There were five local slaughterhouses in Athol when Beverly and Lewis Adams began to sell packaged meat as part of a transition away from the increasingly unprofitable business of dairying. Lewis slaughtered the cows and pigs they raised on their Bearsden Road farm, an Italian butcher from Donelan’s market in Orange did the cutting, and Beverly packaged the meat for her husband to sell around town. The business grew, and after Lewis died suddenly in 1973, Beverly kept it going as a way to support her five children.

She was also continuing a trust from her mother-in-law, Hester (Comerford) Adams. Hester was born in Athol in 1885 and grew up on a farm a little farther along Bearsden Road from the spectacular spot at the crest of the hill occupied by the present-day Adams Farm. Hester’s father, Richard Comerford, was the son of Irish immigrants who became a veterinarian in an era when horses provided much of the point-to-point transportation in both urban and rural places. Injured city horses were often sent to the country for rehabilitation, and Richard seems to have been among the several animal doctors in Athol—his son became another—who attended to them.

But the Comerford women were equally involved with both doctoring and animals, a facet of this farm family that continues into the present day. Hester was the youngest of nine children; her oldest sister Ethel pursued a medical degree in the early twentieth century, interning at the Massachusetts Homeopathic Hospital and later running her own practice in Leominster and the North Shore. (Homeopathy, now an “alternative” medical practice, was much more mainstream at the time, and many women were homeopathic MDs.)

And Nora, two years older than Hester, became a farmer in her own right, working with her brother Tom to keep the Comerford dairy farm going through the challenging 1920s and 30s. Like many other area farm families, they both sold to people in the industrial towns and sometimes worked there themselves—in Tom’s case, in one of the local tool factories. Nora was the farm’s mainstay: Athol street directories and federal census records list her variously as a milk dealer, a farmer, and a “farmerette” (a term used during World War I for young women who took over farmhand jobs usually held by men who were away at war).

In 1915, at the age of 30, Hester married a man from a French Canadian family, Lewis (Louis) Adams. Hester, not her husband, seems to have remained the primary farmer and land-owner; four years after her marriage, she purchased some land next to her family’s farm and used it to pasture and milk her own dairy cows. The couple had three sons—Hector, Charles (Chuck), and Lewis Jr—but the marriage did not last. By the end of the Depression, and continuing into the 1950s, it was Hester and her two oldest sons who were working the farm. The sons also inherited the neighboring Comerford farm when Nora died of breast cancer in the 1940s.

It was Hester’s youngest son, Lewis, who built the first slaughterhouse at the top of Bearsden Road. That was in 1946, at a time when it was already becoming more of a challenge to keep small-scale dairying profitable. When Lewis married Beverly Heath in 1955, it was becoming clearer that they would have to adapt and change if their business was going to survive. Beverly has a very clear recollection of her new mother-in-law entreating her to keep the farm in the family. It was a charge that struck more deeply when Hester died of a sudden heart attack that year at the age of 70.

Lewis and Beverly worked together to reinvent their hilltop operation. Lewis had always raised some heifers for meat, but they expanded this sideline, added pigs, and began growing corn to feed the animals. They built a new slaughterhouse in the late 1950s and stopped dairying altogether. They found customers among both farmers needing slaughtering services and—once they added a small retail store—shoppers looking for good affordable meat. In the 1960s they sold the old Comerford farm to reduce their tax burden, concentrating on raising their family and expanding their new specialized trade.

In the early 1970s, they had just updated the slaughterhouse again, building a larger facility on the eastern side of Bearsden Road, when Lewis died suddenly, leaving Beverly with five children under 17 and a challenging business to run. She kept it going, eventually taking her children into partnership with her, and Adams Farm remains in family hands, with some of Beverly’s grandchildren now involved as well. Beverly still comes to work most days, although her daughter Noreen and son Rick now run most of the day-to-day operations.

They do so in a greatly-enlarged facility, one that was completely rebuilt after a devastating fire shortly before Christmas in 2006 burned the 1970s structure to the ground. The resurgence of Adams Farm is a source of pride for many people in a town that still struggles to define itself after the loss of much of its major manufacturing in recent decades. In fact, the slaughterhouse is now the largest in New England and a vitally important node in the “local food” economy not just for Athol and the North Quabbin, but for the entire region. More than 500 small farms avail themselves of its services, and its retail store is almost a mini-supermarket in its own right, albeit one with a very heavy emphasis on meat.

Many of the farms that send their animals here go to great pains to emphasize the beauty of their own pastoral settings, the health and individuality of their livestock, and the aesthetic pleasures of the meat they sell. Adams does none of this: it is a resolutely utilitarian business, homey and practical in an unpretentious way.

It is, in fact, a somewhat paradoxical place, local and not local, agricultural and industrial, a functional complex in a stunningly beautiful location. It is crucial to today’s rapidly-expanding (and often upscale) food movement in New England, but it is itself firmly rooted in an older agricultural economy and closely tied to the blue-collar identity of the area. Few of its own retail products are local; much of the beef in the store comes from Amish farms in Pennsylvania, while most of the pork is from Canada. (Rick Adams makes long trips each week in the Adams Farm truck to pick it up). But all of it is humanely raised, hormone and antibiotic free, and processed on-site, placing Adams Farm somewhere between old and new, organic and conventional, artisanal and industrial.

It might seem that the four-generation legacy of women being centrally involved in running this farm and slaughtering operation is somewhat paradoxical as well. But the women themselves don’t see it that way. For Beverly (now Mundell), the business is what was in front of her when she needed to provide for her family. For her daughter Noreen Heath-Paniagua and Noreen’s daughter Chelsea Frost, this is simply what they’ve known all their lives—“It’s all I know,” in Noreen’s words.

They do admit to finding inspiration in a photo of Nora and Hester Comerford standing next to each other looking as though they’ve just finished milking. The photo hangs in several places around the building, one of only a few family photos that survived the 2006 fire. “They’re like my heroes, just seeing how hard they work,” Noreen says. “That’s the motivation that some of us need to keep going sometimes.”

John and Laura Moore met 50 years ago at a 4H gathering in Washington, DC. Both were teenagers from farm families, hers in Michigan, his in Orange, Massachusetts, and they were sent to Washington in recognition of their prize-winning farm products. They fell in love, carried on a long-distance romance, then married and settled down two miles north of the center of Orange on the Cross Road farm where John was raised. They have lived and farmed there ever since, raising four children who still live close by. Their grandchildren are the ninth generation of Moores to live in this part of town.

It is as rural and as pastoral a story as can be imagined. It seems—and the farm feels—very far removed from the center of Orange, in either its industrial heyday or its struggling present. And yet Moore’s Maple Grove Farm has reflected the changes not only in Orange but in the area’s larger industrial economy for well over a century, and the linkages between them challenge us to see the farm and the town as two sides of the same story.

That story began, for the Moores, on another farm a little farther north on Jones Cemetery Road. That was where the first Moores in the area settled not long after the American Revolution. They formed part of a tight-knit network of North Orange farm families for generations, producing, like their neighbors, things that were mainly for their own use but also some for sale in commercial markets: meat, wood, hay, wool, butter. Those markets would mostly have been local ones, and for small farmers like the Moores, the quickly-expanding mill towns along the area’s river valleys provided new venues for their products.

The factories also intersected with the older farm economy in other ways. Good farmland had been hard to come by for many decades, and not all the sons and daughters in farm families were able to move onto farms of their own. Some went west, of course, in the fabled movement toward the frontier. And many moved to the rapidly-growing cities of New England and beyond. But many stayed closer to home, finding work in the mills but not necessarily abandoning their old homes or networks of connection. And the census records show us many examples—perhaps especially in places like north-central Massachusetts, where the mill towns never sprawled into giants and the older farm world was never too far away—of people who moved from one sector to another and sometimes back again, piecing together lives and livelihoods that combined the agricultural and the industrial.

One such family were the Marbles, who came to this area from Northampton around 1895. Alden, Judson, and Joel Marble had grown up on a farm, but seem to have been among those who took non-farming jobs as young men. For Joel, the result was tragic: he died in an accident at the sawmill where he worked, leaving a young wife behind. Alden’s story was equally sad: he married in his mid-twenties and was the father of a three-year-old girl, Mary Charlotte (known as Lottie) when his wife died suddenly of meningitis. Along with their then-widowed mother, this clan of bereaved Northamptonites moved to Orange and Athol together, perhaps seeking a fresh start. The men in the family worked at the New Home Sewing Machine Company in Orange, and Alden remarried when his daughter was 14.

But the Marbles, especially Alden, seem to have been drawn back to farming, and by the turn of the century he and at least one of his brothers had bought the property on Cross Road from an older Orange family, the Goddards. They paid off the mortgage very quickly—an advantage, perhaps, of being able to earn year-round money in the factories.

The Marble brothers didn’t keep the farm long; Lottie Marble was by then being courted by the young John N. Moore from the Jones Cemetery Road family, and it was the young couple who eventually took it over. Their grandson John Moore III tells the story of how the eager young suitor would walk to see his sweetheart, and how the sight of a stand of sugar maples at the edge of the Cross Road farm was his sign that he was almost there. That may have been the reason, John surmises, that after they married in 1903 and settled in at the farm, they renamed it Maple Grove.

Having gone “back to the land,” Alden Marble continued to farm until his death in 1935. He acquired a smaller piece of land between Orange and Athol and may have made a living by selling to some of the many small grocery stores that serviced the two towns by then (numerous small stores appear in the town directories for those decades, along with a few “market gardeners”). John and Lottie Moore ran the Cross Road farm for many years as Maple Grove Dairy, with a substantial sideline in maple syrup. They were one of more than 30 small dairies in Orange who delivered milk to customers’ homes well into the middle of the twentieth century.

By then John’s father, John II, had taken over the running of the farm with his wife Jeannette and eventually with the help of their son John III. Like the Fellows family just to the north in Warwick and the Adamses to the east in Athol, they found as the decades went on that selling liquid milk at a small scale was no longer economically feasible in the age of bulk tank collection, new regulatory hurdles, and increased pressures from larger-scaled companies. After John III took over the active management of the farm in 1999, it didn’t take long to decide that they should make a shift toward more mixed production—the kind, in fact, that both his Moore and Marble forebears would have been very familiar with.

Today, John grows vegetables, raises beef cattle, and sells hay and maple syrup. His wife Laura runs a small bakery, Maple Grove Farmhouse Bakery, in the former Minute Tapioca Factory (now the Orange Innovation Center). Their children work in education and social service, not agriculture, although they help out when needed. Their granddaughter Sienna, now 11, runs her own flower business and helps out in the fields and the bakery at times. Essentially, though, John and Laura point out, their farm and bakery are both one-person operations. It’s not clear whether the long history of Moores farming in North Orange will continue beyond the present generation.

The Moores’ continued presence in local food and farming shows the kind of opportunism and adaptability that small farmers have always needed in order to stay in business in this part of Massachusetts. John, who was taught to drive draft horses when he was just a boy collecting maple syrup with his father and grandfather, did not stop using horses when the family added tractors. As their story shows, members of this family have long seen the industrial towns as both markets and sources of off-farm work. Even the supermarkets that have in many ways made it so difficult for small farmers to compete have served a useful function for the Moores. John’s mother worked in some of the local supermarkets, and although Laura Moore learned to bake in her mother’s kitchen, she honed her business and production skills during years of working at supermarkets in Orange and Greenfield.

And their business draws deeply on long-established relationships with neighbors and family, but also on newer and revitalized networks and ideas. All three generations join together to sell at farmers markets in Athol and Orange; for them, the emergence of “local food” enthusiasm has dovetailed neatly with their own move toward more diverse offerings. They have also embraced farmland preservation strategies, protecting their more than 400 acres with the help of Mount Grace Land Conservation Trust. Whatever direction the younger generations of Moores take from here, the land will remain in agricultural production.

As the area’s mill towns continue to try to redefine themselves, farms like this one may well have an important role to play, knitting agriculture more fully back into a story dominated for many decades by empty factory buildings and persistent economic struggles. Seeing the farms and the factories as two sides of the same coin perhaps opens the way to a vision of a more hybrid and locally-rooted economy that draws on the strengths of its people and the land they share.

Click here for a gallery of additional photos from the Moore family.

Chase Hill Farm in Warwick feels like one of the most peaceful places on earth. It’s on one of those roads where you look twice when a car happens to drive by. There’s a view of Mount Monadnock across the fields to the northeast. Brown and white cows are usually to be seen grazing on one of the hillsides. A mysterious little doorway—the entrance to the cheese cave, it turns out—leads into the side of a hill. The only disruption is from the sheepdog who comes to meet you, but when Mark Fellows appears in response to her barking, he simply advises, “The best way to get her to stop is just to ignore her.”

The calm is partly a reflection of the farm’s location. But it’s also something that has been achieved gradually over the three decades since Mark and his wife Jeannette took over his parents’ business. Slowly and thoughtfully, they’ve been disentangling what was once a conventional commercial dairy from the surprisingly complex processes that have made cow’s milk one of the most fully industrialized of food products. At the same time, they’re part of a new partnership between farmers and land conservationists, a relationship that was by no means always amicable.

The Fellows—mother Vida, father Archie, and a growing number of children—came to Warwick sometime around 1920. Some family members had been working in the factories in Orange, but they took up farming in their new home, first at “Mayo’s Corners” where Athol and Richmond Roads cross, and then on Chase Hill Road just north of the current farm.

It was not the best of times to be a farmer in a hill town like Warwick. Thanks to more intensive farming methods, New England’s overall agricultural output actually expanded all the way through the 19th century, not peaking until 1910.[1] But approaches that worked on prime lowland farms were not suited to thinner upland soils. In an effort to keep up with the pressures of expanding commercial markets, many hill town farmers drastically cleared and overused land that was formerly wooded or kept as permanent pasture. The lumber industry that made up a sizeable portion of the area’s economy also contributed to erosion and depletion of hilly fields, sparking a movement for land conservation and calls to let the uplands return to forest. The largely-denuded Mount Grace was purchased in 1915 as part of the new state forest system,[2] and after the start of the long agricultural depression that followed World War I—prelude to the Great Depression of the 1930s—more and more old Massachusetts farms became public lands and new-growth forests.

But not everyone was ready to give up on farming in Warwick. The town elected its first Director of Agriculture in 1919,[3] and the arrival of the Fellows family around that time suggests that some people were seeing the old fields as opportunities rather than problems. Archie and Vida’s large family—eventually there were 14 children—provided an in-house labor force, and there was a living to be made in the active network of small local dairies that supplied area towns with milk.

Archie and Vida’s marriage eventually failed, but Vida and the children stayed on the farm. Not only that, but her second-oldest son, Winfred, harbored dreams of starting a new farm. Like many farm children, he raised animals of his own from an early age. And like many of his siblings, he completed some of his high school training at New Salem Academy, 15 miles away, where an agricultural studies program inspired many local youth to pursue farming. After graduating, he acquired a small herd of Guernsey cows and made plans to build a new farmstead on the hillside next to his parents’ home.

World War II intervened. 20-year-old Winnie Fellows was drafted in 1942 and lost his life in Germany two years later. He had entrusted his herd to his next-oldest brother, Oliver, and it was Oliver, with his wife Virginia, who eventually purchased the acreage from Vida and built the house and barn that stand on the property today. They farmed it from the mid-1950s to the early 1980s, raising their five children and selling their milk to regional bulk distributors.

It was an exceptional thing for a young couple to start a new farm in a north-central Massachusetts hill town in the middle of the 20^th century. It went against all the trends of old fields continuing to revert to forest or being sold for housing developments, young people moving into towns and cities for work, and food being distributed over longer distances on expanded postwar highways that let refrigerated trucks travel between source and supermarket with petroleum-powered ease. Town historian Charles Morse reported that the Director of Agriculture “had lost his enthusiasm from lack of interest and the town refused to elect one in 1941.”[4] Yet Winfred Fellows’ hopes for a farm in the 1930s and 40s, and Oliver and Virginia’s realization of those hopes in the 50s, show us that we need to look carefully at the many ways farmers have found to maneuver within the trends and sometimes to push back against them.

By the early 1980s, when Mark and Jeannette Fellows bought Chase Hill Farm from his parents, dairying in the area was shrinking fast. Consolidation in the milk distribution industry, among other factors, made it difficult or impossible to stay solvent below a certain scale. Mark had been trained at Cornell University to follow a conventional path into farming, but quite quickly he and Jeannette found that they didn’t want to be driven by conventional marketplace logic. Experimentally, one step at a time, they began to set the farm on a different footing.

In hindsight, the basis of their strategy is very simple: keep costs of production low and produce as much as possible of what they need themselves. In practice, this has meant embracing an idea that has steadily gained currency among farmers practicing “regenerative” and pasture-based agriculture: that healthy grass is the foundation for just about everything else that happens on the farm. The 40 cows at Chase Hill eat fresh grass seven months of the year and dried grass—hay—in the winter months, grown on Chase Hill’s own fields plus some owned by neighbors.

“That whole thing is basically a solar panel,” Mark says, pointing to a hillside whose soils were deemed “marginal” by earlier generations of farm agencies and advocates. More literal solar panels on the barn supply more than half the farm’s electrical needs, and three draft horses provide a good deal of the energy for spreading manure and making hay, further minimizing the need for petroleum products.

Hay alone is not nutritious enough to support a cow who is producing milk. The usual solution is to grow or purchase corn so that cows can be milked year-round, but Chase Hill Farm went the other way. Mark began breeding and milking the cows only seasonally and letting them go “dry” in the winter, historically the pattern in this region before new technologies like silos for grain storage enabled year-round dairying starting in the early 20^th century. Industrial agriculture demands standardization and a steady, predictable product; seasonal dairying is more of a dialogue between farmers’ plans and the limits of what can be produced without undue stress by human and animal bodies, and by the land that supports them.

Two final pieces of the puzzle have helped turn Chase Hill Farm even farther toward self-sufficiency. First, Mark and Jeannette stopped making the wholesale milk sales that provided the bulk of their income in the early days. Instead, they moved toward direct-marketing, another trend that is both new and very old. And second, Jeannette started to make cheese in 2001, adding value, variety, and year-round flexibility to the farm’s other offerings of meat and raw (unpasteurized) milk. A range of artisanal cheeses comes out through the mysterious little door in the hillside, to be sold at farmers markets, some area supermarkets, and in the farm’s small on-site store.

Another change in 2001 reflects a recent trend in land conservation: protecting farmland in perpetuity so that it remains in production. When the 75-acre Mayo’s Corner farm where Mark’s father had been born came up for sale, the Fellows were concerned that one of the few remaining farms in town was ripe for development into house lots. They also saw an opportunity to gain more control over the vital pasture and hayfield base that their farm depends on. They sold the development rights on their own 260-acre farm to the state, and with the proceeds of that sale plus the help of Mount Grace Land Conservation Trust, they were able to buy the old farm at the crossroads.

Warwick’s historian, Charles Morse, was caustic about the role of the state in transforming so much of the town’s farmland into forests. The state, he declared in his 1963 history, had “gradually devoured nearly one-third of the town bite by bite” while the majority of the population “bowed to the inevitable.”[5] But protecting farmland charts a middle course between taking land out of active use and letting purely financial considerations decide its future. It’s an approach that resonates with Mark and Jeannette Fellows’ quiet but determined resistance to the logic of the industrialized food system, and their ongoing work of building a thriving business at its very edges.

NOTES

[1] Michael M. Bell, “Did New England Go Downhill?” in Geographical Review, Vol. 79, No. 4 (October 1989), p. 464.

[2] Charles Morse, Warwick, Massachusetts: Biography of a Town (Cambridge: Dresser, Chapman, and Grimes, 1963), p. 179. On the development of state forests in general, see “Massachusetts State Forestry Programs,” William H. Rivers, in Stepping Back to Look Forward: A History of the Massachusetts Forest, Charles H.W. Foster, ed. (Petersham, MA: Harvard Forest, 1998, pp. 147-219).

[3] Morse, Warwick, Massachusetts, p. 179.

[4] Morse, Warwick, Massachusetts, p. 180.

[5] Morse, Warwick, Massachusetts, p. 180.