LINCOLNVILLE BEACH – 1924. Note: David Nichols, Lincolnville’s own local-boy-makes-good, lived his whole life at the Beach, except for a few years in the 1940s, while in the service and college. The garage and the apartment over it in the story, is today’s Beach Store building. The Pillsbury farm was at about 2240 Atlantic Highway, a short way south of today’s Black Horse Inn. Many will remember it as an abandoned and deteriorating farmhouse which was finally torn down in the 1990s.

     Lizzie Pillsbury sat down before the open window and fanned her skirts, sitting in just the right place to catch whatever air was moving. It had been a scorching few days, even here at the Beach. She’d lived in this second floor apartment ever since Flora died, nearly three years ago, and she was no more used to it now than in the beginning.

     She didn’t know which was worse, summer or winter. Just now it was stifling under the sloped ceilings, the only windows these two that faced the Bay, and in the kitchen at the back, the one overlooking the salt marsh. She’d let the stove go out hours ago, after fixing the children’s oatmeal and George’s coffee and breakfast. They’d had a cold dinner; she couldn’t think what she’d give them all for supper.

     Only George wouldn’t be back tonight. He had some business in Camden, he said, finalizing the sale of an automobile. More often than not, business kept him there. Lizzie tried to be charitable, in her thoughts at least. He was a man in the prime of life, after all, and who could expect him to sit home night after night with a spinster sister-in-law and two little children? That she herself was a woman rapidly passing the prime of life didn’t bear thinking about. Lizzie firmly pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind. This was no time to be feeling sorry for herself. David and Ruth—their childish voices were even now drifting up from the sidewalk below—were her main concern.

     And poor Flora, of course. Three years ago Flora and George had come home to the farm to have their baby, as they had with the other two. Mother could help—after all, she’d had six healthy children herself. Lizzie, the oldest of the Pillsbury offspring, took charge of the two little ones, three-year-old David and one-year-old Ruth, much as she had her own siblings when they were young. Spirits were high all around at the prospect of another baby in the family.

     Then the trouble started; the baby was born dead, and Flora began hemorrhaging. George was frantic. The doctor came, but there was nothing he could do. To see Flora, her youngest sister, the baby of the family she’d helped her mother take care of, succumb during childbirth, leaving two motherless children, had been devastating.

George was in such a daze those first few weeks after Flora died, that Lizzie never doubted she’d been the love of his life. He didn’t protest when Lizzie insisted on coming to keep house for him and the children. It really was up to her; sister Rose had her job, teaching school in Camden, and Mother was too old. She was the only one who could do it.

     But she hadn’t realized what it would mean to leave her lifelong home, as well as Mother and Rose. She was probably in a daze herself, for she hardly remembered now moving her things down to the Beach, to the apartment over George Nichols’ garage, where all she’d have to call her own was a small, windowless room under the eaves. 

     Lizzie thought of the farm with nostalgia. On a hot afternoon Lizzie, Rose and Flora used to sit with their mother on the shady front porch, watching the sailboats race each other up and down the Bay. Somehow, watching the daily races from the security of their own substantial farmhouse, surrounded by fields and barns and animals, with a lapful of peas to shell or a bowl of apples to peel, was more satisfying than sitting, alone and tired, and seeing the same sailboats out the apartment window.

     The afternoon sea breeze was finally picking up and none too soon for her. The children were playing outside with their new cart, so she had these few minutes to herself. She ought to use them constructively. She pulled a lined tablet out of her apron pocket and started to read the childish writing on it:

     Another pleasant day. Filled the woodbox. Went for the milk. Learned the second verse of the star Spangled Banner. After dinner we went to church. Mr. Hold was the minister. After supper went with Aunt Lizzie and Sister to call on Mrs. McCobb.

     “Mr. Hold” should be “Mr. Holt”, and “star” needed to be capitalized. Still, Rose would be pleased to see how well David’s writing was coming along. When he came in, she’d have him copy this entry into his journal. Considering he was only seven, he was very studious. Ever since Rose suggested Lizzie have him sit down before supper and write what he did that day, she’d seen such an improvement in both his spelling and his penmanship. She took a notebook out of her other pocket, David’s journal, and leafed through it. Lizzie’s eyes filled up with tears. Maybe Flora knew, somehow, how hard she was trying to give the children a good up-bringing. Lizzie just hoped she appreciated what she was doing.

     Lizzie Pillsbury didn’t live to see the results of her efforts with the little boy she raised. David Nichols grew up to become a Maine Supreme Court Justice. Although he lost his mother, Flora Pillsbury Nichols, at the age of three, her sisters Lizzie and Rose took over his upbringing and education, and they took it quite seriously. Rose Pillsbury LeBlanc was a dedicated teacher; she taught French for many years at Camden High School. Under her direction Lizzie, who kept house for George Nichols and raised his children, made sure that young David was a good student. After attending all eight grades at the one room Beach School (today’s Lincolnville Improvement Association and Schoolhouse Museum), he started high school at the age of twelve and graduated at fifteen.

     Meanwhile, his father saw to his political education. George Nichols was a long-time Republican Party chairman in Waldo County, and often Republican politicians came to call. David was just a teen-ager when Representative Clyde Smith stopped by to see George, leaving his wife in the car. David, who was pumping gas out front at his father’s garage at the time, struck up a conversation with her. And so began a lifelong friendship between the young Lincolnville fellow and Margaret Chase Smith who would become Senator from Maine, and one of the most famous women in America.

     David attended Bates College, and after military service in Panama during the war, went to the University of Michigan Law School. He returned home to practice law in Camden, while living with his father over the old garage at Lincolnville Beach.

     Some time later he moved, a scant hundred yards away, to 2516 Atlantic Highway, the house on the rise behind today’s post office. In 1964, he served as chairman of the Maine Republican Party While practicing law in Camden, he was appointed to the Superior Court bench after then-Gov. James B. Longley arrived in a helicopter in front of his Lincolnville Beach home in 1975 and asked him to serve. He was elevated to the Supreme Judicial Court two years later and retired in 1988. In retirement David pursued a life-long interest in the genealogy and the history of the town. He lived until his death in 1997 in the same house, on the rise behind the post office, halfway between his childhood home over his father’s garage and the one-room Beach School.

Read more stories about Lincolnville people in Staying Put in Lincolnville, Maine 1900-1950, available at Western Auto, the Lincolnville Library, and at Sleepy Hollow Rag Rugs.

     The Lincolnville School Committee meets Monday, April 6 at 6 p.m. in room C-1 at the school. Check out the agenda which is always available, along with minutes of previous meetings, on the school website. One topic which will be discussed at the meeting, which as always, is open to the public, will be how to adjust the current calendar to account for the snow days taken which went beyond what was anticipated.

     Have you got a child reaching kindergarten age? That is, a child turning five on or before October 15, 2015. Call, 763-3366, or email the school to begin the registration process. Check out the April 1 Lynx newsletter for a helpful check list of kindergarten readiness skills and information.

Nomination papers for several town positions are being circulated, but it’s not too late to jump in. Open positions include two on the Board of Selectmen, two on the Lincolnville Central School Committee, one on the CSD School Committee, and three on the Budget Committee. Pick up the papers at the Town Office and get at least 25, but no more than 100, signatures of Lincolnville registered voters, and return them to the Town Office by 5 p.m., April 27. Easy!

Mark your calendar for the April Library Presentation and Concert on Wednesday, April 15. Lydia Schofield (writing as Jojo Thoreau), ten year old published author, will be the speaker, followed by the singing of The January Men and Then Some. Tickets are $10 and should be reserved in advance to make sure you get a seat. Contact Rosey Gerry, who puts together these great programs throughout the fall, winter and spring months: 975-5432 or email.

It was a sad week in Lincolnville for several families as one little guy, Christian Bryant, just four years old, passed away with cancer. There are no words adequate to say, except that his parents and all his family are in the hearts of many.

And for the family and friends of Adam Knight, who died in a car crash on Belfast Road last week, again there are no words, just sympathy.

Best wishes for a complete recovery to Priscilla Thomas Jones, injured in that crash.

Sitting around the breakfast table with our four granddaughters this morning, Wally told them it’s supposed to snow tonight. You should have heard the groans and cries of “no!”. This winter has gone one long enough, wouldn’t you say, when children have had enough?

But we did have one gorgeous day last week, Friday I think it was, when the thermometer read “60”; of course, it was in the full sun, but it felt so good! Here’s what we did:

      Wally finally enjoyed the first of his Christmas cigars, sitting in a lawn chair in front of the snow drift blocking the barn door.

      I climbed over the icy drift blocking my greenhouse, went inside and found the soil fluffy and warm. So I planted radishes, arugula, and parsley, then carefully covered each row with handfuls of snow.

     We opened all the windows and doors.

     I took down the crocheted snowflakes that had decorated the front windows all summer.

And, according to Kathleen Oliver, our neighbor across Frohock Brook, the redwing black birds returned as usual on the 26th of March, as they have for many, many years. Nature is so reliable in some ways, she says.

We’ve all heard the expression “as hard as herding cats” to describe all sorts of situations, but Speaker John Boehner, had a new one the other day, referring to getting members of the House of Representatives to come to some sort of consensus on anything: they’re “like a wheelbarrow full of frogs”, he said. I mentioned this to a friend, and she started to laugh. The mother of three boys, and my co-den mother back in the day, she remembered once when her three were at Levensellar Pond and filled a bucket with frogs. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, that bucket ended up in her back seat, and as she drove along, in her rear view mirror, one after another the little captives started jumping – boing! boing! boing!