“Why is it called Walpole?”

Town Hall, Walpole, Massachusetts

Town Hall in Walpole, Massachusetts (Image Credit: Marc N. Belanger)

Last weekend, while the citizens of Caterpickles Central were driving around Massachusetts in yet another attempt to find good Mexican food, we passed through a little town called Walpole. The Four-Year-Old, who is rather fond of Rancho Chico, a Mexican restaurant in nearby Plainville where she was serenaded by a mariachi band, asked, “Are we in Plainville?”

Father: “No, we’re in Walpole.”

The Four-Year-Old: “Why do they call it Walpole?”

So we Asked the iPhone.

Turns out, when the Neponset Native American tribe ceded the land now known as Walpole to the settlers back in 1635, Walpole was actually part of Dedham. Before being chiseled down to its current size, Dedham boasted parts of 16 different towns, including Walpole, Norwood, Westwood, and Dover. Walpole split off from Dedham in 1724, after the saw mill industry had developed enough to make it prosperous enough to exist on its own. The new town was named Walpole, in honor of Sir Robert Walpole, the first Prime Minister of Great Britain.

We have spent many happy minutes imagining the phrasing on those permission slips.

This burst of good will toward the mother country was short-lived, however. The newly prosperous citizens of Walpole rather rapidly decided they didn’t like being subject to taxes from overseas, and sent some 200 men to fight in the various battles of the Revolutionary War (a number that becomes much more impressive when you consider that, according to Wikipedia, Walpole had “grown” to have 1,935 residents in 1860).

Today, Walpole boasts some 24,000 people, and one of my favorite signs in all of Massachusetts (shown at right). I like it almost as well as the “Thickly Settled” signs that invariably appear next to cemeteries in Boston.

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About Shala Howell

Writer of things ranging from optical network switching white papers to genetic testing patient education materials to historical fiction set in an 1880s asylum. When I’m not scratching my head over pesky characters who refuse to do things how I want them done or dreaming of my next book (which will of course be much easier to write than the current one), my writerly self can be found blogging about life with a very curious Ten-Year-Old at Caterpickles.com, or musing about books and the writing life at BostonWriters.wordpress.com.
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