Forever young. Forever loved.

 

An old show

 Just discovered they are still playing reruns of the Oprah Show we were on way back in 2009.

https://youtu.be/NPtwn35G4AI

I watched it with a critical eye after all these years and, judging by the comments, feel like we achieved our goal of "helping if only one grieving person." It tugged at my heart to see Ryan and hear his brave message. But, despite our best efforts, we were unable to save him. Such a loss. 

Miss my boys.

Uncle Stan

By the time I was old enough to remember him, around 12, he had firmly established himself as a cranky old curmudgeon. No one in the family spoke much of him. He was my mother's uncle, married her Aunt Helen, Mabelle's younger sister. Somewhere along the line, my folks decided it would be a nice thing to do to send me to their home on the Upper Narrows Pond in Winthrop for a work week. It wasn't the first time they had farmed me out. I had spent 4 days at their friend's home in the woods of Sutton Vermont working in the cedar swamp cutting logs. My job was to use a spud to peel off the bark. The sticky sap covered my arms and clothes and attracted the moose flies which ate me alive.  Were my folks trying to teach me some lesson? The value of hard work?

Stanley Lester Loyer was born in January 1911 in Hollard, Michigan. His father, Leonard Lester Loyer and his mother, Lena Dewitt Loyer were born in 1883 and had 4 sons and a daughter. Stan was 3rd in line. His high school yearbook said he was on the football team his junior year (gotta love Ancestry.com). 

 

He enlisted in the US Coast Guard in August of 1934 and was discharged 20 years later in November of 1954. Would love to know his military history, but too many hoops to jump through to get it from the government. I do know he served in WWII and in Korea. Somehow, I remember he was in Africa. I don't remember him ever talking about it.

I do know that he married Aunt Helen Iris Willard on May 15, 1943, in the middle of World Wat II and that they lived in Washington DC through 1950. In 1956 the records indicate they lived in Portland, Maine and, at some point, bought their cottage on Upper Narrows Pond in Winthrop. They never had children, something Helen tearfully lamented on her deathbed.

The one-story cottage was on the pond at the end of a steep dirt road off Rt 202. It had a glassed-in front porch, 2 small bedrooms, a small living room and kitchen. The basement was accessible from outside. There was a dock and a 12-foot aluminum boat, 2 gardens, an outbuilding and a half dozen beehives. Stan was the honey man in town and was well known in the State in the care and keeping of bees.

He wasn't a talkative man, but he was quick to teach me what he wanted done and how he wanted it done. I raked a lot of leaves, weeded the gardens and mowed the lawns. He taught me about bee keeping, tending the supers, collecting the combs. In the basement he had built a separator and my job was to cut off the top of the combs with a hot knife and spin the honey into a bucket where the debris and larva was filtered out.

He taught me about how bees dance to communicate, how to not get stung and how to deal with a sting when it happened. I remember making the mistake of releasing some bees from the basement and soon they had let the hive know where the honey was as they swarmed the windows.

He was a very smart man. If he wanted to learn something, to build something, he would. He read constantly.

One day he had me dive down to a waterline in the pond and attach a rope so we could haul it up and replace the foot valve. The next day he taught me how to make beer, lots of beer, in the basement. My job was to cap the bottles. Durning the night a case exploded. Might have been my fault. I cleaned up the mess.

At night he let me take the boat out with a gas lantern to fish and I burned the bejeezus out of my hand but didn't tell him. He also let me take the boat down to the Lower Narrows to visit my sister who was at Methodist Youth Camp. 

When I was older, living in Fairfield Center with Connie and the kids, I would occasionally drive down to visit. Aunt Helen loved the boys. We helped with the leaves in the fall. And one year, when Winthrop lost power in an ice storm, I drove down and took all his frozen food to a freezer near my home.  After the power was restored and the food was returned, he showed up at my house and gifted me with several saw blades for my radial arm saw. I talked to him about issues I had and projects I was planning with the house, and he sent me a long, detailed letter on how I should approach them. 

I remember several conversations with him about finances and politics. He was very right wing and invested in blue chips and gold. He was not a trusting man of the government.

In the summer of 1989, after we moved back to Maine from Stamford and from MIT, I got word he was in Togus Veterans Hospital and that he was failing. I visited him. The conversation was limited, He seemed resigned to it, but he thanked me for visiting and for our times together. He was a good man.

 He died on July 21, 1989. There were no services. He was cremated and buried at Togus Cemetery. Shortly afterwards, my folks and I helped Aunt Helen move back to South Portland. She sold the cottage and gifted me the aluminum boat...which my mother made me pay for. 

What was she trying to teach me?

One important lesson I have learned; Never miss an opportunity to ask the questions you want to ask a person. 

Cousin Leslie recalls:

 I do remember spending a week with Aunt Helen and Uncle Stan one summer: a fabulous week because I was finally an only child with two doting adults.

Every morning I got all the honey I wanted on my toast. Uncle Stan and I hung out together all day - one activity to the next. Donning the beekeeper's helmet! I was delighted by the worms layered in newspaper. We cruised the lake! I caught scads of sunfish off the dock. 

Guess a girl was just treated to more fun. Never questioned why it was a one time experience...I had a ball with Aunt Helen and Uncle Stan at the lake!

Sister Wendy texted.

 I also remember an old wringer washing machine that he converted into a night crawler farm just at the right side of the bulkhead in the cellar. He would reach into that rich black dirt and pull out a fistful of huge, juicy worms! Grossed me right out. He enjoyed watching me try to be polite and impressed!

Happy Birthday Frank Waldo and Norma Mae

Mabelle's Story

 This story is signed and dated by Mabelle Davis on February 1, 1978. It was undoubtedly transcribed and typed by Frank.

"This story was told to me, Mabelle Willard Davis, by my grandmother, Nellie Crockett Willard, when I was a small child. My grandmother, if living, would be about 125 years old and this story is about Nellie's father Zephaniah Decrow Crockett."

Zephaniah Decrow Crockett was born 6/18/1837 on Deer Isle, Maine and died 1/5/1908 in South Portland, Maine. He is buried in Mount Plesant Cemetery in South Portland.

"My Great-grandfather lived on what is now called West High Street in South Portland. There were no paved streets then, just wheel tracks or tote roads. Whenever they were traveling anywhere, either on foot or by horse and wagon, the men always took along their muskets because of the Indians."

"It seemed that my Great-grandfather had had some trouble with an old Chief who had told him, "I will kill you if I ever get the chance."

"One day Great-grandfather Zephaniah was taking his corn to the mill to be ground into meal. As he walked along through the woods, he saw the old Chief asleep under a tree and realized that he had dozed off while waiting to ambush him. My Great-grandfather knew that if he did not take advantage of this chance to kill the old Chief, the Chief would surely kill him at the next opportunity. Realizing that firing his gun would alert the rest of the tribe, he sneaked up to the tree and hit him over the head with his musket. He put the Chief into his own canoe, filled it with rocks, pushed it out into deep water and sank it."

"About two days passed and when the Chief did not return to his tribe, they began a search for him, Great-Grandfather Zephaniah realized that if he did not join in the search, they would become suspicious of him so he went along with them and that is where the story ended."

"We have come a long way in the last one hundred and fifty years and I think we should all be very proud of this wonderful country. It is good to remember what our ancestors went through to make it a good place to live for all of us."

                                                                                        Maybelle Willard Davis                                                                                               February 1, 1978

I'm not saying this ever really happened. Sounds a bit contrived. But it is an interesting bit of folklore passed down through the generations. Hope you enjoy.

Morris and Mabelle Davis 1969 at my high school graduation.

Cap Willard

Captain Clarence Linwood Willard was my great grandfather. Yesterday was his 155th birthday. The day before, October 23rd, was his death day. I remember it well. I was 9 years old, it was 1960 and it was also my birthday. We lived in Sutton, Vermont and I found my mom crying, sitting near the phone. She sent me off to school and I spent the day confused about how I was supposed to feel and act. It was my first experience with death.

I have ended up the recipient of all of dad's genealogy papers, files and pictures. He had collected a lot of information on Clarence. I'm providing it here for our family. Part of our history. Much of the following is from an article written by John Willard of Billerica, MA and Sally Willard of Burlington, MA and was published in the Willard News Newsletter in Dec. 1993. Additionally, I incorporated some Portland newspaper articles, Navy records and dad's research,

Clarence was born in South Portland, Maine, in the house on the corner of Front and Stamford Streets on October 24, 1877. His father, Benjamine Upton Willard, was of English descent, beginning in the lineage of Major Simon Willard born in 1604 in Horsmonden, Kent, England. His mother, Nellie Etta Crocket, who was born in Sunshine, Maine, a small fishing village on the eastern shore of Deer Isle Maine below Blue Hill, was of English Irish decent. Her father. Zephaniah Decrowe Crockett, was English and her mother, Margaret Conary, came from Northern Ireland. (I will post an interesting story recorded by Grandmother Mabelle Willard Davis about Zephaniah later.). Nellie had one other child, Mabel, who died at 3 months.

Benjamin and Nellie

As a boy, Clarence went to Pleasant Street School in South Portland. His grandfather, Daniel Willard, owned the sailing vessel Nellie Sawyer and his father, Benjamin, sailed with him. The vessel made many trips from the quarries of Blue Hill to New York harbor. The granite used to build the Brooklyn Bridge was excavated there and the very first load was delivered by the Nellie Sawyer. It was also employed in transporting molasses from Barbados to New York,

Nellie Willard often accompanied Benjamin whenever he shipped out and Clarence usually went along. A good part of his younger life was spent at sea. On one trip to New York when he was nine years old, Clarence and his dog missed the sailing, and he was left to shift for himself until the return trip. He was befriended by a black family and a month later, although he had no idea where to look for him, his father spotted his black dog near the dock and following the dog, found Clarence.

 

Clarence on left

At age 20 Clarence enlisted in the US Navy and was assigned to the USS Montauk which was stationed to protect Portland Harbor during the Spanish American War. Clarence's account was published in the newspaper in the 50s. "We were on the USS Montauk, an old Civil War Monitor type. She was armored about like a tin can in comparison to what they are using now. I was a bosun's mate. We were in Portland Harbor for a long time and then they decided the Spanish would never get this far so they sent us down to the battle zone- the Philadelphia Navy Yard where we spent the rest of the war." That was a joke, of course, Clarence was fond of saying that he fought the battle of Trundy's Reef which is a well-known buoy marking the passage into Portland Harbor. 

His enlistment papers describe him as a Sailor by occupation, with blue eyes, light brown hair and a ruddy complexion. He was 5 ft 8 1/2 inches in height and weighed 155 pounds. He had burn scars on his right side and tattoo's on both arms. On September 13, 1998, after serving four months in the navy, he was honorably discharged at League Island, Pennsylvania.

Clarence and Abbie

Upon his return to South Portland, he continued to sail until he married Abbie Emma York, whom he had been courting since she was 15 years old (i.e., since 1894) on September 8, 1901. Abbie was born on Orrs Island, Maine on January 4, 1879, the daughter to William Merrill York and Harriet Drusella Webber. Clarence and Abbie resided in South Portland most of their married life with only a short residence on Edgewood Ave in Portland.

After marrying, Clarence came off the water for a time and worked for a short time at E.T. Barrows in Portland making screen doors and windows. He also worked one winter at the old Lovell Diamond Arms Co. in Portland making hubs, sprockets and wheel assemblies for their well-known bicycles of that period. But he soon returned to the sea, sailing yachting, fishing and as a Merchant Marine. He recalled, "One season I went sword fishing on the Fanny Bell. Hadn't been to sea for so long that I didn't have any gear left. Old Capt. Murphy wanted me to go as striker. He loaned me the money for boots and skins and we sailed for Georges. We got 43 fish in three weeks and shared $12.50 a man. My gear bill was $12.50 so that ended that. I was in the clear, but in no condition to kick up my heels ashore."

Clarence and Abbie had seven children: George Linwood 7/31/03- 9/28/68, Mabelle Christine 11/30/05-9/3/99, Martha Mae 3/24/10-4/18/72, Helen Iris 6/22/12- 8/24/2002, Paul Everett 11/13/13- 5/31/88, Natalie Eleine 1/12/16- 3/14/77, Robert Mencher 9/19/19- 4/9/94.

In 1916 just after Natalie was born, Clarence was seining for herring aboard the Go-Getum out of Portland for the Nichols Packing Company on Front Street in South Portland. On their way on September 23rd, they saw the Bay State- one of the Boston to Portland steamers- founder on the rocks off Cape Elizabeth. They alerted Mr. Nichols, who sent help to the vessel, and everyone was rescued. On that same night, the Go-Getum went ashore and was demolished. Clarence and his net tender swam ashore safely.

Shortly after that incident Clarence went to work for Nat Gordon, the only marine diver in the Portland area. It was here that he learned the trade that he is still widely remembered for on the Portland waterfront.  His first job was diving for cannon balls at the Fort Preble wharf. He'd been a tender for some time before that, but Nat had never let him go down. "Can't remember the year. Doesn't make a difference anyway. They'd shipped a load of cannon balls up from Fort Popham and a breeze of wind came up and the barge turned over spilling cannon balls all over the bottom of Fort Preble. T'wasn't much of a dive- 12 or 14 feet, but it was work. Those balls weighed 85 pounds apiece. There was also some great steakers left over from the Civil War that went 300 pounds apiece. Old Nat went down for them cause he was afraid they were too much for me." When Nat retired, Clarence bought his gear and went into business for himself.

With tenders Clark Corey and Christian Ritter and working off Walter Cloughs\'s barge, he laid waterlines and power lines to Peaks Island and South Portland, did the underwater work during the construction of the "Million Dollar Bridge" to South Portland, set the pilings for the State Pier in Portland and cleaned debris from dams in about every mill town in Maine. Salvage work and water line repair were their mainstays, but at times they were asked to retrieve lost objects. 

On one memorable occasion a $5,000 diamond ring was lost at White's Bridge in Windham. Clarence was amazed to spot the ring sparkling in the sun's rays while making his decent to hunt for it. He spent some time looking around the bottom at the rocks and bottles in order that it not appear too easy a task! In those days, Clarence got $45 per 5-hour day or $45 per dive if it did not take a day. This was good money because the average weekly wage was about $10.

Clarence never took a job requiring a dive more than 40 feet. This probably saved his life on many occasions, but on one in particular a vessel had sunk on a sand shelf with very deep water on both sides. A young diver named Irving Williams took the job of attaching a lifting cable to the vessel when Clarence had refused the job because it was too risky. Irving slipped off the edge of the sand shelf, parting his airline and losing his life.

Clarence was known on the waterfront as being an honest man and was respected as a man of his word.  At his funeral in 1960, his employer and friend Mr. Gould of the Gould Equipment Company wrote a eulogy that was published in the newspaper. He wrote:

"Cap did not come back to us from Togus- he succumbed to his ailments... Cap Willard came to us ten years ago along with his devoted wife. They occupied an apartment connected to our warehouse on Haskell Street in South Portland. Cap was the caretaker and never was there a better one. Cap was such an unobtrusive man. He was in the navy in the Spanish American War, was a deep-sea diver for over 40 years working from Eastport to Portsmouth and descending into most of the larger lakes and rivers in Maine and New Hampshire. He was a captain of a schooner and sailed all up and down the Atlantic...he loved to travel, in planes, trains, ships or buses. Cap liked to drink, liked to watch fights and wrestling matches. He had such good credit that he could walk the length of Commercial Street and borrow $5 from every other man he met- as they all knew he would be back with it in 48 hours... He was a good man. Cap was 82.

Clarence stopped diving when he was 70 years old although he continued to act on a consulting basis on repair projects for both the water and the power companies. He took excellent care of his diving gear. "Diving hasn't changed a bit since I was an apprentice, except that they've got young fellas doing it instead of old waterlogged birds like me. The stuff still weighs more that you'd want to lug around above water and the only improvement to my gear during the 35 years that I was diving was one time when the railroad banged my helmet around during shipment and sprung it a bit. It never fit quite right before that- like when you pick up someone else's hat at a restaurant. Well, the old pot was fine for years afterwards- just seemed to fit like an old pair of slippers.

He carried his air hose. head piece and shoes in a large woven wicker basket reinforced with iron strapping for additional strength. When he gave up diving, he took all of his gear to the Boyce Machine shop on Commerical Street in Portland to be sold. The end of an era- the end of a colorful segment of Portland waterfront life.

In 1949 Clarence and Abbie sold their home on Edgewood Avenue and moved to an apartment on 58 Haskell Ave in South Portland, as a caretaker for Gould Equipment Company. His employer, Ralph Gould and his manager, Bud Barrett enjoyed talking with him about his life and were very good to him. Clarence never lost his affection for the sea, and his happiness, even as an older man was walking from his home, 4 miles to the waterfront and talking about the daily happenings of the harbor with many who knew him. He was blessed with a wonderful wife and hardworking children who realized that his first love was the sea, He was a hardworking man who enjoyed listening more that talking. One of his greatest joys was his grandchildren of whom he saw 19 of 20 born. 

He died in Veteran's hospital in Togus, Maine on October 23rd, 1960, at the age of 82- one day before his 83rd birthday. According to his death certificate he died of carcinoma of the lung, metastatic from prostate.  He and Abbie are buried in Forest City Cemetery in South Portland in lots 396-397.

I remember taking a ride with him in an old Model T truck down to the Dairy Queen at Cash Corner for an ice cream.

There are stories about his heavy drinking back in the day. One was that Abbie in the early days would send the kids down to the docks when his ship was due to get money for groceries before he gave it or drank it all away.

Craig and I have memories of visiting Haskell Ave. It was very small. Great Gramps liked to chew plug tobacco and there were many small cans around the apartment always kept clean by Great Gram. Clarence would sit in his chair and had trouble standing up. One memory is when he had Craig help him onto his feet so he could go out in the warehouse for a nip. He got in trouble with Abbie for helping him up.

My mom bequeathed me with his basket. I don't remember it being around the house or at Morse Street. I think it came back from Peter Nappi when he passed. in NYC in 1992.  Mom was the executor of his estate. Wish we had his diving helmet.

And that's all we've got on this remarkable man.  Please let me know if you have additional information, real or anecdotal, about Clarence so we can include it in this writeup. Hope you enjoy.

The Approaching Quiet

With age, I notice how much things change. Certainly the body and the mind. Aches and pains. Wrinkles and warts. Interests wain. Cognitive abilities decline.It's not just biological. Tragic Life experiences also wound and degrade. 

The end (ongoing) result is a slowing, a deescalation. So different from the constant acceleration of youth, the endless addition of skills, materials and capacities... endless? Poor choice of words.

Technological advancement and societal complexity compond the rate of change. Exponentially. The rate of change has changed.

Kurzweil wrote of an approaching Singularity, a point in time when the rate of change in technology exceeds the ability of humans to comprehend. Technologies like computer science, robotics, nanoscience, biological sciences, material sciences, astrophysic,,,all the sciences.

And societal change with gender and sexual identity, critical race theory, cryptocurrency and shifting geopolitical powers has already reached that point of noncomprehension... at least for me.

There are choices to be made. Rage against the flow of time? Or relax into the mystery. Transition from participant to spectator. Shed the worries and refocus on what matters most. Easier said than done. The ego is powerful.

At times, I am able to just observe the ebb and flow of daily life. Other times, I find myself expounding, babbling, proving to someone or myself that I am still vital. But, increasingly, I am content to be quiet, able to slap down the ego's need for external validation.

Mark Twain wrote, "Never miss an opportunity to shut up." 

Rings true.

  

Sugar On Snow

Spring is coming and the sap is running. Fond memories of life in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. 

We moved to Barton,Vermont when I was 4 and Gail was 18 months. We moved back to South Portland, Maine when I was in 5th grade. Most of my childhood memories were from that time, the 50's and early 60's. Good memories of a simpler time and a simpler place. 

Our friends were country/small town folks, salt of the earth. Every spring, withot fail, they would invite us to take part in the annual ritual of tapping the maple trees and boiling down the sap. The whole community, young and old, got involved and there was plenty to do.

The Maple groves were tended during the winter pruning deadwood and brush. Firewood was cut, hauled and stacked near the sugar shack. Buckets, spickets and equipment to haul the sap were readied. 

Warming temperatures started the sap flowing and everything shifted into high gear. Trees were tapped and galvanized buckets and lids were installed. 

We joined the Richardson family at their sugar shack one Saturday to help collect sap and boil it down to syrup. We followed the horse drawn tank wagon through the grove on muddy and snow covered tote roads. I remember dashing from tree to tree checking buckets. First order of business was to remove any drowned or swimming field mice and carry the buckets to the wagon where it was emptied into the tank. Then we would return the empty buckets to their trees and hang them back in place. But not before getting on our knees and letting the sweet sap drip into our mouths. A typical tree will produce 10 to 20 gallons of sap per season.

When the tank was full we would trudge back or ride on the back of the wagon  to the sugar shack and transfer the sap to a holding tank. Sap was boiled down over a wood fire in batches in a large flat pan. It took around 3 hours to finish a batch. The sweet smell of the boiling sap is a sweet memory.

One part of the art of sugaring off was testing the consistency of the syrup with a long wooden paddle. It would drip off the paddle in sheets when it was ready. 40 gallons of sap produces 1 gallon of sweet amber syrup. Liquid gold.

Next came the tasting. A small amount of syrup was boiled down even further until it begame thick and tacky and a tray of snow was collected and placed on the table. The thick syrup was poured over the snow and immediately became solid and taffy-like. We twirlled up the sticky treat on forks. Sugar-on-Snow. Nothing like it. Guaranteed to pull the fillings out of your teeth. It was served with homemade sour pickles and raised donuts which had been cooked in the boiling sap.

By this time all the kids were on a sugar high, but the festivities continued. We all received a small bowl of the boiled down syrup and a spoon to stir and whip it into thick creamy maple sugar candy. We saved some on waxed paper and gobbled up the rest, licking the bowl clean. 

I remember feeling sick to my stomach after these events. Just the price you pay for all the fun.

Great memories.

31522

 

Warren

 

We pulled into the Hampton Inn in Fredericksburg, Virginia after a grueling 9 hour drive down  the I-95 Road from Hell; NYC, the GW Bridge, major accident delay on the NJ Turnpike and, the finale, the DC I-495 Beltway. I was relieved this leg of the trip was behind us. Never fun.

We were overnighting at our usual spot on our way to Saint Simons Island for some time away from the New England cold and snow. I-95 South from Fredericksburg is a walk in the park; no potholes, no snow, no tolls… although lots of speed traps.

After checking into our room, I wandered next door to the 7-11 for some cold adult beverages and spied him sitting on the curb. It was a cold evening and he was bundled up in a wool hat and hoodie, but his sparkling eyes and wide smile were visible above his long, white beard. He looked like William Lee Golden of the Oak Ridge Boys.

I dropped 4 bits into his plastic cup on the way out and he flashed me a smile. “Hey, thanks! You’re a good guy.” I returned his smile. “Stay warm, brother.”

As I walked back to the hotel, I wondered about him so an hour later I picked up a couple bananas from the hotel and walked over to find him in the same spot. He smiled when he recognized me and as I dropped a buck in the cup. “So what’s your story?” I asked as I sat down on the curb across from him.

“You really want too hear it?” he asked and I nodded.

I passed him the bananas and he beamed.”Cool!”

“Well, my house burned down. Lost my three dogs. Chimney fire. My grandson put me up in the Red Roof Inn, but I just found out I can get Social Security money in June when I turn 65. I’ll be ok.”

“I miss my dogs. I walk dogs during the week at the animal shelter. Keeps me sober”

“Need anything from the store?” I asked.

“Serious?” he replied.

I nodded.

“Pack of cigarettes?”

“What’s your brand?” I asked.

“Kools”

Made me smile and think of my father in law, Joe.

I returned and passed him the smokes. Two banana skins laid on the ground at his feet.

What’s your name?”

“Warren…can I shake your hand?” he replied.

Big hands. Strong grip. Another big smile.

Thanks for the story, Warren. Good luck, brother.