Lending a Hand at Home

This story takes place in 1938; Claude and Ethel Heald lived at 435 Youngtown Road, in the house that Claude built at the time of their marriage decades earlier. That house, a few houses east of the Cellardoor Winery, is substantially the same as it was when it was built.

Claude Heald sat back wearily in the passenger seat of his Dodge panel truck and watched the countryside roll by outside the window. It was a rare luxury, seeing the familiar road as a passenger, but with Erwin home and willing to drive, Claude would be foolish not to let him. It had been a long day, starting before dawn with the barn chores, then packing the truck for Saturday deliveries. Now that Labor Day was past, many of his customers had gone, but there were still enough left to keep him busy.

Ethel had several pounds of butter, the bottles of milk and a few of cream, as well as a couple roasters for someone’s Sunday dinner. He’d packed those perishables in the cooler box along with some late things on the truck’s shelves—cabbages, carrots, and winter squash. Most of the space, though, was taken up by the potatoes. Just lugging all the bushels of potatoes out of the barn where he’d stored them tired him out. He’d waited for the weekend that his son came down from the University at Orono so he could help.

Most of his customers wanted their potatoes carried down cellar, a job that Claude had to admit was getting to be a bit too much for him. Erwin always complained that Chestnut Street must be built on ledge; many of the cellars were so low he couldn’t stand up in them. Still, he lugged the heavy bags down through the little bulkhead doors willingly enough. And his customers were always glad to see the boy, a college student, still working alongside his dad.

Erwin was finally on the right track, Claude thought, agreeing to switch his course of study from engineering to agronomy. What good, after all, would an engineering degree do a farmer? The place he and Ethel had worked so hard for was providing them with a decent living, and it would their son as well. He knew Erwin didn’t agree with his philosophy of farming. A tractor, Claude believed, only ended up costing you money—for the gas, for repairs, not to mention its initial cost. Fritz, on the other hand, was reliable, didn’t need repairs, and he ran on hay and a little corn. Claude never had figured out how to grow gasoline.

A horse like Fritz knew his way around the crops, stepping daintily over the plants at the end of a row when he turned to pull the cultivator back. Now he didn’t know anyone who had a tractor that could that. Claude liked to imagine that Fritz might have been a circus horse in his earlier years, he got so excited at the sound of a parade. Once the fields were broken in the spring with Winfield Young’s span of big horses, he and Fritz could easily handle all the harrowing and cultivating of the growing season.

It wasn’t that he was old fashioned. He’d been one of the early ones in town to see the value of poultry and was increasing his flock and his henhouses every few years. With the demise of the Boston boat three years ago, truck farmers, particularly berry growers, were suffering from not being able to ship to the Boston market. He prided himself on seeing that coming, some fifteen years ago, when he got out of strawberries and raspberries in such a big way and switched to garden vegetables, some dairy, and of course, eggs. Chickens were the future for Lincolnville, he felt, both layers and the newer strains of broilers he was reading about in his farm journals. Still, it didn’t hurt to stay diversified, always with something else to fill in with if one aspect of the farm failed.

He’d developed his route in Camden, seeing the list of customers grow to some forty households, many of them summer people, but enough locals to carry them through either end of the season, like now. His clientele were loyal, realizing the quality and care he and Ethel put into everything they sold. He had to give her a lot of the credit, with her ideas of garnishing the dressed chickens, and having special butter paper with the name of their farm printed on it. People would remember those things, she insisted, and he had to admit, she was right.

A few years back when he’d bought this truck, he’d gone to the expense of having “Springdale Farm, Lincolnville” painted on the doors, just to remind all his customers and would-be customers where the dark maroon panel truck came from. At the end of every delivery day, Wednesdays and Saturdays in the summer, he’d drive from Chestnut Street to the other side of town, to Millville perhaps, and sell whatever was left to local families, charging just a third of what he got on Chestnut. This always stood him in good stead, and he thought it a good lesson for young Erwin to see.

Claude thought about his wife, working as hard as most of the wives on the road even though she’d had only the one child to raise. She never stopped from morning to dark, especially in the summer when the gardens were producing. Nothing made her madder than to have one of the neighbors pay a visit all dressed up in her best duds. Claude was always amused at how flustered she’d get. Inevitably, the woman would find Ethel sweaty and disheveled from a morning spent over a hot range canning, or all bloody and feather-splatted from dressing out the chickens. Nothing he said could convince his wife that that woman hadn’t paid a call on purpose to catch her at her worst.

Claude believed in operating on a cash basis; the only debt he incurred was his weekly grain bill at the Camden Farmers Union. The chicken grain was delivered on Wednesday, and by the end of Saturday’s deliveries he’d have the money to pay off the bill. During the winter, the bill would add up alarmingly, or so Claude felt, but once he started his selling season again he’d go right in and pay it in full. Claude smiled to himself, remembering the dispute about a bill he had a few years ago with Henry Pendleton, the manager. Claude who was good at mental math, knew he was right, and went out back to find tin snips. When he presented Henry with a penny cut in half, he told him that was exactly what he owed him. Henry vowed that half penny would stay in the cash drawer, and as far as Claude knew, it had.

Claude had to admit Erwin was clever with mechanical and electrical things. Last fall when Central Maine Power Company ran lines through Lincolnville, it was Erwin who urged them to sign up for power. Not that they’d needed much urging; Ethel had been talking about the electric washing machine she could have if only they had power. Still, it meant signing a contract to pay a set fee every month for several years, a financial obligation that made Claude a little uneasy.

Signs went up all along Youngtown Road announcing that the Cooperative Extension Service was holding wiring demonstrations to teach people to wire their own homes. But Erwin just watched the CMP man install three hanging bulbs—one in the cellar, one in the barn and one in the middle of the kitchen ceiling—and he knew all he needed to know about wiring. He proceeded to wire all the rest of the house himself. Not long after, Leo Crooker of Camden came by with a new washing machine for Ethel to try out, and she bought it on the spot.

Claude, glancing over at his son, intent on his driving, sighed softly to himself. It wasn’t that he begrudged the money, though the electric bill was a new expense for something they’d gotten along without just fine. But he thought about the way it had been, the only good light in the house the B&H student lamp they’d kept on the living room table. Evenings he’d sit on one side of it, reading, and Ethel on the other, while Erwin lay nearby on the couch, studying or reading. It gave him a happy, secure feeling to glance up now and then and see his whole family around him. With the new electric lamps they could sit anywhere in the house of an evening. And he had a feeling this might be only the beginning.

Now they were home, pulling into the dooryard at 435 Youngtown Road. How could Erwin fail to see what they had here? He and Ethel had had to do it all themselves; there’d been nobody to hand over a producing farm to them. The boy was young. He’d come around.

Our world is growing warmer, a result of our increasing use of fossil fuels – gasoline, coal, and oil. And we have only a small window to reverse the warming trend by cutting way back – world-wide – on our use of these fossil fuels.

The easier part may be that for most of us, as technological advances improve the efficiency of all our conveniences – cars, electricity, heat, air conditioning – we won’t have to endure a lot of changes in our daily lives. The harder part is that all of us need to sign on. In Claude’s day any given farmer could choose to stay the course, plow with his favorite horse, keep the one lamp burning in the middle of the homework table, operate on a cash basis, and only he and his family would be affected. In today’s world if we don’t “all get along” on these issues of energy use our very existence could be at stake.

Enter Lincolnville’s ad hoc energy team – Gary Gulezian, John Williams, Kathy Williams, Greta Gulezian, Bob Olson, Cindy Dunham and Jim Dunham – has been investigating the feasibility of creating a solar array on the fire department’s Camden Road land to supply most of the power for town facilities. With the selectmen’s permission a couple of months ago bid proposals were sent out to several solar companies. Meanwhile, the team began looking at the financial viability of solar energy.

Dave Kinney, Lincolnville’s Town Administrator, has been involved with the energy team’s work from the beginning, as helpful and encouraging as I’ve always found him to be when citizens come to the town with an idea. Then, soon after he’d completed and sent out the request for bid proposals, Dave suffered a critical medical emergency, a brain aneurysm, which has hospitalized him for several weeks in Maine Medical Center.

As most of us know, the town has rallied around Dave’s family with meals and donations and offers of help as Michelle has been staying in Portland to be near him. According to all reports, Dave’s not only recovering, but back on the phone with Jodi Hanson, the interim town administrator chosen by the selectmen last week. The energy team, understanding the pressures both Jodi and the Selectmen are under to carry on in Dave’s absence, hopes to see the solar project proceed smoothly.

Four new staff members are in place at Lincolnville Central School this fall.

Carol Waldron, with a school librarian background but lately technology coordinator at Hope and Appleton schools, is our new school librarian, filling the capable shoes of Marty Weaver who retired last year. (Our grandchildren report that Mrs. Weaver has been busy in the school garden lately)

Another familiar face in our district is the new middle school math teacher, Debra McIntyre, replacing Jacob Eichenlaub who has moved on to Camden-Rockport Middle School. Debra attended LCS (where my husband was her teacher) and then taught math and science for many years at Appleton Village School, later becoming principal there. She’s been in administrative posts since then, but has been “itching to get back to her classroom roots.”

Kathi Strout replaces Marty Messer as Special Education Teacher for the upper grades; Marty is now at Belfast High School. Kathi has been both an Educational Technician and a teacher at Hope Elementary and other local schools.

Alice Heintzman is our new school nurse, replacing Sonya Frederick who is now at AVS. Alice has most recently been at Hope School.

Finally Joshua Mitchell comes in as an Ed Tech replacing Samantha Bragg who is now at Pen Bay YMCA.

Lots of new faces, but with staff members moving between our Union #69 schools, they are familiar faces as well.

Sports This Week

The soccer team plays at Nobleboro today.

Needleworkers Gather

This Tuesday, September 13 is needlework night at the library from 4 to 6 p.m. Bring a knitting, quilting, felting or other project to work on in the company of friends. Needleworkers of all skill levels are always welcome and this is a great place to get help with patterns and directions.

Happy Hour at Andy’s Pub for the Library

Sympathy to the family and friends of John Ianelli, who passed away last week. John lived at the Beach, or rather, high on a hill behind the Beach.

As usual, it’s hard to find only one post on the Lincolnville Bulletin Board to highlight:

“. . . someone stole The Butterfly Barn's "children at play turtle", same kind as the one by the Library cross walk. If anyone [saw] someone stop to pick up our sign please let us know. This is very disappointing and frustrating. Business has been very slow . . . and I used some money from my 3rd job to pay for that turtle sign thinking it might help to keep kids safe here (since no one goes the speed limit) as well as advertise that we are a childcare facility at the same time. I thought it was an important investment and now someone has taken it. Very upsetting.”

Reply the same day: “Is THIS the turtle?  $24.99 at Walmart - Let me know - Good Luck - This town is a good town and you will get a new turtle soon!”

Next day: “So sorry. I have been a teacher in FL for 23 years and know how important these signs are. I can bring you a check tomorrow so you can buy a couple signs. I just live down the road.”

 So here’s the other:

 “Now that I am retired and in a casual mode & mood, I do not want to give my suits, sport jackets, shirts, shoes and socks to Goodwill or the Salvation Army.  They are clean, in great shape, and I would like someone local to have them.  . . . Here's what I propose:

• Suit - black or pinstripe - size 42, pants 36
• Shirt or two - size 16.5 - 34
• Your choice of two nice, silk ties (but not my church favorites)
• Black shoes - wingtips or plain, english tip - size 11.5
• socks (over the calf) to match if needed or interested

This is not charity.  Call it ‘corporate recycling’.  I just hate to see these clothes on hangars in the attic! Call me if interested  . . . “

 Reply: “The Curator is the new men's consignment boutique in Rockland, corner of Main and Tilson. Run by young people who grew up here. A  place to exchange quality men's clothing.”

 Next reply: “. . . check with Restorative Justice in Belfast.  Perhaps someone in their program would be in need of professional work clothing.”

 And then: “. . . St Margaret's church in Belfast is doing a men's clothing drive now to benefit Restorative Justice.”