About Brentwood, New Hampshire

Brentwood, New Hampshire is a small rural community located almost exactly in the geographical center of Rockingham County. The town is only 260 feet above sea level. The highest elevations are Deer Hill and Great Hill. The principal rivers flowing through the town are the Exeter, Little and Piscassic Rivers. There are no large lakes or ponds within the town's limits. The earliest known population figure for Brentwood was 1,064 inhabitants in 1767. The lowest population figure came in 1920 when the town was home to 685 residents. The 1990 census records Brentwood's population at its highest rate ever-2,590.

Brentwood has a history almost as old as the state. It was founded in 1638 as part of Exeter-only eighteen years after the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, Massachusetts in 1620. The first recorded reference to what is now within Brentwood came in 1652 when the town of Exeter granted mill privileges to Thomas Crawley and Robert Seward at what is now commonly known as Crawley's Falls and at Pickpocket Falls where another mill privilege was granted to Rev. Samuel Dudley and John Legat in April, 1652 in the southeastern portion of the town. These mills were located on land that later became present day Brentwood. Many early documents refer to the town as late as 1800 as "Brintwood".

As early as 1738 residents living in the southeastern portion of Exeter, now Brentwood and Fremont, petitioned the town to be set off as a separate town and were denied. On January 28, 1742 residents again petitioned Exeter for separation and their wish was granted. The town was later officially born on June 26, 1742.

Almost immediately after Brentwood became a town in 1742, controversy erupted over where to locate a more central meeting house, The residents living near Marshall's Corner in the very eastern portion of the new town had previously erected a suitable meeting house at their own expense at the top of the hill a few feet west of present 66 Middle Road. When a majority of Brentwood voters approved the construction of a new meeting house at "The Gully" which was about two miles west of Brentwood's east line, (where present Congregational Church now stands) this agitated the Marshall's Corner area residents and therefore they petitioned the General Court to "be free from all charges to any other meeting house that shall be built" and to be designated a separate parish (town). This November 16, 1742 petition was dismissed on May 24, 1743 by the General Court (also called the General Assembly) which decided that the new meeting house should be built at the "Gully". This locality was approved of by 65 out of 126 Brentwood Freeholders, a majority but a slim one.

On October 27, 1744, regardless of the General Assembly, Governor Benning Wentworth and his Council, issued a King's Patent for Keeneborough Parish, authorizing it to call and settle a minister and levy taxes for his support. The new town was to call a town meeting to elect all necessary town officers and to attend other matters vital to the efficient functioning and well being of a newly established town. Keeneborough derived its name in honor of Governor Benning Wentworth's friend, Sir Benjamin Keene of England, who was instrumental in bringing the war between England and Spain to an end and was described by Prime Minister Pelham as acting "ably, honestly and bravely". He died in 1757. The new Parish of Keeneborough comprised about 10 square miles on the east and north sides of Brentwood and present day Fremont. It's western boundary went as far west as Spruce Swamp in Fremont.

Keeneborough levied a tax on its residents but Brentwood Parish objected, saying that this was not legal since Keeneborough Parish was not legally authorized to be a town by the General Assembly. The Brentwood Parish was upheld by the General Assembly which resented the Governor and Council for overstepping their legal authority in making Keeneborough a township.

During the next five years considerable controversy between the two communities continued over legal and ministerial matters. Largely due to the tactfulness of Reverend Nathaniel Trask, and the influx of new residents, the towns of Keeneborough and Brentwood were reunited in 1750 and the meeting house built at he "Gully". The first meeting was held in the meeting house on July 30 of that year. Thus ended the six year existence of old Keeneborough Parish. The name Keeneborough is perpetuated to this day in Brentwood in the naming of Keeneborough Grange which was founded in 1892.

By Matthew E. Thomas, Fremont, NH Printed from the book: Brentwood, New Hampshire Program and Historical Souvenir 250th Anniversary 1742-1992

When our family arrived in 1950, River Bend Farm was a small, subsistence farm situated on a soft rise along the banks of Exeter River. The house was tall and square and elegantly symmetrical in the Georgian style and there were dates carved into the plaster in the formal front rooms-the earliest read 1805. Despite several additions in recent years, the integrity of the original structure still shines through various attempts to improve on what was one of the most visually satisfying of early American architectural styles.

We were three little boys plus our parents then, the family later grew by a sister and another brother. We three older brothers were classic examples of the "baby boom" generation, born no more than two years apart starting right after the war. Growing up together on that farm was a wonderful experience. As brothers so often do, we alternated between being the closest of friends and the bitterest of enemies. No matter what, however, we were always curious. We explored everywhere, the house, the barn, the fields, and beyond. We found signs of former habitants all around us. The sets of initials etched into the barn's hewn timbers bespoke generations of adolescent romances. Even the fields themselves would occasionally offer up reminders of past owners, an old farrier's file, bricks from the foundation of another house that stood 100 yards to the north of the current main house, and most exciting of all-a rare arrowhead.

Each of these markers served notice that this was a place of continuity linked to the soil. What brought the first family there 150 years before us was the pull of the dirt. A plow or harrow cut cleanly through the sod from one end of the fields to the other without a single clank of stone on steel. This fact was the beginning point of almost every conversation with our neighbor Delbert Greenleaf who, with his wife Lillian, farmed the fields on the other side of Haigh Road. Laconic and so thin it seemed that the straps of his overalls would slide off his shoulders at any moment, Delbert would come as close as he was ever able to being loquacious about the absence of stones in the fields around his house. "Can't even find a damned stone to throw at the cows," he would remark as he drove them toward the barn for the evening milking. And although he always appeared to be complaining about the rock-free soil, that was exactly what brought him to Brentwood. He was born and raised on the stoniest patch of farmland in all of Exeter, about four miles away on Route 111-A. Marrying Lillian and her sandy Brentwood fields seemed too close to heaven to pass up. The Puritan in him, however, made sure that he never took his good fortune for granted.

The Greenleaf's farm was reminiscent of what every farm in Brentwood must have once been like. Their's was a subsistence farm. They raised everything they needed for themselves, whatever surplus eggs, milk or cordwood they had was sold for the cash they needed to buy those few necessities one couldn't make or grow, and to pay taxes. The one extravagance that Delbert indulged, was now and then a chew of tobacco. His frugality prevented him form pursuing the habit as most would. After chewing a wad for a day, Delbert saw no reason to discard it. "Still plenty of flavor left," he would observe as he placed the gummy mass carefully on the back of their large wood burning cookstove to dry it out for another day. This drying process had to be slow in order not to scorch the tobacco, so it took more than one night. As a result, there were several of these chews drying at any one time. Sitting in their kitchen of a winter evening was an experience your nose never forgot.

We grew up children of the land. As our horizons gradually extended beyond the house and the barn and the fields, we roamed the woods and followed the river. The Exeter River, slow and lazy where it curved around our farm, called to little boys in a variety of voices. In spring, the one season when the river exuded raw energy, it was a dangerous but generous force to be watched constantly. No one could predict what might sweep downstream-a tree, a piece of old shed, or one year a lost boat-that would be ours to claim if we could pull it to shore. In summer the river was our personal playground. It was always there to cool us off when we got too hot. It was a provider as well. Either scrambling along its banks or awkwardly rowing our reclaimed boat we would search out the biggest pickerel, the largest perch, the ugliest sucker. We would row all the way to Pickpocket Dam on our greatest adventures, ever alert for the silent shape of the occasional giant snapping turtle gliding along under the boat. No terror could match that rare sighting, no thrill was greater than describing the encounter to ourselves and to our friends. We would spot beaver, muskrats, deer and even the occasional playful otter.

Come fall we would watch the river darken from the leaf and needle drop. As we grew older, those same fur bearing animals we spotted in summer became our targets. Trapping was commonplace then, and we yearned to be proficient woodsmen. At a dollar or more per pelt, muskrats lined our pockets with a little spending money while their fur went to line someone else's winter parkas. Mornings before school we would run our small trapline to see what riches awaited us. Then in the evening, after chores were done, we would skin out our day's yield in the heatless shed. Often it was so cold that our fingers grew numb enough not to feel the occasional slip of the knife. Band aids were the badge of a successful trapper.

Winter was the season where we longed to rule the weather more than any other time of the year. Just a prolonged freeze before too much snow was all we prayed for. We wanted the river to be a frozen ribbon of promise, ice thick enough that our parents would let us skate on it. Faster than we could ever paddle any boat we would fly up and down the river chasing hockey pucks all the way to Pickpocket Dam and back. Skating home at the end of such a day, the sky would begin to shade into purple and our cheeks would sting from the cold. The expanding ice would groan and creak in ominous tones and we would skate on into the dusk in a rush of adrenaline.

After the river, bicycles and school expanded our appreciation of our hometown. Astride our balloon-tired Columbias-only sissies rode bikes with those narrow English tires then-we discovered North Road, South Road, Exeter, West Brentwood, and, of course, Lindy's Market. Almost every bicycle expedition would somehow involve a visit to Lindy's. Mr. and Mrs. Lindon were always both on duty in the store. It never seemed that one was working while the other was resting or eating. It was a mystery to us how they kept their strength. But they did, because they were always alert when a pack of us clamored into the store to buy popsicles, bubble gum, candy bars, or whatever. The temptation to try to sneak an extra pack of bubble gum with baseball cards was great indeed, especially when dared to do so by a brother or a friend, but the Lindon's were ready. Like our grade school teachers they seemed to have eyes in the back of their heads and they were everywhere at once. Their omnipresence kept us honest.

Swasey Central School was the focal point of our social lives from September through June. It was only the original structure then, four classrooms above and the basement which served as auditorium and lunchroom. Each classroom held two grades, but by the time I reached seventh grade it was necessary to expand. Two additional classrooms were added to the rear of the original building. Just as we were growing, the town was growing, too. And with that growth came problems in the school.

Mother was active in the school system, serving at least one term on the school board. There were many evening discussions at the house during those years of rapid growth. Some in person, many on the phone. Phrases like,"No discipline," "Out of control," were heard more often than once. Apparently more than a few parents felt that the older students, which we were fast becoming, lacked the proper appreciation for education. Something had to be done.

The beginning of the 1960's marked more than a new decade, it signaled a sea of change at Swasey Central. That fall as I entered the seventh grade in one of the two new classrooms, we were all greeted by two new teachers, both men. Paul Hanson, the new principal, taught math and English. Richard Green taught science and history. A new order had arrived. Both men had the appearance of having been in the military. Mr. Hanson had the physical build, the hairstyle, the voice, and the disposition of a Marine drill Sargeant. Mr. Green, tall and lanky with an infectious smile, was easygoing by comparison. It was clear from the very first day of school that the balance of power had shifted more to our parents' liking.

Mr. Hanson and Mr. Green saw that their responsibility was to prepare us for the academic challenges that lay ahead at either Exeter Regional High School of Sanborn Regional High School. And they did their jobs remarkably well. We may have resented the suddenly strict discipline, but in exchange we had coaches. Now, basketball and baseball teams played neighboring towns for the first time. For a small school, we had a surplus of athletic talent. We won often, and we were proud.

Graduation from Swasey Central was a bittersweet moment. Many classmates we had known from first grade were choosing a different high school. We would be rivals. The red brick cocoon that had nurtured us for so many years was opening, releasing us to face a larger world filled with complex choices.

Brentwood was, and remains, a quiet town with virtually no distinguishing geological or historical features that would cause one to stop unless they lived there. It has no central focus like a town green. It is really made up of small clusters of homes almost like neighborhoods, yet somehow it works as a town, as a community. It is a town full of places that are special to everyone who lives in that spot. When asked where I grew up, the answer is immediate: "River Bend Farm, in Brentwood, New Hampshire." That was our special place.

(Ed.: John Pierce is the son of John and Helen Pierce, formerly of Haigh Rd. He is presently the publisher of the Old Farmer's Almanac, Dublin, N.H.)