Those Last Summer Days

Black-eyed Susans growing in the South End.
 Photo by Sandra Sylvester

When all the festivals are over and the Union Fair has shut down for the year, the folks in the Knox County area generally call it a day as far as summer is concerned. Kids go to bed earlier in preparation for the new school year; mothers check out the sales for new school clothes and shoes; and kids stock up on supplies they’ll need to get through the next school year.

The kids here in Georgia are already back in school. Summer hangs on for another month or so in these parts. The AC will continue to blow a while longer.

As a kid in the South End, I hung onto summer as long as I could. I went through my “last time” rituals along with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood. I climbed the old maple tree one more time to sit in my favorite tree crotch and check out things through my bamboo telescope. I pulled up one last long stick of grass to chew on. I rode my bike down to Sandy Beach and ran over the rocks one more time; and before bedtime, the gang gathered to play one more game of Red Rover, Tag, or Giant Step.

I dragged out my favorite comic books or as we called them “funny” books and read them over again for the hundredth time. I laughed at Nancy and Sluggo and the Archie gang before storing them away for the year. I might pull out my paper doll collection too and dress them up one more time. By this time they were looking pretty ragged.

For every summer since I turned nine or so, my twin cousin, Diane and I attended a couple weeks at the Methodist Church Camp, or Mechuwana, up in Winthrop. The camp sits on a lake called the Upper Narrows. I had my favorite spot to sit on the edge of the water just before supper each day. The root of an old tree that hung over the water was just right for my seat and I could sit and dangle my feet in the water as I watched for the loons to come and fish for their supper. It was always one of my favorite times at camp. I think it’s important for kids to have a spot all their own in which to commune with nature or just to relax and be a kid.

I carried this beautiful memory with me as the summer closed down and I got set for the challenges ahead in a new class with a new teacher. Though it was sad to see the summer come to a close, I looked forward to school activities, girl scouts, and later on, the clubs, band, and basketball team in high school.

I did like school and being with all my friends again. I tried to be a good student even though arithmetic was not my favorite subject and I always struggled with it. As it happened, I became a writer rather than an accountant, as you can see. Thank God for calculators! I remember making up a story while using each of my spelling words in a complete sentence. My summer memories often ended up on the page. It’s probably where my love of the written word and writing started. Too bad they don’t teach spelling much anymore.

Inevitably the first essay we were asked to write for the school year was titled “What I Did on My Summer Vacation.” As I wrote about my experiences at camp and events with my family, I always felt a little sorry for the poorer kids in the class who never got to go anywhere. Of course the South End held its own special charm for kids. Not every kid in the country got to wade in the ocean at the bottom of their street like we did.

Later on, as a college student, I was given a summer job as playground director at the old South School. I remembered what it was like to be a kid in the South End during the summer and I tried to make it a fun time for those kids who had nowhere else to go. I am probably to blame for the sink stopping up in the lunch room kitchen when I made plaster for the kids to put into forms to paint, like animals. I am also responsible for introducing a game called four square which is played with four squares chalked out on the ground and a ball the size of a soccer ball. I learned this game in college during a physical education class designed to show us games to play with our kids. I’m told they played that game for years after I left town for a teaching job. I’m proud that I left that game behind as my legacy on the playground.

Here’s a picture of Diane and I I’d like to share with you. It’s the summer of 1944 when we were three and visiting at my Aunt May’s (Capt. Mary Sue Emery) beach home in Crescent Beach. She always had such a beautiful garden. I wish I had this picture in color to show the climbing roses behind us that always grew on a trellis up to the top of the railing on the wrap-around porch.

Here’s a YouTube video to play this winter when the wind is blowing and the snow is stacked high against the house. Remember—like the tide-- summer will come again.

Thanks for listening.

Braids and Ink Wells

Anyone who went to school in the early 40s knows what an ink well is and how braids sometimes got dipped in them. When the boy sitting behind you got bored during penmanship class, he’d dip your braids into the well if he was sitting behind you.

I don’t remember using these ink wells very much. I think the above scenario; cost; and the fact that it was indelible ink that once you spilled it on your clothes it wouldn’t come out no matter how much your mother scrubbed. Pencils were soon substituted for pen and ink.

In the 40s we didn’t have ball point pens. People used what were called “fountain pens.” When ball points came along most people abandoned the messy fountain pens. Everyone but my great-aunt May. To her it was a matter of proper form. Because of her I always thought of pen and ink as being classy. She always kept a fountain pen in good order and always used aqua ink. When you got an envelope addressed to you in that ink color and in her distinctive handwriting, you knew it was from Aunt May.

School Supplies

Thinking about those old pens and the ink wells, brought to mind first days of school and what we usually brought with us for the new year at school. It differs greatly from what is recommended for each grade these days.

In the South End we had a lot of poor kids who were lucky to come to school with shoes on. Their mothers couldn’t afford to supply their kids with extras like pencils. The most I ever took to school with me that first day was a pencil box with pencils; those tri-shaped erasers; maybe a box of crayons; and later on a protractor and a compass. Anything else we needed was supplied by the school or by the teacher.

Here’s the list I found on the internet to supply today’s fourth grader: pencils; erasers; pens of different colors; glue; some tissues to put in their backpack; scissors; crayons/markers; folders; single subject notebook. Are you kidding me?

Parents are given such a list each year before the school year begins. Some stores will post the lists too and even conveniently package the whole list up for you. There are drives to supply each child with the essentials packed up in a backpack. The closest we ever came to a backpack, by the way, was maybe a leather strap to carry books back and forth from school to home. We didn’t even get homework till about fifth grade or so, making a backpack unnecessary anyway.

Glue and scissors were always supplied for us, as well as any paper we might need. I remember we essentially had a form of newsprint for daily work and white lined paper for special classes like penmanship or for a report we were doing.

What about computer use today? A child must have access to a computer no matter what. I wonder how the poor kids today cope with that if they are away from school computers and maybe have to rely on library computers and getting easy access to them. All of our reports were handwritten of course. We had neither a typewriter nor a computer.

What other things do kids bring to school with them these days? If they can get away with it they probably have a phone; an ipod; or even a pad. I wouldn’t want to be a teacher trying to teach with all these devices distracting their students from their class work. Our teachers would collect anything that would cause a disturbance such as marbles, tops, or other small hand toys. They would go into the teacher’s drawer, which she locked, and you’d get them back at the end of the year.

Old School Pictures

I dug up some old pictures to share with you. They’ll probably bring up a lot of memories if you are my age. Enjoy.

I think this is first grade with Miss Parsons at the old Crescent Street School in the South End. I’m the one with the long curls and ribbons second from the left in the second row.

Bertha Luce, one of my favorite teachers, taught me in fifth grade. I recently learned that she also taught my sister-in-law over in Thomaston.

This picture came from the Rockland History page and shows Mrs. Doris MacDougal with her class. This is what a typical classroom looked like in the 40s. Notice how some of the kids are sitting straight up with folded hands in front of them. Most teachers insisted you do this so you could pay attention to what she or he was saying.

The county nurse and our school nurse, Eliza Steele, a much-beloved member of our community. She initiated many of the practices used by public nurses in the county today.

I wish all the kids from the South End and elsewhere a terrific school year. Listen to your teachers; do your best; be kind to your classmates. Words that undoubtedly came from my mother’s mouth at one time or another when I was in school.

Thanks for listening.

Thomaston Library Events for August 27 and August 29

 

Short Readings by Jane Brox, Christopher Fahy, Martha Rhodes, and Bruce Willard on Tuesday, August 27, at 7 PM.

The Thomaston Public Library will host the following roster of fine writers, who will read from their published works.

Jane Brox is the author of Brilliant: The Evolution of Artificial Light as well as Clearing Land: Legacies of the American Farm; Five Thousand Days Like This One, which was a 1999 finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award in nionfiction; and Here and Nowhere Else, which won the L.L. Winship/PEN New England Award. Ms. Brox lives in Brunswick.

Christopher Fahy is the author of sixteen books, among them the novels The Fly Must Die, Fever 42, Breaking Point, and Chasing the Sun, a novella, The Christmas Star, and the story collections Limerock: Maine Stories and Matinee at the Flame. He lives in Thomaston with his wife, children's-book author Davene Fahy.

Martha Rhodes is the author of four poetry collections, most recently The Beds. She teaches at Sarah Lawrence College and at the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. She is the director of Four Way Books and lives in New York City.

Bruce Willard lives in Santa Barbara and Boothbay Harbor. An ex-disc jockey and forklift operator, he currently oversees several clothing catalog businesses and chauffeurs the family dogs from coast to coast each summer.  Holding Ground is his first poetry collection.

 

Saltwater Film Society Screening of “Mulholland Drive” on Thursday, August 29, at 6:30 PM

Termed a "surrealist neo-noir," Mulholland Drive is a 2001 film by cult director David Lynch, starring Naomi Watts, Laura Harring, and Justin Theroux. Begun as a television pilot, rejected, and subsequently finished as a (somewhat) self-contained narrative feature, Mulholland Drive is a film ripe with Lynch's signature macabre ambiguity.

Betty Elms (Watts) is an aspiring actress just arrived in Los Angeles. What follows is a not-necessarily-linear tale of mistaken identity, Hollywood intrigue, mobsters and monsters. Be sure to look up Lynch's ten clues to unlocking the film!

For more information about the Saltwater Film Society, please see their website at http://www.saltwaterfilmsociety.org/.

 

Sail, Power, and Steam Museum

Gordon Bok

August 24, 7:30 pm

$15.00

Reservations at 207-701-7627

 

Mystery in the Silverware Drawer

I’m not a very faithful silver polisher. I put that chore right up there with other chores I don’t like to do like dusting and ironing. But as I opened the drawer holding the silverware I inherited from my mother and grandmother I sighed. I couldn’t bear to pack this treasure without first cleaning them. I set out to clean and polish every piece and then wrap them properly and put them in their own box to be set aside until I could use them in the proper setting in my own home down the road.

The felt-lined silverware boxes these pieces had originally come from disintegrated in the flood waters of the mobile home four years ago. The day we packed up I just wrapped them all in a towel or two for transport to our new place later on. The two sets were mixed together in a designated drawer in the kitchen until I packed them yesterday. I couldn’t tell you which belonged to mother and which to my grandmother. I do know the main set belonged to my mother and there is enough to set a proper table with serving pieces from other patterns. All the pieces are not pure silver, however. (See the markings listed below)

You may be wondering where the mystery comes from in this story and I’ll tell you in due time. It’s a story waiting to be told if only all the details can be known. Perhaps you can help me, but let’s keep that story for later on.

In researching for this story I came across some interesting facts about silverware making in America. If you’d like to research the subject further, check out the sites I’ve highlighted in the separate blog, “The History of Silver in America.”

One thing I couldn’t find in my research is the fact that silverware sets became such a status symbol that those of means tried to outdo each other by the sheer size of their collection. Pieces for every imaginable use were made, some of which would be hard to visualize in everyday life today. Eventually, as I remember reading about it, a meeting of the minds came to the conclusion that there was a big waste of silver and that silverware collections should be limited to just so many pieces. It was probably a decision of the Silver Guild or some other organization of authority. If you know the details of this development, or if I even have my facts straight here, I would love to hear about it.

As I turned over each piece to polish it, I wondered how many other female hands had handled this silver in the same way, perhaps in preparation for a holiday event. I know my own mother was very diligent about doing just that. In the big houses of the 1800s it was the butler’s chore to keep the silverware and other silver pieces in good condition and to polish them often. If a common household of later years were fortunate enough to own silver, they also took very good care of it.

I also wondered why there were so many different patterns in the two sets. By sheer design I could guess which probably belonged to my grandmother and which to my mother. The six ice-tea spoons, therefore, probably belonged to my mother; and the handful of butter knives probably belonged to my grandmother.

I suppose that during the course of a marriage; my mother’s being over 60 years and my grandmother’s over 50, a woman could accumulate more pieces in her collection. It could be that the girls in the family were given pieces of silver from an older female as an heirloom to pass on to the next girl in the family. This is only a guess, however, as I can’t really see how any woman would split up a set of silverware.

There was one piece I assume belonged to my grandmother that was a real head scratcher to me. It could fall into the category of unnecessary utensils as described above. It was a long handled spoon that was separated in the middle to form a small oblong oval. On the very end of this oval were two small sharp prongs. The only thing I could possibly imagine it being used for would be to break an egg sitting in an egg cup and then scooping out the egg itself with the rest of the spoon. Very odd indeed. Who would bother to do that today?

After I polished all the silver, I wrote down the markings I found on the different sets. I came up with 14 different markings most of which were from the Rogers company:

W.M. A Rogers A1 Plus; 1947 Rogers Bros. 1S Flair; Rogers AA; W.M. Rogers PAT. Mar. 13, 1921; 1881 Rogers ONEIDA LTD.; COMMUNITY PLATE; 1957 WELCH-ATKINS; R.C. Co Plus; 1947 Rogers Bros. IS; New England Silver Plate; Sep. 11, 1906 W. M. Rogers & Son AA; W. Rogers Mfg. Co., Original Rogers; ONEIDA New Era; PAT. Apr. 17, 1917 Simon & George W. Rogers Co. XXII.

From some of these dates you can decipher further which were acquired by my grandmother and which by my mother.

The Mystery in the Silverware Drawer

Now for the big mystery, one I wonder about every time I look into this drawer.

Among all the pieces are two silver coins which have been made into small spoons. The markings show a picture of a German in one of those spiked hats. The inscription reads: GUILELMUS, which probably means William in German; IMPERATOR, or emperor; DUTCH E. AFRICA.

What about that, huh? Any ideas? How did these two pieces dated 1914 and 1911, end up amongst my grandmother’s silver? Did a ship’s captain collect them somehow in one of his travels and bring them back to my grandmother or another female member of the family? Was it a war memento of WWI? They didn’t fight that war in East Africa did they? It’s a real mystery.

The coins themselves are probably worthless for two reasons. It is my understanding that when you deface a coin in any way to make something else out of it, it becomes of no value monetarily. The other reason is that Dutch E. Africa no longer exists. It was given over to three different countries after WWI: Zimbabwe, Tanzania and Rowanda.

Can you solve this mystery? I welcome any and all suggestions. Please email me at:

southendstories@aol.com.

Maybe it would make a good romance novel. What do you think?

Thanks for listening.

The History of Silver in America

Our most famous silversmith
 and revolutionary

If you are interested in the craft of making silverware as it began in Colonial America, here are some online locations to pursue:

From Colonial Williamsburg site:

The 18^th-century silversmith was thought of as someone akin to a sculptor. Both had to know how to shape their materials with artistic talent, taste, and design.

A contemporary observed that the silversmith was:

“employed in making all manner of utensils…either for Ornament or Use. His work is either performed in the Mould, or beat into Figure by the Hammer.”

From history.org

A silversmith works with precious metals such as gold and silver. Often in the 18^th century, a silversmith would call himself a goldsmith for the added prestige. The “smith” part of the name indicates that hammers are used for shaping the silver (the word smith derives from the word smite, meaning to hit or strike). Flatware (knives, spoons and forks), hollowware (hollow vessels) and jewelry are all crafted in this manner.

From “Colonial American Silver” by Aims C. Coney

The relationship of historical events with the progress of the silversmith’s art has been continuous for many centuries in all parts of the civilized world; in America, however, it is much more sharply focused on a short period of time, to the extent that individual pieces can in many cases be directly related to the stirring events in the early life of the colonies, or to the careers of striking and important personalities, acting their parts on the great stage setting of Early America.

Please bear in mind these few dates: The Plymouth Colony (or Plantation, as it was then known) was founded in 1620. This was the very beginning of life in New England. The first American silver of consequence appeared about 1660, and the last of any great note was the work of Paul Revere who died in 1816. Thus we have, in New England at least, a term of only 150 years which includes the entire great period in the history of American silver—and incidentally American gold, since many of the best silversmiths were goldsmiths as well. Unhappily, almost all of the gold has disappeared, as it was doubtless too valuable to keep. It would be hard to find in all our history a period more stirring than that which commenced with the Mayflower and ended with the close of the Revolution.

The difficulty of securing coins, and the even greater problem of proving ownership in the event of their being stolen or lost, created a place for the silversmith in the community. At a comparatively small cost he could melt the coins, forge and hammer them into objects for use or display which by means of form, size, engraved decoration or maker’s mark, could be readily identified in event of loss or theft.

Where the word “Sterlilng” came from

Seymour B. Wyler in The Book of Old Silver states that:

The customs, practices and methods originating in England influenced all other silver producers as English culture and influence spread throughout the world. The “Sterling” standard is an indication of this, though this word owes its origin to a band of immigrant Germans. They called themselves the Easterlings because of the direction in which they lived, and they were first called by the King in approximately 1300 to refine some silver to purity for coinage purposes. In a statute of 1343 the first two letters were dropped from the word “Easterling” and the application of the word “Sterlilng” to silver commenced. Silver design, like architecture, followed.

From Chicago Silver

…In a 1916 issue of The American Magazine of Art, the noted Henry P. Macomber, Secretary of the Society of Arts and Crafts, Boston, presented an excellent history of silvermaking in the United States.

Among the Arts & Crafts tenets were an application for simplicity of form and line, a rejection of fussy, over-ornamented detail, and an emphasis on art that was useful. According to Macomber, these views were uniquely American and dated back to colonial days:

“Colonial silver, which was at its best in the period between 1750 and 1820, is notable for its beauty of line and form and its subordination of decoration. Simple in design, substantial in weight, it reflects the character of the Colonists themselves. They were pioneers in a new country, they were people of strong and independent religious convictions, but many of them came from families of culture and refinement. It was natural for them to prefer purity of form and perfection of line and proportion to elaborateness of design. Silver which combined dignity and solidarity with usefulness was what appealed to them. The wars with their French-Canadian neighbors turned them against all things French and their hatred of Popery gave them a similar aversion to the work of Italian craftsmen. It was to be expected that they would get their inspiration from England, their mother country, but their wide separation and limited means of travel fostered a certain vigorous originality.”

These sites are a good place to start if you are researching or are just curious about this subject.

The Hilton Homestead

Mary Sue Hilton Weeks
Current owner of
The Hilton Homestead

The most recent project at the Hilton Homestead in Bremen was replacement of the chimney which was quite a project as you can see here. Some bricks had fallen into the fireplace during the winter indicating that the chimney needed repairs. Mary Sue shares the process with us here.

 

 

 

 

Thomaston Library News

New Events

 

Thomaston Public Library presents

"Coyote: America's Songdog"

Conservation biologist Geri Vistein will speak at the Thomaston Public Library on August 22. Her topic is the wily coyote, that resilient carnivore always in our midst whether we see him or not. Ms. Vistein's program focuses on the role coyotes play in our Maine ecosystem and how we may best co-exist with them.

Enhanced by a Powerpoint presentation with photos and maps, and audio recordings of coyotes singing and howling,  Ms. Vistein's presentation is inclusive, touching upon anthropology, archaeology, history, Native American life, poetry, psychology, human belief systems, science and ecology, animal husbandry, and much more.

As Ms. Vistein herself says, "This presentation gives community members a chance to come together and share your own stories, ask questions you have been wanting to ask, and share a dialogue that helps us all to understand better our very deep-rooted relationships with all life, including our fellow humans. Come hear the Song Dogs Sing!"

After hosting Ms. Vistein, one Maine librarian said, "She is a fantastic presenter, very passionate and reasoned, and people could not say enough good things about the program."

Coyote: America's Songdog takes place on Thursday, August 22, at 7 PM in Room 200 of the Thomaston Academy building.

Grand Finale Party for

Summer Reading Program for Children

Thomaston Public Library's Summer Reading Program for children will conclude with an outdoor party for all participants on Saturday, August 17, from 10:30 AM to noon.

The grand finale party coincides with a special child-oriented farmers' market, also taking place in the Thomaston Academy parking lot, and will include fun foods and activities and the awarding of prizes to the reading program's top readers.

Head to the library on August 17th to celebrate sunshine (we hope!), good food and good books, and all our great summer readers.

 

Sail, Power & Steam Museum

 

Band Concert

August 18, 5 pm

Donations gratefully accepted

 

 

 

Moving Again

The Clampetts move to Beverly Hills. Photo by tv.com

 

 

I am not a good mover. Every time I have to pick up and move on I get the same anxiety attacks I get when I have to get onto a plane. After I’m safely ensconced in my seat on the plane, I’m fine. The same goes for new digs. Even though everything is in a mess, I don’t care. As long as I know I’ll be there for a good while I’m ok.

Well, here we go again. Nanci and I have been in this apartment in Georgia for four years come Halloween of this year. We wanted to stay here until such time as we could pick up and move to Maine for good. Best laid plans don’t always come true.

Enter new management for this huge complex we live in. The powers that be have decided to upgrade the section we live in. New granite counter tops, hardwood floors and the works. Sounds nice, huh? Not so. In a chat with the new manager, she informed me that the new upgrades would cost us at least $100-$150 more a month in rent. We can’t afford that.

But wait. There is a section called Phase Two, a four-story building at the other end of the complex. Those apartments will not be upgraded and we will be able to move into one of those apartments with no transfer fee. We are on the list as we speak. Hopefully, we’ll get an apartment like this one, which is ideal for our use. We may even have a lower rent payment. In any event, our lease is good where we are till Halloween. An agent assured me they’ll have an apartment for us to move into by then or sooner.

Only problem is, we’ll have to pay Two Men and a Truck again to move us over a couple streets. Then there’s the problem of moving the washer and dryer and hooking them up right. A call to Sears and a service call will probably be the answer to that. More money. Plus there are some other disassemble and re-assemble problems.

We had planned on giving some of this stuff to Goodwill before we leave for Maine. Now we still have to use it in the new apt. Thus we have to pack everything. I am throwing as I pack and shredding unwanted paper to be used for packing. Smart, huh?

Sixteen Moves in 49 Years

In the 49 years since I graduated from the UofM at Machias, if I remember correctly, I have moved sixteen times. Some of the moves make good stories so I thought I’d tell you about some of them.

The first apartment was on Fern Street in Kittery, Maine, where college classmate, Lucy Valiante and I moved to. It was one room and a galley kitchen in an attic apartment. The ceilings were even slanted. There was an enclosed chimney in the center of the big room with seating attached around it. We had one closet to share as teachers in the local school system. In those days we dressed to kill every day and wore two-inch heels.

Sleeping arrangements consisted of one twin bed in the corner and a sleeper sofa under the eave at the other end which we took turns using on a bi-weekly basis. We also had one overstuffed chair. I don’t think we even had a TV. The bathroom facilities were in the hall and were shared with two guys who lived on the other side of the attic. We worked out an arrangement with them which, surprisingly, worked quite well.

We had no phone nor did our landlady allow one. She had a bell system to tell us when we had a call and we’d have to go downstairs to answer it, with her listening to everything we said.

I have my mother to blame for this first apartment as she liked the landlady and knew she’d keep a good eye on us. As it turned out, we had a lot of fun in Kittery and learned to get used to our living arrangements.  Besides, Lucy made some killer lasagna in that little kitchen. After all, there was the shipyard with all those Marines guarding it; an Air Force Base; and even a Navy facility. We were never at a loss for a date on a Saturday night.

That first summer, Lucy went home to Connecticut and I shared a small vacation trailer near Hampton Beach, in New Hampshire, with three other teachers who were friends. What I remember about that place is that when I moved out, I left some kitchen stuff on the little porch and someone stole them. My mother claimed it on her insurance somehow and I got some new stuff that way. I stayed with Lucy and her family in Norwalk, Connecticut after that summer until we both got new teaching jobs there.

Lucy and I and another teacher then moved into a back apartment on Farmington Avenue in Hartford. There was one bedroom and we had bunk beds and a single bed. We had no windows except for the one which looked out at the fire escape. We had other teacher friends in the building and a couple guys who were friends of theirs.

We all hung out together, going on ski trips to Vermont several times. That place was also party central with people coming in and out of two of the apartments. We had a TV stolen that way. Lucy, Anne, and I moved into a better apartment in the front later on. We used to sit in the front windows and watch the goings on on Farmington Avenue, which actually ran from one end of Hartford to the other.

The other three teachers in the building and we three moved later on to a house in West Hartford. There were six of us who took turns cooking dinner for everyone on a weekly basis. When two of the girls got married and Lucy took a job teaching overseas in Japan, the group split up.

I had my first apartment on my own on Fern Street (again) in Hartford. It was in an older house that had been split into two apartments. I had one room and a kitchen and bath. I slept on a sleeping porch, when I managed to sleep. At that point, I was working third shift at a printing plant. The kids would come in to stand in the hallway between the two apartments in the winter to wait for the school bus. Needless to say, sleep was interrupted very often.

Being alone and needing some companionship, I acquired a mackerel tabby which I named Sylvester. He was the first in a long line of cats to come. I used to put him in the basket of my bike and pedal down to the beautiful park at the end of my street.

After Fern Street, I moved into a new fancy complex in West Hartford, then to a triplex in Bristol Connecticut; and finally to a trailer in a park in Meriden, Connecticut.

Georgia Digs

When I moved to Georgia with a friend we lived in a trailer park in a brand new trailer in Lawrenceville. When I moved out on my own again, I lived in another apartment complex in Norcross, a duplex in Norcross, in a single-wide trailer and then to the double-wide Nanci and I lost in the flood. Hence the apartment we live in now.

So here we are again, packing. Every time I move I swear it will be the last time. Well I know that isn’t true this time as there will be one more move--to Maine. Then I swear it will be THE LAST TIME!

Thanks for listening.

Parents of Murdered Children Memorial in Augusta

 

(The following story comes from the Bangor Daily News blog, “Arguably—Stories and voices behind the editorial page.” Pat is a good friend and 1959 Rockland High School classmate. See the memorial being proposed to honor those lost at the end of the story and see how you can contribute to this worthy cause.)

‘I’ll tell her I did the best I could’:

Losing a daughter to murder, raising her children

 

 

The scope of Pat Pendleton’s life changed entirely on Nov. 5, 1987, when she learned her daughter, Vicki, 25, had been killed in Rockland by her ex-husband.

Pat remembers her mother-in-law coming into her house in the early morning to say she’d gotten word Vicki had been shot at. Pat dressed, thinking she would be at Penobscot Bay Medical Center in Rockport a long time. She thought she’d be able to take her daughter home. It was a doctor there who told the family Vicki didn’t make it.

 

 

Vicki Pendleton at around the age of 17,
eight years before her ex-husband shot and killed her in Rockland.

 

Vicki’s ex-husband, Edmund Winslow, had broken into the house while Vicki was sleeping, shot her father who was asleep on the couch — he survived — and then broke into her bedroom. He shot her in the head. Their 3-year-old daughter was in the room, and their 5-year-old son was in an adjoining room. Edmund was later sentenced to 60 years in prison.

 

“The pain was unbearable in the beginning,” Pat said. She faced not only the loss of her daughter but the reality that she would be the one left to raise Vicki’s two children. Pat’s youngest biological son at the time was 19.

 

Taking care of the children, though, may have been a lifesaver for Pat, who is now 72 and lives in Rockport. “It couldn’t have been any other way. People say they were lucky to have me. I say I was lucky to have them,” she said.

 

Each year, an estimated 30,000 people are victims of domestic violence in Maine. Even if people don’t experience the crime directly, it leaves a wide path of devastation. People never know when the crime will happen to someone they love and tear into their own life.

 

After Vicki’s death, Pat sometimes drove by her daughter’s old workplace, and her young granddaughter would point it out. Pat would have to say, “Mama doesn’t work there.” She said one of the hardest things was having no hope to give her grandchildren, whom she adopted.

 

In Memoriam

Pat Pendleton is a member of the Maine chapter of Parents of Murdered Children, which is trying to reach the families of loved ones who have been killed, to place the victims’ names on a memorial.

The monument will be erected at Holy Family Cemetery on Townsend Road in Augusta and will be dedicated to the lives of murder victims with connections to Maine families.

The state chapter has a list of more than 450 known Maine-related homicides over the past few decades but has family contacts for fewer than half of them.

If families are interested in having their loved ones’ names added to the list, to be inscribed into the monument, they may contact Art Jette at 277-3518 or mainepomc@gmail.com.

“I like the idea of a monument very much,” Pendleton said. “The victims’ names will be here long after we’re gone.”

The full cost of the landscaping, building the monument and installing granite benches is about $40,000. The group has $12,000 left to raise.

 

Checks may be sent to Parents of Murdered Children, 6 Ballard Road, Augusta, Maine 04330, with a note for “memorial monument” in the memo line.