to choose from: the infamous Emilio's on Daniel Street, Goldi's Deli next to the post office, and Gilley's, at first in the Square, now on the Fleet Street side of the parking garage.

Anyone who has lived in Portsmouth for any length of time seems to be familiar with Emilio the man, Emilio the sandwich-making, soup-ladling, pizza-baking schmoozer. The lunch time crowd gets a dose of philosophy with some good advice thrown in while they wait for their savory packets to go — or to eat at the two-stool counter. Or if Emilio misses the opportunity to talk to each customer, that customer may browse his shelves of Italian specialty foods. It is also widely known that Emilio opens whenever he wants. Often a gone-fishin' sign is all you'll see at the door — not the beret-wearing man with the quick smile and booming voice.

Goldi's was a new sensation when it opened years and years ago. Real deli and sandwiches stacked so high they defied consumption. This was the place to call ahead with an order.

And Gilley's?

Well, this old caravan is an institution, and its namesake a legend. The food was basic — hot dogs were the specialty. In the old days, the late-night fistfights were the norm as was running into the last people you'd ever expect to see, including long-lost friends and some strange characters, too. A real slice of life, now off the beaten path for many residents.

Elaine Coles Anuszkiewicz wrote in this reminiscence: "Did you know that this town used to have four movie theaters back in the fifties? The Colonial, Civic, Arcade and the Olympia. You wouldn't think a town the size we were at that time would be able to support four movie houses!

Monday, February 25, 2002

When Cinema’s Formed Fabric of the City

(movie house photo)

When ice cream soda counters and luncheonettes were the pillar of Portsmouth's main thoroughfares, the city had several movie houses, right downtown.

This was before The Mall and way before the Internet. This was when the movies were the primary form of entertainment, before television sets were as common as telephones in everyone's household.

Cinemas bearing the names Olympia, Arcade, Colonial and Civic, with bold marquees announcing films and stars, used to be part of the cityscape and an integral part of Portsmouth's social fabric.

Recalls Portsmouth resident Elaine Coles Anuszkiewicz, "The four movie houses were located in what I call the downtown area. The Olympia was on Vaughan Street, now called the Vaughan Mall area. The Arcadia was located on Congress Street. The Colonial Theater was located next to Eagle Photo and E.M. Lowe's Civic Theater was located in The Music Hall on Fleet Street.

"When I was 13, my friends and I would try to get in at the cheaper price for ages 12 and under. I think it was 25 cents at that time. We used to collect soda bottles and turn them in for cash, at 2 cents a bottle, to get money to go to the movies.

"I don't recall what movies I saw at that time. I do remember when the Colonial Theater had a movie actor, Aldo Ray, make an appearance when his movie 'Three Stripes in the Sun' was opening there in 1955.

"Another movie that stands out in my mind is 'Love Me Tender' with, who else, Elvis Presley. When that movie first opened at the Civic Theater in 1956, there was a line all the way down Fleet Street and around the corner onto Congress Street. But it was well worth it!!!! I also remember seeing 'Guys and Dolls' and the original 'Oceans 11.' "

Elaine worked at the Civic in the late 1950s.

"I think I started working the concession stand at the Civic in 1956-57. Former Police Commissioner (Bill) Mortimer was a young beat cop at the time I worked there and they used to come in to make sure everything was OK and we used to give them (the officers) a small bag of buttered popcorn. Before Walter Brooks became manager, a Mr. Caldwell was manager. It was a fun place to work; you got to see all the movies for free. The manager used to give us money to buy a ticket at the Colonial and go in and count heads to see which theater had the most customers."

Walter Brooks, a septuagenarian living in Kittery, worked in theaters most of his working life, for many decades as manager of E.M. Lowe's Civic Theatre, now The Music Hall.

"I went to a biz college in Worcester, Mass., and worked part-time in theaters, first at age 18 in The Olympia as an usher and then as assistant manager at the larger E.M. Lowe's The Plymouth. I got drafted in the Army and was stationed in Alaska as a teletype operator, but when I got out I returned to The Plymouth, and then when E.M. Lowe's needed a manager in Portsmouth I went to The Civic. Lowe's had 60 theaters in New England at the time. I was 21 years old and worked there for dozens of years. I even worked as manager for The Civic and The Colonial, which was located next to Eagle's. There was another theater in town but had already closed when I started out. It was located above Green's Drug Store (now Starbucks) in the back, but I've forgotten the name."

Brooks, the movie man for many a generation of film fans, also worked at the Hampton Cinemas and at The Strand in Dover, the latter a place of work until he retired at age 76 two years ago.

"Oh, there used to be so many theaters: The Ioka in Exeter, The Franklin in Durham; Dover had The Lyric, The Strand and The Up Town and also The Orpheum, which later became The State."

With four theaters in Portsmouth's pedestrian-packed downtown, the competition to get the newer movies was sometimes fierce, said Brooks.

"During my time in Portsmouth I saw the breakup of monopolies the film companies had. The Colonial and Olympia theaters were owned by Paramount and Joe Kennedy Sr., and these two theaters had the freshest films. The Civic had older movies.

"I remember this film called 'The Red Shoes,' which would have gone to The Arcadia but we offered $500 for the first run of the film. They were floored we had offered so much.

"Then the government came in and broke up the film companies, and film distribution went to competitive bidding for first-run films. If you won the bid you were set, but it wasn't always honest. The first bid that The Civic won was a '40s musical called 'A Date With Judy,' starring Jane Powell, Wallace Berry and Carmen Miranda.

"From that point on we took in more money; we went after the product after that."

Pausing a moment, Brooks tells the story of how he looked out the window of the Civic Theater one day to see a dollar bill floating by.

"My wife was at the hospital having our son in 1960 and I had two of the children with me at the theater. Well, we chased down that dollar and walked over to J.J. Newberry's and had ourselves hot dogs and Cokes. That counter is something I really miss."

So what kept Walter so enthralled working at the cinemas all those decades?

"I think it's being around so many people. I used to go across the street and watch the crowds of people leave the theater. Movie work is all I ever did."

Added Elaine: "I'm so glad The Music Hall is in that building. It is such a beautiful building."

Thursday, March 28, 2002

Kittery House Gave Rest

(Sinclair Photo)

In a state of "in a rush" for months now, I have not had the time to partake in the many Black History Month events around the Seacoast. That is, until I noticed a small exhibit at the Fleet Bank on Islington Street.

Taped to the wall near the entrance is a sheet of paper describing Rock Rest, one of several black-owned and operated guest houses in New England in full swing before the 1964 Civil Rights Act legislated the accommodation of black citizens at all public businesses. A guest house in Kittery Point owned by Hazel and Clayton Sinclair, Rock Rest, offered R&R to a far-flung clientele. Its most gracious customers expressed their gratitude as evidenced in the small but elucidating exhibit at Fleet Bank.

By the looks of it, we the public may glimpse select letters and photos from the Sinclair scrapbook. What an incredible display to behold: photos from a distant era filled with smiling faces at ease along the Atlantic shore or in the Sinclairs' house, letters of thanks from guests who recounted their easy days of rest and camaraderie or commented on the great food they had.

The best part for me, the one item that had me transfixed for several minutes, was a poem, neatly written in pencil by guest Owen Seaman. It is placed above a fantastic photograph of a sprawling summer house titled: "What A Day, Maine 1938."

"Between Midnight and Morning": You that have faith to look with fearless eyes Upon the tragedy of a world at strife, And know, that out of night and death shall rise The dawn of ampler life: Rejoice! whatever anguish rend your heart That God hath given you this priceless dower To live in these great times and have your part In Freedom's crowning hour; That you may tell your sons, who see the light High in the heavens, their heritage to take; — "I saw the powers of darkness put to flight! I saw the morning break!

Rock Rest is now part of the Greater Portsmouth Black History Trail, a self-guided tour of places harking back to Portsmouth's earliest incarnation as a pioneer town up to more recent times. I inadvertently glimpsed one of the BHT building markers on State Street across from The Library restaurant, which marked the spot as the site of the first burying grounds for African-Americans, many slaves, in Portsmouth. Since then, I have noticed more of the markers — at the Prescott Park wharf, for instance. I urge pedestrians to take note of these plaques: a recent archaeology of history brought to the fore for all to see.

Monday, March 4, 2002

Cinematic Recall

(photo of the Arcadia)

More movie memories were shared following last week's column on Portsmouth's four downtown movie houses.

"I enjoyed reminiscing with your column today. I grew up in Portsmouth and remember the theaters. No one mentioned that there used to be vaudeville-type performances at the Arcadia and Civic, although I barely remember them.

"The Arcadia also used to have dish night (I think on Monday or Tuesday) and they gave away dishes. I knew families who collected whole sets. The entrance to the Arcadia was in the center of the block, where the entrance to the professional offices is now, and was a wide marble staircase that went up two floors (there was a landing and some kind of offices halfway up) to the theater.

"At some point, probably up to the late '40s, when the kids' admission was 10 cents plus two cents tax (for the war effort, I think) and you could get a big bag of popcorn at Newberry's for a dime. Some difference from the $4.50 at the theaters now for a small popcorn.

"… I'm sure there are many more details that people will offer. I did enjoy the article. Thanks for bringing back some nice memories."

— Lezlye Shea

"Loved your write-up about the old movie cinemas. I am almost 50 years old and remember seeing 'West Side Story' with my older sister about 60 times. Always the bring-along. There are some funny stories with some of these just before a lot of them closed up. There was a 'drive-in' that showed all the 'B' rated, but fun, family movies that the drive-ins were always noted for. No teen-agers ever watched them. 'Jason and the Argonauts' type stuff or real silly hot-rod films.

"Well, on the weekdays just to keep the place open, they showed black & white X-rated films, though today they would be a mild R rating. The family movies always ran the previews on next week's 'Family Movies' while the steamier films were previewed only during the screening of these films. Well, we were watching 'Hercules Does Something Big as Usual,' and at the end there came on the screen all these nude people in black & white.

"They put on the wrong reel for the night. When you're 6 years old there is definitely one part of that night you will always remember. It's sort of funny. That was 45 years ago and I still laugh over it. Love your write-up."

— Tim Heady

One of Portsmouth's never-forgotten personalities has surfaced in various messages to The Public Garden – a Mrs. Emma B. Smith and her dance studio.

Writes Helena Butler of Portsmouth: "I was born and grew up in Portsmouth and remember quite well going to movies (at all the old movie theatres), especially the Arcadia. We would sneak in to the balcony of the Arcadia after my dance lessons at Mrs. Smith's Dance Studio on the third floor on Saturday morning and didn't always pay a dime."

Mary Kelliher DeBerry shared even more details about the woman with the dance studio near the Arcadia Theatre.

"The movie theater was on the second floor, the ticket seller in one of those little glass enclosures outside on the first floor. I took dancing lessons from the premier dance teach of the time in the 1950s and '60s: Mrs. Emma B. Smith. Her dance studio was on the third floor of that building. I believe the beautiful double-size dance floor is still up there. Anyway, the only way in was through the same door the movie patrons went through, past the ticket seller just next to that entrance door.

"In order to get in, we would step up and show our dance slippers to the ticket lady. She would nod and smile, and we would go in and up the three sets of stairs. So much of our lives were conducted on the 'honor system'. I yearn for those days, but fear they are long gone … Good memories are best when shared."

Thursday, March 14, 2002

North End Contains a Rich History

(Pope photo of uncle with cousins at Wentworth Acres)

In the early 1940s, Portsmouth was a lively town about to get busier and more congested. With a world war in the Pacific and Europe, the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard radically increased its work force and productivity.

Hundreds of families moved to the area and the Navy was ready for them, having instigated the building of three new housing developments — Wentworth Acres in Portsmouth; Admiralty Village in Kittery, Maine (now the government maintains only 200 enlisted housing units with streets named for famed admirals) and Clay Village in Eliot, Maine, which is also called The Project and was originally named Woodlawn Acres.

Before this, The Atlantic Corp. built Atlantic Heights for its more than 1,000 workers and their families in World War I. The Atlantic Boat Yard, located right on the Piscataqua River, constructed steel cargo steamers. With the push to meet the demands of war, private and government shipyards supplied the city with hundreds and hundreds of new dwellings, either apartments or single-family homes.

"The most amazing thing to consider is that leading up to war, the Navy built 750 units for Wentworth Acres in an incredible six months," said John Madden, who operates the 349-unit Osprey Landing, a much-renovated section of the original Wentworth Acres. Other portions of the original tract were converted into the 136-unit Spinnaker Point Condominiums and a 24-acre section was converted into an office park.

"They were poorly insulated and meant only as temporary housing. And everyone has heard about how the blueprints for these buildings were really intended for another housing project in Portsmouth, Va., giving us by mistake the poor heat-holding units while the people in Virginia got the insulated versions."

Though they may have been intended only for temporary use, the units at Wentworth Acres became a small city surrounded by woods located on the north fringe of town, near Newington. Swimming pools, sidewalks, laundry lines, a rec hall and well-established landscaping dotted the property. A nearby school, Wentworth School, sprang up.

After the war, the little enclave grew more diverse in population and profession. Working-class folk moved there, as did the elderly and young who found the rents affordable. By the late 1960s, a much worn Wentworth, now called Seacrest Village, still housed a large percentage of Portsmouth's population. An influx of new denizens arrived with the demise of the city's Italian North End in the late 1960s. This last large demolition project by the government's Housing and Urban Development arm sent dozens of families scrambling for new homes.

The ironic part is that if this spread of homes — as architecturally significant as those at Strawbery Banke Museum, as they were built at the same time and by the same shipping and merchant class building in the South End — had been renovated instead of being razed, the North End of Portsmouth would have generated a huge amount of tax revenue and added greatly to the city's eminence.

During its incarnation as Mariner's Village, improvements were made to the Wentworth property. As Portsmouth moved into a broader-based economy, an even more varied community called the development home. Couples saving for homes, college students, the elderly, single parents, employees at the entry level all found a refuge at the enormous district, circled by Circuit Road and bisected by two parallel roads — Rockhill Road and Profile Avenue.

As the 1980s boomed and the Village became a landmark in a building sprawl generated by the completion of the Market Street Extension into Newington, prosperity inevitably drove up rents, though Mariner's still offered reasonable rates to the working class. A chilling, still unsolved murder of a beloved, elderly black couple marred the neighborhood known for its large number of children. This population-dense Village captured local and national headlines when a fighter jet from Pease Air Force Base crashed into the development on a school holiday, burning down several apartments, though no one died on the ground and the pilot parachuted to safety.

When the new owners bought the property, changing the name to Osprey Landing, rents had risen dramatically and rental space became scarce. Today, the condominiums, apartments and houses where Wentworth Acres once stood are more in line with rates charged all around town. Long gone are the bargain rents, though the location affords access to major highways, a convenience not overshadowed by the nearby industrial zone and the highly congested mall district.

Thursday, March 28, 2002

Observations of a New Holiday: Café Day

(Photo of Café Petronella)

Our recent outburst of spring snow had me glancing out my office windows more than usual this week — not surprising given the universal yearning for the real spring to show its gentler side. So while dime-sized snowdrops fell from the sky, in this the last week of March, I noticed the first robin of the season under the spruce tree. Undeterred by the squall, the red-breasted worm hunter walked, tilted its head and plunged at the earth for sustenance. What a glorious sight to see: a harbinger of spring here in the midst of winter weather.

Watching the robin at work, I soon thought about how little I actually watch things outside anymore. I do have a garden, I do fill the bird feeders, but really, I hardly spend time amongst the natural world, and I can't think of the last time I sat and watched the world go by. I believe it was at an outdoor café, but that was more of a business meeting.

What I refer to is intentional idleness undertaken at a good roost unobstructed by an agenda to get something done. In other words, hanging out doing zilch, which is to say: wasting time, a huge sin these days.

In the late '60s and the '70s, leisurely lingering was a lifestyle. Then those hyper '80s showed up and everyone got into their work ethic big time. Ditto for the '90s, except now our lives are so speeded up and connected. We are the 24/7 class now.

I wager few of us actually just plop ourselves down at the sanctuary of a café for some unbridled watching. And if we did, we'd feel so guilty at not getting our shopping list of errands done that the experience would be sullied. We are increasingly validated by what we accomplish in a day over what we think, what we see, what we experience, how comfortable we feel in our own skins.

One invigorating destination in Portsmouth that also reigned supreme in the people-watching category was Café Petronella. Sure the deck restaurants along the river were fun, but often jammed, loud and very drinking-oriented.

The best experience I ever had at a deck was the day I went to meet a couple musician friends at the Ferry Landing. It was very hot and early in the day, so the place was almost empty. We talked music but suddenly stopped when a small skiff caught our attention. In it, two people dressed as Revolutionary War soldiers paddled from the river's central current and in our general direction. A third passenger was dressed as George Washington and stood in full general pose near the bow of the vessel. They were singing patriotic songs, George was holding a sparkler and the boat tied up next to where we — jaws agape — were standing. It was a spectacle I will never forget and highlights the main pleasure of lounging around — the chance of seeing something entirely unexpected. Like the robin I saw poking around in a snowstorm because I chanced to look outside my window.

At Café Petronella, patrons had a different experience. As compared to sitting in the Square, say at Café Brioche or on the bench just outside Ceres Bakery, Café Petronella did not afford opportunities for observing a lot of vehicular or pedestrian traffic. Rather, the action was entirely inside the building or out in its courtyard.

Part art gallery, part bistro, Café P. was altogether unpredictable. Oftentimes, it was quiet and so conversation prevailed at the beautiful, hand-crafted bar. Other times, it was the place to go for a drink after a long night of working at one of the city's restaurants. Weary, one could relax in a booth, sip a drink and perhaps glimpse a fascinating cross-section of humanity from those seeking a few moments rest to those on the prowl for meeting someone special. Artists, writers, poets and regular citizens of all ages and inklings showed up and in various combinations. I liked it when a biker mistakenly entered the premises, thinking he was walking into the bar next door. Invariably, he would sit and have a drink, taking in the large paintings on the walls, the Maxi Priest music emanating from speakers, the cozy tables set in a circle under the sprawling branches of a tree in the center of the courtyard, just through the French doors.

I viewed one of the most interesting exhibits at Café Petronella — that of metal sculpture by Ze Pinto and photographs by Mauricio Albano. Both artists were in Portsmouth, along with their works, as part of a Partners of the Americas cultural exchange program with Ceara, Brazil, our sister county in South America. Meeting these far-flung artists at the café, hearing about their hometowns and how they came to be artists — an exchange that took place during a fashion show in the courtyard — was a heady episode never to be forgotten. Never did I notice a cadre of the usual suspects marking out territory at the café nor could I ever categorize the patronage. It was always a toss of the dice as to who would be seen and what would transpire. The slightly European atmosphere made the café a singular spot and even though art was a main focal point, it never intruded to the point of putting off those who don't care a whit about art or artistry.

So, if the greeting card industry hasn't already invented a Café Day for us to celebrate, I heartily recommend ignoring those never-ending to-do lists and taking up some unstructured, guilt-free café-hopping to soothe away the angst of modern living and sharpen the oft-forgotten sense of observation.

Thursday, April 11, 2002

Admiralty Village: Modular Ingenuity

(Photo of Admiralty Village)

As I sat in yet another mysterious iceberg of gridlock heading into Portsmouth, I remembered an astounding number of people – more than 20,000 – worked at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in the early 1940s. Commuters from 124 communities traveled to the Navy yard, one of the largest government sub yards on the East Coast and one that would break world records in the construction and rehab of submarines during World War II.

As the work force swelled, naval housing faced a shortage, and so new Navy-built neighborhoods sprang up on both sides of the Piscataqua. In 1940, the Navy hired a contractor to build 600 units in Kittery called Admiralty Village. These units were broken down into 225 double units and 150 single homes and were, quite amazingly, built in one year.

Since so many of Kittery's prized carpenters were employed at the Navy yard and could not build the homes themselves, the Navy and its contractor decided to build the structures assembly-line style at an on-site mill right in the Village.

"There was an article written in an engineering journal magazine about how Admiralty Village was built," said James Dolph, director of the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard Museum in Kittery. "They were able to put these houses up quick and it was important and new enough to merit an engineering article. Of course, today modular homes are common, but back then it was something quite novel."

A fascinating history of this little city with streets named for famous admirals was written by Cassie Lutz, a former naval housing director at Admiralty Village, and presented in 1988 to the Kittery Historical Society. The naval housing director at Admiralty Village, Maureen Quirk, holds another small history of the community as well as a photo archive.

A copy of this research and more information about the construction of these homes is available at Rice Public Library in Kittery. The library has a nice section on local histories, including a quite touching book called "Kittery Men and Women in World War II," compiled by Jeannette Gordon Mitchell, Kittery Press, 1947. The library is located right on Wentworth Street; www.rice.lib.me.us; (207) 439-1553.

Many of the original units were sold off after the war ended, but still, that neighborhood and a few others like it, mirror those early communities of artisans and craftsmen in Portsmouth in the South and North ends who dwelled in homes that were built to support a flourishing maritime endeavor.

Another must-read tome about a neighborhood built for shipbuilders – Atlantic Heights in Portsmouth – is "Atlantic Heights A World War I Shipbuilders Community" by Richard Candee, published by the Portsmouth Marine Society.

Monday, April 15, 2002

Yesteryear’s Downtown Watering Holes

(Photo of Big Daddy’s)

Not so long ago, downtown Portsmouth displayed a quite different veneer than the upscale ambiance so evident now.

This older cloak reflected an era before a consulting firm advised that the North Church steeple be lighted as the city center and well before the emergence of Portsmouth as a culinary and arts hub. This was a time when Bow, Ladd, Penhallow and Market streets were raucous destinations brimming with dance halls and bars, a much less pretty landscape than the boutique and tourist sector we view today.

Of course, during the second decade of the 20th century, Marcy Street — then called Water Street — prospered as a notorious red light district. Full of brothels, saloons and a large wharf to accommodate the traffic of mostly sailors across the river, this neighborhood was transformed into the city's largest public venue, at Prescott Park, and a significant maritime-based museum, at Strawbery Banke.

Cycles of prosperity and scarcity have always determined the look and feel of Portsmouth, just as major city districts rise and fall according to the tides of commerce, location and demographics. An interesting way to observe this change is to look at how Portsmouth's downtown watering holes have morphed over the years.

One who remembers this older landscape of libation places is Charlie Beatty, who, in 1941, took a job at Peavey's Hardware on Market Street "just for one Christmas." Sixty-one years later, Beatty is still assisting customers at the store, which opened in 1933. Charlie said there's been a hardware store at this address for 215 years, since 1787! He also explained a Saturday ritual at Peavey's.

"We worked from 6 to 10 every Saturday night, though we didn't get paid for it. We were given 50 cents for our supper. So I'd head over to Gilley's at the church in the square and for my 50 cents I'd get two hot dogs, a plate of beans, three slices of bread and milk."

On tiny Ladd Street alone — the avenue that feeds into Market Street alongside Peavey's — many saloons prospered. "Bill O'Leary opened a place called O'Leary's, which was part of my back room here at Peavy's," Beatty said. "It had a bar and stools." Old-timers remember the pin-up calendars that O'Leary distributed to customers. Another Ladd Street haunt was the Union Label Club, operated by Sam Truglia.

At the store next to Peavy's, a man by the name of "George Manley opened a namesake beer joint in the 1950s," said Beatty. "He would cash Navy Yard checks, and then the fellows would stay and have a beer. He also made these great roast pork sandwiches, which he also sold right out of his window."

Another entrepreneur recalled is Joe Geiger, who ran Geiger's down on Market Street. "A guy by the name of Dave Quirk had a place, too, which later became The Forest Club. Also, at the corner of Bow and Penhallow was a business run by George Gilman, which became a leather-goods store later on." Other oases for drink included the Clover Club on State Street, the Elks Lodge on the corner of Court and Pleasant streets, and the Olympia Café, located near the Olympia Theatre along Vaughn Mall.

"In the Italian North End, a Mr. Caruso operated a beer house near the Consolidated Coal Company, a forerunner to Granite State Minerals which maintains the mountainous salt pile on Market Street. A guy by the name of Magnano had a barber shop on one side of this house and Caruso had his beer joint on the other side. When Caruso's closed, Herbie Pope took over the saloon. There was a joke about Herbie's frozen beer; we called them Pope-sickles. Another place I remember is the PRA Club."

Rosa's opened when traffic coming across Memorial Bridge increased. A place called Big Daddy's, which had a bar running the length of the main room, occupied the space now called The Press Room. The State Street Saloon was formerly Roger's Café. Rico's — and later Gator's — opened on lower State Street. The Starlight Club, also on State Street, remains one of the longest running clubs in town, seemingly impervious to change.

Monday, April 22, 2002

Tales of Daniel Street from John’s Barbershop

(Photo of John’s Barbershop)

John Russo, proprietor of John's Barber Shop on Daniel Street, grew up on that busy downtown thoroughfare, just steps from the Connie Bean Community Center. His father, also named John Russo, renovated the bottom floor of the family homestead to accommodate the storefront barbershop, which opened "the same day they dedicated the Memorial Bridge in 1923." The younger Russo began cutting men's hair at the barbershop in 1954. Recently, while cutting, trimming and clipping a customer's mane and conversing, Russo described the Daniel Street of his youth.

"We never had to leave Daniel Street for anything. We had bakeries, grocery stores, creameries, drug stores, restaurants, beer joints. There was parking on both sides of the street, two-way traffic and brick sidewalks, too. I didn't like the brick sidewalk because it made riding my bike difficult."

Russo remembers the house next door to the community center, pictured to the right of the brick building in the photo.

"That was Mrs. Berry's house, and she used to have some kind of fruit tree right out front, which we boys would rob every once in a while. And she would come out every time we did, yelling. Behind the Connie Bean there used to be an abandoned bakery with old brick ovens, which we called the spook house."

Many of the structures pictured to the left of the community center in this photo were torn down to make way for the bridge and rotary, including the 18th century two-story house seen here, which had an ell that probably contained the scullery and back entry. The flat-roofed building with arches is one of the Portsmouth-style arched carriage barns once so prominent in the region. "The house next door went in after the bridge went up," said Russo, "and many businesses started around here because of that bridge."

Other vivid recollections of Daniel Street businesses include a fireworks store run by Dad Fennerty — where Café Kilim is now located. "It was like a war zone around here," he said with a laugh. "Fennerty was only open a month every year, but that's all he needed because everyone went there for fireworks." The big community center was a central landmark on Daniel Street.

"I believe it was built as a hospital at first," mused Russo, "but in the World War II years, it was a USO Club. Marines, sailors and army guys were all over town. We kids used to pick up the coins on the street left by the guys fighting all the time." Adds Paul, Russo's longtime associate at the barber shop, "Yeah, there were so many fights in town that every Monday in the window at Jarvis' Restaurant in the square they had a sign that read: 'Closed for alterations' because some fight had happened over the weekend. There were 15 to 20 shore patrols in town on weekends."

The community center was a favored haunt of Russo and his young pals. "The gym was added onto the building during the war. In the basement, there were ping pong and pool tables, and we would sneak down there to play pool. Upstairs on the first floor there were tables for the servicemen to write letters, a snack bar, and the gym was used for dances and games. The top floor had rooms for the families visiting service men and women in town."

Explained Paul: "It was all volunteers. The VFW, American Legion, Women's Service Club all pitched in." "After the war," tells Russo, "the city had teen-age dances there every Friday night. I remember because we would go over to Hutty's on the Rocks at Badger's Island and buy beer beforehand."

Talk in the busy, two-chair shop then turned to the North End. The barbers' tales continued with memories of barrooms, barber shops in that mostly Italian enclave that had all the necessities of life within a few short blocks, just like on Daniel Street.

Monday, April 29, 2002

Believe It Or Not, Ceres Street Once Hopped

(Jazz Festival Photos, Jill Gallant)

It seems like a lifetime, but it was only 20 years ago - the 1980s. Portsmouth was in full flower and prospering mightily from a regional economic boom. Downtown was awash in businesses, banks were granting loans as fast as they could write them and the restaurant trade cemented this river city's reputation as a culinary hub.

The first week of every July a magnificent jazz festival dominated Ceres Street with multiple stages spotlighting a dazzling roster of performers with local, regional, national and international credits. Business-minded restaurant owners on Ceres Street conceived the idea for the jazz festival to increase foot traffic on the riverside alley, but were quickly swept up in the razzmatazz of hosting one of the city's premier events.

This was a time of growth in town, but still everyone pretty much recognized their fellow music lovers in the crowd. Performers such as Tiker's Baku and Rebecca Parris held hundreds in rapt attention; the Boogaloo Swamis did a memorable set of swamp music; Paul Broadnax crooned his way into our hearts; all varieties of the jazz spectrum could be heard.

But then, alas, the restaurant owners who created the fest sold their enterprises and new owners did not pick up the threads of this highly anticipated summer happening. The remnants of the Ceres Street jazz fest were saved by the Prescott Park Arts Festival, where the jazz fest has become an event arranged by the UNH Jazz Department set.

Another oft seen sight on Ceres Street in the 1980s were the magnificent Class A Tall Ships from around the world berthed near the salt pile. These statuesque, floating embassies instigated huge rounds of parties and special events in town. Crew from some of the first ships to moor on the river stayed with local families.

Some of the ships' sailors got into trouble, too. One night an intoxicated sailor from a British ship somehow got inside the plow vehicle sitting on the mountainous salt pile and drove around until his antics were spied by the police. He was nabbed and everyone in town got a big laugh out of the event.

Many a sporting event was planned around these visits including soccer and rugby matches. I will never forget one game in which the local rugby team, consisting of pick-up players in the Seacoast, played against a British rugby team from a ship. Good thing there was a nurse among the spectators, as the British players were prone to sport-mishap that day. At another game, this time soccer, I watched in shame as a local group of Marines displayed a lack of sportsmanship when playing against a team from a German tall ship. Ethnic slurs were aimed at the Germans and many of us within earshot of those comments were mortified that Portsmouth's fame as a maritime host was somehow lost that day in a haze of testosterone.

Nevertheless, having large ships of sail in harbor added a past-is-present dimension to the city's waterfront district. Peter Rice, then the proprietor of The Dolphin Striker restaurant, left this golden age of ship visits for all to see in the many photographs of tall ships in the Striker's downstairs Spring Hill Tavern. With the passing of the decade, fewer ships have stopped in Portsmouth due to a shortage of space.

The owners of the Granite State Minerals company (the salt pile) accommodated visits on several occasions, even taking financial losses when they had their own vessels wait off shore for the duration of a tall ship visit. The Coast Guard station in New Castle has hosted large vessels, as has the Harbour Place pier. Still, those days of visiting tall ships right downtown seem to be gone, and that is a loss to us all. It's good to be reminded of the city's ties to the sea and the rest of the world; it's a bit of history missing from our landscape today.

This comment from a reader responding to the Monday, April 22 Public Garden about Daniel Street of yore: Writes Tim, "Of all the things that Daniel Street had in the past, how is it possible to miss the old Power Station called Daniel Street Station? It came on-line generating DC electricity for the street cars, the hospital and a brewery. They also made gas for lights and coal for stoves. Came on line in 1902 till 1982. Daniel Street Station was critical for the war efforts, so much so all the windows were painted black as to not be a target. We fed all of the Portsmouth area Kittery, Eliot and the Navy yard.

"The building is still in use, it just doesn't have a smoke stack coming from the middle of the roof. It is at the water at the Memorial Bridge. Of all the things on Daniel Street, how could that be looked over?"

Monday, May 13, 2002

Congress Street’s Architectural Artifacts

(Photo of Odd Fellows Building)

Walking downtown one night last week as dusk approached, I couldn't help but marvel at the architectural artifacts left standing. Particularly the rows of attached brick townhouses lining Market Street, painted in an assortment of pastel colors, and remnants of the block-long buildings that once dominated Portsmouth's downtown district.

Glancing down the length of Congress Street from the corner at Market Street and Market Square, my eye was caught by the tall, brick Odd Fellows building. The structure's broad shoulders, stately façade and ornamental metal roof fence sit on a site and in a neighborhood of buildings that have always commanded attention.  

Looking back in time at the four buildings lining Congress Street adjacent to the North Church - how they got there and how they disappeared or survive to this day - offers an inkling of how real estate holdings, changing tastes and destructive fires change the urban landscape.

The lands surrounding North Church, called the Town Field, were subdivided and sold at the dawn of the 18th century. A plan of these divided lands and the owners' names are preserved in the historical record. The building that houses Eagle Photo was owned by a G. Jaffrey in 1709 and then by Hunking Wentworth in 1730. In the lot next to it stood a house belonging to schoolmaster Thomas Phipps in 1730 and later by a line of Rogers family members. This lot was enlarged by land purchased by Daniel R. Rogers, and the Rogers House on Congress Street was a reminder of the family's deep roots in the area. Next to the Phipps/Rogers parcel, Charles Treadwell owned a lot, and then on the corner of Congress and Fleet streets was the property owned by a S. Seavey in 1709, George Walker in 1730 and Cutter in 1788 and 1823.

So imagine a city block of structures - the North Church, the Hunking Wentworth House, the Rogers House, the Treadwell home, and then the lot that now supports the Odd Fellows building at 48 Congress Street. (Across Fleet Street, on the corner, a wooden structure called the Dean Building once stood, distinguished by its gambrel roof; now the lot is dominated by the monumental McIntosh building.)

The Odd Fellows edifice was built by Frank Jones after a succession of buildings and a fire made the property available.

The land was first purchased by Treadwell for a mansion given to his daughter and her husband, Dr. Cutter, as a wedding present around 1745. By 1837, the mansion was drastically renovated with the addition of a third story and gable front or peak - a Greek Revival feature, and was called the Temperance Mansion. Later still, the mansion was converted to the City Hotel, later called the National Hotel. A fire decimated the wooden structure in December 1877 and then Frank Jones built the brick, multi-story, mansard roof building with decorative arch stones and scalloped slate roof tiles.

By 1841, Rogers owned several downtown parcels and most of the block. A photo of the Rogers Building, displayed in C.S. Gurney's "Portsmouth Historic and Picturesque," reveals a structure changed over time. It shows that the original Rogers House - two stories high and six windows wide, capped by an enormous roof - has been jacked up, with a new ground-floor level of storefronts added underneath: Baldwin A. Reich Fancy Bakery and W.F. & C.E. Woods, Harness Manufactury.

In the early 1960s, a fire destroyed the building. Next door to the North Church, at Eagle Photo, a glimmer of the original Hunking Wentworth House still stands. The brother of Benning Wentworth (New Hampshire's second governor), Hunking was a patriot and the black sheep of a dynasty brimming with politicians. The framework of this 18th century building is attached to Eagle Photo at the rear of the store, though its rooms and adornments have long been removed.

Rather than dwell completely on the buildings themselves or the cycles of building projects on these parcels, it's good to remember the people who built these structures. The schoolmaster Phipps, the unlikely patriot Hunking, the real estate savvy Rogers, the generous father Treadwell who built his daughter a mansion and, of course, the grandiose Frank Jones, who made a sturdy building with "Odd Fellows" carved into its stone marker.

In Jones' Portsmouth Herald obituary, dated October 1902, it was noted that he was a member of several secret fraternal societies including the Masons, the Knights Templar and the Independent Order of Odd Fellows.

Thursday, May 16, 2002

80s Were City’s Delectable Decade

(Photo of Blue Strawberry, Strawberry Court)

No nostalgic regard or detailed chronicle of 1980s Portsmouth would be complete without a look at the many fine restaurants that put Portsmouth on the regional culinary map. Gone with the ever-changing winds of faltering economies, these grand eateries proffered gorgeous backdrops, signature cuisine, celebrity status chefs (many are American Culinary Federation Silver Medal winners) and a culinary community dedicated to bolstering the city's cache.

The Blue Strawbery, the first restaurant to set the standard for all that followed, opened on the heels of the tiny Theatre-By-The-Sea, then located on Market Street. The touchstone for the arts and food scene in Portsmouth, the theatrical group not only prompted a steady stream of visitors to town in the mid-1970s but contributed culinary talent to the restaurant on Ceres Street with the blue door. These days the same room is occupied by Lindbergh's Crossing.

Founding owner and executive chef James "Buddy" Haller and proprietor Gene Brown became household names. A person's lifestyle and good taste demanded a reservation at the culinary emporium that embodied the New American cuisine and featured strawberries for dessert. Haller's Blue Strawbery cookbook became a best seller, as did the one he wrote much later for people with chronic illness.

Chef Phil McGuire, who came to town to work as the part-time technical director, photographer and public relations coordinator for the theater, also added his culinary flare to the always-changing menu. McGuire met his wife-to-be, Varel, at the restaurant; she later worked as the baker at Café Petronella where chef Mathew Grant earned high point for his World Cuisine. Other chefs of renown from the Blue Strawbery kitchen are Burt Richardson, who went on to open the Cape Neddick Inn, and Albert Belanger.

It didn't take long for the winning combination of arts and cuisine to attract more arts activities and high-end chefs and restaurants. Another restaurant that exploded onto the scene, in 1982, was Seventy-Two Islington Restaurant. This famed dining spot was even smaller than the Blue Strawbery, but the same dedication to fine cuisine and impeccable service prevailed. Opened by chef James Miceli and William Margetts, the Seventy-Two was always brimming with customers, even at lunch time. Yes, at one time there was a flourishing fine cuisine lunch trade in town!

Business was so good that Miceli and company moved The Seventy-Two to Pearl Street and into the old Baptist Church. After a quarter-million-dollar renovation - and an architectural award for the rehab - The Seventy-Two opened with great fanfare, serving lunch, dinner and brunch to a devoted following.

The church steeple, lighted at night and emblazoned with the silhouette profile of a man and woman out on the town, was a beacon for fine dining and a major city landmark. The open dining room was adorned with chandeliers and ornate table settings, while the balconies were full of plants and another terrace held a swank bar, an area for live music and a giant player piano.

A few chefs commanded The Seventy-Two kitchen besides Miceli - James McDonald, who would later cook at The Oracle House on Court and Marcy streets and Anthony Al Dente on Penhallow, and the effervescent Jean-Louis, who learned the basics of cooking growing up in Haiti and then New York. Jean-Louis came to The Seventy-Two bringing the best of continental, Creole, haute, nouvelle and New American cuisine with him; he later worked at Clay Hill Farm in Ogunquit, Maine.

Just a few blocks toward town and Hanover Street, another French chef, Francois Roland owned and operated L'Auberge, now a Thai restaurant. Francois' wife would graciously seat patrons while the chef simmered, sauteed and stewed out back in the kitchen.

In town, The Oracle House, named for one of Portsmouth's earliest newspapers, was another magnet for fine diners. The converted historic home featured two stories of dining room space, a hidden outdoor courtyard and an old-fashioned bar upstairs. During its heyday, a couple of owners pursued the heights of culinary excellence and three chefs, Michele Duval (who would later co-own and operate the Cape Neddick Inn), James McDonald (of 72 fame) and Dennis Colligan, were integral in establishing the restaurant in a community of highly rated eateries.

Just a block west on a tiny side street, Strawberry Court enticed diners. Set in a fabulous townhouse and owned and operated by chef Doug Johnson and a partner, the restaurant captured the essence of all that was deluxe in the culinary experience. Johnson now serves as the executive chef at Rosa's, where, not surprisingly, the menu specials reflect the chef's fondness for more intricate cuisine and presentation.

For a brief time, other restaurants flashed brilliance. The 127 Restaurant, co-owned and operated by chef Peter Collins, (who wowed customers at The Dolphin Striker) and located where Molly Malone's stands, offered delectable, signature menus. At the top of Court Street, The Arcadia stepped into the limelight, but only for a while.

Other oases tantalized taste buds. Though the Oar House never quite reached the heights of acclaim other restaurants achieved, a few of the chefs working there pursued chef ownership. Stephan Mayieux opened Café Mirabelle, just a few doors down from L'Auberge, and another, Rob Lincoln, began his own food company for a while.

Christine Prunier, who worked at The Dolphin Striker, sometimes at The Seventy-Two, and other local establishments, now owns and operates the 70-seat Mediterranean bistro in Dover called Big Night. Carl Schwartz cooked at The Grille and then Guido's (now Porto Bello) on Bow Street and The Marina Restaurant at the New Castle Marina.

During this era, Portsmouth's theatrical community, along with a series of fine chefs and a fleet of waitstaff who were likely to be artists as well, cemented Portsmouth as a desirable destination.

Thursday, June 6, 2002

Hoofin’ It: From Dance Halls to Deejays

(Richard Smith Photos)

In the Richard Smith Collection - the foundation of the soon-to-open Harbor Arts Museum at The Sugar House on The Hill - one can find several artifacts from Portsmouth's musical past. Among the antique instruments, movie posters and musician journals, a small group of dance ephemera emerges in the form of ladies' dance cards, old posters announcing the latest ballroom dance and business-size cards promoting a variety of dance bands and events.

Without question, Portsmouth was the place to trip the light fantastic, to let loose the synergy of legs and arms and waists in motion with music - from ballroom to ragtime to rock and roll. The large number of events where shuffling, gamboling and prancing about were encouraged was in direct proportion to the number of musicians, bands and dance halls in the immediate vicinity. The property- or business-owners - in tandem with the music makers - offered the escape of entertainment and dance to the public at large.

In contrast, a quick inventory of Portsmouth in 2002 reveals a dearth of dance places. We had that quick resurgence of ballroom a few years back, and dance academies seem to be doing well, but I don't believe we have what you would call a dance hall circuit going on.

When I was young, I remember going to a little nightspot called Ladd's, located near the Sagamore Bridge. The music was live, the dancing intense. There was none of the hesitancy about hoofing we all remember at those junior high dances, where the sexes gathered on opposite sides of the room. At Ladd's, people just asked each other to dance and, usually, the dance was the experience, not a prelude to uninvited attention. Billy the doorman, Mike the bartender, Christa and Kim the waitresses were friendly faces who paused to take in particularly good music, created live in front of us all. Often, apres-dance, several patrons and the staff would wave to one another at the one and only Seagull Diner, where famished dancers and worker bees refueled.

There were a few dance halls in town, but none ever approached the excellence of Ladd's. The Ranger Danger Club - as townies called it - had excruciatingly loud live bands, mostly rock groups, and the dancing could be all right. Desperate, me and the girls found ourselves at Bananas Bar & Grille on Hanover Street, where the come-on was often more important to most of the congregation than the actual dance quotient.

One of the best in-town dance clubs ever was Rosa's. Live music by the likes of Ben Baldwin and The Big Notes emitted a mighty gravity, pulling in dancers of all stripes. Blues Bank Collective events were also good for dancers, especially those short-lived live-music programs at the Masonic Temple.

Summertime afforded more dance chances, too - the blues and jazz festivals, the programs at the park and even Market Square Day.

Then it seemed as if deejays were the predominant dance makers.

I distinctly recall going to The Excaliber Club (formerly the Riverside), after seeing "Flash Dance," to cavort with friends to the spins of deejays.

Deejays offered more dance opportunities than bands did in the 1980s, and no other did it so much or as well as Bruce Pingree. I first heard Pingree at the Downtown Club, an after-hours juice bar on Congress Street in the early '80s that closed after its doorman was stabbed to death by a customer. The Warehouse Restaurant had its incredibly successful Motown Nights, delivered by a not-smiling Pingree, who had to deal with elephant-stepping onlookers jiggling his delicate turntable system every time they approached him with a request. Dance-hungry patrons flocked there en masse.

The Riverside, though more grungy, had a definite following, again due to the talents of Pingree spinning a creative mix of punk, rock, Motown, rockabilly - whatever got the crowd moving. When the Riverside became Excaliber, deejays Pingree, Doolittle and Caliro took turns bringing the house down with dance.

Nowadays, a wedding offers the best chance of dancing to live music. Even so, many couples opt for the deejay over the live musician.

When the Portsmouth First Night outdoor dance was canceled by a post-9/11 Pro-Portsmouth because of budget constraints, I felt the pain of dancers looking for that all-important outlet - a release philosophers have equated with life itself.

Finding a live-music venue that accommodates dance is even harder these days. The last time I danced to live music was at the Hampton Beach Casino Ballroom. And while it was good, it was a far, far cry from Ladd's and Rosa's.

Monday, June 17, 2002

Project Discovery a Great Adventure in 1981

(Laura Pope photos)

Twenty-one years ago Indiana Jones exploded into mainstream consciousness in "Raiders of the Lost Ark." Swashbuckling, fearless and undefeated in his quest to retrieve treasures, the whip-carrying, hat-wearing Indy added the archaeologist to our growing pantheon of male heroes that already included pirates, soldiers and statesmen.

This was the same summer - in 1981 - that I participated in Project Discovery, an educational public excavation of an archaeological site behind the Mary Rider-Wood House at Strawbery Banke Museum. More than 120 regular citizens, ranging from preteens to retirees, and divided almost equally between the sexes, signed up for the summer-long course, led by me and Harvard-trained archaeologist Gray Gratham.

The program, a brainchild of museum staffer Bruce Follansbee and underwritten by state grants, offered everyday people a chance to participate in a process-driven retrieval of artifacts right on museum grounds.

What attracted most of them to the program was the idea that one didn’t need an academic degree to actually do the excavating, cataloguing, photography, map-making or research. It was a project that empowered and educated, at the same time adding to the already impressive archaeological archive on display and in storage at the Jones House exhibit.

Funny how the name of the museum’s archaeology exhibit house matched that of the movie-screen hero. Completely coincidental was the timing of our dig and the visage of Indiana Jones, but this confluence made for overflow crowds and national media coverage of this banner program in Portsmouth’s 10-acre waterfront museum.

Another extensive dig, at the Follett site, located right next to the Jones House, to examine Puddle Dock wharf remnants, also took place at the museum over the course of that summer, though this one was undertaken by three professionals - Faith Harrington, Elisa Jorgensen and Aileen Agnew. A third dig also began that season - a salvage dig at the site on Deer Street where the Sheraton now stands. This one turned out to be one of the most fruitful, complete and intact historic archaeological sites in New England in terms of ceramic and glass finds.

As we taught classes in excavating, identifying, cataloguing and dating a wide variety of artifacts - from shards of ceramic dishes, cups, wine bottles, pipe stems to bone refuse and the like - interest in the dig and its mission took on a life of its own. Every major and minor television station took turns interviewing students and leaders at both digs; The Associated Press did a story that was picked up across the nation, as we found out from our museum president when he returned from a conference on the West Coast; and visits to the museum rocketed.

Though we did not look anything like the movie hero, we were dirt-covered, trowel-packing truthseekers, out to find evidence, a few centimeters at a time, about the families that resided at the Rider-Wood House.

We did unearth a leather tanning vat out back, and in the old outdoor privy did much to verify diets and household wares of residents over time. We glued pots together, made careful lists of our finds and learned to appreciate history and how it is compiled. We did much to quell the snob factor of academia by throwing open the door of the profession to the nontraditional student, the amateur.

Teachers signed up, and so did many a father and son, daughter and mother. Some signed on because they had the summer off and didn’t want to travel. Others had always wanted to try archaeology; a few were earning credits; many didn’t know what to expect. An analysis and interpretation program followed the excavations in the spring of 1982, and for a few of the students, archaeology became a second profession.

When funds for these educational programs dried up - and they did with amazing speed in 1982 - several of the amateurs we had trained took over the laboratory duties. Most all the archaeologists at the museum, a record number in fact, fled to other digs, positions or professions. Still, it was one of those rare times when an innovative idea surfaced, found funding and followed through with incredible results.

Thursday, July 25, 2002

Portsmouth Parks Contain Rich Legacies

(Hovey Fountain, Haven Park, Goodwin Park)

The City of Portsmouth boasts 36 park and recreation areas, including playgrounds, athletic fields, a skating rink, rec centers and several outdoor parks.

Many of the latter hark back to earlier times, when prominent Portsmouth families bequeathed lands to the city as a form of permanent remembrance. The few described here give an inkling of the motives and purpose of the park land gifts.

Perhaps the most well-known of these bequests is Prescott Park, left to the city in a $500,000 trust by Mary Elizabeth Prescott and Josephine Fitts Prescott as a tribute to their father, Charles Smith Prescott. Though the sisters were able to pay homage to a man described by historian Ray Brighton as "the farm boy from Hampton Falls who brought his family to live in Portsmouth" in the 1850s, they were able to do so only with the fortune earned in Erie, Pa., by their brother, Charles W. Prescott.

In leaving the tract of land to the city in 1939, which they amassed through purchases of waterfront property along the riverside of Marcy Street, the sisters also transformed this prominent section of the South End. In the early part of the 20th century, this sector was reputed for its Water Street (now Marcy Street) brothels and saloons. The district also included the Puddle Dock area, a multicultural neighborhood full of historic homes that would later become Strawbery Banke Museum in the late 1960s.

Today, no one disputes the pleasure derived from the more than 6-acre Prescott Park. However, many citizens may wonder about the less pretty side of history there before the park dominated the landscape; the recreational oasis of Palestine Beach (the riverfront of Marcy Street) for Puddle Dockers; and the working-class tales of many an immigrant family.

Back in the early '50s when the city took possession of the trust and the park land, many grumbled about the stringent rules governing the "Prescott gift," and editorials mentioned many other better uses for the money — such as a new high school or the improvement of Peirce Island.

Memorials dot the remembrance park. The circular Emerson Hovey Memorial Fountain greeting visitors at the park entrance honors a naval officer who died in the Philippines in 1911. A stone whale sculpture bounds the lower flower gardens. A marker honors the 18th century Henry Sherburne Tavern.

Haven Park, on Pleasant Street, just over 2 acres in size, was left to the city as a formal landscape park by the Haven family, after two homes (the General Porter House and Haven White House) were moved off site. The bronze equestrian statue of controversial Gen. Fitz John Porter, a Portsmouth native who commanded the Fifth Army Corps in McClennan's Peninsula battle during the Civil War and later taught at West Point (and whose father was a commander of the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard), was commissioned after a friend of Porter's left $30,000 to the city for the statue.

Equestrian sculptor James Edward Kelly and Roman Iron Works in New York City were hired and the statue, cast in 1904, was dedicated in 1906. The Porter statue is the first equestrian monument in New Hampshire. The homes moved to make way for the park both face the park today; the Porter House was relocated across Livermore Street and the Haven White House was moved across Pleasant Street.

Goodwin Park, located between Islington and State streets, is named for Ichabod Goodwin, New Hampshire's Civil War-era governor and wealthy Portsmouth merchant, whose house was moved in several pieces to its present site at Strawbery Banke Museum. Prior to becoming a park, the land was open pasture and later developed into residential property. The Goodwin family owned the park and sold it to the Eldredge family in 1887 with the provision that it remain a public park.

War veterans are honored here in four memorials, including the more than 20-foot-tall Soldiers and Sailors Civil War monument, dedicated in 1888, at the center of the park. The dedication took place on July 4 and a parade, comprising 42 bands, police, firemen and veterans, marked the day. According to the local newspaper, "never was seen in Portsmouth such a gathering of battle-scarred heroes as composed of the Grand Army Division of the parade." The local railroad even reduced fares to encourage attendance. A boat parade and fireworks also commemorated the day.

Gulf War veterans are remembered with a tree dedication and today, Goodwin Park remains a central meeting place for veterans groups and events.

A soldier by the name of Russell Hanscom and nine other neighborhood residents from Atlantic Heights who died in World War II are remembered in the half-acre Hanscom Park. The common stands at the entrance of the neighborhood, built in 1918 as housing for the nearby private shipyard, the Atlantic Corp.

Thursday, August 1, 2002

Back When Life Was A Lot Closer

(photo of boarding house)

Speaking to as many lifelong Portsmouth residents as I do has allowed me to discover an amazing way of life in Portsmouth in the ’40s and ’50s. A way of life very similar to that in towns all over the nation during that era.

For those without relatives to pass on firsthand accounts of life during and after World War II, the lens of the silver screen has served as surrogate. For the fortunates old enough to have heard and remembered a yarn or two about the lean war years - from an uncle or grandmother - a distinct lifestyle and outlook emerges. One that is light years away from what we experience today.

Today we strive to work, have a home, enjoy family and the local community. These are the very same goals of older generations, of that "great generation," but the way in which we go about reaching them boldly illustrates the heavy burdens we endure.

Imagine a world without television, but rather radio instead. A world with more pedestrians and less traffic. A neighborhood street that included at least one mom-and-pop store, perhaps a bakery, and shops for the butcher, tailor, barber and pharmacist. Homes that gave shelter to several instead of a few. A neighborhood that looked after all its children.

Today we are so caught up in our products - our cars, air conditioners, appliances, computers and sundry recreational toys. In 1940s Portsmouth, neighbors actually interfaced. They had to. Most did not own a refrigerator, but shopped within the immediate vicinity and on a daily basis. They knew the names of all their neighbors and sustained vital microeconomic communities within several blocks of home.

"You could almost throw a baseball to anything you needed," ruminated Charlie Beatty, an employee at Peavey’s Hardware on Market Street and a lifelong Portsmouth resident. "In my high school years we lived on Sheafe Street. We shopped every day. On State Street, next to the temple, there was the Thompson Bros. grocery; on Penhallow and Daniel street, Hersey’s Bakery and the People’s Market; on Daniel Street, Paul’s Market, which delivered groceries to the well-to-do. We had an icebox, and the ice man came every day with a cake of ice. You had to be careful, as some of your stuff would freeze."

Many are those who recall renting two rooms with a kitchen right downtown, and, instead of having a refrigerator, they hung an orange crate out the back window. In the winter, this crate was the refrigerator; in the summer, an extra storage space. Meals were purchased and immediately consumed.

Portsmouth six decades ago was also a place full of boarding houses and houses converted to accommodate several small apartments. This was a direct result of the war years, when the town burst with soldiers and worker bees. Car and telephone ownership was coveted but rare for many. Public transportation and walking were big. Living frugally was more than a trend: It was necessary for survival. Feeding and clothing a family on a fixed income, using ration stamps and creatively making wardrobes and shoes last longer, demanded fortitude and faith.

Beatty sums it up sweetly: "The measure of success today is based on the amount of money you owe. Back then, it was measured by how much money you had. If you couldn’t afford it, you wouldn’t buy it. Everybody lived within their means."

Today, of course, we have given up this more compact, frill-free lifestyle for a sprawling, suburban one. We’ve traded in the smaller life with fewer possessions for the big income and big lifestyle. We strive to live, three or four at most, in a large house with lots of space all around. We live in these giant boxes away from extended families and away from neighborhood interactions. We live within our efficient, applianced islands, where we may exist for weeks on end without really having to leave except to work and occasionally load up with groceries. For some, computers mean not having to leave home at all to work.

"So many stores in town have come and gone," said Beatty. "Shoe stores, grocery stores, bakeries, drug stores. There were six hardware stores at one time."

Peavey’s Hardware, which boasts, on its sign outside, the motto: "House of Service," opened in 1933, and the building has been the site of a hardware store for more than two centuries. The hand-operated rope winch that customers see when they look up to the third floor still works and is used to haul goods to the basement or to the top of the building. "Back in the ’40s these winches, such as the ones at Bessie Bowell’s Seed Co. and Schlieman’s Seed Co. on lower Market Street, were used to pull grain and seed. There were many such winches in the buildings near the waterfront."

Whereas in the past success was intertwined with survival, teamwork, tighter living quarters and cooperative neighborhoods, today success is measured by consumer goods, independence from family and neighborhood cooperation or help.

"At Christmastime, everyone dressed warm, walked around downtown and did all their shopping like a little village," said the man who has worked for more than 60 years at the rare landmark business.

Monday, August 12, 2002

The Bridge that Opened Downtown

(Bridge on floats with tugboats)

It’s hard to equate in modern terms the excitement generated in Portsmouth and Kittery on Aug. 17, 1923. Though newspaper clippings at the time greatly detailed the big event - the opening of the Memorial Bridge - not even the most optimistic politician or city planner could have imagined the positive impact the new bridge would have on the economy and growth of the city.

Former Portsmouth Mayor Eileen Foley - who at age 5 was selected to cut the silk ribbon, at the middle of the new bridge, signaling its opening - sums it up this way: "The opening of the bridge was really the opening of downtown Portsmouth."

The new $2 million drawbridge connected Portsmouth and Kittery, Maine, at a crucial downtown crossing point, eliminating the need for Portsmouth-side shipyard workers to catch the ferry to the PNSY at the coal company (now the salt pile) on upper Market Street.

A dilapidated toll bridge maintained by the Boston & Maine Railroad - crossing near where the Sarah M. Long Bridge, or Middle Bridge, now stands - became obsolete. Pedestrian sidewalks along the new bridge made it possible to walk from Portsmouth to Kittery.

Several businesses opened when the bridge did, including The Rosa Restaurant on State Street and John’s Barber Shop on Daniel Street. The surge in pedestrian and auto traffic demanded more services, and so sprang a hybrid downtown community composed of businesses and residences.

The carefully engineered Memorial Bridge also adapted to fierce river currents and tides. The middle of the span, powered by two 100-horsepower motors, could be raised to a maximum 180 feet, allowing lofty ships to do business upriver.

This feat was tested for the first time in February 1924, when the four-masted Helen B. Gring of Boston passed through with several feet to spare. It was estimated that as many as 15,000 cars would cross the bridge each day for the city’s tercentenary celebration a few weeks after the bridge opened.

The idea to build the three-span cable drawbridge began in 1917 by both New Hampshire and Maine legislators. The cost of building this top-of-the-line span was shared in equal parts by the states of New Hampshire and Maine and the U.S. government. At the time, there were only two other bridges of its kind - in Portland, Ore., and Jacksonville, Fla.

In 1920, contractors in Boston were selected to build the piers and abutments for the bridge. The piers were positioned in bedrock, at some points going as deep as 82 feet below the high-water mark. These necessary foundations required 14,000 barrels of cement, 6,000 tons of sand and 12,000 tons of gravel. Several homes were torn down to make way for approaches to the bridge. By December 1922, the last of the three metal spans - each of which measured 300 feet - was floated into place by the American Bridge Company.

In late August of the following year, opening ceremonies attracted more than 5,000 people, gathered at either end of the bridge. Several dignitaries, including Gov. Brown of New Hampshire and Gov. Baxter of Maine, were in attendance.

An old clipping reads: "The governors met at the boundary line of the middle span and shook hands. There was the tooting of auto horns; boats in the river blew their whistles." Then little Helen "Eileen" Dondero, later Foley, cut the pink silk ribbon, inaugurating the bridge into service.

"I don’t really know why it was me cutting the ribbon that day," said Foley from her Portsmouth home. "My father, Charles Dondero, worked at the Internal Revenue and my mother was at home with us girls. This was years and years before she became Portsmouth’s first female mayor. I do remember wearing a crepe de chine dress with tatting and that a woman fetched me from my mother at the Daniel Street side of the bridge and brought me to where the ribbon was to be cut. I also remember that after cutting the ribbon Governor Baxter held me in his arms."

Later, the delegation would enjoy a lobster dinner in celebration.

Foley added that a collection of materials from opening day, including the ribbon she cut and relevant newspaper articles, was framed, which years later she gave to Sen. Tom McIntyre in Washington, D.C., to bolster his research on ownership of the bridge.

"When he lost his election, his office was cleaned out," she continued, "and that framed piece with all of the bits about the bridge were lost."

Another news clipping reporting the opening reads: "Traffic was opened and immediately a pandemonium broke forth and an avalanche of traffic moved in both directions. Boys on bikes (from both sides of the bridge) rushed forward to see who would be the first to reach the opposite shore."

Portsmouth’s two other bridges would come much later. The Sarah M. Long Bridge opened in November 1940, and the $50 million six-lane Interstate 95 bridge opened in 1972.