Back in the Christmas time of 1978, the Marvin family consisted of two teenage boys (Bernie and Spencer), Polly, me, a dog (Major), two pigs (Alice and Gail), two ducks (Fred and Gwendolyn), a tawny cat (Momma Kitty), and several little barn kitties (all nameless).

We lived in a 1775 abandoned farmhouse that had not been inhabited for the previous 20 years and although it may have appeared as a bit of a Christmas Wonderland at 172 Route 10 in Haverhill Corner as tourists whizzed by, it was cold as the dickens, and usually frozen up on winter mornings until we could activate the portable electric hair dryers and the family would seek out frozen pipes to thaw.

All this misery was when we first moved into our home. There was no central heat, no modern, safe electricity (we had knob and tube) and with an uninsulated colonial America home, with loose puttyless window glass that rattled when a truck passed by on nearby Route 10, we were a happy lot despite all of those deficiencies that we tried to overcome every day until we could find the local talent to get new systems installed or fix up the existing ones and hopefully keep them running.

We all knew the silence that wet, green maple firewood sounded like when it sat in the belly of our giant Warner stove and sizzled, like a platter of cheap steaks. It would not burn efficiently, would be quite smoky, and we could actually see the resulting creosote running down the living room stovepipes where the wood heater was located. That's what happens when amateur heat experts install stove pipes upside down.
Did you know that in those days, a modern family in Haverhill Corner found it necessary to sleep in some of their street or school clothes? We did. Yes, we actually rolled up under the not-so-lofty bed covers, fully clothed in nice, warm woolen coats as outer layers, and slept in our individual beds on two creaky floors through the night until it was time to get up, do chores, and go to work or school. We had 13 rooms, so there was plenty of space for us and any visitors we had from the town we formerly lived in.
We were a primitive lot, but yet we survived the first winter in New Hampshire, like half the Pilgrims did, back in 1620 in Plymouth, Massachusetts, just about next door from where we escaped from when we bailed out of the Bay State, said goodbye to our many friends, and moved to the mid-north of New Hampshire.

We had friends from our former town in Kingston, Massachusetts, visit us during that time.
Why would anyone throw aside our former home, comfortable and modern, and risk it all to live in the wilds of New Hampshire, where, long ago, ruffians like John Stark and others lived a bare-bones existence, worked hard, and fought our nation's early wars and won to make it safe for us to do our version of what they did.

When Spring finally rolled around in June or early July, we were comfortable once again and loving our surroundings, bragging to friends down country how wonderful it was to forsake everything we had earned and move north to live like mountain people.

Between us, of course, it was not that bad, but during the first two years or so, it was kinda/sorta tough, as we slowly hired people to put in genuine windows, install a new electrical system, install a new septic system, install insulation, cut a wood supply for next year's burning, instead of splitting it and popping it in the stove expecting it to burn with any BTU output.

These are the things we all had to learn. And we did learn over time, but beginning with the Christmas of 1978, we cut our Christmas tree out back, and we enjoyed those and subsequent Christmas and New Year's events immensely, all huddled up in our early American living room, with the tree all bright with colored lights, and a few presents waiting to be opened.

During that first Christmas in the wilds of the Northland, son Spencer became ill with flu-like symptoms and was confined to his bed upstairs. It was Christmas Eve, and only the animals and our family were celebrating. I will admit that was a bit lonely, and we tried to keep Spencer cheered up, but it was shaping up to be a mighty dim Christmas Eve.

At that point of feeling the onset of dismal, there was a knock on our kitchen door, and when I went to investigate, there stood Santa Claus, with a round of "Ho-ho-hos" and a mighty "Merry Christmas to the Marvin family. And welcome to Haverhill," Santa proclaimed for all to hear.

What an exciting event this Santa visit was for us. Here we were in a new town, no friends to speak of, beastly weather with the cold and impending snow, and a sick son upstairs. We chatted for a short while, then suggested that we all escort our guest of honor up the stairs to the corner bedroom to visit the patient.

Well, what a thrill it all was for the family to enter Spencer's room on the arm of none other than Mister Santa Claus, straight from the North Pole, who was full of cheer, Ho-Ho-Ho's, and other fun and merriment.

It was a memorable night, filled with good cheer from an unknown person who took the time to visit our family and cheer up a sick child. "So, who might you be behind that white beard and thin-rimmed glasses?" I asked.

"I am Ernie Towne, of the Haverhill Board of Selectmen, here to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."

That was my first involvement with the Town of Haverhill. It was a friendship that lasted many years and well beyond the year 2006, when we moved from Haverhill down Route 10 three miles to Piermont, where we now live and enjoy our warm Christmas times, just like the old days in Haverhill Corner.

And thank you, Ernie Towne, for brightening our first Christmas in Haverhill so long ago. We hope that wherever you might be, you and yours are healthy and safe for the Christmas of 2025!

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