About one year ago, my sister took down my grandmother’s slides from the attic, most of them taken early 1960’s through 1970. It was a real treat to see some of the old neighbors and the beautiful portraits she took as we grew older. There were many pictures from her camp at Haven Road near Highland Lake. There were pictures of Christmas past usually spent with us as her other sons lived far away. We were lucky to have her and our grandfather with us every holiday. She took pictures of parties, cookouts and bowling banquets, back when she called her camera an Instamatic. It had that weird four-sided cube flash that showed each burned out bulb with each flash picture taken. I always wanted to make something out of those burned out cubes. Like everything else, they are long obsolete.
                     You will see Lyle Dorr raising his glass to toast someone at a bowling banquet, taken in the 1960’s. In the same picture is Pete Luttrell beside my grandfather O’Donnell whose face is hidden behind his glass.. The Luttrell’s lived at 38 Powers Road, I believe. The Dorr’s lived at 163 Devereaux Circle. In one picture you will see Howard and Edith Thurlow who were the parents of Lorraine Dorr. Mr Thurlow used to give me the foreign money that people would put in the washing machines at the laundromat.I still have 2 of them, one large silver coin from Australia with Queen Elizabeth’s father, George’s head on the front of the coin. In the picture, the Thurlow’s were beside my grandparents, Lyllian and Clark O’Donnell, because they were on the same bowling team Lorraine had a sister who lived in Redbank Village , Mrs Freeman White, whose daughter was Candy White. One of the birthday party pictures taken in out pink kitchen, shows Carol Kelly. One of her sons is seated, either Gary or Greg and Rhonda is in the front. My sisters and I and Lisa DesMarais are also in this picture. It was my sister Carol’s party, maybe 1967 or 68. Typical of Redbank, lifestyle, other mothers would help with birthday parties. Another group photo taken in our living room shows Ricky Madore, Jeff Swan, the Luttrell kids: Timmy and Mary Sue and Theresa , Rhonda Kelly and Lisa DesMarais and Janet Rudell. There is also a family reunion type picture, with me wearing a weird Star Trek type mustard yellow suit, socializing with family. This was taken behind my cousin's house [Carol Ross] on Powers Rd, near the top of Devereaux. One Easter morning another photo was taken of Me and my siblings and Lisa DesMarais. I guess I posted these mostly for sentimental reasons, because surely not everyone remembers these people. Thank goodness for Instamatics!

                    Lately, it seems that I am getting more and more agitated with what our leaders tell us… or dare I comment on rather what they neglect to tell us? Recently, I watched the program 20/20 with John Stossel regarding the bank bailouts. He was shocked that there is no record of how the bailout money was spent. That is equal to no fiscal responsibility.There is no accountability. Check out 20/20 to read more about his interview. Those that have do not want us ‘have nots’ to know anything. I think we are a nation with a very elite government. We should be on our toes now more than ever. It angers me that we are held to higher standards than our Elite Leaders. While the CEO’s of Enron spend our pension money and the commoners are being robbed while they sleep, I suspect a revolt is near. We are held accountable and they are not. Is this the government we all wanted?
                     Thomas Paine was the man whose pamphlet “Common Sense” fueled the anger which started the Revolutionary War. For anyone who has never read it, I highly recommend the book. It is not lengthy, to the point, and gives excellent reasons why it is our responsibility to not let our government oppress us. It is a fascinating piece of written work which can be applied to today’s problems in America as well as the problems we had during the Birth of our Nation. There are a few religious references but the text is a worthy piece of literature; food for thought.
                         I particularly enjoyed this passage. To give you some background history, many seaside towns were burned by the British. Perhaps the most devastation came to Falmouth which is now the Peninsula and part of Munjoy Hill in Portland, Maine. Approximately 500 families were left homeless close to winter, and refused to give up their arms which would have left them totally defenseless. Paine writes, “Hath your house been burnt? Hath your property been destroyed before your face? Are your wife and children destitute of a bed to lie on, or bread to live on? Have you lost a parent or child by their hands and yourself the ruined and wretched survivor? If you have not, then you are not a judge of those who have. But if you have and can still shake hands with the murderers, then you are unworthy the name of husband, father, friend or lover or what ever may be your rank or title in life, you have the heart of a coward and the spirit of a sycophant.”
                     Paine concludes his piece by writing, “We ought to reflect that there are three different ways by which an independency may hereafter be effected; and that one of those three, will one day or other be the fate of America, viz. By the legal voice of the people in Congress; by military power; or by a mob; It may not always happen that our soldiers are citizens, and the multitude a body of reasonable men; virtue, as I have already remarked, is not hereditary, neither is it perpetual. Should an independency be brought about by the first of those means, we have every opportunity and every encouragement before us, to form the noblest, purest constitution on the face of the earth. We have it in our power to begin the world over again. “
                     In the final chapter, Paine addresses the Quakers, who are supporters of the King.  Paine wrote about the belief of not bearing arms, held by the Quakers. When the enemy also bears arms, why would the people wish to be defenseless? This leads to the final reason for the importance of the right to bear arms. The people have a right to protect themselves from a tyrannical government. I was inspired by Thomas Paine’s ‘Common Sense’. I believe our forefathers would be shocked by the ambiguous interpretations of their early plans for our nation. I think the government we so fiercely chose to separate from 235 years ago is not far removed from the government we have in place today. I believe we are oppressed with high tax burdens amongst other things.
                     On a different topic, having read the December 24th issue of the Portland Forecaster, I found an article which I felt was brilliant. It was written by J. Dwight, economist and professional business analyst. The article entitled, “The biggest con job in the history of man” was written about the myth that we are responsible for global warming. I raise my glass to this man because global warming is a topic which raises eyebrows no matter where you go. I commend him for standing alone in a sea of global warming zealots who are already at their computers typing nasty responses. I only wish he had tackled Al Gore winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I agree with everything he wrote. There is a lot of money to be had in the fundraising business.
                     When I recently purchased a Dell laptop, I bought top of the line. I considered the Dell Red, which sends some of its proceeds to fight Aids in Africa. I decided that I would not buy it because I am sick of having all this social responsibility being shoved down my throat. My goodness, I can’t even buy a frozen bag of peas without the pink breast cancer ribbon showing that pennies went to fund the research. Why are the commoners always the ones who pay, pay, and pay? Ask yourself, is this not Oppression? Who else can we bail out next? Maybe some of our auto industry will be competing soon to sell our cars in China and India. Perhaps some of this bailout money is being used to support that. 
                     I hope good things happen soon in America. Our people are beaten down. For those who wonder why history is important, I hope I have raised some awareness today. It is always important to know what your people have fought for in their struggle for a better life. The best of the New Year to all of you.

 

 

                   It has been a couple of years since I actually wrote our annual Christmas letter, the letter notorious for sometimes being received in March the following year. Each year, I believe it is important that we strive to find meaning in our holiday season. Christmas is sentimental, nostalgic, and sometimes a time to reflect on renewal of life. We can’t help but think of those we have loved over the years and who are no longer with us. This year I thought of my friends’ sons who have passed away. Last year, Joey Lafferty passed away at the age of 20, shortly before the holidays. His parents have been guidance for our family and have also faithfully sent us their Christmas letter each year. However, last year, they were unable to send their letter. That year I made an ornament with Joey’s name on it, for our tree, ‘Remembering Joey Christmas 2007’. This year, I was warmed by their Christmas letter, once again part of their family tradition. We all try to find meaning in the season even though our lives change from year to year. Maybe this is why tradition is so important.  So the focus of our letter will be family tradition.
                     Now we have no real tradition except to fill our lives with family and friends. I haven’t always had it in my heart to enjoy the Christmas season.. I decided this year to try to be more like my husband with his Christmas Spirit. He has a jolly time shopping and picking out special things showing his thoughtfulness. He is always very thoughtful of me. I would call him my Santa. My mom is also a Christmas elf. She always enjoyed watching every one of my siblings open our gifts from her and dad. Both my husband and I have memories of spending Christmas with family, grandparents and cousins. When the newest family additions arrive, sometimes the older generations pass away. They would want us to keep these family traditions, filling our homes with love and sustenance.
 We have been enjoying watching our sons grow into adults. J.T. is quite a young man, working part time, helping his brother and juggling school at Southern Maine Community College. JT is studying Culinary Arts but may change his major. He is also assistant coach for Bonny Eagle Middle School Boys Ice Hockey. He is now level three certified. I am sure he has learned so much this year and will continue to strive to be the best person he can. He is enjoying writing and also is teaching himself to play guitar. He is at home presently and we hope he chooses to stay until he finishes school as this would be more economical for him. JT has always been a bit of a free bird. I respect his fierce independence. It takes discipline to live at home while you finish school. All things take time in the name of progress.
                     Mike is also a student at Southern Maine Community College. He also lives at home, partly due to complications for him to live on his own, as he would require round the clock care. It is not impossible, just a major challenge. He is like any other young man his age, in a hurry for life to happen. He has a very funny sense of humor. He has a video blog on youtube and also another account with a great deal of his brother’s skateboarding. Some of this is comical and some is a little racy. He is going to school to study multimedia communications. Presently he is taking one class at a time, math and then another math class. We transport him each week to school. He is doing pretty well. Presently he is working on a documentary of his life…. I am sure laced with some humor.
                     This year we put down our 14 year old dog Schultzie, the dog who didn’t “think” he was a dog. Once we took him camping and he wouldn’t lie down on the dirt. He was happy when we brought a little scatter rug for him to sleep on. We loved him to pieces, but he had suffered a stroke and never got over it, finally succumbing to cancer in the end. Just like our dog Dukie, both Terry and I were with our dogs when we put them down. They were part of our family. Daisy recently underwent surgery to have 2 growths removed and several teeth extracted. She is doing fine now. If anyone is unaware, all of our dogs have been miniature schnauzers.
                     This year, I decided to start a garden which started out excellent but failed miserably like most gardens due to the excessive rain. I will try again next year. There is nothing like having your own harvest. Even the food we buy at the supermarket is not always trustworthy, so why not try growing your own harvest? I even made raspberry jam the first time from my crop.
 Another family tradition was to hold a yard sale this year. If the economy is failing, a yard sale can be an excellent indicator. We had a huge 5 family yard sale in an excellent location for 2 days. I was lucky to make 40 dollars, and my sister who sold the most made about 60 dollars. It was hardly worth our time, and showed us that people are hanging onto their dollars. These times are uncertain. 
                     Terry is busy working many hours for the hospital, driving a truck. He just bought a truck for himself, a Toyota Tacoma, pyrite mica which is a bronze color. It is nice looking, and rides extremely well in a snowstorm. He came home one day a few months ago to find Mike leaning against the wall in the hallway. Mike had fallen forward and was trying to push himself back in an upward position. He had been like this for almost 3 hours. Terry called an ambulance. Mike couldn’t feel his arm and had a dent in his head. The ambulance drivers kept saying that Mike had MS and Terry became agitated after the 4th incident. Mike has MD. Terry was ready to take Mike himself to the hospital but the ambulance driver talked him out of it. Since the incident, we now have Lifeline for Mike. It gives us both peace of mind. 
                     We had a great vacation at Lake Pemaquid. My sisters and their families attended as well as my parents. We had a few visitors that week. There was lots of music and storytelling and laughter around the campfire. Terry started his own tradition and made his famous margaritas for the second year in a row, which everyone had no problem consuming during the week. Lake Pemaquid…. here we come for August 2009!
                     Last of all, we send you many blessings this Holiday Season. Know in our hearts that you are very special to our family. Should times get tougher for all of us, we all need to stick together and remember that we are not alone.  Much love to all you for the 12 days of Christmas. Oh Holy Night.

 

 

                    What does Christmas mean to each of us? I know that over the years I have had many expectations of what it should mean. I have struggled every year trying to find meaning in a holiday that we hear about from September until December 25th. Suppose you seldom visited the mall, or turned on the television or did not check the internet. Maybe the ‘expectations’ would disappear and people might actually find meaning without being told what it is supposed to mean. Diaries I have read from the late 1800’s seldom mention the day with the exception of it being a work day for most farmers. The diaries do mention Independence Day and Thanksgiving
                     When I was young we had lovely Christmases, filled with some magic and a house full of love. The tradition was usually dinner with my grandparents and later they came to our home to stay over and share Christmas with us. My grandmother and dad used to have a little ‘battle’ over how to make the gravy. This was part of our Christmas tradition. I would make cranberry sauce. My brother always received fruit cocktail in his stocking. My dad always received a box of chocolate covered cherries from one of us kids. It was later I found out that he did not care for them, but it was something we could afford. He never complained, just flashed us his big grin. My mom always made sure we had thoughtful gifts. One year I peaked and thought I was getting a really neat refigerator packed full of fake food, Barbie size....however on Christmas morning I learned my lesson when I found out it was my sister Sharon's gift. Christmas is about giving and not receiving. One year I received a rock tumbler, and usually received artist supplies as well. My father often made us a gift. In the early seventies shortly after the Maine Mall opened, there was a store called Spencer’s. String art was all the rage. My father went to the store and studied a 3 dimensional object made with string art and came home to build me my own piece of his art work. He cut some Plexiglas, orange and yellow, on a jigsaw and formed a beautiful open object, looking almost abstract. He studied the way the strings were strung on the object and made me something more beautiful than I had ever seen in any store. Plexiglas gets brittle with age and I no longer have it, and also have no photo, unfortunately. It was a splendid gift. He enjoyed the pursuit of making it himself. My mother always enjoyed Christmas. She was content watching each of us open all of our gifts, always pajamas on Christmas Eve for a family snapshot.
                     Over the years, I have had struggled with depression on a couple occasions. Though it is just a part of me, it no longer rules me. I accept myself .Christmas is a tough time of year for many because of all these expectations and traditions. We all search for some tradition to give our families.In our lives, we need to have meaning and purpose. When I was younger and newly married, I found the pull between both families to be exhausting during the holidays. We wanted our kids to see everyone and we put pressure to meet all those demands we put upon ourselves. I realized that Christmas can be the whole month of December. I decided I would do something special every day with my kids. 
                     My husband is always so thoughtful and enjoys Christmas much like my mother does. I wish I could be more like my mother and actually enjoy the whole festive thing. I wish I could have more enthusiasm and be more thoughtful of those who enjoy the season so much. My husband has been a pretty good sport when I have been in a funk. My sons are special too. The past three years, I have come home from work and found my youngest son, had put the tree up and decorated it. He is 19 now. My husband and he also decorated together one year. This year, I decided to put on some of my Christmas music and get up in the attic to take down the tree. I decorated it myself. 
                     For those of you who grew up in the 60’s, you may recall a television special called ‘The Littlest Angel”. Fred Gwynn (He played Herman Munster on TV) and Johnny Whitaker (Jody from Family Affair) were the actors who played Angels in the Special. I only saw the movie once when I was about nine but it left a strong memory. I decided to check out www.youtube.com and saw a clip someone had posted. He considered it to be the best scene in the movie. Go to the site and type ‘The Littlest Angel” Johnny Whitaker. Maybe I am a little sappy, but it made me cry. Merry Christmas to all of you. I hope you all find meaning this holiday season.
 

                    A visit to my parents’ home, chewing the fat around the table, lead to some interesting conversation. My father read some bits and pieces of an obituary he had in hand.  We talked about the person’s life somewhat. My mother mentioned that my dad saved many obituaries to which we both agreed was partly due to his being a person with a great interest in history. He stores most of them in his old high school yearbooks. Then I mentioned it was not that unusual for folks to save various clippings including obituaries, usually each news article something of importance to the person doing the collecting. I mentioned our fantastic collection over at Westbrook Historical Society. Each scrapbook is very different , some have war news clippings mostly of people from the city who left to go to war and some never coming home. There are stories of neighbors, wedding items, social columns and so much more. My father agreed he had a connection somehow to a survivor in the obituary or the deceased. He stated that they were an excellent source of information in the event one may be searching for a family member. The more we talked about the reasons for such a collection, the more we realized it was to have information at our fingertips. Somehow, I got sidetracked. I began to think how the internet has changed almost every aspect of business across America. These obituaries provided so much information, that maybe it would be an excellent idea for some company to start a database. The purpose of the database would be to have the addresses of one’s final resting place. 
                    Okay, so you think I may be kooky. However, think about it. The following is a fictitious account. Aunt Martha died in 1926. Her obituary stated that she was buried at San Angelo Cemetery, Las Cruces, New Mexico. So now you have an address for a cemetery. You can send a card for any next of kin to retrieve at the mail slot counter in the office. You may even want to send flowers. Maybe you think of that deceased person on their birthday. Yes, you can send a Hallmark card. It is no different than visiting your loved one’s graves on Memorial Day. It is no different than buying a star in their name.You could get a message to the deceased person’s family. It would be your final address. I am certain the Post Office would be excellent guardians of the mail and also appreciate a slice of work that the internet has not taken over yet. Anyhow, you just never know what topics are discussed at the family table.
                    The topic quickly changed to air travel. We all know that travel by air is much more complicated since ….well… you know. It should come as no surprise when we are all asked to undress, and slip on a designer airline Johnny… our flying clothes. If you are a guy, you may get lucky and wear hospital scrubs. What could we do with all of our travel items? Well, those cool canisters they have at the bank might hold some of our valuables. Press the button and send them through a PVC vacuum tube to the airport of your destination. Hey, but what about all those items we can’t leave home without? We might need our surfboards, rollerblades and all the crazy material things that we cannot leave behind for a week. I am thinking about the last time I flew and my life was a wide open Ziploc, for all the airport personnel to see. I think they could even see it on those wide screen overhead TV’s. Well I must say that my life is not THAT interesting. My father suggested maybe we would all be on the plane in our Johnnies and scrubs with a huge balloon flying behind the plane carrying our important stuff. Anything to be safe….
                    I think I am not alone in my belief that our government has done us some great injustices. When did being a politician become so lucrative? If I had any idea this was the way, I might have gone to school to be a politician. In today’s paper was an insert of a limited edition with Obama’s picture on it. Underneath his smiling face is the caption “Change has come- Historic Victory” It only costs 19.99 plus shipping and handling. Now I don’t recall seeing a plate with George Bush’s face on it. I can’t believe the genius marketing. I do recall a bronze bank of Kennedy’s bust I had as a kid. Is it lucrative to be a politician? I think so. I wonder if Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln might be able to be compensated for back pay. Now those were men. The problem with us is that we want it all NOW. The world does not run like a Google Search. A farmer cultivated his land for many years and improved on the soil. Is there anyone in the house that could wait that long for progress? When you raise your children, you invest yourselves, your time, and hopefully your product will shine. You watch your child progress. Why don’t we have patience to wait for progress? When you don’t cultivate your crops, they die. Progress takes time and we are not going to get it NOW.    
                    Now if only our CEO’s and our 500 Kings in Congress would take advantage of Free Bus Fridays, Greyhound or Amtrak, instead of their limos and jets, maybe they could relate to us and we could relate to them. Why can’t they work from home and do conference calls, and be more efficient like we have been forced to become? This hysteria which seems to be sweeping the Nation with newly formed committees such as the Hate Violence Task Force. I guess they investigate acts of graffiti which is offensive. Want to read about people and their hysteria? Read “The Conscientious Objector: Portland Maine to Portland Oregon” It can be found on this blog. People have not changed. They are pretty much persuaded by what the media tells them. And by the way… where is our President George Bush? It would have been nice to hear a little more from him these past few months with our given crisis upon crisis, though he probably stepped aside to give Mr. Obama center stage. Mr. Bush is still our President for short while longer. Let’s stay passionate America and remember that each of our leaders brings something to the table. Don’t wait for our government to make changes that will be in our best interests. That will not happen. In fact, it most likely will not be in our best interests. It will be up to us to make a difference, not them. Keep the passion.

                    My vacation was restful though I had projects planned every day. That is just the way I am, always having a project. Ten days of much needed time at home and spending more time with my husband and sons. We had two Thanksgiving dinners, one including many people at my sister’s home and one at my house which was fewer people. Everything came to a climax at the end of my vacation when my son Mike wanted to attend a concert at The Station in Portland. There was a band called Job for a Cowboy, full blown metal stuff. We agreed to let our son John transport Mike and look out for him, making sure the wheelchair gained access easily.
                     I guess it got extremely crowded and at some point Mike was having difficulty breathing, including a dry cough. Before they decided to leave, John went to get a cool drink to give his brother when he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some fool was doing a high kick and as John turned his head, caught the kick to the face. It was reckless accident on the kid’s part. John reacted and jumped on him but a security guard stopped it. The security guard supposedly witnessed the accident but nobody has come forward to claim being a witness. John, unfortunately never got the kid’s name.
                     Upon leaving Mike was having a lot of difficulty breathing and John transported him to the hospital close to the time Mike passed out in the van. Mike received an oxygen treatment, chest x-ray, and a nebulizer treatment. Meanwhile John’s face began to swell and he was seen by the staff. He was given an MRI and found that he had three fractures to the cheek, and may need to see a plastic surgeon. Needless to say, my husband and I did not receive much sleep that night. They never called us except when they were discharged from the hospital. Come to find out, Mike passed out because his lungs don’t function that well and he is not expelling enough CO2, which is part of his progressive MD. This caused him to pass out. Today Mike saw his cardiologist and pulmonary doctor. John will be seeing the plastic surgeon soon. As a parent you always want to be near your kids in the event something should happen but John handled everything quite fine. Things are better today.
                     Aside from all that excitement, I am still working on the Redbank Project. I have some projects I wish to put together for Maine Irish Heritage Center also. Since Christmas is nearly here, I have several custom ornament orders. The site I have at www.cafepress.com/redbankgirl  made me think of names and how many actually share the same names. I Googled ‘redbankgirl’ and came up with a few people that call themselves that name, however, it is Redbank, NJ. Then I Googled ‘likes2write’ and of course even though I own the domain, some have chosen that name, maybe before I did. I should have researched it. One ‘likes2write’ is big beautiful and trying to conceive. I can assure you that is not me. Her blog is very different from my style; nevertheless, I wish her well. There is another fellow who writes poetry and his poems are full of passion and emotion and he uses the name likes2write as well. It is interesting that we all use the same name. Hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving

Some of these anecdotes came from an almanac dated 1855.

Lightning- According to Mr. E. Merriam, of New York, a distinguished scientific writer and practical philosopher, a person struck by lightning should not be given up for dead until at least 3 hours. The first 2 hours, the person should be drenched thoroughly with cold water. If this fails in restoration, then add salt and continue for another hour of drenching. 

Here are a few interesting items about education and money.

Average income in 1855 for each person in Europe and the United States.
England-20cents per day
Ireland-eight cents per day
France-fourteen cents per day
United States-In the most industrious states about 30 cents per day-Average for whole nation is seventeen cents per day

Livestock in the United States-The census of 1850 there was about 600 million dollars worth of livestock in the United States. Their value exceeded that of all manufacturing establishments in the country, and also exceeds the capital invested in commerce, both foreign and inland. [ The Industrial Revolution was in the 1860’s and 1870’s]

Education in the United States- For the free instruction of the people,it seems there are now in the whole United States, in round numbers, 60,000 schools, which are supported at an annual expense of something less than 6 million dollars. More than half of that is expended by the two states of Massachusetts and New York.. In this survey of the common-school facts of the different states, we find little cause for boasting, though much for hope. For though every state in the Union has recognized its duty to see that no child within its borders grows up in ignorance, yet only a few of the states have taken up the subject of universal education with anything like the earnestness which its importance demands. Teachers are ill paid and hence ill qualified; and it is a startling fact that the people of the United States pay half as much every year for the support of their dogs as they do for the education of their children. A well informed man is still a rarity, and multitudes of people ’spell character with a k’ and are ready to affirm that ‘oats is cheaper than they was last year’ [Home Journal 1853-4 ]

Boston was said to be the richest city in the world in proportion to its population in 1853. Each inhabitant was worth $ 1440. if its taxable property was equally divided. By the same rule, each New Yorker was said to be worth half as much, namely $ 584.

According to’ The Boston Traveler’, Boston’s valuation was worth 3 times the State of Maine and a combined valuation of three states combined, New Hampshire, Vermont and Rhode Island.

Here is some wisdom on building houses. Never erect a house after you are five and forty. Have five years income in hand before you touch a brick. Always calculate the expense at double the estimate.

I was most interested in the updated lists of banks with Worthless and Uncurrent Bank Notes. This list was for all of New England. Maine had several. Here is the list.

 Worthless-
 Agricultural Bank, Brewer
 Bangor Bank, Bangor
 Bath Bank, Bangor
 Castine Bank, Castine
 Citizen’s Bank, Augusta
 Damariscotta Bank, N obleboro
 Exchange Bank, Portland
Frankfort Bank, Frankfort
Globe Bank, Bangor & Portland
Georgia Lumber Co, Portland
Hallowell & Augusta Bank, Hallowell
Kennebunk Bank, Kennebunk
Kennebec Bank, Hallowell
Lafayette Bank, Bangor
Machias Bank
Bank of Old Town, Orono
Passamaquoddy Bank, Eastport
Penobscot Bank, Bangor
People’s Bank, Bangor
Saco Bank, Saco
St. Croix Bank, Calais
Stillwater Canal Bank, Orono
Waldo Bank, Belfast
Washington Co., Calais
Waterville Bank, Waterville
Wiscasset Bank, Wiscasset
Winthrop Bank, Winthrop
Bangor Commercial Bank, Bangor
City Bank, Portland
Citizen’s Bank, Augusta
Megunticook Bank, Camden
Maine Bank, Portland

Uncurrent-
Calais Bank, Calais
Mercantile Bank, Bangor
Westbrook Bank, Westbrook

Also of interest…..
Massachusetts in Miniature- In 1851 there were 34,235 farms in cultivation and 9637 manufacturing establishments.

Snowstorms and Depth of snow for ten years past. This information came from a writer in the Boston Transcript who furnished it to the almanac.
1843-4/ number of storms was 44/depth 7 feet seven inches
1844-5/number of storms was36/depth 3 feet three inches
1845-6/number of storms was 27/depth 3 feet seven inches
1846-7/number of storms was 32/depth 2 feet eight inches
1847-8/number of storms was 27/depth 2 feet one inch
1848-9/number of storms was 27/depth 3 feet one inch
1849-50/number of storms was 38/ depth 2 feet eleven inches
1850-1/number f storms was 28/ depth 3 feet one inch
1851-2/number of storms was 38/ depth 6 feet three and ½ inches
1852-3/number of storms was 20/ depth 3 feet two inches

 There was much interesting information about the National Debt which was usually in the 75 million dollar range from 1790’s and was somewhat steady until the Civil War when it reached the 2 billion mark.  Maybe this seems like a lot of useless information but it helps to put things into perspective when we can compare to today’s numbers. And of course for any one interested in farming, there is a wealth of information on how to care for your livestock, to rid your crops of pests and how much manure you need for an acre of land…..300 lbs. of guano should suffice.

 

 

 

                     The past few weeks have been spent reading some old farmer’s almanacs from the mid 1800’s. They are full of useful information on being a good farmer. There are anecdotes about being a better person, raising better children, taking care of your orchards, and caring for your animals. I will be inserting some information from these almanacs which I found interesting.

                    The following was taken from an almanac [Robert B.Thomas was the editor/published in Boston] dated 1853

“The Yankee Boy and His Jackknife”

The Yankee Boy, before he’s sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The Pocketknife.
And in the education of the lad
No little part that implement hath had.
His pocketknife to the younger whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things;
His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod,
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His corn-stalk fiddle and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin leaf trombone,

Conspire to teach the boy
Thus by his genius and his jackknife driven,
Ere long he’ll solve you any problem given,
Make any gimcrack, musical or mute,
A plough, a coach, an organ, or a flute.

 Make It, said I? Ay, when he undertakes it,
He’ll make the thing, and the machine that makes it;
For when his hand’s upon it, you may know
That there’s go in it and he’ll make it go!

    By John Pierpont

 

                    Later, I will be adding more from these almanacs as they are full of fascinating glimpses into yesterday with wisdom for today. This has been a nice week as I am on vacation. We will be spending Thanksgiving with my sister Carol’s family. It will be nice as all the cousins will be there and the kids will have a rip roaring time while the men try to watch football and the women gather in the kitchen to gab. 
                     I have been busy collecting stories from people who remember the plane crash in Redbank , South Portland, Maine in July 1944. I have been researching archives and staying on target with that project. I hope to have a nice collection of stories for SP Historical in the following months. My sister asked me to see If I could find a way to sell that little drawing I did of Redbank, entitled Greetings from Redbank. She was hoping she could get some postcards. So I decided to put them on a website in the event anyone else was interested. I put the design on mugs, pins, notecards, postcards and stickers. I only marked them up between 1-2 dollars, hopefully making them a unique and affordable item for Redbankers. They can be found at www.cafepress.com/redbankgirl    I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving Day with your families.

 

 

 

 

                    Seldom do I get sick but I have been treated for asthma complications twice in the past month. Both incidents involved having a cold first. I was put on prednisone and later antibiotics. I am still not 100% but getting there. Thankfully, my ten day vacation starts on Friday.
                     I am not the only one who has been under the weather. My husband, youngest son and my oldest son are fighting colds. My oldest son, Michael, needs extra attention to prevent him contracting pneumonia. I frequently use a cough assist on him, sometimes in the night. If you are not familiar with this machine, it is a marvel. It should be a marvel as the cost is equivalent to a car. However, we all know there is nothing worth more than good health. We will do anything to have good health. A cough assist is a machine used on a patient who is unable to cough mucus unassisted from their lungs. It can be compared to the iron lung of yesterday. Today’s cough assist is a small machine, which is portable and has gauges and dials on the front. When it is plugged in, it makes a loud sound like a respirator. It can be a little frightening. There is a long flexible hose that attaches to a face mask and that is attached to the machine. On the gauge is a needle that needs to be completely verticle when the mask is pushed tightly against the mouth and nose. I help Mike with this and I gently hold the back of his neck when I do it. The needle moves to the far right when he inhales and to the far left when he exhales. We continue this five or 6 times and then he coughs on the 6th time. When he coughs, the air which has entered his lungs forces the mucus to come out of his mouth. Then we repeat this about 6 times. It expands his lungs and keeps him healthier. 
                    Michael called me at work the other day, having some distress with his coughing. I called my youngest son JT who was 5 miles away at his job. He was able to get to the house and help Mike with a treatment. Mike instructed his brother how to use the machine. The following day, I asked my mom to visit and try a treatment on him as well. She had never tried it, but was happy she learned to use it. I am very thankful to have a supportive family because I need it. I have been very aggressive in his treatment because I don’t want him to land in the hospital with pneumonia. This machine is also used for people with Cystic Fibrosis. The world today has seen much integration between man and machinery. Though I am thankful that Mike has all of this marvelous equipment, ultimately as he gets older, as his own guardian he will decide how much more intervention he wants. The complexities of the world are more than my own mind can handle at times. 
                    I have learned to accept many things. It did not come easy to me, almost like doing everything in slow motion with one hand tied behind my back. In the beginning, it was a struggle often to accept my own son’s condition and to see him lose his abilities slowly. I struggle with time management, working full time, being a full time caregiver and trying to meet my own needs as well as the needs of my family. I have had to learn to manage my anger and accept some of it. It is important to me that Mike accepts himself, so I had to also learn that. I would say I have learned the meaning of grace, courage, discipline and sacrifice. My son has been my teacher.
                     It reminds me of a phone conversation with one of my sisters about acceptance. She told me that I have not accepted everything. I said she was correct. I accept things that cannot be helped but those that can be helped, cause me great distress and sometimes anger. Acceptance… I suppose my definition may seem very black and white, but it is my way of prioritizing what is important to me. Yes, I am far from perfect, but I do strive to be true to myself so that I may true to others.

 

                    Last year, I interviewed a few people regarding their recollections of the plane crash in their neighborhood in 1944. I wrote a story about the Redbank Plane Crash posted on this blog  under the category ‘Redbank Years’. It continues to generate traffic each day. It is fortunate that some have chosen to contact me about their memories, so I have made it my mission to collect as many stories as I can while people are willing to share. I will present the collection to South Portland Historical Society. With permission from select families, I will post some of the stories here for people to read, so the stories are not idle on a shelf after they have been revealed. After all, these stories will soon be lost if someone does not collect them.
                     One woman wrote to me and told me about her father’s brother. His name was Edward Gerrish. Mr. Gerrish and his beautiful family lived in the Westbrook Street Trailer Camp, located at 276 Westbrook Street, in South Portland where the plane crashed that day on July 11th, 1944, simply known as the Redbank Plane Crash. This location today is behind Olde English Village Apartments, at the foot of the hill where the Maine Youth Center overlooks the Fore River. Edward Gerrish was age 32 and his wife Virginia Wescott Gerrish was 26 and pregnant with their fifth child on the day of the disaster. Their oldest daughter was Roberta, age 7, son John [Jack] was age 6, and a daughter Rose was age 4 and the youngest was Marion, age 2 ½. The only survivors that day were two of the Gerrish children who were outside playing at the time, Jack and Marion. They survived, according to their family, with burns and injuries from shrapnel. Later they would be sent to live with relatives. John [Jack] died in 2004. Marion is still living but her whereabouts unknown.
                     They located to South Portland from Orono, Maine. At the time, the economic situation in Orono was not good, so Edward decided to move his family to South Portland for work opportunities. He worked at the Shipyard. His plans to live in South Portland were temporary as he and his family planned to move back to Orono when the economic conditions looked better. They had started construction on a home in Orono. The photo of Edward with his three children was taken in front of Gerrish’s store in Orono, owned by his parents. I was curious as to how families were notified of the disaster especially if they lost loved ones. I was told by Edward’s family that his parents in Orono heard of the plane crash when they tuned into the 11:00 PM news on the radio. Families were supposed to be notified by the American Red Cross prior to the news story, however in Gerrish’s case this never happened. It is difficult to imagine being a great distance from family during such a tragedy with communications and travel being what they were in 1944.
                     There was also another gentleman who was a former police officer from Orono who lived near Gerrish, named Charles Mitchel. The family believed he had a wife and two children and they all survived.
                     Edward Gerrish’s niece scanned these pictures as a way to honor her family who perished that day. When I read her family account, it was ‘real’ to see their faces and to see what a nice little family they were. They could be any family. To see Edward Gerrish holding his children on the storefront steps really compelled me think back to the horror that people witnessed that day. Edward’s brother, Stanley, rarely spoke of his brother, sister –in-law and children who perished. According to his daughter Anne, it was just too painful. A memorial for those who perished in the plane crash may be long overdue, simply because it has never been spoken about by those who experienced it, and those lives lost ended with no memory except to the families and people of the neighborhood who lived with the aftermath. Those who perished survive in snapshots and fragmented memories in the minds of family members who keep their lost loved ones close to their hearts. 
                    Neighborhood children, now seniors, perhaps thought they were being bombed, after all it was wartime. Many of them have never spoken of that horrific tragedy they witnessed as children as some of them even lost their classmates. Those seeking to contact me can do so at fiddlinsuz@roadrunner.com

  Thank you to Anne Gerrish Mitchem and her mother for their willingness to share their family’s story along with photographs. It was a privilege to tell their story.




roberta,rose and john

                    It has been a busy few weeks, with the Election being a priority to many of us. It is nice to see so many engaged and becoming active to make a difference in Washington. I am a Conservative…there I said it. It has been a difficult road to be labeled Conservative, mainly because we have not had the best choice of characters looking out for the best interests of our Country. My belief is that I can take care of myself pretty well and want very little government interference, and want NO handouts. If I knew someone needed a hand, I would be there. It is important to me to spend at least 15 hours per week volunteering. I have done this for years. I bet many never knew Conservatives did this.   
                    Unfortunately, whether Democrat of Republican, most of our leaders hold the status of millionaire and will work hard to maintain that wealth. They seem to have no problem lining their own pockets, at our expense. Capitalism is a great thing, but not when the Commoners are the ones who are being robbed. When our Nation began, the idea of a Monarchy was refused. Today, we have many ‘kings’. They steal from us, and have done far worse than the original 23 crimes which England committed against the Colonies, written about in our Declaration of Independence. Frankly, I am appalled that we have not done more to hold our leaders accountable. With that said, may we all work a little less and enjoy a few of the same benefits that our leaders enjoy.  Of course, I do not see any of that in my future, but we can always hope. 
 
 

                    Since my family of Roberts’ came from Saco Street in Westbrook, I have always been curious about the Poorhouse also known as the Almshouse. It abutted my family’s property in the late 1800’s. One can move from household to household when searching   the 1880 census on www.familysearch.org , which is free. In this census, once you know a family name on Saco Street, as it is not divided by streets online, you are able to see the inmates at the Poorhouse. I would like to share the contents of a letter I recently purchased on Ebay for my personal collection written in 1835. It was one sheet of rag paper folded resourcefully with one section containing the contents of the letter and the rest fashioned into an envelope, complete with address. There was no waste with paper materials. When this was written, Maine was only a State for 15 years. President Andrew Jackson, our seventh President, held office at the time this letter was written. Understandably, I get very excited to find a treasure like this on Ebay. 
                     The letter was addressed to Gentlemen Overseers of the Poor of Bingham, County of Somerset, Main. It had been sealed with red sealing wax. Maine was spelled with no ‘e’. Inside the contents are as follows:

Westbrook September 15th, 1835

Gentlemen,

                      Mrs. Abigail Knight an inhabitant of your town has now become chargeable in this town as a pauper. We conceive it necessary to give you this information that you may order her removal or otherwise provide for her as you may judge expedient. We have charged the expence of her support which has already arisen to your town and shall continue to do so long as we are obliged to furnish her with supplies ~ Mrs. Knight is now at the house of Mr. Saml. A. Proctor in our town at an expence of one dollar twenty five cents per week & information we rec’d by Mrs. Proctor, a daughter of Mrs. Knight Certifies that her Mother was Lawfully Married to John Knight formerly a resident in your town.
                      We are Gentlemen with much respect
                      Your Most Obedient Servants

The Gentlemen Selectmen or Overseers of the Poor of the Town of Bingham}

                                                                                    Isaac Mason
                                                                                    Cyrus Cumings } Overseers of the Poor Westbrook
                                                                                    H.C. Babb

 

                    Some of the town reports regarding the almshouse and farm reveal a great deal of the problems of those who were unable to care for themselves, from other towns as well. There was mention in many of the early diaries I have been transcribing of my Roberts family, of having circle at someone’s home and many people in attendance, sometimes fifty. At these circles, women would make clothing for those in need and men would do tasks which were considered men's work. It seemed that men had their circles and women had their circles. There are some old records of the Martha Washington Charitable Society at the Westbrook Historical Society dating early 1840’s which were an attempt to help those less fortunate. I am not sure the inhabitants at the poorhouse would have been recipients of the items sewn at circle. The town considered these folks to be burdens to the town and in many cases, some were sent back to where they previously lived, in some cases to Canada. Inhabitants of Westbrook who had skills needed to sustain the Poorhouse, were compensated for their efforts. One year Lorenzo Towl was reimbursed for mason work $21.96, John Wood, received $17.25, S. E. McLellan, blacksmith work $48.84 and the list goes on and on. Total expenses one year were 1268.32. There is also mention of the Outdoor Poor. I am not sure if that meant that they boarded with families rather than the farm. Some of the itemized costs on this list include: Frenchman’s expenses to Canada $15.00; Amasa Winslow, furnishing coffin Knight Child $ 4.50; S.S. Rich, coffin to French child; Burial of Knight child $8.00; Insane Hospital , 3 qrs., Nettie Libby , $108.74, Insane Hospital Ester Kennard $ 102.22; B.M. Edwards , supplies to French family $2.86; Charles Jameson, board of William Jameson $19.50: Town of Deering, acct. Willie Jameson $79.00
                     Later it was written that Nettie Libby and Esther Kennard were still at the Insane Hospital at the expense of the town. The legislature of 1874 having passed an act looking to the discharge of ‘idiots and incurables’ from the Insane Hospital, we deemed it advisable to make preparations to receive Nettie Libby at the Alms House, and accordingly fitted up two rooms. But fortunately for the town, she is still retained at Augusta. They fitted up two rooms for transient  persons as well. Since September it was written that the Alms House lodged and fed 112 vagrants, also called ‘tramps’. It was reported there was trouble from the tramps from other towns, many from Portland, brought about by the severity of winter and tough times. They were made to pay their way by sawing wood. The Jameson boy from the previous report was being boarded with Mrs. Joseph Barbour at 3 dollars per week, which was paid in equal proportions by the town and by his relatives. 
                     I found it most interesting how many of the troubles within a town were usually handled by the town, in a day when there was not too much help for anyone. If you could not carry your own weight, you were considered a burden. I am glad that some of those attitudes have changed a little over the years. I often wonder what it must have been like to have a serious disability back then. Life was tough , and family and neighbors were a vital part of each family’s survival. Treasures on Ebay… you never know what you may find.

This information is taken from the Portland Maine, City Directory in 1943

Redbank Village in South Portland was in the process of being built and there were only a few streets which had apartments occupied by tenants. They included MacArthur Circle East, North and West and also Wainwright Circle West. The rest of the village was in the process of being built. I am very interested in the early tenants there and hope to do some interviews at some point. I am enclosing a list of the families which were living in the trailer park known as Westbrook Trailer Camp. This is where the plane crash of July 11th,1944 occurred, situated down behind McKenney’s gas station and Olde English Village. Both Redbank and The Westbrook Street Trailer Camp were built to house the thousands of military families who came from all over Maine to work in the shipyards for the War Effort.
 
1943
 Trailer Park-276 Westbrook Street

Arthur M. West
Russell E. Parsons
Joseph A. Jarrett
Roy G. Noyes
Paul O. Gibson
E. R. Tupper
Vance R. Watson
Paul H. Faulkingham
Edward L. Palmer
Alphonse J. Arsenault
George W. Thibideau
Fred J. Wakem
Arthur R. Noyes
Arthur G. Milliken
Fred A. Tapley
Edmund G. Thompson
Guy I. Farrington
James R. Findlay
Granville E. Bickford
Joseph P. Zane
Edward Reynolds
Maurice M. Carr
Donald R. Veazie
Weldon F. Wyman
Earle K. Bowes
Charles O. Chatley
Douglas A. Robbins
Richard M. Holmes
John B. Pelletier
Lawrence W. Arnold
Armand K. Ferlat
Earl N. Dewitt
Fred A. Moore
Melvin S. Kimball
Charles E. Mills
Archie A. Cody
Warren S. Nesbit
Richard R. Noyes
Frank P. Ireland
John D. Scott
Durwood  D. Glidden
Francis J. Goudreault
Elwin S. Barclay
Roy A. Freeman
Joseph P. Ciarrochi
Angus E. Hamm
Joseph Spearin
William S. Stuart
Linwood L. Kennedy
George H. Bowden
James A. Lambert
Joseph P. Gardiner
Cecil R. Brown
Robert O. Gould
Basil E. Perkins
Arthur O. Hersey
Carl E. Steele
Kenneth F. Crockett
Robert D. Smith
Alex J. Dumas
Howard A. Tisdale
Harold F. Jones
Roland  P. Pelletier
Ernest W. White
Lowell M. Barter
Bickford R. Stevens
Morris R. Hall
Herbert R. Robbins
William F. Bathjer
Conrad W. Ekholm
Arthur R. Studer
Merton B. Crow
Earle F. Brown
Thomas E. Murray
Raymond E. Grant
Arthur E. Holt
Leonard St. Germaine
Arthur D. Fletcher
Blaire A. Lloyd
Arthur F. DeVoe
Donald W. Buchanan
Theodore C. Lindquist
Everett L. Morrison
Donald W. Multy
Rodney E. Saunders

These trailers, I am told were in clusters of 4 or 6 and spaces between the clusters. Since these are not alphabetical, I can only guess maybe the names were taken of families in order of how they were situated in the trailer park.

 

 

 

 

                    These cool crisp mornings remind me of my youth walking to school with a gang of kids from my block. We all left our homes around the same time and met our friends and it was a social time before we ventured onto the playground. There would be gangs of kids from other blocks ahead of us and behind us. I was giving thought as to why the Redbank site under South Portland at Mainetoday.com was so popular and I have come to a conclusion. First of all, who would ever imagine that posting my old grammar school pictures would generate a nationwide response? The beauty of it was that it never could have been orchestrated. Classmates.com has been trying to build such a community, but personally I would never pay to belong to a “club”. Why should any of us pay when we are the ones contributing to its success? It would not have been so interesting had it been for just my stories and the few others who wrote stories however the interactive piece formed the success of the site. The comments generated by the many readers who lived there at one time, made it spread like wildfire, all by the grapevine. Then again, that shows you that geography is not all that makes a community. It is the people who foster relationships with those from their neighborhood, long after they leave the neighborhood and move away. I also believe it connected people not only to their neighbors but to their youth. Each generation feels they lived in the best of times are perhaps only yearning for a time when life was simpler. Technology integrated with our faster pace of life is like a train and we are always running to catch up with it. We are getting further away from things which matter most to us. Maybe we are losing some of our connections to people, the earth, and our spiritual being is getting lost in the chaos. Take it easy…. It is Sunday morning.
                     While searching through my traveling desk which is a large bag filled with notes and scraps of paper with ideas for stories, I came across one note. I had been giving a lot of thought about Patrolman Michael Connolly’s death (from my story -The Unsolved Murder of Patrolman Michael Connolly 1930) when I heard a song on the radio. The song was by Cold Play entitled ‘Swallowed by the Sea’. I began to think about the possibility of drowning and actually finding a body on shore. I wonder if he had been washed ashore, that his body would have shown more signs of scraping. Quite often bodies are never found. Then I had a horrific thought that he may have been held over the side of a boat by his feet until he drowned. Maybe his body was thrown on the beach as a warning to others. Then my thoughts went to his cap. The search was endless for his cap. Did someone keep it as a ‘token’? I wonder if, in the chaos of the crime, someone was afraid they misplaced it and it would get into the wrong hands. With technology today, I also wonder if his badge has ever surfaced for sale? After telling his story, I am honored I had that privilege. Maybe one day we will know what really happened.
                     In closing, I must relay a funny story told to me by my longtime friend who is a divorced mom with kids. She is a survivor, one who has been through some very bad times. However she can still get me laughing especially with the following story. She was headed somewhere when she and her adult daughter drove through the Dunkin Donuts drive- thru window. She said her mouth dropped when she witnessed the most gorgeous man she has ever seen lean out the window to talk with them. “His eyes were blue, green, like the ocean and his hair was black with curls.” she replied, “and when I made eye contact I went ‘unconscious’.”  My friend said she asked him if their orders could be separate when he replied, “Of course” in his Russian accent. The window closed and my friend turned to her daughter and asked, “Did you see that guy?” The daughter replied she had not. So my friend said, “When the window opens again, take a good look.” When the Russian man came back he smiled revealing his beautiful white teeth as he delivered their orders. 
                     A few days later my friend decided she would to Dunkin Donuts drive-thru window again. She was hoping to see the Russian again. She was greeted by an older woman. My friend asked, “What happened to that handsome Russian man?” The woman replies, “Oh Vladimir? He went back to Russia.” My friend then told the woman that he was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. The woman responded with a big smile , “Have you seen Rafael? He is from Brazil.”

                    This story is an offshoot of another story I wrote, ‘Homeland Security and Other Tales’. These are times of hysteria and there is plenty we are forced to swallow because of that hysteria. My parents just got back from a trip out West to Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon and Vegas. Due to complications with flying now, they were on separate flights both ways. It reminds me of all the different tax forms and telecommunications today. In an effort to make them accessible and simple, it's simple all right… simply a mess. Want to live simply? Turn off the television, get a horse and start growing your own food. Anyhow back to the original story. My mother opened one of her bags which had been checked and found a document explaining that her bag had been checked. Read on because it is all about YOUR SAFETY. Of course I am being sarcastic because I think it is really about another one of your lost rights which is cleverly packaged for us to believe it is for our safety. After all, most of us have no intelligence whatsoever.
                     “Transportation Security Administration-Notice of Baggage Inspection- To protect you and your fellow passengers, the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) is required by law* to inspect all checked baggage. As part of this process, some bags are opened and physically inspected. Your bag was among those selected for physical inspection. 
                    During the inspection, your bag and its contents may have been searched for prohibited items. At the completion of the inspection, the contents were returned to your bag.
If the TSA security officer was unable to open your bag for inspection because it was locked, the officer may have been forced to break the locks on your bag. TSA sincerely regrets having to do this, however TSA is not liable for damage to your locks resulting from this necessary security precaution.
                    For packing tips and suggestions on how to secure your baggage during your next trip, please visit: www.tsa.gov . We appreciate your understanding and cooperation. If you have questions, comments, or concerns, please feel free to contact the TSA Contact Center: phone 866-289-9673 (toll free) or email TSA-ContactCenter@dhs.gov 
                    Explanation of * above:      * Section 110(b) of the Aviation and Transportation Security Act of 2001,  49 U.S.C. 44901 (c)-(e)”  Also on the back of the document was the Spanish version of the same message.
                    Now, I am wondering why a dog cannot perform the same task as the TSA for all these folks who are checking in and who are also retrieving their baggage? We are so obedient that we fall for such nonsense when we know this was all after the fact of 9/11. Everything life –altering that happens results in the loss of more of our rights. The people responsible for flying into the towers, certainly never believed they would topple both towers, is my own belief. Our anger should be directed at the lack of national security our own leaders did not bother to conform to and we are paying the price. Before you know it, we will have to leave our teeth in the conveyor belt to be x-rayed and we will be flying naked. We will be safe alright in our new police state. Thanks for tuning in today.

 

                    Each country across the globe is populated with diversity. Communities began to change as communications evolved. The talking wires and the iron horse opened communication between cities and towns across America. Telephones and then radios eventually were used in households across the nation. The television was invented and the first computers changed the way people received their information. Growing up as a child in the 1960’s, I spent a great deal of time writing letters and waiting for the mailman every day to bring me some surprise in the mail. I waited for him every day during summer. A great deal of my time as a young teen was spent on my genealogy hobby and many letters were written. I also had 14 pen pals across the globe during my teen years.  I am so amazed each day that I now have access to the internet and I can receive mail 20 times per day if I wish. The internet has changed the world forever and how we are able to retrieve information at our fingertips with the click of a mouse. The world has changed for all of us dramatically. I believe that the internet is the most significant revolutionary change that has changed the lives of all globally. It is comparable to the way flight, and the transcontinental railroad, electricity and radio and telephones changed life at the turn of the last century. Prior to the Industrial Revolution, people across the globe received information basically the same way, very slow. The newspaper had articles which covered some local, some state and national and a great deal of international news as well. Today, though we are on information overload sometimes, it is a very exciting time to be alive.
                     The personal computer in nearly every household has made it possible for people with disabilities to start their own business, to no longer be isolated within their own community. The elderly have access to the outside world, and need not be isolated in the cold winter months anymore. The personal computer has changed life. 
                     I often think of the comparisons between the way we send correspondence years ago and today. For instance, I am in possession of photocopies of letters written in the 1860’s from a father in Ireland to his son, in Whitneyville, Maine. I am not sure most people realize the troubles our ancestors faced when the lived in the Old Country. These letters are quite revealing as the father in Ireland had nothing for assets but a small cow and the home he lived in with little. He was very sick. He asked his son to please send him some money. The son became quite prosperous and dutifully sent his father money. The father always thanked his son and told him he had walked for two days across the rugged terrain to Killarney to cash the bank draft. I am sure the condition of these roads has not changed in many years. As he was near his death, he wrote once more to ask for money to help pay for his wake and burial and he had arranged for a longtime friend to loan him the money in good faith. The friend paid for the wake and burial. Many families lost all their children to America. This father had five children and all were in America stretched from coast to coast. Today nearly 150 years later I was able to send transcriptions of those letters to a library near the hometown by internet. How amazing.
                    I have read a few letters from a relative who was a soldier in World War 2 who wrote to his family often and ended each letter with, “Do not worry about me. If you should need anything, please contact the Red Cross” He told of the horrific things he had seen and was unsettled how things were going on with his family at home. He often wrote that he worried about home when he received no mail.
                     My own husband served in both Navy and Army. Our first year of marriage, I saw him 38 days. This was 1985. There was no internet then but we did have telephone. He would call me often when he was stateside, however when he was deployed, I often worried for his safety. He wasn't the best correspondent but I made sure I wrote and numbered each letter on the envelope for him to read in order. I wrote every single evening as it helped me to pass time when he was away. When he went to Kuwait after the war to clean up ordinance, I was also worried. The news would be on 24/7 and I could not watch it. It was too much information and often misleading. Now with the internet, communication for military families is superior. You can see your loved ones on camera and talk with them. They can be with you anytime almost. Yet, it causes great stress because the television, internet, and newspapers are full of 24/7 information. This technology could possibly bring more anxiety at times. My point is that with the intervention of technology, we are no better off than we were before technology in some ways because that element of uncertainty is still there.
                    My brother told me a story of a man who bought a time saving device but had to work two jobs to pay for it. Of course it was a story but things have come full circle when that is happening. My son told me, “Hey Mom, what if you go to work and you have to work longer to pay for your way back home?” I thought that was an interesting statement, due to the costs of fuel now. It is a complex world we all share.
Regarding communications and the internet, I recently submitted ideas to Google for their 10th anniversary, the main reason I have been absent for awhile. I am sure Google was overloaded with thousands of ideas and I wanted to be one of those who contributed. Anyhow, it is good to be back to writing. I have a list of stories to post.

This is Part 2 of " The Unsolved Murder of Patrolman Michael Connolly, Portland Maine

Written by Suzan Norton© 2008

After writing the story of Patrolman Michael T. Connolly, I received some correspondence regarding the story. One letter suggested that Officer Connolly was clearly fighting a losing battle that he could not possibly win. “The battle clearly favored corruption.” The reader also stated that it was clear there were many cover-ups with many parties involved. “Patrolman Connolly died a hero upholding true Law and Justice. Fire from shame, he died with real honor and integrity. ”  Pondering those words, I also believe that as widespread as the thirst for alcohol was and still is, that he may have been against all odds. Who would dare rat out their neighbor because everyone liked a drink? Those were the times. When the potential to make good money is involved, sometimes the line between “good” and “evil” is not so clear. There were some prominent families who afforded their children college educations with the profits made from bootlegging. In the first story, there is mention of one officer receiving a bribe of five hundred dollars to allow the bootleggers to deliver their goods unbothered. In 1930, that was a large sum of money. So, there is more to Patrolman Connolly’s story that would seem to validate a cover-up.
                Michael T. Connolly, born 1881 in Ireland, was the son of Lawrence and Margaret Coyne Connolly. His siblings were Mary, John, Edward [came to Portland], Patrick, and James [came to Portland]. He was born in the Spiddal area which is in West Galway, sometimes referred to as Connemara Region. The maps of County Galway have an East and West Division. Within these small towns, lie town lands, which are usually only found on survey maps, which are very detailed. His family lived within the town lands of Furbough and Knocknagreny. Furbough [Furbach Garbh] translates to Rough Land. Knocknagreny [Cnoc na Greine], which has four spelling variations, translates to Hill of the Sun. These town lands are in the Parish of Rahoon. Michael Connolly married Mary Madden, who originally came from Kilkerrin, in a smaller area named Kylefalia in Connemara. One house Connolly lived in was on the main road to Spiddal. In 1991, when Connolly’s family visited their grandfather’s homeland, the house was boarded up, uninhabited. On this visit, Connolly’s relatives still wanted to know if Michael Connolly’s murder had been solved. Today, there is still a strong connection between Spiddal and Portland, as so many relocated, many familiar with neighbors who had moved to the same area. Patrolman Michael Connolly died at the age of 49.
                I believe life is full of connections, some ironic, some amazing. The following story was told to me by Connolly’s granddaughter, Kathleen. Sometime back in the seventies, she paid for her son to have piano lessons. A man named Jerry Cohen came to her house for the lessons. He taught jazz piano. One day after a lesson, Kathleen and Jerry were having light conversation. He asked Kathleen her maiden name. When she replied ‘Connolly’, she said his face suddenly turned ghost white. Then he asked her if she was perhaps related to the Portland Policeman who was murdered in 1930. She replied that, yes indeed, her grandfather was Michael Connolly.  The piano teacher told the story of when he was a young boy, of eleven years, that he had found Connolly’s body that morning at Fish Point. He became hysterical and ran home to inform his mother. She took him immediately to the police department to inform them. They heard nothing more. Kathleen said Jerry Cohen’s impression was that the police were not interested in his find that morning. When the newspapers ran the story about the suicide theory, once again, Jerry Cohen’s mother went to the police with the story about Connolly’s hands being cuffed behind his back. The suicide theory had to be false. The Cohen’s never heard anymore about the incident. 
                Connolly’s granddaughter, Mary Lou, told the story of the police notifying an Uncle Martin Madden, who was also at Peaks Island, regarding Connolly’s death. They asked him not to say anything to his sister at the time. Perhaps it was presented in this manner to ‘protect’ Mrs. Connolly until she reached the mainland with her children. However, a cab driver delivered the news to Mrs. Connolly concerning her husband’s murder.
Connolly’s children eventually grew up and some relocated to other parts of the country. His children must have been haunted by never knowing what happened to their father, and seeing their mother struggle to make ends meet. It was perhaps the single most important part of their existence, yet the pain was so great, they never spoke about it with each other. It was evident when speaking with his grandchildren that their grandfather meant a great deal to them. The family has integrity and the grandchildren with whom I have been in contact are very close. 
                Throughout the years, Connolly’s son, John, employed at the prison, was told that he might find the identity of his father’s murderer.  Someone offered the information to him. However, he felt it was too late and he refused any knowledge of the killer thinking he had a family to think about.  So the story is ongoing. 
                Connolly’s granddaughter, Kathleen, told of another story of a woman with whom she worked. The woman told her one day of a vivid dream she had about a grandfather of Kathleen’s. She said “Your grandfather said ‘Tell My Story’”. Kathleen had no recollection of telling her grandfather’s story to the woman, so she was struck by the woman’s dream.  Since, I first heard Connolly’s story, I have not let it out of my head. I felt an urgency to write since that day. Ironically, my husband was in the US Navy when I met him, as the Destroyer he was stationed on was named the USS Conolly DD979. Connections… they are within all of us. Maybe we need to listen more to those.
                The Portland Police Department named a boat for Michael T. Connolly. It was in service in the 1980’s. There was a large ceremony when it was commissioned. The boat took on water and ended up in a frantic attempt banking on East End Beach. This story was relayed by Connolly’s granddaughter. Again, it is ironic that the boat’s demise was at East End Beach, the same area the Patrolman’s body had been found many years ago. 
                My intention for putting pen to paper regarding Patrolman Michael T. Connolly was to put the story ‘out there’. In no way was the story intended to reflect upon the present Portland Police Department. It is a story of long ago that needed to be told. I am forever grateful to his family for allowing me the privilege of telling their grandfather’s story. Not only was he a man to honor, but his family is to be commended for all they endured. In the end, I don’t think his community forgot him at all.

The story was written with permission by Kathleen Alfiero and her sisters, Diane Connolly and Mary Lou Connolly.
Stories were taken from Interviews and Correspondence between the three sisters.
Thank you to Scott, the reader who responded in a personal e-mail to me.
places.galwaylibrary.ie/asp/fullresult – Website of Irish Place Names

Please read "The Unsolved Murder of Patrolman Michael Connolly, Portland Maine" also posted under 'Stories of Long Ago' on this blog.
 

The Unsolved Murder of Patrolman Michael Connolly, Portland, Maine
Written by Suzan Roberts Norton©2008


Photocopies from Portland Newspapers-Photos by John Marshall


This story was first told to me a couple of years ago. Since then, I have desperately wanted to write something about the unsolved murder which took place on August 15th, 1930. Patrolman Michael T. Connolly left behind a wife and five children, all of whom never received any closure regarding his death. I think he would have been proud to know that so many in his family chose careers that were meaningful and focused on helping others. The story was told by his grandchildren to an audience at the Maine Irish Heritage Center, formerly St. Dominic’s Church. As a member of the audience, I could feel the family’s pain as they revealed what happened to their grandfather, though it was many years ago. Their story was supported by months of newspaper archive photocopies, the written word exposing some rumor, some speculation including a substandard investigation. It is possible that inexperience may have been a factor in the investigation also. At the front of the room was a large portrait of him in uniform. 
                     To understand that period of time in Portland, one must know that the waterfront especially was a hotbed of activity for the bootleg trade. The harbor was busy with illegal shipments, sometimes easier for some to turn their eye, in the event they could get a pay-off for doing so. Maine had been a dry State for nearly 50 years, so bootlegging was a prosperous business for men and women. The role of the bootlegger in a neighborhood aside from selling their alcohol could have been to make loans to people as well as cash their checks. Patrolman William Skerritt, my relative, used to cash his check at the bootlegger. This was revealed through stories his son told about his father who had died when the boy was only eight (1935). I was also told by Skerritt’s family that William Skerritt actually guarded a house on the Western Prom where the high profile men Sacco & Vanzetti were supposedly hiding out. Both men were wanted men. I was told by the Skerritt family that they were led to believe these men were being protected by the Portland Police. These were two Italian immigrants who were accused of terrorist acts against our government, including murder in a few cities in Massachusetts. They were later executed sometimes in the 1920’s at a time when anti-immigrant hysteria was rampant. There is a great deal of information on the web about them. Later ,I read that Skerritt would be a pallbearer for Patrolman Connolly. I am sure the men selected to be pallbearers were close friends to Connolly. The Great Depression left many with loss of trust for the banking industry, hence the reason for cashing checks at the bootlegger.
                     The patrolmen in those days walked a beat. They were visible in their communities and there were curfews. Telecommunications were very different, as a patrolman would walk an area and report at the call boxes placed throughout the city. He would call in every so often so others knew where he was located. In the event an officer needed back-up, he would rush to the call box and request help at the scene. The patrolman had a long key which fit into the call box. One side of the box had a keyhole in which the key was inserted a short distance and the patrolman picked up the phone to call the switchboard. The other side of the call box had a keyhole which was for the same key; only it was inserted most of the way into the keyhole. This would make a loud alarm buzzing noise that was an emergency call for help. This may have been connected to a flashing light.  I am not sure the telephone was in every home at that time as that may have been considered a luxury to some. The old patrolmen, many of them bearing Irish names are buried at Calvary Cemetery in South Portland; their graves marked with police flags. Walking the cemetery with my mother, she recalled many of the patrolmen’s names from her youth. She recalled hearing about the unsolved murder of Connolly when she was a child in the 40’s.
                     The front page of the newspaper on August 15th was filled with news that Patrolman Connolly was found dead at the foot of Fort Allen Park on the Eastern Promenade along a beach called Fish Point. He was found face down with his hands cuffed behind his back, partially buried in the sand due to shifting tide. High tide was at 3:17 AM and Michael Connolly’s watch had stopped at 4:08 AM. The newspaper account stated that John Lee of 23 Mountfort Street had found the body around 8:15 AM as he searched for driftwood along the shore. Lee called Patrolman Francis Reardon, who covered Connolly’s beat during the daytime. The papers later told how two prominent bootleggers fled the scene of the murder after the body was discovered by John Lee. They departed hastily when they saw Patrolman Francis Reardon approach the body. Curiously enough, their names were never mentioned. Patrolman Reardon called Chief Herman Haskell and a detail of 20 patrolmen. Four medical examiners were called next. At 11:26 AM, one medical examiner named Dr. Goodhue responded to the scene. It seemed a very long time from the time the body was found until a medical examiner arrived. He confirmed that Patrolman Connolly had been handcuffed and thrown into the water alive but that he had died from drowning.
                     Next, County Attorney Ralph Ingalls ordered Police Chief Haskell to check on all sailors who had shore duty that evening to ask if they had witnessed anything unusual. This would entail checking 3 cruiser ships which were in port at the time, the closest one being the USS Memphis. It was anchored 300 feet from where Patrolman Connolly’s body was found. At this time, more medical examiners were called and they all believed he had been slain as he had 2 gashes to the head. There was a major concern during the whole investigation regarding the missing hat of Patrolman Connolly. It was mentioned over and over and the harbor was even dredged, divers searched and people walked the shore looking for the hat.
                     Patrolman Dennis Flynn was on duty at the switch at headquarters and reported that Patrolman Connolly had pulled a duty call at 6:09 AM.  Connolly had really made his last duty call at 3:10 AM. Patrolman Flynn admitted he’d written that he received the hourly call from Connolly at 6:09 AM to “protect” Connolly. It was later mentioned that Connolly had worked a double shift and Flynn believed Connolly may have been overcome with drowsiness. Patrolman Flynn was later suspended for failure to report Connolly hadn’t pulled his customary duty on time.
                     Connolly was found with the key to his call box tied around his neck and with his hand extended towards his back pocket perhaps an attempt to reach for his flashlight and gun. His handcuffs had been placed upside down on his hands indicating that maybe his hands were in the air when he was cuffed. When his body was turned over, the gun was found but not fired. It had been found in his left hand pocket, not the holster. The family said the theory was that his own gun may have been used against him. It was unusual that it was found in the left hand pocket considering Patrolman Connolly was right handed. His face was purple indicating he struggled in the water. At noon, the body was taken by the police ambulance to Maine General Hospital. Found with his hands cuffed, many believed it was an act of a gang of bootleggers. At the time, many sailors were helping with the search for the patrolman’s hat. Connolly’s hat seemed to be of great importance during the investigation as it is mentioned several times. Perhaps it was because it was so personal, or that it was an extension of the deceased. One sailor said he heard nothing unusual spoken about what had happened on shore earlier that evening. A few drunken men had been interviewed and 16 sailors were questioned.
                     It was said that a cargo of Rum landed at Fish Point in the wee hours of Friday morning. It was an ideal evening, foggy and high tide at 3:17 AM. It was believed that Connolly may have been tipped off by rival bootleggers about the arrival of a shipment of illegal liquor. The newspaper stated the boatloads upon boatloads of rum shipments entered the harbor between 2:00-4:00 AM. Perhaps he had caught them and was marching them to the call box to call for back-up patrol. The police believed he would have fought against being shackled though his body showed no signs of struggle. Questions lingered. Could he have been marched at gunpoint or was he drugged? Regardless, Connolly was known as a good sober family man, and described as home loving with an excellent record. He was also fearless, unafraid to go up against a few troublemakers.
                      The newspapers mention a mystery automobile with lights out and the motor stilled with no occupant. Later accounts [Sept 3rd] mention that it was a prominent bootlegger’s car and it was occupied by five men. There had been a group affiliated with a Boston ring of bootleggers who had been kicked out of Detroit and operated along the Maine Coast. The car was near Connolly’s beat close to Fort Allen Park around 2:00 AM. Meanwhile Councilman Ralph Brooks “took the law into his own hands” because the murder probe had been delayed for 3 hours. He ordered the police inspector Harold Maguire to turn over the body. County Attorney Walter Tapley gave authorization to Brooks to interfere to delay the investigation no further. Then police called off the search for the gun. Perhaps the original gun found on his body was not his own. It was unclear.
                     U.S. District Attorney Frederick Dyer felt he had an angle on the murder. He would speak to no newspapermen and would only confer with the District Attorney. He also stated he may speak about his theory with Police Chief Haskell. Meanwhile, Mrs. Connolly spoke of having a premonition when her husband was transferred to the Waterfront Beat two weeks ago. She worried for her husband. “He was nearly killed several years ago on the Gorham Corner Beat and the beat he was killed on is as bad a Gorham’s Corner.”
                     Since the death of Patrolman Connolly, a relief fund for the Connolly family had been started in which citizens and businessmen in Portland contributed with the progress reported in the newspaper daily. Within six days it had reached $1486 dollars. The City of Portland also offered a $1000 dollar reward for the arrest and conviction of people or person responsible for the death of Patrolman Connolly. There was also a benefit dance at the Gem Ballroom on Peaks Island where the Connolly’s had a summer home. Stories continued to unfold over the following weeks filling newspapers with details. 
                     Bootlegging was the hot topic, with no mention of any local bootleggers by name. The newspaper didn’t spare any other names of those who spoke about the death or had information. The bootleggers were kindly referred to as local prominent bootleggers. It seemed there was a great deal of cover-up on many sides of this story, with the newspapers taking part in that role as well. There was a price-cutting war between the bootleggers. It did not affect the retail price but it did cut into the price formerly paid by dealers for huge shipments from the same source. It created dissention amongst the bootleggers. It split the rum dealers into two factions. There was an increase in the guards, who were usually out of State gangsters, employed to guard liquor which was at risk for being hijacked. [Taken from August 28th Portland newspaper]
                     One person wanted by police for questioning was a bootlegger, though not a local one. His name was Johnny Panica who was a former middleweight champion boxer also known as Johnny Wilson. He had been questioned three or four years ago regarding the slaying of a racketeer named Frankie Marlowe in NYC. Supposedly he had a run-in with the Patrolman who covered Connolly’s beat on an alternate evening. On August 22nd the newspaper reported that Johnny Wilson had been eliminated from the case as the last time he had been to Maine was in 1929 regarding slot machines.
                     Also of interest, there had been two Portland Policemen in Connolly’s vicinity that evening, off duty. County Attorney Ingalls did not respond to that allegation. Another story surfaced about a cab driver named Samuel Valinsky. Mr.Valinsky told of a customer he picked up around 4:55 AM the morning of the slaying at Union Station on St John Street. The person had his head bandaged and told the cab driver that he burned his eye lighting a cigarette and was on his way to see a doctor in Yarmouth. After reading the facts from the newspaper, supposed the man meant a doctor in Yarmouth, Massachusetts? He got out of the cab en route to get into a car with Bay State plates [Massachusetts]. This story appeared in the paper on August 25th. Yarmouth, Maine at the time had two doctors and both were questioned. Neither had treated a man of that description.
                     The focus changed to the railroad along the waterfront in the August 27th edition of the newspaper. Within 100 feet of Connolly’s body was a condemned box car. County Attorney Ingalls mentioned that rigor mortis had not set in with the patrolman’s body at 1130AM suggesting that maybe he had been held prisoner for a few hours.( A practicing mortician told me that rigor mortis is not a good indication of time of death. It can be a reoccurring condition) At the time there were four tracks in that area. Track four nearest Fish Point had 28 cars on it, Track three had 9 cars. Track two had 28 cars and Track one had 31 cars. Railroad detectives completely denied any liquor landing near the Railroad tracks. It is possible that could have been a cover-up as well.  Patrolman Connolly was in that area because he sensed trouble that morning. The Sept 4th edition of the newspaper, Patrolman Leo Roach spoke about Connolly having the courage of a lion. He said the nearest Connolly would have come to a call box in that area would have been the one at the corner of Fore Street and Waterville Street if he needed help. He believed Connolly’s inexperience on that beat lead to his trouble that night.
                     Another story surfaced from William Fyfe whose occupation was a garage attendant. He told how he had spoken with Connolly just before 6:00 AM as he was filling his car when Patrolman Connolly passed him. County Attorney Ralph Ingalls said he did not believe that Fyfe saw Connolly at all.
                     The police department requested Patrolman Connolly’s notebook be returned on Saturday afternoon. Frank Farrell, author of a story in the Portland newspaper office, wrote that the notebook had been tampered with as there was some erasure on the date of Connolly’s death. However on the previous day of August 14th was noted the registration plate, auto and name of the best known bootleggers, still intact undisturbed in his daily report book.
                    It was also suggested that the night before the murder, a gang was threatened by a Patrolman who looked very much by Connolly, and maybe sought revenge. Through all of the stories, rumors, speculation and investigation, Mrs. Connolly in all her grief, had to keep fighting as the stories came to print regarding the death of her husband. She had to endure much and she continued to fight back to defend what she felt were outright lies. On August 29th, Mrs. Connolly told the newspaper that she was enraged at Captain Stephen Cady’s theory that her husband may have committed suicide. She said if it took every penny she had, that she would hire a private detective to find her husband’s killer.
                     Captain Cady claimed a conversation took place between the two men two days before Connolly’s death. Connolly told Cady he knew that Cady did not like him. Cady then said that Connolly mentioned something about if you were going to be leaving the world, “Our kind of people doesn’t want to leave any enemies”. They supposedly shook hands as Connolly cried and muttered something about his soul. Mrs. Connolly said that her husband would never have confided in Captain Cady as he disliked the man. She said, “Mike would never do away with himself. He thought too much of me and the children”.
                     She said the family had been down to Peaks Island when her husband took the boat for Portland on Wednesday. He was anxious to get some painting done before they came back to Portland at their home at 141 ½ Spring Street. He had gone to the neighborhood market and talked with the clerk as he purchased some groceries and supplies so his family would be all set when they came home. 
                    A photo appeared in the Sept 4th paper of Mrs. Mary Connolly at her home surrounded by her five children: Edward [5], John [11], Catherine [7], James [3], and Margaret [9]. The oldest son John said, “I will take care of my mother”. He was going to be helping in the search for his father’s hat. Mrs. Connolly told that her husband may have had troubles with men on the Promenade that she never knew about. He wouldn’t have told her because he wouldn’t have wanted her to worry if he had been threatened. Mrs. Connolly stated that she did not have a cent, only paychecks that her husband had left. She told that she had not paid the undertaker yet and the taxes amounting to $201.24 due on the house were also unpaid. Four of her children were expected to start school the following month. Her husband paid all the bills and would give her the rest of his pay. He had let a life insurance policy for 500 dollars lapse and she was unaware of that.  The City of Portland considered paying the widow for 300 weeks at $18 dollars per week. Mrs. Connolly filed a petition with the State Industrial Accident Commission. It would be up to the City to oppose or agree with payment of half of the Patrolman’s salary under the Workmen’s Compensation Act. The Connolly Family Relief Fund continued to grow and by the beginning of September it had reached over the 3000 dollar mark. The fund for any information leading to arrest had also grown to 1800 dollars.
    `              As the days passed resentment grew amongst City Officials, Investigators and the Police Department. The community was shocked by the death of Patrolman Connolly resulting in an outpouring of generosity for one of their own. A shakedown was about to take place. There were a few more stories that made the papers that needed to be written about first.
                    Another woman who lived on the corner of Commercial Street and India Street was awakened at 2:00 AM as she heard someone yell, “Can you hear me?” and then the box slammed. Patrolman Dennis Flynn who was on the switch said he received no calls. Another newspaper article stated that Samuel Bernstein, owner of the Liverpool Tavern, at the above mentioned address said he heard two men talking loudly beneath the window above the tavern at 3:00 AM. He was awakened by his wife ,Madeline ,who heard a man, maybe Connolly, shouting into a police call box, “Can you hear me?” then the box closed and the voices died out. These two accounts may have been the same person. 
                    Patrolmen Ridge and Connolly had a conversation in the doorway of the Liverpool Tavern near 3:25 AM, which was 15 minutes before last duty call. This may have been what the Bernstein’s heard. Ridge said it appeared Connolly had something on his mind and felt he wanted to be alone. Fred Flaherty, the undertaker, told as he embalmed Connolly’s body, that he noticed a shiner on his eye. Patrolman Ridge said when he had spoken with Connolly at that time, there was no shiner.
                    There were many problems with the investigation which had ugly implications according to the press. County Attorney Ingalls was very frustrated with the Medical Examiner Holt’s ruling on the death as a drowning, rather than a homicide. He asked if there had been any tissue samples from Connolly’s brain or had his wrists been checked for signs of struggle with abrasions. There was a delay in information. Councilman Ralph Brooks urged an outside post mortem examiner to check Connolly’s body. He wanted Dr. McGrath from Boston to perform the work. Medical Examiner Holt still refused to call the case a homicide. This was frustrating to many officials.County Attorney Ingalls had earlier withheld Holt’s report as he felt it was too meager. The report stated that the internal organs looked ok, stomach contents had nothing and his brain appeared normal. The wrists showed nothing unusual. On August 23rd the newspaper stated the implications were indeed very ugly surrounding the case. County Attorney Ralph Ingalls had waited too long to call Dr. George Burgess McGrath of Boston to examine the body, an expert in his field. He should have been called first. The whole mention of the suicide theory was an ugly chapter. Patrolman Connolly could not swim. Portland was full of liquor and none of it made on the premise. There was also trouble at a rooming house in that vicinity which had not been mentioned in the paper.
                    In the August 29th edition of the newspaper, there was a column entitled UTTERLY UNCONVINCING and it outlined the questions many had regarding the investigation which made no sense. The first question was about Capt. Cady’s claim about a conversation between the two men. Why would Connolly talk with him? The second question was: How could Connolly conceal his despondence from the intuitive perceptions of his wife? The third question was: Why would he choose a place so difficult to access to commit suicide and that would be patrolled by railroad detectives? The fourth question was: If he did commit suicide, why did he choose a beach to which he could wade back instead of deep water into which a jump by a non swimmer would be irrevocably final? The fifth question was: If he did commit suicide, why was his cap not found near the scene? The sixth question was: If he did commit suicide then why were his handcuffs on upside down? Question number seven suggested that if Connolly was dying, he would have struggled, so why were there no abrasions on his wrists? The last concern was about fingerprints on the handcuffs. There is no doubt that these accusatory questions lead to the shakedown that was about to occur in the Portland Police Department.  
                    On August 30th, Councilman Ralph Brooks, also held position of Chairman of City Council, was ready to ring his hands of the whole affair. He would shake the Portland Police Department from top to bottom and rebuild it with an organization of young men who are “not contaminated” to ferret out the murderer. He attacked the police department when he told of a patrolman on an adjoining beat who took a $500 dollar bribe offer by bootleggers if he would allow them to operate unbothered. “Police Chief Haskell will have to go. All the tops will go”, Brooks threatened. They would be replaced with younger men. He would wait until Chairman of Committee of Public Safety, Arthur Jordan, who had been ill for a few months, was well enough to return for the next Council Meeting. Brooks stated, “We will clean out the Police Department within six months.”
                    Brooks continued to rant about the problems he had witnessed with the Police Department. He said he had given several leads and tips to Chief Herman Haskell only to hear nothing in return or follow-up or any report if the tips were investigated or not. Brooks informed Haskell of the attempted bribe and Haskell never acknowledged that piece of information. Brooks said that the City of Portland was paying its patrolmen $5.00 per day to protect the city, yet walking the city for the past two years, Brooks had found Patrolmen asleep on duty, and recalled one Patrolman was drunk while on duty. Another time, there wasn’t an Officer anywhere to be found in a walk from the Eastern Prom to the Western Prom at 5:00 AM. As far as Brooks was concerned, Sheriff Lloyd Johnson, nicknamed “Half Pint Grabber” because once in awhile the Sheriff department would seize half a pint- that’s all -, yet there was no shortage of liquor in the city. Brooks most certainly had a lot of guts and backbone, and was not afraid to speak his mind. He envisioned that Colonel Edward Farnsworth, a retired Army Colonel, and also on the State Highway Commission would make a trustworthy Chief for the Police Department, once the shakedown took place.
                    On September 3rd, Brooks charged against a lax police department. Fourteen points of laxity were pointed out to Chief Herman Haskell by City Manager Barlow. Councilman Brooks wanted Chief Haskell and the heads of the department to resign. Haskell said he would not resign. All patrolmen over 65 would be forced to retire. Haskell had notified some but had not asked McDonough yet. The Chief would then make provisional officers, those who had already served six months, permanent positions.
                    The Civil Service Commission held hearings regarding four patrolmen before the forced retirement took place. Patrolman Flynn was found guilty of falsely reporting “pulls”, a first time offense for him. He was discharged. Reinstatement could be possible but only under rules of Commission. Attorney Sullivan thought it was too severe.
                    Patrolman Michael McDonough was put on trial by the Civil Service Commission as he forgot to lock a cell door and prisoner David Dyer, convicted auto thief, escaped. Patrolman Place was also put on trial by the Civil Service Commission because he had accepted bribe money.In the end, those Patrolmen forced to retire were Hugh McDonough, Fred Emery, John Keating and Charles Cousins. 
                    One Portland Newspaper dated August 18th, 1930 showed a large split photo taken by John Marshall, showing the funeral procession in front of St. Dominic’s Church. It is a compelling photo showing a large crowd, including children. Patrolman Connolly’s casket was carried by pallbearers, from the Portland Police Department. They were listed as Patrolman William Skerritt, Patrolman James Ridge, Patrolman Festus Kearns, Patrolman Michael McDonough, Patrolman Timothy Glynn, and Patrolman John Malloy. They can be seen in the photo.
                     I found this story compelling and I was appalled as the story unfolded. Patrolman Michael T. Connolly’s story needed to be told again for two reasons. It is an unsolved murder and someone knew what happened that night. After seventy eight years, it is possible that there someone still knows what happened to Connolly. Secondly, his family needs closure and healing. They need to honor his memory and have it not be clouded by the method in which he died. Many of the family members never spoke of it again. The newspaper stories stopped after six weeks, and perhaps the investigation also ceased. His story faded away over time and he was forgotten by the community he patrolled. His family never forgot him but it was not the topic of conversation as it caused a great deal of pain. His memory was clouded by his death. It is time to tell his story.
                    In Calvary Cemetery in South Portland sits the stone of Patrolman Michael T. Connolly. The stone is located in the older section of the cemetery where many Irish families are located, amidst the common names of Foley and Flaherty. His stone is a large Celtic Cross intricately designed with Celtic knots, done by a stonecutter years ago. His modest surname is carved across the bottom, C-O-N-N-O-L-L-Y in a Celtic style font.There are no other names on the stone. Officer Connolly’s grave is marked with a blue and white police memorial flag. 
 





Badge 197 was a badge that would have been worn on a coat and badge 25 shows Portland's 'Resurgam' symbol and would have been worn on the police cap. Patrolman Skerritt was #91. Patrolman Michael Connolly may have worn # 26.


 

                                                There is a Part 2 of Patrolman Michael T. Connolly's Story .
                                                [ Entitled- Patrolman Michael Connolly's Untold Story]
                                   


                                                        
                     Story printed with family’s permission through Kathleen Alfiero, granddaughter.
                    Thank You to Mrs. Skerritt for recollections of conversations with her husband.
   Thank you to Sergeant Michael Sanphy, retired Westbrook PD for photos of antique badges & info on old call boxes.
All information taken from Portland, Maine newspaper archives from August 15th, 1930 through September 4th, 1930
 
 

Vacation is over and it is back to reality. Who said? I can tell you a few things I did my last week of vacation. I heard from Bob Lewis, fellow Redbanker, as he was visiting from Virginia. He told me he had several visits from old neighbors and friends from the neighborhood and he left me an album to scan. I did so and the pictures will be posted on Ruth’s site when she gets a chance.
                 I spent a great deal of time volunteering at Westbrook Historical. One day I helped my father clean his shop which was a large feat. He passed those traits on to me. We both have difficulty with organization. I spent about 3 hours sorting and sweeping and organizing his huge inventory of hardware. We enjoyed each other’s company as it was more about that than cleaning the shop.
                 One day I picked up a friend’s nephew [teen] that had come to the USA from living in Japan on a military base all his life. He had seen some of my boy’s skateboard videos on You Tube so he wanted to meet him. I arranged to pick him up and they spent some time together. He slept over and I took him back the next day. My other son was away at Pine Tree Camp where kids with disabilities attend. We saw the amazing tree house which was built to accommodate wheelchairs. 
                 I worked most of the week on the story about the Patrolman from 1930 who was murdered in Portland. It will be posted as soon as the family has all had a chance to read it with their corrections etc. I think it will be a good read. I am also waiting on a few pictures to post with it.
                 The SP Historical evening chat on August 21st, was interesting. It covered the Long creek area and there were some great photos of farms in and around that area. There were a few older residents who shared their recollections as well. The Redbank Plane Crash into Westbrook Street Trailer Park on July 11th, 1944 was also a topic of discussion. It was poignant to hear some stories from those who witnessed the event, some having different opinions of what actually happened. It will be made available of DVD as soon as it is edited. There were several we know that were witnesses and could not make it for one reason or another. 
                 Aside from everything else, I am trying to make sure both sons are ready for school. My son, JT, has done all the work himself. He wants to be a chef and I hope he is determined. He seems so. He has a lot going on for him. My other son, Mike, will be taking one class but it is a lot of work arranging transportation and accommodations for him. I can’t complain as my friend arranged for her sons to attend and both are in wheelchairs and got their degrees. She is remarkable and so are they. We will start out slow. It will be good for Mike to get out of the house and meet some new young people. He called his friend Jake who is in the nursing home. Mike waited until he got back from camp probably to tell him a few stories. Jake was happy to hear from Mike and said he should be going home sometime soon. 
                It is inspirational to think of what you have instead of what you don’t have. It can work either way. Jake used to be able-bodied and is now in a wheelchair since he was young from a car accident. He HAS to think of what he has and not about what he does not have or he would probably have a tough time living that way. We have a choice. We should be thinking about what we have instead of what we do not have. We do not have to rely on others to change our clothing or help us bathe. We could be called the lucky ones. Life is good most of the time. When we get older we must learn to accept the changes along the way instead of fighting everything. One friend of mine stopped dyeing her hair. She said it is ok to show her gray. What harm can it do? Accept yourselves and others will accept you. If you are slower, maybe it is really that others are faster. It does not matter how you got to where you are going, but rather that you got there. It might take me 10 hours to do a task when another it may take 1 hour. The important thing to remember is, was it worthwhile and meaningful? If the answer is yes, then you did well.
 

Headline reads "Standing in Line at Redbank Store Is Popular Sunday Morning Chore"

Cigarette Line- Part of a crowd of 500 people who stood in line before Berry's Red & White Store In Redbank Sunday Morning where the week's supply of cigarettes was sold in about two hours starting at 9 AM.

According to the article which was incomplete, dated February 26, 1945, Berry's would sell two packs per customer and people came from all over beginning the line at 8 AM. "There are no strings attached but you must give up that Sunday Morning extra hour of sleep in favor of an excursion to Redbank." I found the surprise article at Westbrook Historical Society in their St. Hyacinth's Scrapbook Collection.

To see the latest three videos I posted, click onto www.youtube.com/fiddlinsuz  Enjoy! There are more to come.

                Times sure have changed since the invention of the personal computer. It took some time to get used to never using a pen, and crossing out and rewriting, but I finally embraced typing onto the computer. I used to write letter after letter and wait for the mailman to come every day to deliver replies to my letters. I wrote to relatives whom I had never met seeking genealogical information. All those replies are in a shoebox, invaluable now because all of those people are gone now. I have made many connections since those letters over the years and found ways to connect people across the world to information I received 25 or 30 years ago in the form of a handwritten letter. Imagine one English woman’s surprise when she had written that her great grandfather had a brother who came to America and nobody knew what happened to him. Since we had common ancestors, I went through my letters because the names were familiar. I found a letter written by a woman whose grandfather was that brother who had left for America. He had settled in Staten Island NY. My letter from the Staten Island connection was written almost 30 years ago. The English woman had sent me an email with all her information. So I sent her copies of what I had. The only reason I ever received a letter from the Staten Island woman was that she had been vacationing in Boothbay, Maine when she read a copy of the Portland Sunday Telegram and found my query about the name Skerritt. Amazing connections we all make in our lives.

                    Connections include our childhood years, our teen years, and work friends, friends of circumstance, military friends and so on. We all have connections. I have many friends from grammar school whom I still contact. It could be once a year but we still seem very close. I know where most people went from my old neighborhood. I guess it is because I genuinely care about the people with whom I have had a common experience. Last night, I called my friend Cathy using the best invention ever, the telephone. I heard the ice cream truck in the background and we joked about the same old songs that truck plays to attract all the kids. “Do your ears hang low?” and “The Entertainer”. Can anyone name any other tunes? I am sure it would be comical to hear the ice cream truck play “Tequila” as it winds up and down the streets of your neighborhood. I would bet there would be more than kids chasing that truck; most likely a few adults as well. Anyway when we talk, we laugh more than talk. It is good for the soul.

                    Speaking about the old neighborhood, an old neighbor passed away a few days ago, Mr. Harry McKenna. I grew up next door to the family as a young kid. The McKenna family had 4 sons who I thought were pretty wild. My parents went to the service which was nice as they saw 2 of the sons. One son named David lives away and I have not seen him since I was a kid. I always had fond memories of them. I was just a kid but I still think about them from time to time. They were part of my childhood. It is funny to think of all those crushes I had when I was young, though not too many knew about it as I was shy. Come to find out, I liked a boy and he liked me but neither of us ever knew it. It is probably a good thing because now we have the memory.  Growing up…so awkward and goofy.

                     Friends of circumstance are interesting as those connections help you to grow as a person. I became very involved in the disabled community because I am a parent. When I was a new parent, I was typical, reading everything about parenting as I watched my child progress. I was fascinated and adored this new addition to our life. I guess I was clueless in many ways also. At age fourI learned my son had a serious illness and I couldn’t function for some time. I never knew I could have such an interesting life and meet so many interesting people. I have aspired to more than I ever thought possible. Most of it is because I am a parent. As a parent, you strive to do right by your child and give them the tools to be independent and to be decent human beings. It is the most important job you will ever have, even more important than the one you get paid for each week. I would say that I am not afraid to help others because of what we have been through as a family. Some of my friends have lost their children and I have been to their funerals. They are the most giving people I know. They still help others when they have had significant loss. I need to stay connected to them because they have helped us on our journey with Mike. Though I wish my son could not have the struggles he has, he is most interesting because of all he has experienced. Tonight, I came home and he told me that one of his friends would not be going to camp this summer. They met several summers ago at camp as Jake was in a car accident and was paralyzed around the age of seven. Mike told me he had called Jake’s house where he lived with his dad as his mom had passed away. The father told Mike that Jake was in a nursing home since March. The reason was that he had pressure sores. Mike called his room but there was no answer. Mike was bothered by it and so was I. I am up several times each night turning him, so this won’t happen. Life is good when you can meet people like Jake.

                    I would say there is one common thread and that is that no matter who my friends are, we laugh often. I relayed a story this evening to a friend whose son passed away two years ago of MD. Imagine going to the Tweeter Center in Foxboro and there is suddenly a need for a handicapped bathroom. I was determined to find one that afforded my son some dignity. It was located where the VIP section is where the band members hang out. Once I found it, I had to remove a 5 foot tall plant away from the toilet while my son maneuvered his wheelchair beside the toilet. The toilet is lower than the chair and this immediately presents a challenge. I mustered up all the strength I never thought I had and picked him up to lower him onto the seat. He was frightened that I would hurt him. The funny part was when he asked how I was going to do this and that. I replied, “Let me think” It was a 45 minute ordeal but is turned out ok, though I felt as if I had ran the Boston Marathon. The call to my friend was full of laughter over that incident, which most likely only she would understand. For the rest of you, this may have been too much information. However after all, this was a story about connections.  

 This has been a long time coming. With the help of my son, Mike, I was able to download some excellent footage of Redbank Kids. I think many are going to be amazed at how many kids they see in this latest video clip. As you scan the crowd, you will see many families represented like  McNeil, Davis, Reynolds, Lovejoy, Laurence,Roberts, Dorr, Watts, Desmarais, Murphy, Towle,Houston,Swan, Ross,Dunbar,Morin, Kitchin,Bartell,Jaynes,Henningsen, Bartell,Fowler,Jaynes... and the list goes on and on. I would like to see if anyone has any names they can identify. Thank you to my parents who took so many videos of us growing up in Redbank.  You should be able to connect with the link below or just look for Redbank Maine or fiddlinsuz under Youtube.com to find the latest. Enjoy and feel free to comment.

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                Since I have not written all week, I believe it was time I put pen to paper. Tonite, I posted a video from my dad’s home movies on YouTube. Type Redbank Maine South Portland or look by my name under fiddlinsuz. They are all videos by my dad and mom when we were younger. They are a treasure trove of Redbank people and events. However tonite, I posted the wrong video as it was mostly Little League, skating at Millcreek and a short clip at the end of Pegasus going out to Fort Williams for a photo shoot. I think you may enjoy seeing that.
                 I have been feeling sick for a few days. I am also researching for a story in the works which I can pull together in a few weeks. It has been an interesting week as I was able to see my friend Virginia Fleck, the artist, who was visiting her family. We had a great evening full of conversation. 
                 Since we are speaking of Redbank, please check out www.southportland.org and scroll down to South Portland Historical Society on the left hand side. August 21st will be a live chat about the Redbank Plane Crash of 1944 as one of the topics. Hopefully some who recalled the event will attend. Everyone is invited who has an interest. On September 18th there will be another chat about Redbank Village. Please spread the word as it would be nice to have many old time families talk about living there and raising their families there. I plan to be at both events.     
                    Recently, one former Redbanker told me that she tired of seeing so many Redbank stories on the Mainetoday.com page. I grew weary of writing just my own memories, but I continued for the love of the comments. People seemed to connect through the comments and that meant a lot to me. Anyhow, I realize that she was probably one of the few that felt that way. There was a certain faction of kids who grew up there that did not want to be associated with the neighborhood. I guess maybe they felt Redbank defined who they were, so maybe I can understand that. However, I am from the neighborhood, but it is not all of who I am. I had many good memories and never felt ashamed to live there. Fortunately, I never looked upon anyone else as less than me, because after all, it is only geography. If you are still hung up about growing up in Redbank, I suggest counseling. So please, let’s spread the word about South Portland Historical Society’s evening programs.

                Comparing antique photos and studying the census records can reveal many mysteries. The original census records are easy to read who the Head of the Household was as all names are listed underneath. The Westbrook Historical Society is in possession of the original handwritten 1850 census book. It is fascinating to see the names which now are listed on the tombstones of Westbrook and far away. I revisited the census as I had a request to search for some Babb families. Babb was perhaps the single most common surname in Westbrook. There were 27 Babb families in the 1850 census. The Society is fortunate to have Donna Conley as an involved President and before that an involved volunteer. She indexed the census so that it is easier to read and to search alphabetically and also by natural order. Searching alphabetically, one can compare the common dates with columns and pages to figure out each family group.
                 My maiden name is Roberts. The first Roberts listed was Abba Roberts, age 16 on July 19th, 1850, page 19, column 1. There is also a Benjamin Roberts, age 81, Ellen B. [Babb] Roberts, age 32, Joshua D. Roberts, age 35, and Martha E. , age 7. They all have the same date of July 19th and the same page 19 and same column 1. I can safely assume they all lived in one household. I know that Benjamin is the father of Joshua D. Roberts. Joshua was married to Ellen Babb (his 1st wife). He had a daughter Martha who was listed as age 7. I now know that he had a daughter Abba, listed as age 19. I have not solved the mystery of Abba Roberts Webb, wife of Capt. Joseph Webb who is buried at Saccarappa Cemetery, listed as dying at the age of 19 in 1834. I can only speculate that this Abba in the 1850 census was named for the one at Saccarappa Cemetery.
                 As far as comparing photographs to reveal clues, I have a nice example. I have a studio picture of Martha that is the same scene for 2 other people. It has the same backdrop and same table and chair that 3 different people sat in for a photograph. I know Martha and now I am certain the other 2 photos are her 2 cousins, Frank and Isa M. They lived on Saco Street also. She speaks of them often in her diary. 
                 The census and also cemetery transcriptions are very important as they are sometimes the only proof a person ever existed at all. Westbrook records are scattered. Fortunately, we have some of Rev. Caleb Bradley’s records of marriages. There may be some births noted in there as well. There is a great deal of vital records missing from early and mid 1800’s. Interestingly enough, it was not uncommon to bury people on the family farm. I have found references to the remains of the dead being exhumed for reburial at the new burial ground Saccarappa Cemetery. There was a cemetery of Hatches and Johnsons up near the old Hatch Libby house. In fact, maybe 20 years ago, a gravestone was found with the name Abigail Hatch. This had been found under the corner of a Roberts’ homestead. It was given to the occupants of the Libby house and can still be seen between the trees facing the road. There is nobody buried there, as it is an historical artifact. I believe the stone had been discarded when the remains were put up at Saccarappa and new stones marked the plot. The bodies were all exhumed and new stones put up at Saccarappa cemetery. The source for this information was Leonard Chapman’s Grandpa’s Scrapbook which is full of fascinating genealogies of early families to the area. 
                  Anyhow from studying the census, I have learned there were 5 Roberts families in Westbrook in 1850, a much smaller number than the Babbs. I would like to share an interesting story about a find in the census. The Historical Society had an acquisition of an old atlas dated 1840’s. Throughout the atlas were many hand colored ink drawings, with the careful hand of a young artist. The atlas was a valued book as books were rare in the mid 1800’s, especially the academic books. It was held together with fine thread stitched along the spine of the atlas. There were blank pages between the maps which were filled with delightful drawings from a young boy’s imagination. He drew clipper ships with sailors all in the water, and the ship under distress. He must have liked ships because he drew a few throughout the atlas. This young boy was named George Andrews. He was 15 in 1850. The atlas was dated 1847. He had a fine hand as he drew pictures of a colt, circus performers and pictures of people in the costume of the day. He drew his interpretation of an American Indian, most likely an image from his imagination. It was also filled with his lessons as he penciled his history of the United States at that time which was rather small. It was a thrill to see such an artifact. Imagine my surprise when I found him listed as a sailor in Brooklyn , NY in 1880.

                Those of you,who remember the Murphy’s that lived on the corner of Wainwright Circle East and Colin Kelley for so many years, will be saddened to hear of the passing of Dick Murphy last night. He came from a large family of eight siblings who all grew up in Redbank living in close quarters as many of us did. However I think it must have been challenging with eight kids. He lived there when the plane crashed. He was married to Patricia (Doodie) Murphy and recently celebrated their 50th anniversary. Their children; Mark, Alicia, Darrin and Laurie and extended families all went to Jamaica a short while ago. The Murphy’s were very involved in the community where they lived. They were active role models for their grandchildren, Michael and Justin and were involved in all their school activities as well. My own son ,JT, spent a great deal of time at the Murphy’s home. Family was the most important to each of the Murphy’s as they nurtured and gave their support always. 
                 My Aunt remembers Dick Murphy when they were both young students at the new school at Redbank. I believe he was the same age as her, born in 1935. She said the talent shows at the Community Center were a big draw. Dick Murphy can best be remembered for his beautiful singing voice. 
                 I did not have the pleasure of knowing the Murphy’s when I was younger, though I did recognize who they were in the Community. It was not until I moved in after I had been married a short while that I became reacquainted with them again. We had many laughs on the front porch sitting on Doodie’s swing with a pull down bamboo shade, having drinks that Dick had mixed for us. He used to make a nice Bloody Mary with Clamato and celery. He and I both worked for the phone company. He was a veteran technician who climbed poles and worked in the bucket trucks for many years before I started there. He weathered working outdoors during the Ice Storm, working long hours. He was the kind of person you could talk to and he would listen. You cannot teach someone skills like he had with people. He was well respected amongst his coworkers.  He was genuine, trustworthy and a wonderful man. He loved his wife and it showed , the best gift any father can give his children. He had integrity and class. I am sitting here tonight thinking of his family’s loss. I am also thinking of the loss of a friend. He had my deepest respect. He and Doodie raised a top notch family. The family was always first. Thank you, Mr. Dick Murphy for all you gave to the community and to your family and  friends. You will be sadly missed.

  
1856 barn , corner of Spiller Rd and 114 Gorham, Maine demolished from a microburst July 18th, 2008              


It has been a long week with many items of interest.  I walked down to Sebago Lake Station boat ramp where I see a large 4x8 sign showing me the level of threat from a terrorist attack, courtesy of Homeland Security. Of course it is always, ELEVATED since September 11th, 2001. Are these the same folks that issued all those fallout shelter signs for the schools and municipal buildings that I remember so fondly from my youth? Hurry off to buy some canned peas and lock yourself in the basement. Some of this hysteria is justified but it seems a little bit of overkill. To be honest, I pay more attention to the Smoky the Bear signs outside the fire stations alerting us to levels of fire danger. At least that changes. No, I don’t feel any safer than I did in 2001. I don’t think we are meant to feel safe all the time. The last time I was really safe was probably in my mother’s womb. After this week, I am not sure anyone is really safe. Up here in Standish on 114 where I live, only two miles up the road, a barn blew over sideways. A couple in Standish were struck by lightning when running outside to retrieve a pair of glasses from the dog who was probably startled by the crashing Thunder and Lightning storm. Hail that accompanied the Microburst ripped through parts of Gorham, toppling over 100 trees. I can tell you that I really wasn’t thinking about the level of threat of a terrorist attack. As far as I am concerned, our own government is to blame for letting down the walls of National Security. The Homeland Security signs are much too late. We are not the fools that they think we are. I won’t bore you with any more politics. It is not my passion.
                 I have been very busy researching some stories which I will post shortly regarding the murder of a Portland Cop in 1930 and another interesting man who came from Germany in the 1800’s and played a significant role in the success of the Haskell Silk Mill in Westbrook. Still have a passion for writing more about Redbank Village. Please check the new additions to my friend’s site www.redbankstreets.com. There are thousands of stories of growing up in a neighborhood. 
                 I went to visit my Uncle Phil on a lunch break last week in the facility where he lives, for memory impairment patients. When I arrived carrying pizza and a photo, I wanted to share with him; he was using his walker and heading off to play bingo. I asked him if he wanted to go to his room and have a slice of pizza but he said he wanted to stay busy and was playing bingo. I walked down to the bingo area with him chatting along the way. I showed him a picture of a neon sign my father had made. I intended to talk about the sign business with him, but plans changed. It will have to be another visit. Uncle Phil is the one who snapped that B & W photo that is on the Redbank Plane Crash featured on the website I mentioned above.
                 I may go to visit another relative in a nursing home who has Alzheimer’s to ask him what he may recall about the Portland Cop that was murdered back in 1930. His father was one of the pallbearers. Life is full of little connections. Hope you are all enjoying the stories. Thank You


 A photo from my collection of the barn above, taken this winter 2007-8

 

                Our pets are very special, because they sense how we are feeling and they stand by us, sometimes more than those we love. Growing up in Redbank, we always had cats. It wasn’t until one day at work; I overheard a coworker complaining about taking care of her dad’s dog as he had just been diagnosed with MS. She was overwhelmed.  When she hung up the telephone, I asked her if she was looking for a home for her dad’s dog. I told her I may be able to help. She said she would ask her father.
                 A short while after, I went to meet her father with his dog, a miniature schnauzer named Schultzie. He was about 7 years old. I could tell he was well taken care of as he had a red plaid dog bed, a few leashes and some dog food as well as his papers and dog dish and grooming tools. He was peppy and stood against my dashboard all the way home wagging his tale and panting. When he entered my house, he pooped. Oh well, we will figure it out I thought. My husband came home and loved him immediately as did my kids. On the first day, I took the boys out and showed them how to walk the dog. This turned out to be a small disaster. Michael lost his balance and the dog pulled him out of his wheelchair. JT and I picked him up and put him back in his chair, with the seatbelt. Later that night when I had his leg stretched out in bed he started crying. Mike told me that his leg was really hurting, so off we went to the hospital. Mike had broken his leg from the fall. This was Schultzie’s first day in his new home.
                He was well trained and a polite for a dog. We quickly realized that he was the dog who didn’t think he was a dog. He loved to ride in boats I was told, sitting up high in the front seat of the boat with the water spraying him in the face. He was the same in the car. Most of the time, he would try to climb onto my lap but eventually he would have his head out the window smelling all those lovely smells at 60 mph. He had a cute little trot when he ran along beside me.
                Schultzie was pretty tolerant after I took in 2 more schnauzers over the years, one named Dukie and a female named Daisy Mae. Schultzie was the oldest and the more passive of my dogs. Dukie was next in age. He lived a few houses down the street and his owner was very sick. One day while walking Schultzie, the owner asked me if I would like another Schnauzer. I replied that I would love to have him. I gave them my name and number. Six months later a young woman brought him to my door as her mother, the owner had died. I thanked her and told her we would give him a good home. She told me that Dukie was angry because he had been ignored for some time as her mom was sick. I took him and had to call the vet for advice as he was very mean to Schultz. The vet told me to show Duke no attention for a week so he would know Schultz was the senior dog. It was difficult for me because he was so darn cute. After that he was a wonderful dog. He had a trot like a show dog, with a big chest and salt and pepper wiry hair.
The last dog we got was one that we wanted to bond with Michael. Michael and I drove to NH to meet with a schnauzer rescue. I paid for Daisy. She was six months old and very excitable, high stress, because her owner worked all day and Daisy spent the first six months in a cage for 9 hours a day. She is a handful and we are working with her.
                She is our only dog left. I had to put Dukie down a few years ago as he was all skin and bones, following me around the house. He had cancer with several complications. The vet told me that he had never seen a dog have the issues Duke had in all his 35 years as a vet. My husband and I were afraid he would die at home before we could get to the vet. I had spent much money finding what was wrong, but knew that he was getting worse. It broke our hearts to put him down but we did it out of love. We were both there with him, playing with his little face and patting him as he slipped away. I cried for months over Dukie. Daisy really missed Dukie as he was her playmate. They would romp around the house all day.
                One of the funniest  times I recall was when I bought some marrow bones for the dogs to chew on. Each dog had his own pillow and guarded their bones. They would not even go outside to do their business if their bones were on their pillows. When I did get one to come over for a treat, the other dog would snitch the bone and hide it. This went on all day, whenever one dog would leave the room. It was hysterical. Then the dog would come back and be looking for the bone he ‘knew ‘he left on his pillow. It was back and forth all day.
Last week we had to repeat the act of putting another dog down; this time Schultzie. It was sad but I knew he was very tired. He suffered a stroke at the groomer and Daisy was with him. She acted very strange for a few days. The groomer never said anything. I suspect she was scared as she forgot to take out the cotton plugs from his ears and their name tags were switched. I decided I would find a new groomer. I figured he was very old anyhow, that it may have happened naturally. We had been carrying him up and downstairs for a month. The weight loss was significant for the past two weeks. The last week, he stopped eating anything and he slept most of the day. My husband and I met at the vet and held him. My husband said before we went into the office, “Schultzie, the dog who didn’t think he was a dog”. Again, our hearts were broken to say goodbye.  I can rest easy when I think of the joy all my dogs have brought into my life. Perhaps one of the nicest things I received was a card from his former owner. He thanked us for giving Schultzie a loving home. That was nice.
 

                It comes as no surprise that a young man would have a strong desire to Go West to a New Frontier. I cannot imagine a more interesting time to live in America, when the Plains were open, shortly after the Iron Horse traveled from East to West. Shortly afterwards came the Talking Wires. Our Original Americans would see their very world change before their eyes. Battles followed when rivers were damned and their food supply was diminishing. We wonder how the world changes so fast in our lifetimes, but it is no comparison to what the Native Americans experienced during the Westward Expansion.
                 William Roberts who lived on Saco Street, Westbrook, was an adventurous young man. He, like many other Roberts’ men, never traveled too far from the responsibilities of the family farm. He served at the age of 19 in the Civil War alongside his brother John who was 24. Both men had enlisted voluntarily to serve a nine month enlistment. They were home maybe 3 months when the towns started drafting men to go to war.  John was married with a small family, living in another home on Saco Street. William worked very hard for his Father. A younger brother, Charlie. also worked alongside William on the farm. William’s best friend Sylvanus S. Hatch left for the West in 1869. Sylvanus lived in the brick home which was known as the Libby House in later years. It was almost a week later when William headed out West. Sylvanus went to Ohio. I am certain as he later married a woman from Ohio named Nancy, and brought her back to Saco Street. William adventured to Waterloo, IA. He writes in his diary of loafing for two days, a novel experience.
                  He wrote many of his letters in the evening. The first time William traveled West was 1869 for six months. He went again for one year in 1871. This letter is from that journey. The following was written by his Mother from Saco Street.

 

Westbrook, March 5th, 1871

Dear William,

             We did not receive a letter from you last week as we expected. I have not written to you lately on account of having my mind & time taken up other ways but excuse me. I did not forget or feel any less interest in you far from it. We are all well except Mary, she has had the Doctor the last week & has been pretty sick most of the time. She has had quite a bad cough and is feverish. I am in hopes she is a little better now. You have asked me a number of times how Geo. H. [his sister Annie’s husband] got along. I have been in there & I asked him , he said he did not know just how they stood but was in hopes they would come out decent. John & Charley have been picking eggs to carry to Boston.  John has been there twice. Geo. Browne staid there to Randall’s until they had to tell him they did not want him there any longer. Nattie [or Hattie] expects Sylvanus home the 1st of April. His school keeps 3 weeks longer. I think you had better pick up what you can and come right home and at the same time perhaps you may meet with him on the way. Mr. Hunt [Geo. Hunt, her son in law] thinks as I do & many others. I want you to bid farewell to Iowa and come home. There has been an engineer from Augusta to give his opinion of the bridge, he pronounced it worthless, it might stand some time but was liable to drop any time. 
            Apples are worth 1.25 per bushel here now. Your father sold the most of his for 75 cents per bushel. B.F.Woodman lost his buildings & stock by fire insurance for $1,000. Colekill meetinghouse is ready for clapboards. [Usually written Coalkiln-present location intersection of Saco Street and County Road-rte 22]  Potatoes are worth $1 dollar here, corn $1.05. Dr. Martin said the robins were out bright and singing this morning. The weather here is like April and has been for some time. If there is a little snow it goes away quick. Your father and many other oldish men say they never saw a winter like this.
There was a girl by the name of Pich [?] drowned out to the village Thursday, 12 [or could be 18] years old. Your Father told me to write if you ain’t in good business, you had better come home, and if you ain’t doing anything, the same. 

            Yours with much love, Eleanor Roberts

 

Westbrook, March 19th, 1871

Dear William, 
             I received my letter last Friday & Mary hers sooner a few days. John put it in his pocket and forgot to give it to us. We were very thankful for them. Did you get your cold by getting your hair cut of? Now you had better take care and not get another. You know that is the way to bring on a fever. We are well except Mary. [Marietta Roberts-1937-1871: William’s sister] I don’t know that she is better. She is pretty feverish and has quite a bad cough. Annie’s boy was born the 20th of February, missed it little not much. [Annie is also William’s sister]  The bridge proved worthless but is not yet removed. Town meeting tomorrow all over the state. Had a caucus in Warren’s Hall yesterday. “Where is Mr. Beebe, Mary has wanted to know. (William worked for Mr. Beebe in Waterloo) We have not had a letter from Charles since Christmas but have heard from him by way of Sylvanus. He is fat and jolly. Do not hear anything about his coming this way at present. He has had a letter and papers from home this month. [Charles is the cousin who came from Australia to get his share of his father’s inheritance-250 dollars. With this money he went West with Sylvanus Hatch] 
                Frank Roberts spent a night at Randall’s last week. [Frank is a cousin and Randall is married to Frances, another sister of William’s, who is living in East Boston] He said they were well and Randall appeared to be doing well. You say your affairs are not in the condition you would like to have them to leave now. Why would it not be as well for you to take what you can get now? If you do lose something as it would be to stay longer and be spending a lot for your board. If you have lost something or even all, you have done no worse than thousands of others have done. Let it go and not be discouraged. Your father says he will hire you all summer. You may work as you feel able to and he will pay you whatever you think is right. He says you may have an acre for wood to cut or hire, cut & turn the best you can. I advise you to come as soon as you can conveniently. We won’t talk too much about money. It ain’t everything.
             Mary says she would like to have you write to her but she ain’t able to write now so you must excuse her now. Aunt Catherine can wear her shoes now and is quite small. They have nominated James Babb, John Cloudman and H.B. Walker for selectmen. You have not sent Mary that calico yet. She has got over 600 squares. It takes 900899.
 
From your Mother, E. Roberts


So that is it for a little local news from Westbrook in 1871. I find it interesting that our role as parents has not changed too much. We must let them spread their wings, but we are always there to advise and be supportive. The author of both letters is my gr gr gr grandmother, buried at Saccarappa 1810-1896. Her daughter Mary [Marietta] died two months after these letters were written. Marietta’s picture can be seen on the article about preserving your photographs.

                What is a family? It means many things to many people. In my family, it meant a mom and a dad and some siblings. We all ate together, went camping together, attended each others functions like ball games, and parades. We were a unit. We were disciplined and sometimes told on each other when there was concern involved. We played together and knew all our siblings' friends. We had to learn to get along as we lived in close quarters. We helped each other on paper routes in the middle of winter. We were probably each other’s best friends.
                 Maybe that is why I have been enjoying watching the family of Canadian Geese nearby growing up together. I have a collection of 55 photos since they were tiny. I watched the parents protect their young, teach them to fly and finally leave. I was a little sad I must admit when I drove by to see that they were really gone. It must have been at least ten days when finally I had given up hope of seeing them again. On the way home from work yesterday, I glanced again to the field where I had been observing them to see they had come back. Now, the little ones were matured. I pulled off to the side of the road and let my car idle. They would not come near me so I turned off my car. They immediately walked and flew towards me. I snapped as many pictures as I could. I hope you enjoy the few I have chosen.




4 tiny specks in the grass-the goslings


teach us to fly!!


the father always on guard watches his family


look closely in far right corner- a family swims together early morning



we are growing up but still need our parents




we are mature but our parents are nearby always



UPDATE-  [written July 20th,2008] The family of Canadien Geese were only there for that one day. I suppose they were showing their little ones where they were born so they can go back another year. I will be keeping my eyes open.

Between working full time, interrupted sleep all night long, and being a caregiver , homemaker and all the other usual stuff…. Ok I am tired…and so are you after reading this. This week was filled with some fun and some not so fun stuff.
                 I was really anticipating my friend Debbie’s visit from Australia. We spent a great deal of time together and my husband helped out with keeping the household in order so that I could do this.  Debbie and I met for lunch one afternoon and ate Italian Sandwiches. The following night, we went for pizza down the Old Port and walked around all the shops. Then on Saturday, we went to our mutual friends’ home for a fiftieth Birthday party. Then my husband, son and Dad and I left to visit my brother who had a very large cook out to celebrate his daughter’s graduation. My husband later found out that his 91 year old grandmother, in Massachusetts, went to the hospital.
                 Meanwhile my own mother and sister have been in Albuquerque, NM for a convention for School Nurses. My sister, Sharon, maintains their web site and my mother is an Event Planner. She plans the conferences down to the very last detail. 
                 On Sunday, I met Debbie at Jane’s [our mutual friend] parents’ home. The three of us have been friends since middle school. We spent many evenings chatting with her parents and we hoped to visit with them a while. Our visit was four hours long and filled with much laughter. I will never forget the time that Jane’s dad had worked all summer fixing up a second car for the family. Jane had just gotten her license. She was one of seven kids. We took a cruise around Ferry Village. The manhole covers were sticking up quite high as they had stripped the pavement in preparation for new asphalt. The frame of the car was wrecked as we drove over the protruding manhole covers. I started laughing nervously until it became a hysterical laughter. I could not stop laughing. I laughed all the way back to Jane’s house as she yelled at me to stop. She was upset as her Father would undoubtedly have something to say about the incident. He was very gracious and I will never forget the look on his face, one of disbelief and disappointment but with concern for us. I apologized for my laughter. Our visit was memorable.
                 My husband received news that his grandmother had died. I felt sadness but knew she had lived a nice long life. At the age of sixteen, she lost her own mother who caught fire tending the stove. Once she told me about a woman from her neighborhood in Clinton, Massachusetts that recruited strong hardy Irish girls off the boat to work as Domestics. She told me this woman’s name was Mrs. Connelly. I thought that was interesting. The last year or so, she was having trouble with Dementia. I enjoyed Margaret Schofield O’Keefe and I will miss her.
                 The following day, Monday, I received an urgent call from my husband. I was at lunch at the time, so later I tried to return the call. Finally, after reaching him, he told me that he was taking Michael by ambulance to MMC. Michael had somehow leaned forward and could not get back upright. He tried to use the wall to push him back upright, but to no avail. He sat there for 2 hours with his head pressed against the wall and his arm pinched against the wall. Someone knocked on the door, but did not hear him as my dogs were barking loudly. He was a little angry and upset when Terry came home. Terry thought it best to get him to the hospital. Mike had a swollen eye and his arm was very numb and his rib cage ached. Other than that he was ok. I made a call to Gould Health to see about getting an assessment for him. Maybe we will have some peace of mind if I can get care for him.
                 I found out from my Father that my Mother had something terrible happen to her. She was at a restaurant and started choking. Several nurses attempted the Heimlich maneuver as my sister called an ambulance. My sister took care of all the details for the hospital, after conversing with my Father. My mother could breathe through her nose only. She could hardly talk about it as she was very close to death according to the doctors. I am grateful my sister was with her at the time. I am looking forward to seeing both of them soon. 
                 Let’s hope next week is somewhat normal. I can’t handle anymore excitement. My tomatoes, cukes, beans and scallions are growing lovely. Nature gives me some balance.

Thinking about the way life has changed in the past hundred years, I can only wonder what amazing changes lie ahead. Today we are instantly connected to anywhere in the world via the Worldwide Web. When I can send transcribed letters from the 1860’s to a rural library in Ireland over the Internet, including photo attachments, the technology is mind boggling. At what cost has this come to us? Exactly what is the trade-off?
                 Recently I interviewed several families for an Immigrant Program I put together for Westbrook Historical Society. One man, whose father came to America from Greece in the early 1920’s told him one particular story many times. When I asked him to tell me a story about his father, he chose this story. His grandparents in Greece were farmers, who made a living from their fruit orchards and the goods they sold on their farm. Later they became fabric merchants and furriers. He relayed a story from his father who made the statement that in one year alone, the family’s total expense was $1.67 [one dollar and sixty seven cents] He then said, they probably bought things like needles used to sew. In those days a traveling tinker might pass through to repair old pots and pans.
                 This was the turn of the century, early 1900’s. It seems as if 100 years ago we were totally self sufficient, living off the fat of the land, giving our heart and soul, blood sweat and tears into our existence as farmers. We relied on the weather and the help from our neighbors. Neighbors talked about their crops, worked together and bartered to survive. One week was spent picking pests from the apple orchard trees. The farmers in my family grafted some of their trees and did this for other farmers, so that one tree could have a few different kinds of apples. They looked after one another when help was needed. A farmer down the street might hire a hand from their neighbor or just share help when needed with no money exchanged. They shared farm equipment from time to time. They sought ways to improve their land. A dairy farmer had to make his own butter each morning before he took to his route. He made many kinds of milk. It was a difficult life ; nothing romantic about it. To stay warm, you had to spend a great deal of time in the woods in winter, cutting and hauling trees with the use of horse and sometimes oxen. In the latter part of the nineteenth century, most folks had their own herb garden. The herbs were grown for remedies and sometimes used for dye in their clothing. Think of making your own ink from tree nuts and with the scarcity of paper, nothing was wasted. Everything was made by hand for the most part.
                 So as we worked to improve our land, we also worked to improve technology, such as farm equipment, inventing machines like mowers and manure spreaders. We could get more work done while the sun was still in the sky. We always work to improve as that is human nature. Somewhere, we totally lost the self sustaining part of the equation. I also think it is human nature to need to have a connection to nature. We yearn for it. So maybe there has always been a grassroots effort to get folks to work toward the common goal of becoming more self- sufficient. Maybe it will take the oil crisis to get people to think how they spend and what they purchase. 
                 As we become more involved with the techno age, ask yourself if you could put down your cell phone, or turn off the computer or not even answer the phone? Today, on my drive to work, I was annoyed when a young girl in her car came out of nowhere and drove ½ car length’s distance, nearly all the way to work as she talked on her cell phone the whole trip. What was so important that she avoided her responsibility to other drivers on the road? I decided I need to make a bumper sticker which states, “ If you are on your cell phone-stay away from me.”  It seemed like she was on a racetrack. 
                 I can hardly believe the changes in my own lifetime regarding technology. I never took typing in school, as who could ever have envisioned everyone owning a personal computer when I was in middle school back in the early 1970’s. I believe that Henry Ford had the right idea when he wanted the average man to own a car. It revolutionized industry and changed America forever allowing the growth of the transatlantic highways. People began to travel to places that were mostly inaccessible except by train. The car transformed family life. The internet has transformed the world. Everyone has access to information. The way we receive information and send information has got to be the most significant aspect of the internet. It has changed the newspaper industry, the film developing industry, the telecommunications industry. Everyone has to struggle to keep up with the changes or they will not survive. Our world is transforming. Please try to hang onto some balance with nature. We need to be mindful of our food supply and stay informed.
                 One hundred years is not that long ago. Another matter of interest is that you will most likely be forgotten in three generations. That is the main reason I wish to pursue more stories from long ago. My advice is to start a garden and spend some time nurturing it. This has three benefits that I can see. You know what you are eating. It is the green thing to do. It may bring you closer to nature and preserve some sanity in a fast changing global environment.

 

            Today started like most Sunday mornings. I slept a late, got my son dressed, washed and out of bed. I noticed my husband was busy with tree and lawn work. At least he got an early start. Lately, I have been thinking that we all need to change some of our ways, not because we want to but more so that we HAVE to change. 
             Some of the ways I have been changing have been the amount of trips I take with my car. Since I commute about 35 miles total each day, it adds up. For the past 2 years, I have been car pooling when possible with a woman from work. This has not worked out with my new position. However, each route is carefully planned. I never go out of my way to do something unless it can be part of another errand. Today was a day to shop for groceries. 
             Besides getting groceries, I wanted to purchase some bush bean seeds. This is the first year I have started gardening. I have some five gallon buckets that I have transferred some seedlings my dad gave me. Save your buckets. I saw a fellow scoff some up that were free at a yard sale. They were empty kitty litter buckets. He said he would use them for tomatoes. Very resourceful! I love tomatoes and decided I am concerned about produce at the store. Over the years, I usually buy plum tomatoes as they are considerably inexpensive compared to the beefsteak ones I enjoy. This year I am having a garden and am excited about the possibilities. However, the bush beans were gone when I made a trek to Lowe’s, on my way to Walmart, Dollar Store, Bread store and Shaw’s and the gas station (Gulf). They are all within a three mile radius in North Windham. I did find a combination packet of beans which I settled for this time. 
             My next stop was the dollar store. I was out of hair conditioner, Band-Aids, bar soap and toothpaste. I bought some plastic bags to make some rubs for meat dishes. I also purchased some bread loaf pans because I want to make my own bread. I purchased some condiments, ketchup and pickles, soy sauce and many other items totally 21 dollars. If I had purchased these separately at the grocery store, I may have spent well over 35 dollars. I might tell you that the Dollar store was booming with very long lines. A few of us in line, all middle aged women, were very upset that a young teenager was working very hard to keep the lines moving with no manager in sight. He was apologetic that people had to wait. One of the women told me she had been there earlier and noticed that the manager had done nothing to help the young man. She explained she had been in retail and said a good manager would help to keep the lines moving. I agreed and before we knew it, the woman in front of both of us asked for the manager. A young woman came out from behind the corner and asked what she could do to help the woman. The customer’s reply was, “You could get on that other register to help this young man. Can’t you see the line is all the way down the aisle?” The manager replied, “I had no idea it was this busy.” The teenager who had been working so hard said, “I should have called someone out here.” Almost all of us told him that he was doing a great job and the first woman told him that the manager should have been watching what was going on. One woman said that he was the best thing that happened to the dollar store and said that she would hire him in a minute. It was really something to witness.
             Then I headed for Wal-Mart to get a couple of money orders and noticed there were no lines at this time of day. I saw someone turn in a wallet with a wad of money against the side of the wallet, held with an elastic band. This made me feel especially good to know someone was honest enough to turn it in to the courtesy desk. They called the fellow’s name over the loudspeaker while I was there. .Afterwards, I headed to Shaw’s to grocery shop where I bought chicken thighs, always a good deal, especially for the grill. I bought hamburger and made patties later. I bought some cheap steak to make some excellent beef soup with broccoli florets, also inexpensive compared to bunches. The soup has peanut sauce, a little oil, beef broth, egg noodles, steak strips and broccoli and sliced scallions. It is spicy and good. So I have been trying to stick to menus also as much less money is spent. I saw a few things on sale, so sometimes I purchased two items. I left the grocery store and only spent 73 dollars.
             My next stop was the bread store however it was closed. I will find one on my lunch break tomorrow when I pick up some stamps. No wasted trips. In the old days, much the same as today, we have to be sure to have our vehicles full of goods each way. An empty truck makes no money, just as an empty plane makes no money or an empty canal boat, or an empty wagon. We have to be more efficient. I also noticed while I was driving that every bus stop was full of commuters.
             We can block off rooms in our homes that we do not need to use over winter with plastic. I have done this in my own house for the past three years. We purchased long zippers though a catalog for about 20 dollars and attached to the plastic so we have doorways. I have one room and my front hallway gutted out for three years now and we still stay warm. We will get around to fixing all of it up sometime. I also made a set of window quilts from fleece that I backed with a liner and attached with Velcro to keep the heat inside. However this winter is going to be a challenge for many. Are families going to be living together again so they can survive? When did we allow this subtle change that all of us are oil dependent? We need to rethink many things. 
             Lastly, I think there will be a change from plastic to currency. People are sick of non tangible fees at ATM machines for their debit and credit cards. I have seen gas at the Irving station on route 25 in Gorham for 3.99 per gallon, IF you pay with cash. We all have a lot to think about before winter.
 
 

 

 

I am going to try to commit to visit my Uncle Phil in the residential memory impairment unit where he is living on a weekly basis. This past week, I stopped to see him and he was in the dining hall having dinner, at a table with other residents, all strangers. There was no conversation between them and my Uncle looked at his dish as he ate. It was bittersweet to see him like this. Maybe his world is smaller and more comfortable to him now as his anxiety seems to have disappeared and is replaced with complacency. I walked over and said, “Hello Uncle Phil!” He looked up and smiled and said hello without saying my name. He asked how everyone was doing. I brought him some Italian sandwich pasta salad. He used to make it often but he still asked what the name of the dressing was that I used. I leaned forward to give him a hug.
             Then I began to tell him how my father rebuilt his trailer. He was confused and asked who I was talking about. I replied I was talking about his brother, Johnny, my father. Then he confirmed that he knew Johnny. He then asked me if his own house had been sold. He said that he was almost certain it had been sold. I relied yes. He asked about all his gear and said maybe his brother had some of it. I replied that his son had been taking good care of his affairs and that everything was in storage. He told me to ask his son to put a little money in his account so that he could do some things he wanted to do. He replied he hoped that his son was handling his affairs well. He then told me that he hoped to leave the place soon.
             When I first started visiting my Uncle Phil, he was very agitated with his son. His son is a good son, doing the best he can. It has not been easy for him to see his father lose his mental abilities. We had seen for a few years now, indications that he was having some memory loss. He kept losing things, like keys. A few times, he lost his sense of direction but recalled his phone number so he could get directions on how to get back home. He would be driving somewhere and get lost. He had several accidents in the past few years and it took intervention from a doctor to take away his license. It reminds me of nightmares I have had in the past of losing my way every day at school, lost in a maze. The mind is a curious thing. We may never fully understand the complexities that lie within each of us. It makes me wonder how people can get involved with drugs and wreck their circuitry in their heads.
             I had a difficult time visiting my Uncle these past couple of years as he repeated the same stories, word for word. He ranted and was very anxious and never listened when I tried to converse. The conversations were one sided. He was not always like that. I found him a fascinating man to be around when I was a kid. He had a deep interest in history and I thought he was very interesting. I respected his knowledge regarding anything historical. In fact, he and my dad once took my cousin Steve and I gold-panning on the Swift River. It was a nice memory. My dad and my Uncle used to take us camping, to museums, antique shops and all sorts of places of interest. More recently, my Uncle kept journals of each move he made every day, maybe an attempt to recall what he did. Most of it was useless information, such as when he smoked a cigarette, or had a drink, or made a phone call. He recorded all his mileage. To look at his bits of paper scattered everywhere, he assured me that he was going to copy them into his book. The writing was very uniform and covered every white section of the paper. It was obsessive compulsive. He had several books like this filled with all his notes. It reminded me of the movie, “A Beautiful Mind”, in which Russell Crowe plays a man with Schizophrenia.
             Anyhow, I hope to visit him once a week. I sort of miss my Uncle and the feistiness he sometimes showed which has suddenly been replaced with complacency. I think he seems more at peace now, and maybe that is healthier for him. I want him to have peace. I want my cousin to have peace too. It has been a tough journey for my cousin.

Chandler’s Band, a historic gem from Maine since 1833, will play a concert in Standish, in honor of our Veterans on June 27th at 6:30 PM at Standish Memorial Park on Route 25 including free admission. Anyone wishing to learn more about the band and its history of their strong ties to the military are encouraged to visit their web page   www.chandlersband.com  which is maintained by Janet Heggeman and her Son-in Law. I had the privilege of speaking with her about some of Chandler’s struggles to keep the band alive. To give some background, I first heard about the obstacles faced by the band from a common acquaintance, a woman with whom I played in the High School Band back in the late 1970’s. She relayed to me that she was a member of Chandler’s Band and they had concerns that it may not be able to continue. Soon, however, a meeting of board members would follow to make that decision. After speaking with Janet, she told me that tight city budgets and getting commitments were a concern, and had an overall effect on whether the band could continue. Maine Historical also has put together an exciting history of the early bands which all had military affiliations. To view this historical collection “Strike up the Band”, visit  www.mainememory.net , part of Maine Historical Society’s website , which includes a section about Chandler’s Band.
             A new slate of officers was elected for the band and they are working very hard to keep the tradition of their music alive and the name Chandler’s Band in the forefront. Of interest was Chandler’s Band website which included an excellent collection of newspaper clippings regarding the band’s origins dating from 1848-1902 which were original artifacts from the Chandler family’s scrapbooks. They are full of detailed descriptions of the early years including biographies of the various band members who were very committed to keeping the band going. It was not unusual to read about a person who dedicated 50 or more years to being a member of Chandler’s Band. There are two current members who played during the Bicentennial in Concord, Massachusetts named Agnes Racine and Stan Watson. Their dedication and commitment to the band is synonymous with the Chandler tradition. There are between 12-15 members of the band who have been members for 20 years or more, including Janet who plays the clarinet.
             One early band member, Phineas Wiley who played the E flat tuba in the late 1800’s, had the foresight to preserve the tradition of Chandler’s Band, when he left a trust fund to pay for one concert each year. This tradition has been kept alive for over 100 years. Chandler’s Band used to play before the fireworks on the Eastern Promenade each year in Portland. Unfortunately, the city trimmed its budget and the cost of 750 dollars per concert was too much. Previous to the budget constraints, Chandler’s Band could be seen once a week at Fort Allen Park entertaining large crowds, many of them families. This was quite popular from the 1920’s until about 1985.
             A few other long time members included a man named Charles M. Brooks who conducted for forty years and another man named Maurice Lane. Mr. Lane passed away in 2003 and a Memorial Concert Fund has been set up in his honor. He was a dedicated member for 69 years and conductor for 20 of those years. He was the last charter member of the Portland Symphony Orchestra.
             Chandler’s Band has lead the Yarmouth Clam Festival Parade since the 1950’s each year and will do so again this year. The band is still looking to book more concerts, last year enjoying concerts in Gorham and Falmouth. This year, Portland will be host to two concerts, The Wiley Concert and another one which will be paid for by the city. Check the website for a complete schedule. Hopefully, Mainers will continue to appreciate the significance of having one of the oldest bands in the U.S. still in existence.

Upon reading today’s Portland Press Herald/Sunday Telegram regarding Father’s Day stories, I recall all the things my own father taught me. Quite often we are all quick to credit our mother’s for many things in our lives because they may be the ones who have spent the most time nurturing us along the way. I have been fortunate to have worked for my father for many years and learned many things from him.
             My sisters and I decided that this year we will stain our parents’ wheelchair ramp, which they built so my son could visit. As they are getting older the ramp will have more uses than just for a visit from my son. That will be our gift to our father.
             I think I can speak for my sisters when I say that we are all grateful we had a father who was very involved with our lives. We are all married and we have an idea of what kind of father we want our husbands to be, without comparing them to our father. Our father worked very hard, sometimes two jobs, and took some classes along the way when he could afford them. He made sure we had family time and every weekend we did something, even if it was a ride to New Hampshire. He treated our mother well and with respect which was the greatest gift he gave us. He made sure our home was peaceful and we felt safe. Today he says that his family is the most important part of his life. He is very glad that we all get along well and we are close. After all, he invested everything he had in us, and it was not monetary. Our parents could not afford to send us to college. I attended for a while with scholarships. My sister and brother both received their Associate’s degrees later in life. We were not given a lot of material things but our parents gave of themselves.
             My dad taught me so many ways to survive. He taught me some of his trade and his honest business skills. Aside from some very dumb mistakes I made, such as putting gasoline into the Salamander to heat the shop [surviving unscathed], knifing a pattern onto a plastic face that needed to be in reverse as it was a clear piece of plastic[thankfully not peeling it] and almost cutting his bench in half when I ran a Skilsaw across it without checking the depth of the blade, I learned to creatively solve problems from him. The incident with gasoline was not a good one. He yelled at me for a week every time he looked at me. I will never do that again, but from him I learned not to be too thin skinned either. 
            As his employee, he taught me to look at things and be observant. One example came when I was at an outdoor roller rink in Westbrook one day. I overheard one skater ask the rink manager the dimensions of the rink. They were both trying to figure it out, when I quickly blurted out the dimensions. They both looked at me a little puzzled. I replied, “Look, the rink is surrounded with 4x8 sheets of plywood.” They wondered why they had not thought of that. Well I can credit my father for teaching me those skills. 
             Another memory comes to mind. My father always told me to believe in your own talents. If you think you can do it, say that you can. Once I was interviewed by a woman whose daughter was having a large wedding. I went to meet her with my portfolio of sample work and I was also dressed professionally. She showed me the font she wanted me to use to hand letter all the envelopes. She asked me if could letter in that style. I replied, “Why yes, I can do that.” She requested I send her a few samples which I did. I practiced that font every night for 2 weeks before I sent the samples. Then I continued to practice it and became very good. I learned two things. Do not underestimate your own talent and always learn something new. I did just that. I credit my father for instilling that in me.
             I also learned that your name is the most important thing you have of your own. When people remember you, you want them to remember you in a positive way. This is not to say you will not make bad choices or mistakes. However, most importantly, you must get up if you fall down. Assume responsibility. He is self employed and is held in high esteem by his contemporaries and his customers. He taught me that if a customer is unhappy, you must do what you need to do to make that customer happy. That is good business.
            One other thing comes to mind regarding things my father taught me. He told me to ask permission is to put you at a disadvantage. When I took my new position at work a few years ago, I brought my large exercise ball from one office to the next. I took it to my desk. One twenty year employee asked if I was given permission. I told her that I was not going to ask for that. I sat on that ball for a month or so when a manager noticed it. To make a long story short, it took 3 managers to get the message to me that I could crack my head if I fell over at work so I was told I could not sit on it. I find it humorous that the message came from a high level manager who also wears heels. I certainly hope she does not fall over and crack her own head at work.  From this incident, I credit my father with two things. One is not to ask permission for everything and another is to always question things.
            Since it is Father’s Day, I would be neglectful if I did not thank my own husband for being a good father to his sons. He has advised them on girls, and got them involved with sports. If it had not been for him, we probably would not have traveled so much and seen so many things together. I would not have learned to love hockey had he not gotten our youngest son involved. He was there for PET meetings with our other son through school. He was always very involved with their schoolwork. Sometimes the boys will talk to their father about things that they do not speak with me about. This is ok as long as they can talk to one of us. He has made sure our son was involved with handicap skiing. He has taught them a strong work ethic. So I would like to thank both my husband and my father on this Father’s Day.
            
            Lastly, I would like to show my latest picture of the family of Canadian Geese that I have been observing. I always notice the father who stands strong by the side of the road, protecting his family. The babies are always surrounding the mother while the father stands guard at all times. I also witnessed them swimming in a line, with a parent at each end. They seemed to sway to the music of The Blue Danube across the water with all the babies in a queue. It has been a real pleasure to witness them from the road. Happy Father’s Day to all dads: especially my own. Love you Dad

 

 

Upon researching some articles regarding a Mr. Winthrop Chenery from Belmont, Massachusetts, I found some interesting information regarding the importance of fresh air. He was an ancestor of mine who had a large herd of Holsteins from Holland. In fact he was credited with being the first farmer in the U.S. to import these types of cows as he stated they were superior in milk production, yielding 64 gallons of milk per day. He sold these cows to farmers as far away as California. He had his own large herd which suffered pleuro-pneumonia in the 1860’s. He lost two-thirds of his head of cattle to the disease, making headlines in Harper’s depicting etchings from his farm.
                 Originally it was thought that the cattle fever came from Germany, England and France as accounts of the fever spread all over Europe. Most likely the cattle were infected upon import. I read an archived article from The New York Times, originally taken from The Massachusetts Ploughman. Mr. Chenery’s cattle fever dilemma was mentioned again. Only this time, Mr. Chenery said he believed that his very tight barns [double boarding] lead to the death of his cattle. In fact, air is needed for hay or it will get musty and even ignite, when a few more hours in the sun for drying will yield better hay. It was stated that it is better to have air circulating between the boards of the barn for the hay. Even corn rotted in the cribs without air. Tight barns and close confinement surely lead to their deaths. It is also not good for horses who suffer the heaves due to close confinement. Interestingly the article mentioned that the fowl in the sky need the most air, when the fish in the waters need the least, but all need air to survive.
                Also of interest was a little ingenuity to keeping the barn somewhat warm for the animals. The farmer was to place his haymow on the coldest sides of the barn to prevent drafts and snow from coming through the cracks. That would be enough to keep the hay from spoiling and the cattle from getting fever.
                 It is compelling to compare life then and today. We are confined in our small homes, our jobs, and most of us are working to put gas in our tanks and oil in our homes. It is as if we have all these modern conveniences to make our lives easier…. But do they? It is not practical to want to go back to the old ways but surely something has been lost. I yearn for a simpler life with little wants. I would like to work less and learn to live off the land and be self sustaining, like the old ways. Recently, I gave a talk about Immigrants to Westbrook. I interviewed several families. I was amazed by the story of a Greek family who had total expenses for one year in Greece at the turn of the century of $1.67. The son of this immigrant relayed to me that his father told him this story many times. The expenses were for things like needles to sew. That is why it is so important to find some balance in life: to enjoy the scenery on the way home, to stop and take a picture of that family of the Canadian geese I see each night, and to still be amazed by that sunset I see setting over Sebago Lake amongst the mountains. We  can still read about the old ways and yearn for something lost, but still marvel at how lucky we are to have good health much of it due to scientific intervention. Maybe there are tradeoffs if we consider the lives we lead today. Still we must strive for balance in our ever - changing world. So if you have a little piece of land, I would advise to hold onto it. Growing your own garden may be just the thing to give you balance, and fresh air to maintain good health. Who can really imagine what the next fifty years hold?



Look Closely at the four little 'babies' in the grass-What a treat!

 

I spent many a weekend visiting my grandmother even when I was in my late teens and early twenties. Weekends at Nana’s began at Brackett Street, later Pine Street, later Salem Street and eventually in Northfield Green in Portland. Northfield Green was interesting as it was a community of elder folks, mostly women. There were some married couples there, but many were living alone. It used to make me laugh when a fellow lived alone received attention from the ladies. Anyhow, my grandmother had happy hour every afternoon with a couple of her neighbors, Louise and Hattie. On occasion when I was visiting, I had the privilege of joining them. Good conversation, laughter and stories were told over a drink and a cribbage game.
             I mostly listened to them talk. They talked about common people they knew. Occasionally they would talk about their kids. Hattie had no kids so she just listened like I did. Louise’s husband was into sports and Kiley Field on Munjoy Hill was named for him. They raised a large family on Munjoy Hill, all girls I believe. Anyhow, Louise loved sports as much as her husband did. She once told me this story. 
             “I used to go to all the basketball games because I knew all the boys. Then as my kids played sports, I went to all the games because I knew all the parents. Later on I went to all my grandkid’s games because I knew all the grandparents.”  She was very comical.
 Recently I have been thinking of her though she has been gone since 2003. I met her sister, Doris, a few times who would visit from the Washington DC area, usually for about 10 days or so. They really enjoyed each other’s company.
             Louise knew I was interested in genealogy and told me that her maiden name was MacPherson. I recall she told me she lived on Holly Street which is off Forest Avenue. She asked me to check the census for her sometime. I tried but could not find them on Holly Street. The 1900’s census was the latest one available at that time. Louise was born in 1903. Later years are available now, so I had a friend check it out online. She found Louise and her sister Doris living on Cumberland Avenue in 1910 with their parents, Duncan and Annie. Duncan was from Scotland. Life changed after that year. Louise told me a story from her youth. She said that her mother died giving childbirth. Louise remembers seeing her mother and the baby in a casket together. In those times, people were usually waked in their homes. Her father had great hardship trying to raise his daughters so Louise and Doris were split up. I am not sure if they went to live with relatives or not. I know that she confided in me that she never forgave her father for separating her and Doris. Maybe they just never spoke about it. Anyhow, here’s to Louise who lived a good life.
 

The weekend started like any other, with the exception we lost an envelope full of money which was our pay for the week. At the risk of sounding pitiful, I was mostly upset that someone who found the money, never thought about the person who lost it. It was out of my hands, so I told my husband that my plans for Friday evening would remain the same. I attended an excellent lecture. He is always supportive of my passion for knowledge.
             Those who know me well also know my passion for anything historical regarding the Irish. Dr. Kenneth Nilsen, an expert in Irish language in North America , has taught at Harvard Extension School in Cambridge and is known at St. Francis Xavier College in Antigonish, NS. There he has served as Chair of the Celtic Dept. He told a wonderful story of how he and Professor Michael Connolly [edited collections: They Change Their Sky: The Irish in Maine [2004] and John Ford in Focus [2008] met over their shared passion for the Irish language about 25 years ago. Together they filmed and spoke with many of Portland’s elder Irish population at that time, many of whom are now dead. Interestingly enough, it is believed that Portland had more Gaelic speakers per capita than anywhere else in the USA. The audience had a chance to view some of these oral interviews done many years ago. The first fellow interviewed was a Mr. Patrick Malone. Though I neither speak nor understand Gaelic, it was compelling to see the passion in his face as he told a story. His lips barely moved but his eyes were very expressive. He was on my mind all weekend, this Mr. Pat Malone. Some of the men interviewed had been longshoreman on Portland’s waterfront. Another woman interviewed was a Concannon woman who lived to be 103, and was a Domestic. They all spoke Gaelic, some with bits of English mixed in with their stories. I had a question about the census of 1901 in Ireland, how I noticed quite often that some of the men in my family were listed as speaking Irish, but not able to write Irish. I was told it was as if there had been genocide of the language. This did not surprise me as his has happened in many cultures when certain groups were forced to Americanize. [The French in Maine comes to mind as well as the Native Americans.]
             I thought about the storytellers in every culture. I have read a great deal about how important they were to a community. On the western coast of Ireland, in County Kerry lies a peninsula named Dingle. The island’s fiercest waves crash into the rock shoreline and jagged cliffs in this area. Mountain passes hug the cliffs and views surely to shorten your breath, Dingle Peninsula and Slea Head are something you will never forget. It is a pity so many had to leave years ago. Off the coast near Slea Head are a group of jagged rock islands which stand hundreds of feet into the air. In the last part of the nineteenth century a woman named Peig Sayers lived here on one of those islands. Her home was on the Great Blasket Island. She was the island storyteller. She had over 300 stories that were her own. I read her autobiography translated by Bryon MacMahon. She was highly respected by her community. There is a small description near the beginning. It tells how she is in the hospital bed combing her hair and she is nearly blind of old age. A group of schoolboys run into the hospital and up to her room. The nuns and nurses in the hospital watch the boys closely as one steps forward speaking Irish, “Peig Sayers, we offer you this gift as a mark of our esteem.” He placed the gift into her hands. Tears streamed down her face as she held out her hands to caress the boys face. She was on her deathbed. The storyteller reached all generations.         
            Professor Connolly tells me that the Irish word for storyteller is seanachi, pronounced ‘SHAN a key’. At the end of the book she tells how she did her best to give an accurate account of the people she knew. In the words of Peig Sayers, “People will yet walk above our heads; it could even happen that they’d walk into the graveyard where I’ll be lying but people like us will never again be there. We’ll be stretched out quietly – and the old world will have vanished.” I highly recommend reading her autobiography which details her life from a young girl, through marriage when she moved to the desolate Blasket Islands and the hardships she endured always keeping her faith close to her heart.
             All my early teen years, while interviewing my elder relatives, some Irish, never did I think anyone had the interest that I had. I really thought I was the only one with this desire to know more about my people. It has only been after a lifetime of collecting turn of the century photographs of ancestors from Ireland, artifacts and stories as well as numerous correspondences, all neatly stored in a shoebox, that I came to know there is a community of researchers who share the same passion as I do. It was an enlightening experience to meet these people. They all have specialties. Some are professors, who have studied the working waterfront with the longshoreman; some are avid genealogists, who have large volumes of information, much of it in their heads, about many of Portland’s Irish families. Some are authorities on Irish women and their work as Domestics and the workers at the Portland Star Match Factory. I have many connections in my passions. I think maybe we should all stay in touch with our passions. Anyhow, this weekend renewed my interest in the people we all know in our lives. They all have stories.
             The rest of the weekend was getting ready to watch the Stanley Cup Playoffs. I just love those Pittsburgh Penguins. They have heart and that is their passion.
 

The week was not without meaning. Though I was sick a few days, I managed to get to Saccarappa Cemetery to transplant some of my own plants from my yard onto David’s Grave and my grandparent’s grave. I planted Lily of the Valley and Violets. After running the stories about David, I feel real dialogue has transpired. His ‘life’ memory will be left for all of us. I was not sure what would become of it all, but it has put a smile on my face this week. [see "A Boy Named David" & "The Dialogue: A Boy Named David"]
             I spent Saturday evening in Winthrop at my brother’s home for girl’s night out with my mom, sisters, niece, and Sally, my brother’s wife. Sally prepared a lovely meal for all of us and we exchanged gifts including identical pajamas for all of us, slippers and spa items. We all had a spa night after dinner in Sally’s home, watching movies, including August Rush, and Disturbia. I liked August Rush, but disliked Disturbia. It was ok, just not my kind of movie. Afterwards, my sister Carol, her daughter Natalie and I stayed up until 1:30 AM composing a song about our evening. We laughed all night. Off to bed, I thought about my two sons and my husband.
             My son JT was going to the prom with a girl who he has known since he was little from Redbank. They were just friends, but the family must’ve been worried he had not contacted them for awhile and the heat was coming down. The older brother came here Friday evening looking for JT but he was at the movies. He asked JT to please call as he was getting the heat from his mom and sister about the uncertainty of Prom night. I think it was stressing JT out a little but he managed nicely. He is a bit like me with putting things off until the last moment, though he had the tux rental all ready earlier. As I lay in bed, I felt bad that I had not seen him dressed up and ready to go but was glad my husband would be home. 
             Then my thoughts changed to my son Mike, who has been a little down as his girlfriend of two years broke up with him about a month ago. She called him many nights to talk, and Mike always looked forward to her calls. She is about three years younger than him. She has a nice family and she is a thoughtful girl. She is growing up and probably doesn’t feel she fits in with her girlfriends, but who really knows. She and Mike were going to attend the prom way back, but she broke up with him a month before that. Anyhow, he thinks he has done something wrong. In reality, I just think she wanted to go with her girlfriends. She cares a great deal about Michael, but she will not see him anymore. He is a little broken hearted but he will be ok in time. I think deep down, he feels she broke up with him because he is in a wheelchair and his health will get worse. I guess we never stop being mother.
             We arrived at my mother’s home at 10:30AM Sunday morning. I went inside to call my husband. He would be picking me up later at my mom’s, so I could visit. We sat outside in the sun and soon my aunt came by from New Jersey. She and her husband came to get my father and take him to Saccarappa Cemetery, then to lunch at Susan’s Fish and Chips and afterwards a visit to see my Uncle Phil at the memory impairment unit where he now lives. I was glad to see my aunt as I had not seen her since I posted the stories about David. She wanted to see her brother Phil to thank him for his role in saving their family in the fire. She asked me if I wanted to go, but I felt it was personal between her, my dad and Uncle Phil. I was also waiting for my husband to pick me up later. She brought Uncle Phil a lobster roll. Aunt Marietta mentioned to Phil that he had shared with me how he and David had climbed through the skylight in the ceiling, to escape the fire. She thanked him and talked a little more about that day.. At one point, Uncle Phil mentioned that he did not want to talk anymore about the tragedy and Marietta said he seemed to get choked up and so did she. I think he was emotional after all; he was with the family he loved, his sister and brother. I never witnessed any emotion from him on that topic. I admire my Aunt for her courage and feel very blessed that they both were able to share a few thoughts about that day.  All in all, I feel it was good for all of them, and it was also good for me. I had no way of knowing what would become of this whole ordeal, but somehow in my heart, I know it was good.
             My husband came down later with Michael, ad he mowed my mom’s yard after he fixed her mower. She was so happy about it, that she bought us all pizza. Later when my dad and his sister and husband arrived, they invited us over to their new home in South Portland on the water.  My aunt is an artist and shared with me the most amazing pictures she painted with a computer program. She is writing a story about her childhood filled with delightful drawings, pictures of her brothers and her playing in the fields, playing in the back of the family truck, lying in the grass, singing on stage, playing the piano with another brother. They are heartwarming. Her paintings reflected her passion for her family and I have no doubt the book will become a reality. I have never seen such beautiful work, full of love.
             I hope you all have a nice Memorial Day and get to spend it with your families.
 
 

To be read after the story- "A Boy Named David" -Munjoy Hill, Portland Maine 1943



Thoughts on ‘A Boy Named David’

David’s story was difficult to write because it was not just HIS story. My Aunt Marietta had a great deal to tell about her brother. My father had things he needed to talk about as a result of growing up in the aftermath. I hope to talk more with my Uncle Phil after our last visit. I don’t want to upset him but I will be tactful with my approach. I think he may be more willing to talk about some of it. I wish to thank my Aunt for her willingness to share her memories and to allow me to post some of her writing. It was a difficult week for her and it also affected my father. Although I am further removed from David, I had an unsettling week as well. I received some thoughtful personal emails regarding the story. One person wrote that the fact David was found wrapped in a blanket indicated that he could not bear being without his mother, a thought that had the power to choke up the reader. Another reader wrote that the story was very moving, yet tragic the family was torn apart. She thought it was nice that his memory was honored. Another also found it a moving story. There is more to the story. I believe you will find the following poignant at times and uncomfortable at times. Nevertheless, it is part of the original story but I felt it needed to be separate. Last week was the first time I have ever heard anything about the boy named David, as just a boy.

After I sent my story to my Aunt and Father to make corrections, I received this addition to the bottom of my story, written by my Aunt Marietta.

      “ Not a day goes by that I don't think of my brother and my friend. It is about 65 years ago. That day was a favorite day of mine in school because it was the day of our Valentine party. We had a Valentine's box and Valentines were passed out on Friday 12th because Valentine's Day the 14th would be on Sunday. I was in the second grade at Monument Street School and Bobby Price had sent me a Valentine. That night out parents went out.

        David and I were listening to Mr. and Mrs. North on the radio on our parents' bed. The story was related to Abraham Lincoln since it was on his birthday. We got fighting as kids do, and he went to his room. I never saw him again. I awakened in the night probably around 2:00 am to see the hall filled with flames coming up the stairs. I was jumping from my mother's bed to mine screaming when she burst into the room shut the door grabbed my baby brother, Johnny from his crib, and broke the window, telling me to be quiet. That is all I remember until I woke up in the hospital. Blind for several days from the smoke, as was my brother, Johnny.

        It was a few days before anyone told me what happened to David. I asked every day, but got no straight answer.

        I missed him greatly. Now it is more like a loss. I try to pull in some concrete memories, but it’s more of an ache.
        We were, I was told later in my forties, by someone whose mother lived in our neighborhood that the two of us were like a couple of ragamuffins wondering around. Maybe so, but it was fun. Great for me, but unfortunate for him, he had to take me almost everywhere he went. I was his little sister. and even so, I know he loved me. Every week we were given a quarter to go to the movies. We got up in the dark in the winter and most of the time walked all the way from Vesper Street on top of Munjoy Hill to the State Theater to see Recess Time and to be first in line. There was a sing a long with a bouncing ball, cartoons, short subjects, newsreel. and a quiz show live on the radio which you might get chosen for- and the double feature. In fact once, David got chosen and won 80 cents. We would stay all day and sometimes see the movie twice and walk back up the Hill in the dark passed the grave yard, but I was never afraid when I was with him.
He was very smart and got mostly A's on his report card which made me want to do well, too.

        We would play for hours on the sidewalk by our front door flicking the bubble gums against the wall with the neighbor kids. I never won, but he was good at it. I think John still has those cards which were his treasure.
Wednesdays we went to Mrs. Reynolds apartment on Beckett Street for Bible School we learned a lot from her felt backed bible lessons, but I think we were mostly there for the Kool Aid and cookies. That year David and I won a Bible for perfect attendance and filled the air at home with blue language fighting over who would read it first. On the only day David didn't walk me to school, I stood crying until a policeman took me home. Years later I saw how close the house was to the school (which has since been torn down). That year when I was in first grade, David decided that he and I should run off to Peaks Island and stay with our grandmother. We stayed so long that the truant officer came looking for us and we had to go home. “

That piece added by my Aunt, made me smile a little knowing she had good memories of her brother and they were so rich with detail. She had more to say, and I was delighted by her memories.

 

        “Good morning, Suzan,
                 I have awakened several times during the night last night thinking about your notes.  I am going to send you a layout of the house at 32 Vesper which is so clear in my mind.  I know exactly where Philip and David climbed out onto the roof. I  have always wondered how they got out.  At the top of the stairs was the bathroom.  Over the toilet and beside the tub was a skylight which I loved.  It was slanted so you could also look out of it.  It was the first one I had ever seen.  At a right angle on the small hall was their room.  The next one down on the same side was where my parents and Johnny and I slept.  Downstairs led right out the front door to Vesper Street.  The hall was narrow.  Nothing was in it except the big radiator which I landed on when I tried to slid down the bannister , frontwards , slid off , slammed the wall, hit the radiator and landed on my back knocking the wind out of myself-not daring to tell anyone for fear of getting "killed".  One door in the hall led to the living room which was off limits mostly. The gold fish lived there on a library like table.  The banjo lived there, big sofa, and two over-stuffed chairs.  It was always neat.  The other door led to the big area which was a dining room kitchen and pantry.  There was a studio couch there where I would often take a nap in the twilight with my mother waiting for my father to come home.  When he came home, the light was turned on and the whole mood changed.  I still like sitting in the twilight.  Those were nice times with my mother.  There was an open archway leading into a kitchenette small area where the stove and sink were. In the archway is where my father hung the clunky wooden baby swing he made for Johnny. It hung there by two chains.  Once I was roller skating in the house and tried to pick him up and the two of us rolled under it across the floor.  (Never pick a baby up while wearing rollerskates.)
              On the right was the back door which lead out into a fenced in yard which was where we had a big vegetable garden and lots of flowers.  My parents, especially my father, loved to garden. There were Adirondak chairs which he made also.  Beside our house was a lane where you could walk through to Webbers little store where I stole lollypops and cookies.  
               Once I remember the whole family playing baseball in the lane-even my mother.  Once. 
 At Christmas, my father went to his family's woods in Westbrook and cut down trees to sell in the back yard.  My mother and Grammy and [her sister]Chrissy made ornaments out of walnut shell and candle holders out of logs, etc, decorated with glitter to sell as well. 

                My father worked at the shipyard and also painted signs on the side.   He made $23.75 a week.  One week Philip somehow picked up his check and lost it. 
My mother had a job which Uncle Walter got her in the parts department at General Motors where he worked on Forest Ave.  When she put on her red plaid suit she bought to wear to work, David told her she looked like a school girl.  She never forgot it.  
                It was the time of WWII and Philip, David and I collected newspapers, grease in coffee cans, and crushed tin cans to help out.  I was told that I was too little to get any money from our efforts.  I was always told that.  The basement was piled high with papers.  In the middle was a big pool table.
                 Philip, the artist that he was, contibuted extra by drawing Hitler and  Tojo (Hirohito) on all the leaves of the toilet paper and rerolling it.

                 I remember sitting in the barbershop while David got a haircut.  I liked to look at him when we sang at the sing- a- longs at the State Theater.  He was very patriotic and when he sang his favorite "The Marines' Hymn", he opened his mouth wide with his head high and his jaw out.  We were all very patriotic in those days. We knew all the words to every armed forces song-still do.  One of the songs that stands out was one that started another high school quiz show on the radio, "I Am An American; I'm Proud to Bear the Name etc."
                The summer after we moved to Munjoy Hill ,we found a dog or he found us.  We named him Ranger.  He had one split ear, a big German shepherd.  He followed us everywhere. When we needed money for candy, we would sell him for a dime.  He always came back and we still kept the dime.  My mother got tired of Ranger and told him to leave and not come back until Thanksgiving.  Sure enough, he was back at Thanksgiving.

                  Before we came back to Portland, we lived for two or three years in Houlton, way up north in Maine.  My father was sent there to open up a branch of United Neon.  Times were tough and he was sometimes paid in beans and chocolate pudding.  I never noticed any of that although I know my mother did.  The winters were deep with snow.  Once my father built us a sledding hill by the back door hosed it with water to make it slippery with ice and what fun  it was.

                Even though I was probably three or more likely four, David and I went to the cowboy movies every week.  Gene Autry, my first love, Roy Rogers, Hopalong were all in their heyday and we got free paper cowboy hats. We often got free tickets because my father painted the signs for the theaters.
                On the way down the hill to the movie theater we always stopped to look into the museum or library door window to see the head of the big moose on the opposite wall.  Afterwards with our pearl handled cap pistols in hand we would ride for hours (it seems) on the saw horses in the doorway of the barn where we lived in an apartment in the back of the potato farmer's(Mr. Gardner )house on 441/2 High Street. I was Mack and he was Tim. The fall of 39 when David went to school, I was at a loss. He never missed a day of school and got all A's
               Johnny was born at that address.  My mother called him the potato bug because we were in potato country.  Those were happy days as far as I was concerned.
.               I remember walking over to a hill and lying in the grass by myself.  I also remember thinking that would probably be the most carefree time of my life, ( I didn't have to go to school yet.)
                Business got so bad we had to go back to Portland and that was when we found a place on Vesper Street.

                 Before the war, maybe in 1938, we rented a cottage on Peaks Island.  It was leaky and wicked, but fun.  Snakes would come up onto the porch and one time when it rained we all had to get on my parents’ bed because it was the only dry place, but there was laughter.  I used to go up the little hill by myself and look for snakes under the rocks and wear them like bracelets.  My grandmother wore snake bracelets, but mine were alive.  One day I went way out on the seaweed to fish by myself and my mother had to sneak up and grab me for fear if she called, I would fall into the sea.  That same week, David who loved to play with matches almost burned down the cottage by starting a grass fire.  The firemen came and put it out.  There was a lot of commotion. 

                 I lived with guilt for many, many years about my brother's death.  It wasn't until my thirties that I realized it wasn't my fault.  Sadly, children blame themselves for many tragedies that occur, and then they carry them and forget that they were children and powerless to all that happened.    I cringe when I hear my children or grandchildren say means things to each other or their parents, because I know they don't mean it, but the words can't be taken back once they're sent out.
The things I might have said or did say to David ate at me for years.  It didn't seem to matter what he said to me.    
      
                 Willie Nelson's grandmother told him to keep his words sweet because you never know when you might have to eat them.   

                  David was the only one I felt I could rely one as a child.  He could be mean to me, but he never let anyone else be mean to me.  That is what families do.   He got into his share of trouble - often orchestrated by big brother, but after all he was only nine.  He was so smart.  He could have done anything.  I know his death brought me to a closer relationship with my beliefs. 

                  And I still miss him.”

 

Marietta shared another Houlton memory of her brother one Fourth of July. Probably the same day the picture on the original story of the 3 of them was taken.

             “There was a big parade and David was supposed to ride his decorated bike in it, but went the wrong way and never got to the parade much to his disappointment.  We went to the band concert that night in the park and that is the first time I ever heard "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star".  There was a teenage girl there who pointed out the stars and taught me the words.”

Marietta’s memories are very detailed from this time. She wrote how she stayed with friends of the family by the name of Stearns or Sterns who lived on Washington Avenue while the others stayed with the Holts near Brackett Street. The Stearns and the Holts were related.
She recalled all her elementary friends from Monument School in Portland.

My father has different memories related to what happened as a result of the fire. He often felt he was invisible to his mother, and sometimes the unknown son. He had the opportunity to know his father in a different light as he also worked with him for many years in the sign trade, as did my Uncle Phil. When he was a teenager, coming home late, often he would hear, “Is that you, David?” This was when his parents had been drinking. It caused him distress and anger. His thoughts are shared below regarding the newspaper account of the story.

            “This story although revealing is tiring on my mind. I remember having a reoccurring nightmare when I was very small. Now I wonder if it is connected. I used to dream that I was in a suit of armor and in the middle of flames. I would wake up sweating. This was when I was 5, 6 or 7. My uncle came to live with us when I was 7. He took me to a lot of places, like father – son affairs run by the Masons. My nightmares stopped after he lived with us. He was a bright spot in my life at that time because he had the time to spend with me. My father would take me to work on a Saturday with him and I’d ride in the truck with him, That was fun. Little did I know that I was being groomed as a protégé in the sign business. We'd go fishing in the afternoons too.  “

As a result of dialogue this week regarding the story about David, a thought regarding my Uncle Phil has emerged.

Dear Suzan,
        As you can imagine the last couple of days have been rather intense for me.  Think about this.  Philip has remained mum all these years, and as far as I know or remember there was never a family discussion about the most horrible event in our lives, at least not a calm reasonable sit down talk with anyone listening to the other's feelings or fears or guilt.  What we lived with was a story written in the paper by someone who didn't have all the facts which spoke of a boy hero, that being David who "ran in to save us all." It was a comfort somehow to think in those terms.  It could well be true. We will never know, but it gives some meaning to it all. I can't remember the exact words, but as time went by it grew to be a legend in our house when at least John and I were compared. 
         As I said, I cannot stop thinking and rethinking about it, but when you spoke with Philip and got the answer to the question that I never could figure out.  "How did they get out?"  I was struck today that the real hero- the one who caused the rest of us to be here alive  today was Philip.  Philip got David out through the skylight.  Together they woke  my parents and the stranger, all of whom were in the living room passed out.  The tragedy of David running back in , would have been avoided if they had listened to Philip when he tried to tell them he had run in and there were others in the house.  Instead they put him in the police car because he was hysterical.  Imagine his horror.  If he hadn't awakened my mother, she wouldn't have rescued us, because the door to the bedroom was wide open, which she closed and she broke the window and we lived.
         Philip to my knowledge, never tried to take any credit, but I think it is way over due.  I hope to tell him when I am in Maine next time. 

My father responds to his sister regarding this new revelation.

            “The last few days have been filled with some “new” thoughts. I think that you are on to something about Phil being the real hero in the story. He probably had a lot to swallow after the fire. He, too, had things in his mind to block out and maybe some guilt which he put on himself. Phil’s personality was affected, too. I wonder if he ever felt safe in being close to anyone for fear that they would be gone again. It happened to him with Thelma and his daughter. I believe that he felt safe having things instead of family. Things don’t die or leave as people do. He‘s having trauma now because he is separated from his things. Steven has them and Steven is getting all the heat.

            I never felt close to my mother even as a kid. Her personality was nice sometimes and be a witch others. The older I got the more I tried to get away. When she passed, the only feeling I had was “It’s over, all the craziness is over”. The Fire did that to her and I guess it wasn’t her fault.”

If anything, dialogue is important. If anything were to become of writing about David, I am glad to honor his memory and I was pleasantly surprised about the latest revelation about My Uncle Phil. I think it will bring them all closer together, and, yes, it was out of my control. Dialogue is what brought it all about. Thank you to Marietta and John for sharing your deepest thoughts regarding your brother. I know it was not easy. Thank you to Uncle Phil for answering my question. It all just happened as a result of a visit with a simple question. I do not even know why I asked him and was most surprised when he answered me.

 

                 The following story has been a difficult one to write, but I felt strongly that it was time to remember the boy name David, and define him by his life rather than by his death. This is a story very close to my heart as it was a member of my own family. The devastation resulting from his death has affected all his siblings. My grandparents were not able to continue their lives fully functionable and had difficulty being parents to their surviving children. Blame serves no purpose where healing takes place. It is time that he is remembered and his memory lives in the hearts of his siblings, not to bring pain, but to finally bring peace to those who loved him.
Thank you to my Aunt and  my Father for their help with editing and sharing. Thank you to Uncle Phil also.



 Saccarappa Cemetery, Westbrook, Maine                            David Walter Roberts




            We have all heard of the ‘elephant in the room’. Generally, it refers to a common knowledge regarding a situation or event. This common knowledge is something that sits while everyone tiptoes around about the subject. Maybe it is an embarrassment, or a subject of pain. Whatever the reason, it evokes great emotion. I think I am safe to say that everyone has some elephant.
             The fire was at 32 Vesper Street on Munjoy Hill in Portland, Maine. A fellow that worked with my grandfather had slept over that evening. He fell asleep in a chair at the foot of the stairs. There may have been drinking, as the fellow fell asleep with a lit cigarette. My Aunt in later years said she had heard that the adults were all passed out in the Living Room. My Uncle Phil and his brother David woke them up. The chair and then the curtains ignited until the entire stairway was consumed with fire leading to the second floor and gutting out the entire side of the duplex. The guest ran into the street, engulfed in flames and died later that evening. David and his brother, my Uncle Phil, shared one of the bedrooms on the second floor. The date was early Saturday morning on February 13th, 1943. The temperature was one of the coldest on record for that date.
             Some of my earliest memories involve my father talking of a brother he lost in a house fire. David was nine when he died. His mother had run back in to save my Aunt who was seven and my father who was two. Both were in the other bedroom on the second floor. David ran back inside to find his mother, and siblings. Later, my grandfather could see David looking out of his bedroom window. Grandfather begged him to break the window and jump but he would not break the window and then disappeared from view. Grandfather tried to get up the flaming staircase and got his hands badly burned and had to retreat. David was found wrapped up in a blanket either on the bed or under the bed. Grammy and the two little ones were found in the other bedroom. Grammy, my Aunt, my father, and David were all brought to the hospital having no life signs. All were revived except David. What had made a difference was that Grammy had closed the door to the little kid’s bedroom.
              Since I was interested in family history early on, I queried relatives about the boy we called David. My brother may have been named for him. Lately, I have been thinking about him quite a lot, mainly because of my lack of knowledge about his life. I wonder how someone can live nine years and seemingly his memory erased as well. Was there no reason to celebrate his short life? Today it appears to be the trend to celebrate someone’s life rather than remember their death. Of course, we have had many years between then and now. The only thing I know of the boy named David was that I have been left with an extreme fear of fire. A few years ago, I was talking with my cousins and they also confirmed heightened anxiety regarding fire. 
             My grandmother Roberts barely spoke of him, as it caused her great pain. Unfortunately there was no counseling then, and she did the best she could. Throughout the years, my grandparents drank heavily. My father says as sometime during the evening, and argument would erupt about the fire and who was to blame. When I asked her to tell me about him, she always felt guilty about the time she had taken a switch from a tree and beat him in front of the neighborhood kids for something he had not done and this was one of her last memories of him. It was a very cold winter and his interment had to wait for warmer weather. It weighed heavily on my grandmother when she went to the cemetery to witness the interment and realized her son’s body had been interred the previous day. 
             We only have a very few scattered pictures of him. Today I am going to attempt to celebrate his short life. I often wondered what kind of boy he was and what he enjoyed doing. My Aunt, who was closest to him in age, went to the movies with him often. Back then, the movies were affordable for kids and they stayed there for a good part of the day. My father was only a baby and my Uncle Phil was fourteen at the time of the fire.
             Little bits of information are all that I have regarding David. Whenever I asked my Uncle, I was always told, “I had him out, and then he ran back inside.” Lately some of us have wondered if my Uncle carried that guilt with him all his life. When I asked him to tell me more about his brother, his reply was, “He was just my kid brother, a pain in the neck.” This was all I knew of David from my Uncle. My father also relayed a story from his youth when he was about ten years old and my Uncle was nearly twenty-three. The two of them went fishing with their father. They were crossing some piles of log across a river, when my father lost his footing. He quickly slipped into the fast moving river and right behind him was my Uncle lunging like a leap frog to rescue my father. My father was not certain he was in any danger but his brother reacted quickly, perhaps because he did not want to be “responsible” for another tragedy. My grandfather joked that they could have retrieved my father downstream.
             My Aunt Marietta suffered a great loss. David was her best friend and confidant. I was told she would later hold a seat for him at the theater by leaving popcorn on the seat. Following the fire, the family was split up and stayed with family and friends for awhile.  Once, my Aunt showed me an old composite doll, which she had kept all these years. It was given to her after her brother’s death. The school children had done a collection for flowers and the money left over was spent on a doll for my Aunt. It was meant to comfort her. There was no counseling.
             Then my father told me that his parents, not careful with their words would remind my father that it would have been easier had it been him and not David who perished in the fire as he was only a baby. Alcohol did not really lessen the pain. The only artifacts left behind by David are a small collection of cigarette cards and baseball cards. I have a couple of things with his signature as well as a partial book of ration stamps from the war years. As tragic as the whole episode was, nobody has really recovered after all these years. It is still an open wound, though it has been sixty-five years. I think it is time that we honored his memory and celebrated his life and how much he was loved.
             My original reasons for writing this were to honor David’s memory and let it be because it was sixty five years ago. I visited my Uncle, who now has dementia. I saw him on my lunch break on Friday. It was the first time I had been to the residential memory impairment unit where he lived. He was glad to see me though he never called me by name. He asked me what I had been doing. I told him I was writing a lot of stories for my web page. Then I decided I would ask him about the fire, once again, knowing I would probably hear the same story he tells almost word for word. He said, “I had him out, then he ran back inside”. He shook his head, and said it was a crazy day. I asked how he got out. His answer surprised me because I had never heard this detail. He said there was a trap door on his bedroom ceiling and he climbed up there with his brother and together they climbed onto the roof. Then he motioned with his hands to show me how they both inched their way around a side of the house along the gutters, until they could drop in a safer place. I only had 15 minutes to spend with him. I learned more about that day in fifteen minutes, than I learned in my whole life about David.
I was curious why he would tell me the details in his state of dementia. Did he feel less mental anguish now? I hope that is the case. It makes me curious about the wonder of the human brain. Maybe now I can begin to think about the boy who lived once and find some pleasure in knowing a little about him.

 

Philip, David and Marietta

front-David, Marietta----Back-Philip, Evelyn Walsh Roberts circa 1937



My father, John, was a baby, and as far as I know there are no pictures of him with all his siblings



David and Philip, most likely in Portland



Marietta, David and Philip (Johnny slept on a blanket, right corner) taken in Houlton


I will be adding another story soon regarding the memories of my Aunt along with some of my father's thoughts regarding their brother, David.

To read what transpired as a result of this story, read, "The Dialogue: A Story of a Boy Named David" posted under the same category as this story.

Keeping connected is important to me for without you I have no reason to write. I write because I want to share with you the many stories in my head. I have not been on vacation. I have not been idle. Stories are brewing in my head and I have been working on five different story ideas this week alone. I have received permission to write about two stories which will take some reading on my part because these stories need to be told. A couple of the stories will be under ‘Voices from Saccarappa Cemetery’. I promise you will not be bored with either. I have actually been writing another story this week which is very close to my heart and needed to be seen by some family members before I publish it. I may have a few humorous stories about motherhood also.
             I visited an uncle in a memory impairment residential facility one day last week on my lunch hour. One of my stories is tied to this visit. Over Mother’s Day weekend, I was busy… you guessed it, being a mother. Sometimes that isn’t all that much fun especially when your kids make bad choices. I guess it is all part of growing up for them and for us. I spent the evening before Mother’s Day reading about alcohol poisoning on the internet. Oh yes, I learned so much and so did one of my sons the following morning. On motherhood, there is not a dull moment. It is the craziest ride I ever took. 
            I was also busy a few weeks ago when our family was notified by our pharmacy that our son’s Digitek had been recalled. I was grateful we were notified as other friends who have kids on the same meds were not notified. So for any of you who are not familiar with Digitek, unfortunately the dose is double the strength than what the tablets show. There will be some huge repercussions from this recall as Digitek is a medicine typically taken for those who are under cardiac care. Our pharmacy gave us a gift card and we have not paid for any of the replacement pills yet, until the pharmacy is able to restock. It affected so many people that the pharmacies are low. According to the website and the responses which have been generated since the recall, there are several people who have died, maybe resulting from this flaw in the Digitek dosage, which by the way was made in China. 
             Lastly I have been busy preparing an immigrant program which will be presented at Westbrook Historical Society on the evening of May 28th. I am a bit busy, but I am still writing. Thanks for staying tuned.

 

It has been an interesting week. I started a new job in a different department about three weeks ago. Since most of my interests lie in reading material for informative reasons, my brain has not had to work this hard since college. I read to gain knowledge about a variety of topics, but I have not exercised my brain like I have on this new job. I was exhausted each night, getting home by 6:30 PM. One morning, I hit the snooze mode on my alarm, for just 10 more minutes of peace. I went into a very deep dream and in that dream I was surrounded by my siblings and my parents. I was getting argumentative with each of them when they responded, “blatt, blatt, blatt…blatt, blatt” They were all doing it when I was trying to converse with them. I told them how annoying they were and that they sounded just like my alarm clock. I awoke 35 minutes later to the blatt, blatt sound of my alarm. It had been blatting for 35 minutes while I dreamt. That was comical.
                     I try to find as much humor in a day as I can, just to get through a work day and justify being away from the things I really love to do. One evening, I arrived home and my husband says, “Suzan, check the caller ID. You have some calls” I saw one call from a person I knew 30 years ago when I worked at the hospital. I thought highly of this woman and always wondered about her over the years, but was unsure where she was located. She had seen an article with my name concerning the information I gathered on Redbank Village. It seems her housekeeper used to live in that neighborhood. She asked the housekeeper if she knew me and the woman responded yes. My friend contacted me through my parents. Back then I was known as Sue from SCU. It was wonderful to think we still considered each other friends after so much time had passed. 
                    I then received a call from another close friend who needed to talk about a friend who had been diagnosed with MD. The family was very upset so I offered some practical advice as “someone who has been there.” I was flooded with frightening thoughts in the early stages of our son’s diagnosis. We have traveled a long journey since then and I am often grateful to help others navigate their way. My first suggestion to anyone with a new diagnosis would be to take it all in baby steps. Do not think too far ahead, it can be scary. Think of it this way. If you are 25 and think that one day you will wake up and be 85….frightening. We have to grow into everything. We are always trying to accept ourselves, our kids, our spouses, our parents as each evolve. Also you must be very careful with whom you share your information. Be very selective and choose to surround yourselves with positive people. An example of this would be that when our son had an unexpected period of time in intensive care, I alerted everyone by email with one letter. I told them to keep us in their thoughts but I requested no visitors as I needed to be strong for my son. I knew what I needed to do by instinct. I have learned to prioritize. Then I told her that the person needed most of all to connect with other families with the same diagnosis when they were ready. I recommended that this was more important than reading all the info on the internet, because these people were living life…not letting it define them. I told her if the person needed names, I could maybe help facilitate that. If I can help others with my experience, my time on earth will be well spent.
                    Lastly, I had mailed a “Thinking of You” card to a couple who lost their son, Joe, to MD a few months ago. Joe was only 20. He was a ray of sunshine in their lives. They also have another son with MD. These folks are perhaps the most giving people I know, always trying to help others who have the same struggles. I am humbled by their grace. They are the salt of the earth, goodness prevailing. I already had two important phone calls this evening and now I had a letter from his couple. With their loss, they still give so much love to others. They are living life and there are accepting their grief. This is the spirit of life. I would say I had an extraordinary day. Reflecting on the events of that day, I would say I was a lucky person, to be blessed with a wonderful family and a group of extraordinary friends.
                    Here it is Saturday evening. I spoke with a girlfriend this evening and we were talking about the high cost of everything. I told her I had a little money left over for groceries, twenty dollars to be exact. I suggest if you want to buy stock, invest in Kraft (Macaroni and Cheese). The stores can’t keep it on the shelves. I know I am not alone with this dilemma. I told her how I burst out laughing after coming home today when I saw my husband enjoying a lobster roll. Only in Maine can you have twenty dollars left over for groceries and still have enough for a lobster roll. We don’t have a great deal of pleasures with our money so I really did not care. It just struck me as very funny. Hey even a poor fiddler deserves some happiness… or a lobster roll.
                    We talked about a variety of topics. Many of my friends graduated from the school of hard knocks and she is one of them. She doesn’t complain; she is just a survivor. We talked about how rare it is to find a couple who stay together and sacrifice everything for their family. The older I get, I am amazed at how rare it truly is. I think that sticking things out even when it can get really tough, allows us to grow as individuals. It is certainly no piece of cake. I have learned a lot about myself, and my shortcomings, my anger, my hate, my acceptance, my love, my sadness….through all of it, I have learned that we can choose to live life and accept the many things along the way or we can throw everything in the trash, because after all, aren’t we all disposable? [I am being facetious] To accept the anger inside of you is to accept part of yourself. Time has been wasted with the anger I held inside. At the end of last year, I stopped drinking all alcohol products. I feel more at peace than I have felt for a long time. When all is said and done, family is all that matters and the connections you made along your journey. I wish you all peace along your journey.

Charles Roberts 1804-1896
Photo from Carmichael Collection



Much of the following came from news clippings saved by my Roberts family, including items of interest from old diaries. Life in the latter part of the nineteenth century was very different indeed. The families were very much tied to the land. The land was their sustenance. 
                 I read with interest about William Roberts, of Saco Street [1843-1923] walking his livestock over to John Best’s slaughterhouse to slaughter his pigs, and sometimes a cow, or bull. I believe the slaughterhouse was located across from present day Ed’s Batteries in Westbrook, on Spring Street. It was written in a publication dated 1906 (Trade Journal) that John Best’s slaughterhouse was quite prosperous, sometimes slaughtering over 50 head of cattle each day. 
                 Other items of interest came from the printed text at the beginning of each yearly diary. Much of it was useful formulas, antidotes, and important information for the farmer. The following is from a circa 1872 diary. Antidotes for poison included: FIRST-call doctor, SECOND- Induce Vomiting-by tickling the throat with a feather or finger, drink hot water or strong mustard and water, swallow sweet oil or whites of eggs. For example: arsenic poisoning, rat poison or Paris green could be alleviated by drinking milk, raw eggs, sweet oil, lime water, flour and water. I think the antidote sounds worse than the poisoning!
                Drowning warned the rescuer NOT TO GIVE UP. People have been saved after hours of vigorous effort. Being struck by lightening, warranted an interesting response. Dash cold water over a person struck. I thought the most interesting item on the list was the one about Tests of Death. Hold mirror to mouth. If living, moisture will gather. Push pin into flesh. If dead the hole will remain, if alive it will close up.
                 Also of interest was the antidote for smallpox & scarlet fever which was from an old newspaper clipping saved by my family. It reads: A Small Pox Remedy. Mr. John Roberts Hands in a Very Timely Cure. Mr. John Roberts, the well known and prosperous farmer on the Saco Road, was a caller at the Chronicle office today and he brought in the following old newspaper clipping which has been saved for many years. He used it in his own family for scarlet fever and other kindred diseases. The readers should cut it out and save it. A Small Pox Remedy- A correspondent of the Stockton {California} Herald writes as follows- “I here unto append a recipe which has been used to my knowledge in hundreds of cases. It will prevent or cure the small pox though the pittings are filling. When Jenner discovered the cow pox in England the world of science hurled an avalanche upon his head, but when the most scientific school in the world- that of Paris- published this recipe as a panacea for small pox, it passed unheeded. It is as unfailing as fate, and conquers in every instance. It is harmless when taken by a well person. It will also cure scarlet fever. Here is the recipe as I have used it, and cured my children of scarlet fever.-Here it is as I have used it to cure small pox: When learned physicians said the patient must die, it cured. Sulphate of zinc one grain, fox glove {digitalis} one grain: half a teaspoon of sugar: mix with two tablespoons of water. When thoroughly mixed, add four ounces of water. Take a teaspoonful every hour. Either disease will disappear in twelve hours. For a child, smaller doses according to age .If countries would compel their physicians to use this; there would be no need of pest houses. If you value advice and experience, use this for that terrible disease.”
                 They say that in three generations we are forgotten by our descendants. I find this amazing so I try to keep these old stories alive. In reading an article about my 3rd gr. Grandfather, Charles Roberts, also of Saco Street, I am struck by the content of the story. He is the father of the above mentioned John and William. The title is “Young at Ninety”. The man worked nearly up until he died, with many stories about him in William Roberts’ diaries. Being born in 1804, his first vote was for Andrew Jackson as he was a few months shy of voting age when John Quincy Adams was President. It states that there are many more men now in their nineties than there were in the ‘Good old Rum Times”, but very few retain all of their faculties unimpaired at that age. He does a man’s work every day. His farm consists of 300 acres, field, pasture and forest, having between three and four miles of fence to be kept in repair, and most of it he attended personally. Any farmer, who has fenced field and pasture against cattle with board fence, can appreciate the labor that involves. He works as many hours in the day in the hay field as any of his men. He has driven his mowing machine thirty four years almost entirely. One of his men rode the machine part of the last hay season, but it was too rough work for him, so Mr. Roberts took his place and finished the mowing himself. In his younger days, his father and he frequently took contracts building county roads and a section of the Cumberland & Oxford Canal, doing the work at intervals of the farm work. When he was fifteen years old, he drove four and six ox teams “Carting board from Saccarappa to Portland Pier” for Mr. Warren, grandfather of the Warrens now living in Saccarappa. When he was eighteen, he worked in the logging swamp in winter. He is an expert axe man and used to cut split and pile up three cords of wood four feet long in a day. The father of Senator Frye, General John M. Frye, who was a native of Westbrook, was one of his boyhood chums. Among their pranks, he relates a horseback ride. They captured one of his father’s horses, and mounted him in the pasture with the usual equipments and started. The pasture was rough and the horse at his best speed, stepped into a hole, nearly turning a somersault. The horse and boys picked themselves up in three different parts of the pasture, all in nearly good condition. Mr. Roberts attributes his health and strength in great measure to his temperance habits. While working in the woods, when other men got thirsty and took their customary toddy, he would say, “Water is good enough for me when I am dry” He is an advocate in temperance of everything, eating and drinking. He claims that a man has no excuse for being bilious anymore than he has for being drunk. At this age, the article stated that he still walked sometimes seven miles a day. No need for a membership to the gym back then. Every day life was all that was needed to keep one fit.
                  I thought it would be fitting to mention the funeral bill for Charles Roberts which was saved all these years by family members. The undertaker was Hodsden and Schwartz in 1896 which was located on Main Street. I believe the undertaker was a relative of the Roberts family. A handwritten itemized list of services provided included: Cedar casket Round End Broadcloth [80.00], Box for Casket [3.00], Broadcloth Suit [12.00], Embalming Body [5.00],Use of Hearse [4.00], 3 horses [12.00]., 3 horses from Portland [18.00], carriage for Minister [1.00] , Preparing Grave [3.00] Total 138.00
                  Though these are only bits and pieces of  Westbrook life of long ago, I thought it would be of interest.

When I first found out I was going to be a mother, I never had any concept of what that meant, except that I would be responsible for another human being. I was 27 when I had my first child, a boy we named Michael. My mother never told me quite what to expect, and maybe that is best. Things were different when she had all of us. It ended up being emergency c-section. I have to laugh when I think of it, as I recall the doctor asking me how I felt afterwards. I told the truth. My regular doctor came in and apologized for not attending the birth as he heard it was a tough time. I told him I really did not care at the time, as I just wanted someone who knew what they were doing. He told me I was very open- minded. Now I look back and I am glad I felt that way. I guess it was a preparation for motherhood in many ways. Many things are completely out of our control. Acceptance is what I have learned on this path called life.
             Anyhow, I was unable to see my son for over 10 hours. I hounded the nurses to see my son, and they assured me it would be soon. Well, ‘soon’ meant after the doctors came to inform me that my son would be needing work on his feet as he was born with bilateral club feet. I was listening intently, but when alone, I faced uncertainty about what it all meant. In a room with a curtain dividing us, my roommate sensed my uncertainty and asked if I was okay. I assured her that I was okay. When I saw my son, it was instant adoration and I had an overwhelming sense to protect him. Two years of casting and 2 surgeries took care of most of the correction to his feet. Little did we know how insignificant that would be as we later found he would have Muscular Dystrophy. In time we learned how to live with that too.
             Then the birth of our second son occurred two years later. It was totally different as I was alert when he was born with a regular delivery. It was very long and I will never forget the experience at a military hospital. After complete exhaustion and my baby’s cry, applause erupted in the hallway amongst the staff. He was put up close to me and he looked right into my eyes. Complete silence fell over him and I said quietly, “Hello little baby, I am your mommy”. I started to cry and said to my husband, “Take your new baby son”. 
             So began the rollercoaster ride which made me crazy sometimes and certainly made me laugh. Being a parent has certainly allowed me growth in many ways, and sacrifice is our middle names. Our parents did it, and now we do it. It is my belief that not until I became a parent did I truly understand my parent’s sacrifices. I also learned to accept their shortcomings as well as my own. After all, there is no manual which tells us how to be good parents. I think if we spend more time than money on them, give them guidance without stunting their emotional growth, and finding some balance in their daily lives., we have done well. It is important to find balance as husband and wife as well. Your kids learn by what they see, not by what you say always. Motherhood has presented many challenges, some disappointments and many rewards. I will be posting some stories from time to time about raising boys. Though I am no authority on the matter, I have used humor and my own mother’s wisdom along the way to cope the challenges on being a mother.

 

This is a story told to me by a friend who works at a funeral home, working with the undertaker who owns the funeral home. Since it was told to me by a friend, I have no reason to disbelieve the story. In fact, the Undertaker and the friend witnessed what happened that day. I would rather not mention the name of the establishment but that it is in the Southern Maine area. I hope it gives you comfort and opens your mind to things we may find difficult to believe.

There was a young woman who became sick with an illness which proved to be terminal. The most difficult part of being a parent sometimes is to know you have to leave your children before they are ready for you to leave. The young child left behind was a small girl around six years of age. The scene at the cemetery was somber and people were all seated and some standing around the casket. It was near time to depart and most had left, but the little girl stayed clutching her daddy’s hand. She did not want to leave and told her father that she wanted to wait for the butterfly. She couldn’t leave until she saw a yellow butterfly. Her daddy was anxious to leave the cemetery but the little girl assured him that the butterfly would be there soon. Soon a small yellow butterfly flittered down from the sky and landed on her mommy’s casket. She looked at her father and told him she was ready to leave.

My friend told me that to this day he cannot believe he witnessed this. Before the little girl and her father left the cemetery, the undertaker went over to the small girl and asked her, “How did you know a yellow butterfly would come by today?” She replied, "My mommy told me to wait and look for a yellow butterfly.”

 Turmoil Tax

Gone are the days of more toil, more money. Now we have the day of reckoning, where we cannot even afford to heat our homes, drive our cars and put food on the table. Today is April 15th. Hope you all used Turmoil Tax program to prepare your taxes for Uncle Sam, short for “Stealing Anyone’s Money”. The question is, how are you doing with your finances? Are you tired of spending more than you make? Are you tired of having a credit card debt of a couple thousand to pay for car repairs and other needed things, such as an appliance that died? We are not talking about any luxuries or necessities, such as clothes, or going out to dinner once a year. I am fed up with how hard most of us work and it is never enough. The days of remaining independent in your own home may be changing to the ways of days gone by, but out of necessity for survival. If a few generations move in together, like families of long ago, we can stay warm and care for those we love and be able to provide sustenance for our families. 
            It does concern me that it appears those who have the most to lose sit silent when they should revolt against what is happening to the economy. The last time things were this bad was during the Great Depression. When Bear Stearns goes belly up, we should all be very concerned. Of course, I can hardly wait for that Economic Stimulus check’s arrival so I can spend it on getting much needed car repairs. I don’t mean to sound so negative, but if I am having a hard time, what about those with less? I hope they can manage in the coming years.  Sure with a child with a disability, you can get fuel assistance, and even food stamps, however… as my father always said, “Whatever the government professes to give away, they can also take it away.” So we do not accept that as there are others who truly need help. I hope that things get better for all of us. This year I had to pay almost 400 dollars to the IRS. You’d think with our deep investment in the IRS, that we would all name our firstborn after it.  For now, I think the well has run dry and lets all hope that the times they are a changin’

Me and my brother David, taken on Haven Rd, Windham(Nana's Camp) circa 1965


My Grandmother’s Pictures

My grandmother O’Donnell was like my surrogate mother. When my mom became a mother at age eighteen, my grandmother helped in many ways to see that her grandchildren got what they needed when my own parents had difficulty providing at times. My grandmother saw that we had Easter outfits and had some religious education. I attended Catechism until I was about ten. She purchased a flute so that I could be in the school band. Her two sons had musical backgrounds, and she felt that was important. I recall her buying my dress for the first day of Kindergarten. I was the oldest grandchild and spent a great deal of time with my Nana, usually weekends. As a child visiting her on Brackett Street in Portland, Maine, I recall all the old gangster movies I liked to watch in B &W. I also would sift through her big old button box trying to match various buttons while I had them spread all across her rug. I spent countless hours going through her big suitcase full of photographs. I asked her who everyone was and where the pictures were taken and I even wrote notes for her scrapbooks. I would ask her about all of her cousins and I made her name each one and who the parents were. Much to our surprise we found out that she had 42 first cousins. I also remember watching many Lawrence Welk shows with her, though I did not care for it. We both sat there with our pajamas on to watch the show. I felt at home there and had lots of privileges I did not have at home.
                 We would go to the grocery store and she would buy me almost everything I wanted. I mostly remember Pepperidge Farm apple turnovers as being one of my favorites. I would sit on the third floor of her flat on the back porch overlooking Tate Street and eat my turnover as I watched over her neighborhood. I usually slept in the bedroom off the dining room which had some 3 dimensional wallpaper resembling buttons on pillows. The bedroom was filled with religious statues and paintings and my great grandmother’s thunder and lightning rosary beads which hung on the back of the door. I was afraid to be in that room with all of those things. I would ask her to take away all the artifacts until I could go to sleep. I always found something to do there, like looking at her jewelry box and asking where she got certain pieces of jewelry. Sometimes she would give me a piece of jewelry to take home. I always took good care of the things she gave to me. She had a hope chest she received as a graduation gift and I was amazed she had her wedding dress all neatly folded along with my grandfather’s wedding tie. There was an interesting piece of fruitcake all wrapped up from their wedding in October of 1932. I couldn’t believe she would save that but she insisted that it could still be eaten.  In the morning I woke early to run to her room and play her music box on her bureau with the Anniversary Waltz. I always woke my grandfather who was not always happy about waking early. I suppose he just wanted a little rest on the weekends. Nana never got mad at me. 
                We used to walk uptown often and I recall the big elms stretched across State Street and the sidewalk bricks were uneven because of tree roots. We would walk to the Dorothy Mason School of Dance where I had tap lessons for short while. I was not at all interested in dance. I recall being surprised that two boys also took tap lessons and thought their parents probably made them try it. My grandmother paid for my lessons. I visited her neighbors who lived below her in the flat, the Mullen's. Once I counted Mrs. Mullen’s marble table tops and there were seven. Sometimes I visited her friends on Tate Street, especially an older woman named Mamie Conant whom I loved dearly. These were some of her neighbors who were close to her. Those old Victorians with beautiful staircases I recall so vividly. We walked often downtown to Porteous and Grants and I especially loved Loring Short and Harmon. One day, in 1969 or 70, we were walking across the street that runs beside Loring , Short and Harmon. I believe it is Brown Street. We were halfway across the street, as the Do Not Walk sign flashed, when a “Hippie” yelled obscenities to my grandmother. I was so afraid as she bent down to copy his license plate, that I went running. My grandmother must have been frantic because she came looking for me in Loring , Short and Harmon, and I believe I was upstairs. 
                My grandmother used to take me to her office building on Forest Avenue at George Business Forms where I knew all the ladies. She would send me home with doodle pads of paper, pens and rulers. My grandmother was a career woman and was instrumental in the growth of George Business Forms. She was very involved in the Credit Woman, a group of women executives. In a day when many women were stay at home mothers, my grandmother worked. She was very independent. We spent many afternoons having lunch at Deering Ice Cream on St. John Street where I recall a waitress named Frances. I also recall going to Pagoda owned by Mr. Danny Wong. I had the pleasure to meet him when I was a child and was fascinated with his restaurant and the beautiful interior with the big porcelain type lions in the windows. He showed me how to use chopsticks. 
                The purpose for writing about my Nana has more to do with her belongings I own now. I have a large collection of photos which all mean something to me because they belonged to her. However, the pictures are her memories and now I have my own memories to make. So in looking through all of her photos and sorting them, I have been having some thoughts of what to do with them. I saw she took many photos of her many neighbors through the years. There were the Jennings family, the Kane family, the Riley’s and the Lawless and Griffin Families from Dorchester, Mass. These families all did things together like go to the beach, and visit many lakes and to Peaks Island for outings. There were numerous pictures of the Credit women groups. There were some great pictures from her camp at Highland lake which mean the most to me because they include us. The families from Massachusetts were relatives who kept in touch over the years as they had common Irish ancestors. My grandparents went on their honeymoon in 1932 to Machias and Bangor to visit the O’Donnell relatives and to Mass to visit the Irish relatives on my grandmother’s side. Then of course I have all her childhood albums from Park Street with numerous friends, as well as High school friends from Portland High School class of 1928. Her class had Dr. Benjamin Zolov, Louis Gordon of Stewart’s Men’s Shop and J. Weston Walch, publisher and many other Portland notables. I have all her yearbooks. Education was very important. My grandmother was my only grandparent to graduate from High School. Her yearbook is filled with many first generation Americans, children of immigrants. She even gave me her class ring which she paid $7.50. I contacted a Jennings I know and sent a few pictures to her. I plan to do the same with various cousins who are descendants of some in the photos. It gives me pleasure knowing that the pictures are going to a good place. I cannot hold onto my grandmother’s memories forever because I have to make room for my own memories. I treasured her for a grandmother and she will always be in my heart.

Ireland- Day 8

Today was our last day. We were packed pretty much the night before so we could get an early start for the airport. We knew it wasn’t that far of a distance. The commute ended up taking us about 25 minutes. Debbie dropped me at the airport while she drove across the parking lot to drop off the car rental. We later met inside after I had checked in and saw her looking for her check-in area. She was at a different counter as she was on her way to Italy. After we settled we headed for some last minute shopping at the duty free shop. I picked up a few small souvenirs. I especially liked the curved glass-front pins with shamrocks inside. They were about 1 ¼ “ diameter and were interesting  reminders of Ireland.
             We then found our way around the airport to where Customs was and sat down to wait for our flights to be called out. It was very official looking since 9/11. Each passport was scanned individually and a sense of anonymity appeared impossible. I felt a sense of safeness as I later walked through the gates towards my flight. However, who really knows if the world is any safer than it was? I think Americans are mostly naïve in comparison to terrorist activity experienced across the globe.
             My thoughts regarding the rigid customs inspectors quickly changed as I focused on a large group of American soldiers [maybe 30] with their uniforms on their way to the Middle East walk through the terminal. I thought they were on their way because their faces seemed like faces of weary travelers, not like the faces of those who had left a war torn area. I remember thinking that the people in the terminal were very quiet as the soldiers passed through. I did smile as they passed through. I remember being very aware that we were not back home in America because the soldiers passing through would have received some recognition along their journey. However, as I noticed throughout our trip, we were not welcome in some places, maybe because we were Americans. I believe we were good tourists, not loud, or demanding. We were gracious and provided nice tips for service provided and tried to blend in the best we could. Anyhow, I was proud to see our soldiers in this foreign land. There is a poignant video on YouTube which was recently featured on Fox News. It was done by a 15 year old girl. I even checked it on Snopes to see if it was a hoax. It is not. Go to YouTube and search for Lizzie Palmer and her video “Remember Me” I tried to include the link but it failed. 
             My flight was called first. Debbie and I said our goodbyes as we were not sure when we would meet again. I was glad to have a nice coffee before I departed the terminal. I sat on the plane with a woman and we shared a few laughs as well as a couple glasses of wine.  I then asked our male steward for a coffee. He smiled and reached beneath his cart to give me another small bottle of wine, compliments of him and he also gave me a coffee. As I departed the plane, he was near the door and reached over to squeeze me with a big hug. It really caught me off guard but I laughed and told him that he had made my flight. He had a nice personality and talked a great deal with the passengers. The woman I sat with told me she had the same experiences of feeling singled out as an American , that she had never experienced before. She said she was glad I mentioned it because she said she thought it was all in her mind. Anyhow other than a few bad experiences ,we both had nice trips. I will include a few pictures from the trip that you may enjoy. Thanks for reading!


Giant's Causeway                                                   A Day in The Bog-pile of peat drying outside

 
Headford-Donaghpatrick Cemetery                                      Ferry in Tarbert crossing the Shannon

     
West Galway- Connemara Region-Oyster Beds

     
Killarney national Forest-Jaunting Cart ride              

                        
Interesting cemetery on peninsula in Co Kerry                     Forgotten tombs Co Kerry