Happy Mothers Day 2008 to All Moms

We wouldn't be here without you, Moms! While writing the last story about digging out of a Maine blizzard, I wished I could find the tunnel photo of my Mother at the entrance to our porch. Wish granted. The photo here was found and scanned moments ago and shows my Mom in the snow tunnel needed to enter the main entrance of our home in Derby, Maine, after a blizzard in the mid-1960's. The inset is a recent photo of her.

As with most Moms, mine is special. She visits this blog often, and recently commented "Oh, my God!" after reading a few of my childhood adventures that were unknown to her at the time, and then continued with "Thank God for watching over my children when I wasn't around!"

Imagine waking at 5:00am to go potato picking in the freezing cold in Maine. I forget how many consecutive days just the two of us endured that back busting work, but it was probably a week. The reason was spare cash to buy me a trumpet, and I was probably too young to have contributed much real work. As kids, the sacrifices (and ingenuity) of moments like that sometimes take years to strike a nerve. Thanks, again, Mom.

TAGS: Maine stories Mothers Day

Shoveling Snow After a Maine Blizzard

With summer just weeks away, this photo of shoveling snow after a Maine blizzard in the mid-1960's serves as a reminder of the joys of Spring. After a 12 inch snowfall, clearing the driveway to go to work was usually unnecessary. You just drove off. When the storm drops 3-6 feet of snow in 24 hours a different strategy is needed.

As shown in this photo of my home where I grew up in Derby, Maine, having snow drifts piled up against the porch to the roof meant digging a tunnel to use the main entrance. That, however, came later. First priority was (finding and) digging out the car parked in the yard.

To begin, I grabbed a broom and shovel and made an exit out an upstairs bedroom window, and stepped off the porch roof. At this point no part of the car was showing in the blanket of snow. The broom was flipped as I used the handle to poke in the snow listening for a thump. Within a half hour of thump/no thump the holes formed an outline of the car, and it was time for the shovel.

After two hours digging down just outside the outline of broomstick holes, the results show the car in a canyon of snow. A few years later Dad installed a sliding door in the back shed, purchased a snowblower, and then cranked her up before driving out the door after each storm. I don't blame him. His labor force of 5 boys were grown and moved out by then.

TAGS: Maine stories blizzard snow storm

Behind Home Plate at Fenway Park

From Derby, Maine to Fenway Park in Boston may as well have been a million miles away as a youngster from Derby back in 1959. The photo shown here that I snapped is like a dream sequence, and was taken years later as I sat 5 rows back behind home plate at Fenway Park. In the 1950's watching a game on a black and white television was the closest I could ever imagine to actually being there. The original photo was in color, yet like many photos and illustrations used for Growin' Up in Maine, I prefer aging pix by presenting them in black and white.

Out of 8 children including 3 younger than me, I was the last to step on soil outside the state of Maine. At one point I was the only child in our family who had never been to Canada, too, and that first trip was as an adult. By age 18 the only foreign visit was one school band trip to Keene, New Hampshire for a high school football game. We were invited to represent the home team. Just the opposite of Milo High School, they had a football team and no band.

The Fenway trip years later with my wife to watch the Boston Red Sox in person was better than I could imagine. The party atmosphere and unique aroma of the outdoor food vendors around Fenway Park was a treat never experienced watching at home.

Inside, and sitting that close to the edge of the field, you could see 5 o'clock shadow on some batters in the on deck circle. The game was not a sellout, so it wasn't broadcast. Later at Cheers, and to our complete surprise, the game was being tape delay broadcast in the bar. From the outfield camera we could clearly see ourselves behind home plate on every pitch!

After yelling "There we are!" about ten times and catching a few annoying glances, we settled back and quietly enjoyed the game a second time. Our fellow patrons obviously knew we were from away, just not a million miles away from Derby, Maine and 1959.

TAGS: Maine stories Derby Red Sox Fenway Park

Lessons of Mother Nature in Maine

Back in the 1950's, as winter turned to spring in Maine our springtime ice skating playground changed from ice to water providing more opportunity for outdoor activity. Watching Mother Nature come alive was, and still is, awesome in its wonder and diversity.

Imagine the swampy pond featured in this photograph as ice, and the winding trails for playing tag on skates from November to early March. As the ice and snow melted away, cattails, polywogs,and muck up to your knees was cheap entertainment for me and many of my friends.

Finding large clumps of frog eggs, and then returning often over time to watch as they hatched to polywogs, grew limbs, and eventually lost their tails turning into frogs was a marvel for young eyes. Plants, birds, insects, and other critters provided an education and appreciation for nature you just can't find with a joystick or xBox.

TAGS: Maine stories frog eggs nature springtime

Capturing the Nostalgia of Lawn Ducks

Despite the golden years without the gold, you can't deny us oldtimers our treasure of precious memories. This 1953 photo with a few of my siblings on my grandparents' lawn reminds me of a point later in life, and capturing the nostalgia of lawn ducks. Living in the small town of Derby, Maine, you had to go to the big city like Milo or Dover to find high quality lawn decorations.

Look closely at the fisherman (3rd from the right), and you can see the fishing rod, string, and wooden fish dangling off the end. Without a paint job, that piece would be politically incorrect in most parts of the country nowadays except on EBay or Antiques Road Show. In the 1950's the fisherman and those painted lawn ducks left us little kids in awe.

Some of us didn't get over it. Years later I discovered people still make cement lawn ducks, and my wife and I purchased a set 5-10 years ago including the momma and 4 ducklings. After a two color paint job the resemblance to the childhood memory was irresistible, and I believe the realism explains the attraction.

To my utter surprise passersby, maybe tourists, would come to a screechin' halt to admire the ducks. Some, too impatient to wait for them to move, jumped out and snapped photographs. That never did happen in Derby, yet after a casual comment to a neighbor about the daily attraction, the next day we awoke to see a cardboard sign erected on a stick next to the ducks: "Duck Postcards 50 Cents".

TAGS: Maine stories lawn decorations lawn ducks

Outhouse Revenge at the Log Cabin

Besides building log rafts at the old swimming hole Down Back in Derby, Maine, my friends and I were adept at building rustic log cabins, as well. One summer in the early 1960's three of us teenagers chose to build a cabin in the big woods west of Derby Hill.

The woods Down Back were perhaps a mile long by a quarter mile wide between the railroad tracks and the Sebec River. West of Derby Hill was as long but stretched for miles towards Canada and provided more space to hide our cabin from potential vandals. Ayuh, it was a problem even back then.

As we spent days clearing trees and then started on the foundation, one of the two friends began making excuses for avoiding the hard work. He wandered off after announcing he'd take care of the outhouse which would be a necessity before long. Carrying a board, a hammer, and some nails he was back an hour later having gone but a couple hundred feet from the clearing.

He was rather proud after mounting one board between two small trees claiming it was solid as a rock and perfect for taking care of business. Grab the two trees with the board to your back, and you could hop up comfortably with your butt hanging off the backside. Next he announced he was going home for Kool-aid and then back in an hour or two. It should have taken 30 minutes.

In his absence the two of us discussed his melingering excuses to avoid real work, and decided it was time for some outhouse revenge. We removed the board and carefully drove a dozen finishing nails barely through the board in the shape of a half moon allowing perhaps an eighth inch to protrude. We made sure it was just enough to capture attention without any serious damage. The board was remounted between the two small trees ready for him to take a seat.

Upon his return, we invited the friend to demonstrate his invention, and he was happy to comply. Here we were drenched in sweat from all our hard labor, and he had nary a drop. Leading the way he commenced to braggin' as he showed off his handiwork, stating "Ain't she a beauty?" as he slapped his hand down on the board for emphasis. He was still howling as we collared him demanding an equal share in the labor for equal rights to ownership once the cabin was done. He agreed. We finished in record time.

TAGS: Maine stories log cabin storytelling woods

Running of the Bulls in Maine

As kids Growin' Up in Maine my friends and I were quick to invent new games. The running of the bulls in Maine was a summertime event held in Derby, and unlike the more famous counterpart in Spain, we had no spectators.

The dozen or so bulls used for the run were held in a pasture on River Road, and our group of youngsters would sit on the outside of the fence looking in. These beasts were frisky, young and mean, and crossing the pasture without knowing they were there could be a deadly mistake. Here's how we played the game.

We began with a sturdy 3 foot stick for a marker, and then took turns hopping the fence and approaching the herd to the maximum extent of our bravery. The stick was plunged upright into the ground and then the athelete would run like the dickens back to the fence. Next in turn had to retrieve the stick, approach closer, and then plant it again before making a retreat.

The challenge was keeping an eye on the bulls and then calculating your distance and footspeed to the fence compared to the opponent to avoid being trampled. The winner was the last to plant the marker which was usually followed by a close call at the fence as we ran out of volunteers. Now that's entertainment for small town country boys!

TAGS: games Maine stories bulls storytelling

Shotgun Lesson While Hunting Crows

Typical of the era around 1960 when I was Growin' Up in Maine, adolescents were familiar with firearms and many hunted small game without adult supervision. My skills with a single shot .22 were particularly deadly, and when not target practicing with my teenage friends, we'd often hunt rabbits or squirrels.

Hunting game birds like pheasant or partridge with a .22 was a major challenge, and best done with a shotgun if you could afford one. I couldn't. To avoid damaging the edible parts, I once took out a partridge with one shot to the neck from 30 feet away. On another occasion, a close friend and I were deer hunting and flushed a partridge. My buddy reacted quickly and pulled up his 30-30, shot from the hip, and hit the partridge in flight from 50 feet away. All that was left were feathers.

We were not opposed to hunting varmints, and while we had success, it seemed crows were particularly elusive. One early fall day three of us went partridge hunting deep in the woods on the west side of Derby Hill, and we encountered a flock of crows. I was prepared. This trip I had a 12 guage shotgun borrowed from one of the friends, and it had a minor defect with a loose front wooden grip.

The crows were perched high in the canopy, and I claimed first shot as we crept up underneath the tree. I was prepared to bag my first crow as I aimed nearly straight up at the flock and let loose with the buckshot.

In an instant I was left holding the wooden grip in one hand as the shotgun kicked and the barrel lifted violently. It walloped my forehead knocking me to the ground. I sat dazed for a moment, and then looked up expecting to see black feathers floating in the air. The crows were gone, no feathers, and the only thing damaged was my pride and that lump on the forehead.

TAGS: Maine stories hunting

Missed Snowing in July in Maine

The West Branch of the Pleasant River was one of my favorite streams for brook trout fishing in Central Maine. We just called it West Branch, and it's near K.I., the Katahdin Iron Works, north of Milo between Brownville and Millinocket. You had to pay less than a dollar at the K.I. gate to get to the stream.

I'm sure it's more today. Rumors there's a loan officer on site if you come up short may be exaggerated.

The year it missed snowing in July in Maine was around 1964, and on June 30th my Dad, a friend, and I were fishing the West Branch for trout. The best method was wading the stream rather than fishing from the bank. The low depth and slow speed of the current made that practical even for youngsters. Otherwise, the thick trees and overgrowth made fishing from spot to spot on shore nearly impossible, so trying your luck right down the middle for a mile or two worked best.

That particular June 30th was warm and sunny most of the day when a dark cloud drifted in and dumped enough snow in 15 minutes to blanket the ground. It was bitter cold and most everything was wet including us. The truck was parked back a mile upstream, so we lit a handkerchief trying to start a fire without any luck.

Within a half hour the snow melted away and was long gone. Despite being wet, cold, and miserable, we continued wading for brook trout. If that instant blizzard happened a day later I would have witnessed snow falling in Maine in July.

TAGS: Maine stories fishing snow storytelling

River Rafting Battle Down Back

Naval warfare came to Maine during the river rafting battle of the summer of 1959 Down Back on the Sebec River in Derby, Maine. The old swimming hole was a favorite spot for whiling away long summer days with swimming, fishing, and rafting. We constructed first class log rafts which served many purposes, including war games on one occasion.

Our rafts were made from a half dozen fallen cedar trees about a foot in diameter that were chopped to 10-12 foot lengths, and then covered with scrap lumber nailed to the deck. At 6 x 12 feet, these floating platforms easily held 2-3 boys who could quickly navigate upstream pushing poles against the river bed from each side of the raft. The cedar logs were spread with small gaps in between for streamlined speed and navigation.

The river battle began after picking two sides with a crew of 3 each, and then collecting soft clay from the bottom of the spring creek on the opposite shore across from the old swimming hole. The clay could be rolled in small balls for ammunition, and dried to a light grey when used for decorative war paint. The battle of 1959 was fought fully clothed even though the rule Down Back was no girls allowed, so swimming trunks were optional.

Once each raft was loaded with piles of wet clay, the opposing team took a position near the swimming hole side of the river, and began pelting us with small balls of clay. Our crew formed a strategy as the first mate fired back and two of us poled upstream out of range. Our initial plan was to mount a fast attack using the current for added speed, and then storm past the enemy while all three of us tossed clay balls. We changed tactics and went with Plan B.

Crossing to the same shoreline upstream and out of sight, the junior crew member was put ashore for a surprise land attack by slipping through the woods, and hitting 'em from behind. Our spy lacked training which became evident from the thrashing he made instead of sneaking quietly into position. He was quickly spotted, and war whoops broke out as a stampede of 3 boys chased him back upstream.

Timing was everything, and as the commotion drew near, my crewmate and I were pressed into action to avoid being overrun and losing the game. In a panic, we shoved off and were about 10 feet out as our teammate arrived with the enemy close behind. Despite his pleas to let him aboard, we kept going as he belted out childhood curses like "sons o' buckwheat", "baroids", and a few others we had invented over the years.

He was immediately captured and became the first Down Back prisoner of war. It didn't last long. Under interrogation that rascal broke and joined the enemy forces, letting out all our secrets and tactics. Needless to say, we lost that battle facing four against us two, and eventually surrendered. In the end, the six young warriors were a friendly group of one, and headed up the path towards home with an occasional protest to the traitor... "baroid?".

TAGS: Maine stories rafting playing games storytelling