Depression Lesson

When I was a kid of ten, I was a brat. We were poor, like most everyone else in town, but Mom and Dad provided well for us in the matter of food, clothing,and entertainment, within their means. It was not their fault that as the middle child I sometimes felt things were unfair.

At about that time my grandmother (mom's mother) became ill, so Mom brought her to live with us temporarily--to "build her up." (Grandpa was not up to it.) She settled in, in the big bedroom downstairs, and we all loved having her. To help in her nourishment, Mom bought a jar of Ovaltine, a little beyond our food budget.

I discovered how delicious it was, and before long I was helping myself to it a little too often for Mom's budget. She took me to task.

"Ella Ruth! That's for Grandma. No more!"

Of course I wasn't thinking of budgets. It was tantrum time. I began to whine, cry, and complain--"Frank always gets the first bike, he gets to go to camp, Johnny gets to eat first--and what do I get? I get to wash dishes!!" It went on until I got out of breath and paused for the inevitable sermon. Instead, Mom just quietly looked at me, then said,, "Ella Ruth, can you hear yourself?"

I had been too busy hollering to listen to what I'd said. As I thought about it, I realized what I had sounded like. It was an epiphany. As Dr. Phil would say, "It was a life-changing moment in my life." That was my last tantrum!

Strawberries!!!

In the early Thirties, summers in Mars Hill were magic. We had no TV, no computers, and no incentive to stay indoors. We went barefooted, rain or shine, and clothes were on the edge of naked, just a little 3-cornered halter left our backs bare to the sun. When I heard the strawberries were ripe on the hill, I couldn't wait. With tuna sandwiches, a bottle of cherry Koolaid, and my friend Tillie in tow, we took off for a strawberry "picking". Two large coffee cans on strings were an optimistic addition to our equipment.

Through the gravel pit behind Mrs. Hallett's house, up over the hill toward Davenport's house, and we were there--a little meadow near the swamp. It was strawberry heaven--tiny red berries hanging in clumps, so juicy and tart they gave you goosepimples. When the cans were half full, we stopped picking, lay on the thick grass, wolfing down the tuna sandwiches and Koolaid, with berries for dessert.

Carefully swinging our cans of berries we headed back over the hill and down into the gravel pit. Something new had been added: a truck driver was digging into one bank of the pit. As we approached, he yelled out, "Hey, look what I found!" Of course we had to see, too.

It was bones! As he dug farther, more and more bones, huge ones, appeared. We were so excited we rushed home to tell mom and dad about the great find, sure something prehistoric was about to make our neighborhood famous. We were soon disappointed to learn it was merely a dead horse, buried by an early farmer.

The strawberries made a much greater hit with our families!

Fun in the Fifties

In our early married years, when our two daughters were in their young teens, Sunday was family day, and the afternoon was reserved for family fun. Immediately after we returned from church we would head out for lunch: sometimes out in the car to Leicester, where we could buy 6 hotdogs for a dollar at "Hot Dog Annie's" (she was the foul-mouthed proprietor of a little shack on a country road, and we would snicker and cover our mouths when she would utter one of her frequent obscenities) but the hot dogs were delicious as well as cheap. Another choice was Kimball's Dairy for banana splits--so large we needed nothing else for lunch. A third choice (in the Fall): we would stop at Clarkson's corn stand, buy freshly picked corn, rush home and plunge it in boiling water for our lunch.

Lunch over, Dad piled us all in the car--Carol in the back left seat, and Elaine in the back right seat, so no arguing!--and he would drive around the back country roads, with the radio blasting out programs like "The Lone Ranger", "Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons," and best of all, "The Shadow Knows."

Today, Sunday, August 17th, 2008, we (Doug, Erica, Evan and I), went to Kimball's Dairy for ice cream. What used to be a small ice cream stand, has expanded to many buildings and acres, but the banana splits are even larger. The memory is still good, but I couldn't handle one of those banana splits!

Great Grandma Returns to the Blogk

It's been three months -- my mind went blank when I fell and hit my head! But you can't keep a good 85-year-old down when she has something to say. And it's this! If you are newly married and considering not having children-- Picture yourself retired, living in Florida alone, and all of your friends from the north have died or moved to a retirement home somewhere else. Life is good, until you fall and break a hip. You are trapped--can't drive, go for groceries, and you are lonesome for family. Don't be crazy! Have all the little babies you can possibly afford. They are like gold coins in the piggy bank of life. You see, it happened to me, and my children, and they are my angels now. Without them I would be scared and alone in a strange place, at the mercy of less-than-caring strangers. Family are the most important thing in the world, and most people don't realize how important they are until you need them. Best of all, children keep you younger, longer--and most childless couples I've known were "dullsville".

Published at Last

I fell in love with poetry when I was six or seven years old. All the little nursery rhymes were so sweet to my ear. I memorized them and sang them, bringing all those queer characters to life in my mind. So I figured I could write poetry too. I conjured up a character and decided the poem should also have a theme about life. With tablet and pencil in hand I wrote, after much editing and pondering:

Along a hot and dusty road
A ragged beggar trod.
His clothes were covered o'er with mud.
His feet were poorly shod....

And then I got "writer's block" that dastardly enemy of all writers--the same thing writers complain about in magazines, books and articles all the time. As much as I thought and pondered, the next verse would not come to me. I just couldn't decide what to do with that beggar. As far as I know, he is still "trodding" along that dusty road, and I've no idea where he is headed. I'm just going to assume he finally got there. And now, after eighty years, I can say that my very first poem is now published!

The Bicycle

I never had my own bicycle. Family finances did not allow for more than one bike in the family. It was therefore decided one boy's bike was more practical for two boys in the home than a bike for just one girl. Do you think that stopped me? I discovered that by lining the bicycle up next to the porch edge, I could mount the seat quite easily. I could reach the pedal at its top position, give a push and catch the next pedal as it rose to the top of the circle. With that start, I was off.

The next problem was to stop and get off. Since I couldn't reach the ground, I had to find someone to catch me and turn me around. Mrs Donley in the house on the corner beyond the big barn was often in her garden, and with luck, she'd be there. I would start shouting as soon as I spotted her, "Catch me, Mrs. Donley--catch me!" I would ride directly toward her, and in self defense she'd grab my handlebars, turn the bike and head me back toward home. If she wasn't there, I kept riding, up the next street, around the watering trough, down the Fort road toward town, up Gilman street, around Pansy's house, and into our driveway to the front porch edge to get off.

I had the technique pretty well mastered, until one day I took a shortcut through Pansy's driveway, figuring I could also cut along the path beside her garage. I was fine until I nearly came to her little garden. Then I began to question--could I actually get through that path? "Yes?" "No?" "Yes?" "No?"
By the time I made up my mind, I was into the wire fence surrounding Pansy's green beans and face down in the once-neat rows. Pansy came out and picked me up, and seeing she was my piano teacher and a nice lady, all she said to me was, "Oh, Ella Ruth! What will you do next?"

Bars

As far as my very first memory of being in this world, I could have followed "Mr. Bean" on his "point of light." Suddenly I found myself standing in a white prison, with tall white bars and a railing, and a very soft floor on which I could bounce up and down. It had to be a crib in mom and dad's bedroom.

I recall that I was crying (or more probably whining!) that I wanted to go too! Mom was going somewhere and leaving me in the crib. Next, I was yelling for CANDY, which isn't too surprising, and mom was reassuring me that if I'd be good, she'd bring back some for me. That probably satisfied me for a while, but the next thing I remember was that I decided to get out of that white prison.

I couldn't get up over the railing, but after some squeezing and pushing, I got my head out through the bars. Ah'h, freedom. Whoops--shoulders didn't fit, though I really tried. Nope, not gonna work. Okay, back with the head--nope, ears in the way! Finally, bruised and tired, my head hung down outside the crib until either the babysitter or mom, arrived.

Next thing I knew, my head was being pushed and pulled, and there were lots of voices yelling, "Do this, Do that," while my poor little nobbin was manipulated in a dozen twists and turns. Someone must have said, "Grease it!" because suddenly I was being covered in butter or something equally slippery--ears, nose, hair, and all. And it worked--I was finally out of there and into an equally frightening bath of soapsuds.

I was not a person to give up easily. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. I pulled that stupid trick at least two or three times, thinking that if you got through the bars one way, you had to be able to get back! Good thing I loved the taste of butter.

"Lizzie"

In 1944 we acquired a neat little Model A. Money was scarce and an old lady who had been told not to drive any more was getting rid of her car at a good price. She had been the only driver, and it was supposedly in good condition. There was a rumble seat, which was fine in good weather. But if it rained, you could forget taking any extra passengers. I was eight months along, expecting Carol.

The first test drive took us out to Leicester. It was April, and spring was in full bloom. New green leaves had covered the maple and oak trees along Route 9, and we even had a window cracked open for the fresh air. We must have been doing the horrendous speed of 25 mph, about 10 mph short of the maximum for the car, when we were pulled over by a State Police car.

The cop got out and sauntered over, pulling out his notebook, leaned down and looked in at us.

"Goin' a little fast there, weren't you?"

Ever the quick thinker, Red said,, "Well, officer, we're heading for the hospital, but I didn't think we were speeding. You see, my wife----"

The officer looked in at me, suddenly jerked back, and said, "Go, guy, go!"

We went. But once we lost the cop, we headed on home. I don't know why he stopped us, but it certainly wasn't for speeding.

We kept that car for several years. I enjoyed driving it myself, but it had a few personality quirks, like stalling in the middle of traffic, or backfiring.

Tillie and I were driving it down Main Street one day, when "Lizzie", as we called her, did her little trick--stopped in the middle of traffic in front of Sears Roebuck. We sat a few minutes, wondering what to do. Fortunately, there was a bar right across the street, and a man very much under the influence wandered over to us, offering to be helpful. We were delighted to accept, and he may have been under the weather, but he got us going, the car started, and off we went with a sigh of relief, and Lizzie backfiring like crazy,

As Arthur Godfrey once said, "If it's for free, take!"

School Days, May Days

Grade school was a piece of cake with frosting on it for me. For Tillie, it was more like burnt toast. I had a teacher at home for a mom. She had three introverted women as her "mothers" and a stepfather who could have cared less about her education. Whereas I was encouraged to read, sew, cook, and confront the world's challenges, her mother, aunt, and two sisters gave her no incentive to try anything. She loved music, but never got to take piano lessons. She loved to cook, but never got her hands in the dough. She loved designing clothes, but never got to touch a sewing machine. I don't think her report card ever saw anything above an "E" or F".

I liked most of my teachers, and those I didn't I challenged. I argued endlessly with Miss Irvine, the language teacher, challenging her use of adverbs, adjectives and pronouns. Mr. Diggins, my homeroom and math teacher was a big, gruff man, but I loved that he challenged us with all kinds of puzzles, and gave us prizes for the first pupil to find the answers. When he passed them out to us, I would work on them until I had them solved, and if that was before supper, I'd rush to his home and pass the completed puzzle to him at the door.

Tillie hated Mr. Diggins. She complained to me one day that he had thrown an eraser at her. She had no help with her homework at home,and math to her was a total conundrum.

There was a tradition in our schools that in May we could make Maybaskets and hang them on people's doorhandles. It was to signify love or friendship. If you particularly liked someone, you tucked a candy of some sort in the bottom of the basket. We would try to outdo each other in the creation of the baskets. I hung one on Mr. Diggins' door, and Tillie hung hers on Miss Lovely's. There were several on Ms. Lovely's. I saw no others on Diggins'.

Sadly, Mom told me, much later that Miss Lovely and Mr. Diggins were called before the school board for having "an affair." Ah,me! When in May a young man's fancy....

To Horse, To Horse

Horses and I do not have a great history, even though I love them and think they are one of the most beautiful and useful creatures on earth. It's just that horses and I never had much of a meeting of the minds.

My first contact with one was when Bobby, a neighbor kid, brought his new pony over to our house to show it off. His father owned a garage in town and had lots of money to spend on the latest things for his children. So this day Bobby was leading it on a rope and came into our yard to show it off. (I think he was afraid to ride it.) In awe, we stood around, trying to pet it. When Bobby decided we'd had enough, he pulled the rope to lead it away. The horse's next step was right on my foot! I screamed, the horse took off and took Bobby with it on a very unexpected involuntary run right through our neighbor Pansy's garden. There were no broken bones, but there were lots of messed up beans and sweet peas.

That long-ago episode was forgotten by the time I was dating Red. He and I decided to rent a couple of horses at a trail-riding place in Millbury. Friends had recommended it as a great thing to do. We signed up and I was given a nicely broken-in filly, Daisy. Red decided on a larger horse, Tuffy, which the owner certified as "quite energetic but manageable."

We were soon off down a nice smooth trail towards the mountain. It was a beautiful day, the trail was picturesque, and though I was not trained for cantering or galloping, my horse went along very smoothly, but slowly. Very slowly! And Red's horse followed, very slowly, behind mine. This did not please Red, who kept urging big Tuffy to pass around me. Nothing doing! Big Tuffy wanted to follow Daisy, his nose to Daisy's tail, and he did, very very slowly, all the way back to the stable. We didn't go riding again for a while.

Years later, on a family vacation trip to Ticonderoga, Elaine suggested the whole family rent horses and ride. We agreed and Elaine, an experienced rider,took off full tilt down the trail. I don't recall how Red made out, but my horse wanted nothing to do with the trail--he preferred the ditch with its nice tall green grass. I don't know how long the horse and I stood, with the horse's head and two front feet down in that ditch. I believe it was most of the time the others were gone down the trail and back!

Some years later, Mom told me that Bobby had bought a small farm with horses, out near the mountain. He apparently had little knowledge of farm life. Someone had called the animal authorities, and an investigation found Bobby's horses standing in accumulated manure so deep their heads were down and their hind feet up in the air. The horses were removed because of "neglect."

I guess horses and I will never see eye to eye, but then again, neither will they and Bobby.

Washday--Now and Then

Timeline: March 2008. I gather up all my soiled clothes, drop them in a shiny white machine, add a little powdered detergent, push a button and close the cover. In twenty minutes, I open the cover, transfer the clothes to another shiny white machine, pick up the latest novel and read for an hour. A bell rings and I open the second machine, take out my clothes, and hang them on their hangers. My wash is done. I'm ready for another week.

Timeline: March 1928. I'm five years old. Mom is doing the wash. Dad has brought in the big oblong copper tub and filled it with water on the iron stove top . Mom drops in a 2-inch chunk of yellow soap (the soap she made from lye and bacon grease.) She gets the big wooden paddle dad has carved for just this purpose, and as he gets the water boiling, she drops in all of our soiled clothes and begins stirring the heavy load.

When she figures it's time, she ladles the soapy water into the sink, and replaces it with clear water. To this she adds bluing from the bottle, and begins boiling the clothes again. When this water is ladled out, the clothes are lifted into another tub, and she begins threading each piece of clothing through a wringer (a set of rubber rolls in a contraption fastened to this tub. To make them go through the wringer, someone has to turn the handle, so she and I take turns wringing.

Then comes the good part: we carry the basket of wrung-out clothing outside to the clothesline. This is great--in summer! In winter--Hell frozen over! Your fingers turn to painful slivers of ice, and then so numb you don't feel them anymore. You can't wear mittens--they would freeze to the wet clothes or the line. At last the clothes are hung and they freeze into all kinds and shapes of frozen boards, where they bang together like drums in a percussion concert. While they dry--which actually does happen, even though they are frozen--I have time to go inside and get warm and perhaps have a bowl of yummy hot oatmeal before putting on that darn bulky snowsuit and head off to school.

Goldie and Seth

In the mid-thirties, Tillie and I were real church-goers. We went to youth group, prayer meetings, regular Sunday services, vacation Bible school, choir--you name it, and we were there. Actually, there was no other place to go in that small town--if you wanted to see people and have any special activities at all, you went to your respective churches--Baptist, Methodist, Catholic, or Pentecostal. And who your social peers were depended on which church you attended.

Tillie and I always sat right down in the second row on Sunday morning at the Baptist church. We didn't want to miss a thing, and and we thought the seat -back in front of us afforded privacy from the minister's and choir's view. The rest of the congregation, except on special occasions, tended to congregate in the back of the sanctuary-so there was this block of empty rows between us and them. We were blissfully ignorant that two heads bobbing all alone in the second row were not "invisible."

We would whisper and giggle and, just crossing into the teens, we were thinking about "romance." We woud leaf through the hymn books and pick out all the hymns we could find with titles like "Love Divine," or "Love Everlasting."

One Sunday morning in the midst of this untoward behavior, I felt a sudden very sharp poke in the middle of my shoulders. One of the women in the congregation was sitting right behind us and we were feeling the tip of her big black umbrella. It was Goldie, one of the proprietors who ran the grocery store down at the corner. She was a tall, dark lady, and at that moment she had a very big frown. That put the fear of God into both of us. Cease and desist became our middle names thereafter.

Goldie's husband, Seth, was the the typical "opposite attracted." A white haired, slow speaking man, he was an almost invisible presence beside Goldie. I remember him as the man behind the counter whenever mom sent me to get our molasses bottle refilled. I would take the empty jar and Seth would set it under the spigot of a large cask. The molasses would run out so slowly you could have read a whole chapter of a book by the time your jar got full. Whenever we thought of Seth , we thought of him as "slower than cold molasses" which was really unfair.

Years after I left town, I heard that Seth had passed away, and that Goldie had gone out west to work with the Indians. It was said that she had contracted tuberculosis there and had died. She had apparently had a heart of gold, but Tillie and I hadn't recognized it.

Grandpa John and the Little House

When Grandma Bertha and Grandpa John got too old to handle the big house below the church and moved to the small cottage beside Eliza and Isaiah's, it must have seemed like moving into a dollhouse. He was a big man, although he had started to shrink somewhat, and suddenly he was sitting on smaller chairs and eating at a smaller table. Gone was his big garden and apple trees, and the wood shed where he had split large chunks of wood for the parlor stove.

It was understandable that his confinement in the smaller space would make him cranky. When he got tired of doing what few chores grandma could find for him to do, he would follow her in the kitchen, making sure she was "doing everything right." That didn't wear so well with her. To make matters worse, my mother began sending me over there to "help out." Now he had two people to keep track of.

My main task was to do the sweeping and dusting one morning, while grandma was slicing and drying apples in the kitchen. This entailed cutting the fruit in quarters, threading them on a string, and hanging the strings from corner to corner in the warm kitchen to dry for pie-making.
I began sweeping the front parlor. Grandpa eyed my work for a while, then began clearing his throat loudly and pointing to "missed spots." Then he went to the kitchen and began talking to grandma in stage whispers.

"She's just not doing it right," he was complaining. Then I heard grandma's booming voice. "John W." she said, "I want you to high-tail it out of here and don't come back for an hour. Go over to Grace's and tell her Ella Ruth's doing a fine job." Grumpily he complied, and when I got home mom complimented me for being such a help to grandma.

I don't know how old grandpa was at that time, and for all I know, he was ill and failing, but may heaven keep me from turning into an old grump as I age.

Prohibition and 3.2

During the prohibition years, the people, of Aroostook County, never at a loss for ingenuity, came up with their own brew--3.2. A very mild form of home brewed alcohol, it required more consumption to achieve the same results as the stronger stuff. It was, of course, cheaper and therefore more available. Many of the Indians who came over from New Brunswick to pick potatoes were hooked on it, and spent much of their hard earned money getting 'plastered' instead of buying food.

The Indians were not alone. Two people I knew very well were very much affected by it. One was Tillie's step-father, and the other was Jud who lived in a very small cottage on the hill, across from Frank and Betty's future home.

Tillie's step-father , Totter, was a large, beer-bellied, jovial man--when he was sober-- most of the time. When he was 'under the effects', as they used to say, he changed into a woman-battering, ugly person to avoid if you valued your life. I hadn't known this until Tillie came to our door late one evening, asking if she could stay overnight with me. She had returned home from a movie late, Totter was drunk, and Tillie's mother and sisters had retreated to the cellar while Totter rampaged, so in desperation she came to us. She begged me not to "say anything" to anyone as her folks would be too embarrassed. The next day she returned home, and life went on as usual--until the next time. But we became her refuge. Her mother and sisters used the cellar, which had a lock on the door.

Jud was the opposite of Totter. A small, wizened little man, he kept mostly to himself. I don't know what he did for work, but he apparently got paid on Saturday, for that was his day to get 'plastered'. He would go into town, get his 3.2, and then stagger home late in the evening. Sometimes he made it home, but often he didn't quite make it. He would get to the intersection across from Pansy's house (she was my piano teacher) and decide to lie down on the grassy mound on the corner. There he would sing Irish songs or just lie there and snore until morning. It was directly in our path home when Tillie and I went to a movie, and we were so used to his doing this we actually thought he was funny. I would report to dad that Jud was on the corner again, and dad would go and take Jud home.

At home I was carefully warned against the effects of alcohol--along with all the many warnings I received about the effects of tobacco, drugs, and even coffee . The only coffee I drank before the age of fourteen was the cup I sneaked at the church suppers. (Today I heard on the medical news that a cup of coffee a day is good for your heart! Who knew?) Anyway, Totter and Jud were the perfect 'show and tell' for keeping on the 'straight and narrow.'

Uncle Morley's 7 Little Blessings--Part II

Dicky, Uncle Morley's next youngest, liked to visit Aunt Min and Uncle Perce on the farm, as I did. One year he and I both shared the honor and it was great having a compatriot for all the farm adventures. Aunt Min was the most loving and lenient aunt anyone could ever have. She showed us all the intricacies of the milk room, with all its whirling metal cones and separating chambers, dividing the cream from the milk. And then she would hand each of us a small cup of straight cream to drink, saying we needed some fat on our bones. And when Dicky showed a predilection for eating mustard, she gave him a whole half jar to finish, and he did! Truth be told, my stomach felt a little unsettled after ingesting the whole cup of cream, but I survived, and Dicky did not complain of any bad after-effects.

Uncle Perce was equally kind, treating both of us to rides on the backs of the big draft horses. The trouble I got into would not have happened, except that we both came down with colds, and then terrible coughs. During the night, Dicky would cough, then I would cough, Dicky would let out a whoop, and I would follow. Eventually I heard Uncle Perce complaining to Aunt Min that if those #%@#&! kids didn't stop that #%@#&! coughing he was going to #%$@% something terrible! We both held our breath after that as much as possible between coughs. But I was terribly hurt. Didn't he know I couldn't help it? I brooded and wept into my pillow.

Hurt and brooding next day, I retaliated. I took Uncle Perce's corncob pipe, emptied it, filled it with dry cocoa, tamped it down, put a layer of tobacco over the top, and replaced it on his stand by his chair. It just about killed him! Of course, Dicky got the blame until I eventually fessed up. And when they asked why I did it, I was too embarrassed to explain it was because he had hurt my feelings. I guess I was eventually forgiven, but Uncle Perce must have heaved a big sigh of relief when Dicky and I returned home.

Uncle Morley and 7 Little Blessings

Uncle Morley, mom's brother, and Aunt Alice lived in the parsonage across the street from the Baptist Church where he was pastor for seven years. Uncle Morley was as different from his wife as Jack Sprat from his. Tall and lean with a deep gentle voice, he had a towering presence, whereas Aunt Alice was a short dumpling of a woman, with rosy cheeks and a tinkling laugh. They complemented each other perfectly and adored children, which may explain why they had seven.

I loved it when they came to visit, though because of his pastoral duties, it was rare. It was especially fun when they brought all the children along: Donald, David, Barbara, Margaret, Audrey, Richard and little Bobby. (I hope I've got them straight and in the order of their births.) They would come into the kitchen and sit on each stairstep leading from the kitchen, around and up toward the upstairs.

When all the greetings were over and everyone settled in to visit ( always in the kitchen informally) the children invariably got restless and "had to go!" The chorus would begin: "First on the hole!" "Second on the hole!" "Third on the hole!" and so on. None would be left out, as they filed in turn to the upstairs bathroom, then back to their respective perches on the stairs. They must have had strict training on behaviour, because they were perfect little gentlemen and ladies.

The only time I heard about one of the children misbehaving was an incident Aunt Alice told us about. The first time little Bobby attended the regular church service instead of the children's downstairs, he had been very quiet, and she was very proud of him until she heard him say to Richard, "I got 25 cents--how much did you get?" right after the offering plate was passed. No one had told him you had to put the money in!

Little Midwives

Sometime after Snookums had her kittens in my bed, I told Frances about the blessed event. She said that was nothing--one of her cats was expecting and she was going to watch them being born. Her family had a whole menagerie of animals, as I have said, so I asked how she knew. She explained the 'facts of life' about cats, as she knew them, the sum total being that her cat 'Missy' had a very big belly. I asked her if I could come and watch, too. She said I could and she'd let me know when.

I heard no more about it for a couple of weeks, and then one morning she was at our kitchen door. "Come on, come on! You've got to come and see! They're coming!"

I was right in the middle of washing the dishes, my obligatory daily chore before school. Frances hopped on one foot, then the other. "Come on, come on!"

My hands still wet with soapsuds, we ran down the street to her house, and into the old shed. Missy had already given birth to one kitten, but more were still on the way. She lay on a pile of old sacks in a dark corner and, as we watched open-mouthed and open-eyed, two more gradually made their way into the world. They seemed to be hairless and their eyes were closed. But one of them was very, very different. It had two heads! And it was alive, as were the others.

Frances began yelling for her father to come and see. He took one look at the newly-borns, who were already nursing, picked up the one with the two heads, and said something like "I'll take care of this," and left. I rushed back home, finished the dishes and left for school. I never heard any more about the two-headed kitten, and Frances simply said her father had "taken care of it."

Looking back, the birth of that unusual kitten was simply a miss-print in the pages of that family's life--just something that had to be gotten rid of. When I told my mom and dad, I don't think they even believed me, knowing my penchant for imagination. But to me, that was a little miracle at the time. And I often wondered if the little creature would have survived. These days, it would possibly have been a media event.

Big Red Barn--Part III

One Fourth of July, we were favored by a visit from Dad's sister Minnie and husband Bert from Millinocket. We were always happy and excited by a visit from them. Aunt Minnie was a dark haired, dark eyed quiet woman, while Uncle Bert was a dapper-dan, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, always full of fun and jokes. We adored him.

Mom prepared a big Fourth of July feast--we were having fried salmon, early peas and fiddleheads--those wonderful curly green fronds from the swamp, available only once a year. We had made a special expedition to the swamp, and had spent what seemed hours shaking out each tight curl to get rid of the papery covers. Boiled and laced with a sprinkle of salt and pepper and real butter, they were a gourmet's delight. Dessert would be a big ripe watermelon in ice cold slices.

When Uncle Bert and Aunt Minnie arrived, Bert took Dad aside for a short conference. I hung close and evesdropped. Bert advised my father he had brought his own dandelion wine and some cider, and since he knew Mom wouldn't approve (she was definitely anti-liquor!), he would stash the jugs out in the barn "for later."

There were probably twelve or fourteen of us at the tables--an assortment placed on the lawn --and blankets spread for the many little cousins also attending. Even my friend Tillie had been invited. After what could have been a record for gluttony, everyone relaxed and began to catch up on the year's events. Except for Tillie and me!

In nothing flat, the two of us were out in the barn, checking out the jugs. I knew we shouldn't touch Uncle Bert's famous dandelion wine, but the cider was definitely tempting. We had our own tin cups in the barn (from our past surreptitious milking of the cow). I figured no one would miss a couple of cups of cider. We helped ourselves. It was really strong! Very tangy! We thought no one would notice another cup or two, so we indulged a little more. The heat of the barn began to get to me, and I suggested we take a nap in the hay loft--after all, everyone was talking about really dull stuff back at the house.

Apparently, suppertime came without our appearance, and a great hullaballou went up. We were traced to the haymow, chastised (but secretly unrepentant) and sent giggling to an early bed. I think mom was concerned I would become an "alcoholic" but at my age I see no signs of it. I guess I'm safe.

By the way, Uncle Bert came to my wedding years later, and at that time he secretly put some alcohol in the punch. Could be why we had such a jolly time at the reception.

Big Red Barn--Part II

When Billy came to pick up the pig's head, as usual he brought some kind of thank you gift. This time it was a potato basket filled with horseradish roots and a big bouquet of gorgeous maple leaves. Of course, I latched onto the pretty leaves to play with, but Mom was more thrilled with the roots. I was ordered back to help her with their preparation.

First they were washed, then peeled, and then put through the grinder. Do you cry when you peel onions? You should try horseradish!! Mom peeled, and I turned the handle of the grinder while tears coursed down our cheeks. Then they were bottled with a little vinegar and salt and stashed on the shelves "down cellar" for the ensuing year. Homemade horseradish had Mexican chili peppers beat by a mile--the first taste could make your hair stand up straight and make you run for ice water. But once you got used to it, it was a gourmet's delight, especially when served with Mom's baked beans and potato salad. Did I mention Mom's homemade salad dressing? M-m-mm-!

But--back to the big red barn:

Dad, as I may have told you, was a very generous and kind person. At about the time of the pig- killing, a couple of Indians had come over from New Brunswick for the potato -picking and had no place to stay. Dad gave them permission to sleep in the hay-loft temporarily as long as they kept it clean. They did. They came late and left early, so we were hardly aware they were there. Mom, empathetic to their plight, left them bowls of stew and beans when she could afford to, and these were returned clean.

One day, when potato-picking had ended, the Indians disappeared. All was as they had found it, except they had left a gift. A grey wool blanket. That blanket went on my bed to replace one of the heavy quilts. It has since had a pink satin binding put on it and now resides in the camp at Long Lake in Maine. Every time I see it there, I am reminded of the Indians in the big red barn.

Cast your bread upon the waters, says the Bible and, in so many words, it will return to you whole. Sometimes it returns to you in the form of horseradish or even a wool blanket, and that isn't bad!

The Big Red Barn--Part I

I believe the big red barn preceded the building of our house. It had always been there from the time I was small, and it had been built for a farmer, with a loft for hay, a corner for a pig pen, and two stalls for horses or cows. I loved the hay smell of it. Dad kept a cow in it during the winter, and usually one pig in the pen. When summer came, the cow and pig went down to the little farm Dad owned south of town.


On the little farm, there was a shack (for want of a better term). At some point, Dad had allowed Billy Wilkins to take up residence in return for keeping a watch over the animals in summer, to prevent them from being rustled (Oh, yes, we had rustlers, believe it or not! And later we knew them by name.). Billy was a homeless man, with several disabilities. He dressed strangely, with a little red cap and a heavy mackinaw jacket, apparently year round. He wore big bottle-type glasses and a constant smile, and he had a pronounced lisp with a very limited vocabulary. Billy knew me, because of Dad. Whenever I would cross his path in town, he would wave at me and say, "Hi, dirl."

One late fall, after Dad had installed the cow and pig back in the barn, Billy appeared at our kitchen door. Mom was not at home. I opened the door, and Billy stood there grinning at me.

"Cal til pid et?" he said. I had no idea what he was saying, but I told him I'd tell my father he had stopped by. When I reported the visit, Mom explained that every time Dad slaughtered a pig, Billy came to pick up the pig's head. He apparently had his own special recipe for head cheese. What he had tried to say was, "Has Carol killed the pig yet?"

It was probably a week later that Dad, with a couple helpful neighbors, killed the pig--right in our back yard, between the house and the barn. It was a Saturday, and we children were sent to Grandma Bertha's for the day--apparently to spare us the trauma of all the squealing. Grandma's house wasn't that far away, so we heard it anyway, as we had our ears peeled for it. And when we went back home, there was the pig, hanging from a huge frame in the back yard, ready for quartering.

Mom hadn't really needed to protect us from the trauma. We were already used to seeing the life and death of animals. In that time we already connected it to our need to eat. Dad was hunting deer every year, and we knew the cow would be gone, too, when she could no longer give milk. We accepted this as a fact of life, like breathing. Perhaps that is why we never tried to make pets of the pig and cow.

The pig and cow were not the only occupants of the barn, at times. But more about that later.

Aunt Mabel

Aunt Mabel was always an enigma to me. During the Great Depression, I only knew her as a distant relative on my father's side, who lived in Boston, and must have a lot of money, because she sent us many boxes of clothing. She must have been a large woman, as the clothing was mostly women's dresses in a very large size, obviously hand-me-downs.

There was a lot of yardage in just one dress, and my mother had a Singer sewing-machine which she put to very good use, making me little dresses, petticoats, and yes, bloomers with banded leg holes. One box, however, included a large, fuzzy white coat.

After some deliberation, Mom decided to make me a snow-suit. These were getting popular as it was, after all, ski country. So she made me a beautiful fluffy, one piece suit. She bundled me up in it and I must have resembled a polar bear cub. The only opening was at the neck. WARM is an understatement. It even had a hood! I was practically invisible in the snow. The only draw-backs--walking in it was a little awkward, once I fell down it was difficult to get back on my feet, and wearing it to school caused some awkwardness in the restroom.

Other items in the boxes were men's wool trousers--brown, black, grey--and Mom's ingenuity knew no bounds. She created pieced quilts of the wool material, embroidered the edges with colorful floss, and backed them with printed grain sack material. They were beautiful. The only problem with the quilts--if you put two of them on your bed you could never move your feet all night, because of the weight. Now when I get into bed with my light blankets over me, I think, "Oh, Mom, I wish you could come back and see how easy life could be for you! And yet, it might break your heart to remember all those hardships." Stilll, thinking back, I wish she could know
how much I appreciate how hard she worked to keep us all warm and comfortable.

And thank you, too, dear Aunt Mabel!

Mom's Little Boarders

Everyone, cousins big and small, loved to come and visit "Aunt Grace," as they called my Mom. Two, in particular, stand out in my memory--little Alton (Uncle Sam's smallest) and big Billy (Aunt Mary's grandson, from Boston).

Little Alton was an 8-year old mathematical wizard, a miniature Harry Potter type, serious and quiet, who would grow up to be a postmaster. He didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor, and preferred to hang around in the kitchen, watching Aunt Grace, or just watching Frank inventing "new stuff." He wasn't interested in being outdoors and preferred to do little puzzles or read, or spend time counting the change in his piggy bank. Every year, he begged to come and visit. Mom made great attempts to find things to interest him, as outwardly he always appeared to be bored.

Big Billy, Dad's nephew, was about six feet tall, a high school drop out, with a club foot and a very sweet but shy personality. He was much smarter than he appeared. His club foot and awkward walk was a turn-off to the children of the neighborhood, and he was more or less ostracized when he came near them. He also was subject to epileptic fits. His mother, Cousin Rose, sent him to Mom as a reprieve from his work--in a tanning factory where his job required him to walk across great vats of lye.

It happened that both Alton and Billy came to visit at the same time. I guess Mom figured they would be good company for each other. It worked to some degree, but one day she had had it with their hanging out in the house. Even though it was a cold, wintry day, she bundled all of us up and shooed us outdoors. "Go find something else to do!" she said.

We soon did. We found a huge tree had fallen on Sweet's corner and lay across some electric lines. Like little idiots, we decided to pull the limbs down. Little Alton grabbed a wire, and then his eyes widened. "I can't let go!" he yelled. I reached to pull his hand off. It wouldn't come, and then I could not let go either. I could feel a terrible magnetic pull and vibration. We both began screaming. Big Billy acted like lightning--he reached down and grabbed both of us and with a great effort, pulled both of us off the wire. I felt my skin would pull off my hand, but we were suddenly free!

Of course, word went around quickly that Billy had saved our lives, and he became the hero of the neighborhood, at least for that year. When it came time for little Alton to return home, Mom took him to the station. She hugged him, and said, trying to express how much she'd miss him, "What am I ever going to do for a little boy now?" He replied, "Send him something."

Family Beginnings

Apparently Grandma Bertha and Grandpa John believed in the Bible literally where God said, "Go out and repopulate the Earth." They had seven children, as follows: Morley (who married Alice), Sam (who married Hattie), Theodore (who married Gertrude), Len (whom I don't recall), Minnie (who married Percy), Grace (Mom, who married Carol), and Letty (who died young).


Letty, the youngest, was a frail child who refused to give up nursing until she was over three years old. Mom told me she remembered Letty running around after her mother, crying, "I want my titty!!" Mom told me very little more, and not even how old she was when she died.

Mom's other sister, Minnie, was the oldest, and she lived to be ninety-nine. Her last year was spent in the Mars Hill nursing home. She had a zest for life to the end, even though she had lost all but her peripheral vision. About six months before she died, someone brought her a container of strawberry yogurt. She fell in love with it, wished she had heard of it long before, and couldn't get her fill of it after that. One of the joys of her stay in that nursing home was that my brother Johnny's wife, Marian, brought her homemade baked beans as a treat! She hated nursing home food.

When Aunt Minnie had first been married, she and Uncle Percy had a beautiful farm in Fort Fairfield, with many acres of potatoes, horses, cows, poultry, and a large and vicious turkey who held me trapped in the outhouse for several hours one day. In spite of that, I loved visiting the farm and, in fact, when given the choice of going to the Presque Isle Fair or visiting the farm, I chose the farm. I loved collecting eggs , still warm, right out from under the hens in the coop. To me, that was heaven on Earth. Perhaps the best part of it all was that Aunt Min was one of the greatest cooks in the world, and she let me get my busy little hands right in the middle of her cooking. What a lucky child I was! And that was just the beginning of my many blessings!



memoir

The Train Ride

Winning the Public Speaking contest turned me unexpectedly into a minor celebrity --temporarily. Of course all celebrity is temporary. But my mother, who had more imagination and faith in me than I ever warranted, decided immediately to capitalize on my newfound fame on behalf of my uncle Morley, her brother, who was pastor of the Baptist Church in Bridgewater, just about 10 miles south.

She informed me that Uncle Morley's church (to wit, the Ladies Aid group) were inviting me to come to their next meeting and present the Program--a presentation of "The Blessed Damosel.." I felt extremely proud and honored to be asked, until I found I would have to take the train down there by myself. I had never been on a train--I was petrified. That did it for me--no way was I going!

Mom was not deterred. She negotiated with my brother Frank (I believe some consideration was exchanged on my behalf) and it was decided he would make sure I was settled safely on the train. Uncle Morley would retrieve me on arrival. So I agreed.

Frank escorted me to the station, handled the ticketing. and even went on board with me, and after some deliberation on my part as to which window I wanted to sit beside, he got me settled in my seat. By then, with pocketbook and papers in hand, I noticed the train had quietly started moving, and by the time Frank got to the door, it was speeding too fast--he could not get off! He was stuck--he was going to Bridgewater with me, like it or not.

Kith and Kin

I had cousins, aunts and uncles all over New England and beyond. In the 1930's, Mom and Dad took us on a trip to Canada, where we had a distant cousin on my mother's side.

We packed a picnic lunch (in those days everyone did, especially if the ride would be farther than 20 miles) and headed off to the border. The scenery was beautiful. We crossed the St. John River and eventually came to a lovely green valley. The cousin had a farm between the river and mountain foothills, and it seems to my indistinct memory it was in New Brunswick.

The farmhouse was small and neat, with a big red barn, a woodshed and a 'spring house.' The pastures rose behind the buildings and were covered with sheep. My mother's cousin, wife and daughter were very sociable, and offered us children some real buttermilk from the spring house. She gave us little tin cups to go help ourselves. Back at the house she had fresh doughnuts to go with it and we ate like there would be no tomorrow.

Altogether, it was a wonderful time. We begged them to come and visit us in Maine, and several months later they did. We enjoyed the visit again. Several days after their visit, I found some of my jewelry and trinkets had disappeared. When I told Mom, she said I must have lost them and forgotten. All became clear a few weeks later. We received a package in the mail from Mom's cousin--it seemed the cousin's little girl was a diagnosed kleptomaniac, and he was returning her loot. Even if they had never been returned, that wonderful meal of fresh doughnuts and buttermilk would have been well worth it.