Growin' Up in Maine

A centerpiece of childhood activity for families from Milo and Derby, Maine, was Ed Wingler Auditorium events in the Milo town hall building. Growing up in the 1950's and 60's in a small town had its advantages. The auditorium was used for band concerts, talent shows, school dances, plays, assembly meetings, and high school basketball just to name a few.

Basketball at the Wingler Auditorium was a favorite. The main floor was likely the smallest basketball court in the state of Maine with limited seating on 2 sides, a stage at the edge on one end, and entrance doors at the edge of the court on the other end. A balcony on the upper floor covered 3 sides, so overall the seating was 2-300. The roar of the fans was always deafening.

Some jokingly referred to the layout as a cracker box.

From the balcony, if you looked straight down all you could see were the lines for out of bounds. Milo High School which I attended and Brownville Junction High about 8 miles away were fierce rivals in the 1960's. Both had a great year in 1963.

In the 1963 Maine high school Class M East quarterfinals, Brownville Junction was ranked #1 and defeated Woodland 50-42. Milo was ranked #2 and defeated Sherman 46-41. Both won in the semifinals. Brownville won 59-52 over Easton, and Milo won 61-44 over Lubec which placed the rivals head-to-head for the Eastern Maine finals. A win would mean going to the state finals, and the game was an electrifying and closely fought battle.

In the 1963 Eastern Maine basketball finals, #2 Milo High School defeated rival #1 Brownville Junction High School 55-51 for the Eastern Maine Class M Championship. In the 1963 Maine State Finals, Milo played the Western Maine Champs from Greely High, which was 137 miles away, and they lost 45-42.

I'm reviewing that last phrase "...they lost 45-42". Please forgive my poor grammar matching subject and verb if you're confused about who won the Maine Class M 1963 State Championship high school basketball game. Beating a rival 8 miles away who was ranked #1 was more important than an unknown school from 137 miles away.

Visit the Milo Historical Society Museum the next time you're in town. They have lots of trophies on display. Hopefully there's some donated from 1963.

Ed Wingler Auditorium events in Milo, Maine, include their annual Milo High School banquet and reunion usually held in July. Attend and you may just meet players from that phenomenol basketball team of 1963 for a blow by blow of the entire championship run.

The importance of woodpiles and survival in Maine cannot be underestimated when it comes to living through sub-zero weather. The photo of the infant on a woodpile here is yours truly a few years back circa 1950. Okay, so a lot of years back... when I was actually cute and didn't have to shave.

To this day I still love the smell of burning wood in an old fashioned cast iron wood stove. In the 1950's you never had to ask if someone in Derby, Maine, had a woodpile to help get through the winter. It was a matter of how big. Bigger families in bigger homes may have had more than one stove, and their woodpile was more like a mountain.

You were likely too late if you waited to gather wood after the first blizzard of the season. Even in freezing weather you could harvest frozen logs easier than trees buried in snow. Nowadays harvesting wood for a wood stove is easier than ever what with chain saws becoming common and more affordable.

We didn't have the luxury of a chain saw. Cutting logs to length was done with a bucksaw or two-man crosscut saw. We owned both, but when old enough to help, I preferred the crosscut. The blade was about 5 feet long with wooden handles at each end. The teeth were bigger than a bucksaw.

The sawing motion involved a person on each end pulling on the saw handle. You pulled while the other person held on. As you completed your stroke, they pulled in the opposite direction back towards them. While one was pulling the other released pressure and gently held the handle. Besides being fun, you pulled every other stroke so it was half the work.

Logs cut to length to fit in the stove still needed work. Splitting logs into practical size was next. Youngsters today have learned the importance of grip on video game controllers, and may never learn the satisfaction of breaking a sweat over a saw or ax.

When I was old enough to drive, gasoline was 25 cents a gallon. Fuel oil for heating in Maine was still very reasonable, too. As time went on, bucksaws and crosscut saws became antiques, yet wood stoves are as popular today as way back when.

Chainsaws may have made the old saws obsolete, yet wood stoves and woodpiles in Maine are almost as common today and still being enjoyed just like in the good old days. Driving through small towns, and especially as fall approaches, you can still see evidence of the importance of woodpiles and survival in Maine.





TAGS: Maine stories woodpile

Winter in Maine this year has been short on snow which is unusual compared to my childhood in the 1950's Growin' Up in Maine. A favorite childhood activity when snowplows couldn't keep up, and 6-12 inches of fresh snow covered the streets of Derby, Maine, was Scandinavian kicksled winter fun.

From the Catholic Church in Derby, the hill down Daggett Street was steep for about 100 yards before making a sharp right turn. Most kids would ride regular wood slat sleds going solo while staying flat on their stomach and using the front handles for turning.

Others, and depending on the size of the sled, would ride with 2-4 kids sitting upright with the front daredevil steering with their feet.

The Scandinavian kicksled shown was an interesting alternative to normal sleds set low to the ground. These were used in Sweden, home of my ancestors, and our family owned one. The driver would stand on the two back rails and hold onto the cross bar.

On flat ground, a person would move by standing on one rail and pushing against the snow covered ground much like kids today propel a skateboard. You could pick up speed by running between the rails and jumping back on if you wanted to coast for a short distance.

The seat shown at the front of the kicksled was for moving supplies or transporting a person in ancient times. The back rails were flexible, so the driver could push left or right to steer the kicksled. Pushing out on both rails at the same time worked like brakes. Braking was in important skill for coasting downhill.

Our generation used the family kicksled for fun, and usually solo unless someone was foolish enough to ride up front.

Regular sleds picked up plenty of speed flying down that hill. Wax rubbed on the runners helped minimize friction for even greater speed. Making that sharp right turn at the bottom of the hill on Daggett Street was a challenge. Fail to turn at all, and you might flip or fly over the bank and towards the woods.

The Scandinavian kicksled was a novelty. No one else owned one in Derby (population 300). Youngsters unfamiliar with the sled were quick to volunteer for a ride up front. Seat belts were not optional. Like cars in the 1950's, the kicksled had none. You literally had to hang on to your seat.

Flying through the snow going down that hill on the kicksled was a thrill not easily forgotten whether as the driver or passenger. I do not recall any driver ever making that sharp right turn, so the ending depended on the driver's braking skill mentioned earlier.

One of my 4 brothers, who I won't mention by name, decided a run without any brakes would be exciting. He drove. I sat. Starting from a dead stop is no problem on a hill. Gravity and minimal friction meant you would accelerate. He decided running for 20 feet while pushing for maximum speed would be even more exciting, so off we sped.

I should have guessed he was serious about no brakes. He stepped off the rails about 20 feet before reaching the snowbank on the curve at the bottom of the hill, and rolled in the snow off to one side. Seconds later the kicksled hit and stopped instantly buried in the snowbank as I shot forward up and out towards the woods like from a cannon or catapult. Fun? Yes. Try it again? No thanks.

That beautiful Scandinavian kicksled would have made a great family heirloom. Unfortunately, it only lasted for about two seasons of winter fun. The memory, on the other hand, will last a lifetime.




TAGS: Maine stories snow

Milk was delivered door to door in the 1950's Growin' Up in Maine, and a visit to a dairy farm allowed watching a John Deere at work. Horses pulled plows and hay wagons 100 years ago. I never witnessed that, yet the size, sound, and muscle of a tractor was certainly a thrill to watch as a small town youngster in Derby, Maine.

Rickers Dairy practically owned the market for fresh milk and cream around Derby and Milo, Maine. Imagine quart bottles of milk routinely delivered to your doorstep. Waxed cardboard containers with pictures of missing children had not been invented.

The driver of the milk truck was usually one of the Ricker brothers who owned, worked, and managed at least 3 dairy farms. Eddie and Carl Ricker lived in Derby. Eddie was around the corner on Church Street in the village near my home. Carl and his family lived on the first Ricker farm about a mile from town on River Road.

As far as delivery, empty glass milk bottles were left on the steps, and often with cash tucked inside as payment. You didn't have to worry about a thief swiping the money. Petty crime, disrespect, and greed were not commonplace because kids then were taught differently. We did not curse unless you classify "sons a buckwheat" or "baroid" as expletives.

Fresh milk in 1950 was not pasteurized or homogenized. Real cream floated and filled the top 4 inches or so of the bottle. The first glass of milk mixed with that cream was delightful. Another treat was milk and Ritz crackers served each morning at the Derby Grammar School. Those milk containers were half pint glass bottles without cream, and bring back fond memories of a simple yet tasty treat.

Years later as a teen, I enjoyed part time summer work for Rickers during haying season. Fresh cut hay was left to dry in various hayfields around the county until it was time to harvest the crop. The job involved a John Deere tractor pulling a hay baler that scooped up, baled, and tied heavy twine around each rectangular block of hay.

A flat hay trailer about 20 feet by 10 feet was attached behind the baler. The tractor, baler, and trailer was connected and pulled around the hay field like a mini railroad train.

The 75 lb. bales then fed off a conveyor while 1-2 other workers and I grabbed each one, and stacked them on the flat hay trailer. Imagine the hard work of keeping up while lifting hay bales over your head as the stack grew to 10 feet or more! It was a bumpy ride that required acrobatic skills including a sense of balance.

As each trailer load was done the next chore was a trip to the barn. A different and much larger conveyor belt carried bales to the top loft. One worker fed them onto the conveyor belt. Others in the loft stacked them again. We finally got a most welcomed lunch break. As a teen who loved milk, imagine "all you can drink" white and chocolate milk for free.

Watching a John Deere at work is one thing. Being part of the machinery doing the grunt work of haying season gives one a different level of respect for the hard work done by America's farmers.





TAGS: Maine stories tractor hay dairy

As a child in the 1950's and early 60's, our choices of Maine sports teams to support were limited to high school and college athletics. Imagine my Dad being born in Maine in 1920, and having lived 80 years without witnessing a pro sports championship while cheering for New England teams.

He did win at least one sports championship. The photo here shows Dad, Ted Degerstrom Sr. (top left at age 16), and other classmates on the 1936 Championship basketball team standing on the front steps of Derby Grammar School in Derby, Maine. No one would argue his love of sports.

The Boston Red Sox baseball team was the nearest pro sports franchise with favorite stars like triple crown winners Ted Williams who won in 1942 and 1947, and Carl Yastrzemski, winner 1967.

Williams was active before my time, and the last player to bat over .400 in a season. He had 20/10 vision, and once said he could see individual stitches on baseball seams spinning towards him, and then react to the type of pitch. Later in life he admitted that despite his remarkable eyesight, the earlier statement was exaggerated to intimidate pitchers.

The Red Sox won the 1918 World Series. They had won previously in 1903, 1912, 1915, and 1916 and never won again for over 80 years. The only World Series wins to date after 1918 were in 2004 and 2007. Again, my Dad was born in 1920 and passed away in 2000. He was a lifelong diehard Sox fan yet never saw them capture a World Series crown.

As far as NFL football teams near Maine in the 1950's and 60's, the NE Patriots did not exist. We cheered for the NY Giants and remember the glory days of Hall of Fame quarterback Y.A. Tittle. I still favor the Giants in the NFC and Patriots in the AFC, and look forward to the rematch next month in Super Bowl XLVI, especially after the Patriots 3 point loss to the Giants in 2007.

Dad liked the Giants in the early years, yet favored the New England Patriots since they began in 1970. Again, he passed away before the Patriots Super Bowl wins of 2002, 2004, and 2005. However, he never lost his passion for sports despite that 80 year dry spell without a Red Sox championship, and the 30 years cheering for New England without a crown.

If fanatical is the definition of fan, Dad was a real fan of New England sports teams. I share the sentiment. Go Sox. Go Pats! The Celtics and Bruins are tops, too.





TAGS: Maine stories basketball sports

Christmas is a time of tradition, and throughout my early childhood I recall a certain Christmas gift that kept on giving. A fruitcake similar to the one shown here survived being passed around to close family members for decades.

This was a running family joke centered around one fruitcake that was giftwrapped and mailed just before Christmas to an unsuspecting family member on the Parkman side of Mom's family. The rules were you did not eat the fruitcake, but were instead the guardian of the wrapped gift for a full year until time to forward it to another close family member.

The Christmas gift that kept on giving arrived at our home one year sometime between 1955 and 1959 because I was probably at least 6 but not older than 10. It had already made the rounds for a decade or more, and certainly provided a lot of smiles as we learned the family tradition and why it was not for eating.

Mom fulfilled her obligation and shipped it out to another relative a year later.

From that time, the tradition may have continued for another decade though I believe it since stopped. I happen to like fruitcake. The recipe probably goes back at least several hundred years, and I believe a freshly made fruitcake is supposed to taste that old, too. Sorta like fine wine. Or not.





TAGS: Maine stories Christmas tradition fruitcake

For several days leading up to Halloween in the early 1960's in my hometown or Derby, Maine, several friends and I worked diligently to convert an upstairs barn loft into a Halloween Haunted House.

The Kinney home was the first house going up Derby Hill towards Milo, and their attached barn was more like a 4 car garage with a stairway to the upper level with empty storage rather than the layout of a traditional dairy barn.

Was our Halloween project hokey or any less sophisticated than a commercial haunted house? Nope.

We began with a layout of aisles by hanging blankets that provided a pathway for a guided tour with some very imaginative spooky experiences. The guide held a small flashlight, and would take local kiddies through the darkened barn for encounters with a variety of sights and sounds intended to give them goosebumps. It worked.

A couple friends remained out of sight in the dark and provided well timed Halloween noises including groans, howls, and clanking chains. In more than one place we strung a dozen or more vertical lines of thread across the path which brushed the youngster's face simulating spider webs.

In another spot we had an inflatable raft on the floor. Once the guest took a step or two and reacted to the squishy sensation, the guide would caution them to avoid stepping on any dead bodies. The howls and shrieks were priceless even though the best was yet to come.

The barn loft had no ceiling. The walls went perhaps 20 feet to the peak of the roof. The space between the inner and outer board walls was less than a foot, and some boards were missing near the very top. There were a few broken boards about chest high near the floor level, and the empty space between vertical studs of the inner and outer wall provided a rare opportunity for a grand finale.

The youngest member of the haunted house team was skinny and agile enough to enter the wall spacing at the very top and crawl down inside between the studs to the floor level. As the dimly lit exit of the haunted house tour appeared in sight on the last aisle, the guest continued to walk slowly just ahead of the guide while thinking the show was over.

With perfect timing the guide shined his flashlight on one of the chest high holes in the wall. Immediately a live arm shot out of the wall clawing at the air as our skinny pal let out a blood curdling scream. The startled guest screamed even louder.

In later years we never recreated the Derby Hill Halloween Haunted House. The memories, however, will last a lifetime.




TAGS: Maine stories Halloween

Memories of Growin' Up in Maine reveal flirting with death foolishly more than once. Readers may recall a previous close call while running spring river rapids on a log raft with 1 of my 4 brothers. He was also involved in the story about ice skating on thin ice to see who could make a skate mark closest to open water near the middle of the river.

After first reading about our idea of fun for the first time here, Mom was thankful our death defying childhood tales were kept secret for nearly 50 years. She did, however, ask "Which brother?" though I still refused to name names. I'd guess by now she figured it out or extracted a confession from my fellow conspirator.

Besides danger, those examples and this story of the torpedo incident of 1959 took place near the iron bridge over the Piscataquis River which forms the southern border of Derby, Maine. "Torpedo" you ask? Yes. Some friends and I found one and detonated it.

To better understand, the railroad used a warning device they called a torpedo which was an explosive device 3 inches wide and strapped to the rail by a flagman. The photo inset above shows a train torpedo with 2 lead straps attached to a rail. When run over by a train the explosion was a warning for the train engineer to slow down or stop.

The large granite block shown in the photo was one of several leftovers scattered near the railroad track embankment after construction of the iron bridge in 1927. After finding the torpedo, and considering fireworks were illegal in Maine, trying to set it off on the granite block seemed like a good idea.

One friend, a newspaper boy with experience tossing stuff, placed the torpedo on the granite and began throwing large rocks at it from 10 feet away. The other friend and I stood to the side and behind the pitcher. On about the 4th or 5th try it went off. The explosion was deafening. Literally. All 3 of us lost hearing temporarily, and spoken words sounded like the cartoon character Chipmunks.

The pitcher, being closest, took the brunt and besides hearing problems was later hospitalized for powder burns to his eyes. He healed just fine although it did take 3 days for normal hearing to return to all of us. This was one dumb stunt I couldn't hide from Mom, and a lesson well learned.

Being fortunate enough to survive the torpedo incident of 1959, and not counting military service, we never again tested our mortality with explosives.




TAGS: Maine stories torpedo

The joys of Maine fall foliage childhood fun begins when fall arrives and the outdoors comes alive in vivid color. My grandparents lived next door in my hometown of Derby, Maine, and there was a huge oak tree streetside at the front of their home.

Maple trees are especially colorful like the orange and red leaves in the photo shown here. Oak trees provide less color but more volume because they're generally larger.

What was especially memorable about the huge oak tree was the depth of leaves once the tree completely shed. More than a foot of leaves covered the lawn and provided a wonderful playground for innovative kids.

Piles of leaves provided a soft cushion for jumping, diving, or play wrestling.

We sometimes created a large oval path through the leaves with a rake including an intersecting cross shaped trail in the middle. It was perfect for a game of tag and the only rule was staying within the path. (Note: We used the same design making footprints in the snow during wintertime.)

Perhaps the most enjoyable and creative fall foliage game was taking large flattened cardboard cartons as slides placed on the slope of the front lawn. Leaves were piled on to add effect and then we'd take a long run into a belly flop.

The simple pleasure of just walking across the leaf covered lawn and hearing the woosh woosh sound of rustling leaves is a fond memory, as well. When it comes to seasons in Maine I can't say I have a favorite unless it's the one happening at the time.




TAGS: Maine stories fall

Looking back on my childhood I admit I liked all seasons Growin' Up in Maine. Yes, even the mud season.

With the arrival of fall, and less playtime because of weekdays spent at school, neighborhood boys were always ready for some football on weekends.

The photo shown is Clark's lawn on the corner of Church Street and Railroad Street in my hometown of Derby, Maine.

It was perfect for football unless you consider that large rock in the middle or the street sign and lightpole at the corner. I don't recall any serious injuries due to the rock.

However, the street sign did score a few head or groin injuries to any youth more focused on catching the football than any consequences.

In the early 1950's more than half of that neatly mowed lawn was a field. Back then it was a place to crawl, explore, and get dirty, or catch grasshoppers; yet it was only chest high, so all you had to do was stand up to find your way back to civilization.

Likewise at that time, lawns were mowed with a rotary blade push mower, so owners were reluctant to clear fields they'd later have to mow grunting and sweating. That changed around 1960. The field was replaced with that beautiful lawn shown with the introduction of mass produced lower cost gas powered lawn mowers.

Getting a dozen adolescent or teen boys together to form 6 player teams for a game of tackle football only took a few phone calls. There were no couch potato video games back then, so outdoor physical activity was a way of life that most boomers still enjoy to this day.

The football field layout was simple. Clark's driveway and Railroad Street formed the end zones. Church Street was one sideline and the other was the edge of Bushway's lawn though it lacked any physical out of bounds marker.

Our football games often started in the early afternoon and continued past dinner time as we played until dusk.

We didn't wear helmets. We didn't have padding. We didn't have uniforms. It was just energetic boys in shirts, sneakers, and jeans having the time of their life.

At days end we were bone tired and could feel the effects of extreme exercise taking hold as we dragged our feet or limped on home to a welcome, though perhaps cold, home cooked dinner.

That was Saturday. Come Sunday we'd do it again. Yes, we were always ready for some football.




TAGS: Maine stories games football