by Evangeline T.

Hello and welcome to Maine Memories, little snippets of life from our home state.

For this installment, I’m remembering when I raised chickens.

At about age 12, each girl in a club I belonged to had to do a summer project.

Being raised on a farm, I opted to raise bantam chickens. Bantams aren’t as big as regular chickens and are sometimes referred to as miniatures. I had two females and one rooster.

Now Bantams, at least mine, could fly, not too far, 200 feet or so and not high up in the air, maybe 20 feet. My point is, a fenced in yard wasn’t much help, as each day they flew over the fence and out.

Dad fixed that problem. He trimmed some feathers on one wing of each bird. Trimming didn’t hurt them in any way, but they’d become off-balanced when flying. It worked on the females, but let me tell you, that frisky little rooster continued with his messy daily flights, off balance or not!

Our driveway was a circle, which had a section of lawn and a pine tree in it. That rooster loved to fly and perch himself in the pine tree every morning. If you have ever visited or lived on a farm that had a rooster, you’ve probably heard an early morning sunrise “cock-a-doodle do”! My bantam rooster had a problem; his voice wouldn’t produce a nice morning “cock a doodle do”. It came out sounding more like rough-a-rough, ending sharply. Each morning at sun rise, he’d sit in that pine and try again and again, but the sound was always the same.

You have to give him credit, though. He never gave up, and his rough-a-rough lives on in my memory.

There’s a lesson here we can all take to heart: keep on trying. You just might get it right! Cock-a-doodle-do!

by Evangeline T.

Welcome to Maine Memories, little snippets of life from our home state. For this installment, I’m looking back at my early school days. Times definitely have changed, since then!

I grew up in the small town of LaGrange, Maine. We had a general store, a post office, service station, and a railroad station.

My first train ride was on an old black steam engine from that station to Milo, Maine, a distance of approximately ten miles. I’ve never forgotten it!

LaGrange had four working schoolhouses, which I attended one by one, until I was in my third year of high school. That’s when I moved to another town.

School number one consisted of a large room, where sub-primary (or kindergarten) and first and second grades were taught, all by one teacher. We sat at low tables, with small brightly colored chairs of red, green, yellow, and orange. Once a week, we’d gather together, and a lady would come and tell us a story. After that, a man gave us all chocolate cupcakes, with delicious white cream filling.

School number two was a single room, housing grades three and four. We had our own desks, which made us feel grown up. There was one teacher for every subject and for both grades.

In the back of the room was an iron stove called a ram down. The stove used a big log for fuel. It was our only source of heat, so everyone wanted a desk close by. Sometimes, we’d be allowed to cook lunch on the ram down, using ingredients brought from home. A great stew was the result. What a treat!

Teachers back then were strict. If we whispered and giggled, she wrote our names on the slate blackboard. Later, at day’s end, those who’d disobeyed lined up in front of the room and held out their hand. Each received a slap from a razor strap. Ouch! A razor strap was about two inches wide and two feet long, made out of strong leather and used to sharpen straight razors. It hurt, and I can witness to that!

School number three was split into two rooms. The left housed grades five and six. The right accommodated grades seven and eight.

A basement coal furnace provided heat. My dad filled it every evening and again in the morning, all part of his duties as school bus driver.

Our school was right in town, across from the general store. If we’d been good and asked “may I,” not “can I,” teacher allowed us to buy candy or an ice cream cone during lunch hour. If we didn’t have money, we’d play games or swing.

As I said before, Dad drove the school bus, so I’d wait to be the last one out. “May I have a nickel?” I’d ask him. Keep in mind, mom had already said no at home! He’d reach into his pocket and say, ‘gee, I don’t seem to have a nickel, will a dime do?’ It was our little secret. A dime bought a lot of candy and an ice cream!

School number four (high school) was a converted church on a hill called Hinkley Hill, after a family who’d settled there years before.

All four years of high school attended. We’d start each day by congregating in the central area, about 30 of us. Our senior class consisted of two sisters, and no one else! After roll call, we’d go to different rooms, depending on what subjects were being taught that particular day.

This building was heated by a coal furnace, and the heat came through one very large register in the floor.

Maine winters are famous for being chilly, but we girls knew how to keep warm. Slacks weren’t allowed, and the style was skirts with lots of petticoats. At recess, we’d stand over that register and get our petticoats as hot as possible. When the bell rang, we wrapped them around ourselves and sat down. Worked like a charm!

Those times of one room school houses, coal furnaces, razor straps and hand-held brass bells are all in the past, now. Just scrapbook memories. Too bad.

Today, it’s smart phones, computers, and modern technology galore. Are these new methods better? Are our students smarter? I wonder!

by Evangeline T.

Hello and welcome to Maine Memories, little snippets of life from our home state.

This week, I want to tell you about my name.

When my mother was in grade school, she was required to read the story of Evangeline. Then and there, she decided that if she ever had a daughter, Evangeline would be her name.

Well, guess what! I’m her daughter, not so young or little anymore. But it’s me.

I’ve been asked about my name, so I’d like to share with you what I found.

In 1847, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote a story about a woman named Evangeline Bellefontaine and her love, Gabriel. They were from Acadia, Canada.

The book title was Evangeline, subtitled A Tale of Acadia. It involved Britain, and Acadia’s expulsion. The story goes that the two lovers were involved in a forced separation. She spent the rest of her life searching for him. At one time, they were literally only feet apart but unable to see one another because of a forest. They never even realized it.

Her search took her from Acadia to southern Louisiana. In her old age, she worked with the sisters of Mercy, in Pennsylvania, a house for the poor where on his death bed, she found Gabriel. He died in her arms.

The name Evangeline became popular throughout the 1940s and ‘50s. There was an Evangeline newspaper published from 1949-1982. A minor baseball team in the ‘30s and ‘50s. A train that ran from Halifax to Yarmouth, operating until 1990, and even a Maine-based evaporated canned milk labelled Evangeline.

There are two statues of Evangeline, one in Nova Scotia, where her search began, and one in St. Martinsville, Louisiana, where she gave up searching.

Louisiana has parishes instead of counties, so they have an Evangeline parish. There is also a large mall and a hot sauce with that name.

As a child, I didn’t like Evangeline, as everyone seemed to stumble over how to pronounce it. They still do, but now I just grin and tell them the proper pronunciation.

A dentist once told me Evangeline was a beautiful name, it has angel right in the middle. As a young teenager, that changed my way of thinking. Evangeline means the “bearer of good news,” which I try to live up to.

So, where did your parents get your name? What does it mean? Have fun learning about your own name. The results just might surprise you.

NOTE: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, in 1807. It was part of Massachusetts at that time.

by Evangeline T.

Hello and welcome to Maine Memories, little snippets of life from our home state.

This week, I want to tell you about a fun birthday I had as a girl.

When I was ten, we moved to a 250-acre farm.

Like most farms back then, the house, shed, and barn were connected. If you walked around the house outside, you needed to walk around the shed and barn, too.

Dad had fenced off an area for pasture, so walking around the house meant climbing over the first section of fence, walking across the corner, and then climbing over the second section to complete your journey. The second fence section had a large pole gate in it. A pole gate was long poles that slid to one side so you could have access to the pasture.

For my 11th birthday, mom gave me a party with my new friends. She planned games, baked a beautiful cake, and made delicious ice cream. We all got a chance to turn the crank on the churn to help the ice cream freeze.

One of the games we played was if you lost, you had to pay a forfeit. The forfeits were written by mom on slips of paper placed in a jar. Of course, I lost. When I picked out my forfeit, it said to run around the house once.

Out the door I went, everyone else went also to watch me.

I wore a pretty blue dress, so I was careful. I slid under the first section of fence without a problem. Cheers went up from my friends.

I crossed the corner and came to the second section of fencing. Going between the poles on the gate seemed my easiest way.

It was a great plan, except for one thing: the old cow in the pasture had been observing me and figured I might need a little help. My blue dress going between the poles of that gate caught her eye, and she proceeded to butt me with her big hard head right where I sat. I landed on the other side of the gate, dress safe and sound. My pride was another matter!

Everyone laughed, and the cow, well, she voiced her opinion of the whole thing with a loud “moo”. I never did like that cow!

by Evangeline T.

Hello and welcome to Maine Memories, little snippets of life from our home state.

This week, I have a fish tale for you. Hope you enjoy it!

Every fisherman (or woman) has a tale to tell about the big fish that got away or the trips taken to catch fish in some far away river or lake.

Here’s mine. Since we lived in northern Maine with two nearby lakes, my husband and I purchased a lakeside cabin, spent the summer there and traveled to work each day.

We had a boat and built a wharf to accommodate it. One day, my husband and son decided to fish using our boat. They didn’t go far from shore.

A while later, I walked out onto the wharf and yelled at them. “How’s the fishing? Caught anything yet?”

“Nope,” they answered, “Not yet, but it’s still early!”

Just then, I looked down in a space between the wharf and shore, and there was a good sized fish. He seemed to be sleeping in the sunny shallow water.

“Hey, there’s a big fish right down here!”

They both laughed. “Why don’t you catch him, mom?”

I decided to do just that. I’d use my thumb and first finger to hook his gill, and at the same time, grab his tail with my other hand. I carefully got down on my knees and leaned over him and made a lunge with my thought-out plan in place.

Can you believe it? I actually came up with that two foot-long fish in my hands. He never even knew what had happened to him.

Our neighbor, who’d been watching and listening to this while rocking on the two hind legs of his chair, got so excited, he fell over. Boom! “Let’s see you do that again!” he shouted.

My husband and son gave up and came back to shore, their short trip ending in no fish…and maybe a little embarrassment. After all, mom had outdone them, even without bait or a fishing pole.

That’s my fish story, and I’m stickin’ to it!