The Recollections of Zachariah
Hildreth
As Told to His Grandchildren in
the Year 1856
Gathered by the fireside in Townsend, Massachusetts
Well now, children, gather round close to the fire, for these old
bones feel the cold more than they used to. Your grandmother Hannah
is resting upstairs -- she tires easily these days -- but she'd want
me to share these stories with you. You're all growing so fast, and I
suppose at seventy-three years, I've lived long enough to have a tale
or two worth telling.
The Old Days: My Childhood
I was born right here in Townsend on the tenth of April, 1783.
Yes, that's seventy-three years ago now, hard as that is to believe.
The very same year the war with England finally ended for good. My
father, also named Zachariah, used to tell me that the whole town was
still talking about independence when I came into this world. He
himself had lived through those Revolutionary times, and he was in
the local militia and marched on the Lexington alarm -- but someone
needed to tend the farms and keep families fed while the fighting men
were away.
My mother was Elizabeth Keyes before she married Father. She was a
good woman, strong and capable, as all frontier women needed to be. I
had an older brother Aaron, born in '78, and other siblings too. We
were a houseful, I can tell you that.
Mother died when I was but ten years old, in 1793. That was a hard
year for us all. I remember her coughing something terrible near the
end, and Father doing his best to comfort us children while running
the farm and tending to her. After she passed, Father had to be both
mother and father to us for a time until he tok Abigail Hart as his
wife and they had eight more children. We children had to grow up
faster than we might have otherwise.
Those early years taught me the value of hard work. By the time I
was twelve, I could handle a plow as well as any man, milk the cows
before dawn, and split enough wood to keep the fires burning through
a New England winter. Father also taught me the cooper's trade -- the
making of barrels and casks. "A man with a skill," he'd
say, "never goes hungry, and his neighbors always have need of
him."
Learning the Trade
The cooper's craft is not one you learn in a day, children. It
takes years to understand how different woods behave, which staves
will hold water and which are better for dry goods. Oak for tight
cooperage -- that's your whiskey barrels and such that need to hold
liquids. Pine and other softer woods for the slack work -- flour
barrels, apple casks, and the like.
I remember the smell of the wood shavings in Father's shop, the
sound of the hammer on the hoops, driving them tight around the
staves. There's a music to it, if you have the ear. Each barrel has
to be just right -- too loose and it leaks or falls apart, too tight
and the wood splits. You learn to read the grain, to feel when the
tension is perfect.
Father taught me that a cooper's reputation is everything. "Make
it right the first time, Zachariah," he'd say. "A barrel
that fails costs a man his goods, maybe his livelihood. Your name
goes on every barrel you make, whether you mark it or not." I've
tried to live by that principle all my life.
Meeting Your Grandmother
Now, the best day of my life -- aside from the birth of each of my
children, of course -- was when I first truly noticed Hannah Sawtell.
Oh, I'd seen her around town before that. She'd come down from New
Hampshire with her family, and Townsend being a small place, you'd
see folks at church and at town gatherings. But there was one Sunday
in 1809 when I was twenty-six years old, and she was just twenty, and
the light came through the church window and lit up her face just so,
and I thought, "That's the woman I'm going to marry."
I was a shy fellow back then, believe it or not. Took me weeks to
work up the courage to speak to her proper. Finally did so at a barn
raising at the Emerson place. I offered to fetch her some cider, and
she smiled at me, and I nearly dropped the cup right there.
We courted for about a year. I'd walk over to her family's place
on Sunday afternoons when the weather was fine. We'd sit on the
porch, properly chaperoned of course, and talk about everything --
our families, our hopes, the farm, the future. She had such a gentle
way about her, but strong too. I knew she'd be able to handle the
hardships that come with a farmer's life.
On the fifth of September, 1810, we went to the town clerk and
recorded our intention to marry, as was proper. Then on the
twenty-first of October that same year, Reverend David Palmer married
us right here in Townsend. I was twenty-seven, Hannah was nearly
twenty-one, and we were ready to start our life together.
Building a Family
Your grandmother and I set up housekeeping in a small place at
first. We didn't have much, but we had each other and we had hope. I
was farming and doing cooper work, and Hannah kept the house and the
garden and helped with everything. She was -- is -- the hardest
working woman I've ever known.
Our first child, Aaron, came along in March of 1811, just five
months after we wed. What a joy that was! I remember holding him for
the first time, this tiny red-faced little thing, and thinking, "Now
I'm truly a man -- I've got a family to provide for." It
concentrates the mind wonderfully, I can tell you.
Then came our first daughter Clarissa in 1814. She was a beautiful
little thing, all golden curls and laughing eyes. Your grandmother
doted on her something fierce. We all did.
[Here the old man pauses, his eyes distant]
We lost her in 1819. She was just five years old. It was
September, and she took sick sudden-like. We tried everything -- sent
for the doctor, tried all the remedies we knew. But sometimes the
good Lord has other plans. We buried her in the New Cemetery, and a
part of our hearts went with her.
That's the hardest thing about being a parent, children. You love
them so fierce it hurts, and then sometimes they're taken from you.
We named our next daughter Clarissa too, in 1820, to keep the name in
the family, to remember.
James came in 1817, then the second Clarissa in 1820. Elizabeth in
1822 -- your Aunt Elizabeth who married Joseph Chaffin. Then Milo in
1824, Moses in 1828, and Edward in 1831. I was nearly fifty when
Edward was born! And then, when we thought we were done having
children, along came little Harriet Augusta in 1835. I was fifty-two,
and your grandmother was forty-six.
[The old man's voice catches]
We lost Harriet just six years ago, in 1850. She was only
fourteen. That was... that was hard. Very hard. She was our baby, our
youngest, and so full of life. Your grandmother took it especially
hard. We have already buried two Clarissas -- the little one who died
at five, and the second Clarissa who died in 1852 at thirty-two.
Three daughters gone before us. It's not the natural order of things,
children, for a parent to bury their child. But such is life
sometimes.
Life on the Farm
Over the years, I built up a decent farm here in Townsend. Nothing
grand, mind you, but good land that provided for us. We grew corn and
hay, kept cows for milk and butter, pigs and chickens. Your
grandmother had the finest vegetable garden in town -- still does,
when her hands don't pain her too much.
The work never stops on a farm. Up before dawn to milk the cows,
feed the animals, tend the fields. In spring, there's plowing and
planting. Summer brings haying -- backbreaking work in the heat, but
you need that hay to feed the animals through winter. Fall is harvest
time, getting everything in before the frost. And winter, well,
winter is for mending tools, fixing things that broke during the
year, and keeping the fires going.
I kept up my cooper work all these years too. Farmers always need
barrels -- for apples, for storing grain, for salting meat. And not
just farmers -- the merchants, the tavern keepers, everyone needs a
good cooper. I'd work in my shop during the slower times on the farm,
and the extra income helped raise nine children, I can tell you that.
When the census man came around in 1850, he wrote down that I had
a thousand dollars in real property. That might sound like a lot, but
it represents a lifetime of work -- every early morning, every late
night, every barrel made, every field planted. I'm proud of it, not
because of the money, but because it means I provided for my family.
Changes I've Seen
You children can't imagine how much the world has changed in my
lifetime. When I was born, there was no such thing as a United States
really -- just thirteen former colonies trying to figure out how to
be a country. George Washington wasn't even president yet when I was
born. Now we've got thirty-one states, stretching all the way to the
Pacific Ocean!
When I was a boy, if you wanted to go somewhere, you walked or
rode a horse, or maybe took a wagon if the roads were passable. Now
they've got these railroads with steam engines pulling cars faster
than any horse could run. They've even got plans to run a line
through these parts eventually.
I remember when news traveled slow. It might take weeks to hear
what happened in Boston or New York. Now, with these telegraph wires
they're stringing up everywhere, they say a message can go hundreds
of miles in minutes. It's like something from a fairy tale.
The mills over in Lowell changed everything too. When I was young,
cloth was made at home on a spinning wheel and loom -- your
grandmother made all our cloth that way when we were first married.
Now they've got these big factories with machines that can do the
work of a hundred women. It's put a lot of home spinners out of work,
but I suppose that's what they call progress.
The politics have changed too. There's been a lot of talk lately
about slavery and whether it should be allowed in the new
territories. It's causing quite a stir. Some folks around here feel
very strongly about it -- we had that Mr. Garrison come through a few
years back talking about abolition. I don't hold with slavery myself.
Every man should be free to work his own land and raise his own
family. But I'm just a simple farmer and cooper. The politicians will
have to sort it out.
Lessons Learned
Seventy-three years on this earth have taught me a few things,
children. Let me share them with you while I still can.
First, family is everything. Your grandmother and I have had our
hard times -- we've lost children, we've struggled to make ends meet,
we've worried and fretted. But we had each other, and we had our
children, and that made every hardship bearable. Take care of each
other. Help each other. Family is what lasts.
Second, honest work is its own reward. I've never been a rich man,
and I never will be. But I've never cheated anyone, never made a
shoddy barrel or sold wormy corn. I can walk through town and hold my
head up because I've dealt fairly with my neighbors. That's worth
more than gold.
Third, learn a skill. Farming alone is a hard life -- one bad
harvest and you're in trouble. But knowing a trade like coopering
meant I always had a way to earn. In these changing times, young
folks need to think about what skills will serve them. The world is
changing fast, and you'll need to change with it.
Fourth, stay close to God and your community. We've seen a lot of
religious fervor in my lifetime -- revival meetings and such. I'm not
one for big emotional displays, but I do believe in keeping the
Sabbath, treating others fairly, and trusting in the Lord's plan,
even when it's hard to understand. And stay involved in your town. Go
to the town meetings. Help your neighbors when they need it. A
community is only as strong as the people in it.
And lastly, cherish every day. When you're young, you think you
have all the time in the world. But seventy-three years goes by
faster than you'd think. Your grandmother and I have been married
forty-six years now. Seems like just yesterday we were young and
starting out. Now we're old, and our children are grown with children
of their own. Don't waste time on foolish arguments or holding
grudges. Life is precious and short.
Looking Back, Looking Forward
Some folks might say I haven't done anything special with my life.
I've never been to Boston, never mind New York or Philadelphia. I've
never held public office or made any great discovery. I've just been
a farmer and a cooper here in Townsend all my days.
But I've raised a family. I've made barrels that held people's
goods and helped them prosper. I've helped my neighbors build their
barns and bring in their harvests. I've paid my taxes and done my
civic duty. And I've loved your grandmother with all my heart for
forty-six years.
If that's not a life well-lived, then I don't know what is.
Your grandmother isn't feeling too well these days, and truth be
told, neither am I. This consumption is wearing me down -- some days
the coughing is so bad I can barely catch my breath. The winter cold
goes right through these old bones. But we've had a good life
together, Hannah and I. We've seen our children grow and have
children of their own.
When my time comes, I'll rest in the New Cemetery alongside our
little Clarissa and our Harriet. Your grandmother will join me there
someday, and we'll all be together again -- all the family, reunited.
But that's not for you children to worry about. You've got your
whole lives ahead of you. The world is changing so fast, and who
knows what opportunities you'll have that we never dreamed of. Just
remember where you came from. Remember that you come from good,
honest, hardworking people who loved each other and did their best.
And if you ever wonder what your old grandfather was like, well, I
hope you'll remember this: I was a man who loved his wife, cherished
his children, worked hard, dealt fairly with his neighbors, and tried
to live according to the Good Book. That's all any man can do.
Now then, it's getting late and the fire's burning low. Help me up
from this chair, would you? These old legs don't work like they used
to. Your grandmother will be wondering where I've gotten to.
Remember what I've told you, children. And come visit us again
soon. We always love seeing you.
[End of recollections]
Historical Note: Zachariah Hildreth died on
January 22, 1857, just one year after these recollections might have
been shared, at the age of 73 years, 9 months, and 12 days. His
beloved wife Hannah had preceded him in death by only nine days,
passing on January 13, 1857. They rest together in the New Cemetery
in Townsend, Massachusetts, alongside their daughters Clarissa and
Harriet Augusta.
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3) The Video Overview of Zachariah Hildreth's memoir, created by the Google NotebookLM AI tool, is:
4) I edited the Claude memoir text to correct minor inconsistencies and errors. Every large language model (LLM) AI tool writes descriptive text much better than I can write. The AI tools are very perceptive, insightful and inspiring, creating engaging text in seconds, including local and national historical events and social history detail when requested.
5) This is historical fiction, based on my own genealogical research. It is what Zachariah Hildreth might have told his grandchildren in 1856.
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Links to my blog posts about using Artificial Intelligence are on my Randy's AI and Genealogy page. Links to AI information and articles about Artificial Intelligence in Genealogy by other genealogists are on my AI and Genealogy Compendium page.
Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver
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