by Peter Cates

Margaret Dickson

Lewiston-born writer Margaret Dickson published a 1985 novel, Octavia’s Hill, which follows four generations of a family, and from which a chapter was anthologized in the book, Maine Speaks.

The excerpt takes place during the horse and buggy days in the very rural community of Monson, itself north of Dexter and Guilford and quite close to Baxter State Park and the 100 Mile Wilderness Trail. It depicts a mother raising her eight-year-old son, Marl, by herself.

One passage that stood out describes a stone wall in the woods that the son uses for shade during his explorations. The words evoke a timeless universality in the landscape, almost spiritual in its dimensions:

“The wall was lichen-covered, its crevices turned to rich humus and scratchy rock crystals that were almost like beach sand. It was in dark, comfortable shade, because this wall went right through the pine forest. Marl sat and stared off into the soundless, sun-dappled, fly-whirling woods and chewed a piece of sweet grass. He could have used his shirt right now, maybe, to keep the bugs off, but he didn’t care. The whole hill was his to play on, and he guessed he could go down and get that old shirt whenever he wanted to. He was happy. Under the wall, his old fortress, the hill breathed and moved with things to do on other days, but for now he was like a baby settled on its breast, so close to the heartbeat of it that it sounded like his own.

“For a little while he thought about the men who had built this wall. They’d slung those old stones day after day to build these rock piles that meandered along the sides of their fields. Then they’d grown old or moved away and left the grass to turn into woods again. It was as if the hill knew something they didn’t. Somehow Marl knew you had to listen to the hill if you wanted things to last.”

Googling for additional information on both Margaret Dickson and Octavia’s Hill, I came across two intriguing off-the-beaten-path items related to these names.

A. Margaret Dickson was the name of an impoverished Scottish maid who was sentenced to death in 1722 by hanging for murdering her infant shortly after its birth. After she was cut down from the rope, she was placed in a coffin inside a wagon by her friends for burial.

On the way to the graveyard, the wagon bounced around constantly and, to the horror of her mourners, she suddenly woke up. Considering this an act of God, the authorities pardoned her and Margaret Dickson lived another few decades.

B. Octavia Hill (1838-1912) was an English social reformer who fought for better living spaces for working people and the preservation of woodlands, but detested government handouts because it eroded self-esteem and individual initiative. She was also a gifted fundraiser with the rich in her encouragement of their volunteer charity.

Black History Month

Black History Month evoked memories of reading the very powerful 1945 memoir, Black Boy, by Richard Wright (1908-1960) in its personalized account of racism during the author’s formative years growing up in Natchez, Mississippi, and Memphis, Tennessee.

Recommended viewing:

The acting of Lee Grant, still living at 97, as a bereaved widow in the 1967 In the Heat of the Night and as a cold-blooded, but very charming murderess in Columbo’s 1971 season opening episode, Ransom for a Dead Man.

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Actor Robert Emhardt (1914-1994) frequently portrayed crooks on such series as Alfred Hitchcock Presents and the Twilight Zone, and had a particularly ominous smile. During the early 1940s, he was one of the co-founders of the Actor’s Studio, in New York City.

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Recommended listening on YouTube and elsewhere – anything by the early 1960s girl vocal group, The Angels – especially The Night Has a Thousand Eyes; and, from a different category, a dreamlike gem of early 20th century music by English composer Frederick Delius (1861-1934), the Prelude to Irmelin, via the recording of this composer’s foremost interpreter, Sir Thomas Beecham (1879-1961).

by Peter Cates

Chester Arthur

For me, 21st President Chester Alan Arthur (1830-1886) always gave the impression of being a stuffed shirt prig with his Billy goat sideburns and mustache. But, like his predecessors and, as of 2023, his 25 successors, he was certainly a fascinating individual with a story uni­quely his own.

The tag, Gentleman Boss, became attached to him; during his years of political leadership, he was described by one journalist of the era as “usually wearing a Prince Albert coat, buttoned closely in front, with a flower in the upper button-hole and the corner of a colored silk handkerchief visible from a side pocket.”

Arthur’s childhood involved frequent changes of address and biographers have no certainty as to whether he was born in Vermont or upstate New York.

His mother, the former Malvina Stone (1802-1869), came from a very tough background in very rural Vermont while his father, William (1796-1875), was born in Ireland and was a Baptist preacher whose happy-go-lucky disposition may have led to frequent changes of churches in Vermont and upstate New York .

Arthur’s siblings included six sisters and two brothers, most of whom lived to ripe old age into the 1900s.

Arthur worked his way through law school by teaching and was admitted to the bar in 1853. He struggled to find work his first two years in Manhattan but in 1855 represented an African-American woman who had been refused transportation on a streetcar.

The client was awarded $500 and Arthur’s arguments resulted in other African-Americans receiving better treatment on public transportation.

In 1859, Arthur married Ellen Herndon (1837-1880) and they had three children – a son who died at three years old and another son and daughter, both of whom lived into the 1900s like several aunts and uncles.

Arthur’s wife died from pneumonia shortly before he became president, so his sister Mary McElroy (1841-1917) very effectively assumed hostess duties in the White House.

During the 1860s and ’70s , Arthur rose higher in New York state politics with the help of a few rather devious individuals but he kept his own hands clean and proved very effective as a Quartermaster General during the Civil War in charge of supplies for the troops; and in 1871 as collector of customs for the Port; and maintained his own reputation for complete honesty. Ironically, he never served in Congress before being nominated by the Republican strategists as Garfield’s vice-president and then, after his predecessor died from bullet wounds, entering the White House.

Arthur achieved Civil Service reforms but little else and eventually lacked the support of his own party because of its feuding divisions.

In 1884, the Democrats sent Grover Cleveland to the White House. Totally exhausted by his workloads, Arthur’s health went downhill within 20 months after leaving Washington and he died on November 18, 1886, at the young age of 56.

by Peter Cates

Richard Aldridge

Born in New York City, poet Richard Aldridge (1930-1994) attended summer camp here in Maine most of his childhood and, as an adult, would eventually settle down with his wife in Phippsburg while teaching high school English in Bath.

Although his name is new to me, his work became renowned among other poets and he edited and published a 1969 anthology, Maine Lines.

Before sharing a poem of his that is contained in the ever-fascinating 1989 anthology Maine Speaks, I offer his own very astutely stated words on why poems matter:

“The most important thing in life to any person is another person, not a whole number of other people. That is why poetry will always fill a vital place-in essence, it is an art where three really is a crowd. You should be able to hang around with a good poem just as you do with a good or best friend. As with a best friend, a poem you really like will have said something to you in a way that touches bottom, while at the same time it will just be there, on call any time. If it could see and think, it would observe you growing and changing and reaching all the time. And you, coming back and back to it from time to time, will see new angles and depths and reaches that you never quite knew were there at first acquaintance.”

I read this credo of belief that does resonate while also remembering that most all of the successful poets in America still needed day jobs, Robert Frost being one of those select few who earned a living from his books after his first one was published in 1913 when he was 38.

Now for Richard Aldridge’s, A Sharing of Silences, with the inscription, West Point, Maine, underneath the title:

“late fall, the summer people gone
into the village store I go
six fishermen are sitting around
just talking joking supper done
because I have stuck out
now seventeen Maine winters
still have the wife I started with
have had their children now and then
up at the high school off in town
they let me in a little
by not going quiet like wind dying down
or worse just up and easing out
and yet their talk takes on
the slightest shade of guardedness
because I do teach English
after all which means of course
good grammar is my holy flame
and too (they hear) write poems
and such so who knows what
I might go off and copy down
if they could only understand
the only words I care to find
are those the counter image of
the windworn creases in their brows
the bark-like hardness of their hands
the upright carriage of their pride
and those are not for finding”

West Point, Maine, is roughly seven miles southeast from Bath where, as stated earlier, Aldridge taught and it is part of Phippsburg on the Casco Bay Peninsula.

The poem evokes a way of life and the divisions that can occur among different people living that way of life in a small community, the ever perpetual theme of aloneness in the community, of experience that is shared versus experience that can never be shared.

People want to know things about you but do not want you to know things about them, watching you yet wary of you.

The poet injects elements of great potential for more than one story in certain lines- we’d like to know more about “the summer people gone” , those sometimes obnoxious individuals from a distance who do boost the local economy with their dollars; “six fishermen…just talking… joking… [at] the village store ” who fear most all outsiders; and the poet narrator who teaches the children of those fishermen “now and then/up at the high school off in town” but still has the fishermen interacting with him in their minimally sociable manner combined with “the slightest shade of guardedness”…not ever knowing what their children’s English teacher “might go off and copy down.” God forbid!

These hints of story brought to mind another Maine poet Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935) who lived out most of his life in Gardiner and later in New York City, but who was born in Head Tide which is 26 miles northwest from Phippsburg.

Robinson’s poems such as Mr. Flood’s Party, Richard Cory, Miniver Cheevy, Tristan, etc. had innumerable hints of stories.

A poem well worth brooding upon!

In his rambunctious 1930 book on theology, Treatise on the Gods, H.L. Mencken comments – “The only real way to reconcile science and religion is to set up something that is not science and something that is not religion.”

Rachmaninoff

Rachmaninoff’s 2nd Symphony, a masterpiece of unutterable beauty, has generated shelves of different recordings in which the score is either presented in its over 1 hour complete, sometimes sprawling magnificence or with some cuts in the passages. Both approaches were sanctioned by the composer, depending on his mood.

I own a batch of different recordings, each of which has interest, but one I have consistently enjoyed of the cut version, and for more than 45 years, is a 1959 recording featuring Alfred Wallenstein (1898-1983) conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic in what might be the greatest one he ever made. It has pulse, characterful detail, and delectable notes and hangs together like no other recording I know of.

It can also be heard on YouTube .

Gene Rodemich

A 1921 ten-inch acoustically recorded Brunswick shellac disc (#2060) features one of the better dance bands of that era led by Gene Rodemich (1890-1934) who later worked for NBC Radio before dying from lobar pneumonia at the young age of 44.

The two selections are Margie and the rather obscure Irving Berlin Home Again Blues, both which can be heard on YouTube.

The Killers

Two movies that still stick in the memory are Bing Crosby’s 1944 Going My Way, in which he portrayed a Catholic priest, with the very good co-stars Barry Fitzgerald, mezzo soprano Rise Stevens, and the Little Rascals own Alfalfa; and the 1964 film noir, The Killers, starring Lee Marvin and Clu Gulagher as two highly professional hit men who do convey much nuance in their character development, as unlikable as they are; former President Ronald Reagan in what would be his last movie role before he entered the political arena, and a role in which he very convincingly portrayed a gangster; Angie Dickinson as Reagan’s devious wife; and the now underrated actor John Cassavetes as the victim of the hit men.

The film was very, very loosely based on Hemingway’s classic short story.