It was during the month of July and I was visiting my brother who lives on Cape Cod. In spite of the heavy influx of tourist, few places in the world are more serene or so steeped in history than these many picturesque and historic towns and villages..that somehow seem to be cloned from each other. As I drove into one small town, I came upon the village green at the far end of which was a stunning, white church, a church that most New Englanders would pay little attention to because they are so prevalent throughout the northeast. It had a white steeple with a gold cross on top. The face of the clock, also in the steeple, was black and the hands and numbers were gold. The windows of the church were stained glass and seemed to be dancing in the morning sun as reflected through the branches of the huge elm trees. I drove into the parking lot, the surface of which was made out of crushed quahog shells. Two trucks were parked in the yard, their rear ramps down for discharging equipment. I opened the car door and stepped out. Suddenly, the peaceful scene turned into a horrific din of various penetrating noises caused by a variety of different small and powerful engines. Three men were sitting on three lawn power mowers of different size and horsepower. The largest machine had four mowers across and was being used to cut the grass of the village green in front of the church.. One, with a large circular blade in the bottom, was busy in the church yard and the third was churning away in the age-old, historical cemetery. In the cemetery were two men with equally noisy "weed wackers". They were almost running around the bases of the grave stones, trimming the grass not touched by the mower. Another man was contributing to the chorus of noises by using a machine for "edging" the walk-way leading to the front door of the church. Remaining, were the loudest machines of all: two men working in tandem with grass "blowers". It was an atmosphere of frenzied activity! "How times have changed," I said to myself and shaking my head, I returned to the quietness of my car.
As I drove away my thoughts centered on a time long ago when, as sexton of Christ Church in Swansea Village, it was my job to cut the grass of the church yard, parish hall and cemetery. Thinking of the church I had just left, I considered the amount of grass being cut and manicured by those eight men in uniforms to be about the same as I had to contend with in maintaining the surrounding landscape of Christ Church. The men were wearing green coveralls with a symbolic, big, green thumb imprinted on the back. "Oh my, the cemetery!" I remembered with a sigh. It was the grass cutting nemesis of a sexton before the advent of the power mower and ancillary grass trimming equipment. And although I had to rake the leaves in the cemetery only a couple of times in the fall, thank Heaven, I wasn't required to clear the graves of snow in winter!
Having mentioned the words "the nemesis of a sexton" requires some explanation based on my level of experience. I became the sexton of Christ Church in 1943 at the age of 14. I was not elected by acclamation of the parishioners, nor was I the most ideal choice for this prestigious position. But just as "Lucky Strike Green" had gone to war... so had most of the more qualified men. I was, therefore, pressed into wartime service. I did however have some measure of qualifications: I was an Episcopalian (which really had nothing to do with it, except that it seems appropriate since Christ Church was an Episcopal Church); I lived right next door to the church ( a location "plus" for my selection); and I was big for my age (about 5'11 and 175 pounds) and the handle of a pusher lawn mower reached conveniently to my belt buckle. Further, my mother and father had agreed to my eligibility before I was asked. The pay was about a dollar a day.
As I continued to drive around the Cape, it occurred to me what an unsung hero the sexton of yesteryear had to be! Walk into most churches like Christ Church and you will find a place where the previous clergymen, from the beginning of time, have a pictorial place of honor. In Christ Church this place of honor is on the wall in the corridor between the nave and vestry room. And, I consider that as appropriate! Certainly the Reverends Richmond, Wright, Benedict, Jones, and Smith are deserving for their pastoral efforts and spiritual guidance over many decades. (But one should also realize that there were sextons who used spiritual words in shoveling paths to the church after thirty inches of snow had fallen and the temperature was only five above!) And so it is, that I have yet to walk into a church and find something like a hand made plaque that reads:
"This church owes its Glory To God and to the memory of those hardworking, unselfish, underpaid sextons, (listed below) who in torrential rain, blinding blizzards, sub-zero temperatures; contending with fast growing green grasses of summer and the never ending downfall of the colorful, elm tree leaves in the fall, who unselfishly, dedicated themselves, despite their often unheralded, but distinctive church title, rendering to the comfort and their never-ending pious concern for the countless churchgoers who in times gone past paid for their pews and always found them dust free. These same tithing churchgoers expected the esthetic surroundings and landscape to be in order year-round, (especially for weddings and funerals) and who prayed in a comfortable environment and listened to our learned clergy (memorialized in pictures to the left) do hereby acknowledge the prestigious, sanctimonious and devoted contribution made by our beloved sextons. Amen".
Although I was well treated, not once during my tenure as sexton did those in charge of the church budget approach me to ask, " And what new equipment could we buy you young, faithful sexton to help make your important job easier?" I don't think it was because I was only 14 that I was not asked; sextons were supposed to make do with what they had to work with or could borrow or invent to get the job done. And I could not complain; I could have been called "janitor" and lost my lofty title..but "Sexton, Frank Chace Jr." I remained; printed in the Sunday Leaflet.
Let me recount my inventory of sexton implements that I was responsible for:
There were three pusher lawn mowers, the engines of which were my arms and legs. The newest one was a Sears Roebuck model and was "state of the art in back in 1919, (ten years before I was born). It had rubber wheels that not only looked too big, but were too big and heavy. It was difficult to push and the wheels sank into the wet grass and collected mud in the treads. This mower saw very little service and was considered non-functional from an ecclesiastical, grass cutting viewpoint. The best mower was vintage 1912. This old timer was a grass cutter's dream. It was probably donated to the church by a deceased parishioner before the start of World War I. He had probably donated it due to his concern of uncut grass growing over his head in the cemetery. It was brassy in color, lightweight and with a quick shove the blades went around like "sixty" and slowly came to rest. I frequently started my lawn cutting duties by pushing this mower as fast as I could run, the whole length of the lawn; only to stop abruptlTry and to see how long the blades continued to go around. Such actions were the vigorous, enthusiastic work habits provided at no extra cost by a 14 year old sexton.
The third lawn mower received the most comments when viewed by the un-initiated connoisseur of grass cutting. It had no handle to push with. However, it was this shortcoming that made it so valuable. It was for cutting the Birch/Stevens tomb in the cemetery. With a piece of clothes line attached to the yoke, I would stand on top of the tomb; pull the lawn mower up and then let it rush down the side. It was ingeniously effective and I know the folks who were laid to rest inside the tomb were not bothered by this ingenious grass cutting method.
There was also an indispensable black, oily, oil can: it had a 7inch stem which was slightly bent at the top. I would like to take credit for this inventive bending feature which permitted the little oil cups on the inside of the wheels of the lawnmowers to be efficiently serviced. But, it was not my idea but that of some previous ingenious and un-heralded sexton. Nearby a very old, rusty, sickle was paired up with an ancient engineering marvel called a scythe. No matter how hard I tried to master this tool associated with the Grim Reaper, I knew I could cut more grass in an hour with toe nail scissors than could be done with that un-wieldy device. There were also two very old hand clippers for edging; the kind where one had to lift up the right blade over the left blade to make it work properly. These hand clippers guaranteed painful blisters after twenty-five minutes of use..gloves or not.
The rakes used for leaves were conventional bamboo but over-sized for heavy duty. I would have settled for a smaller size provided all the bamboo teeth were there. They resembled the smile of a Halloween pumpkin. There was one metal rake with tangled teeth pointing in various directions and there was one used for hay.This hay rake was a special duty rake. About thirty inches across, it had round wooden teeth about four inches apart. Although it was not very good for routine leaf duty, it was ideal for gathering piles of wet, smelly, leaves blown next to the stonewalls surrounding the church yard. When allowed to cure for a while, these leaves harbored fat, night crawler worms just right for fishing in the Swansea Dam.
There were four brooms: one new one donated by my family. The other three were of unknown vintage, perhaps going back to the original Christ Church of 1846. There were two "pusher" brooms, one for getting the leftover coal ashes together and the other for keeping the coal corralled in the coal bin. One special broom was used for doing away with cobwebs. It had no bristles of consequence for sweeping...
There were two shovels used for putting coal in the furnace and removing tons of ashes. Four other shovels with long handles were used for snow. The snow shovels were iron and very heavy. Wet snow would stick to them which resulted in choice spiritual exclamations referred to earlier.One was shaped like a half moon and used only for pushing snow off the church steps. It was useless otherwise. This shovel must have been designed by the village idiot. It could not be used for shoveling but one could rearrange the pattern of the snowfall.
Just a note about the fifty gallon, galvanized containers used for the removal of the ashes! There were five cans and two covers. They had large handles on the side and even when empty they were heavy to lift. How I hated Tuesday morning in the winter when all these large cans, filled to the top with ashes, had to be taken from the church cellar and be put outside for trash pick up. Lifting or dragging the containers up the back concrete steps was very difficult. These steps seldom saw a snow shovel because of their low priority for snow removal and with any wind blowing, which it did most of the time, those cans with no covers made the task chokeable. The dollar salary earned on Tuesday in the winter was really earned!
The piece de resistance of cleaning equipment was the church vacuum cleaner. When power was supplied, it had a small forward looking head light. I felt like a Lionel train as I made my way around the nooks and crannies of the nave. The electric cord attached to the vacuum was a conversation piece. Due to the uncanny wisdom of a previous sexton, it was made up of five or six different lengths and different colors of wire cords, all held together with electrical tape. The length of the cord was necessitated by the absence of electrical outlets throughout the church. A plug in the vestry room was equipped with hooks and clips so that the lengthy line could be plugged in there and held in place without interruption as the sexton dashed around following his headlight.
In those days, the pews were supplied with maroon prayer cushions, some with carpet like design. They had to be lined up if the church was made to look ready for Sunday services. I made the task of dusting around these heavy cushions easier by inventing an imaginative hockey game with them: the hockey stick being a large dust mop and the cushions, the puck!
Once a year the cushions were taken out into the yard and unmercifully beaten with an antique carpet beater. Except for the first dozen or so, this was a task completely devoid of fun as viewed by a 14 year old.
Before the summer was over and before ending my vacation in Touisset, a part of Swansea on the Coles River I thought about the writing of these memories. On my last Sunday in town, I went to the late church service at Christ Church and when it was over, I made my way down into the cellar. It had been over sixty-years since I made my way down the narrow stairways built in 1896, and I wanted to see what might be left of the tools I had used so many years before. I found two: in the open closet to the right at the bottom of the stairs there was one coal shovel, the same one I used daily in the winter for shoveling coal and the ashes. In the auxiliary equipment room for the new oil burning furnace, and prominently in view was the same black oily oil can I had used with the lawn mowers, with the same bent snout. It appeared to be still in use. The rest of the equipment was gone. The cellar now has a choir room with a piano and most of the vintage electrical fixtures have been replaced. The hanging white strings with the little silver bells for pulling on the light bulbs were gone.. One familiar item was leaning up against the wall under the stairs. It was the large white cross used for the collection of children's mite boxes at Easter. Once a year I saw to it that it was put in place for the Church School service. I wondered if it was still used.
A sign of the times was the heavily padlocked door leading out into the church yard. Although, as sexton, I had a set of keys for the church and parish house, I don't ever recall using them. The church was always open.
I then walked into the cemetery to spend a few minutes walking around those headstones whose names are most prevalent: they are the ones with name of Chace. Down in the middle of the cemetery and on one of the largest monuments is the name of Chace in large letters at the base.This cemetery plot has a black iron fence around it. I remember it well because in a moment of weakness long ago I decided to repaint that fence. I had no sooner started than I realized that this was a tedious mistake; nevertheless I finished.
So there you have it. Perhaps it just wasn't a happen-stance that I became the sexton. With so many Chaces living in and around Swansea Village, the chances are that one or more Chaces going back to the original church built in 1846 may have been designated a sexton long before me. Then there was Benjamin H. Chace, one of the first vestrymen. His name is on the plaque in the vestry room. Later, as the Reverend Benjamin H. Chace, he bequeathed his home to become the first Christ Church rectory. (Why he changed the spelling of Chase to Chace is puzzling except that records show that almost everyone in Swansea used the name of Chace rather than Chase). There is also a Chace in the Birch/Stevens Tomb; her name was Julia Chace, before marrying James Birch, who was part of the family that paid for the building of Christ Church. Closer to home there was Dr. Frank Chace, for over twenty years the Superintendent of the Christ Church Sunday School and a life long vestryman. He was my father.
For most of my life, because of my military profession, I have used a title. Starting with Midshipman at the Naval Academy, I then became Lieutenant, Captain, Major and finally retired as a Colonel of Marines. As proud as I am of these former titles, I have now reached the stage in life where one more is remembered as meaningful to me: "Frank Chace Jr. Sexton, Christ Church, Swansea."
