Growin' Up in Maine

80 Years Without a Championship

2012-01-26T11:46:00.004-05:00

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 Gift That Kept on Giving

2011-12-22T12:03:00.003-05:00

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

Derby Hill Halloween Haunted House

2011-10-30T08:47:00.003-04:00

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

The Torpedo Incident of 1959

2011-10-18T00:32:00.002-04:00

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

Maine Fall Foliage Childhood Fun

2011-10-09T15:25:00.003-04:00

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

Always Ready for Some Football

2011-09-30T21:53:00.004-04:00

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

A Treat of Maine Lobster and Clams

2011-09-01T10:18:00.001-04:00

The Maine coast was 90 minutes away from home in Derby, Maine, yet may as well been 500 miles back in the 1950's. Trips to Down East were rare although I have fond memories of one lobster and clam bake near Bar Harbor with my aunt and uncle. Nothing beats a treat of Maine lobster and clams cooked in seaweed on an open fire right on the beach.

Toss in corn on the cob lathered in butter then wrapped in tin foil for a gourmet meal, and all you need are Twinkies for dessert.

The steamed clams and boiled lobster shown here were eaten more recently. The owner of the lobster pound who sold me those told a comical story of people from away who were obviously unfamiliar with Maine lobster. An older couple tried lobster for the first time and remarked about the incredible flavor to their son who was living in Maine at the time.

Remembering his parents' pleasure, he decided to ship them live lobsters overnight. A week later he called to ask how they enjoyed the gift. They replied, "They arrived in 24 hours but we tossed them in the trash because the lobsters had turned green and already spoiled."

Yes, they expected bright red fresh Maine lobster!

TAGS: Maine stories lobster clams

Down Back in Derby Maine Video

2011-08-27T14:34:00.000-04:00

Watch here and listen, or view the text narration inserted below for persons hearing impaired.

Welcome to a video episode of Growin' Up in Maine entitled Down Back in Derby, Maine.

Down Back is a quarter mile stretch of the Sebec River in my home town that was perfect for swimming, fishing, and rafting. During the summers of my youth in the 1950's and 60's, most of my time was spent Down Back.

Why was it named Down Back? You went down some and back through the woods to get there, so it's been called Down Back by 4 generations of the Degerstrom family over 100 years.

Let's take a closer look at our summer playground.

This clearing at the edge of the Sebec River has grown in, yet back in the day the opening was about 40 feet square and clear of brush down to the edge of the water.

This is Swimming Hole Rock, the centerpiece of Down Back. The video and photos were taken in August 2011, so the river level is quite low compared to June and July.

Here's the Sebec looking down river, or south. Look closely in the center to see a bald eagle and their splash to the left where they just missed catching a fish.

In 1991 the town put in a snowmobile bridge across the Sebec River from Derby to the Milo side. This is just downstream from the Old Swimming Hole and (thank God) was not there during my childhood. The rock in the foreground is Diving Rock.

Here's another view of Swimming Hole Rock as if taken from the deck of a homemade log raft. Imagine running the length of that big rock then springing into a dive off the smaller slanted rock.

Zooming out, that's still Swimming Hole Rock in the center. A 2 foot wide tree above that sported a Tarzan rope swing years ago. Vandals cut the tree down with a chainsaw in the late 50's. What a shame.

Next up moving upstream is Diving Rock which provided our version of cliff diving. Note the low level at the top right and higher level to the left. To put the size in perspective the difference was 6 inches, so a high dive was considered extreme!

Across from Diving Rock was a spring brook that was ice cold and featured a clay bed. We made a new batch of log rafts each year for exploring, transportation, and sometimes clay ball wars.

Again, here's another view of Diving Rock as if taken from a raft. We made new ones every summer. Some were let loose by vandals. Winter or spring floods carried others away.

Next up is Sliding Rock which was a favorite spot to fish. A log could be set across the space from shore for crossing, or you could get there and dock by raft.

Here's the log raft view of Sliding Rock and the bigger rock to the right behind that is Sunfish Rock, and probably the tallest named rock Down Back.

This closeup is Sunfish Rock with yours truly. The most prominent rock to the right of my hand is Bass Rock, and the furthest set of smaller rocks in the distance is the Low Swimming Hole.

The Low Swimming Hole is the equivalent of a kiddie pool and gets deeper very gradually. Several generations of family toddlers learned how to swim in this spot Down Back.

Just upstream from the Low Swimming Hole and around the bend marks the upper end of Down Back. The top left would have been Gould's Pasture. It is now a forest. Around the bend is The Island, and both sides were excellent for finding antique bottles.

In closing, I must recognize my two best friends Growin' Up in Maine. Though I don't normally name names in my stories, Mark Kinney (left) and Mark Clark (on the right) were close best friends who shared long hours and great adventures Down Back during summer plus all 4 seasons - and yes, they are featured prominently in many stories of Growin' Up in Maine.

TAGS: Maine stories river scenery swimming

Haunted Headstone of Colonel Buck

2011-08-25T21:32:00.007-04:00

Growin' up in Maine in the 1950's included haunted lore besides my true stories.

A visit to the coast of Maine would not be complete without viewing the haunted headstone of Colonel Buck on US Route 1 which is also Main Street in Bucksport, Maine.

A historic plaque describes the legend of this cursed and haunted headstone. The outlined form on the photo of Buck's grave as shown is said to be a witch's leg!

The entire text transcript of the plaque with the Buck's grave curse history is as follows:

The Legend of the Buck Memorial

This monument was erected in memory of Colonel Jonathan Buck, founder of Bucksport, who died on March 18, 1795. The memorial, built of Blue Hill granite, was erected by his descendents nearly sixty years after his death.

Sometime after it's placement the outline of a leg appeared on the monument. Making their appearance as well were the stories which became legendary. The variations are many but common elements include Colonel Buck's condemnation of a woman for witchcraft and ordering her death by burning for sorcery. As the sentence is being carried out, the woman curses the Colonel and concludes with "...so long shall my curse be upon thee and my sign upon thy tombstone." As the flames consume her body, her leg falls away and rolls out of the fire. Her deformed son, rejected by the community, grabs the leg, further insults the Colonel, and flees into the wilderness. The curse is forgotten until sixty years later. The monument is erected; the leg appears. Attempts to remove the sign are futile.

Historians will note the era of Colonial witchcraft and the infamous witch trials in Massachusetts were over long before Jonathan Buck was born. Additionally, there is no record of ANYONE being executed for witchcraft in Maine. Stories that the monument has been replaced are untrue - this is the original. Stone cutters say it is not unusual for granite to contain a flaw such as this stain which appears only after cutting and polishing. The outline can be removed but reappears when air oxidizes the iron. (Note, too, the outline of a heart on the upper part of the monument.)

The facts surrounding the life of Colonel Buck are that he was an honorable, industrious man who founded this community and was a leader in its early development - building the first saw mill, the first grist mill, and the first boat. Notably, the "witch's curse" was unheard of before the flaw in the marker appeared.

Jeff Hutchins, Eagle Project, 1991

There you have it. The haunted headstone may be viewed at the edge of Buck's Cemetery on Main Street at the corner of Hinks Street in Bucksport, Maine. You may easily take photographs through the iron fence from outside the cemetery rather than risk taking a closer look. Note: You were warned.

TAGS: Maine stories Bucksport haunted grave

End of Ice Skating on Lake Edith

2010-11-29T09:26:00.004-05:00

Lake Edith in my childhood home town of Derby, Maine, won't be found on any map or Maine Atlas. The 50 foot by 200 foot lake was actually man made and situated at the south end of the park near the B&A Railroad Shops. Kids called it Derby Pond, and we were usually ice skating there by Thanksgiving.

The photo shown is typical of natural ponds and small bogs that provided alternate places for ice skating. A bog within 500 feet of our home on Railroad Street had water trails through alder trees that made for a great game of tag on skates. Others included small ponds in pastures like one I recall within a mile of home near the saw mill on the River Road.

Ice skating on Derby Pond was close and convenient, and ideal for countless hours of enjoyment by kids from Derby and Milo. Stacks of used tires from gas stations were burned for lighting and provided some warmth. There was a springhouse building with a brass water tap and spring water running 24/7. The enclosure was more like a mini 6 foot square gazebo with a roof.

There is no longer ice skating on Lake Edith. At some point since I graduated high school in 1967 the lake was drained after the drowning death of a toddler. No deeper than about a foot (not counting the depth of muck at the bottom), the pond had not posed a danger for generations past, yet one tragedy meant the end of ice skating on Lake Edith.

Looking back I realize that the fun we had, including falling time after time on the cold hard ice during games of tag or hockey, took a toll that I can now feel in my knees and joints. I have no regrets. The childhood fun was well worth it.

TAGS: Maine stories ice skating storytelling

Happy Halloween and Christmas

2010-10-31T18:43:00.003-04:00

How times have changed! Who would have thought 50 years ago that one day we'd practically be saying "Happy Halloween and Christmas" in the same breath in October? The illustration here is the 2010 Toys-R-Us Great Big Christmas Book which arrived today with the Sunday paper. If you live anywhere in the USA and get the Sunday newspaper you probably have this in your home right now, and a tad early being it's Halloween.

As a kid in a family of 8 children Growin' up in Maine 50 years ago, Halloween was a special day. Our parents were known for dressing up as ghouls, tramps, or some other childish disguise to take us kids around doing trick or treat. Of course in 1959 no one could have imagined real monsters appearing years later and creating the need to xray a child's Halloween candy.

It wasn't a problem for us. What a huge haul my brothers and sisters took in on Halloween in the 1950's! I can still picture 8 paper grocery bags on our kitchen table filled to the top with candy and other treats, and the fun times trading goodies. Some of that goodness appears to have stuck with me over the years as my waistband continues to expand under the effect of living the good life. I wouldn't have it any other way.

TAGS: Maine stories Halloween

$4 Ten Second TV Advertisement

2010-09-01T13:00:00.000-04:00

Nostalgia for simpler times is at the core of my stories about Growin' Up in Maine. Television in its infancy meant your choice of just 3 channels with ABC, CBS, and NBC, plus all 3 were broadcast in black and white only.

Today's youth might exclaim "No way!", yet the first color television program I remember was Bonanza which premiered on September 12, 1959.

Research the first television advertisement ever, and you'll discover it was a $4 ten second tv advertisement. The client was Bulova and the ad was a still shot of a clock over a map of the USA as a narrator said "America runs on Bulova time."

If you're old enough to recall television ads from the 1950's, children were the preferred target market. Why, you ask? A child does not understand "no" for an answer when set on a particular toy or brand of cereal. To convince parents they could deflect objections better than any attorney or used car salesperson.

Today's children are still the best at selling fundraiser candy bars. Who can resist girl scout cookies?

Now that the younger readers have learned television was originally black and white only up until the late 1950's, and only had 3 channels, here's a final surprising fact. That very first $4 ten second tv advertisement was broadcast in 1941.

TAGS: Maine stories television

1920's Streaking in Derby Maine

2010-08-23T14:58:00.004-04:00

Contributed by: Larry Hall, Ten Decades of Stories

Listen Now Click right arrow (twice in Internet Explorer) to Play
You may also Download MP3 Playtime 01:28 (min./sec.)

This episode of Ten Decades of Stories as told by Larry Hall is from the mid-1920's in Derby, Maine. Larry and I first connected a couple years ago when he contacted me through this blog. How amazing! He and I went to the same grammar school only 35 years apart, and at 90 plus years old he knew some of my Dad's older siblings.

Streaking, that sport of running nude in broad daylight, is not new. In the 1950's all us boys went skinny dipping at the old swimming hole Down Back on the Sebec River. The rule was "No girls allowed". Seems like the rules were a bit different across town back in the 20's in a simpler and even more innocent time.

Listen as Larry tells about running to the swimming hole on the Piscataquis River about a mile west of the center of the village of Derby on River Road.

Thanks, Larry, for another great story to bring back memories of Growin' Up in Maine.

TAGS: Maine stories storytelling Derby streaking swimming

Hair Today Gone Tomorrow

2010-08-17T01:51:00.002-04:00

This video is a snapshot that shows how I've changed over 6 decades with 48 still photographs entitled "60 Years in About 60 Seconds". As 1 of 8 siblings all living until May 2010, documenting these in video was prompted by the death of my brother Eric, the youngest of 5 boys, at 59. Viewing changes over 60 years I realize an alternate title could have been "Hair Today Gone Tomorrow".

Each still photograph displays for just over 1 second, so the slide show flies by rather quickly (just like those 60 years). You may use the pause button for a closer look, or email me if curious or any questions.

Places shown without any people in three photographs are each nostalgic places from Growin' Up in Maine, and include Down Back on the Sebec River, our family home in Derby, and Jo Mary Lake with the reflection of Mt Katahdin in Central Maine.

All persons in all photos are relatives except for 1) ex-wife in family portrait (with novelty glasses/nose/moustache), 2) childhood best friend Mark Clark (1st photo after wedding photo), and 3) friend and coworker Monty Ashley of S Carolina (doing handshake pitching horseshoes).

Did you notice the disappearing hairline prompting the title Hair Today Gone Tomorrow? That trait goes back several generations, and at least one other brother was like me. We started going grey in our 20's.

TAGS: family Maine stories video

Derby Grammar School Bell

2010-08-12T22:56:00.003-04:00

Contributed by: Larry Hall, Ten Decades of Stories

Listen Now Click right arrow (twice in Internet Explorer) to Play
You may also Download MP3 Playtime 01:45 (min./sec.)

Two years ago a previous audio story by guest storyteller Larry Hall mentioned ringing the steeple bell at the grammar school in Derby, Maine, as a prank. That was at night pulling a rope.

Here's an alternate ringing of the school bell from around 1927 when Larry was 10 or 11 years old. Larry and I both attended that grammar school except 35 years apart.

This audio story is actually about McKusicks General Store, yet an alternate title could have been Ringing the Derby Grammar School Bell Episode Two, but that one was way too long. Here's some background info.

The only 4 corner intersection in my home town of Derby was at the foot of Derby Hill. Staying straight ahead down Derby Hill going south as you enter the village was the Ferry Road. The River Road was to the right headed west, and if you went left it was east on Railroad Street. Years later when they assigned street numbers (go figure), our home was 10 Railroad Street.

Side Note: One neighbor on our street caused a firestorm of gossip and snickering. Reportedly after street numbers were assigned, she did a change of address with all her contacts and was receiving mail to Railroad Boulevard. Yes. Boul-e-vard. That was mighty highfalutin for a small town, population 300.

The Ferry Road and River Road had stop signs, so the turn on Railroad Street was made without stopping when going in either direction to or from Milo. The grammar school was on the northwest corner and McKusicks General Store was diagonally across the intersection on the southeast corner.

With that layout in mind, picture a wooden boardwalk across the front of the store like in old westerns, and that's where Larry and friends stood while ringing the bell. He mentions a side story of the American Thread Company horses and bells of the 1920's in Milo, too. The company made wooden spools for thread.

Sad to say yet before you traipse off to Derby to survey the scene, that boardwalk was long gone before my time, and the store and school are now gone. Compared to Larry's previous story, this version of the Derby Grammar School Bell happened in broad daylight. Listen now to learn how they rang that school bell.

Contributed and narrated by Larry Hall, Ten Decades of Stories
Thank you, Larry, for sharing memories of what it was like Growin' Up in Maine in 1927.

TAGS: Maine stories storytelling Derby school bell

First Plane Ride Ever

2010-08-10T11:02:00.005-04:00

While growin' up in Derby, Maine, our idea of excitement in 1957 involved the simple things in life, and especially adventures related to nature. Sometimes everyday activities became the chance of a lifetime as some sneak up to turn a moment into a memorable event.

Derby, population 300, had no airport. Milo did if you count that grassy strip near the drive-in theater on the edge of town. That's where I took my first plane ride ever in July 1957 in a single engine Piper Cub at age 8.

The drive-in movie theater and Milo Municipal Airport (kidding about the name) were near the home of my grandparents on outer Elm Street. A chance visit to see them while a man was giving plane rides nearby was truly a rare opportunity in a rural small town. A day later and that field was just a field again. When asked I did not hesitate!

The excitement and view while flying at 2-3000 feet for 10 minutes was an unimaginable thrill. Prior to the plane ride the closest I came to a bird's eye view of the world was 50 feet up near the top of a pine tree. Since that experience so early in life I've never known fear on any carnival ride.

I could not imagine back in '57, yet the next ride in a Piper Cub would be 14 years later over Laos on Air America, the airline of the CIA in Southeast Asia. I cannot reveal details of that mission, yet by comparison and as a child on that first plane ride ever, in 1957 we didn't worry about people shooting at us. Despite the circumstances and compared to jets, I still liked the thrill of that plane ride, too!

TAGS: Maine stories Milo piper cub plane

Summertime and the Dragonfly

2010-07-15T13:05:00.005-04:00

My absolute favorite place while Grownin' Up in Maine was on the Sebec River in Derby, and specifically the old swimming hole at a spot we called Down Back.

A photo I took recently and shown here reminds me of summertime and the dragonfly, plus a tale my Mom told to help keep 8 kids in line.

Readers may recall from a previous story that I related how as youngsters in the 1950's and 60's my friends and I invented our unique brand of swearing rather than use actual curse words. A couple of favorites were "sons o' buckwheat" and "barroid", and to this day I avoid cursing though must admit a less than perfect record.

Where was the motivation? Swimming, fishing, and rafting Down Back we couldn't help but notice the sheer number and variety of dragonflies. 40+ years later I still recall being told by my mother, "Don't swear or a dragonfly will sew your lips shut!". What?! Moms don't lie, right? Over time I've come to realize the truth and can't help but think... Dear Mom, Good thing a dragonfly doesn't sew lips for little white lies!

TAGS: dragonfly Maine stories summer

Double Duty on Memorial Day

2010-05-30T19:36:00.003-04:00

When playing trumpet as a member of the Milo High School band back in the 1960's, the senior band was once invited to New Hampshire to play at a football game half time for a school that couldn't afford one.

Likewise around home in Piscataquis County we performed double duty on Memorial Day. We were the school band in the Milo parade and then bussed off to Brownville Junction to march and play in theirs because they had no band.

For the first parade we were the only band taking part in the Memorial Day parade up Main Street in Milo then on to the cemetery at the outskirts of town. We waited there while standing at parade rest as the names of all service members from Milo who died in every war back to and including the Civil War were read off.

Okay, so it was a small town and the reading only took about a half hour. At the end of the cermonies a soloist hidden 50-100 feet away played taps. It hit home being a bit more personal as a spectator in 1968 just a year after graduation as classmates of mine killed in Viet Nam were added to the list. That summer I enlisted.

Backing up to when I was in the band, after the Milo parade we boarded a bus or two and headed for Brownville Junction. The parade route started south of the cemetery on the side road just past the fire warden station and was less than a half mile into the middle of the cemetery. The cermony was usually brief and then back to Milo and done for the day.

God bless those who gave their lives for the freedoms we enjoy in America today. It took 4 years in the military and travels to Africa and Southeast Asia for me to fully realize our country is truly blessed.

TAGS: Maine stories Memorial Day

Dead Cat in the Dooryard

2010-03-13T21:18:00.006-05:00

I suppose it could have been my fault 50 years ago. We had cats from time to time growin' up in Maine in the 1950's, and after one extremely brutal night of sub-zero weather I went out to find our dead cat in the dooryard. The poor critter was laying flat to the ground and frozen stiff dead as dead can be. With 7 brothers and sisters, I felt sad but not really guilty. Afterall, we didn't rotate turns letting in the cat.

How then, do you suppose, years later this story is so difficult to tell? Being I moved away from Maine as an adult and have told the tale of the frozen dead cat in the dooryard on several occasions, just about every time the listener interrupts. They don't chime in with normal questions about the cat or the circumstances. The real question people want answered is "What the heck is a dooryard?" If it's something you can be "in" was he in like a wheelbarrow or something?

Makes me wonder has anyone written a book "How to Talk Mainah" kinda like they did for rednecks? Turns out the word dooryard is not universal in all 50 states. Short answer? That's the yard where you are standing when you leave the house, and depending on the door you exit it could be the back yard or front yard, too. Outside of Maine most folks probably just say "yard".

Note: Yes, that's me in the photo petting a cat in our dooryard in Derby Maine at around age 3, so about 1952 and with what's obviously a much much luckier cat than in this story.

TAGS: Maine stories cat

Homemade Apple Pie and Snowmobiles

2010-03-02T12:28:00.012-05:00

My best friend and neighbor Growin' Up in Maine lived less than a block away just around the corner on Church Street in Derby, Maine.

What did homemade apple pie and snowmobiles have in common in 1960? His Mom made an awesome homemade apple pie, and his Dad built one of the first snowmobiles in our neck of the woods in their garage.

Built from scratch, that homemade monster snowmobile was an engineering marvel! The photo here is similar and huge, yet modern and factory built. I prefer that homemade version.

The numerous tote roads and trails throughout Maine growing up in the 1950's were highways to adventure during all four seasons. In winter you never saw folks zooming along through the backwoods on snowmobiles. Were they illegal in Maine? No. It's because snowmobiles were not invented until later after suitable light duty engines were developed.

Oldtimers will likely remember the Bombardier Ski-Doo, the earliest and best known snowmobile brand that was first sold in 1959. The homemade snowmobile being built next door was unlike those dual front ski and rear drive single track snowmobiles popular today. My neighbor's prototype was a dual track front drive with a rear bench on skis for the driver and passengers.

Envision a normal power lawnmower with the engine mounted on wheels and a standard u-shaped handle with motor controls at your fingertips. Now picture that lawnmower 5 times that size with a car engine and dual tracks like a tank instead of wheels, yet with that same handle only really heavy duty.

The custom bench on 4 skis was towed behind the engine contraption and attached to rotate like a trailer hitch. The bench was long enough for several passengers to straddle the width with the driver up front and in control.

I don't recall if the homemade snowmobile was built in a single season, or if it took two. My best friend's Dad was very ingenious because he did not have the luxury of store bought parts, so hand crafted many of the components in his design. Most memorable were several versions of the slats on the tracks made by hand and destroyed on test drives until a working solution was discovered.

Being witness to those experiments and delightful destruction as the huge monster was cranked up and put into gear was matched only by the day it finally worked! Did it really really work? YES. What an amazing sight seeing that homemade monster snowmobile plowing through the snow and anything or everything that got in its way on the fields between Church Street and the railroad tracks!

Who was this legend of Derby? I usually don't name names in my stories, yet here's a clue. If you know the history of Derby and Milo, years later he was the contest winner who wrote the slogan "Milo, a Friendly Town". Until the horrific Main Street fire in 2008, that slogan was seen on the True Value Hardware storefront as you entered town on Route 16.

UPDATE and FOOTNOTE: Special thanks to Val and Nancy for republishing this story and riddle in Three Rivers News, a local Milo newspaper, on 9 Mar 2010. Here are some answers received by email guessing the name of the person who won the contest for writing "Milo, A Friendly Town". These are INCORRECT answers:
1. Tommy Howard
2. John? Curtis (Billy's father, who was actually Basil Curtis)
(Note: One person HAS already emailed the correct answer - Stan Clark.)

TAGS: Maine stories snowmobile

King of the Mountain Winter Game

2010-01-20T12:06:00.002-05:00

Wintertime fun growing up in Maine back in the 1950's and 60's included a game called "King of the Mountain" often played on a mound of snow pushed back from the road by snow plows. The idea was simple. A youngster stands on top of a 5-10 foot pile of snow while challengers attack and try to knock 'em off and take their place.

Shown here is my younger brother and I enjoying an accumulation of snow at the end of our driveway in Derby, Maine around 1961. In King of the Mountain the challenge can be one on one, or the champion may have half a dozen kids trying to knock them off the mountain.

The danger of falling in the way of traffic was little to none. There was no traffic. That's an advantage of being a country boy playing King of the Mountain in a small town in rural Maine.

TAGS: Maine stories games snow winter

A Time Before Electric Blankets

2009-10-18T09:16:00.004-04:00

As fall weather brings cooler temperatures to Maine I'm reminded of what my Grandma took to bed to keep her feet warm at night. Until he passed it was Grandpa, but that solution is too obvious and not what I had in mind. Grandma was born in the late 1800's at a time before electric blankets, and the old ways of keeping warm in frigid Maine weather stuck with her into the 1960's.

The old wood stove was a source for transportable heat moved about in a variety of containers. One example is the clunky irons for ironing clothes predating the invention of electricity. Some of those may still be found serving as doorstops. The iron was heated on a stovetop and reheated as necessary until the ironing was done.

As a side note, other retired irons became rope and pulley gravity weights for automatic outhouse door closers. Nowadays you'd be hard pressed to see one in action. If a two-seater and occupied you may not care to witness this oldtime version of the modern chat room.

Anyway, the stove heat could be used in other ways, too. The first time seeing Grandma's bedtime routine for keeping her toes warm left a lasting impression. In later years she used the old fashioned hot water bottle made out of thick rubber with a water tight stopper. However, in the 1950's she revealed an even older secret when she opened the oven door to show off two bricks baking.

These were standard size bricks like those used to make a brick house, and were heated until ready and then wrapped in a cloth which was placed under the covers. Layers of blankets and quilts provide insulation for holding heat, but in an unheated home the bed is still frigid when you first jump in. Those baked bricks allowed Grandma to keep her feet comfortable while the rest of bed became warm and cozy.

Years later I took a souvenir brick from the home my great great grandfather built in the 1800's on what is now Degerstrom Road in Monson, Maine. The brick was discovered in the cellar when my brother and I found the abandoned and rundown home while investigating our family history. Wish now I had two.

TAGS: Maine stories Monson cold

Parkman Family Reunion Memories

2009-08-22T12:13:00.004-04:00

The small photo shown to the left and taken in Milo Maine around 1957 brings back Parkman family reunion memories of Growin' Up in Maine.

The 8 people highlighted throughout the photo (left) include my 7 siblings and me. An enlarged version without any edits is included below to show more detail.

As kids we were less than fond of the photo sessions which is obvious from some of the facial expressions, yet 50 years later it is interesting to note the clothing and hairstyles of the era.

Enlarged photo of Parkman Family Reunion, Milo Maine (ca. 1957)

Earlier this year a new blog was launched featuring the matriarch of the Parkman family shown, my grandmother, and documents the Poetry of Beth Parkman (1893-1975). She is shown above (2nd female full face from the upper right) and my grandfather Earl Parkman is the second male in from the upper right in the top row.

TAGS: Maine stories family reunion

Trip to the Big City of Bangor

2009-01-03T20:01:00.003-05:00

As kids growing up in Derby, Maine, and just an hour drive from Bangor, taking a rare trip to the big city of Bangor was unusally exciting. There were no statues in my small town, so getting to see the giant statue of Paul Bunyon shown here was a thrill. Other attractions like the community pool with diving board remind me of Jethro from Beverly Hillbillies calling 'em cement ponds.

I remember the first McDonald's hamburger joint on the outskirts of Bangor when it first opened in the 1960's, and the delight of 25 cent burgers with fries and great chocolate shakes. 45 years later those 75 cent meals are partly to blame for that extra 75 pounds I weigh now. The golden arches and X number of millions of hamburgers served were unique and iconic. Who would have known those Ronald McDonald toys would fetch a small fortune on eBay nowadays?

Looking back, and having traveled the world to view even more exotic sites from Europe, Africa, and Asia, the simple pleasures of living in a small town and spending summers like Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer still own my heart and memory. The Maine slogan "Vacationland" giving way to "The Way Life Should Be" seems even more appropriate.

TAGS: Maine stories Bangor

Tin Roof Toboggan on Derby Hill

2008-12-31T16:50:00.007-05:00

Winter in Maine in the 1950's brings back fond memories sledding down Derby Hill. My friends and I were creative youngsters when it came to homemade sled vehicles for enjoying the snow. The illustration shown is a corrugated tin roof toboggan salvaged from an ancient outbuilding roof somewhere in town. The front was pulled up and shaped to a curve and though short would easily hold a single passenger or two daredevils.

On the downside of Derby Hill going into the village there were homes on the right and a huge field on the left with a gradual incline about 200 yards long. Across the road and behind the homes sled trails were made along a 50 foot wide stretch of open space between the homes and dense woods, and featured a steep incline for a fast ride once the trail was packed down.

The huge field was different at 150 feet wide and just as long. It was wide open without any major obstacles like trees or rocks, so the only dangerous spot was a 6 foot drop into the ditch along the road. Backing up a bit, I did say we were creative inventing rides like the tin roof toboggan? I didn't say the idea was brilliant. Ouch! If you can imagine speeding downhill on soft snow riding a sharp and rusty sheet of tin, the inevitable wreck had consequences. A crash meant stitches and a tetanus shot or bandages at the least. In retrospect I think the thrill was worth it.

Another beauty tranformed into a toboggan was a 1949 Henry J car hood. Now that baby was safe and could hold half a dozen fools, or more. Imagine the inverted car hood with a high pointed front to plow through the snow and sides to hang onto and hold us in place. Kids in the rear risked being knocked off the back, yet otherwise it was a luxury ride and wrecks were rare. Years later I rode a store bought wooden toboggan. It provided exceptional handling and an okay ride, but the thrill just wasn't the same as that Henry J hood or the rusty tin roof toboggan.

TAGS: Maine stories snow sled toboggan

Truth About Spring Brook Deadwater

2008-11-21T12:47:00.003-05:00

Guest contributor: Blanche Degerstrom (Mom)
Recorded in 2000 on analog microcassette then converted to digital audio.

Introduction: In a previous fishing story of Growin' Up in Maine Dad reveals the name of the highly guarded secret fishing hole known as Spring Brook Deadwater where insiders fish for Maine brook trout. In this audio snippet Mom reveals the truth about this secret place where people catch some of the best native Maine trout.

This is one in a series of guest stories by my late Dad, Ted Degerstrom Sr, and some others like this episode that will feature Mom, Blanche Degerstrom.

Listen now (press right button below) and hear this old recording entitled Truth About Spring Brook Deadwater, or read along with the transcript (Time: 00:18 min:sec):

Truth About Spring Brook Deadwater, by Blanche Degerstrom - Mom (transcript)

Mom: Spring Brook Deadwater.
Self: Is that the name of a fish market?
Dad (and Mom): Heh heh.
Mom: No.
Dad: Yeah.
Mom: It's the name that ev.. that fishermen give when somebody asks them "Where did you get them?", and you don't want to tell them you say "Spring Brook Deadwater".
All: (laughing)
Mom: It's not on the map. (the end)

Closing comment from Jim: This was recorded around a campfire at Jo Mary Lake campground near Millinocket, Maine, and you may hear the fire crackling in the background during the telling of this story. More audio from these old clips will be featured in future storytelling.

TAGS: Maine stories fishing brook trout

Fishing Secret of Spring Brook Deadwater

2008-10-16T11:27:00.003-04:00

Guest contributor: Ted Degerstrom Sr (1920-2000)
Recorded in 2000 on analog microcassette then converted to digital audio.

Introduction: In this fishing story of Growin' Up in Maine Dad reveals the name of the highly guarded secret fishing hole known as Spring Brook Deadwater where insiders fish for Maine brook trout. Maine fishermen remain tight lipped about the location of this secret place to catch some of the best native Maine trout.

This is one in a series of guest stories by my late Dad, Ted Degerstrom Sr, and some others will feature Mom, Blanche Degerstrom. While Dad describes the "what" about Spring Brook Deadwater, please wait before wasting time looking for it because Mom will reveal the secret of "where" in the next episode.

Listen now (press right button below) and hear this old recording entitled Fishing Secret of Spring Brook Deadwater, or read along with the transcript (Time: 01:49 min:sec):

Fishing Secret of Spring Brook Deadwater, by Ted Degerstrom Sr (transcript)

Did I ever show you that ahhh Spring Brook Deadwater? It's off the road coming in here... off from Bear Brook... not off from Bear Brook. No. No fish there either. I'm talking about Spring Brook Deadwater.

No. I'm talking about a spring in about ahhh an area a little bit bigger than this carpet right here... and just white sand, and that water ice cold. That water boiling right up out of that white sand and just as clear as a crystal.

I've often said "Oh, my God if a guy ever had that Spring Brook Deadwater near a city or any place... Wow! Gee!" Hell, that ain't too far from here. I mean if you went down to the end of the road. I'll bet ya it's still there, too. Yuh. Spring Brook Deadwater.

I went fishing up there and stayed overnight... with... ahh... remember Everett Black?... remember Cold Turd? You don't remember him? They lived up on top of Derby Hill. Geez whiz. I'll never forget the time riding home and we had them nice trout.

This ahh... old Doctor Bundy... Dr Bundy: "Hi Degerstrom, did you get any trout?"... said "Yuh", and Cold Turd said "Show him", so I opened up the bag. Nothing any more beautiful in the world. He says "Ohhhh, you couldn't give me a half a dozen of them could ya?"

I says "No, I couldn't". Hah! Heh! After going... going through all that... heh! Secret place. Nice trout. Spring Brook Deadwater. (the end)

Closing comment from Jim: This was recorded around a campfire at Jo Mary Lake campground near Millinocket, Maine, and you may hear the fire crackling in the background during the telling of this story. While Dad remained coy and elusive about giving directions to Spring Brook Deadwater, Mom spills the beans in the next episode. Stay tuned... you just might find out the given name of "Cold Turd", too.

TAGS: Maine stories fishing brook trout

Maine Hurricanes Carol and Edna in 1954

2008-09-29T04:30:00.002-04:00

With the glancing blow to Maine by hurricane Kyle in the last 24 hours, I am reminded of the double hit from Maine hurricanes Carol and Edna in September 1954. At 5 years old, the most significant memory of those two storms passing through was witnessing one of 3 oak trees snapped like a twig in Derby, Maine.

The 3 oak trees mentioned stood in a row about 20 feet apart on the lawn of the Clarks who lived around the corner on Church Street in the first house on the right from my home on Railroad Street. Each tree was close to 3 feet thick, and it is hard to imagine the force needed to snap one in half. It happened to one in 1954, and now there are only two.

The sight of the stump and that flattened oak tree seems like yesterday. A direct hit with landfall from any hurricane in Maine is rare, and the last one was 17 years ago. Hurricanes Carol and Edna in 1954 were remarkable with each striking in tandem within 10 days. Kyle in September 2008 dumped plenty of rain without much physical damage, but the destruction just in Maine from those 1954 hurricanes exceeded $25 million.

TAGS: Maine stories hurricanes

Mayflower Genealogy Growin Up in Maine

2008-09-23T10:53:00.003-04:00

A big thanks to Mom who visited this week and brought Mayflower genealogy evidence for yours truly, the author of Growin' Up in Maine. This history and genealogy details my ancestry on the maternal side back to William Brewster, a prominent passenger on the Mayflower arriving in America near Plymouth, Massachusetts in November 1620. Winter was spent aboard ship with the official landing the following spring.

The family oral history of relatives aboard the Mayflower was finally documented in writing by my mother's sister in June 2005, and then given to me 1,191 days later. That's a tad slow, despite our very large family, considering the Mayflower voyage took just 66 days. I am a 14th generation descendant of William Brewster, best known as a religious separatist who fled England to Amsterdam in 1608 and later escaped to America with 102 passengers and the crew of the Mayflower leaving Plymouth England in September 1620.

Here is my Mayflower genealogy leading up to Growin' Up in Maine.

William Brewster (c.1566-1644) b. Yorkshire, England - d. Plymouth MA
Patience Brewster m. Thomas Prence
Hannah Prence m. Nathaniel Mayo
Thomas Mayo m. Barbara Knowles
Thomas Mayo m. Elizabeth Higgins
Mercy Mayo m. Elkanah Young
Bathsheba Young m. Levi Higgins
Elkanah Higgins m. Azuba Knowles*
Nathaniel Higgins m. Remember Seward Blaisdell
Judson Higgins m. Avis White
Carrie Higgins m. Romanzo Parkman
Earl Parkman m. Elizabeth Thompson
Blanche Parkman m. Theodore Degerstrom
Jim Degerstrom

*The genealogical records show the Massachusetts birthplace and marriage of Bathsheba Young-Higgins and husband Levi Higgins who were married on February 19, 1767. Their son, Elkanah Higgins, was born in Bar Harbor, Maine, on August 16, 1769, and thus became the first official Mainer from our line of Mayflower descendants. Rules are rules. His parents were "from away".

Looking at the timing of the marriage and birth you can't help but wonder how many other Bar Harbor honeymooners fall in love with Maine, and never go home.

Further online research of William Brewster descendants to document any 15th generation people besides Roger Degerstrom, my son, includes a surprise discovery of Sarah Palin, former Governor of Alaska. That old adage often heard by Americans stating "my ancestors came over on the Mayflower" is certainly true for the author of Maine stories at Growin' Up in Maine.

TAGS: Maine stories Mayflower genealogy

What Every Teen Dreams About

2008-09-16T23:19:00.004-04:00

As a teenager Growin' Up in Maine, and like most, there was one thing I dreamed about. You could successfully argue there are a lot more dreams for any adolescent; and fantasies excluded, I'm talking about a driver's license. The scanned graphic shown is a 2008 discovery of my 1966 Maine State Temporary Operator's License found this month during long overdue spring cleaning as mentioned in another story.

The license expiration date is shown as Nov 3, 1966, so as I recall this was to allow a person 6 months time to get the permanent one. The learner's permit was likely a year earlier after completing Driver's Ed at Milo High School, and I strongly recommend parents have their teens take a driving course.

My wife and I have each driven over 40 years without an accident, not counting my minor incident navigating my sister's '58 Chevy into a swamp on Ricker Road, or spinning donuts with my brother's '65 Mustang into a snowbank on Derby Hill during a blizzard. Full confessions may follow, but not today.

Instead, I want to focus on that driving class and the joys of sitting in the backseat while a novice driver finds out why the teens are the awkward years. Being from a small town with mostly two-lane highways and no stop lights, we hit the big city and tried out one-way streets in Old Town. Later we braved traffic lights and divided highways in Bangor.

Thank God for the extra brake pedal on the teacher's side of that car! He was a bit slow on the Brownville Road as one classmate nailed a dog she sent spinning to doggie heaven. All in all the excitement was good material imprinted on the brain for a lifetime of safe driving. Hope I haven't jinxed it.

Finally, as an afterthought I blurred the signature and birthdate in the illustration to obscure details. I'm not looking to attract birthday greetings or anyone after a new identity.

TAGS: Maine stories drivers ed drivers license

Growin Up in Maine Audio Discovery

2008-09-08T11:48:00.004-04:00

For readers wondering about how the Maine stories presented as Growin' Up in Maine began, the idea was conceived long before the launch of this blog in 2007. This past weekend I was doing spring cleaning and tossed two truckloads of stuff which lacked any good reason for keeping. Spring cleaning in September you ask? Ayuh, being an expert in procrastination this was spring cleaning scheduled 5 years ago.

Amongst the treasures worth keepin' was a Growin' Up in Maine audio discovery as illustrated in the graphic shown. The two audio cassette albums entitled "Volume 1 - Down Back" and "Volume 2 - Hometown Mainiacs" (and then both subtitled "Dry Humor by Jim Degerstrom") are from a Growin' Up in Maine series I recorded in 1995, and since forgotten until now. The albums took place in California where I bought studio recording time, high quality cassette production services, and then insert printing and shrink wrap. The inserts announced 6 in the series though the last 4 never did get recorded, and those stories eventually became this blog.

The dusty box had a handful of volume 2 with about twice as many volume 1, and all in the original shrink wrap. The idea at the time was I sent copies to relatives Down East to offer to shopkeepers, and maybe have them on consignment for tourists to buy. Any dreams of being the next Bert and I disintegrated as those relatives balked at pitching the tapes and now 100's lie in dusty attics or landfills.

This discovery with 12 stories on each volume was interesting as I compared story titles to the currently published blog stories. For now 16 of the 24 stories have been presented here, so 8 from those cassette albums are yet to be told. Unlike the blog, perhaps the downfall of the albums was I named names without apologies, and the demise may have prevented legal consequences for lack of a "no resemblance to persons living or dead" disclaimer.

TAGS: Maine stories audio recording

Childhood Animated Stickman Artwork

2008-08-25T11:17:00.004-04:00

Growin' up in Maine in the early 1950's was a time long before computer video games, so as a youngster childhood animated stickman artwork was cheap and fun entertainment on rainy days. The animated stickman illustration shown here is an example similar to my earliest creations.

Back in 1955, and standing on the lot of the current single story Derby Community Center, was a very old two-story wooden building. At the back of the building I recall an iron fire escape up to the second floor which was rare for our small town, and an outside staircase just around the corner. The building was near the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad yard in Derby, Maine, with the Derby playground in between.

By age 5 or 6 my interest in drawing pictures, especially cartoons, was in its earliest development, and a shortage of funds for buying paper was the only drawback. Upstairs in that old wooden two-story building was a large office with a friendly old geezer running the place. It may have been part of the B&A.

They had an endless supply of odd sized paper including rolls, small pads, and various size sheets in different colors. How could you explain to kids today the joy of stopping by that office and being given 1-2 pads, or an entire roll about the width of calculator paper? That and a pen or pencil were all I needed to stay busy for hours.

Drawing a sequence of stick figures on consecutive sheets of a small pad allowed creating animations like the one shown. Flipping quickly through the pages created the illusion of movement, and I can't help but wonder if something that simple still interests youngsters today.

TAGS: Maine childhood games stories

Small Town Maine Backyard Basketball

2008-08-15T15:07:00.001-04:00

As a teenager from the small town of Derby, Maine, backyard basketball was another favorite passtime. A high school friend who lived on Ferry Road was tall and lanky just like me, yet his talent for the long shot was legendary. At times when there weren't enough youngsters to have 4 on 4 teams or larger, 1 on 1 skill contests were the next best thing.

Our version of the game horse involved matching shots with added difficulty levels like behind the back or shooting for a basket from under a raised leg. Shots made had to be matched, and the loser was the first to miss 5. Each miss picked up a letter to keep track of the score by spelling h-o-r-s-e, and you'd lose on the letter "e". Match a challenge shot, and you invented the next one.

This lanky rascal would attempt shots equal to the length of the NBA full court. He would lift off one leg for propulsion and was probably 50% accurate on making these outrageous shots. At times the same feat would be done with his back to the basketball net. Another was made standing on the other side of his house, over the roof without seeing the basketball hoop, and "swish" right in! Too bad NBA scouts didn't come to Derby more often. As I recall it was actually never.

TAGS: Maine stories playing games

Dairy Farm Haystack in Bangor Maine

2008-08-11T14:37:00.000-04:00

Late summer Growin' Up in Maine often meant an invitation to spend a few weeks on my uncle's dairy farm off Stillwater Avenue near Bangor. People work hard and eat well on a dairy farm. In the mid-1950's I was too young to be of much help with the real work, yet dipping a hand in a bucket of boiling water before cleaning an udder in preparation for milking cannot be forgotten.

At age 8 or 9 the hands are especially sensitive, but eating well meant helping with the chores, so I did it. Being from a family of 10, I looked forward to each hearty breakfast and supper with that unlimited supply of fresh milk.

One summer an older brother came along for the visit, and between the morning and evening milking times we found lots to do around the barn and farm. There were plenty of places to explore for hide-n-seek, and I displayed my ignorance of country living in one instance. My brother chose a tall haystack for a hiding place and remained unseen deep in the hay and was the last to be found. A loser pointed to his location, and I volunteered to help him out by digging with a hay rake as pictured.

I am not sure who was more ignorant as I announced my idea. My brother mumbled agreement as I began slowly scraping the hay away, and then became impatient plunging the rake into the haystack to speed up the process. That shot broke skin and drew blood on his forehead, so the game and my volunteer work were over. It's a good thing for thick skulls to offset a lack of childhood common sense.

TAGS: Maine stories dairy farm

Dangers of Gathering Acorns

2008-08-07T14:11:00.001-04:00

Two huge oak trees stand in front of where I grew up on Railroad Street in Derby, Maine, and late summer was a fun time for gathering acorns. Each of those two trees were about 3 feet in diameter and more than 30 feet tall. Lower limbs were trimmed so climbing was out of the question.

One summer day around 1955 a few friends, one of my 4 brothers, and I were tossing rocks into the top of the trees to knock down acorns, and learned a tough lesson about the dangers of gathering acorns. Our ammunition was rocks about the size of a child's fist, or half that of an adult, and my older brother made a memorable toss. Ricochets bouncing off a tree limb often had us ducking for cover, but that one shot was smooth sailing until the landing.

He missed branches as his missle went flying through the top of the tree on a high arc and landed moments later with a loud crash taking out the back window of a neighbor's car across the street. Back then there was no safety plate car windows, so the impact shattered the window in 1000 pieces (estimate only) which all fell onto the back seat of the car in tiny pieces.

We skedaddled, but the noise of the crashing window aroused the owner. Being broad daylight in a small town, escaping such mischief was rare. Solving the crime was a matter of 1 or 2 of us turning in the culprit.

TAGS: Maine stories summer fun

Thunder Hole in Bar Harbor Maine

2008-07-28T06:10:00.000-04:00

Trips to the coast of Maine were rare as a youngster Growin' Up in Maine. Living inland near the center of the state, the wonders of the rocky coast were more than I imagined, and a treat for young eyes. The photo shown is Thunder Hole in Acadia National Park near Bar Harbor. At the time of my visit, my Aunt announced our destination, and the thought of tourists stopping to look at a hole in a rock as waves came in seemed fairly boring.

Wow was I wrong! My childhood in the 1950's and 60's was a life like Huckleberry Finn with swimming, fishing, and rafting on the Sebec River in a spot we called Down Back, and an occasional perch or trout fishing trip on lakes, ponds, or brooks. Before visiting the natural wonder of Thunder Hole on that trip back in 1958, we spent a day on the beach, and over the course of a few hours the tides came in and out changing the landscape in amazing ways. You just didn't get that effect at the old swimming hole Down Back.

Anyway, when the timing is right the incoming tide rushes into Thunder Hole, that eroded hole in a rock that's more like a cave, and the force of water filling the cave explodes back like the roar of thunder. That and the witch's leg on Buck's grave are lesser known Maine attractions I now recommend to people from away.

TAGS: Maine stories Bar Harbor Thunder Hole

Ole Time Fishing in Maine

2008-07-23T06:01:00.000-04:00

Shown here is Mom and Dad with a string of fish, and the ad in the background is there for a reason. While trout fishing provided some of my best memories Growin' Up in Maine, you risk the inevitable uninvited guests, mosquitoes and blackflies. Though never witnessed personally, old timers mention small children carried off by Maine mosquitoes. From experience, blackflies swarm. Some are specialists that distract you by landing in your eyes, nose, and ears while others take a chunk out of your hide.

People often vacation in Maine with the dream of resting comfortably on the edge of a pristine babbling brook while casting a spinner bait in hope of catching Maine brook trout. As a youngster growing up in Derby, ole time fishing in Maine back in the 1960's was a deep woods adventure where you usually got wet, muddy, or both in the process. I'm not talking farm raised trout dumped in brooks to stock the easy-to-get-to spots, but the smart native trout born and bred in the real wilderness.

Whether fishing or hiking in Maine, you will encounter attacks by mosquitoes and blackflies. If you are outdoors, they will be there, and usually in large numbers. Be prepared with bug repellent and you can enjoy the natural beauty of Maine without the bugs. Our remedy for the mosquitoes and blackflies is Ole Time Woodsman mosquito repellent, and once you try it I believe you will agree the fragrance is indescribable.

They made it then. They make it now. Try Ole Time Woodsman. It was invented in the 1800's and has been standard Mainer fishing gear ever since. For grins I checked online, and small sizes are priced for less than $10. Just don't exceed the recommended dose. For me, I believe short term use may have warded off bugs for years, and could explain my lack of second dates as a teenager. Shoulda asked 'em to go fishing.

TAGS: Maine stories fishing blackflies

Late Night Childhood Moon Gazing

2008-07-18T05:53:00.000-04:00

There are things about Maine that you may not appreciate being born and living there all your life. As I recall summers back in the 1950's, and late night childhood moon gazing, adventures as an adult come to mind. Sometimes you need to step away from something to fully realize just how precious some things are.

I think a scowling woman with her hands on her hips while tapping her toe is really precious. If they didn't care you wouldn't get punched in the shoulder, they'd spin around and stomp off, and in the end you'd miss that icy stare and "the look".

Now, let's get back to being a kid. When I was young, summertime nights as youngsters in Maine were filled with simple pleasures like evenings crawling around in goldenrod fields, playing hide 'n' seek, or simply lying on your back and looking up at the moon and stars. At age 9 back in 1958 I could not imagine Neil Armstrong walking on the moon a decade later. It was enough then to just stare and wonder if the moon was really made out of cheese.

What did I learn later as an adult that gives me an appreciation for those summer nights and the great outdoors in Maine? There are no poisonous snakes or other vicious critters to worry about when crawling around or frolicking about in the little world of that small rural town. Note: (to self) I may write about mosquitoes and blackflies in another story. I guess there are exceptions.

TAGS: Maine stories summer

Camping Out Overnight Down Back

2008-07-12T06:00:00.001-04:00

Days spent at the old swimming hole Down Back in Derby, Maine, often went from morning to dusk for my childhood friends and me as youngsters. As night approached one summer day back around 1959, a few of the guys suggested spending the night camping out overnight in the grassy opening overlooking swimming hole rock. Make a quick trip home less than a 1/2 mile through the woods and we could gather what we needed.

This was a new idea, and sounded like a great adventure. Down Back was always our daytime playground. Sleeping bags and tents were for the backyard or family vacations. We decided to leave the fishing gear for some early morning fishing the next day, yet a volunteer was needed to watch over while others went home for the camping gear.

I volunteered! Later in life I understood why you never volunteer for anything, especially in the Army. Within 30 minutes it was pitch dark except for the campfire, and I was alone in the woods left to wonder if the great adventure was really a practical joke. If you have never spent much time outdoors, trust me. The daytime sounds are very different from those at night. When you're 10 years old, sounds at night and alone become even more exaggerated when its at night, alone, and in the middle of the woods!

To make a long story short, the friends did eventually arrive loaded up with gear for spending the night. I greeted them from 50 feet away and out of range from the light coming from the dwindling campfire, yet this ending is no tall tale. I could have spit on 'em from my vantage point as I was clinging to the top of a pine tree 50 feet straight up near the edge of the clearing.

TAGS: Maine stories camping

Last Childhood Memory in Derby Maine

2008-07-09T01:59:00.003-04:00

This photo of my parents home is the view I saw during my very last childhood memory in Derby, Maine, as I left to join the army in the 1960's. Mom stood on the lawn after heartfelt goodbyes, and I headed off towards a field between two neighbor homes to join a buddy for a ride to Bangor, and induction. The war in Viet Nam had become very real after a classmate's recent closed casket funeral, and my choice was to serve now to have that obligation behind me.

At the edge of the field I stopped, turned, and retraced my steps across 50 feet of lawn back towards my Mother who had not moved. As I view that photo taken from where I was standing as I turned, I recall that moment 40 years ago with a flood of memories from Growin' Up in Maine. The upper window to the left above the back shed was the one I climbed out after the blizzard of 1961. The snow was over the shed so I just stepped off the roof onto solid snow.

The chimney above the porch was famous for snatching rubber balls as my brothers and I tossed them over the house. A bad throw was easy to retrieve by climbing onto the shed roof, across the porch roof, and up the steep pitch to the chimney. The second chimney on the taller part of the house was off limits for climbing or retrieving toys. Slip there and the 15 foot drop could be fatal.

The large oak trees towering over the house in the background were actually on Railroad Street as seen from this view, and in front of our home and our grandparents next door. Those trees were loaded with acorns in the summertime which we used for slingshot ammunition, and each fall brought a blanket of colorful leaves a foot deep for hours of childhood fun.

That last childhood memory 40 years ago, and the reason I returned to Mom standing on the lawn that day, was the sudden realization of a truth that I had to share as I drew near. "I just realized... that boy you know will not be back. This is my last moment as a child, and while I will always be your son, sadly that boy you knew will be gone.", and with one last hug he was.

TAGS: Maine stories home

Gas Prices and Tooling Main Street

2008-06-18T22:18:00.003-04:00

Teenagers tooling Main Street in Milo back in the 1960's spent evenings driving from the state store parking lot between the two bridges on lower Main to the IGA parking lot uptown 2000 feet away. Parking and leaning out the car window to talk was a common form of socializing for 5-10 minute spurts, and then back to the other end to see what's new, or who else showed up. On weekends and in the summertime the activity went on day and night.

The constant parade was not missed by the owner of the hardware store on Main Street, who was quick to share his country wisdom on a wide variety of topics. One Saturday I walked up to Milo from Derby and was in the hardware store, which was empty except for me, and he went into a rant about gasoline. Back then a business owner was more likely to spend 30 minutes on a one dollar sale, and between customers this guy could go on for hours expounding stubborn opinions on how to fix the world. Being a polite and attentive listener I was the perfect audience for a good yarn, and was treated to some good 'uns.

Milo was and is a small town, so traffic on Main Street was quadrupled by the tooling teenagers, and taking notice the store owner started in on gas prices and the foolishness of the parents. The price wasn't a real issue because at 25 cents a gallon, fixin' the world included more important issues. He was disturbed by the waste. "Why can't they just park and talk in one place?", he'd asked.

Anyway, during the course of his tirade his son passed each way several times as we talked. I was about to comment about his son just as he ended his story with "If I had that kinda money to waste I'd get outta this sonsabitchin' cold country!" I doubt he'd ever make poster boy for Maine tourism, yet I fondly recall that closing comment with quiet amusement more than 40 years later.

TAGS: Maine stories Milo Main Street

Twenty Years in Derby Then and Now

2008-06-01T13:00:00.002-04:00

With the celebration of our 20th wedding anniversary this month, I decided to show readers an enlarged view of the photo of my wife and I Down Back on the Sebec River in Derby, Maine. The before (20 years ago) and after (very recent) with the river in the background uses a little digital photo edit trickery to show the same background in both views.

As mentioned at least once on this blog, some of my graphics are illustrations with photo edits for special effects, and some are actually several or more photographs combined to get just the right effect. Perhaps I should have a contest for finding the illustration that combines the most separate pieces of photographs. The photo of the raft wars took 3: the river, war paint, and me.

Maybe the first winning entry to arrive by email, if more than one correctly guess, could get $100 in credit towards custom artwork from my commercial site, or 2-3 of the Ten Decades of Stories CDs featuring audio stories by Larry Hall as announced in a previous post. Comment or email me with your ideas, and maybe I'll make a formal announcement. Each post has an illustration, so there's less than 100 to find the winning one.

TAGS: Maine stories Derby Maine anniversary

First USA Daylight Klan Parade in Milo

2008-05-31T17:00:00.005-04:00

The first USA daylight parade of the Ku Klux Klan was held on September 3, 1923 in Milo, Maine. I describe my hometown of Derby, Maine, population 300 as a suburb of Milo, population 2500, and I remember my Grandmother showing me the postcard shown here around 1955. The Ku Klux Klan parade took place in the same year as the centennial celebration of the incorporation of Milo 100 years earlier in 1823.

Today I interviewed a witness to that parade! Previously I introduced a guest contributor to stories of Growin' Up in Maine featuring Larry Hall, and we recorded his story about ringing the bell one night at the Derby Grammar School. He went there in the 1920's and I attended the same school in the 1950's. I mentioned in that episode that Larry, who is 91, and I may collaborate on an album "Ten Decades of Stories", and I am pleased to announce production has begun!

Larry Hall, born in 1916, was 7 years old when he stood on Main Street in Milo and watched that first USA daylight parade of the Ku Klux Klan. Together we are recording his childhood memories a few at a time until we have 10 or 20 for the CD. He picks the topics, and in today's recording session he completely surprised me by announcing his telling of that historic event. Details of the various participants included a large brass band, horse drawn fire engines, merchants with banners, a group of kids trailing at the end, and much much more. How exciting!

On a special historical note about the infamy of that parade, the citizens of Milo eventually discovered the true purpose of the Klan, and in less than 2 years they were driven out of Milo. They were told before the parade started to uncover their hoods, and then the grand marshall on horseback was confronted and threatened, so the event took place without restrictions. As shown in the photograph, they were wearing the hoods. Thus occurred the first indication of their violence, hatred, and true purpose. Two years later they were no longer welcome in the entire state.

Readers interested in purchasing a copy of the Ten Decades of Stories CD will be provided details once it's completed later this year. Email me now to reserve a copy, or several, and knowing how many will help us calculate a quantity for the first production run. My involvement is strictly voluntary, so sales minus cost of production go directly to my newfound 91 year old friend.

TAGS: Maine stories Milo Ku Klux Klan

Some Things Coming Back in Style

2008-05-23T21:09:00.004-04:00

Here’s my photo in Derby, Maine, around 1951, and taken in front of the ubiquitous wood pile common in most rural areas at the time. Actually that's kindling wood. The big stuff was already in the shed. Flat top crew cuts and white bucks may never be taken seriously again, yet in Maine some things are coming back in style.

Tour Maine today and the woodpiles are back. Blame the cost of fuel as more and more people are resorting to old fashioned pot belly wood stoves for heat. The efficiency and odor of burning cedar is nostalgic. Given time, the hoola-hoops, catseye marbles, and lawn jarts may not be far behind.

How many youngsters regret using their Mantle rookie cards for sound effects in the spokes on their bicycle? A dozen of those would pay for a college education nowadays, or a couple trips to the Allagash.

TAGS: Maine stories nostalgia

Maine Lobster DownEast Style

2008-05-17T21:31:00.003-04:00

The coast of Maine is called DownEast, and was 50 miles from my hometown growing up in Derby, Maine back in the 1950's. Trips to the ocean were rare, and when it came to a Maine lobster DownEast style it meant steamed with clams and corn on the cob in seaweed in an open fire on the beach. I'm not sure they do that nowadays, but it was great as a youngster on that one trip around 1957 with my aunt, uncle, and cousin.

Pictured here in the photograph is my wife at a dockside outdoor picnic area at a Maine lobster pound a few years later. Make that MANY years later. The sign with "Welcome to Maine - The way life should be" was not the slogan for Maine at the time, so I inserted it for illustration purposes only. If a sign like that is missing and under investigation, we don't have it.

TAGS: Maine stories lobster

Happy Mothers Day 2008 to All Moms

2008-05-11T03:26:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

TAGS: Maine stories Mothers Day

Shoveling Snow After a Maine Blizzard

2008-05-06T19:37:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

TAGS: Maine stories blizzard snow storm

Behind Home Plate at Fenway Park

2008-05-04T18:46:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

TAGS: Maine stories Derby Red Sox Fenway Park

Lessons of Mother Nature in Maine

2008-05-02T00:12:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

TAGS: Maine stories frog eggs nature springtime

Capturing the Nostalgia of Lawn Ducks

2008-04-30T01:00:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

TAGS: Maine stories lawn decorations lawn ducks

Outhouse Revenge at the Log Cabin

2008-04-27T00:27:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAGS: Maine stories log cabin storytelling woods

Running of the Bulls in Maine

2008-04-23T01:49:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

TAGS: games Maine stories bulls storytelling

Shotgun Lesson While Hunting Crows

2008-04-14T03:59:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

TAGS: Maine stories hunting

Missed Snowing in July in Maine

2008-04-02T21:07:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

TAGS: Maine stories fishing snow storytelling

River Rafting Battle Down Back

2008-03-31T17:10:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAGS: Maine stories rafting playing games storytelling

More Parental Advice Chosen to Ignore

2008-03-26T05:54:00.003-04:00

Growin' up in Maine in the 1950's had its share of perils, but I don't think chinese toy handcuffs were one of them. To ignore could mean to be ignorant when it comes to all that parental childhood advice. As mentioned on another occasion, some of that sensible advice was a tad late.

I do recall little sister playing with matches and bringing the fire department to Derby at least once. Down near McKusick's general store she accidently torched a nearby field which the firemen barely managed to control, thus avoiding 1) endangering the store and 2) an arsonist rapsheet in the family.

Don't run with sharp objects made sense, too, yet didn't stop one of my brothers and I from reenacting a television bit we saw many times on the old westerns. I don't mean the fist fight knee deep in a lake to simulate an action scene as the good guy and bad guy tumbled from their horses and had at it. That was harmless 'cause we didn’t have a horse, and we headsnapped to fake being hit by punches, but wait... there's more.

More memorable was the knife fight scene where I handed my brother barber's scissors (the long skinny ones), and proceeded to pretend we were cowboys again, only this time in the kitchen. "Let's play knife fight", I declared while handing him the scissors. I must say it was a fine piece of playacting there for a spell until he lunged and I lunged simultaneously. The shears went in on the palm side of my hand at the base of the fingers and penetrated nearly up to my wrist.

Mom was not pleased. I was more embarrassed than perturbed, or injured, so I guess ignore really can mean ignorant.

TAGS: maine stories playing games storytelling

Ice Skating Game of Chicken

2008-03-21T15:19:00.003-04:00

Maine is an ice skating wonderland with a large number of lakes, ponds, and even bogs for enjoying nature without modern distractions like skating indoors with shopping center music and a herd of skaters going one-way in circles. I didn't mention rivers or streams because even though they freeze over, only a fool skates over a moving current. Fall through and you're headed downstream trapped under the ice.

One bright and sunny spring day in March around 1962, an older brother and I invented an ice skating game of chicken on the Piscataquis River in Derby, Maine. He through down the challenge which I readily accepted, so make that two teenage fools tossing caution to the wind.

The river ice was receding as winter turned to spring, so on each side of the Piscataquis River there was perhaps 20 feet of crystal clear virgin ice that looked like glass. The middle was an open stretch of ice cold water perhaps 20 to 30 feet wide. At the shoreline the ice was thick enough for skating without any danger, yet from there to the middle the thickness gradually went from safe to razor thin at the edge of the moving open water.

Strapping on ice skates, the challenge was to take turns skating out towards the distant edge of ice and open water. Skate marks were easily seen in the glass-like ice, so the only rule was each turn required making a mark further out than your opponent until one quit. The one who quit was the chicken loser, and the last to go was the official winner, including post mortem if tragedy struck.

The first few rounds went out 2-3 feet each, so excitement grew as each outdid the other. From there it was enough to extend 2-3 inches and still see the mark to confirm a new record. From experience on ponds, we knew the challenge wasn't utterly stupid because the thin ice might crackle a warning sound and perhaps an opportunity to retreat.

My last run sealed the contest because as my left foot glided over his mark I skooched down with all the weight on that foot and extended my right leg while stretching to scratch a wide arc in the ice with the tip of my right skate. The skate mark added two feet to the record. Tall and lanky has its advantages. Game over.

TAGS: Maine stories ice skating storytelling

Kids Battle for the Cereal Box Prize

2008-03-08T00:03:00.001-05:00

In Maine back in the mid 1950's our family of 10 ate well on $20 a week for groceries. A highlight after the weekly food shopping was watching 8 kids battle for the cereal box prize. A Roy Rogers or Flash Gordon ring would be priceless today, yet other quality plastic toys were popular magnets for various brands. The television ads with free toys often enticed kids to campaign for that cereal.

The Navy frogman toy provided a lesson in chemistry once you filled one end with baking soda and dropped it into the kitchen sink or bathtub. Moments later the frogman would magically swim to the surface behind a trail of bubbles. Well, not always. Kids are impatient, so when moments turned into minutes the duds were retrieved, repacked with fresh baking soda, and launched again.

Higher quality cereal box offers required clipping multiple proofs of purchase, and then mailing away for your prize. Some required payment of 25 cents to a dollar, and then waiting 6-8 weeks for delivery, so nothing could beat those free in the box prizes for instant gratification.

TAGS: Maine stories games cereal prize cereal prize

Roping the Grammar School Bell in 1928

2008-02-27T17:12:00.009-05:00

Contributed by: Larry Hall, Ten Decades of Stories

Listen Now Click right arrow (twice in Internet Explorer) to Play | You may also Download MP3

This is a special story entitled "Let's Put a Rope on the Bell" about Growin' Up in Maine in 1928, and features a story contributed by a new reader, Larry Hall.

Mr. Hall was born in 1916 in my home town of Derby, and attended the Derby Grammar School (see photo and rope) from 1923-1931. After exchanging emails, we spoke by phone, and he agreed to let me record his story, so now readers can listen to his narration instead of reading.

During our conversation, I suggested the theme of "Ten Decades of Stories", and we may collaborate on a new blog that features exclusive stories by Mr. Hall in the near future. Meanwhile, close your eyes and imagine sitting in a rocker outside an old general store as you listen to Larry Hall tell about roping the grammar school bell in 1928, plus a bonus piece about the Sheriff's Model T Ford.

You are encouraged to bookmark this page and tell a friend, leave comments on this blog, or email me from any page with feedback about producing more audio stories recorded by Larry Hall.

Contributed and narrated by Larry Hall, Ten Decades of Stories

Thank you, Larry, for sharing memories of what it was like Growin' Up in Maine in 1928.

TAGS: Maine stories storytelling Derby school pranks

Now Mom Can Say I Told You So

2008-02-27T02:33:00.003-05:00

Parents get smarter the older we get, and looking back some of that advice was too late. Mom recently emailed me to let me know there are stories here about my childhood Growin' Up in Maine that she never knew, and she was glad they were kept secret back then. Now Mom can say I told you so, again.

My hip joints aren't what they used to be. As shown here, some of the winter sports we invented in the late 1950's in Derby, Maine, may be part of the reason. Ayuh, a good friend and close neighbor and I went Down Back by the railroad tracks one winter day, and decided to try a circus act atop a telegraph pole.

We shimmied up and managed to stand upright on the very top surface before leaping to the ground into 6 feet of snow. The landing wasn't bad, but you needed assistance digging out because you were stuck tight. As I recall, we took turns 3-4 times before the excitement wore off. Today my brain is around 38, most of me is 58, but those hips are feeling like 78.

TAGS: Maine winter games stories storytelling

Aunt Gladys Still Sharp at 96

2008-02-22T00:47:00.004-05:00

My definition of old requires simple math. Multiply your age times 2 and if you think you'll live that long, you're not old. At 58, I'll be old on my next birthday. My great aunt, Gladys Degerstrom, survived her children and all her siblings, and has since passed, but 12 years ago we first met and Aunt Gladys was still sharp at 96.

The photo here from 1996 shows a hand painted serving tray with a winter scene that she painted, and the inset photo shows her holding it. "This", she proclaimed, "was done when I was a teenager."

At the time I was tracing our family history and visiting Monson, Maine, where our ancestors first settled after arriving from Sweden in 1881. By chance, one person mentioned that a woman with the same last name was in a local nursing home in Dover-Foxcroft, so with my wife and parents we stopped by to visit. My grandfather passed away in 1953, and to our utter surprise this was his sister still doing well 43 years later, plus loaded with facts about our family history.

Gladys Degerstrom was born in 1900. We first met in 1996, and she passed away 2 years later. Her stories of Growin' Up in Maine in the early 1900's were about going to church in a horse and buggy, walking to the one room school at the end of Degerstrom Road, and the joys of living on a farm with a large family. She was able to name two horses in an old family photo, Doc and Besty, and told stories of sneaking off with a blanket to take a nap in the hay next to one or the other.

If you are interested in family history or genealogy, my advice is start looking around at the old timers in your family while they're still kicking. Take notes while you can. After that visit with Aunt Gladys, I was later informed by her grandson that the painting of the winter scene was her work, but it was painted two months earlier and not 80 years ago. To me, either date was equally amazing.

TAGS: Maine stories family Monson

Not Quite Hattfield and McCoys

2008-02-15T02:36:00.004-05:00

The shootout that warm summer day in Derby, Maine, was not quite Hattfield and McCoys, and the outcome was certainly less deadly. The shootout around 1959 was a surprise attack on a group of youngsters as we played football on Clark's lawn across from the post office. The solo shooter hid across the side street concealed in tall grass while picking us off one by one with a b-b gun.

With a third kid hit and the ensuing yelp of pain, we realized this was intentional and not hornets. One more was all it took to calculate the angle of attack, and finally we spied the culprit and decided to counterattack. He lived two blocks away, and ran for his life as 6-8 of us gave chase. He'd stop, swing around, and let off one or two shots to slow us down, but he realized we weren't giving up and headed for home.

Imagine this rascal holed up in a one-story shack with no parents home, and firing out an open window like a scene from the Hattfield and McCoys. He was surrounded, yet we were unarmed, and still taking hits trying to get close enough to inflict some revenge. I can still picture the conclusion as if it were yesterday, and not 48 years ago.

One of the older boys secretly navigated to the backside of the house, and came around the corner pressed tight to the side of the house. From our hiding places spread out behind trees, bushes, and a shed we watched the final drama unfold. The hero made it to the window undetected, and finally the barrel came out once again resting on the window sill. Bam! Down came a 3 foot monkey wrench and doubled up the barrel 90 degrees, and that gun was silenced forever.

Back then the villain was rumored to have done time in reform school before and since, so I doubt his life history ever showed up in anything better than a wanted poster.

TAGS: Derby Maine stories shootout

YA Tittle Move Over for Tom Brady

2008-01-22T03:09:00.001-05:00

Growin’ Up in Maine in the 1950’s the nearest pro football team to home was the New York Giants. Long before the Patriots arrived many Mainers were Giants fans with heroes like #14 quarterback Y.A. Tittle. Playing football was especially popular during the fall in Derby, Maine, and in the early 1960's my friends and I, mostly 12-14 years old, had some knock down drag out gridiron battles. Some games lasted 8 hours, or more, to the point of foolishness trying to play in the dark.

One of the favorite places to play tackle football was on Clark's front lawn on Church Street at the corner of Railroad Street across from the Derby Post Office. At some point in the mid-1950's, fields in Derby were being cut down and converted to lawns. Clark's field had become Clark's lawn and was about 50 feet wide by 150 feet long from Railroad Street up to their driveway. The only obstacle was a rock about 3 feet wide sticking 2 feet out of the ground sitting off center around mid field. As I recall, there was a street sign or stop sign on the corner, also, which was known to tackle unwary boys several times each season.

Back in 1962 Y.A. Tittle had one of his best years with 3,224 yards, 33 touchdowns, and an 89.5% pass completion record. Please don't mention the earlier years when interceptions outnumbered touchdowns. As youngsters, playing quarterback and pretending to be Y.A. was as close as any of us got to a football career. Being tall and lanky, I was often quarterback (pretending to be Y.A. Tittle) with a reputation for a perfect spiral and better than average accuracy. My younger brother had sticky fingers and an uncanny knack for finding the ball, so together we were a deadly combo.

In 1971 the Patriots AFL team officially changed their name to the New England Patriots, and my long time loyalty to the Giants took second fiddle. Sadly, my Dad who was born in 1920 and passed away in 2000 never saw the Red Sox or the Patriots win a championship. I still root for the Giants in games involving the NFC, and was thrilled to see them make the Super Bowl versus the AFC champion Patriots. Y.A. Tittle (and Eli Manning), move over for Tom Brady.

TAGS: Maine stories football playing games

Incredible Submarine of Derby Maine

2008-01-18T14:14:00.000-05:00

As youngsters Growin Up in Maine, all that my friends and I needed was a little imagination to find fun things to do all year round. In most cases our games cost nothing. In wintertime, and thanks to the DOT snowplows, we "invented" games like the incredible submarine of Derby, Maine.

The illustration shows me peeking out of a pile of snow typical of what usually accumulated by mid-winter each year. The roadsides of Maine are like frozen slots as snowplows continue to push back snow from consecutive storms.

The dotted line simulates the outline of how a few of us kids would dig a tunnel the shape of a submarine in the roadside snow, with a couple of top hatches to enter and exit. The inside was packed solid like an igloo, so it was dry and warm as we played and yelled out commands for "full speed ahead", "fire torpedoes" or "abandon ship".

It would be rare nowadays for kids to play like that. The submarines of the 1950's have been replaced by video games. Coincidentally, pundits report an increase in the average percentage of teen body fat since the good old days.

TAGS: Maine stories games snow

My Grandparents Raised Rabbits

2008-01-14T02:23:00.000-05:00

It's true my grandparents on my Mother's side raised rabbits during the 1950's, and at the time I was too naive to realize the reason why. I'm talking about the cute furry kind, and a decade later as a teenager I shot and ate my share of the wild version.

Some would say that the grandparents on both sides of the family raised rabbits. The 1974 photo shown is my 7 siblings with our parents who at last count had over 50 grandchildren and great grandchildren.

Here's the names of the Degerstrom family from Derby, Maine, left to right: Ted Jr, Carol, Ed, Don, Blanche (Mom), Ted Sr (Dad), Jim, Eric, Janice, and Deb. Doubtless we represented one of the last big families from our town and that era.

Our childhood names were less formal; for example Eric was "Ricky". As much as 10 years after the last of us was born, Mom or someone figured out the first initials of the boys in birth order spelled the name of the oldest boy, Ted Jr, or T-E-D-J-R for Teddy, Eddie, Donnie, Jimmy, Ricky.

I was named after an uncle (on a bet). With 3 boys and 1 girl when carrying me, Mom wanted a girl and was so certain I wouldn't disappoint her, she already picked out my name: Barbara. Uncle Jim was surprised she didn't have a boy's name just in case, and she refused. The bet was "name it after me" if you're wrong, and she'd get 10 bucks if I was a girl. It was boy-girl-boy-boy-boy-boy before she got her wish and the last 2 girls.

TAGS: Maine stories derby family rabbits

First Degerstrom to Arrive in Maine

2008-01-10T00:51:00.000-05:00

Johann "John" Degerstrom was the first of my ancestors to arrive in Maine from Sweden in 1870. Going back 10 years ago, I could only trace the paternal name about 100 years in America, and then through internet contacts I can now name the Swedish paternal line back to the year 1560. John was the oldest child of my great great grandfather. The oldest sister, Katrina, followed in 1880, and then the entire clan in 1881.

John and his brother Lars "Fred" Degerstrom, who is my great grandfather, lived in separate homes on Degerstrom Road in Monson, Maine. Both homes are still there although Fred's is no longer inhabitable.

The old photo here shows John with an axe over his shoulder at a rustic log cabin in the backwoods of Maine. The Swedish family ancestors were mostly farmers or joined the military, and their home near the Arctic Circle of Norrbotten Lans in Northern Sweden meant they stayed close to nature. This trait and an appreciation for the outdoors has been passed down to all generations.

John first worked as a lumberjack, and was famous for his skill with a double bladed axe, and few could match his daily production of felled trees which were cut to length in cords of wood. Keep in mind this was long before chain saws. Reflecting on my childhood Growin' Up in Maine in the 1950's and 60's, this photo reminds me of the many log cabins my friends and I built as youngsters.

TAGS: Maine stories Monson ancestors log cabin

Awesome Snowslide Down Derby Hill

2008-01-02T20:29:00.001-05:00

Around 1959 a group of adolescent friends and I gathered to create an olympic worthy snowslide down Derby Hill in Derby, Maine. As shown in the photo illustration we shoveled a series of snowbanks that curved left and then right and back again for 200 or 300 feet. This 6 foot deep channel was through the steep backyards of half a dozen homes on a 50 foot wide right of way butting up to the forest.

The slide was an engineering marvel considering we were all around 10 years old, and the alternating embankments made the ride perfect for flying saucers. While sitting cross-legged in the aluminum flying saucer, and hanging on to 2 plastic handles, it didn't take long to pick up enough speed for a thrilling 2-3 minute ride.

In the early testing adjustments were required at the last few curves downhill because the speed and momentum exceeded the height limitations of the embankment. A few test subjects hit one of those last curves and went up and over the top cork-screwing through the air hanging on for dear life. After adding 2-3 feet of snow to the embankments we were good to go, and spent many days into the late evening enjoying this awesome snowslide.

TAGS: Maine stories Derby snowslide flying saucer

Twas the Night Before Christmas Reading

2007-12-16T19:55:00.000-05:00

With the approach of Christmas the memories of my childhood Growin' Up in Maine come flooding back including the happiness being in a family of 8 children on this special day. The photograph is me at 2-1/2 years old shown sitting with my Dad around 1951 when I was the youngest of the first 5 children, and he's reading Twas the Night Before Christmas. This poem, also named "A Visit from St. Nicholas" is a Christmas Eve tradition, and was written by Clement Clarke Moore in 1822.

Adding to this memory of Maine in a special way, I've recorded this poem so readers can hear my voice reading Twas the Night Before Christmas on an mp3 audio instead of just viewing it. It runs just over 4 minutes, and was done in one take.

Enjoy.

Did you notice the cowboy boots in the photo? Haha. Now that I do not remember.

Audio Notes (Press Right Button to Play)

Title: Twas the Night Before Christmas
Narration: Jim Degerstrom
Play Time: 00:04:18

Here's wishing all a Merry Christmas and happy holiday season.

TAGS: Maine stories Christmas audio

People with All the Answers

2007-12-11T02:50:00.000-05:00

As a child Growin' Up in Maine, there was no end to practical jokes and some were simply a right of passage like tricking a young boy to pee on an electric fence. I fell for it once. Years later as an adult and working in electronics, I encountered a technician who falls into that category of "People with All the Answers", and decided he needed a taste of good old Maine humor. You may not believe the results! It didn't backfire but it did leave me dumbfounded.

This goes back to when battery operated clocks were first introduced, and I set one up for what I thought was the perfect sight gag. The clock for the prank looked like the old schoolhouse clocks that us oldtimers remember from the 1950's. The effect was created by taking an old electrical cord and taping it to the back of the battery operated wall clock, and then dangling the plug so it would only reach about 6 inches above the wall outlet. Got it? It was not plugged in, yet the second hand was going tic-tic-tic.

Next, I called the know-it-all to explain this mystery of the ticking clock that wasn't plugged in. With arms crossed while looking up and down and stroking his chin, he was not puzzled for even a moment! Instead, and just as serious as can be, he broke into an absurd theory of static electricity buildup much like the charge in a battery, and other mumbo jumbo, and he insisted that those conditions can make a clock run. To my delight everyone else was very puzzled without an explanation, but this guy could not admit "I don't know". Perhaps I should have asked him to plug it in!

TAGS: Maine stories wall clock practical joke

Rainbow Trout Adventures on Cedar Pond

2007-12-05T23:15:00.000-05:00

Fishing for rainbow trout on Cedar Pond in Central Maine, north of Milo between Brownville Junction and Millinocket, was a challenge back in 1960. Today you can drive right up to the pond without touching a tote road, pull off into a gravel parking spot, and be fishing within minutes from a canoe. Fishing Cedar Pond was not that easy when I was a teenager Growin’ Up in Maine 40 years ago.

Before mid-1960 the trip was one hour on a paved road, half an hour on a dirt road, a mile on a tote road, and then an hour hike through dense woods over rough terrain including hills, bogs, muck and mire, more hills, and mosquitoes the size of a chickadee. Boats or canoes were not an option. Approaching our destination, the first person to arrive atop the last hill could usually see the pond in the distance through the trees, and yelled "I see dah pond (Cedar Pond)". It was a corny yet mandatory exclamation passed down through the generations.

Upon arrival it was sometimes impossible to catch trout from shore, so cedar log rafts were necessary. These were not ordinary cedar rafts like the new ones we built each year Down Back near the old swimming hole to replace the ones swept away downriver in Spring floods. Pond rafts don't float away, so the cedar log rafts on Cedar Pond spanned generations and survived the ravages of Maine year to year. I floated on the same rafts used by my parents and grandparents.

Now the real adventure began. The first priority was circling the pond in search of a log raft. Next you needed a 3-4 pound rock to place in the woven backpack like the fishing basket shown in the photograph above, and a long wooden pole for navigation. Finally, standard gear was a light fishing rod and a bait can with earth worms strapped to your belt.

This rainbow trout technique created an illusion that was certain to shock a first timer watching from shore. Picture a person standing on the water 100 yards in the middle of the pond, because that's what it looked like. These old time rafts were waterlogged and much of the buoyancy was gone, so if you got a good 'un it would float enough to keep from sinking, but all the logs stayed about 6 inches underwater. The rock in the backpack was to keep the basket and your fish from floating away.

Navigating was a bit sluggish like pushing a raft through mud, but it worked. When you caught a trout you'd flip it into the basket before unhooking it, then continue until you caught your limit or drowned the last of your worms. As you can imagine, this was not a lazy man's way to go fishing, so competition was scarce unlike pier fishing which is often elbow to elbow. Our typical group of 4 rarely saw more than 1 or 2 strangers on Cedar Pond on any given fishing trip.

The easy access to Cedar Pond years later ruined the adventure, peace and quiet, and unspoiled beauty. I never returned under those modern conditions. I could just imagine people bait casting without getting out of the car, or quick hops from pond to pond like a raiding party. The fish suffered, too, as the size and number of the rainbow trout dwindled rapidly. Maine State stocks ponds nowadays, so perhaps the trout rebounded, but Cedar Pond will never be the same. Farm trout are not as wiley as native rainbow trout.

TAGS: Maine stories fishing rainbow trout

Amateur Ice Hockey on Derby Pond

2007-12-01T02:30:00.001-05:00

Winter arrives early in Maine with numerous outdoor places for amateur ice hockey, day or night. As kids growing up in Derby, Maine back in the 1950's, we were usually ice skating by Thanksgiving, and often with no snow on the ground. December was different, and usually required a crew shoveling snow to clear the ice each time it snowed.

Derby Pond was a favorite for hockey because it was man-made and perhaps 40 feet wide and 2-300 feet long. The puck was easy to retrieve compared to lake hockey where a bad shot could travel for a quarter mile. Lakes were fun in other ways like opening your jacket on a windy day, and then spreading your "wings" for effortless sailing in one direction.

Another ice skating option was a nearby swampy bog with easy access across the road and through the woods apiece about 1000 feet from our home. A large open space was the central spot for a bonfire made from old tires donated by one of the gas stations uptown in Milo. The bog had several adjacent paths through the alders that were perfect for a game of tag on ice. The paths were more like an obstacle course, so the chase involved as much skill as speed, especially at night.

I first learned to skate on figure skates, so I never could get the knack of hockey skates. I wanted those teeth on the front for quick stops. The thrill of flying across the ice at top speed is memorable, and then spinning 180 degrees on one toe, and continuing backwards for 20 feet watching the spray of ice off that one skate. It seems like yesterday, but that spectacle on ice was over 40 years ago.

Anyway, our sessions of ice hockey on Derby Pond would go on for hours, sometimes into the night, and it was truly amateur. No one owned hockey equipment other than skates, pucks, and hockey sticks. I don't think the market for hockey helmets, gloves, or shin guards for kids got discovered until years later. The only goalie defense for a slap shot flying straight at you about a foot above the knees and headed for your tender spot was a quick dive left or right. Let 'em score!

Getting 4 or 5 boys per team was typical, and each kid usually brought a spare hockey stick because the first one rarely survived the marathon sessions. Misfired hockey pucks off into a snowbank were not always found, so if we ran out a chunk of ice did just fine as a substitute puck. Thinking back, it's amazing how we just kept going despite the cold or occasional bloody nose. That were fun. Ayuh.

TAGS: Maine stories hockey ice skating derby

Late Night with Bruno Sammartino

2007-11-02T18:41:00.000-04:00

Older readers may remember professional wrestler Bruno Sammartino from the 1960's into the early 1970's for his then and current world record with 11 years as WWWF champion. He sure was fun to watch as a kid Growin' Up in Maine. Testing my memory, most notable of his opponents were other superstars with great nicknames like Gorilla Monsoon and Killer Kowalski.

Who knew that what we watched in black and white and later color television, would evolve into the huge market of professional wrestling today? I believe the entertainment value was better back then with less hype, and before the surge in Las Vegas showmanship.

As an adult I attended a pro wrestling event in Dover-Foxcroft, Maine. By then the sport was more known for its entertainment value, and I really didn't know any stars by name. However, a youngster around 10 years old sat next to me, and knew every athelete on the card in great detail. As an example, upon the announcement of one opponent he turned to me with another insider tip and whispered "This guy eats raw meat!"

Again, who knew. I must admit the blood drawn in one match looked real that night after one wrestler was smacked with a folding chair.

TAGS: Maine stories old television wrestling

Running Away from Home

2007-10-25T14:01:00.001-04:00

The particulars of the offense in the summer of 1954 elude me, yet at age 5 I adamantly announced I was fed up and running away from home. The bicycle trip was less than 150 yards to the 4 corners at the bottom of Derby Hill near the old grammar school as I began to question the wisdom of the unfolding drama.

I realized how dumb I felt being broke and hungry with nowhere to go. Eating crow would have been easier if I simply went for a bike ride without announcing my intentions. All Mom had said was "Okay. Goodbye."

Turn left and the Ferry Road was a dead end at the Piscataquis River. Turn right and the wicked climb up Derby Hill meant walking the bike past a dozen homes and the scrutiny of neighbors who might turn me in to the authorities. Go straight ahead about 4 miles past a half dozen homes or farms on River Road, and it was 100 miles of wilderness from Derby to Canada.

Whoever invented that count to 10 rule when you're under stress was a genius. Try it. We had pork chops that night.

TAGS: Maine stories runaway

Fall Potato Picking Down Back

2007-10-16T00:37:00.001-04:00

Maine is famous for potatoes with huge fields that go for miles. During early fall Down Back at the old swimming hole in Derby, Maine, some of us youngsters would fix baked potato wrapped in tin foil slow cooked over an outdoor fire.

On one potato picking excursion a friend and I took a burlap sack, navigated a cedar log raft downstream about a half mile, and then tied up at the opposite shore. Next, we hiked 50 feet through some brush and trees, and made our way up a 15 foot bank to the edge of a potato field.

Potato plants grow low to the ground, so we crawled to avoid attention. That lasted about 10 minutes as we heard a shout and saw a farmer running our way. We grabbed the burlap sack between us because 50 pounds was too heavy for just one, and then we headed for the embankment discussing strategy on the way. It was agreed we'd toss the bag on the forward swing at the count of 3 just before the edge, and then jump the 15 feet to the bottom. He let go on 2.

I went flying over the embankment like a ribbon tied to a rock while still clinging to the burlap sack. My friend landed on his feet while I took a bruising. Unshaken we grabbed the sack, ran through the brush, and boarded the raft. We had a 1000 foot head start on the farmer, so we were poling up river and out of site in no time.

Later on as we were enjoying our baked potato around the campfire I offered lessons on counting to 3. That boy grew up to be an accountant. I swear.

TAGS: Maine stories potato picking

Lesson in Polite versus Too Polite

2007-09-25T02:00:00.001-04:00

Life is full of contradictions. An acquaintance once called me "honest to a fault" and I can't help but wonder how honesty could be wrong. You might think the same goes for "polite", yet I learned in the 6th grade there are exceptions.

At home and Growin' Up in Maine, I walked to the Derby grammar school for years attending kindergarten through 5th grade. School beginning in the 6th grade was over a mile away in Milo, and those of us in the suburbs took the bus. For my first trip on the return home I learned there are rules for kids exiting the bus.

I stepped down and instead of crossing the street in front of the bus, I stood in place and waved the driver on. He waved back meaning I should go first, so I shook my head for 'no' and returned the gesture. He opened the door and told me emphatically to cross in front of the bus. "No, that's okay", I said, "you go ahead." Oh oh. His face turned beet red instantly and I thought his blood vessels were gonna pop as he screamed at me to cross the street!

Lack of manners backfired again later in life at a local charity function. The organizers announced raffle tickets on sale for a color television, and I stepped in front of a woman to buy mine. I walked away feeling guilty. "You go ahead" would have been more in character, and I would have had the tickets she bought. Yes, she won the television. Given the chance, justice will prevail.

TAGS: Maine stories school manners

Half Pound Shy of 200 Club

2007-08-28T01:01:00.001-04:00

The family ate very well one winter back in the early 1960's after my Dad shot this (almost) 200 pound whitetail buck between Milo and Bangor, Maine. He and 3 other men from the Milo area carpooled daily one hour each way to work at the Bangor and Aroostook railroad shops near Bangor. The trip was nearly all woods the entire distance, and they would often spot whitetail deer.

During deer hunting season the group carried a 30-06 rifle and rotated turns. Success depended on luck because each man had just one shot for every 4 deer. My Dad was fortunate to be riding shotgun and dropped this buck from over 1000 feet away. Later on when it was taken to the official weighing station, they found out he missed joining the prestigious 200 Pound Buck Club by half a pound.

It was a mild disappointment. For parents raising 8 kids, the bonus meat came in handy. The butcher from the IGA in Milo was hired to cut and package the meat wrapped in paper which was put up in a standing freezer. There were roasts, steaks, ribs, and lotsa hamburgers that lasted most of the winter. I still remember the flavor of the steaks as if it was yesterday, yet I have not eaten venison in over 30 years. I'm overdue.

TAGS: Maine stories deer hunting whitetail deer

One Year at Hard Labor

2007-08-13T01:30:00.000-04:00

Very few of the people I've known Growin' Up in Maine are aware that I spent one year as a lineman building cable television lines when catv was in its infancy. Forget the title here. I've never been incarcerated, and although it was hard labor, it was a lot of fun, too. My work since has been more sedentary, and as a child I climbed more trees than I can count, so the work was a natural.

The photo of me here illustrates the ease with which I climbed, drilled, and put in the hardware to string steel support lines, and later the coaxial cable. I worked the ground for two months supporting a team of lineman, and watched what they did like a hawk while learning to duck bolts and miscellaneous other falling objects. The linemen made twice my salary and one day I was "caught" by the foreman at breaktime climbing a pole like a monkey using borrowed equipment. I started as a lineman the next day at double my previous pay.

As teenagers and spending summers like Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, the woods were as important to my circle of friends as the old swimming hole Down Back. In winter, we invented small town versions of extreme sports, and trees provided great opportunities with a little imagination. Picture climbing a 50 foot pine tree covered in snow, and then climbing out on a limb near the top.

Next, we let loose and slid down the outer boughs of the tree in an avalanche of snow for one heck of a thrill ride. The triangular shape of the pine tree meant the limbs and snow slowed down the fall, and with 4 to 6 feet of snow on the ground the landing was fairly soft. Our parents were unaware of most of the reckless behavior, so I must apologize now to Mom if she reads this one because it took more than 40 years to confess. There's more. Stay tuned.

TAGS: Maine stories woods climbing trees

Magnificent 8 Story Treehouse

2007-08-10T01:18:00.000-04:00

Rome wasn't built in a day, but around 1960 a group of friends and I, aged 12 to 14, did build a magnificent 8 story treehouse in one day. The location was a stand of trees in an open field between the railroad tracks and Church Street in Derby, Maine. We were like an army of ants cutting, measuring, and hammering old lumber. The skyscraper started with one floor, four walls, and the roof which became the floor of the next level.

The design was approximately 6-8 feet wide with a variety of windows and doors, and each story was about 5 feet tall. We included a few escape hatches to crawl between floors, and a crude outside ladder. At 4:00pm the daily parade of traffic from the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad Shops had just begun as we finished the roof of our 8 story treehouse. We eagerly awaited the arrival of the railroad working Dad of two of the boys in our construction crew because the site was about 40 feet behind their house and garage.

Our sense of achievement took a turn for the worse as the Dad took one look and announced he did not own the property, and we must ask permission to keep the treehouse there. Furthermore, he informed us the land belonged to a neighbor who we knew as a cantankerous old man. He lived alone, and was best known for his slurred speech and staggered walk.

One of the older boys agreed to go ask, and returned with his chin on his chest and kicking dirt. The treehouse came down the same day. We were unable to capture it on film, so I opted for creating an illustration with a similar 8 story structure said to exist somewhere in Europe.

TAGS: Maine stories treehouse

Sales Lessons Then and Now

2007-08-07T03:28:00.000-04:00

At age 4 in the summer of 1953 while at home in Derby, Maine, I had my first lesson in face to face sales. Those were innocent times in an era when door to door salespersons were usually welcome. Today, at least in some places, you're more likely to be met by a growling dog or 38 special.

I still remember that one salesman who came calling with a handful of Melmac dinnerware, and me standing next to Mom to hear the sales pitch. Sets were available in a variety of vibrant colors, easy to clean, and on and on. The clincher came when he bounced a cup off the kitchen floor, and then another. Mom was unimpressed, and not buying, but I eventually closed the sale hanging off her apron and pleading.

They did last. There were some still in the cupboard 20 years later when I returned as an adult. In the years since, my career has included closing multi-million dollar sales, and I believe my success may have begun that day in 1953.

Perhaps the most outrageous sales experience was years later at the annual flea market in Damariscotta, Maine. My sisters, Mom, and my wife each had tables and needed assistance towards the end of the day getting rid of difficult items. A biker picked up a ceramic thingamabob with candle holes and a religious theme priced at 50 cents, and seemed sincere before placing it down and walking away.

Coming to the rescue, I called out to ask if he would take it away for a nickel. He turned, paused, then returned and gave it another look before deciding to take it. As he reached in his pocket I handed him 5 cents and thanked him for agreeing to take it away for a nickel. I did not smirk. I did not smile. This was good ol' dry Maine humor at its best.

Everything that was left went into a mystery box. This was announced loudly to anyone within earshot, and they could not peek at the contents, but "Who will take away this mystery box for 50 cents." It took 5 minutes to sell, but the look on that old man's face as I handed him his 50 cents was precious. Just like the biker, he left shaking his head and wearing a big grin. They were happy. We got to go home.

TAGS: Maine stories melmac flea market Maine humor

Bowling Goes Through the Roof

2007-08-04T19:41:00.001-04:00

In our late teens, a good friend and I bowled often just for fun at the Rocket Lanes in Dover-Foxcroft, Maine. This guy was long and lanky and famous for his through the roof style bouncing balls off the ceiling. It was hard to tell if it was his typical late release, or intentional. No, he wasn't a muscle man. Balls for candlepin bowling are 4.5" in diameter (the size of a softball) with a regulation maximum weight of 2 pounds and 7 ounces. Regardless of my friend's excuse, he was ejected more than once before we got our money's worth.

My parents were especially active bowlers. After years of league play, the 40-50 trophies in their collection were becoming tiresome dust collectors. Rather than toss them in the trash, they stripped the brass nameplates and had each replaced with the engraved name of one child in a small league of special ed handicapped children. Each received a personalized winners trophy and the smiles were worth a million.

Bowling isn't the same anywhere else when it comes to candlepin bowling as played in New England or the eastern provinces of Canada, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. Candlepin is common and almost exclusive to this area with the rare exception of one alley in Ohio and maybe Montana the last time I checked.

In high school league competition was 3 strings, and a total of 400 pins or more in 3 strings was outstanding. The world record for one game is 245 set in 1984 by Ralph Semb in Massachusetts, and after 15 years of controversy about the event being sanctioned, the game was finally recognized as the world candlepin bowling record in 1999. It still stands.

Scoring is the same as tenpin bowling where an above average bowler may score 300 in a single game several times in a lifetime. Pros expect nothing less than 300 each game. In candlepin, the pin shape and 4.5 inch ball make a big difference when bowling for a perfect 300 game. It becomes even more difficult bouncing balls off the ceiling.

TAGS: Maine stories bowling candlepin bowling

Stunning Basketball Career Highlight

2007-07-31T01:47:00.001-04:00

My choice to quit the band and play basketball my last year of high school was a shock to the music teacher. I tried out for basketball more for my Dad than my skills on the court because he had attended and played all around sports at the same schools, and of his 5 sons I was the first to play sports.

The photograph shown is the Derby Maine Grammar School basketball team around 1931. The person circled is my Dad, who was best known later in high school as a running back, and proudly recalled the time he was knocked out 3 times in one football game.

I promised readers some time back to provide details of my stunning basketball career highlight. My basketball peers were more experienced having played all through school, so I settled for a spot on the Junior Varsity team. The JV team was the warmup game before the seasoned varsity team took center stage. You may have noticed the title here includes "highlight", and not plural. Not only was I on the junior team, I was 3rd string, or maybe it was 4th.

If our team was behind 20-30 points with a minute to go, maybe, and just maybe, some of us misfits would get some play time. We didn't care. We had front row seats and free tickets to every varsity game, plus fresh oranges at half time. Life was good.

The sheer excitement getting on court was too much for some. One of the misfits would run past everyone and leap up behind the backboard to grab a pipe, and swing from the supports while waving to the crowd. Our playing skills were classic 3 Stooges!

Highlight: In one game and stopped 25 feet away with my back to our basket, and double teamed, I chose to leap straight up, spin 180 degrees, and throw in the direction of the basket. It went in! I looked to the bench just in time to see the coach shaking his head with his face buried in his hands. Haha! I was fouled to boot and missed both foul shots.

That was the highlight of my basketball career. One season. Two points. Lotsa laughs.

TAGS: Maine stories school sports basketball

Triangulathon Contest of Derby Maine

2007-07-28T15:22:00.001-04:00

Grownin' up in Derby Maine 50 years ago meant inventing entertainment of various sorts. You may be surprised with the different toys one could make from an empty cereal box. The round Quaker Oats box made the perfect drum for youngsters living in a family of 8 kids on a limited budget. Another favorite invention was sports.

The now (almost) famous sporting events held each summer at the old swimming hole Down Back in Derby, Maine, included the triangulathon. I just Googled that term, and it appears I've coined a new word, so I best do a definition and tag it in Technorati to stake my claim to everything in the known universe about triangulathon.

Triangulathon: An aquatic competitive event that is not official unless performed in Derby, Maine, and consists of diving from the old swimming hole rock at the edge of the Sebec River and remaining submerged while swimming half way across the river to middle rock, turning upstream and continuing underwater to standing rock, and finally back to the old swimming hole rock while still submerged to complete the triangle in one breath.

The first leg and third leg are at a slight downstream angle, so the upstream segment is the most challenging. Middle rock is a flat slab and fairly large at about 6 feet across, plus light colored which is easy to find swimming underwater. The upstream destination, standing rock, is dark and the size of a large beach ball, so finding it while fighting the current adds to the level of difficulty.

The triangulathon is not a timed event. It is, however, a spectator sport. Watching a competitor lost and going in circles on the second leg is hilarious if you have a warped or dry sense of humor. Finally, you need not ask. I am an official triangulathete.

Note: Estimated total distance not revealed intentionally to prevent unofficial claims in unsanctioned swimming holes like white water locations on the Colorado River.

TAGS: Maine stories triangulathon swimming contest old swimming hole

Sailor Dive at Greelys Landing

2007-07-24T00:41:00.001-04:00

For many summers between 1950 to the early 1960's our family vacations were on Sebec Lake in Central Maine. The photo with Mom on the beach at Greelys Landing on Sebec Lake was probably around 1957 and shows the snack shop in the background. Frozen candy bars were a great treat. The clean sandy beach was about 300 feet wide and extended about 50 feet from the shore. The huge parking lot was filled mostly with outta staters, and us kids had contests finding the car from the longest distance away.

For transportation our family of 10 arrived by boat which usually took two trips. The level of Sebec Lake at Greelys Landing stays shallow for some distance which is perfect for toddlers. Another feature was a long diving pier where I once cheated death trying a sailor's dive off the end into about 5 feet of water.

For the uninitiated a sailor's dive is used in the Navy for jumping from tall ships with both hands held to your side much like a penquin. I believe my motivation was either a military show on tv or antarctic nature program combined with the ignorance of youth. I'm fortunate to be here to write about that dive because just my head hit bottom and it was like a crowbar dropped in a shallow bucket.

Our camp was down the road apiece, so as dusk approached our family was often the last to leave. The treasures of last minute beach combing were pretty cool as we collected towels, flip flops, or whatever else that hours earlier belonged to some mindless outta stater who was probably half way to New Hampshire. As I recall years later, our family never did pack many towels going to camp, and had plenty of beauties on the return home.

TAGS: Maine stories Sebec Lake Greelys Landing swimming stories beach combing

Giant Pickerel Saved the Day

2007-07-18T01:45:00.000-04:00

I was 8 years old in the summer of 1957 when my parents took our family of 8 children, and went for an unusual vacation on Dollar Island at West Seboeis Lake in Central Maine. This tiny island was about 100 feet in diameter, so for a family of 10 it was crowded. The real adventure began when Grandpa dropped us off at the landing, leaving us with just the boat, camping gear, and two weeks of supplies for camping out. We saw no other human beings in the time we were there.

Grandpa was to return two weeks later to the day, which meant we were stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way out, and no electricity. We slept in two huge canvas tents - one for the males and one for the females, so that meant 6 guys in one tent and 4 ladies in luxury. The scent of canvas and the sound of rain dancing on the tents was unique, and brings back fond memories. It's a good thing, too. We spent about half our time in those tents due to frequent rain.

There were plenty of sunny days, too, so the great wilderness adventure was unforgettable and fun, and as kids we didn't mind any of the rain or mud. The shoreline of the island was all rocks, and mostly the size of a basketball or larger. To get to a beach on the lakeshore we needed to leave the island which took two roundtrips to get everyone ashore. It was named Moosefly Beach which I believe was more by reputation rather than an official name. The sandy shore was better than the rocks surrounding our island, but the namesake mooseflies were a new experience, bigger than a horsefly, and each could take a vicious chunk out of your hide... and they did! This was one vacation we didn't beg to go to the beach.

By the middle of the second week the food started getting scarce. Our family argues to this day about the flavor of the Kool-Aid that Mom added to the instant mashed potatoes to simulate ice cream. I say it was purple. Others say it was green. All agree it was disgusting. It wasn't long before everyone was on edge with hunger pains, and Grandpa wasn't due for 3-4 days. Then the giant pickerel came along and saved the day.

I was out in the boat with my oldest brother when he landed a 36" monster pickerel. Never before, or since, have I seen one that large, and what a thrill it was to be an eyewitness! The pickerel stew was boney... who cared? It was great and kept us going another night. Finally out of desperation, Dad dropped Mom off on shore and she hiked 20 miles or more to get to a phone, and Grandpa arrived with the boat trailer a few hours later.

That was the one and only vacation we were happy to see cut short. Was it fun? You bet.

TAGS: Maine stories camping fishing wilderness adventure

Crazy Characters Then and Now

2007-07-08T23:56:00.000-04:00

Every small town has their cast of peculiar characters including the town drunk, the down and (not quite) out n'er do well, and the crazy lady. My home town of Derby Maine was no different, and for the most part social, financial, or educational circumstances pushed these unusual people into the roles they played.

None wanted pity. The beauty of the olden days was you knew these people well enough to understand they were harmless. The town drunk bought tiny bottles of vanilla extract just about every day, and I was too ignorant and naive to realize he didn't cook cupcakes every day. One character rode a bicycle everywhere, and cruised so slowly you wondered why he didn't fall over. That bike had saddlebags, streamers hanging from both handlebars, horns, bells, and more decorations than an overdone Christmas tree.

The crazy lady looked like the bag ladies of today, and it appeared she never bathed or changed clothes. She hiked the sideroads of Derby and Milo collecting tin cans and bottles, or anything of nominal value that may have future potential. Her routine included talking aloud in a nonstop conversation with no one in particular except herself. She was the scariest I must admit.

As youngsters back in the 1950's we rarely approached or spoke to these characters.

Today these feelings and memories have returned frequently in situations that are downright spooky. I have at times been carrying on conversations with people and they drift off staring into space talking nonsense. I see more just like this often in public places, and while they remind me of the crazy lady, most are well dressed. It took several incidents to realize that the hearing aid wrapped around their ear was a new fangled wireless cell phone.

This is NOT right! These people should be videotaped and forced to see how they look! How are the normal people supposed to recognize the crazy people if these plugged in nut cases go around staring off into space talking to themselves? I've been fooled too many times and only wish I was well enough off to start an anti-bluetooth movement! Let's bring back 8 track tapes while we're at it!

TAGS: Maine stories crazy characters

Extraordinary Maine Lobster Feast

2007-07-06T03:57:00.000-04:00

A dozen or so white perch and the 4 lobsters in this photograph provided an extraordinary feast one summer at Jo Mary Lake Campground in Central Maine. The fish look like minnows until you learn the smallest lobster in the picture is approximately 10 inches (25.4cm) long. The sneaker shown belongs to an adult helping put the size of the monster lobsters in perspective.

The two largest of the Maine lobsters were steamed one at a time out of necessity because each filled the kettle. The old wives tale about the big ones being tough may be a lie because these were tender and delicious, and fed about 8 people. Years ago I heard a story about some restaurant Downeast being famous for weak lobster chowder. I don't recall the source which may have been Bert and I, but in essence the complaint was as follows:

The weak lobster chowder began with a pot of milk set to simmer, a few chunks of potato were added, and then salt and pepper. Finally for flavor, a wooden lobster that once hung at the entrance of the restaurant was held up to the light so the shadow would fall on the milk.

My readers are welcome to identify corrections or the source, and if they're still kicking I'll link to their book, CD, or wooden lobster on this blog. In general I limit my content to true stories, but the lobster theme brought back memories of that wooden one, so I had to mention that choice piece of Maine humor.

TAGS: Maine stories lobster feast

Hardware Store Deer Hunting Advice

2007-07-06T01:28:00.000-04:00

The owner of the hardware store uptown in Milo, Maine, was as wise as one might expect when it came to subjects of everyday household fixing. Between customers he was quick to dish out expert advice on a variety of topics. As a teenager back in 1965 I had the pleasure of a long winded lesson after mentioning deer hunting.

Following a brief tirade protesting the ignorant hunters like outta staters shooting black and white cows and then the antics of some of the local morons, he launched into his version of what he called his "schedule for hunting deer." Huh? Schedule? Like an appointment? Within minutes I figured out his country verbage actually meant "method" or "strategy", so as he repeated the term "schedule" several more times I let it slide without interrupting.

The speech took about 30 minutes and in essence he stated it was foolish to shoot at a deer on the run because you'll miss and they won't run that far. Track 'em quietly and before long you'll have the chance to shoot 'em standing still. My counterpoint that a scared deer might run half way to Canada was dismissed as foolishness. Anyway, the story ended when I asked how many deer he bagged using his schedule, to which he replied dry as you please "I ain't never been deer hunting."

TAGS: Maine stories deer hunting

Derby Maine Grammar School Band

2007-07-05T03:23:00.001-04:00

This photo of the school band at Derby Grammar School in Derby, Maine, was taken around 1927, and I posted an enlarged version because of all the interesting details. The instruments were each percussion of some type. The girl in the center of the front row was holding a baton, so she was obviously the drum majorette. To the right of her is my Dad holding two sticks that I may have played 35 years later at that same school.

Other instruments of note are maracas held by the 3rd boy from the left in the front row, and 4th from the left in the back row. The 3rd boy from the left in the middle row has cymbals which are barely visible just above the hat of the boy in front of him. The girl in the center of the middle row is holding a tambourine.

Other details provide a delightful look into grade school fashion just prior to the Great Depression. The variety of shoes, boots, sneakers, long socks, short socks, no socks, or pants and dresses makes an interesting perspective of the era.

TAGS: Maine stories Derby 1927 band

Celebrating US Independence Day

2007-07-05T00:59:00.001-04:00

Yesterday was Independence Day in the USA, and childhood memories of celebrating illegally come to mind. The patriotic critter in the photo taken at Jo Mary Lake Campground is my best friend, at least she never bit me.

Each summer back in the 1950's an uncle and his family living outta state would visit Maine for vacation and stop by in Derby. This was often around July 4th, and without fail they brought smuggled fireworks for all the kids to enjoy.

Sparklers. firecrackers, and rockets were impossible to find locally, so it was an exciting moment us youngsters looked forward to each year.

I recall one launch of a coffee can that went straight up and out of sight never to be seen again. This is another of the great mysteries of Derby because the launch area was wide open with large lawns, so my best guess is the can ended up in Nova Scotia.

TAGS: Maine stories fireworks

Brook Trout Fishing Techniques

2007-07-03T00:59:00.000-04:00

While growing up in Derby Maine a good friend and I were around age 10 when we finally convinced our older brothers to take us brook fishing. Up until then most of our experience was rivers, ponds, or lakes, so fishing for brook trout was entirely new.

The two mile trek to the perfect brook went past the Derby train repair shops, across the iron bridge over the Piscataquis River, through the woods on Indian Island, and finally into Milo and an area that was very unfamiliar.

I thought they were kidding when they announced our arrival. This brook was barely a foot across, maybe 2 feet in some spots, and meandered through alders that looked like an obstacle course. Reeling off about one foot of line and baiting their hooks, each of the older brothers took off telling us to follow them and fish as we went.

Looking ahead to watch their technique, each held their rod vertically while grabbing the end about a foot from the tip. This they poked through the alders to get the one foot of line and worm into the water. This was fishing? The worm was dunked for a brief instant as they each took turns passing the other to the next hole.

My friend and I baited up and each picked a spot deciding to leave the worm in long enough for the trout to find it. The brothers didn't let up, so at times we had to stop fishing and work our way through the alder jungle just to keep them in sight. After an hour and a half of following them and poking the rod here and there, the truth sunk in. These fish were hungry.

Our older brothers caught more than I care to mention, while we fished empty holes. They knew every spot and took turns on every other one, leaving us to fish empty holes. Any fish in that brook bit in an instant, so the brothers held the secret while we fished empty holes. Who could imagine such a small brook a foot wide and a foot deep would have trout living there? The experience was bizarre to say the least. No fish. Just empty holes.

P.S. The photo here is a more recent shot of me with a string of white perch taken at Jo Mary Lake near Millinocket.

TAGS: Maine stories fishing Derby Millinocket Jo Mary Lake

Momma Loon Pic by Beanie Jamieson

2007-06-29T13:32:00.001-04:00

Contributed by: Beanie Jamieson, Millinocket Maine

This photo showing a Maine loon on her nest was taken from a kayak and submitted by Beanie Jamieson of Millinocket while cruising on a lake in Central Maine. The haunting call of a loon at night across any lake is unlike any other sound and certainly memorable.

If a trip to Maine and the joy of watching this mysterious bird is not in your budget, consider visiting the Maine Loon Webcam from the BioDiversity Research Institute at http://briloon.org/ed/looncam.htm to view loons. Links to related information may be viewed if no one is home.

Thanks for the nice closeup, Beanie!

TAGS: Maine stories photograph loon

We Forgive You Flash Gordon

2007-06-24T16:32:00.001-04:00

Settle back and test your memory of television in the early years, or listen up if you were born too late to enjoy this classic turn of events in modern technology.

Television in 1950 was in its infancy, and it replaced sitting on the floor staring at your radio listening to great entertainment. Weekly tv shows like Howdy Doody as shown in the photo, or other great hits like Flash Gordon were just fantastic! Yes, youngsters... we only had black and white pictures then.

What passed as quality shows of the time would be laughable now, but recalling some of the special effects of early television still brings a huge smile. We do forgive you Flash Gordon. Who can forget the shaky motion of that rocket ship jiggling across the screen with no attempt to hide the very obvious visible strings?

Cowboys on horseback chasing the bad guys did not aim and shoot. For dramatic effect the pistol was brought back even with the ear and then pumped forward and shot as the arm was fully extended. This technique has yet to be taught at any police academy. Street level gunfights were pretty cool, too. The budget did not allow for retakes, so sometimes the good guy would shoot once, and 2-3 bad guys would fall down! Oops... not my turn?

TAGS: Maine stories television flash gordon

Showtime Tradition on Sebec Lake

2007-06-23T00:47:00.000-04:00

Raising 8 kids in the post WWII baby boomer age is hard to imagine, even after you've lived through it. As the 5th in line of 8 children, I can only imagine the grief my parents felt at moments behind the scenes. Despite any rough times, we managed to get away on vacation almost every summer, and camping on Sebec Lake in Central Maine was a favorite destination. Camping with a family of 10 was always an adventure and filled with warm, fond memories!

Several consecutive years my parents rented the cabin on Sebec Lake shown in the photo for an entire week. The last night of camp before we packed up and headed home, an annual tradition developed that became showtime for our neighboring campers; and probably a few a mile away on the Bowerbank side of the lake. Soon after dark my Dad would line up his 5 sons from oldest to youngest, and then take the lead as the show began. Early bedtime was typical when camping, so the timing of the show was just as some of the neighbors were nodding off.

Forming a non-stop cycle running the length of the dock and yelling like Tarzan, we each made a dive into the lake, and scrambled on shore to get back in line. 6 males, each yelling as they dove in the dark, provided a wakeup call for some campers and a mystery. The range of voices was obvious. The commotion was not. The mystery was figuring out who, how many, and why. We stayed on each other's heels, so as one was diving the previous showman was looping out of the way underwater, another was nearing shore as another scrambled to the dock, and the last two were spread out and running the dock to keep it going. It lasted 15 minutes. I'll remember it forever.

TAGS: Maine stories Sebec Lake camping swimming

Flying Saucer with Peanut Butter

2007-06-21T00:16:00.000-04:00

Summer in Maine is hay season, and the opportunity to work the hayfields provided spending cash for young teens. A friend and I worked the Ricker dairy farms in Derby and Milo many times back in the 60's. Shown here in the photo is part of the tractor pulling the hay baler, and then stacks of hay on a flatbed trailer. Our job was a balancing act on the flatbed catching bales and stacking them, and usually much higher than shown before heading for the barn.

Breaktime on a dairy farm was especially enjoyable because the milk was free, and chugging quarts of chocolate milk after a long morning in the fields was a treat. Add sandwiches, Devil Dogs or Twinkies and a piece of fruit, and it was the perfect meal. I was usually down 2 quarts come break time because more often than not, milk at home was powdered milk. Growing up in a family of 8 kids meant cutting some corners, so some folks may not appreciate how something so simple could be so memorable.

Keep in mind that each trip to the barn meant unloading the same bales onto a conveyer belt and stacking them again inside the upper part of the barn as they dropped off the end. Loading and unloading often continued into the night depending on the weather forecast. The lift home in the back of a pickup provided a welcomed rush of cool air considering the chaff in the drawers and raw forearms from manhandling 75 lb. bales of hay for 12 hours.

On one ride home in the back of the farmer's pickup, my buddy spotted a friend driving towards us, and for whatever reason peeled off half of a leftover peanut butter sandwich and tossed it like a frisbee. He was aiming for the windshield of the oncoming car, and it looked like a good 'un. He missed because of the air currents, but his flying saucer with peanut butter swept around the side, got sucked in the driver side window, and stuck flat against the inside of the back window. Bullseye! We laughed and waved as truck and car sped off in opposite directions. I doubt each party was equally amused.

TAGS: Maine stories dairy farm hay season summer job

Downeast Horse Training Lesson

2007-06-19T03:12:00.001-04:00

As a young teenager in 1963 I spent a week in Downeast Maine attending church summer camp in Washington County. The photograph shown here is me on a speckled Appaloosa years later, but the surroundings illustrate some key points in this story of the Downeast horse training lesson.

On the last day of youth camp I was asked to volunteer another week as a counselor for the next group of campers. They were a mixed group of boys and girls like ours except they were much younger. The food was great with plenty of it, so I justified tolerating the inevitable last night of camp singing Kumbaya around the campfire. Mornings were spent caring for the trail horses, afternoons as lifeguard at the lake, and nights I was the live-in cabin police for one group of boys.

While the kids were in classes, feeding and grooming the horses took very little time, so most mornings we were free to go horseback riding. Did I mention great food and plenty of it? This was my kind of job. After waiting years for that pony under the Christmas tree, this was dang near as good and maybe better.

Mind you I had zero experience at any of my assigned duties. I did save 2 youngsters from certain drowning that week, and for some reason as I say this I'm wondering if either turned into axe murderers... or politicians. One crybaby from my cabin wanted to go home the first day, so I excused myself for a peek in the counselor training manual, and then distracted the boy with fun things to do. That one worked instantly. Otherwise I managed to keep my group entertained with trumpet solos and Bert and I stories memorized word for word. Ayuh. I knew 'em all.

It turns out horses require strong guidance just so it's clear who's boss. On the first morning of camp with chores done and kids in class, a few of us teens saddled up and went for a ride. Everything I learned from the western movies at the old theater in Milo sure came in handy. I'd pull reins left or right and that horse reacted perfectly. We took the short trail and trotted along at a leisurely pace, and arrived at the end about a half mile from the campgrounds, and then it happened.

My horse was big, or at least for my size it looked big. I learned later that they sense your confidence and unless you waver, you are in control. Well, Chum, this brute spun at the end of that trail and took off at full speed making a beeline for home. As I shouted, mind you, that rascal kept going faster and ignored every command I had memorized from the Roy Rogers and Gene Autry movies!

Now imagine a stable similar to the one pictured here. As the building came into sight, that horse wasn't letting up and went right for it, straight through the door so I had to duck, and still going at top speed. With one final leap he planted both front hooves about 4 feet from the back wall coming to a dead stop just as he lifted his rear end. I hit that wall seeing stars, and I swear I was suspended for a moment just like a cartoon, then plopped to the floor. Lesson over. He could have stomped me to death. I believe he was smiling.

TAGS: Maine stories Downeast church camp

One Fathers Day 40 Years Ago

2007-06-17T18:24:00.000-04:00

While away for basic training in Fort Dix, New Jersey, I once called home but used the NJ area code 201 by mistake, and had a 5 minute chat with an old timer that I found humorous.

After "Happy Fathers Day, Dad" and a few comments back and forth talking at length about sports and fishing this guy says "Who is this?"

Having 4 brothers I laughed and said "... ahhh, cut it out, Dad. It's Jim... your son, Jim" to which he replied sort of serious but matter of fact "I don't have a son named Jim." Starting to grow impatient with his Maine humor, I continued "You're funny. I was wondering if the fish are still biting. I'll be home on leave soon."

Now he shouts, and quite angrily, "Dammit! I don't have a son named Jim!" to which I thought "What the heck is this guy doing talking so long with me if that's not Dad?" and then I realized my error. After quickly explaining the area code thingy, we both chuckled and said our goodbyes. My Dad passed a few years back, but the memories never will.

TAGS: Maine stories family fathers day

Fool and His Bike on Derby Hill

2007-06-15T17:51:00.000-04:00

The bicycle photograph shown here gives away the ending of this episode of Growin' Up in Maine, so I'll just work up to the lesson learned. Some mistakes are only made once. This one was during the summer of 1960 at age 11.

Grandpa and Grandma were visiting and just left for home when I first devised my "Hey, Bubba... watch this!" spontaneous (famous last words) plan. Having never rode my bike to Milo I would take the side roads up Church Street and Daggett Street to the top of Derby Hill and then get up to top speed to head 'em off at the pass.

The thrill and excitement of wind in my face at 30 mph ended at the bottom of Derby Hill when I hit the railroad tracks which happened to cross the road at a 45 degree angle. The front tire locked in the first groove of sunken track and jerked to the left as fool and bike went skidding along the pavement.

The only things crushed were the bike and my pride. Derby was a railroad town with many crossings. Every set of tracks on the village side of Derby Hill were roughly perpendicular and straight across the road. That first trip on a bike down the backside of the hill turned into another of many mistakes I only made once. Almost 50 years later I still notice the angle of tracks that I cross by car.

TAGS: Maine stories Derby bicycle

Snorkling for Antique Treasures

2007-06-14T18:54:00.000-04:00

This may be my favorite photo from Growin' Up in Maine, and was taken on the Sebec River in Derby at the end of a treaure hunt around 1961. The picture is yours truly in a very rare photograph of a log raft typical of what we built each summer. She may look rough, but rafting, fishing, or diving off one of these was pure joy.

The odd length boards covering the raft were harvested late night while crawling on our bellies and dragging a few each from a neighbor's scrap lumber pile. They were ours for the asking, but our method was a lot more fun than hand picking a few in broad daylight.

The dozen or so antique bottles shown came from the bottom of the Sebec River. Our technique was simple. A team of two manning poles would power the raft upstream to the island near Goulds pasture, and then anchor the log raft offshore with a big rock tied by rope. The snorkle, mask, and swim fins allowed us to keep submerged swimming for long stretches searching for treasure.

An antique perfume bottle c.1890 that I collected on one excursion was valued at $125 in 1961 according to one price guide. Spring thaw and flood conditions plus natural erosion provided a new crop of bottles every year! In case you're wondering, the number of defective bottles cracked or broken were extremely few. This is a moment I should relive while I can.

TAGS: Maine stories snorkling treasure rafting

Big Red Box versus Hot Futura

2007-06-14T03:58:00.000-04:00

As a teenager in the 1960's, that long awaited moment arrived. It was time for my first car. Like most teens I was absorbed in emotion and ignorance, and prone to making bad choices. I have since learned that parental advice to teenagers takes about 10 years to sink in. The older young adults get the smarter Mom and Dad get. My kids agree.

The car shown in the photograph is a 1959 Rambler 4-door sedan, the big red box, and at $75 it was a bargain. It truly had been driven once weekly to church and back by a kindly old man, and when he passed the wife didn't need it because she didn't drive. The body was candy apple red and had very little rust with an immaculate interior... as I now fondly recall. At the time, however, I gagged.

The Rambler was nice, but definitely not cool. Again, looking back... I was more like the car. Square, not cool.

The next choice was a 1962 Ford Falcon Futura with bucket seats and a stick shift on the floor. At $600 from a used car lot the price was a tad high, yet I bought it anyway despite the parental advice. There was no internet to check vehicle history, but then I found out more from people who knew the owner from Dover-Foxcroft. The young man used to race the sucker in fields and, or so I was told, needed bananas in the gearbox to keep her going!

I joined the military a couple years later, and left the Futura in the care of one brother. It was gone when I returned,and to think that for another $75 I could have had them both and put the big red box in storage. Kids, listen to your parents. They only appear number than a stick which you may not appreciate until you're pushing 30.

TAGS: Maine stories 1959 Rambler

Maine Riviera Beach Resort

2007-06-12T00:57:00.001-04:00

This little known poor man's equivalent to a Mediterranean Riviera resort located in Milo, Maine was at Hovey's Beach on the Pleasant River. The jet setters shown enjoying the beach here were accompanied by their parents after paying the 10 cent gate fee circa 1957. Passing through the gate entrance, visitors traversed a cow pasture for a 5 minute bumpy ride to the resort.

Picnic tables, barbeques, and his and her outhouses ensured a comfortable summer afternoon for down to earth family fun. Swimming in the river was cool and refreshing after a 1-2 hour hoola hoop workout or an extremely competitive game of jarts. Admittedly the cow pasture residents used the same beach and water hole, so sidestepping around cow patties was half the fun!

Mistakes were inevitable, but if you've never felt that ooze between your bare toes or find it disgusting, try it once and just don't tell anyone!

TAGS: Maine stories beach resort family fun