A Tale of Two Lighthouses

Before I write about where I’ve been and tell the tales of all my travels, I thought it would be appropriate to begin by writing about where I come from. I was born and raised in a little seaside town called Scituate (pronounced sit-choo-it), which is on the South Shore of Massachusetts, halfway between Boston and Cape Cod.

The name Scituate is derived from the Wampanoag Native American word Satuit, meaning “cold brook,” and refers to the brook that runs into Scituate Harbor. Scituate was one of the earliest towns settled by English immigrants in America and was officially incorporated in 1636. That is ancient in terms of United States history!

My father has lived in Scituate since 1950* and my mother grew up only a few towns away; they still live in the same house I was raised in from the age of four (and before that we lived only a mile down the road!). Perhaps it is because of this continuity of home during my childhood, or the sheltered life I lived in the only hometown I ever knew, that I had a yearning to explore the far corners of this earth; however, as much as I love to travel, I am always excited to come back to the familiarity of home. And, there are two beacons of light standing at the ready to guide me back home…

…which brings me to the tale of two lighthouses. One of the characteristics that I think makes Scituate so special is that we have not one, but two picturesque lighthouses, and each has a storied past of its own.

Old Scituate Lighthouse

Old Scituate Lighthouse, or “Scituate Light,” was built on a peninsula of land jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean, protecting Scituate Harbor. It was completed in 1811, making it the 11^th oldest lighthouse in the United States. It is perhaps best known for a story involving the first lighthouse keeper’s daughters, Rebecca and Abigail Bates, who warded off a British attack during the War of 1812.

As the story goes, British warships had been raiding New England coastal towns, so when the two Bates sisters saw a British Naval ship anchored in the harbor near Scituate Light, they knew they had to act quickly. There wasn’t time to warn the townspeople of the imminent attack so, instead, the sisters picked up their fife and drum and began playing as loudly as they could. The British mistook the 2-person band comprised of these courageous heroines for what they thought was the Scituate town militia and they hastily retreated. The Bates sisters have since come to be known in history books as “The Army of Two.”

In the present day, Scituate Light and its accompanying rock jetties are a place of serenity. It’s a popular spot for local fishermen to cast their lines; kids play on the smooth oversize stones that take the place of sand on the small beach; paddleboards glide by in the calm and protected waters; high schoolers sneak kisses on the jetty at night; nearly every weekend in the summer you will find a bridal party taking their wedding photos at this picturesque spot. I often go to the lighthouse point to sit at the end of the jetty, look out into the harbor and watch the sailboats go by, reflecting on how lucky I am to have grown up in this town.

Minot’s Ledge Light

Minot’s Ledge Light, also known simply as “Minot’s Light,” is situated (pun intended) about 1 mile off the coast of Scituate in the Atlantic Ocean. While the lighthouse technically belongs to the neighboring town of Cohasset, it has become an unmistakable landmark and symbol for the town of Scituate. Minot’s Ledge Light is named after George Minot, an 18th-century merchant from Boston, whose ship fell victim to the dangerous rock ledge prior to the construction of the lighthouse in 1847.

The lighthouse was first lit on January 1, 1850, but the famous light signal, for which Minot’s Light has come to be known, was implemented on May 1, 1894. In order for mariners to tell which light they are approaching, every lighthouse is given a unique “light characteristic” using different colors, frequencies, and patterns of light. Minot’s Light was randomly assigned the flash pattern of 1-4-3 (a single flash followed by an interval of three seconds, then four flashes separated by one second, then another interval of three seconds of darkness followed by three flashes), which coincidentally corresponds to the numerical count of the letters in the phrase “I Love You.” Thus, Minot’s Light has affectionately become known as “Lover’s Light.”

Minot’s Light was romanticized in Helen Keller’s imagination as she passed by the lighthouse en route to Boston in 1901:

How delightful it was to see Minot’s Ledge in the morning light. There one expects to see the ocean lashed into fury by the splendid resistance of the rocks; but as we passed, the ‘light’ seemed to rise out of the tranquil water, like Venus from her morning bath. It seemed so near, I thought I could touch it; but I am rather glad I did not; for perhaps the lovely illusion would have been destroyed had I examined it more closely.

Helen Keller

So, there you have the tale of two lighthouses! I certainly am proud of the history of my hometown and its lighthouses.

What do you love most about your hometown?

*Post-Script added on June 16, 2019:

I published my first blog post about the hometown I love so much on October 15, 2018, one day after my father’s 70th birthday. I was at my parents’ house in Scituate on Sunday, October 14th to celebrate this milestone birthday with my father and I excitedly showed him the draft of the post I had written about his home for the past 68 years. He was not well at the time and I watched him slowly move his head from left to right while diligently reading each line of the post. With his approval and blessing obtained, I published the “Tale of Two Lighthouses” post the following day, thus beginning this blog. 

After singing happy birthday to my father with a candle stuck in a cup of his favorite maple walnut ice cream, I hugged him extra tight, looked him in the eyes and told him I love him, and then made my way back to Boston. I had an uneasy feeling leaving him that night, and it turned out to be the last time my father and I saw and spoke to each other. Following his passing, I wrote a different homage to him, and I share it here on the first of many Father’s Days without him:

I have always stated with pride that I am “Jim Grip’s daughter,” because, without fail, each person I encounter has told me what a great man he is and has regaled me with some story of how he positively impacted their life. I proudly boast on behalf of my Dad (because he NEVER would) that he was the first All-American hockey player in Norwich University’s school history, an inductee into the Norwich Athletics Hall of Fame, and was just shy of making the 1972 Olympic hockey team.

(Update: My mother, sister, and I were invited to take part in the 20th Annual Allen Doyle Golf Classic [Allen Doyle is a former pro golfer who was one of my Dad’s best friends from college] in August. We were completely surprised when it was announced during the golf tournament dinner that the Norwich men’s hockey team’s annual most valuable player award will be renamed in honor of my Dad starting this season.)

I’ve also always been proud of the fact that my Dad is one of the longest-running members of Hatherly Country Club, having been a member since 1956, with his childhood home bordering the 16th hole. My Dad was at one point a scratch golfer, but he took more pride in running the Junior Golf program at our club for years and teaching my sister and me everything we know about the game. He is one of only a handful of people in the club’s history to have a trophy named after him, which has been awarded annually for decades to the most dedicated junior boy golfer who embodies the true spirit of golf.

He counts Olympians, pro athletes, 4-star generals, and CEOs among his good friends, but truly could have cared less about titles or celebrity; he treated these friends the same way he did his friends who are barbers, or electricians, or firemen. He had a way of making everyone feel like they were his best friend.

My Dad was a simple man who wanted for nothing. Material items had no value to him. He had no ego. He played golf for the game, not for the status that is sometimes associated with private clubs. He was a meat and potatoes type of guy who hated “frou-frou” beer (i.e., craft beer) and would jokingly ask waiters to bring him their “finest bottle of Budweiser,” which he exclusively called “Bud Heavy” once he learned that term. His go-to dance move was the chicken dance. Once he finally got a cell phone (he held out for as long as he could) and learned how to text, he would often include random emojis, like a penguin or a cat, for no particular reason. A life-long and proud resident of Scituate, he would consistently make the same comment on family trips to Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard, and even Ireland, that their harbors looked just like Scituate so why did we even leave home in the first place! (Side Note: I clearly did NOT get my love of traveling from my Dad!)

My Dad worked out of his office in our home but nevertheless had a daily commute that involved first stopping at Mary Lou’s News for his coffee, then onto the post office to check the mail, followed by a drive around the ocean on his way to our golf club to chat with his buddies as they teed off, followed by a stop in the harbor to feed the ducks, and ultimately back home to start his workday.

His flexible work schedule afforded him the opportunity to come to every one of my high school field hockey, basketball, and softball games; he was affectionately nicknamed “Jimbo” by my teammates and was universally acknowledged as our #1 fan. He tirelessly hit fly balls to me in the front yard until I caught 100 in a row (my benchmark, not his). And he and my Mom were the only fans crazy enough (in a good, supportive way) to come to my intramural college hockey game which started at midnight.

My Dad spoiled me with head scratches and by always having a cup of hot tea waiting for me on my bedroom bureau when I woke up each morning before school, yet shaped me into the independent woman I have become by billing me for ¼ of every family meal once I reached adulthood (yes, seriously).

He derived satisfaction from a freshly mowed lawn and a roaring fire in our living room fireplace. He sent me pictures of sunrises and instilled in me an appreciation for a beautiful sunset. It is only fitting that he waited until just after the sun had set on December 4th to pass on.

Dad, you were one-of-a-kind, a caring and devoted husband and father, and a true friend. You will be heart-achingly missed. Love, (your favorite daughter) Laura 🐧