Its been ages!

Since I last posted and it is so hard to start again after stalling out.  Having something I need to "save", I turn to the blog for that purpose and future posts will follow in jubilant succession, I imagine!

This photo is of a "book" that was apparently created by my mother, Lois Baker, as part of her unsuccessful effort to woo a man named "Forrest Altman"-- a man who apparently broke her heart and catapulted her into the willing arms of my father.  It was probably done about 1945 when she was 20 years old.   There are no names in the book and the person for whom she created it either didn't accept it, didn't want it or never received it.  There is nothing wonderful about it-- in fact it is incoherent and random and makes no sense.  She did keep it, however, so it must have been important to her and when I got it, from my sister Sybil at her Thanksgiving visit in 2012, I was touched simply to have it.  The book was made by my mother's hand; she chose the text and cut out and pasted all the bits.  There was even a scrap of net still attached-- impossible to tell what it was.

Here is another picture.

After searching my soul I decided that this is not something I should keep.  It has no personal message, no meaningful content (at least now, at least 67 years after it was created) and most of all it is not something with which to burden my daughters.  So, with a pang of sadness it has gone into the recycling bin-- better somehow than the rubbish barrel.

Capes, Teeth, Blood

Who says you can't buy everything you need in Belfast?

Our daily dog walk-- 8 am and often noonish as well.

I can't stop making these things.  Here is my production so far-- less one that was so awful I gave it to the church sale.

Who Knows Where the Time Goes....

Yesterday morning we were listening to the Sunday Morning Coffee House.  Suddenly I was standing stock still mesmerized by the beautiful voice of Kate Wolf singing that song-- feelings of melancholy, nostalgia and ecstasy flooded my being-- Kate Wolf, her lovely voice silenced by death at the age of 44, the aching beauty of autumn, the joy of waiting for four babies to be born.  Five great grandchildren for my parents, and my mother didn't live to see a single grandchild.  Me, suddenly with a medicare card and fully feeling the passing of my life and the coming of the new generation.  Sad but joyful at the same time, having had a full and marvelous life myself-- not long enough yet but neither too short.  So very blessed, particularly in having John, my true companion for all these years.


A week ago John and I walked with Margaret and Andrew in the huge Evergreen Cemetery in Portland.  The picture above shows a plot housing the remains of residents of Portland's "Home for Aged Women".  Feeling nearly "aged" myself, I was taken with the scene and was inspired to see what I could learn about one of the inhabitants.

I imagine that Caroline Franklin would be amazed and pleased to think that nearly a century after her death someone is interested in learning anything about her life.

From her Maine death record I learned that Caroline Franklin, nee Drake, was born in August of 1822 in Seekonk, Massachusetts.  There is no birth record but her parents, Albee and Rhoda (Tisdale) Drake had three other children born in Sutton and there is a census record for Albee in Sutton in 1820, so Seekonk may be wrong.  The 1856 State Census of Iowa shows that Caroline, by now under her married name of Franklin, was living in Allamakee, Iowa.  She was with her parents, Albee and "Rolla" and a one year old girl recorded as R.M.V. Franklin.

In 1860 Caroline was still with her parents and still in Allamakee but there is no young girl so we must assume that she died.  In 1870, still in Allamakee, Caroline was living alone but there were at least two Drake families nearby.  In 1880, enumerated as "Carrie" she was still in Iowa but a search of nearby households reveals no other Drake families.

By 1900 Carrie had returned to New England.  Although there is no Maine connection previously, in 1900 Caroline, now 77 years old,  was living with Henry Dexter, a nephew, age 39.  He was born in Iowa.

By 1910 Carrie was in the Home for Aged Women and on 28 October 1915 she died.  Cause of death was
"Hypostatic  Pneumonia" and senility.  From Wikipedia we learn that hypostatic pneumonia usually results "from the collection of fluid in the dorsal region of the lungs and occurs especially in those (as the bedridden or elderly) confined to a supine position for extended periods".

So what do we know about her other than bare bones?  We know that she moved westward with her family, perhaps before Iowa became a state in 1846.  (Lack of available census records hinders the research).  We know from undocumented internet sources  that Caroline Franklin married her sister Eliza's widowed husband, John Franklin.  He was supposedly a physician.  Since Caroline appears to have had a baby about 1855, Franklin must have died sometime in that year.  It is possible, however, that the baby was not Caroline's but Eliza's and that the marriage to John Franklin may have been motivated by the desire to care for the motherless and soon completely orphaned child.   Whichever the case, one cannot but imagine that there was grief and sorrow to spare in this pioneer family.  

While we can know nothing about her personality, the fact that she was a widow for more than sixty years, that she had no children to surround her, that she eventually returned to New England and lived with a bachelor nephew and that she came to rest at last in the Home for Aged Women, gives plenty of scope to imagine what her life was like.  Perhaps she was whining, querulous and a complete old nuisance but I prefer to think that she was a cheerful and industrious soul, always ready with a smile and a kind word.  

Harvest Moon and Bite of Tick

This is a picture I took with flash.  You can see the top of the stairs leading down to the shore.

This is a picture I took when by the light of the moon alone.  Pretty spectacular!

This is "barley bliss" casserole from a vegan cookbook.  It was not great to begin with-- I think the barley was not soft enough and it was really awful after I put the leftovers in the garage and forgot about them.  Needless to say, it became compost but the crop of mold was really impressive.  Why didn't I take a pic?

This is baby girl Merritt, due on February 10th-- the tentative name is Juliet but that is not carved in stone.  Why is she standing on her head?  I can't seem to change it.



My heart is broken by this picture of my cousin David about whom I wrote recently.  He appeared in court for less than a minute, was appointed a lawyer and was given another court date of October 22nd.  Clearly whatever was keeping him high is no longer with him-- he is thin and sad looking.  I hope his mother doesn't see this.

I found an embedded tick yesterday morning-- right after I got up at 5:00 am.  It was on my hip where I couldn't get a good look and only irritated him with my ineffective use of the tick spoon.  So I waited three hours for John to get up.  At times I thought perhaps an embedded tick was a good enough reason to wake John early but I know he gets his best sleep at that time and I decided it was too girlish to make a fuss.  Joan and I had taken a walk on Monday and because the day was lovely and my feet were aching, we lay down in a field, gazed at the sky and chatted.  Although I have been vigilant about ticks all summer, I never gave it a thought this time-- so it was a call to the doc again for the medicine.  Last time it cost .33 cents and this time it was down to .24.  And I saved the $20.00 co-pay because they didn't make me come in.

My Cousin: David Charles Baker

A week ago today at his home in Salt Lake City, David was arrested after a most spectacular finale to several months (probably longer) of deteriorating mental health.  I didn't learn about the arrest until Tuesday evening but my sisters and I had become concerned when his endless stream of  YouTube rants and other online postings suddenly ceased.  The paranoia and delusions were so pronounced that I sometimes wondered if he was faking the whole thing-- running for president, talking with god, making bombs, threatening people with a sword cane, buying gloves that functioned as brass knuckles, vowing to get back at all the people who misused him-- and certainly it seemed that everyone misused him-- people in the post office, the bank, the gun and ammo store, the camera store, etc.

Here is a sample of his recent writing-- an email to his mother.

Re: Please send a check for $40,000 to MIKE "God" PROCTOR at Enginuity Automotive Services, Inc. 5926 Stratler Street Murray, UT 84107 (801) 268-0125 before he gets back on Tuesday

Inbox

x

David Charles Baker	Sep 15

O*M*G - and this is how my life goes all the time:

I went in to tell Mike the good news you'd be sending $40k and his daughter said he was like a little kid with the steel-knuckle gloves I sent him when he liked mine and had "just left minutes ago for his 40th wedding anniversary" in Elko. I was going to run out and tell him he was getting $1,000/year from y'all as a little wedding gift for being such a stand up guy he's been with the same woman for 40 years.

He really needs the money because he made the mistake of having a worthless son (Brad; sassed me so Mike canned him from his shop) who had a kid and doesn't want to care for it so poor Mike and his wife, at nearly Susan and Don's age, have to take in a teenager. 

My mother said she can "barely stand Janet and Andy's kids for even five minutes and was so glad" I never had kids. Imagine having to raise one of mine.

Thank you again for sending Mike the money. And isn't that a funny coincidence? It's almost like GOD INTENDED IT TO HAPPEN THAT WAY.

BTW, I said yesterday that Michael Proctor is God. So you know, since he's getting the money, it literally is like God intended. DO IT!

Oh, and I didn't go out to Elko as Kristy said she would kill me if I bothered God on his 40th anniversary and when the daughter of God tells you to do something, sometimes I do it ('cause she's super cute and in a bad marriage so I have a pretty good shot if Kelli approves; God has already given his blessing by saying how much he hates his son-in-law).

HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW, HATERS?

There are lots of details about his arrest on the internet and they are easy to find with a search.  His videos have received thousands of views, the picture of his arrest wearing a black sequined mini dress with cowl neckline and orange fun fur trim is everywhere as is his mug shot:

How did we get to this point?  I thought David was irrational a couple of years ago when he refused to provide DNA for genealogical purposes.  The reason given was that the government might discover that he had a rare, fatal and highly contagious disease and would therefore kill him to protect the human race.   I told him that the testing people did not need his name or even initials and that the genealogical test was very limited, but it  made no difference to him.  Then last summer (2011) two of his beloved dogs died and he seemed to go off the deep end.  My sisters and I talked and talked about the situation but always came to the conclusion that there was absolutely nothing we could do.  We all felt helpless, distressed and very sad.    

I am reminded of two lines of poetry (Edna St. Vincent Millay).

Having shook disaster till the fruit fell down

I feel tonight more happy and at east.

David spent his last day of freedom busily shaking disaster and the fruit did fall down.  It seems very clear that his escalating craziness was designed to provoke a response.  Does he feel more happy and at ease?  Did he need the legal system to help him stop a descent into madness that he couldn't escape on his own/  Did he hope or expect to be killed in the process?   A similar situation later in the week, also in Salt Lake City, ended with the death of a mentally disturbed man.  

As I wrote today to his mother, I may be naive in hoping that the several charges filed against him will be dropped in favor or inpatient psychiatric treatment.  In the meantime I think of him alone in custody-- no drugs, no computer, no dogs, no freedom.  Please let it be that some wise and kind person is trying to help him through this.

David in happier times.  He brought four black dogs to visit us in Maine and because he needed to sleep with all four (and his wife Kelli!) we gave him our bed.  

Clarence M. Baker: 1896 - 1950

Today, afflicted (or blessed) with a sudden fit of industry I began sorting the heaps on my desk.  The first thing I lighted upon was a picture of my grandfather, Clarence Baker and his high school graduating class.  I decided to write a letter and send it off to the Brandon Vermont Historical Society.  In the process I realized that by coincidence today is the 62nd anniversary of his death on September 25th 1950.  He died two months short of his 54th birthday.  The Vermont death certificate reads "Right sided heart failure duration 2 hours"  Contributing causes were noted as severe asthma and hypertensive heart disease.  Twenty five years less one day later, 24 September 1975, his widow, Madge Clark Baker, died.  The death certificate says "self-inflicted medication overdosage" caused by a "severe depression reaction".

I was not yet three years old when my grandfather died and I cannot remember him.  He was a mild man, henpecked according to my mother who was very fond of him.  He had a beautiful voice and was a soloist at church and in other venues.  He was a pillar of the community, an active member of the church, an optometrist with a practice in Brandon and a Freemason.  I have researched his ancestry back to Thomas Baker, the original immigrant to New England.  Thomas Baker (1638 - 1710) came to Massachusetts but soon left for Rhode Island.  A tailor by trade he later ordained as a Baptist minister and was pastor of the Kingston Rhode Island church from 1664 to 1710.

Clarence was in the Naval Reserve during World War I.  In this picture he looks very like his grandson and my brother, Brian Smith.

Clarence played the cornet and it was said that he played in John Philip Sousa's band but I have never confirmed this.  The instrument was passed down in our family and was briefly played by Brian but I believe it has since gone out of the family.

This is the picture taken at the end of his life-- a slight variant of the one used in his obituary.

Porch: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Porch-- the word brings nothing but pleasant associations.  Dining al fresco, rocking chairs, iced tea, leisure, neighborliness, summer.  True enough but there is more-- green slimy stuff on the parts near the ground and black mildewy stuff on the rails and posts up above, spiders and insects in every nook and cranny and a much interference with light into the actual house.  So yesterday, a beautiful fall afternoon, John and I attacked it with the hose, buckets, spray bottles, brushes and earth friendly cleaners (quickly abandoned in favor of good old chlorox).  Looks great doesn't it?  We have done as far as the stairs and will continue on this afternoon.  We listened to Joni Mitchell's disk "Miles of Aisles" with long remembered live versions of all her best songs.  Our working together was congenial and satisfying.

This is a very small quilt that I made in May after our tiny quilts class.  The strips are 3/4 inch before sewing. I spent all summer postponing taking it further and couldn't really see how to quilt it.  Finally I got the idea just to make a red french knot in the center of each light rectangle.  Made a big difference in how it looked and soon I will have the binding on.

Am listening to David Copperfield (again) as it is one of the two Dicken's books selected for our Senior College class-- the other is Bleak House-- a book I have also read (listened to).  I was looking forward to the class but our first one was mildly annoying.  The teacher finds it valuable to read aloud for whole pages and I don't.  We will see how it goes this week-- I am giving up the quilt guild meetings in order to take the class.  

My Prayer

Keep bright before me the moments of my highest resolve.

Peak Bagger's Delight

The "trail" leading down from Sargent Mountain in Acadia National Park.    Peak Bagger's Delight winds its way up, down and over four summits-- Bald, Parkman, Gilmore and Sargent.  It is only a four mile hike but strenuous and for me difficult.  It took us nearly five hours to complete-- a time probably lengthened by rain and wet rocks.  It is particularly "delightful" because the four peaks are in close proximity to each other and can all be seen one from the other.  There is a great deal of hiking above treeline and lots of granite-- my favorite things.  As I lagged behind John and our friend Rick Fitzsimmons I spent some time channeling Otzi, the "Ice Man" found in the Italian Alps-- plodding along feeling weary and anxious for a bit of rest-- finding a slightly sheltered niche between the rocks and falling asleep, never to wake.  I, on the other hand, plodded along and reached a rocky summit where I could rest and carry on with renewed energy.

Here you see John and Rick at the summit of Sargent-- we had fog at times but the wind often swept it quickly away giving us the typically superb views of mountain and ocean that one gets in Acadia.  After Sargent there is a beautiful walk along the open ridge before dropping down into the woods and a very difficult trail back to the parking lot.

An uneventful trip home, a pleasant glass of wine with Liz and Rick on Kaler Road, a very satisfying alfredo with onion pizza from Belfast Variety (the Greek Salad not so great-- iceberg lettuce, too much feta), an hour with the three nannies from "Berkeley Square" and so to bed.

Catching Up by Photo- yet again

When I named this my "everyday" blog, I meant not that I would post everyday but that it would be about ordinary, daily life-- just saying!  What I find, however, is that we did a couple of extra-ordinary things in late August and September and that left a big blogless space.

Departing from routine, John and I drove on the 27th of August up to Caribou, Maine and embarked the next morning on a loop bicycle ride from Caribou to St. Agatha, to Van Buren and back to Caribou.  We were accompanied on this jaunt by Liz and Rick Fitzsimmons.  It was the first time I had ridden a bicycle with panniers and I had some trepidation about it but in the end didn't notice much difference.  We carried very little-- just one set of bike clothes, one set of apres bicyclette and one set for sleeping.  I didn't even take a book-- something that I regretted.  The weather wasn't fabulous but we escaped a heavy downpour while touring one of the catchall museums seemingly typical of the area and it was great that we were never hot.  If anyone tells you that "the County" is flat, they are wrong-- my idea that we would be passing through great swaths of potato fields was a fantasy-- even where the area was heavily agricultural, the hills were not gentle.  But as John reminded me, it takes hills and valleys to make scenic beauty and much of what we saw on the trip was quite lovely.  Our first night, at the Long Lake Motor Inn in "Sain Agatte", was especially nice.  There was a welcoming bar to reward us for riding forty miles against the wind and the hotel staff arranged to drive us up to an excellent restaurant and had the restaurant staff return us to the hotel!

Liz and Dereka:  Photo by Rick

The highlight of the next day came when noon approached with no sign of any possible place to eat--  then, like a mirage out of the potato fields, appeared the "Misty Meadows Organic Farm" in Grand Isle.  Much more than a farm, the family owned enterprise includes a superb organic restaurant where they were very gracious about providing a gluten free meal for Liz and where I had possibly the best fried fish ever.  John had the daily special, beef stew with all the ployes he could eat and there were even cats to pat.  Although we knew it to be the case before we went, we all found it surprising that people who have lived their whole lives in Maine speak French in preference to English (although totally bilingual) but I was further surprised to learn that Gloria (?) at the Long Lake Inn speaks French first but cannot neither read nor write it.  She told us that reading and writing in French was forbidden in the Maine public schools.

We rushed back in time to liberate Darby from the Canine "Country Club" and to prepare for the next day arrival of Margaret, Andrew, Andrew's dad, Ron Richter, Eliza and baby William.  It was a jolly crowd at dinner, made strangely hilarious by the news that four days after FINALLY getting a job, Margaret discovered that she was enceinte.  That makes two daughters expecting at the same time-- something that gives them both a lot to talk about and me another grandchild to adore.  Here are the three of us, back at our old favorite game of Acquire.  Eliza won as always.  Ron and Andrew went off to hike and camp while the rest of us had a nice lazy weekend.

On Tuesday the 4th of September, John and I tooted off to an AMC facility in the North Maine Woods called Little Lyford Pond Camp.  It was an annual "over 50" outing and once again we were accompanied by Liz and Rick.  The camp was lovely (but surpassed by the nearby Gorham Chairback facility that is six miles away and that we visited after our second day hike).  An old "sporting" camp, it was purchased and rehabilitated by the AMC.  It poured the first night and into the morning and I was secretly hoping for an entire day of knitting and reading but it cleared enough for us to take a four miles walk around the two ponds.

In the later afternoon John and I took the l.5 mile nature trail-- walking very leisurely and paying close attention to the interpretative signs-- a lovely interlude for the two of us.

Each of the cabins had a private outhouse!

On the second day we hiked up the Third Mountain Trail to the Appalachian Trail and Monument Cliffs-- a totally gorgeous hike of the kind I love most-- pine trees, rocky, steep and difficult climbing but much preferable to a steep dirt trail through hardwoods--

Our days have been saddened only by the loss of Robin Richenaker.  While I knew Robin myself it was mostly because she was an especially close friend to Joan Herrick.  Their camps on Pitcher Pond are adjacent and for eleven years Robin and Joan walked their dogs together.  Robin has battled depression for many years and on the 31st of August choose to end the battle by suicide.  R.I.P Robin.

Again on Bald Mountain

Ellie, Hannah, Margaret and Mark on Bald in Camden

Margaret has been looking for a job for so long and so fruitlessly, that I avoid the subject entirely when I talk to her.  Eliza said last week that Margaret had a "prospect" and I was hoping she would have good news for us when we met for the hike.  Her "kids" scooped her announcement, by giving us the news while she was out in the woods answering a call of nature.  She has a job, only an ed tech, but full-time and in the South Portland School District-- her top choice and an easy commute for her.  John and I were gratified to know that the contacts she made while substitute teaching were helpful in the interview process-- we had often assured her that this would be the case EVENTUALLY! but she was dubious.  She is in a special ed resource room and mandatory training starts on Monday.  

The kids were great and enjoyed the hike with virtually no whining.  They apparently found it very strange that I put small pieces of sweet gherkins in both the tuna and egg salad sandwiches but tolerated the oddity very well and made short work of the chocolate wafer cookies that we had for dessert.  They came up to our house after the hike and had ice cream before heading back to Yarmouth.  

The kids and Margaret on the trail-- a lot of work has been done to make a stony staircase.

I started listening to In One Person by John Irving but I HATED it and for the first time took advantage of Audible's offer to exchange titles.  The book was like an unpleasant return to John Wheelwright's family in A Prayer for Owen Meany:  the fatherless boy, the pretty mother, the strident aunt, the private prep school, the theme of amateur theatricals, the obsession with breasts, the great stepfather and in one case a good grandmother (PFOM) and in the other a good grandfather (IOP) but there was so much masturbation and transgender stuff that I found myself repelled by the whole thing.  So now I have Pillars of the Earth instead.  I read it years ago but since I liked Giants of the Earth so well, I am looking forward to the audio experience of POTE.  In the meantime I am enthralled with the audio version of Jonathan Franzen's Freedom.    I have read that in bound book form as well but we are doing it for the book club in September and I really couldn't remember much about it.

Volunteer Squash

Volunteer Squash 21 Verona Street

This is an acorn squash that came up from compost.  By chance it is in a reasonably good location although John's desire to have a perfect lawn gene is frustrated by not being able to mow.  Since much of the lawn is now brown and weedy, however, the squash is the least of it.  Behind it are two very nice volunteer tomatoes and there are more volunteers in the actual garden.  This is the first year that we have had a bountiful tomato crop-- I often say that I haven't had a decent tomato since my father died but this year we are approaching decent.  Nothing will ever be better than a tomato my father sliced for me with the same jackknife he had just used to take a sliver out of my foot. Marshall was a gentle expert at sliver extraction using a pocket knife and I was always brave about it.  This memorable tomato experience must have taken place when I was older than four because it was in the South Hill Jamaica house.  

On Monday I drove Chip Curry as he went knocking on doors.  I am not a devoted political volunteer but since I absolutely refuse to make phone calls (and do not think they are useful), I volunteer to drive when campaigns get underway.  Two years ago I drove for John Piotti and for Erin Herbig and it seemed like a good way to give more than lip service to my support.

Yesterday I finished listening to Gone Girl and finished reading Susan Hill's Pure of Heart.  Gone Girl seemed just brilliant to me-- witty and creatively plotted.  Some reviewers have felt it was uneven-- the first part better than the second (and just as many feeling that the book only picked up in the second part) but since I was listening to it, I never lost momentum.  Listening to a book is so very different from reading.  Because one is usually doing something else simultaneously-- in my case, sewing, gardening or cleaning-- my attention does not lag and if the action or writing slows down, I don't seem to notice it.  Pure of Heart is the second of five Simon Serailleur mysteries and because I discovered them through the donated books I read the fourth one first, third one second, fifth one third, etc.  So now I have started reading the first of the series and feel I need to reread all the rest.

Babs Whitaker: 19 August 1927 - 12 May 2012

Babs hated to have her picture taken-- this time she was caught unaware.  It is a beautiful picture of her in the living room in West Whately.  Babs was almost exactly twenty years older than I am and I met her when she was 43 years old.  Marshall brought her to see me where I was working at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Mental Health Center.  I had coffee with them in the cafeteria on the ground floor.  She moved to West Whately in the fall of 1973, shortly after I moved down from Hanover.  I had been reluctant to leave my widowed father on his own, so left my job at Dartmouth and took one at Hampshire College.  As it turned out, I needn't have worried but it was all for the best that I left the Upper Valley for the Pioneer Valley.  My romantic entanglements had no possible good ending so moving allowed things to taper off slowly.

Babs was one of the greatest cooks I have known.  Nearly forty years later I remember the first meal I had at her farmhouse up in Charlemont.  It was her pot roast with onions cooked in beer, mashed potatoes, peas and salad.  She loved to cook and entertain and it was only when she became nearly incapacitated in her final illness that she reluctantly gave up cooking for us when we visited.  Babs was a wonderful stepmother, a wonderful grandmother and a wonderful friend.  She was an over-indulgent mother, whose children did not benefit from that approach.   Babs and Marshall had a passionate relationship in their early years.  They were both enthusiastic travelers and did a great deal of gadding about, both in the U.S. and internationally.  Their marriage, after eleven years together, suggests that they had achieved an amicable and mostly stable companionship that lasted until he died in 1993.  Us "Smiths" were always grateful to her for loving Marshall-- he was not a man to live alone and none of us resented her in any way (although I think she sometimes thought we did!)

I knew Babs much longer than I knew my own mother.  I loved her and believe she loved me in return.

Finally! A long lovely rainy day.

My sister Tamar was here for a few days last week and we pulled out a box of memorabilia about my father.  I have been thinking about him since and because our latest genealogy group meeting was about scanning old pictures, I remembered the one below and pulled it out.

This is the observatory staff on Mt. Washington, circa 1946.  My father, Marshall Smith,  is second from the left, holding the cat.  I don't think he was ever without a cat in his adult life, except perhaps when he was working as a sailor in the merchant marine.  Vince Schaefer is in this picture as well.  Marshall made several trips to Central America on the S.S. Mayari, a United Fruit Company "banana boat".

S.S. Mayari

These trips sometimes ended in Boston and the sailors rapidly made their way to the nearest bar.  In the bar, after what turned out to be his last trip, Marshall met a man who said he had been working at the weather station on Mt. Washington, was on his leave days, and didn't intend to return.  He thought that if Marshall presented himself there, they might give him the job.  This is exactly what did happen.  Money that he earned up there enabled him to buy the farm in Pikes Falls where I was born.

Marshall told us two stories about his time on the mountain-- home of the "worst weather in the world".  In one case he was descending one of the Ravine's in winter-- perhaps Tuckermans.  He slipped and began sliding downhill over icy crusted snow.  He managed to turn himself onto his back and use his hands to guide himself between obstacles.  While he eventually was able to stop, his clothes were shredded and his leather gloves worn to nothing.  The other story made it into Nicholas Howe's book Not Without Peril.  This occurred on February 19, 1946.  Marshall descended to meet a new scientist who was climbing up.  Although the weather had been "exceptionally" fine, a sudden cold front came in and Marshall and Vernon Humphrey retreated a half mile to the 6 Mile Refuge.   The emergency food with which the refuge had been stocked was gone but there was a heater and a phone.  They contacted the summit and set up an hourly phone schedule of contact.  They were finally rescued about noon on the third day-- that is about 68 hours later.  Marshall told me that one of them had to be awake to make the hourly phone call for the entire time-- Nicholas Howe says "two men from the observatory arrived with hot tea and soup, then they escorted Vernon and Marshall the rest of the way to the summit and set a meal before them that was entirely adequate to their great need".

After days, no weeks, of little rain we have been rewarded  with a nice soaking one today.  Our Friendship Sampler "picnic" was held at a member's lakeside home in Palermo and everyone felt  blessed by the rainfall.  The number of people in the group was just perfect to fit in her large open kitchen, and we had a wonderful time drawing crayons for a "crayon challenge" and doing our usual show and tell.  After we broke for food (lots and lots of food!) (note to self:  buy that self hypnosis CD  for weight loss) we ended the day with a "UFO" swap and gales of  laughter.  Talk about making lemonade-- the fact that we couldn't spread out on the deck, the shore and in the water, made for togetherness and a day that we will remember with smiles.