Page C, The Bridgton News, August 29, 2013
Telling tales
A city boy, his uncle and two fishing poles... (Continued from Page C)
hand. But now, I had to make a U-turn and head on over to Wood Funeral Home. It was a well-kept white building at 9 Warren Street. I pulled into an empty space in the parking lot. There were a few cars, but in the next half hour it would be full. Everyone in all of “the Fryeburgs” knew and respected my uncle. He owned the general store in North Fryeburg, which was a gathering place for many of the locals — Record’s Market, or as they called it, Rekid’s Mah-kit. I took a few deep breaths and walked in. I was greeted by Delph Wood. “Hi Rah-nay,” he said, “I s’pose yore he-ah to pay last respects to yore Uncle Maynard.” “I am Delph, thank you.” He escorted me into the room Uncle Maynard was laid out in. I turned to look at the open casket and lost my breath. The body in the casket looked nothing like Uncle Maynard. I looked away, took a few minutes to collect myself then I turned, walked over to the casket and kneeled down. I looked at Uncle Maynard’s
face. It was gray, very thin and sunken. The dozen or so gray hairs that were left on his head were neatly combed back. He looked as though he couldn’t have weighed more than 75 pounds — I had always thought of him as such a big man, over six feet and probably a 190 pounds. I couldn’t look away from his face. I stared, hoping that the man I had loved so much growing up would come back to me. I closed my eyes and said a prayer. When I opened them, there he was, looking just like his old self. ****** It was early in the summer of 1959, I had just turned 12. I was sitting on the couch at home in Queens, N.Y., waiting for Uncle Bud. He was my mother’s older brother; one of her seven siblings. We didn’t have a car in those days so we were always dependent upon someone driving us up to Maine. It was 7:30 a.m. I had already showered and kept looking at the clock. Uncle Bud and Aunt Dot were supposed to arrive at 8. I picked up the newspaper and looked at the sports section. The Yankees had
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beaten the Red Sox 4-1 in the second game of a double header. The Sox had taken the first game, 3-2. I smiled, it seemed fitting that they split the two games. The Mainers were all Sox fans; I was a Yankee fan and well, it just made everything right. Just then the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock and it was ten to eight. They were early! We packed our stuff into Uncle Bud’s car and off we went. ****** The first highway sign that announced “Maine” was in the northern part of Massachusetts and Uncle Bud, as always, pointed it out to me. My heart began to beat faster and I sat up straight. We drove through New Hampshire and then we crossed into Maine. I had a huge grin on my face as we crossed the state line. We drove up Main Street, past the Smokey the Bear sign, past “The Monument,” past the Academy and the fairgrounds, and continued north on Route 5 until we made the left turn onto Fish Street. A few years earlier, I’d asked Uncle Bud why they called it Fish Street. He told me that the Saco River ran parallel to Fish Street and years ago, before they diverted the river, in the spring as the snow would melt, the old Saco would overflow its banks and spill out onto the road. Several times, it overflowed so severely that once the waters subsided, fish were left on the road. So, they called it “Fish Street” and the name stuck. I giggled, great story. Just a few more miles and we were pulling into Grammie’s dirt driveway. The old homestead where my mom and her seven siblings were born was white with dark green trim. It had a tin roof, also painted green. There was a small enclosed side porch
and three huge slabs of granite that served as the steps into the side of the house. To the left was the barn, the shed, and at the very end, the outhouse. It was a typical rural Maine homestead. Grammie was standing on the top granite step and I ran to her. “Rahnay dee-ah… my how you’ve grown,” and she gave me a big, warm hug. I so loved my Grammie. Uncle Bud, Aunt Dot and my mom got out of the car and we all went inside. “Got a blueberry pie for ya, would you like a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it?” “I sure would, Grammie.” She smiled, prepared my little feast, and set it on the kitchen table. I ate it in about two minutes and then asked Mom if I could go up the street to Uncle Maynard’s store. “Go ahead; we’ll be up in a while,” said Mom. It was about a mile to the store and I walked and skipped my way there. I had a smile on my face the whole way. I passed the cornfield on the left, the house that served as the local post office, the Red & White store and finally, as I made that slight left turn and crossed over the river, I could see the yellow building that was Record’s Market. I started to run. I opened the squeaky screen door and walked in. The first thing I saw was the old potbelly wood stove with the three chairs that surrounded it. Even though the stove hadn’t been fired up in months, I could smell the old burned wood. The chairs were occupied by local farmers who, when they saw me, said “Rah-nay, how ah ya?” “Good” I said, “really good.” “Ya do know we beat ya yesterday doncha?” I smiled and answered, “Yeah, but the Sox are in fourth place and the Yanks are in first again.”
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asked if I wanted to go fishing; of course I did and off we went. My summer had officially begun. The next day I was sitting on the flat old wooden boardwalk-like structure that fronted the store. Russell had some things to do, so I was waiting for him. Uncle Maynard came out and sat beside me “So I was wonderin’, would you like to go fishin’ this weekend?” he asked. “Sure, do you have a favorite spot?” “Ayah, it’s about a fivehour drive from here and it’s called Carry Pond.” “Is Russell coming?” “Nope, just going to be you and me. We’ll leave on Friday mornin’ real early, and be back on Monday.” I couldn’t believe it… I think I was speechless for a few seconds. “Yeah. I’d love that,” I told him. He smiled and chuckled. “OK then, let’s go in the sto-ah and get a tonic… Orange Crush for you, right?” The next morning we left at six a.m. and drove up Route 117 and continued on backcountry roads. The roads kept getting narrower and the towns became fewer. Finally we FISHING, Page C
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“That’s ok. If not this yee-ah, we’ll catch ya next,” Ponk Buzzell said to me. I looked behind the old, worn birdseye maple counter and there he was with a big smile on his face. “Good to see ya Rah-nay.” “Hi Uncle Maynard,” I said, “good to see you too.” I always loved the smells of the store. It was a mixture of the old burnt wood, the farmers — which was a combination of cow manure, hay, and hard-earned sweat — and the huge wheel of sharp cheddar that sat behind the large refrigerated case on an old wooden butcher’s block. “Russell is up to the house waitin’ for ya,” he said. “OK, Uncle Maynard — I’ll see you in a little while,” I said, running outside with the screen door slamming behind me. Russell was in the dooryard shooting baskets into the makeshift hoop he had put up. He smiled as I came running up the road and we both shyly said “hi.” We went into the house and I received my usual loving greeting from my Aunt Helen and the oldest of their sons, Jimmy. Russell
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