Coming of Age

I talked with my Aunts today, my father's half-sisters. We talked about family and it made me remember.

As a boy I remember attending family reunions at my grandfather's parents farm, Great-Grampa Harry and Great-Gram Grace. It was up a long, dead end, dirt road way back in the woods. The house and farm pond were situated in a vale and the big barn was across the farm yard perched on a hill. The farm yard was littered with all manner of equipment; hay bailers, tractors, old trucks, piles of wood, stacks of hay.

The family, all country folk, consisted of several distinct clans. Hard working, honest people. No airs. No judgments. I was Frank's boy, Nellie's oldest grandson, Carlton's step-grandson and, even though we were city folk, we were embraced and loved on.

The women gathered in the house, each proudly presenting their pies and cookies and delicious pot luck dishes. There was corn and peas, snap beans and radishes, all fresh from their gardens. The menfolk all retired to the barn until the meal was served. The children milled around the farm yard and the farm pond catching frogs and pollywogs.

It was 1965 when Great-Gram died and the family gathered once again for a not so happy reunion. I was 13 and I knew the drill so I headed to the farm pond with the other youngsters. It wasn't long before my father called for me.

"Yes, Dad?" 

"Come with me."

I followed him up the hill to the large barn where only the menfolk went and into the dark coolness. It smelled of hay and animal stalls in the basement. The men stood in a circle shuffling their feet and we took our place among them. There wasn't much talk, but when a comment was made heads nodded. I don't remember any of the conversations, but I remember feeling special to be among them. 

Someone walked over to a dusty shelf and took down a large gallon glass jar. He screwed off the top, pulled out his knife and sliced off chunks of pickled tripe, cow belly. We were all offered a piece and I remember chewing the sour, rubbery membrane. There were smiles of amusement when I made a pucker face.

Next came a mason jar of amber liquid passed around the circle. I was not offered this drink. It was explained to me later that it was called Apple Jack. Apple cider was barreled in the fall and fermented. In January the barrel was drilled and the unfrozen liquid alcohol in the center was drained. High test moonshine. It was my turn to smile at the watering eyes and choking gasps as each man took his pull.

Soon the call came from the house to gather for the meal and we all headed down the hill. No words had been spoken to me. No ritual had been conducted. Or had it? I felt different. 

A coming of age.

Hiram

By Grace and by God, our family has lurched forward through the generations. Through tragedy and dysfunction and bad luck. So I really don't recognize my so-called "White Privilege". It has been only through perseverance, bullheaded determination and hard work that we have survived.

William H. was left behind when the family packed up the saw mills in 1860, hitched up the oxen and struck out for Minnesota. William was 17 at the time and was working in a saw mill in Orono when the Civil War erupted and he mustered out with the Second Maine on a three year hitch. Cannon fodder. He survived some of the most brutal battles of the war including Bull Run, Fredericksburg and Gettysburg only to come home, marry and work in a pulp mill in Gardner. Another brutal environment. Should I demand reparations for his pain and suffering and our families long term lost financial standing all for the cause of ending slavery and maintaining the Union?

William had 6 children, but my great grandfather, Arthur, was the only child to reach adulthood and procreate. He was the last namesake. Arthur  married, bore 6 children with wife Carrie, then died at age 40 from a fall in a paper mill in Oxford that ruptured his appendix. Carrie, for some reason, gave up her three youngest children to the state. 

My grandfather Hiram,the youngest child, ended up at 9 years old as a foster child working on a farm in Shapleigh, Maine. He married the farmer's granddaughter and had two sons. In the picture above he is holding my three year old father and my grandmother is holding my Uncle Bob. Hiram died 8 months later at age 28 from a blood disorder. Hiram's older brothers either died young or did not produce male offspring to carry on the family name.

My father, Frank, was the hardest working, most dedicated man I have ever known. He succeeded in working our family into the upper end of the lower middle class and sending my two sisters and I to college. Uncle Bob had no children.

As the last remaining male namesakes, Frank and I celebrated the birth of my sons, his first grandsons, twin Foss boys. Finally the tide was turning for our family. The Foss name might yet continue. I followed his hard work ethic example, added a beautiful daughter to the family and climbed the financial ladder. Tragedy revisited with the death of son Eric in 1999. Son Ryan bore a son, Davis, in 2014 before his marriage tragically ended. 

Davis is the most recent end of the line, end of the family name. He is magnificent. If the name ends here, it is enough. But it won't be for lack of effort. 

Seven generations. From tragedy to misfortune to dysfunction. We have survived. 

Tell me again about this "White guilt" I should be feeling...

Country Music

Now, it's my music of choice. That and jazz.

As a younger man I initially gravitated to rock and roll, but soon drifted heavily toward folk. My first LP  in 1961 was Chubby Checker. We were all doing the twist. Elvis exploded on the scene. You ain't nothin but a hound dog...

My next LP was Glenn Campbell, Wichita Lineman. That's when I picked up the guitar. Peter, Paul and Mary, John Denver, protest songs from 60s. When I first heard Mason Williams Classical Gas in 1968 I ran out and bought my first 45. I wore it out.

In the late 60s, Gordon Lightfoot, James and Livingston Taylor, Tom Rush, Simon and Garfunkel, Joan Baez, Jim Croce, Janice Joplin, Jimmy Hendricks, Credence Clearwater Revival.

In the 70's it was Boston, Pousette Dart, Fleetwood Mac, Cat Stevens. Bread, Chicago, Brewer and Shipley, Elton John, England Dan and John Ford Coley, Dan Fogelberg, Seals and Croft.  And Jazz.

I raised my sons on jazz. They both went on to become accomplished saxophone jazz musicians.

Today when I walk the beach I jam out to jazz. It pumps me up. But more and more I listen to Country music. It softens me. I love the lyrics. Makes me cry. It's about love and loss and remembering happy times.

And these days, remembering happy times is a soothing balm to my weary, ragged soul. It's a good thing.