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?

by Norma Best Boucher

I just spent one of the best mornings I could want. I didn’t set out to do that. I don’t think that life works that way. I do try to start every day with a positive attitude, but this morning God just pointed me in a direction and said, “Enjoy!”

The weather was cool for Florida, a beautiful winter morning, when I took my early morning walk just as the sun came up. I usually walk with my neighbor’s Yorkie, Scooter, but today I was especially early and just took off alone. I didn’t realize that I usually look down or at eye level when Scooter is with me. I have to be careful that he doesn’t step on fire ant hills or disturb any snakes. Today, I looked everywhere and discovered a leafless deciduous tree silhouetted against the morning sky. Suddenly, my mind was back home in Waterville, Maine, walking on Elm Court and School Street on a beautiful cool day.

Florida is filled with beautiful full-leaf and flowered trees that thrive in the winter, but at that Maine memory moment the leafless branches on that tree were more beautiful than all of the other trees combined. Right next to it was a smaller palm tree. The two trees together seemed to epitomize my own life – the majority of my years spent in Maine and the last of my years spent in Florida. The larger tree had the deepest and best root system just like my own life in Maine.

And then – My cat Olivia and I were sitting on the screened-in porch when a beautiful hawk landed a few feet from us. She saw him first. I saw her body stiffen and followed her gaze. The hawk was perched on the roof in a majestic pose. As his head turned, I saw the downward curve of his sharp beak and his proverbial “hawk eyes” sizing up the backyard. Olivia did not move. Neither did I. He was even more beautiful when he took flight and flew past us.

And then – I went for my daily ride along Indian River. The morning was still young. There was a very light rain that appeared on my windshield but was too light to disturb the mirror surface of the river. Hundreds of seagulls were perched on the long river docks, much, I imagine, to the chagrin of the owners. One lady was taking pictures of them. I stopped my car and saw several files of “ducks in a row” at varying distances in the river. All were paddling north.

And then – I saw them, three dolphins. Indian River is quite shallow, so I could see them intermittently breaking the water. They, too, were going north. I don’t know whether they were feeding or just playing, but I never tire of watching them just living their lives for all of us to enjoy.

The first time I saw mammals swimming in a river was when I was seven years old in 1954. My father drove my mother and me from Waterville to Bangor, their hometown, to see the two white whales that had swum to Bangor up the Penobscot River. We drove in my father’s 1948 Studebaker. There was no Interstate 95 highway then, so the trip took two hours up and two hours back. We could go no faster than 45 miles an hour because the car shook at faster speeds. Seeing the whales was quite a thrill. Seeing the dolphins brought back to me another cherished Maine memory.

As I left the River Road area, I stopped at a stop sign and saw perched on a tree limb a different but still beautiful lighter colored hawk. He was watching me as intently as Olivia and I had watched the earlier hawk.

And then – I left the serenity of the scenic river ride to go to a gas station to pump gas into my vehicle. The prices had dropped. Another Maine memory came to mind. Again, my father had driven my mother and me to Bangor to see the gas war.

“Norma,” I remember him saying. “Remember this day. Gas is 18 cents a gallon.” I watched as a man filled the gas tank. We turned around and left Bangor for the long two-hour ride home.

Today, I paid more for my gas than 18 cents a gallon, but who cares? I enjoyed a million-dollar morning and Maine memories.

by Norma Best Boucher

As I ask myself when this journey all began, I must start with my mother in the ‘60s when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had been an older mother when I was born, so I had the advantages of having a mother who was secure with herself.

I remember vividly when she had her mastectomy and radiation. I have never seen anyone with such courage and strength. She couldn’t afford a breast prosthesis, so she stuffed a cotton curtain into her bra and asked me, “Norma, am I even?” before going to work as a first presser at the Hathaway Shirt Company.

My father had told her, “Just live, Lillian.”

For us, who loved her, she lived.

I had made sure that I never took any medicines that might add to my risk of having breast cancer. I had taken every precaution I knew, so when at age 62 they told me that I might have breast cancer, it was a slap in the face.

A lumpectomy revealed an additional lump – now, two different kinds of breast cancer.

My son took the reins and made appointments at a Breast Cancer Center. Within a week’s time I was at the center. Further biopsies showed two additional growths.

My breast was a cancer factory.

After the initial shock of the diagnosis and with the help of the doctors, I realized that cancer was not necessarily a death sentence. Suddenly, I had options, decisions, and hope.

My husband and I went home to Maine to visit. Family members and friends who had survived cancer were the greatest inspiration for me. People I hadn’t seen in years called to tell me of their experiences and to encourage me.

I left Maine with the decision to go through with the mastectomy and with the courage to fight for my life.

Experiences with my mother, God, and the love of my husband and son got me through the operation.

I was overjoyed to learn that the cancer had not spread to my lymph nodes. In fact, I was told that I wouldn’t need chemotherapy. I went to the oncologist prepared to take a preventative medication for five years.

Further tests, however, showed that one of the cancers was an aggressive type. Chemo was now on the table. This decision was more difficult than deciding on the mastectomy.

This was a setback. I had already moved on with my life, and, suddenly, I was grabbed back into the world of cancer.

The question was, of which was I more afraid: the cancer or the chemo?

With the guidance of doctors, I opted for the chemo.

My husband and son took turns taking care of me. I exhausted them. They had put everything they had into saving me, and now I needed them even more.

The chemo treatments were worse than the operation. It was an intense three months, but my family never waived.

Each person’s experience with chemo is different. Suffice it to say, “I wouldn’t wish this on an enemy.”

I did the treatments. My hair fell out in clumps after the second week. I wore bandanas most of the time because my wig was so loose that it slipped to my nose when I tilted my head. Some days I just wanted to heave it across the room.

The first time I slept for days after the treatment, I was scared. The next treatments I prayed to sleep.

Every time I had a treatment, I swore I wouldn’t take another, but then I felt better and tried again.

Finally, they were over.

I survived. I am alive and cancer free.

When I look back on this experience, I laugh, and I cry. God, everyone’s prayers, and my family’s love got me through this.

I am truly blessed.

Sometimes, when I’m dressed and ready to leave for work, I take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror.

In my mind’s eye I see my mother, smiling at me.

I whisper, “Thank you,” to her and to God.

Then, I pull back my shoulders, smile right back at her, and ask, “Ma, am I even?”

Norma Best Boucher is a freelance contributor to The Town Line. A former Waterville native, she now lives in Florida.

by Norma Best Boucher

I have always loved raspberries. My earliest memory of the sweet seedy globules was on my aunt’s farm, in Bangor. In the summer my father and I visited his older sister’s family for a week filled with the softness of feather beds, the smell of sweet peas, the taste of fresh garden produce, and the succulence of ripe red raspberries.

I had been too young to go berry picking before that summer. Apparently, it was more work to watch me than to pick raspberries, but that year I became of age, four. With the index finger of my left hand gripping the handle of the small tin cup and with all the fingers of my right hand grasping my father’s fingers, I was off on an adventure into the Maine woods.

The year was 1951, so television hadn’t educated me. The only animals I knew were dogs that bit, cats that scratched, and an array of bugs that did God knows what. I was a typical city girl about to be introduced into the wild.

My father, my aunt, and I walked for what my short legs felt was forever but for what my imagination thought was a second. I was introduced to chipmunks, to birds, to wild flowers, to fallen trees, and to peace.

I never got the hang of berry picking that summer because I saw an unidentified bug on a bright red fruit and refused to touch any other berries. I did behave, though. As long as they filled my cup with juicy berries, I stood quietly and contentedly in one spot watching them and eating one red berry at a time.

In a short time, they exhausted the area and moved farther away. I stayed on my spot to avoid the scratchy bushes, but I never lost sight of my father. As soon as I had eaten that last berry in my cup, my father refilled it, each time promising me there were no bugs.

My aunt eventually moved much farther away, and I heard her voice fade into the distance.

Becoming more relaxed with my surroundings, I began to take in the sights – trees, birds, and new sounds. Quite at peace with the world, I reached into my cup for another berry. As I did, I looked down past the cup to the ground.

Just then a long, slender, green creature slithered across the top of my bright red canvas sneakers. I let out one long, loud, blood-curdling scream. In the distance I heard the sound of my aunt’s yell and an avalanche of gravel.

Of course, my father ran to me first, and after calming my tears, he explained that I had seen only a harmless snake. Even today the words “harmless” and “snake” are never used by me in the same sentence.

Back then I stuck out my pouted lips and begged to be carried. I decided then and there that my feet would never again touch the same ground as that “harmless snake.”

Carrying me, my father set off to find my aunt. We discovered her at the bottom of a gravel pit. Hearing my shriek, she had lost her footing and had slid feet first, stomach flat all the way down to the bottom.

After relating my episode with the reptile, they both laughed hysterically and did so for many years later with the memory. Only later in life did I fully grasp the humor of the situation.

I enjoy daily walks now but on the side of the road. Lately, I have seen red raspberries ripening. With no one watching, I walk into the brambles and pick a handful of berries. They are just as sweet as on that first day in the woods at my aunt’s farm. Each day I take a handful noticing that others are doing the same. Soon they will be gone and a cherished memory will fade with them.

On those daily walks I continue to look for the chipmunks, the birds, the wildflowers, the fallen trees, and the peace.

Oh, yes. I still look for the bugs on the raspberries…but never, never do I look down for that “harmless snake” in the grass.