There are no ghosts, holy or otherwise, at the Holy Ghost Grounds. While there is an adjacent cemetery dating back to the 1700s, the inhabitants are resting peacefully. I am sure they have no desire to haunt the participants, both human and canine, that will be using any new activities being discussed for the site.
You may have heard that the town has appointed a committee, aptly titled the Holy Ghost Grounds Committee, to consider a variety of options for future use of the town-owned property on Park Street. The property, adjacent to the future bike-path extension, was originally owned by the Holy Ghost Society. The YMCA acquired the land, but their vision didn’t come to fruition. The Mattapoisett Lions Club, the next owners, had plans that suffered a similar fate, so the town acquired the valuable parcel for future use.
It appears the future may be upon us.
A recent stroll around the property brought back many memories of attending events there every spring and summer. The town has made significant improvements, including the in-process construction of new restrooms. The thought of new restrooms brought back some not-so-pleasant memories, however. There were no toilets! Two long, wood buildings – one for men and one for women – set off in the woods, had benches with holes cut in them and a trough underneath. Need I say more?
Back in the day, the traditional Portuguese festejar (festival) which we all called “The Feast” was an annual event to celebrate the Feast of the Holy Ghost. Though a Catholic-centered event, it was open to all. The celebration began with a parade starting at the American Legion Hall on Depot Street. The marchers, often dressed in traditional attire, represented Queen Isabel of Portugal and her court.
Hundreds of people attended the feast to eat and drink all day for free. The small building, which still stands, was the chapel where prayers were said, and offerings made. It was decorated with flowers, and there were tables laden with sweet breads. My mouth still waters when I think of the traditional Portuguese sopas, a soup made with beef, some vegetables and spices served over day-old crusty bread. (When my mother made it at home it was mostly bread, spices, a little linguica and water because beef was expensive. Mmmm, oh so good.)
My friend Wayne Oliveira’s dad, Manny, would sit upon the bandstand playing the trombone and tuba in the Portuguese American band. I once climbed a tree behind the bandstand to watch the festivities and fell out. It was a 20-foot drop into a briar patch! No broken bones but plenty of scratches.
The band played on while the young at heart danced the Chamarrita, a Portuguese folk dance. Gallons of Madeira wine would be consumed. Fun was the order of the day, and all went home stuffed and happy.
The American Legion would hold their annual clambake there every summer. Dad was a member, and he and I would go there the day before and help set things up. I remember going in Johnny Sousa’s truck to gather seaweed at Ned’s Point beach and hauling it up to the Holy Ghost Grounds. The next morning when the clams arrived, we’d wash them in galvanized tubs of water, place them in wood trays, and Sousa, the “bake master,” and his “pit crew” of townies who knew what they were doing would begin the task of preparing another grand food fest.
They’d fill the pit with kindling and logs, pile rocks on top and set it on fire. When the wood collapsed and the hot rocks fell into the pit, they’d cover the stones with seaweed, place the washed clams in wood trays on top followed by sausages, potatoes, quahog stuffing in porcelain pans and cover it all with wet sheets and canvas tarps. While the fixings cooked, women would make chowder and husk sweet corn.
Lines of townsfolk would queue up early in anticipation of the sumptuous repast. In the afternoon, dad and I would become servers. He would carry the little woven-wood baskets of steaming hot clams in a tray, and I would serve them to the hungry diners. Others would follow along, serving corn, potatoes and tripe … my favorite (not!)
As I continued my walk around the grounds, I couldn’t help but feel that dad, Manny Oliveira, Johnny Sousa (all gone now) and all the revelers were with me. Maybe there are ghosts at the Holy Ghost Grounds after all.
By Dick Morgado
Editor’s note: Mattapoisett resident Dick Morgado is an artist and retired newspaper columnist whose musings are, after some years, back in The Wanderer under the subtitle “Thoughts on ….” Morgado’s opinions have also appeared for many years in daily newspapers around Boston.