Blog

Connect the Dots: Cheesefactory Road’s Name

Published July 8, 2021 by the Vermont Community Newspaper Group in South Burlington’s The Other Paper.

Q: How did Cheesefactory Road in Shelburne and South Burlington get its name?

A: When I decided to research how Cheesefactory Road got its name, I guessed I would find an old neighborhood cheese factory in its past. But I discovered some connected features, too: an abandoned road, and a small but critical brook I’d never noticed. As I dug deeper, other neighborhood features turned up, as well. At one end of the road there had been a church, parsonage, and a one-room schoolhouse, and at the other end a blacksmith shop and an old tavern. This road had stories to tell!

The cheese factory that gave the road its name was built in 1873 and operated for about 10 years. There is no trace of the building left today, but it was on the south side of Cheesefactory Road in Shelburne, right where the road dips a bit near the South Burlington town line. The factory drew milk from neighboring dairy farms, and from the factory you could see some of the pasturing Jersey cows chewing their cud and flicking their tails.

The factory needed access to water, so it was placed next to the small brook that crosses at the dip in the road, called Seeley Brook on old maps but unnamed on modern maps. The factory held water rights to Seeley Brook, and used it to clean their equipment, and more. They also established a wagon road (now gone) following the brook south to where it empties into Shelburne Pond ¾ of a mile away. At the pond, they harvested ice in the winter time. They cut the ice by hand, hauled it up the wagon road to the factory, and packed it in sawdust to keep it from melting. Without any electricity, the ice kept their milk and cheese cold all year long.  

.1869 Beers Atlas map of the northeast corner of Shelburne showing Seeley Brook crossing what is now Cheesefactory Road in Shelburne at the town line with South Burlington, and showing Shelburne Pond where the ice for the cheese factory was cut. The school (No. 5) and M.P.Ch. (Methodist Church) and Parsonage can be seen at the corner of Dorset Street and Cheesefactory Road.

The local farmers may not have realized it, but this was the beginning of a major shift in their livelihoods. Up until the factory came, typical neighborhood dairy farm families not only hand-milked their 15-20 cows, they also turned all their milk into cheese and butter on the farm and sold those finished products. But with the coming of the cheese factory here (and one near Shelburne Falls in 1871), local farmers could sell liquid milk to someone else to make a finished product.

Comparing numbers from the Shelburne agricultural censuses before and after the cheese factories came captures this change well. From 1870 to 1880, cheese produced on farms went from 31,000 lbs. down to 5700 lbs. (about 1/5 of what it had been). Liquid milk sold off the farm went from 3000 gallons up to 360,000 gallons, a more than 100-fold increase in ten years. The total number of cows in town increased in that 10-year period, too, and the increased production went into liquid milk sold off the farm.

The one almost unchanged number in the ten-year span was butter made on the farm. Hand-churning butter is much simpler than the culturing, curdling, pressing, and aging needed to make cheese, so it’s not surprising that cheese making was outsourced first. The change in farmers’ daily lives must have been significant: they mostly stopped making cheese at home, and instead drove their liquid milk daily through the neighborhood to the factory.

For the factory’s 10 years or so, what farmers saw on their drive depended on which way they came. From the Dorset St. end, they might hear the school bell and see schoolchildren heading to the one-room schoolhouse that was once just south of the corner. On Sundays, they might see parishioners going to the Methodist Church that was once at the intersection’s southwest corner, or see the minister coming out of the parsonage just down Barstow Road. 

View southwest from near the corner of Dorset Street and Cheesefactory Road. The brown area on the lower right is the wetlands of Shelburne Pond that haven’t greened up yet in the spring. The mountain on the horizon is Camel’s Hump.

Farmers coming from the Hinesburg Road end might hear the blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil at the corner blacksmith shop. They might see the stagecoach rumbling by on Hinesburg Road, or the old brick tavern/inn just north of the intersection (now a private home). Maybe they were remembering the fiddle music at the community dances held at the tavern’s spring floor upstairs.

.Old brick tavern and inn on Hinesburg Road in South Burlington near the end of Cheesefactory Road

By the turn of the century, most of the small, rural neighborhood cheese factories in Vermont had closed as larger, centralized ones became common and butter production was added, as well. As I drive down Cheesefactory Road now, I wait for that dip in the road, and remember the road’s namesake. Although the cheese factory is long gone, the Cheesefactory Road neighborhood has kept its rural character well into the 21st century. Bread and Butter Farm hays some of the same fields that were hayed 150 years ago. And they sell their finished agricultural products directly off the farm, echoing the earlier 19th century farmers while evolving into the 21st century.

Tractor raking cut hay into windrows to prepare it for baling. On Bread and Butter Farm on Cheesefactory Road.

Copyright 2021 Jane Dorney

Connect the Dots: How Cheesefactory Road Got its Unusual Name

My next Connect the Dots column about Cheesefactory Road in Shelburne and South Burlington has been published by the Vermont Community Newspaper Group in The Other Paper of South Burlington.

Here is the link: https://www.vtcng.com/otherpapersbvt/opinion/opinion_columns/how-cheesefactory-road-got-its-unusual-name/article_bc61e59a-dfe4-11eb-a772-7b286ef362ca.html

Hay being raked into windrows on a Cheesefactory Road farm.

Connect the Dots: Champlain Valley Oaks Traveled the Globe

Published May 27, 2021 by the Vermont Community Newspaper Group in The Citizen (Charlotte and Hinesburg) and the Shelburne News.

Q: How do some uncommon Vermont oak trees connect to a global transportation story?

A: I started in on the trail at the Williams Woods Natural Area in Charlotte to get a first-hand look at some very big and uncommon Vermont trees. As I clumped across numerous truncheons, I could tell that the soils here were wet underfoot. But the clay soils are also very productive, whether growing trees in a natural area or growing corn in the neighboring fields. Soon I crossed a tributary of Thorp Brook and started to see what I came for. The huge oak trees ahead had enormous presence, with trunks up to 3 feet in diameter and large arching canopies.  Some of the Williams Woods trees are estimated to be well over 200 years old, dating back to about the time of European settlement. If so, when these big trees were young, they would have witnessed their ancestors playing a key role in a global story.

 The oaks in this story include white oaks, bur oaks and swamp white oaks, which are members of the group botanists call white oaks. All of them have very strong, durable wood that is also water- and rot-resistant, and they are commercially interchangeable. The white oaks are at the northern edge of their ranges, in a very narrow band hugging Lake Champlain, and they are much more common further south from Massachusetts to Georgia. The lake’s moderating effect allows them to be this far north, and their proximity to that same lake played another role in their history. 

An intermediary in the white oak story was John Thorp, whose family name was given to the brook that runs through Williams Woods. He arrived in 1795 and began to cut trees to clear the land for his homestead, which he built just north of what is now Williams Woods. He also established the first general store between Vergennes and Burlington shortly after he arrived, built next to his home. He was described as a successful merchant, and to stock his store with goods the local people could not produce themselves, he went north to Quebec via the lake. As a result of his connections there, and the water connections and world market he had access to, he decided to add another line of business. A British Canadian about this time described the white oak in Vermont’s Champlain Valley as “beyond comparison the best oak timber of any in America” and stated that Canada had “no oak of any value” but that the “deficiencies may be abundantly supplied” by the oak in Vermont. So, Thorp began to ship oak (and pine) timber north.

Thorp Brook in Williams Woods Natural Area in Charlotte

As many more settlers arrived from southern New England, they started to clear their land for farming, too. Those near the lake could also sell the oak trees they cut for lumber, rather than just burning the trees as many inland did. The land just south of the natural area is corn field now, but the white oaks that had been there were felled, squared with hand tools into long timbers, and dragged or sledded to the nearby lake shore (probably in the winter over frozen ground). There they were fastened together to make rafts, and the rafts fitted with sails. They were then sailed north to the lake’s outlet down the Richelieu River to the St. Lawrence River, then down the St. Lawrence to Quebec City (under British rule) where Thorp sold them. They were then loaded onto ships that sailed for Britain, where they were fashioned into new ships for the British navy and merchant fleet, and into staves for wooden casks, hogsheads and barrels used to transport foodstuffs. The oak timber from this area ended up circling the globe: cutting through salty water, keeping people and goods afloat, and rolling down gangplanks at docks in foreign lands.

The fate of the white oak ancestors I can see today in Williams Woods was shaped by their being some of the northernmost white oaks that happened to be next to a connected set of waterways, at a time when trees were being felled and global commerce was expanding. 

The few white oaks now left along the lake (estimates are 10% of the original) are in small, discontinuous remnant forests and worthy of preservation. The Williams Woods oaks probably survived because the soils were too wet for farm fields. In their long lifetimes, these white oak trees witnessed the landscape’s enormous change from forest to farms. Now, they are providing seed to keep this forest going, hopefully long into the future. As our climate warms, I also see them as a seedbank to help the Vermont landscape adapt as the range of the white oaks expands northward.

Copyright 2021 Jane Dorney

Connect the Dots: Champlain Valley Oaks Traveled the Globe

My next Connect the Dots column has been published by the Vermont Community Newspaper Group in The Citizen (Charlotte and Hinesburg) and the Shelburne News. It asks the question: How do some uncommon Vermont oak trees connect to a global transportation story?

Here is the link: https://www.vtcng.com/shelburnenews/opinion/opinion_columns/champlain-valley-oaks-traveled-the-globe/article_fd854ea8-bf24-11eb-a7a0-437c46f55a3b.html

Wood from white oak trees in the area around Williams Woods Natural Area in Charlotte ended up being sold around the world.

Connect the Dots: Making Way before the Covered Bridge

Published April 22, 2021 by the Vermont Community Newspaper Group in The Other Paper (South Burlington) and The Citizen (Charlotte and Hinesburg)

Quinlan Covered Bridge in Charlotte

Q: Before covered bridges were built in the early 1800s, how did settlers cross the rivers?

A: I was walking at the mouth of Shelburne’s LaPlatte River trying to imagine a scene from more than 200 years ago. Before the first bridge was built here in 1801, settlers who wanted to cross the river needed to wade or drive their wagons through it to get to the other side. It was a long shot, but I was looking for a sandspit like the one town histories describe that helped settlers with the crossing. The water was high that day, and I saw no sandspit. But the high water drew me to the alternate route the settlers used in similar circumstances. I started on the trail of the LaPlatte River Marsh Natural Area along the river’s west bank. Was the old rough wagon road somewhere under my feet? Too many years had passed to be sure, but it wasn’t too hard to imagine the wagons driving along to one of the other crossings further upstream. 

West bank of the LaPlatte River near its mouth in Shelburne

In our well-watered state’s early years, crossing the rivers took thoughtful planning and even shaped the road system. On the smaller rivers, the early settlers learned to assess the land along waterways to find shallow places with gently sloping banks. Then, they laid out roads to use those gentle slopes as places to wade, ride their horse, or drive their wagon through the water. 

When I’m in Montpelier, I sometimes walk to the Main Street Bridge and look down at the Winooski River and remember how the early settlers forded here. Before the first bridge was built in 1802, settlers placed a carefully calibrated stake in the river to help them decide whether to ford. If the top of the stake was showing above the water, the water was low enough to be safe to cross. If the top of the stake was underwater, travelers knew it wasn’t safe to cross since the water was high enough to float people and wagons away in the current. 

The fords were so important that some Vermont towns were even named for the presence of a good fording spot – Pittsford is one.

In rivers too deep or too swift to ford, or too wide for a simple log or plank bridge, settlers sometimes resorted to ferry boats. In West Ferrisburgh, a ferry operated for several years on Otter Creek. To keep from being swept downstream by the current, a metal cable was attached at both banks, and the ferry boat was drawn back and forth across the river along the cable. The ferry was big enough for carriages, and gave a discount if you went over and back in the same day. At the Winooski Falls, a dam was built in the 1780s, and the mill pond behind it had still water. In the winter, people crossed on the ice. In the warmer months, ferry boats at the bottom of Burlington’s Chase Street were rowed across the quiet mill pond to take people to the other side.

Some early log bridges were built, including the one at Shelburne Falls in the 1780s. But as Vermont became more settled and towns had more resources, more bridges were built. Sometimes roads were realigned up or downstream away from the shallow ford to a steeper high bank that made a better bridge placement. When Charlotte transitioned a ford on Lewis Creek to a bridge where the Quinlan Covered Bridge is now, they moved the road upstream. The bridge was built at the narrow falls area near the saw mill, although I believe I can still see the ford they had used for decades in the gently sloping area downstream.  

When a statewide bridge building program started in 1820, many covered bridges (whose roofs protected the wooden decking from rot) were built on public roads in the rest of the century. With the coming of the covered bridge, crossing the river meant listening to the echoing rumble of wagon wheels over the wooden floor instead of the splashes of feet or horse hooves, or the water lapping on the ferry boat’s sides.

Holmes Covered Bridge in Charlotte near Lake Champlain

With the advent of modern metal trusses and reinforced concrete, crossing the river in Vermont evolved away from covered bridges. Now some modern bridges look so much like the roadway that I don’t even realize I’m crossing a river at all. But if I want to, I can take a moment and stand at any Vermont bridge, and look at the water running past. I can let my thoughts go back to the earlier residents who needed to understand and work with the river itself to find ways to cross it, and may have gotten wet in the process.

Copyright 2021 Jane Dorney

Connect the Dots: Champlain Valley is Filled with Lasting Effects from Supercontinent Pangea

Published March 25, 2021 by the Vermont Community Newspaper Group in The Citizen

Mt. Philo State Park in Charlotte, Vermont

Q: How does the Champlain Valley connect to the ancient supercontinent Pangea?

A: I climbed to the top of Mt. Philo to see the magnificent view of the Champlain Valley from the top of the cliff face – the pastoral farmland in the foreground, the beautiful lake stretching north and south, and the Adirondacks on the horizon. But I also wanted to get an overview of something much, much bigger. From the top of Mt. Philo, the evidence of two scenes of an ancient global-scale drama can be seen: the formation and break-up of the supercontinent Pangea. 

            The first scene in the drama took place literally under my feet. As I stood there, the cliff rocks seem firmly anchored in place. But hundreds of millions of years ago they had been in motion, pushed by the immense forces of colliding crustal plates as the supercontinent Pangea was forming. As the African and North American plates were moving shoulder to shoulder, the enormous compression folded some of Vermont’s bedrock into the Green Mountains and northwest Africa’s bedrock into the Little Atlas Mountains.   

            Further west of the Green Mountains, some of the bedrock fractured and slid as it was pushed upward and westward over stationary rock. The cliff face I was standing on was the sharp leading edge of one of those moving rock faces that had been thrust many miles westward. In fact, it is part of the westernmost fault line in Vermont created by Pangea’s formation that extends the length of Lake Champlain (called the Champlain Thrust Fault by geologists). Here at the park, it’s about 500 feet higher than the park entrance, even after millions of years of erosion. The pastoral lowlands I can see below me were the stationary rocks that the cliff rocks had over-ridden. When I’m standing on this abrupt cliff, I’m on the westernmost line in Vermont where the extensive, prolonged movement of supercontinent Pangea’s formation ground to a halt.

View from the top of Mt. Philo with Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks in the distance

             After Pangea formed, it stayed together as one supercontinent for many millions of years. During that time, the major geological forces in the area I was looking at were quite quiet.

Then, about 200 million years ago, Pangea started to pull apart and break up into the separate continents we know today. The next scene in the world-scale drama played out in the panorama I was seeing beyond the farmlands out in the long, blue ribbon of Lake Champlain. The lake water’s smooth surface conceals the shape of the land under it. But the lake basin’s shape was created by Pangea coming apart. 

            I could see the Charlotte Ferry route to Essex, NY from the park cliff. When crossing on the 3-mile route from the Vermont side, the lake bottom drops off steadily over the first 2/3 mile to 100 feet deep, then in the next 1/8 mile it suddenly drops to 300 feet deep, then it quickly bottoms out at about 400 feet deep. It is relatively flat mid-lake at the 400-foot depth, then it rises fairly steeply again as you near the New York shore. Scientists who have studied the lake say there are about 300 feet of loose sediment below the current lake bottom. That makes the depth to the bedrock bottom about 700’ below lake level. When I ferry across the lake, I’m riding over a lake basin that is shaped like a very deep, narrow trough with steep sides.  How did this form? 

            When the supercontinent Pangea started to pull apart, the bedrock started to stretch.  In one of the stretching sessions, the bedrock where the lake is now broke on both sides creating a large block. The large bedrock block fell down relative to the surrounding rock, creating the basin. The basin eventually filled with water and formed Lake Champlain. One way to think of the lake basin is that it is one of the stretch marks of Pangea breaking up.

Simplified diagram of the bedrock compression that formed Mt. Philo (1) and the bedrock stretching that formed Lake Champlain (2)

            While I contemplate the view from the park cliff, I know that the supercontinent Pangea was responsible for the major highs and lows of the Vermont landscape before me. Pangea’s forces pushed up the cliff I was standing on as the continental plates squeezed together (now about 500’ up from the park’s front gate), and pulled open the lake’s basin as it was coming apart (now more than 400’ below the shoreline). My magnificent view was shaped by some very large-scale drama, indeed!

Copyright 2021, Jane Dorney

Connect the Dots: Champlain Valley is Filled with Lasting Effects from Supercontinent Pangea

My next Connect the Dots column has been published by the Vermont Community Newspaper Group in The Citizen (Hinesburg and Charlotte). From the top of Mt. Philo, it asks the question: How does the Champlain Valley connect to the supercontinent Pangea?

Here is the link:  https://www.vtcng.com/thecitizenvt/opinion/opinion_columns/champlain-valley-is-filled-with-lasting-effects-from-supercontinent-pangea/article_848f5606-8dab-11eb-bc8a-5308f5e6886a.html

Think about the effects of supercontinent Pangea from the top of Mt. Philo in Charlotte.

Connect the Dots: The Journeys of a Milk Can

Published February 4, 2021 by the Vermont Community Newspaper Group in the Shelburne News

Q: What journeys have milk cans taken through the Vermont landscape?

A: While bushwhacking through the woods on an old hill farm recently, I came across a discarded milk can and stopped to have a look. It was weather-beaten, rusty and pocked with holes, and there were some initials embossed on its neck. The broken glass bottles and sap buckets keeping it company looked very old-fashioned, so I guessed that they had all been resting here together in this farm dump for decades. But I knew from interviews I’ve done of retired farmers that the milk can’s earlier days would have been ones of constant movement, both around the farm and through the local community.

            The best milk can stories I’ve collected were shared by a community elder in an interview about his childhood in the 1930s on an Addison County hill farm. After we did our short mutual introductions, he immediately launched into describing his most memorable farm chore as a boy – cooling the milk cans. His family had a small herd of Holsteins that they milked twice a day. With no electricity, he described his family milking the cows by hand into pails, a task he regularly assisted with. But the job he was solely responsible for and the most memorable for him was the next step in the milking process – getting the milk cooled on the farm. 

            The farm had no piped running water, so they used the cool running water in the brook nearby. After the warm milk from each pail was poured into the larger milk can, it was his job to load the cans into the horse-drawn wagon and take them down to the brook. They had lined a section of the brook with stones and built a cover over it, which they called the spring box.  He would open the spring box’s cover, and then lift each milk can out of the wagon and lower it into the cool brook, and close the spring box lid when he was done. He told me that his family usually filled 4 to 6 milk cans per day for him to transport. (They probably used the common 10 gallon can size, which weighed 80 pounds each when full of milk.) He finished his task by taking the horse back to the barn, while the cans were left to slowly cool down in the brook. No matter the weather, this was a daily task for him. As he finished this story, he paused for a few moments, looking off into the distance deep in thought. Clearly, he was back on that hillside reliving the memory.

            His second milk can story involved the trip the cans took off the farm to the local creamery. Each can usually had the name of the creamery stamped onto it, and each day the milk cans were trucked a few miles away to that creamery to be processed. One of the creamery trucks travelled part of the farm boy’s route to school. He described how he learned to time his walks back and forth to school to coincide with the transport of the milk cans so he could ride part way. The driver would let him hop up into the open back of the truck and sit next to the cans. He finished his story by confiding that he much preferred the afternoon run home from school because the cans had been emptied and washed, and were still warm from the washing on the way home. With a twinkle in his eye, he added, “I tried especially hard to catch it in the winter. “

            The milk cans’ daily journey ended by returning to the farmstead by truck, with or without the farm boy sitting amongst them. By night fall, half of the cans were already full from the evening’s milking and cooling in the brook, starting the cycle again. Many versions of this cycle were repeated on the more than 10,000 farms in Vermont in the 1930s.

            Though milk cans were a critical link in the chain for processing dairy milk for decades, their role came to an end when bulk tanks starting arriving in the 1950s. With electricity on the farm, metal refrigerated bulk tanks in the barn became the preferred way to cool milk, and tanker trucks came to the farm to pick it up. Milk cans became obsolete.

            When I find old milk cans in the woods, I think of the daily journeys they once took around the farm and on the rural roads nearby. I also remember that someone must have carried this milk can to its last resting place after its constant filling, emptying, and lifting by many hands, large and small.

Milk can from the Shelburne Cooperative Creamery in Shelburne, VT now in the woods

Copyright 2021, Jane Dorney

Connect the Dots: The Journeys of a Milk Can

My next Connect the Dots column has been published by the Vermont Community Newspaper Group in the Shelburne News. It asks the question: What journeys have milk cans taken through the Vermont landscape?

Here is the link: https://www.vtcng.com/shelburnenews/opinion/opinion_columns/the-journeys-of-a-milk-can/article_74889350-672f-11eb-ba71-570a9fdcb0ac.html

An old milk can found in the Vermont woods

I will also publish the milk can column in this blog at the end of the week, when the publishing rights revert back to me.