The Budding Taxidermist

Family History Writing Challenge - Day 9

** NOTE: The italicized font is creative non-fiction. Based upon the stories of my mother and uncle it is my creative writing of their memories. **

“Mason, Mason where are you?”  Mother’s voice rang out from the kitchen, “time for lunch.” Mason heard the voice, but was too intent on her project to respond. Oh, I do hope daddy will be surprised when he gets home, Mason thought to her self; I want this to be beautiful.  Mason was a “daddy’s girl” through and through, whatever daddy ate, Mason ate. Bear, deer, moose, it didn't matter if daddy liked it, so did Mason. What ever daddy did, Mason wanted to do.

Mason loved the animals daddy kept up back of the house, she loved it when daddy brought down the baby fox and let her hold it. She would cradle it like a baby and stroke it soft, red fur. Unfortunately, the fox took a nip at her and daddy said it was now too old to hold, Mason was saddened by that but had moved on to pushing the kittens in a baby carriage. In fact, she was planning on pushing the kittens in an upcoming town parade.  Daddy also had some baby raccoons in the pens out back. A day or so ago Wells posed for a picture with the raccoons with a neighbor girl. Those little raccoons were so cute! Mason thought about how later, after daddy got home, they would go Sculpin fishing to get food for the raccoons. What ugly fish they were, but the coons loved to eat them.

 

Okay, enough day dreaming, I have work to do! Mason set back on her task more intently than before. In fact, she was so intent she didn’t hear her mother come out the door calling her name. “Mason, Mason where are you?  Mason! What are you doing?” Mason’s mother had come around the corner just in time to find Mason gutting a mouse. “What?” was Mason’s innocent question, “I just wanted to stuff this mouse like daddy did to the squirrels.”  So ended the career of the budding taxidermist.

"The Squirrels"

A Sculpin

The album

Family History Writing Challenge - Day 8

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then I have a novel’s worth of writing. Most of the pictures I have added to my recent posts were scanned from my grandmother’s photo album.

As I gently turned the black heavy paper I saw pictures of my grandmother as a teenager in the early years of the 1900’s. There were pictures of the woman, who I only knew as an older adult, being playful at the beach, hanging off a granite monument, sitting 'in a field having a picnic.  As another page turned pictures of her siblings and parents appeared, visiting her at her home in Lubec; followed by the photos that have, along with my mother & uncle’s stories, inspired my current writing.

By the time I was born, my maternal grandmother was the only living grandparent left on either side. My parents already had two children and been married over 15 years. My earliest recollection of what my maternal grandfather looked like was based on a wooden statue of a ship captain at Perry’s Nut House in Belfast, Maine. Every year when my family stopped my mother would walk through the door and say to me, that looks like your grandfather. It wasn't until I found my grandmother’s photo album that I actually saw pictures of him. Then not only did I have a face to go with the name, but I had pictures of his life and family in South Lubec. I often wonder if the reason I am so intrigued by my mother's childhood is an attempt to get to know this man who was her father, and by writing her family history as a way to bring him to life.

A few people have asked if I am from Lubec, I am not. My mother and Uncle are, and it appears I may have distant cousins that live in the area, today. I would love to own that geographic pedigree, although I am also proud of my hometown in Connecticut. I do however consider Lubec, my second home.

I have been writing for 8 days now, with another 20 to go. I hope my readers continue to enjoy the writing and the pictures I am able to attach. Each night as I read to my Uncle and my mother, more memories surface. I was going to write about Sardine sandwiches on a Sunday night, but at this time I will just say good night as the snow continues to fall outside my little house in Central Maine.

No Snow Days

Family History Writing Challenge – Day 7

** NOTE: The italicized font is creative non-fiction. Based upon the stories of my mother and uncle it is my creative writing of their memories. **

 As I roll over to shut off my alarm, I turn on the TV to the morning news, the list of school closings due to the inclement winter weather, scrolls on the bottom of the screen.  “Today’s high temperature” the weatherman reports “will be in the teens with wind gusts up to 15 miles per hours. Remember to dress warmly when you go out.” As I rise to get ready for work, my imagination is stirred thinking about my mother and uncle walking to school in weather like this. I am reminded of my mother’s South Lubec Road narration “Your uncle and I used to walk to school in the winter; almost two miles from our house.

The wind whipped at the house, nestled against the spruce on a hill.  Snow danced through the branches in wild abandonment, swirling before lighting on the roof, the porch, the ground. The only warmth to be found would be standing close to a wood stove or in the muffler tied tightly around your face, tucked into a heavy winter coat.  It would be spring before you saw your fingers and hair in the sunlight for those were tightly covered under mittens and hats.  

The back door squeaked open in protest to the cold and two children shuffled into the wind.  As they rounded the corner of the house they are nearly knocked off their feet by the fierce wind that found them and sought to take their breath away.  Had it not been for their thick, warm clothing the wind would have succeeded.  Off to school they walked down the road, carrying lunches in their mitten-covered hands.  Even though tightly bundled the wind pulled and tugged at any loose fabric, snow melted as it fell against the muffler wrapped around nose and mouth, as mist rose from every breath exhaled. 

Very quickly Mason & Wells walked to school. Wells was impressed by the height of the snow banks, as they were over his head and half way up the telephone poles. On past the little store where they got penny candy, then past the town hall they walked. They knew it would be warm at school, for their teacher would have come in early to start the fire in the little round stove in the middle of the room.  Oh how they longed for spring to come, so once again they could ride their bikes to school and not have to walk.

Stomping the snow off their boots as they entered the schoolhouse, Mason and Wells shed the multiple layers of clothing, first the mittens then the hat. Undo the muffler around their faces and then unbutton the heavy wool coats; shaking whatever unmelted snow off them they hung their winter gear on a hook. Walking to the stove the children placed their lunches; glass mason jars filled with soup, on the top alongside their classmates jars and warmed their hands, soon school would start. As Mason found her desk and sat, she looked up above the blackboard at the large picture of Amelia Earhart, the famous Aviatrix who had flown the Atlantic solo just a few years before.

A Cold Winter Morning

Family History Writing Challenge - Day 6

I’m taking a bit of a break from writing creative non-fiction tonight and sharing something I wrote in 2011. As I sit in my little house in Central Maine, surrounded by 8’ snow banks I thought it only apropos to share this. Picture the two story cape, with three dormer windows facing the ocean on a cold winter morning, following a night of stormy winter weather.

As Mason’s eyes slowly opened she could see her breath above the blankets.  Like steam on the water she laid in bed mesmerized by the mist she caused.  She slowly turned her head toward the window over looking the bay, moving slow purposely so as not to disturb the cat lying next to her.  The sky was the color of the ocean this morning, slate gray.  She knew it was time to rise, shortly she must leave for school; walking with her little brother to the two story, multi-grade schoolhouse.  Two floors, two teachers, two rooms, eight grades, four grades per room, four students per grade, but first she had to get out of bed!  She stirred a bit more and wiggled out from under the covers, careful to not disturb the cat.  She looked at her dresser, snow; there was snow on the dresser!  The gale that blew last night had rattled the windows such as to let in snow through the cracks.  She gazed further and saw small piles of white beneath the windows themselves, oh how she wanted to crawl back beneath the blankets and wait for spring!

Mason hurriedly ran downstairs in her pajamas to put her clothes for the day on the stove to warm.  Her mother had been up for a while, stoking the fire and drawing water from the well outside after breaking the ice on the top.  Breakfast was ready, and lunches were packed as Mason slid into her chair at the kitchen table, Wells was already eating.  Mom had made dough floggers for breakfast; Mason loved dough floggers.  Little pieces of yeast dough flattened and fried with butter, sugar and cinnamon, what a delight.

Shutters

Family History Writing Challenge – Day 5

** NOTE: The italicized font is creative non-fiction. Based upon the stories of my mother and uncle it is my creative writing of their memories. **

“What do you think, children?” their mother asked as she scanned the Dutch boy Paint brochure. “What color do you think the house should be painted?” Mason and Wells looked at the brochure, but didn’t offer much help in the choice. They were thinking about the pile of wood edgings that had been delivered earlier in the day, they wanted to go work on the fort they were building. Overlapping the pieces of wood like Lincoln logs they had worked tirelessly all morning and were almost done. In the autumn, these edgings would be used for the fireplace in the living room. Come winter it would keep a fire in the cook stove in the kitchen, which in addition to being the cook stove, was the only source of heat. “Well, what do you think” asked their mother again. “Should I paint the house white with red shutters or yellow shutters?” But there was no answer. Turning around to look for her children, she found Wells climbing the flagpole and Mason hanging a blanket over the clothesline making a tent; securing the sides to the ground with stones from the beach. Oh well, their mother thought, maybe I will paint the house white and have both red AND yellow shutters.

The house my uncle and mother remember has taken on a larger than life vision in my mind, for both tell stories of the South Lubec House the same way. In this case, Gramma choosing colors for the house from a Dutch boy Catalogue and painting the entire house including the back; which by my mother’s telling was unusual for houses of that era and location. They both report different colored shutters; my uncle believing there were yellow shutters on the upper windows and red on the bottom. Mom agrees with this assertion, going on to add she gets her love of red hearts from her mother, as the shutters had cut-out hearts. Both tell the story of the pile of wood edgings being made into a fort, built like “Lincoln logs” (their words, not mine) and hanging a blanket over the clothes line to make a tent.  As for my uncle climbing the flagpole, I have the picture to prove it!

The Bedroom Window

Family History Writing Challenge - Day 4  

** NOTE: The italicized font is creative non-fiction. Based upon the stories of my mother and uncle it is my creative writing of their memories. **

In each of the many trips I have made down the South Lubec Road to visit “The Light” it never fails I hear my mother’s words narrating the trip. As we pass Maple Tree Road, mom speaks of the two story cape style house she grew up in. I remember as a small child staying in a second floor bedroom at my “Aunt Hazel’s” house, next door to where mom’s childhood home stood. Regardless of whether it was Memorial Day or August there was a persistent breeze off the ocean and a specific sound, cars made as they passed below. It is my memories of that window that helps me to imagine what my mother must have seen and heard from her bedroom window.

It was later evening when Mason went up to her room to read. Looking out her bedroom window at the ocean, she could barely make out the outline of Grand Manan Island in distance as the fog began to roll in. Earlier in the day she had been able to see “the Wolves;” little specks on the horizon, but those were lost to the  gray bank of fog, always present this time of day, this time of year. Floating on the late summer breeze was the sound of the “old groaner” the foghorn on distant Grand Manan, followed by West Quoddy’s distinct call. Soon the patches of burnt orange Indian paintbrush in the field across the street would be shrouded by the encircling mist. Mason closed her window, shutting out the chilly breeze that rolled in the fog. But just before it closed, Mason smelled the salt, mingled with spruce and yawned. Soon she would fall asleep to the sound of the “old groaner” and West Quoddy’s answering call.

Chocolate Cove

Family History Writing Challenge - Day 3  

** NOTE: The italicized font is creative non-fiction. Based upon the stories of my mother and uncle it is my creative writing of their memories. **

Ferry from Campobello to Deer Island

The sun shone bright through the car windows as mom & I made our way around the island. We had taken the ferry from Campobello to Deer Island the day before; securing lodging at what I think was the only motel on the island. The year or two before we had “ferry hopped” from New Brunswick, only passing through Deer Island, but this year our goal was to stay overnight, so we could both say we had slept on all of the Fundy Isles. With our goal having been met, we set off the next morning to explore, following whatever roads there were. With map in hand, mom navigated and I drove through all the little villages, marveling at the sparkling waters of Passamaquoddy Bay. As we rounded a corner we saw Head Harbour Light on the far end of Campobello across the channel, stopping for a moment to enjoy the scenery. As we continued on a sign for Chocolate Cove came into view; mom began to reminisce… I began to imagine.

Head Harbour Light as seen from Deer Island

Mason sat in the bow of the little motor boat with a salt laden summer wind blowing in her face. The dark blue ocean water sparkled in the summer sun like millions of diamonds; a fine mist clung to her coat from the spray created as the bow struck the waves. Dressed in warm clothing as protection against the ever present “nip” in the air, Mason tilted her head back to drink in the warmth of the sun and smell of the ocean. She could hear the hushed, murmuring of her father talking with the man tending the motor, but couldn't make out their words. Mason looked up to the brilliant blue sky, dotted with the ever present puffy white clouds. Peering over the gunnels she could make out the vague outline of Eastport to her left, Campobello Island to her right. The little boat bobbed on the  waves as it made its way toward Chocolate cove. Mason didn't know why they were going there, but was eager to see this sweet sounding cove. A beach made of candy!

Ferry landing on Deer Island from Campobello

“I have no idea why my father took me there. I wouldn't make that trip today; going out in a small motor boat on that water. I didn't even think about Old Sow.” The sound of justified concern, born of experience, resounded in her voice.  “I just remember really liking the name Chocolate cove. I only wish I knew why we came here and who that man was.”  Pulled over to the side of the road we looked down over the edge onto Chocolate Cove, a small pebble beach nestled between two sea cliffs. “Can you imagine” asked mom in a hushed tone; “yes, yes I can” I whispered.