by Norma Best Boucher

Glenna Johnson Smith of Presque Isle died August 8, 2020, at the age of 100.

She had been a potato farmer, an educator, a columnist, an editor, a dramatist, a poet, an author, and a community leader.

At age 90 she published her first book, Old Maine Woman. Her second book, Return of Old Maine Woman, followed shortly after.

I wrote this fan letter to Glenna Johnson Smith in April 2016. I never received a reply. I didn’t expect one. I just wanted her to know how much I appreciated the positive effect she had had on my writing.

Dear Glenna Johnson Smith,

This is an official fan letter from someone you don’t know but from someone who enjoys all of your writing. I am a retired high school English teacher who retired in 1998 after teaching 28 years at Lawrence High School (Fairfield, ME) and Winslow High School.

One of my dearest friends is S.H., who calls you a friend. (He told me that I could name drop his name.) Even my dear 84-year-old cousin Peg told me she knew you years ago when she lived in Presque Isle.

I was expounding to each of them separately about these two great books of essays that I had just read by Glenna Johnson Smith when each of them said, “I know her.”

At first, I was deflated that the writer I had discovered and knew so well through her essays was known and liked by people whom I knew and respected years before I knew her. Then I realized that I had discovered Glenna Johnson Smith and her essays when I needed them.

I have been a writer since I was seven years old.

I had a male English teacher during my senior year who laughed at a male student and me when we said that we were going to be writers. I was 17 years old.

That summer at the MORNING SENTINEL newspaper I published the first of many of my articles proving that I should only listen to those people who believe in me and my dreams.

I vowed that as a teacher I would nourish my students’ dreams. Only they and God know what they will accomplish. I gave my students the best tools and encouragement I could to help them to reach their goals.

I was a reporter during my college summer vacations at the Waterville MORNING SENTINEL during the mid and late 1960s. That was my very favorite job. Bob Drake, editor, was my mentor. He taught me the power of the written word and to respect that power. I was 18-21 years old.

When I was a freshman at Western Kentucky University, I had the privilege of attending a lecture presented by author Pearl S. Buck. I don’t remember all of that speech, but I do remember that through her speech and presentation I felt empowered as a woman. I was 18 years old.

Author/Poet Maya Angelou spoke at a 100-year-old African American church here in Florida. She was captivating, even mesmerizing, with her words, her voice, her total presentation.

She further impressed us when she came out from behind the stage to watch a 12-year-old girl recite Angelou’s poetry. Angelou became one with the audience and allowed that very talented young lady to be the star, which she rightfully was.

Through her unselfish example, Angelou taught us respect, humility and acceptance. I felt empowered as a person. I was 56 years old.

I was writing and publishing in the 80s and 90s. I got so busy with my life and teaching that I just stopped. My friend asked me why I had stopped writing, and I remember saying, “I just haven’t lived enough.”

She thought that was an odd answer. I didn’t quite understand that answer myself, but it proved true. My writing was taking a turn to the personal essay, and I needed to experience more life in order to share.

Then I became ill with breast cancer. I survived, but I had to take stock of how I wanted to spend the remaining years of my life.

My bucket list held only a few things. One experience was to spend a week at the Maine coast. I ended up doing that for several summers all by myself. It was wonderful. I went everywhere around there enjoying the places and the coast.

The next item on my list was writing. I had so many experiences and stories in my head that I had to get them down on paper. Through your books I discovered ECHOES magazine and started submitting. They accepted my work, and I am very blessed to be publishing again.

Right about now you are wondering what all of this has to do with Glenna Johnson Smith.

On one of those coastal Maine vacations, I discovered a book called Old Maine Woman by Glenna Johnson Smith. I devoured the essays. I then bought Return of Old Maine Woman and devoured those essays as well.

By the end of the second book, I didn’t know Glenna Johnson Smith personally, but I felt like part of her life. I had traveled with her on her journey; I appreciated her sense of humor; and I respected her willingness to expose her inner most feelings. Glenna Johnson Smith was a kindred spirit. I was 66 years old.

I am 68 years old now, nearly 69. I am writing again. I am publishing again. I am living my writing dream.

Thank you, Glenna Johnson Smith. You inspired me to keep writing. I will never be too old to tell my stories. You empowered me as a writer, and I promise that I will pay it forward.

Readers, please contact someone who has made a positive difference in your life. Make a telephone call, write a letter, send a text, send an email, or just give a hug. Simply say, “Thank you.” They will be grateful…and so will you.

by Norma Best Boucher

“Hey, great shoes!” I hear a man yell across the convenience store parking lot.

“Thanks!” I answer loudly as I look around for the person with the compliment.

There he is, a thin, old man with a scraggly white beard sitting in an old beat-up red truck.

“I like them shoes!” he adds in a deep Southern drawl as he drives away.

He made my day.

I like these shoes, too. In fact, they are my “this is going to be a great day” bright yellow Crocs shoes. On a sunny day they complete a matching outfit with the brightness of the sun; on a personally questionable day they put an extra bit of sunshine in my attitude; and on a cloudy day such as today they are a slice of sunshine breaking up the gray of the day.

Besides, these yellow shoes also show a certain pizzazz against the water in the puddles I am forced to wade. And…plastic shoes are waterproof to boot, pun intended.

This incident causes me to think about compliments in general and how they make us feel. I remember hearing my mother say, “If you can’t say anything good, don’t say anything at all.” Through trials and many errors, I now accept her warning.

A compliment that I will always remember was when my kindergarten teacher told me I had shiny blonde hair. My father was a tow head blond, and my mother was a beautiful brunette. My hair color was in-between and what people called dirty blonde.

At five years old I thought dirty blonde sounded not very pretty, so when my teacher asked me to ask my mother what shampoo she used to make my hair so shiny, I found out and proudly announced that she used an egg shampoo.

Many years later after I had taught for several years, I saw that kindergarten teacher in a jewelry store. I introduced myself.

Apparently, we had been one of her first classes. She remembered my name and, as unbelievable as it sounds, asked, “Didn’t you have blonde hair?”

I felt the glow of her original compliment once again.

When I was young, my family rented a camp on China Lake. There was a young woman who lived in another camp nearby. She was Native American and had beautiful long black hair and pretty eyes.

I never knew her name. I called her “The Pretty Lady.”

We rented that camp for several summers. The Pretty Lady got married and stayed at the camp with her husband and her mother. I quietly accompanied my mother whenever she visited the family. My mother had told her what I called her, so I remained shy about talking to her

Many years later when I was much older, I saw this woman in a grocery store. She had short black hair, but her face was unmistakable. She had seemed so much older than I when I was young, but I realized that she had been a very young woman, newlywed, when I knew her.

I walked down the aisle to speak with her. “You don’t know me and probably won’t remember me, but when I was young, my family rented a camp near you. I used to call you The Pretty Lady.”

She gave me a questioning look and asked, “You recognized me?”

“Oh, yes,” I told her. I should have added but didn’t, “You are just as pretty as ever.”

She looked straight at me, and with the same soft smile and pretty eyes, she answered, “I remember.”

After I retired from teaching, I worked several years at a bookstore. Because I had taught high school English students, the managers decided that I would make a good facilitator for their new young children’s programs.

Not having taught little children before, I called upon a professional preschool teacher I knew for advice. She told me to read them a story, give them snacks, and let them glue and glitter something, and I would be a success.

My first group of preschoolers came through. There were nine four-year-olds and one three-year-old. I was told the three-year-old was very precocious and fit right in with the older children.

After I read them the story, we had a very animated question and answer discussion. The three-year-old sat very quietly listening and watching the other children’s actions. Ending the talk, I asked if there were any more questions.

The three-year-old raised her hand.

“Yes. What is your question?” I asked.

This beautiful little girl with short legs dangling from a too big chair responded, “My name is Sylvie.”

She held up three fingers. “I’m three years old.”

She pointed to her foot. “I have new shoes, and I came to school to have fun.”

I waited a few seconds taking in her innocence and candor. Then I did what every lawyer says never to do. I asked a question for which I did not know the answer.

“Wonderful, Sylvie, and are you having fun today?” I asked.

Sylvie scrunched up her face in deep thought. Then she relaxed, smiled, and answered, “Yes!”

She made my day.

by Norma Best Boucher

I locked up my car and walked to the sidewalk leading to the thrift shop. When I looked up, the child’s eyes met mine. We both smiled.

“What a beautiful baby,” I told the young mother.

Inches away from them, looking straight at the face of the roughly six- month-old child, I said, “I should say what a handsome little boy.”

The boy smiled again and reached out his arms to me.

Surprised but pleased, I asked, “Do you mind if I hold your baby?”

“No, go right ahead,” she answered reaching towards me so that I could take the child into my arms.

I held on tightly, and he held tightly onto me. He put his little arms around my neck and hugged me with his soft cheek against mine.

After a sweet hug he adjusted his body on my hip so that he was again looking at me and smiling.

“I haven’t held a baby in 30 years,” I told her. “Thank you for sharing your baby with me.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered. “He really likes you.”

Warm from the hug and still smiling, I said, “I’m glad… because I really like him.”

* * * * * *

“What do you miss?” the young man asks the old woman.

Ah, now, let me think.

I miss not the washing of the second floor windows but the climbing of the ladder.

I miss not the city of my youth but the bicycling through the beautiful streets.

I miss not the birthdays and the holidays but the people who were there and are here no more.

I miss not the daily visits but the cat Olivia and the dog Scooter, whom I loved and who loved me.

I miss not the ice and the snow but the ice skating, the sledding, and the after sitting by the warm stove sipping my mother’s hot chocolate.

I miss not the dream house of a young mother but the toddler son running through the home laughing and playing.

“So, you do miss?” asks the young man of the old woman.

“Oh, yes,” answers the old woman.

“I miss.”

by Norma Best Boucher

Christmas time is sometimes the happiest, sometimes the saddest time of the year. People are so wrapped up in the moment that they forget to remember. Often a simple thing like a card, an ornament, or a song will trigger their memories, and for a brief moment the past embellishes the present.

When I was young, my mother always decorated our Christmas tree. I’d sit on the couch and watch the lights sparkle, and she’d ask me where each ornament should go. I could have helped, but somehow watching my mother build Christmas with that tree was too special to interrupt. That was tradition.

Perry Como was tradition, too. While we decorated the tree, we listened to our Season’s Greetings from Perry Como album. As we listened to We Wish You A Merry Christmas, my mother, Perry, and I decorated our Christmas tree.

I have carried on the Christmas tree tradition. I don’t know why – it just happened. It felt comfortable. I decorate the tree, and my son tells me where the ornaments should go. The only difference is Arthur Fiedler. When we decorate our tree, the Boston Pops plays in the background. Perry Como is tucked away…with my memories.

My mother is gone now. It’s been 18 years. I’ve been so busy creating my own traditions that I haven’t had time to remember hers. Perhaps I haven’t dared.

This year when the time came to decorate our Christmas tree, everyone else was busy, so Arthur and I were going to carry on the tradition alone. I dug out the Boston Pops album, dusted it off, and put it on the stereo.

Then, something wonderful happened. Maybe it was an accident, maybe it was my subconscious playing a trick on me, or maybe it was just tradition, but last Christmas I confused the records, and from the sleeve of the Boston Pops album I pulled out Season’s Greetings from Perry Como, and We Wish You A Merry Christmas filled the house.

Alone, I laughed and I cried as all the beautiful memories flooded back. They had waited 18 long years, and they would wait no longer.

This is going to be a beautiful Christmas – one of the best I’ve ever had – full of tradition. I know because I’ve already experienced one of the best parts. My mother, Perry and I decorated our Christmas tree.

by Norma Best Boucher

Fall isn’t a date on my calendar, the lowering of the outside temperature, nor the coloring of leaves.

Fall is the day I buy my heirloom pale blue Jarrahdale pumpkin.

I didn’t start out being highfalutin.

On the contrary, I started out modestly years ago with a garden next to our house in Waterville where I grew green beans, yellow waxed beans, stunted carrots, ears and ears of too small yellow corn which I never ate because every year the raccoons raided all of the corn the night before we harvested (phew), a multitude of cucumbers, dozens of zucchinis, and hundreds of tomatoes.

No one warned me about how many tomatoes grew from 24 tomato plants fertilized with decades old cow manure.

Although I enjoyed eating all of the vegetables I grew, my favorite plants to grow were the gigantic sunflowers and the many orange pumpkins.

The sunflowers offered hours of enjoyment. Blue jays landed on the large flowers growing in the garden and heatedly pecked at the individual seeds causing the long, thick sunflower stems to sway back and forth with the weight of the birds.

Once I put sunflower heads on our front door for decoration and heard the loud “tap, tap, tap” on the wooden door. Two and three blue jays at a time pecking to dislodge the large flower seeds sounded more like a woodpecker drumming out his territorial dominance.

My favorite plant was the pumpkin.

At first, I grew the ordinary pumpkins which matured in a variety of shapes. My young son repositioned them daily to prevent any really oddly shaped pumpkins. We didn’t want any flat spots formed from where the pumpkin settled on the ground.

Later, I added the New England Pie Pumpkins, which were smaller, heavy, quite tasty, and perfectly pumpkin shaped. These always perfectly shaped pumpkins certainly gave their part of the garden a very regimented appearance.

As the garden leaves withered and browned, the lively orange toned pumpkins kept the dying garden alive with color.

My quest for the perfect pumpkin in Florida wasn’t an easy task. I first bought a very large, beautiful orange pumpkin for my fall display of “one pumpkin.” Within two weeks, the sun had literally cooked the inside of the vegetable giving my patio a very distinctive pumpkin pie aroma. The large pumpkin sunk from within.

I borrowed a neighbor’s cart to haul it away to the dumpster.

I thought about displaying a ceramic pumpkin or even a lightweight plastic pumpkin, but I was leery that ceramic would break or that plastic would fly away into someone else’s yard.

I reluctantly settled on a wooden stake with a painted pumpkin, but as realistic as it looked from a distance, up close and personal was a different story.

Then, one day while in the grocery store, I fell in love. Among the many differently colored pumpkins, I saw the one I wanted – a large, slightly flattened, round, almost perfectly vertically grooved BLUE pumpkin.

I had to have it. Who cared if it cooked from the inside? I was going to enjoy this pumpkin for as long as possible if for no other reason than my favorite color is BLUE.

From the grocery store bagger’s lifting and placing the pumpkin onto my car seat to my husband’s carrying and placing the pumpkin onto its place of honor, a multicolored earth toned upside down flowerpot, that globular BLUE fruit was MINE.

At first neighbors marveled:

“Wow!”

“Never saw anything like it.”

“A blue what?”

As time passed, people stopped less often. Then, as not just the weeks went by, but as the months flew by, neighbors questioned:

“That thing hasn’t rotted yet?”

“It must be full of ants.”

“Are you sure it’s real?”

Even I grew tired of the blue pumpkin. I had bought the amazing blue wonder in mid-September. The date was now May 15. I was eight months older, but the blue pumpkin hadn’t aged one bit. The blue had faded a little, but the skin was taut, and the flesh was still solid to the tap.

There was only one thing to do. I borrowed my neighbor’s cart and hauled the formerly loved pumpkin to the dumpster.

I went on with my life for the next four months and forgot about this experience. That is until yesterday when I was shopping at the grocery store. I turned the corner, and there they were…a multitude of pumpkins in varying shapes and colors.

I perused the display. Behind three white pumpkins was another of my beloved perfectly shaped large BLUE pumpkins…calling my name. The lure was just too much.

I moved the white pumpkins aside and somehow lifted the heavy BLUE sphere onto the bottom shelf of my grocery cart. Furtively, I checked out, lifted the pumpkin onto the car seat and then finally placed the beautiful BLUE orb onto its place of honor atop the flowerpot which had remained empty for the last four months.

I discovered – through the internet, no less – that the BLUE Jarrahdale pumpkin may last for up to 12 months. Something has to be done.

In the garden, pumpkins and sunflowers are companion plants. Although this new pumpkin is no longer growing, maybe sunflowers could benefit from being planted nearby.

I am going to plant two, four, maybe even six giant sunflower plants in my small sandy area surrounding my “one pumpkin” display. In 12 sunny Florida months I might even be able to get two plantings of sunflowers.

Let the Florida blue jays work for their winter seeds while they swing and sway on the flower heads, and, once again, I may smile as I watch them from my window.

This year I will not chuck the pumpkin when I tire of its beauty. I will, instead, harvest the seeds, dry them, and send them off to Maine gardening friends so they may enjoy a regimented area of their garden with nearly perfectly shaped BLUE pumpkins.

Any takers?