A couple of weeks ago I wrote about young Burton Andrews, growing up on Slab City Road with his mother, Rose Young Andrews Richards, step-father, Frank Richards, and little sister, Geneva Richards. When talking to Burton’s son, Alton “Andy” Andrews, I decided that his father’s early life could be divided into two sections; here’s the second part:

c. 1905

          “Settle down, back there!” Burton Andrews growled over his shoulder at his young passengers. He sensed the six restless children were probably making faces at him behind his back, but they sat down on the wagon’s benches and were quiet. It wasn’t like him to snap at them, and he felt a little ashamed.

         Only this morning his sister Geneva had been saying how much more pleasant the ride to and from the Beach was now that Frank Richards had turned the job of driving the school team over to his eighteen-year-old stepson. The other children told her how relieved they were each day when Burton pulled up in front of their houses instead of the often grumpy Mr. Richards.

         When the school at Slab City had closed three years earlier, Frank picked up the job of transporting the students, receiving twenty-five dollars per term from the town. Geneva told Burton that at first Frank used an open wagon with wooden boards set in for seats. That worked fine until the first rainy day. All the children came home drenched to the skin, and some conversation was held with their mothers. By the next school day he’d rigged up a canvas roof over the seats. That was refined further when the snowy, blowy winter days set in. He managed to equip the wagon with roll down canvas curtains. Geneva described the feeling they had of being inside a dim traveling tent, and with no idea of where they were, the ride seemed endless.

         Since Burton had been away for most of the past three years he’d relied on his sister’s reports of life at home. He remembered how it had been those last few months before he’d left to work in Brockton, Massachusetts. Nothing he’d done seemed to satisfy Frank; he was constantly on his bad side, and it was getting worse. Finally, one day his mother sat him down and handed him a letter from her relatives in Massachusetts, offering him a place to stay on their farm in trade for his labor.

         “It’s time you went away for a while, Burton,” she’d said, her voice sad and resigned. She’d helped him pack his things then sat between them on the wagon seat when Frank drove him down to the steamboat landing at the Beach. Rose had wanted to stay until the boat came, but Frank said they had to get back. Burton had watched the wagon until it was out of sight around the bend in the highway, back towards Ducktrap and the road up to Slab City. He’d squared his shoulders and walked out to the end of the wharf where the other passengers were waiting, feeling as if his life was both ending and starting at the same time.

         The years had passed seamlessly down in Brockton where he’d been treated kindly by Rose’s relatives. They seemed to understand how difficult things had been for him back home. A few times over the years, he’d traveled back to Lincolnville, taking the train to Boston, then finding his way to the wharves. He’d become an old hand at booking his passage on the Eastern Steamship Line, then climbing aboard either the Camden or the Belfast, sleeping on a bench during the overnight journey. After arriving in Rockland at dawn, he’d transfer to the little coastal steamer that deposited him at the mouth of Frohock Brook, just three miles from the Slab City farm.

         Then, this past August, just after haying was done, his uncle told him he’d better get back home for good; his mother needed him. Burton was sorry to leave Massachusetts, but he’d grown big enough and strong enough to be the son his mother needed at home. He couldn’t refuse.From the minute he arrived home, it was clear: now that Burton was a man there would be a truce between them. Frank suggested he take over driving the school team as a way to pay his room and board at home. Burton had nothing else to do for the winter, so he agreed.

         The first couple of weeks of the new school term had passed pleasantly enough. Driving the school team was the easiest work he’d ever done, for after delivering the children to the Beach School and seeing to the horse’s needs, Burton had the rest of the day to himself. There was no sense in driving the three miles back to the farm, only to have to turn around and come back in an hour or so. Even Frank agreed he might just as well stay until school was out.

         So he’d gotten in the habit of walking down the hill to the Beach and visiting the various shops. He’d been in Charles Dearborn’s grocery and Fred French’s store, which specialized in boots and shoes. He was welcome to sit awhile at Ellis Freeman’s livery stable where a group of regulars congregated every morning to gossip. When they found out he was Rose Richards’ boy, he was made welcome. A couple of the men remembered his father’s family, the Andrews brothers, and the mill they used to own near the pond that once carried their name.

          Eventually, the men would drift off and Burton would go too, stopping in at Tom Gushee’s store where the mail came in, and at Will Mathews’ grocery and Rufus Sherman’s dry goods store. The brick building where Ernest Carver had his ship chandlery stood across the Frohock Brook near the town wharf, and he’d often stop there, too. Wandering further up Atlantic Highway he liked to watch Orren Ames’ working in his boatbuilding shop, which sat across from Hanson Mills’ lumber and grain business.

          Burton was fascinated by his own hometown. As a boy he’d never had the chance to be on his own at Lincolnville Beach this way. He remembered the few times he’d skipped off from home to Ducktrap, but the Beach was a booming metropolis compared to that tiny village. Still, by the second week, he’d seen it all. The stores held no more attraction, and even the livery stable bench palled.

         By the end of the week, he was spending the mornings skipping stones at the shore’s edge. And that’s what he was doing yesterday when the new teacher, Mr. Alton Andrews, happened to look out the schoolroom window, the one with a perfect view of the Beach.

         The wagon had slowed considerably, bringing Burton back to the present; he slapped the reins smartly on the horse’s back, and the beast broke into a trot. Burton shook his head ruefully; hard to believe that boy standing alone waiting for the steamship was his own younger self, and here he was back where he’d begun. After his conversation this morning with Mr. Andrews, he realized he was back where he started in more ways than one. He may be practically a grown man, but with only eight grades of school behind him, he still felt like a boy.

         Mr. Andrews had called him in this morning as soon as he had the horse squared away, saying he wanted to talk with him. They stood out in hallway where the teacher could keep an eye on the students through the open door, but their conversation couldn’t be heard. Burton appreciated that.

         “Did you go to eighth grade, son?” Mr. Andrews had looked at him intently.

         “Yes sir. Right here in this school.”

         “And who was your teacher?”

         “Miss French, Miss Hadlock and Mr. Prock.”

         “Hmm. I see,” Mr. Andrews seemed to think about that a moment. “Would you like to continue your studies, Burton?”

         “Well, yes, sure, but I don’t see how.”

         “Why not right here?” Burton had looked beyond the teacher at the rows of desks each with a child pretending to do sums on a slate or study his reader. Actually all were surreptitiously watching the interchange between the two in the hall. The very desk he’d sat in three years ago was right back there. In an instant he felt the years melt away, as if he’d never worked like a man, nor traveled on steamboats and railroads, as if he’d never left home at all.

         “I don’t know…” he’d started, but Mr. Andrews held up his hand.

         “Not in there!” he said, lowering his voice. “I was thinking we could set you up in the ante room. We’ll find you a good-size desk, and you’ll be able to work on your own, learn algebra and some geometry; I’ve got a history book we can use, too. What do you say?”

         “I guess I’ll have to check with my folks.” Burton knew Frank didn’t think much of further education, especially if it interfered with the farm work.

         “You do that; tell them I’ll be glad to talk with them if there’s a problem.” Mr. Andrews had stuck out his hand then and shook Burton’s, man-to-man. “I’d be pleased to work with you.”

         Burton helped Geneva climb up next to him now that the last children had been dropped off. He’d approach Frank this very night. After all, with both an algebra book and a history book under the wagon seat right now, and assignments in both, he’d have to get right to work.

          Burton did study with Alton Andrews, learning the basic high school course work, and eventually would leave Lincolnville to marry and settle in Connecticut. He always credited Mr. Andrews with helping him get this start in life, even naming his son, whom we know as “Andy”, after him. Although Burton and the teacher shared the same last name, Andy’s never found any record that Alton Andrews was a relative. Burton’s father, Harris Andrews, died when he was an infant. That story is told in the preface to Staying Put.

See Staying Put in Lincolnville, Maine 1900-1950 for more stories of our town, available at Sleepy Hollow Rag Rugs, 217 Beach Road; Western Auto, 611 Beach Road; Beyond the Sea, at Frohock Bridge at the Beach, and at Lincolnville Fine Art Gallery,  also at the Beach.

Design a Knitted Hat

The soccer team plays Hope at the LCS fields Monday afternoon, September 28, 3:45. Come out and enjoy a beautiful fall afternoon while watching some soccer! The team plays at Nobleboro on Wednesday and at home again on Friday against South Bristol.

This past week we’ve had a fire in the woodstove every morning, and once kept it going all day. Our house is sort of dark, and on certain days is chillier inside than out. But since we did a big weatherization project earlier this summer, we’re actually looking forward to winter, waiting to see how our fuel bills are affected. Even though we have an enormous amount of wood stacked up outside, we really only heat the ell with it; an oil furnace takes care of the rest. But with a newly encapsulated cellar (all white plastic and foam), 16” of cellulose in all the attic spaces and eaves, and seven window inserts coming from Window Dressers, we expect to have a much warmer house using less oil and wood. These window inserts really work, they’re only $20 each and last for years. You order them in the spring, and then they’re made the next fall for delivery.

Last Days on the Deck

We know that “deck days” are dwindling, but Sunday was a glorious day to sit out there. We spent the morning eating a German breakfast (bockwurst, beer and pretzels) at a neighbor’s where the sun shines down early, and we watched a pileated woodpecker scouring the viburnum for bugs and berries. Later, cousins stopped by and we sat on our deck with its late afternoon sun still making it pleasant. When two eagles flew over, their young son told us that made three eagles he’d seen that day.