A Medium of One's Own by Kim Chase

"The Awakening" by Connie Magnan-Albrizio

"The Red Shirt on the Line" by Amy Bouchard Morin

"Mattie" by George Hall

"Calico Bush"--a review by Rhea Côté Robbins

DEMERISE LE VASSEUR BRILLANT --MY MÉMÈRE 

by Barbara Ouellette Ouellette

ACADIAN COUSINS by Marie Thérèse Martin

untitled poem by Yvonne Mazerolle

1999 Women of Aroostook Calendar

Ida Roy--Voice of the Valley

I Had A Dream by Ida Roy

CUPBOARDS by Trudy Chambers Price

FOX FUR by Trudy Chambers Price

Edith Starrett Masse's Work Roles: On the Farm and at Home A Narrative Study of Her Diaries 1942-1945 by Suzette Lalime Davidson

In memory of 

Martha Pellerin Drury 1961-1998

Multicultural Pens:

Route 7 & Timelines by Sandy Olson

KEEPING TO OURSELVES by Patricia Smith Ranzoni

Thoughts, Feelings on Hair Loss by Joyce MacCrae Howe

Departments:

Letters/Lettres

News/Nouvelles

Advertisements/Petites Annonces

A Medium of One's Own 

By Kim Chase, Burlington, VT 

 I recently asked a fellow-writer, a man, to critique a short story of mine which had just been published. He told me that it really wasn't a short story at all in that it was lacking the classical elements of a short story. I believe he is right on two counts: one, my story is lacking something and two, it is lacking the elements of classical short fiction. He suggested I reread Chekhov, that master of the short story. The problem is, I don't want to write like Chekhov and I don't want necessarily to incorporate all the elements of a classical short story into what I write. I just want to tell the stories the way I heard them in my mother's kitchen, only I want to write them down.  Virginia Woolf gives me permission to do just that when she writes, in A Room of One's Own, "... we think back through our mothers if we are women. It is useless to go to the great men writers for help, however much one may go to them for pleasure." No offense to Chekhov. I just don't make sense of the universe like that. 
 I learned in an undergraduate course on the short story that if a gun appears at the beginning, by the end of the story, by the classic dénouement, that gun should have gone off. Not only does this principle make use of foreshadowing, but it observes the tradition of leaving out anything that is not absolutely essential to the story.  This technique has been so overused by writers and movie producers that any literature major of average intelligence can guess the ending of a story or movie at the very onset. We have been beaten over the head with the gun on the wall a few too many times. What if there was no gun on the wall at the beginning and one still goes off at the end? What if there is no gun until the bride is walks down the stairs in the house she was born in on the corner of LaFontaine and Main, and her ex- boyfriend shoots her because if he can't have her then, by God, no one else will? What if there is a gun on the wall in the beginning, but it never goes off because the protagonist chooses to end it all in the local tradition by throwing himself over the Limekiln Bridge?
 My favorite writer in the whole world is Grace Paley. If a gun appears on the wall in a Grace Paley story, it is unlikely to go off. It might get taken down and made into a ploughshare or a lamp, but it might just stay there on the wall gathering dust. It might not advance the plot in any classical sense. It might just be part of the clutter that accumulates in our lives despite our best efforts to organize and make sense of it all. As most women are aware, it is a fact of life that clutter and dust gather, events occur and we rarely ever know why. In the tales from my mother's French-Canadian family, you had to really listen to hear the whole story. If you listened long enough and patiently enough, you could almost hear whole lives. Sometimes you had to ask questions, it's true, but mostly you just had to wait and listen. The stories were always related to practical matters. If you stuck something in your ear, you might hear a story about a cousin who put a bean up her nose. ("And would you believe that bean sprouted? It makes perfect sense when you think of it, a moist, dark place like that. It caused her no end of suffering until her mother took her to old Doc Thabeault and he said, 'Tell me something Thérèse. Did you by any chance put a bean up your nose?' She admitted it then, of course, but she could have spared herself a lot of misery if she had told someone in the first place.") If you asked what a certain folksy expression meant, you'd find out about a second cousin who had given birth to twin girls out of wedlock. "Crache dans l'air? That's what mon oncle Maurice said to my mother when his daughter got pregnant." The heroes and villains of my childhood were all the people in my mother's family. I was given to understand that I should learn from both their mistakes and their examples, and I took heed.
 My male colleague told me it troubled him that he didn't like any of the characters in my story. He didn't dislike them either, but he didn't feel he had enough information to care either way. Be patient! I wanted to say. Have a little respect! The people in my family are complicated;  it takes awhile to get to know us. You think you can figure us all out from one short story?
  My critic also told me that my setting, the story itself, was sparse, the plot was short and thin. Well, life itself was sparse back then, during the twenties and thirties when my story takes place, when everyone was working in the mills and women were birthing babies by the dozens. A lot of things were short and thin. You want frills, read a Victorian novel.
 My male critic said he didn't know where or why my characters existed. When Franco women have read this same story, they say, "I could just hear all my aunts talking in the kitchen." I never mentioned a kitchen in my story, but that, of course, is exactly where they were the whole time. Isn't that where we always were? As to why we were there, it was because there was a lot of work to be done, but that didn't stop us from talking. If anything, the work made the talk flow more easily, so we could work it all out. How could we talk if our hands weren't busy? And how would all the work get done if we sat around idly, chatting about nothing?
 Okay, so the whole world is not French and they didn't spend all their time in the kitchen, shelling beans,  mending socks or making tourtière. But most of the important people in my life did, the people from whom I developed my values about living. One of Grace Paley's writing professors once asked her, "When are you going to get off your Jewish dime?" And she said, "It's the only dime I have."  Same goes for me. What she said, only French.
 When I read Grace Paley, I can feel the humidity of her kitchen. I can smell the bean soup she had for supper the night before. If she doesn't tell us where her characters are, it's because she assumes we're smart enough to figure out that they're in the kitchen. Sometimes her stories take place in cars, or bedrooms, or parks and I think one takes place under somebody's porch, but everyone winds up back in the kitchen sooner or later. She doesn't insult us by wrapping it all up neatly in the end (or untying it if you're thinking in French). But the important stuff, the really decisive moments, take place in the kitchen. 
 But that isn't what makes Grace Paley great or what makes me wish she could tell me what's wrong with my stories. What makes Grace Paley wonderful is that she writes just like Grace Paley. She writes like herself, she tells the story like she has unshakable confidence in its relevance and importance. The same way my mother, my grandmother and my aunts told their stories. We can hear the voices in her stories because we've heard them before, we already have a context in which to understand them. Grace Paley's characters speak and think the way we know people, especially women, talk and think. 
  In A Room of One's Own, Virginia Woolf describes the standard of good writing as defined by the male establishment: "It was a sentence that was unsuited for a woman's use. Charlotte Brontë, with all her splendid gift for prose, stumbled and fell with that clumsy weapon in her hands... Jane Austen looked at it and laughed at it and devised a perfectly natural, shapely sentence proper for her own use and never departed from it." I believe Grace Paley has devised a perfectly natural, shapely genre which goes beyond limits of the classic short story as defined by men. She transcends "that clumsy weapon" and wields her sentence like a wooden soup spoon instead. That's what I'm trying to do.
   There is still something wrong with my story and most of the other stories I've tried writing. Needless to say, I won't be going to Chekhov to figure out what it is. I will be going to Grace Paley, not only to learn what I'm doing wrong, but to study what it is she does right. To figure out how she manages to tell the story so well, so naturally that we are let into her kitchen and the kitchens of her characters to witness the accumulation of clutter and dust, and to make of it whatever sense we can. 

The Awakening 

By Connie Magnan-Albrizio, Windsor, CT 

 Cruising slowly home with his cap tipped to the back of his head, and his elbow resting on the turned-down window space, Armand hoped to see someone he knew.  No luck until  he pulled into Burns Court and stopped in front of the house, then, everyone from each of the four houses in the Court ran out to ooh and aah over the wonders of the Reo. 

 Later that same week, at the supper table, Poppa announced,  "I've sold the Grays to the Walker Ice Company.  No contractor worth his title uses teams.  We've got a car, too.  Horses are a thing of the past." 
 "You just bought a truck, why do you need a car?"  Marie-Anne whispered to Armand, riveting him with angry eyes. 
 "Not just a car," Armand whispered back indignantly.  "It's a 4-cylinder Overland touring car.  We need it to go estimate different jobs evenings after work." 
 "Poppa can't even drive." 
 Armand snickered behind his napkin.  "You should see him try.  He can't stop if there isn't a curb to bounce off, or a tree to snag.  It's only been two days, and our fender has more pock marks to be pounded out than anything I've ever seen." 
 Marie-Anne cast an anxious look to her father who was reveling in the adoring looks from Momma and the angry glare from his sister, Aurore, as he flamboyantly described every detail  of his new purchase.  She turned back to Armand and whispered, "You don't see anything.  Ma tante rips seams of old clothes and recuts the best parts into smaller sizes for us.  Momma does the same with Poppa's old jackets and trousers." 
 "You don't have to tell me.  I know.  He buys himself nice clothes and throws the used aside before they show any wear at all.  I've got a couple of make-overs and so does Robert, now shush up before he hears us."  Armand was very much aware of the family's FINANCIAL difficulty.  He had watched the girls carefully unravel old sweaters and socks, balling the strongest wool for new things to be knitted.  He poked Marie-Anne who turned from looking at their father to scowl at him.  "Geez!" he said in disgust.  "I give in most all the money I make.  I keep just a little for gas." 
 "So do we.  But, there's never enough.  You've got to ask Poppa to pitch in.  What does he do with all he makes?" 
 "I guess he pays the men and he gets new cars.  It's good for business." 
 "He doesn't even drive for godsake and you're the one who's going to get into trouble.  You're not sixteen yet.  You haven't got a license." 
 Armand chuckled.  "No matter how hard he tries, he can't get the knack of it.  Everybody scatters whenever he's drunk enough to give it another try.  Instead of mistaking the gas pedal for the brake now, he lifts both feet off the pedals and heads for something to bump into, yelling,  Whoa!  Whoa!  You should see him.  Someday he's gonna pull that steering wheel right off the column." 
 "I don't care, " Marie-Anne said, covering both ears with her hands.  "I don't care.  He spends lots on his precious liquor and on those fancy ladies he's seen around with." 
 "How do you know that?" 
 "Everybody but Momma and ma tante knows it." 
 "Damn him." 
 "Forget that.  We need more money to run this place and you've got to get it for us," she spit out between clenched teeth. 
 It chilled Armand to see the hardness in his sister's face.  He didn't like these changes in her.  They used to be able to laugh together, even during bad times. 
 "Don't stare at me." 
 Armand looked away.  She was right, but he didn't know how to do it.  Money was to Poppa the same as his drink: the more he swigged, the more he needed. 

 "I need ten dollars more a week," Armand announced to his father the next morning on the job. 
 Poppa's eyes popped wide and his eyebrows raised so high they touched the wave that fell onto his forehead, then he nearly bust a gut laughing. 
 "You owe it to me, to us," Armand yelled, facing his father squarely, with clenched fists on hips and legs spread wide. 
 Poppa stopped laughing and fixed his son with that cold look of his.  "I owe nothing to nobody.  Five dollars a week's enough.  Don't bother me with swill," he snarled and jumped into the truck cab. 
 Armand stood rooted. 
 "GET IN!" 
 Armand jumped in behind the wheel. 
 "Shove off.  We've work to do," Poppa said as though they hadn't even talked. 
 "Dirty bum," Armand muttered under his breath and never glanced to see if Poppa had heard him.  They drove to the job site across town and before Armand screeched to a full stop, Poppa swung out, without shutting his door.  "Hey!  Where's the money?" Armand yelled. "Come back here, Poppa!  I'm not making this trip for stone without cash for the load." 
 Poppa stopped, yanked the wad from his pocket and peeled off three one dollar bills.  Armand inched the truck to him.  He stretched his arm across the seat, grabbed the money out of his father's outstretched hand and snapped, "Shut the door." 
 Poppa slammed it so hard, Armand winced.  The boy spun the truck around on screeching wheels and headed for the farms.  They no longer bought expensive stone from the railroad yard.  "That penny-pincher pays fifty cents a load for field stone.  I'll get more from him one way or the other,"  Armand said, gripping the WHEEL.  "I'll squeeze it out of you any old way I can, you crazy old coot." 
 On the way back to the site with a full load, Armand spotted huge rock piles on a construction site.  He pulled in as close as a blasting crew allowed him to.  "Who's  the foreman here?" he asked a worker in English. 
 He was pointed in the direction of a man in a suit, wearing a hard hat like the rest of the men on this job." 
 "What are you doing?" Armand asked. 
 "Cutting through for a water-main.  What are you doing here, kid?  We're not hiring." 
 "I've got a job.  I just want to know what you do with this rock?" 
 "We haul it to the dump every day." 
 "I'll take it off your hands for sixty cents a load." 
 They shook on it.  Armand calculated that until the Water Works job was finished, Marie-Anne had a guarantee of an extra three dollars a day. 

 "God bless you, Armand."  Tears puddled and Momma grabbed both his hands in hers and kissed them.  "God bless you," she said again. 
 "I don't want you spending this seventy-five cents on the house or on food.  Use it any other way you want and you can count on this every week from now on." 
 Momma wiped her wet face with the corner of her apron. 
 It was usually hard to see his mother cry, but on this day, Armand felt at peace with her tears.  He would speak to Willie Beane who owned the speakeasy about doing moving jobs for his customers.  He could handle that on Sundays now that he had the Reo. 

 Poppa had promised the family a new life in this country, but before long he managed to fill twenty-four hours of every day with problems, just as before.  The enemy was no longer Government Agents who interfered with the making of money - because bootlegging and the smuggling of Chinese illegally across the border were left behind on the Canadian side of the line.  His father's new enemy was the swaggering, boastful Irishman who thought he outclassed his Frenchie backyard neighbor. 
 Charley Marteau's French and English mixed-around language, and old man Keenan's thick Irish brogue, sounded like screaming gibberish every time they went at it.  They fought over the property line whenever they caught sight of each other. 
 "You're on my side," old man Keenan yelled. 
 "What you said?"  Poppa hollered back, breaking off long stems of lilac bunches with both hands. 
 "Those belong to me.  Get on your own side." 
 "Shut up!  Maudit enfant d'chienne d'Irlandais." 
 "Get over!  Get over!"  Keenan yelled, wrapping his big arms around a great clump of bush. 
 "I take what's mine, maudit toque,"  Poppa hollered back and grabbed the branches in Keenan's clutch.  Instead of snatching them away, he stumbled and fell backwards from Keenan's unexpected shove.  He scrambled to his feet.  "Maudit  fou!  I dig this.  Me.  Now!  And put in a cloture.  Here!"  Poppa hollered, jerking his forefinger down to where he was standing.  "You good-for-riens-Irlandais."  Poppa snapped his head from side to side to find one of his own and his eye dropped onto eight-year-old Robert.  "GO!" 
 Robert knew instinctively to beat it into the shed for Poppa's shovel. 
 "Call the cops!  Call the cops!"  Keenan yelled as Mrs. Keenan and her children pulled their old man away from the lilac hedge and Evangeline helped Armand pull their father back too. 
 Poppa wrenched free, grabbed the shovel from Robert and threw it at Keenan who ducked and threw him the finger.  Poppa stormed into his own house.  It was almost too late to head out for Sunday afternoon Vespers.  The family was dressed and ready when Poppa had spotted old man Keenan picking lilacs.   Now they waited, praying that Poppa would reach for his new narrow-lapelled, single-breasted pinstriped jacket and derby when he came back in.  Every one of them wanted to get away from the house, late or not. 
 "Here you go," Armand said, holding Poppa's jacket as his father slid in one arm then the next.  "Want us to start ahead?" 
 "We'll go together."  Poppa made a swipe through his hair on each side of his center part before storming out to the porch.  "We'll walk." 
 It was shorter to walk over the railroad trestle bridge on Crystal Street to Illinois Street than to go around three blocks to church in the car.  The children ran ahead, stopping once in awhile to let sputtering Poppa, ashen-faced Momma and pinch-faced ma tante Aurore catch up. 
 Once inside the Church, Armand watched Poppa from the corner of his eye.  His father never paid one minute's attention to the prayers.  He knelt and bowed his head, just as everyone did, while the Priest came to the altar with the Eucharist.  The family sang along with the choir, verses one and two of O Salutaris Hostia.  The priest incensed the sacramental host encased in the golden monstrance, then withdrew to allow a short time for adoration and prayer. 
 Armand who was kneeling beside his father felt him fidget and shift weight from one knee to the other.  To all who could see him, it looked as though he was reciting prayers.  Armand glanced nervously from side to side.  Most folks were so busy whispering their own praises and petitions to God they weren't interested in anybody else.  Thank God. 
 Poppa chanted his own hate-filled litany in a hoarse whisper, with eyes jammed shut and fists balled, shaking his head from side to side..."That damn crazy man.  That damn underhanded good-for-nothing.  That lilac robber.  This is the last straw.  I'll get him good, the sonofabitch Irishman.  He won't tangle with Charley Marteau after this..." 
 Armand squeezed his eyes tight and whispered his own prayers as loudly as he could with the others.  He was afraid God would hear his father.  Finally towards the end of the exposition, the Priest went to the altar, genuflected, gripped the monstrance with both hands and turned to the parishioners for the sacred blessing.  Just then Poppa bolted from the pew and stomped up the long aisle towards the door. 
 Armand was stunned.  He couldn't believe his father had done this sacrilegious thing.  Everybody turned to scowl at the disruption.  Armand threw a quick glance to his left, down the length of the pew.  The whole family was red-faced with heads bowed low and eyes scrunched tight.  He was never more ashamed of his father in his whole life and was scared shoeless of whatever it was that drove him to do such a thing.  Armand didn't dare move out in the Holy Presence of God on the altar. "Please.  Merciful God.  Please forgive him." 
 It seemed forever before the "Blessed be God"  and the "Blessed be His Holy Name's"  were over.  Armand had one knee down and the other leg foot-solid on the floor in the aisle.  As soon as the Host was taken from the monstrance and placed behind the locked door of the Tabernacle, he ran the aisle to the door.  Outside, he jumped down four steps at a time to catch up to his father. 
 When Poppa  had a mad on, it rushed past his Sunday hangovers.  Armand caught sight of his father storming down the cobblestoned hill as he reached the center of the bridge.  The enveloping soot shooting up at him from the whistling train clackety-clacking beneath slowed the boy down.  He had to feel his way to the end of the trestled bridge.  When he finally got home sweaty and panting, Poppa was already digging up the line of bushes. 
 "Get over here.  I want this done before they get back from Vespers." 
 "Geez!  It's just a little bit of ground." 
 "It's ours!  Sink these posts!" 
 Armand didn't feel right about this one bit, but he knew better than to buck his father.  Poppa dug deep and fast.  Armand followed close behind and pushed down the posts, threw gravel and loam into the holes, and stomped on the loose soil until forty posts were sunk and solid, with a three-foot distance between each. 
 "Keenan's Irish Catholic Church is four miles further than ours, and he's too cheap to own a car," Poppa spewed, as he dug feverishly. 
 "So what?"  Armand asked. 
 "Trolley's are slow.  That gives us plenty of time to finish before they get back.  Can't you reason anything out?" 
 Poppa nailed a plank to the posts, parallel to the ground, one foot from the top, and another, one foot from the bottom.  He hammered a rough pine slab dead center.  "You go that way and I'll go this way.  Use a slab to space between.  Keep going to the end, and hurry up.  Two nails top.  Two nails bottom."  When the others drifted into the yard, Poppa yelled, "Pick this up!" as he kicked a clump aside. 
 Marie-Anne ran into the house.  Evangeline and Robert threw the branches into the express body of the Reo truck that Armand had just backed to the spot.  He jumped from the cab to help shovel dirt smooth around the slab fence so the kids could trample back and forth to harden the soil into place.  Poppa threw the shovel and extra wood into the back of the truck with the uprooted bushes and Armand was just about to jump back into the cab when Evangeline pleaded, "Don't throw those lilacs away.  Please, Armand.  We'll never have anymore." 
 "Save what you can on our way to the dump." 
 The children scrambled into the open back to break off long branches while the Reo sped down one street and the next to the dump.  The load was shoveled off in one minute flat.  Armand gunned out of there toward home.  He screech-stopped at their front porch, Evangeline, followed by Jacqueline and Robert jumped off the lowered tailboard and scurried up the porch steps with arms full of fragrant lilacs.  They were stopped by Poppa's yell, "I want everybody out for a Sunday ride.  We have to be gone before that wild Irish bunch gets back." 
 "What if Marie-Anne won't come?"  Evangeline asked timidly. 
 "GET HER!"   Poppa yelled then reached into the cab to hammer down on the horn. 
 Marie-Anne trailed straight-backed, head high, and red-eyed onto the porch behind Momma and ma tante Aurore. 
 "Wait for us here."  Armand hit the clutch, shifted and  Poppa jumped onto the running board of the moving truck as it spun gravel to the ten-car garage strip at the end of the Court.  Armand backed the Reo into the garage.  Poppa jumped from the running board before he came to a stop and rushed to put the tools in their right place.  With three great sweeps he brushed out the remaining twigs and broken flower heads into a rubbish barrel.  He threw a couple of shovels-full of gravel from the driveway on top of that, wanting no evidence of his handy work obvious when Keenan investigated while they were gone. 
 Armand pushed in behind the wheel of their third new vehicle: a Hudson Limousine Poppa had bought as a family car.  It was a beauty, with a window behind the blue velour front seat that slid open or closed with the slightest push on the little handle.  Behind the glass were two separate seats, and behind that was a much longer one, all made with the same matching fabric.  Armand took off as soon as Poppa slammed the passenger side door shut.  The others scrambled in behind when Armand screeched to a stop at the front porch. 
 "Head for the country and drive slowly," Poppa said before he settled in for a snooze.  "Shut that window." 
 Armand reached back and pulled on the window that separated the front seat from the back, but cracked it back a sliver to hear anything important going on in back.  They left the city's paved streets and cruised along country dirt roads the rest of the afternoon and early evening, admiring the open view of fields and trees and cows grazing.  Poppa snored, mouth hanging open.  Armand threw him disgusted looks now and again.  Besides the exhaustion from his vengeful adventure on Keenan, he was pretty hung over after his usual Saturday night out at Willie's speakeasy. 
 Evangeline rapped on the window and whined, "Tell him we're hungry." 
 Robert sobbed,  It's getting dark.  What if we get a blowout?" 
 Poppa slammed the window shut with a jerk, "Head for home." 
 Armand let them off in front of the house and pulled to the end of the Court.  As he whipped around to back the Hudson into its stall, the headlights flooded the fence. 
 "Holy Geez.  Wait till he sees the fence has been ripped down. 
 Armand bolted the garage door and ran to tell him.  Poppa dug like a mad dog and Armand worked at the same pace putting it right back up in the dark.  The next day when they came home from work, it was down again.  Every time they put it up, Keenan either sledge-hammered it to pieces, sawed right through each slab, or backed his married son's jalopy into it. 
 By Saturday of that same week, Charley Marteau was a snorting, roaring bull,  ready to kill.  He yanked men off the job to sink metal cylinders a foot apart across the line.  He filled not only the post holes, but the hollow cylinders with cement.  Keenan wrecked his son's car trying to knock them down.  In a rage, he splashed paint all over but Poppa only laughed at this.  Keenan threw buckets of swill over onto the Marteau side.  Charley dumped a truck load of horse manure over onto Keenan's side. 
 The Marteau family found out real soon that when the supposed head of house had a mad against someone, the whole family had better muster up the same mad against them too, or they'd catch it good.  They watched  the red palm blotch across Marie-Anne's face swell, reduce, then turn purplish green and yellow.  The war went on for three weeks until Robert ran in one day shouting, "They're moving.  I saw them putting stuff into somebody's truck." 
 Poppa was told that night at supper.   After the meal and the recitation of the daily rosary,  he whistled and paced for an hour, back and forth along the fence line. 
 Armand and Marie-Anne were on the porch, talking softly until bedtime.  "How did you get all that extra money?" she asked. 
 "I did.  Isn't that enough?" 
 "No.  I want know how you got the best of him." 
 "It doesn't matter how I did it.  I just want you to remember, I'll do everything I can for you, Momma and the others.  Just let it go now." 
 Marie-Anne sighed, stretched both arms over her head, then dropped her hand onto her brother's shoulder.  A shiver ran through Armand when she said, "Thank God somebody in this house can make him do something for us." 

The Red Shirt on the Line

By Amy Bouchard Morin, Old Town, Maine

MATTIE

By George Hall, Presque Isle, Maine

Published in ECHOES, No. 42*

When I was eight years old I wanted a star in the window.  It was 1941, and my friends who had fathers or brothers in the service displayed blue stars in their windows honoring relatives in the military.  I didn't understand the somber meaning of the gold stars, or why my parents looked so worried when they listened to news about Pearl Harbor.  I knew only that my father was too old and my brother too young to be drafted. The fact that my mother was an airplane spotter didn't cut any ice with my friends. 
 It wasn't until later in the war that I could boast about my mother's sister, Captain Mattie Pinette, the personal and confidential secretary to General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Forces in Europe: the man who made the final decision to launch Operation Overlord, code name for the invasion at Normandy on D-Day, June 6, 1944. 
 Mattie Pinette was born in 1903 in New Canada Plantation, near Fort Kent, Maine, the fourth oldest in a family of 13 children born to Amelia and Joseph Pinette.  Joseph, a potato farmer and lumberjack, later moved his family to the Guilford area where many of them worked in textile mills.  However, from the age of seven, Mattie was raised by her Uncle Uldrick and Aunt Delia Dumond who ran a general store in Fort Kent.  Mattie grew up with her peers, skating, swimming, and having lawn parties where they danced to Victrola music and talked about boys.  When she was older she worked part time in her uncle's store.  Mattie was educated at the St. Louis Convent school, the model school of Madawaska Training School.  From there, Mattie attended Beals Business College and Gilman Commercial School in Bangor before what she calls "an interesting and exciting 40 years in government service." 
 Now 95, Mattie lives in her own apartment in Washington, D.C. Witness to nearly a century, she has always kept in close touch with her friends and relations in Maine and throughout the world. She has survived a shipwreck and the V-1 and V-2 rockets during World War II, and a Northeast Airlines plane crash at Washington's Friendship Airport in 1961 while returning from Maine. She has naturally slowed down somewhat and lives with assistance, but she would say that there are not many things in life she wanted to do that she has not done, except perhaps do more for her family, friends and country. 
 In 1923, Mattie's first job in Washington was secretary at the Bureau of Weights and Measures.  While there she was asked to transcribe a speech by then Secretary of Commerce, Herbert Hoover.  Although she was the secretary with the least experience, she was the fastest transcriber.  She was flattered, but the job was difficult.  She said, "When it came to Hoover's speech, he mumbled and was very difficult to understand."  In 1929, after many promotions, she transferred to the Bureau of Aeronautics where she remained until joining the WAC (Women's Army Corps) in 1942. 
 The Bureau of Aeronautics was an exciting place for Mattie in a country crazy about flying.  Lundberg had flown the Atlantic solo; Amelia Earhart was famous for extended flights.  Lundberg, Earhart and Eddie Rickenbacker came to the bureau many times to discuss the state of aeronautics or renew their pilot licenses.  The most memorable but unpleasant experience for Mattie while with the bureau was recording the testimony of the surviving witnesses of the Hindenburg Disaster at Lakehurst, New Jersey in 1937.  The German dirigible's tail section caught fire and fell to the ground tail first while mooring.  Sixty-two of the 97 passengers escaped uninjured.  Mattie couldn't forget for a long time the stench of the burned bodies which lingered in the hangars where the dead had initially been placed and where later much of the testimony was taken. 
 When Mattie first went to Washington at the end of the Harding presidency, times were difficult at the home of her natural family.  Although Mattie's salary was very small, she sent home all she could to help her parents, and her brothers and sisters and their families, a practice she has continued to this day.  I cannot remember a Christmas when my family did not receive presents from my aunt.  In later years when I reminded her of how we all looked forward to her presents, she laughed and said that at one time it was becoming quite a burden as the families grew and grew.  "I remember one time I had 52 packages to do up and take to the Post Office," Mattie recalled. "I didn't get my Christmas bill paid until April.  In those days they didn't charge you interest." 
 Mattie was eager to learn and to go on to new experiences.  After Pearl Harbor, the Bureau of Aeronautics was largely taken over by the Army Air Force, and Mattie found herself with a diminished workload and "sitting heavy," as she called it. "I had always had a job where I had to work hard; that's why I liked it," she said.  When she  heard of a Women's Auxiliary Force for the Army she applied, was accepted, and went off to train at Fort Des Moines in Iowa where she graduated as officer third class.  The corps had no ranks or benefits comparable to those for males in the military until 1943, when General George Marshall asked Congress to give military status to the WAC so the women would have prisoner-of-war protection, veterans' hospitalization, and burial benefits to their families.  This bill was signed by President Roosevelt in 1943.  Mattie graduated as a Second Lieutenant in what later became the Women's Army Corps. 
 She did not immediately work for Eisenhower's staff as he was not to be appointed SHAPE [Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe] Commander until after the War in North Africa.  She was initially assigned to Army Air Services in Washington as liaison officer between WAC Headquarters and Air Services to survey which Air Force jobs could be filled by women.  After six weeks, she and four other WAC officers were selected as the best to represent the corps to be sent overseas: first for a short orientation in London, then off to Algiers in North Africa where the five Wacs were assigned to various headquarters working to defeat German Field Marshal Rommel's forces in North Africa. 
 From Scotland, the five women began their transport to Algiers on the British troop ship, the Strathalan, the largest ship in a convoy of 40.  About 70 miles from the Port of Oran, the Strathalan was hit by a German torpedo.  The Wacs, British nurses and combat troops were eventually all picked up.  Mattie and another of the women spent 10 hours in a lifeboat before being taken to the port of Oran where they were reunited with the other three Wacs and then flown by B-17 to their assignments in Algiers where Mattie was assigned to General McClure. 
 During this time Mattie and the four other officers were ordered to Casablanca to work at the ANFA or Casablanca Conference.  They were told to report at a certain time prepared to be away from headquarters for approximately two weeks and to pack sufficient clothes.  The last order struck the Wacs funny for they had lost all their kit at sea with the exception of what they were wearing at the time.  As Mattie said, "An order is an order so we made no comment about our lack of clothes."  In a later interview, Alene Drezmal, another of the five, told of the thoughtfulness of Chief of Staff George Marshall.  He sent his aide to say that he knew the five had lost everything, and if they would give him a list of their needs, he'd send a cable.  Thy needed everything: combs, uniforms, underwear, sanitary napkins.  The order was sent and soon everything arrived, all the clothes in correct sizes. 
 At the Conference, Roosevelt, Churchill, General Marshall and their staffs thrashed out several political and military problems.  The most important question to be decided by the Allies was the future conduct of war after the Germans were defeated in North Africa.  Each day all the minutes of the meetings were dictated to the secretaries, typed up and printed, ready for the next day's meetings.  Mattie said she often would work until 2 a.m. and still report for duty the next morning. "You know, you don't feel tired.  You're so imbued with the importance of what you're doing and the necessity that it be done, it isn't until it's all over that you finally collapse."  Although the Wacs sometimes worked 18 hours a day, Mattie remembers an evening when President Roosevelt invited the women to dinner.  The President was interested that Mattie came from Maine because of his summer place in Campobollo. Mattie remarked to me that after Winston Churchill arrived, he and Roosevelt were in friendly competition: "One would tell something interesting and funny and the other would feel he had to top it." 
 After the Casablanca Conference Eisenhower was made Supreme Commander of Allied Forces, and he asked Mattie to become his personal and confidential secretary.  After some preliminary tests taking Eisenhower's dictation and testing her knowledge of other protocols, Mattie was flown to his new headquarters in Bushy Park, London.  Mattie's fluency in French was one reason she was selected, in addition to her experience and efficiency as a secretary.  General de Gaulle and many other allied officers and their aides were often at headquarters to confer with Eisenhower about Overlord.  She worked for Eisenhower at London and at Field Headquarters in Portsmouth, England, and later on the continent.  She transcribed many of the cables back and forth to Washington and sometimes accompanied the General on his visits to the troops throughout England who were training for the assault at Normandy.  She was there when other American, English and British generals such as Patton, Bradley, Montgomery, and Alexander came to meet with Eisenhower. 
 In the summer of 1944, after the beachhead in Europe had been firmly established, General Eisenhower moved his headquarters to an apple orchard just outside Normandy.  Because he would be in the field most of the time, he assigned Mattie to General John Lewis who General Marshall had appointed head of the SHAEFE mission to France after the liberation of Paris on November 3, 1944.  She was destined to be a great help to General Lewis because of her contacts with Eisenhower's headquarters and, again, her fluency in French.  This general had come straight from Washington and had no established network. "I knew everybody," Mattie recalled. "Of course he (Lewis) came direct from the States so whenever he needed information I knew where to go." 
 Mattie served in Paris for 18 months and witnessed the surrender of the German forces to the Allies at Rheims the day before the announcement of  V-E day.  She and three other WAC officers who first went overseas together hosted a pre-signing party for the Allied representatives.  She flew back to Paris for the celebrations on May 8, 1945, V-E Day. 
 Before leaving the service, Mattie worked with Ambassador Grady on a report to the United Nations regarding the proposed state of Israel. In January 1946, while still in uniform, she was assigned as Military Administrative Assistant to Ambassador Grady, head of the Allied mission to oversee the Greek elections. 
 After resigning from active duty in 1946, Mattie accepted a position with the new Atomic Energy Commission as Chief of the Employee Development Branch, recruiting scientists, engineers and administrative specialists.  She received her master's degree from George Washington University while pursuing her career and later became extremely active in the national and international Association of University Women.  She raised money for several scholarships for women students from the U.S. and overseas.  She retired from the A.E.C. in 1964, but remained active, traveling extensively for the AAUW as well as for her own pleasure. 
 Mattie has been the recipient of many awards:  the Bronze Star, the Croix de Guerre and the Army commendation medal.  She is both humble and proud of her roots and of having been chosen one of two Outstanding Alumnae by the University of Maine at Fort Kent in 1970. 
 She is one of two surviving children of Joseph and Amelia Pinette. A younger sister Aurore, is an Ursiline nun. 
 A reporter from the Bangor Daily News, who interviewed Mattie in 1946 while she was home on terminal leave, wrote: "She attributes her important assignments to luck.  In reality, they were a recognition of efficiency in the Nth degree.  She is the perfect business executive, keen, alert and highly intelligent, yet with it all a woman gracious, kindly and considerate." 
 That's ma tante Mattie: my star in the window. 

George Hall is professor emeritus of English from the University of Maine at Presque Isle.  Although his roots are in western Maine, he and his wife Carol-Ann have resided in Aroostook County for the last 28 years.

*ECHOES has published the journal of Maj. Mattie A. Pinette of Fort Kent, Maine

A Normandy Journal:  Day by day with Eisenhower's secretary by Mattie Pinette, ECHOES, No. 42

&

A Normandy Journal Part II:  Day by day with Eisenhower's secretary by Mattie Pinette, ECHOES, No. 43

with a third segment to follow in No. 44 of ECHOES.

ECHOES has published the journal of Maj. Mattie A. Pinette of Fort Kent, Maine in the Nos. 42 & 43 issues.  Back issues, $5. 

To order this important text of Franco-American women's witings:

ECHOES

PO Box 626

Caribou, Maine  04736

or call

207-498-8564 

Calico Bush, Read It Again For The First Time--Ever

A Review by Rhea Côté Robbins, Brewer, Maine

 Calico Bush by Rachel Field is a book that I recently discovered.  Although classified as juvenile fiction, and first published in 1931, I find it as refreshing a read as if published yesterday--one which fits all ages.  There is a timelessness about a story the quality of Calico Bush which transcends time and genre classification.  Field, the first woman ever to be awarded the Newberry Medal, won it for her book, Hitty, The First Hundred Years.  Field would spend four months of the year on Sutton Island off the coast of Maine. 
 Calico Bush is a story of Marguerite Ledoux, a 1743 French immigrant to the New World.  On the ocean voyage, Oncle Pierre, with whom she was traveling along with Grandmère, died due to a disease he contracted aboard ship along with several others.  The captain of the ship put off his passengers at Marblehead, Ma. because he feared the spread of the disease.  Marguerite and Grandmère, bound for New France, were left on a strange shore with only the clothes on their backs and very little money.  Soon Grandmère also took ill and died while at the Poor Farm.  French-speaking Marguerite was all alone in the New World, and so she was bound-out to an English-speaking family who were soon to leave for an island off the coast of Maine somewhere near Mount Desert Island. 
 The story, historical fiction for juveniles, relays with accuracy and sensitivity the relationship between Marguerite and the family to whom she is bound-out in regard to relations between the French and the English.  Field, according to a 1942 Horn Book published in her memory, "touches on feelings not frequently dealt with in a book for girls."  Given the publication date of 1931, and the issues upon which Field writes in this book, looking in retrospect from the vantage point of diversity, multiculturalism and other enlightened views, Calico Bush is a phenomenon.  Field was a woman writing about subject matter as language and cultural differences long before it was considered important as an issue. 
 Calico Bush also presents the intersection of cultures with the Native Americans of the land.  With delft pen, Field sympathizes, and accurately portrays the way in which some of the new settlers successfully attain a compromise with the Natives.  The turning point in the book is when Marguerite, lonely for her culture, language and customs, goes out into the woods by herself and has an encounter with a passing Native American.  Later in the book, this encounter proves to be the deed which spares the entire family. 
 Field writes deeply and in an enlightened manner about the nuances of the cultures, and the subsequent conflicts between the cultures as well as the Maine coastal landscape.  More importantly, she writes a story of a girl's bravery in facing the adversities of being a pioneer off the Maine coast.  She offers to the reader, in both French and English, the essences of the rituals of each culture, alongside the takeover of the land which belonged to the Natives, with a sensitivity to all peoples involved in this struggle of New World settlers and Natives.  She writes for her audience of young people, particularly adolescent girls in a way that inspires a strong coming-of-age story for young girls. 
 I recommend this book as pleasure and classroom reading for young people, their parents, and teachers if one is interested in a story particular to Maine--the coast, the cultures intermingling, and a strong, rare insight into the pioneering story for women and girls.  This book is one I wish I had known about in my adolescent years because of the attention it gives to the girl Marguerite, a French girl, in a land that is strange and foreign to her which eventually becomes her home. 

Rhea Cote Robbins is the author of Wednesday's Child, the 1997 winner of the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance Award for creative nonfiction.

Yvonne Mazerolle

Calendar Honors County Role Models

By Paul J. Gough Staff Writer, Presque Isle Star Herald, September 16 1998

To order a calendar ($10 donation) call:
207-764-0050
or write 
Presque Isle Center for Women, Work, and Community
33 Edgemont Drive
Presque Isle, Maine  04769

DEMERISE LE VASSEUR BRILLANT 

MY MÉMÈRE 

By Barbara Ouellette Ouellette, Old Town, ME

 When my parents got married, Pépère converted the upstairs in his home into an apartment for them, so we lived on the second floor of my grandparents' home.  My Mémère was always up and down those stairs, and so were we.  There wasn't an inside stairway, but an outside one.  I don't remember this, but Maman tells me that every winter Mémère would come upstairs with all her poultices to ward off any wintertime illness that we might catch.  Maman said that we were always so sick during the winter, but when Mémère died we weren't nearly as sick.  This was most likely Mémère's way of keeping us healthy, since she had lost her only son, I'm sure she was not going to take any chances with her grandchildren. 
 Not only did Mémère leave me her love, and the feeling of being special, she also left me with many skills.  Skills and talents that my Maman has passed on to me, unknowingly, but nonetheless passed on.  Out of all the traditions and skills carried down, I am the one of three granddaughters who has kept up the needlework.  At times I think I was born with a needle in my hand.  Though life is busy and seems to get busier as I get older, I still take the time to sit and do needlework.  I put the needle away for a few years when I first got married, but then we got reacquainted.  I remember going out and buying embroidery threads again, and the thrill that came over me when I started purchasing all the different colors.  When I get ready to start a new project (I have several going at the same time) I feel like a kid in a candy store.  Putting everything together I need for whatever new piece I'm starting: the fabric, the different colored embroidery threads.  It is a feeling that can't be explained very well on a piece of paper.  I often wonder if Mémère felt that way as she chose colors, cut her patterns, started the stitching of her quilts, and watched as the pattern emerged as she worked along.  These are questions I can no longer ask her.  I would like to think she too felt that way.  A work of love, is what I call it.  She also had several projects going at the same time.  When she died there was a quilt that wasn't completed, my Pépère had the ladies on French Island finish the quilt, and gave it to my oldest sister.  My Maman and I are replicating that quilt today. 
 Working in the flower garden is another work of love that Mémère did and my Maman, at the age of 83, still does.  Half my front yard is perennials.  I also have huge flower boxes that my husband made for me, just loaded with flowers.  Springtime has always been my favorite time of the year.  There's nothing like watching the green sprout out of the ground.  Every year it's a thrill to watch the plants come up and lift their little faces to the sky and blossom. 
 Mothers' day has become a traditional flower shopping day for Maman and my sisters'.  Guess who comes home with the most flowers?  It's like my needlework, it makes me feel so good to see all the different colors, and watch them grow over the summertime.  Again, I wonder if Mémère had those same feelings. Mémère also had a huge garden full of gladiolus, I remember because Pépère continued to keep this garden going long after Mémère died.  It was one way for him to keep her memory alive. 
 So, from Mémère and Maman I received the talents and love of stitching, and flowers.  Today, I still stand on the side of that same vegetable garden and look for the cucumbers, and beg my Maman for the first one.  She always gives it to me!  Traditions, skills, talents, and the love of a Mémère continues on and on and on and.....

Ida Roy...the Voice of the Valley

(Ida is a member of the Maine State Circle Daughters of Isabella, Evangeline Circle #464)

While growing up in a farm in St. Agatha, Ida could be heard singing through her daily chores. And although the little girl won honors for her rendition American melodies, it was the French songs she loved best and her love of Acadian music has become a lifelong passion to keep this musical art form alive.

Singing has always been a mainstay of lda's experience. From the long evenings of family singing in the old farmhouse to her annual solo performance at the Maine Festival, she has shared her gift with grateful listeners throughout the St. John Valley and throughout Maine.

Many of the songs that Ida sings have been passed down from parent to child for generations. Ida credits her own father for sparking her passion for singing. The songs she sings tell us about history of the Acadian culture, about the journey of the Acadians from France, the trials, hardships, and joys of a vibrant and imaginative people.

With the assistance of Roger Paradis, Ida has been recording this musical history for the last 26 years so that these songs will be preserved for future generations. She has been featured in Down East for her contributions to the culture of the Acadians.

Ida has dedicated her life to the cultural enrichment of her community. When asked, she is always willing to share her songs with family, friends, and community. To them, she is lovingly known as the "Voice of the Valley."

The following is an expression of lda Roy's gratitude at the May 1997 breakfast, Evangeline Circle #464, Van Buren, Maine. She was selected as Queen for the Year.
 

"I'm Giving Back My Crown Today"

By Ida Roy

Dear Daughters of Isabella, you are the most
beautiful of all!
The best of my souvenirs.  I was proud to wear
the Crown,
This will be my best souvenir among the years.

We can never grow old!  Because love knows,
That's what becomes of love!!!  Sharing-
Charity and Friendship,
This poem is for you and me.

Our union of Faithfulness, and trust we share,
I will not exchange our St. John Valley!
For those City lights, that I have to choose
What is life without love!  Dear Daughters;

Daughters, let's give a hand and walk with thee'
Let's make what they ask of you, Charity-Sharing
and Friendship,
This will be my souvenir to you among the years.
Dear Daughters.

I Had A Dream:

One Saturday after-noon feeling like taking a nap; I laid
down on the couch, like any other day very comfortable, I
went to sleep.

About an hour later, I dreamed that our Carrier came in and 
handed me a letter with no stamp on it the envelope was 
thick and sound like there was money in it;

At the time my thought was, that my mother had something
to tell me. I was happy anxious to read what my mother 
wanted to tell me.  Just as I straightened my arm to take 
the letter that my mail Carrier handed me.

I woke up with my arm in the same position of in my dream. 
But there was no letter; Just as I sat, the telephone rang; 
It was one of my friends "Just a minute I said!  the mail 
Carrier just passed and I saw him put a white envelope in
my mailbox."

I was anxious to see what he brought me. I said to my friend, 
I'll call you back and I hung up the phone.

I opened the door and straightened my arm to take my mail
from the mailbox.
Imagine what I received a letter without stamps. The letter 
was thick Just like in my dream. I thought  GEE When I 
Opened the envelope l3 Virgin Mary medals, and 12 Membership 
cards that I had ordered and had paid for, I had forgotten
about it.

This was ordered before the holidays, from a Lady here in 
Van BUREN. My thoughts of my mother and Saint Mary in heaven
too.
IT was a good feeling. I know it sounds weird, but my dream 
came true, in this way: right now and then!

It is a true story ! My mother's dead and she must be in 
heaven right: In my dream I knew she was dead;

Maybe my mother wanted to tell me something? Maybe she wanted 
to tell me that she loves me  She never told me that she 
loved me, Now it is something to think about?!!!
I LOVE YOU MOM! YOUR DAUGHTER. I MISS YOU!!
 

Ida Roy , Van Buren, ME

1997

CUPBOARDS

To do it right, the doors need to come off 
and the shelves emptied out, he says. 
It'll be such a mess. 
Let's do it another day, she says. 
Another day comes around, 
but she has other things to do. 
He complains that the doors are hard to open. 
She marvels at all the dishes 
the small cupboards hold.

It's a winter project, he'd rather do it now. 
He could start on the doors, 
but she doesn't want the doors off 
until she's ready to empty the shelves. 
Besides, she's busy sewing a new winter coat.

To do it right, the shelves need painting, too. 
He offers to help take out the dishes. 
She argues there's no place to put them all 
and they'll need washing, 
especially those on the top shelf. 
The set her aunt left her never gets used. 
He wants to get rid of them. 
She couldn't do that - what would her aunt think? 
She's dead!
That Doesn't matter.

He convinces her to set a date 
to start on the cupboards. 
The date comes around, 
but she's not feeling well.
He grumbles each time he opens the doors 
and closes them with a quiet slam. 
Winters come and go,

He dies first, 
so she ties twine loops through the holes 
where the handles had been.
 

Trudy Chambers Price 

2-24-94

FOX FUR

The little girl in me, I say, 
as I recall sinking my fingers 
into the cool hairs of my city aunt's fur coat 
when she came to visit.
I hugged it and inhaled her perfume 
as I climbed the stairs 
and laid it across the bed.

After Mom and Aunt were safely 
into their tea and conversation, 
I slip away to bury my face into the fur, 
lie beside it and caress each creature. 
I feel the ripples of their backs, 
trace with my fingers the seams 
connecting body to body. 
I stroke the tiny fox feet, 
holding each one, letting it slide 
from my hand.

My cat, Suzie, joins me on the bed. 
She sniffs and steps cautiously, 
making a wide berth around the foxes. 
Then she rolls, stands, shakes 
and rolls some more. 
We lie on top of the fur 
and I hold her close.
 

Trudy Chambers Price 

2-20-93

Edith Starrett Masse's Work Roles: On the Farm and at Home A Narrative Study of Her Diaries 1942-1945 

By Suzette Lalime Davidson, El Cerrito, CA

ACADIAN COUSINS 

By Marie Thérèse Martin, Rumford, ME

The French population of the Rumford area of  the State of Maine is primarily of Acadian extraction and make up the majority of the population of the sister towns of Rumford and Mexico. 
 The Acadians arrived in the towns of Rumford-Mexico between the years of 1890 and 1930.  Most of them came from New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island.  Those from Prince Edward Island came from the north end of the "Island" from such towns as Tignish, Miscouche, and Nail Pond.  From New Brunswick, they arrived from Petticodiac, Rogersville, and Cocayne.  They were primarily from the smaller coastal towns of New Brunswick. Our Acadians left Prince Edward Island and New Brunswick in search of a better life and the turn of the century found New England booming.  In Maine, paper mills and cotton mills were being built on the Maine rivers. Rumford Falls was the site of one of the largest paper mills in the state. Workers for these mills were badly needed.  And so the word got out.  Come to Maine where you can make a decent living.  The exodus became a flood and these early immigrants went back to their homes in PEI and New Brunswick and spread the good news.  They came to Rumford and Mexico and other Maine towns such as Biddeford, Westbrook, Augusta, Waterville and Lewiston, by the thousands. 
 In PEI and New Brunswick there was little money to be had.  They barely survived by farming and fishing.  Families were large and the children often had to leave to find work in St.John and Montreal.  Schools were very poor and few went beyond grade school.  The Acadians had not recovered from the Deportations of 1755 and 1758.  They could not own property or vote prior to 1875, and had been kept in bondage by the English land lords. 
 The Acadians in our area remain close.  During the recent holidays, the women in the photograph, a group of Acadian cousins, gathered to remember the foods and history of their Acadian grandmothers. 

 They represent the families of: Martin, Richard, Poirier, Arsenault, Cormier, Daigle, Gaudet, Boudreau, Gallant, Bernard, Chaisson, Breau, and Cyr in their ancestral lines. 
 Traditionally, Acadian foods are served during the holiday season. Acadian women used what was available from their gardens, and with an abundant potato harvest every fall, there was no end to their creative use of the potato.  They also raised their own animals.  Pork was plentiful, so you'll find it used generously in many of their recipes. 
 At this particular gathering, we served various Acadian dishes presented with slight variations, as interpreted by each Acadian grandmother.  The cousins introduced their own grandmother's recipe with an oral description passed down from grandmother, to mother and daughter.  What a wonderful cuisine.  Some call it, soul food! 
 Included in this holiday fare, were: meat pies of all descriptions, rapure ( locally called Chiard ) , a variety of cranberry sauces, date filled cookies, and fudge of all kinds.  Of course, we brought to the table a number of modern day favorites including several molded and fresh salads, and condiments  including molasses and maple syrup.  Since the Acadians are known for having a sweet tooth, every Acadian woman, who has been lucky enough to know her Acadian grandmother, knows what a pleasure it is to taste some of these wonderful sweets.  Our ancestral celebration gathering included filled cookies, many different kinds of fudge, squares apple pie and date squares.  ( a recipe for most of these delights is included in my book ) 
 After dinner, the Acadian cousins, representative of the outstanding women in their lineage, enjoyed a lively discussion remembering their grandmothers and great grandmothers, family joys and tragedies and a sharing of current accomplishments of the new generation of children and grandchildren. 
 I want to share with you today, a recipe from my book, "My Grandmothers' Face" called RAPURE.  We still make this delightful food using my grandmothers' pan.  Somehow it just doesn't quite taste the same without it. Our family has always been touched by the connection that links our Memere and that pan .  These traditional gatherings are a memorial to these dear women who so profoundly influenced our lives. I challenge all of you to start your own generational celebration. 
 " I am a link, You be one, too! " 
 

Évangéline Richard Beaudet Knolkemper
Age 80
is the daughter of
Alma Poirier Richard
One of Mother's favorite Acadian specialties is Rapure (Chiard).  Her recipe was her mother's although she adds her own personality to this ageless recipe.

Rapure (Chiard)

Authentic Acadian Recipe

To assemble:  Mix grated potatoes and cooked mashed potatoes together adding two eggs and one tablespoon of salt.  Add salt pork and fried pork to potato mixture.  Pour this mixture into a large baking pan 9 x 13.  Bake at 400 degrees F for 15 minutes then reduce heat to 350 degrees F until done, approximately 1 to 1 1/2 hours.  This recipe is best when fresh garden potatoes are used.
 
 

Multicultural Pens

Route 7 & Timelines

Sandy Olson, Troy, ME

KEEPING TO OURSELVES 

By Patricia Smith Ranzoni, Bucksport, ME

Thoughts, Feelings on Hair Loss 

By Joyce MacCrae Howe 

 I thought I could handle anything after the shock of being diagnosed with breast cancer on May 28, 1998. I also thought, as I was undergoing a bone scan, chest X-ray, ventricular output test, blood tests and finally the surgery, which removed a cancerous lump and associated lymph nodes -- that things could not get any worse. 
 I was wrong. 
 On July 21, 1998 I had my first chemotherapy. I experienced a teeth-clenching nausea for three or four days that Compazine, a nausea-reducing medication, only took the edge off. I felt tired as my blood count dropped. Again I felt things could not get any worse. 
 Again, I was wrong. 
 I knew that I would lose my hair sooner or later -- I just didn't know when. I called my hairdresser (and good friend of 25 years), Lena  and made an appointment to have my hair cut.  I reasoned that shorter hair would be easier to lose.  She helped me select a wig and ordered it that day. I felt better. I thought I was prepared. 
 The day before my second chemotherapy on August 10, 1998, I took my morning shower. As I toweled my hair, it literally came out in my hands. No words can describe how I felt. I was devastated. Although I knew it was going to happen eventually, I was completely unprepared for this. I called Lena again, and saw her that same day. 
 The decision to "save or shave" was made for me, since my hair was already falling out. This was awful.  She took me to another room, where we had absolute privacy and we shaved my head. I could not bear to watch.  I simply closed my eyes and I cried. 
 That was the worst day of my life. Worse than the diagnosis, the biopsy, the waiting for results, the surgery itself or the side effects of the chemotherapy drugs. 
 On December 21, 1998, I had my final chemotherapy session. I have a beautiful, smartly-styled wig, which I am told looks very natural -- not at all "wiggy." But I have not , nor will I ever get used to seeing myself without hair. I have a great support system that includes my husband, children and friends, but they have no idea how traumatic the hair loss has been for me. I am sure a small part of the way I feel is vanity, but it is by far only the smallest part. 
 It is difficult to explain to someone who has not experienced hair loss how I feel. When people say to me, "It's only hair and it will grow back," I want to shout at them and say how I hate it. 
 I guess for me, nothing could have prepared me for losing my hair. I think having a list of people who have experienced hair loss themselves, and who would be willing and comfortable to talk about it would help others immeasurably. I wish that had been available to me. I will place my name first on that list.  Please feel free to call me at 207-989-3589. 

Rame Donc 

Il est trop tard pour retourner 
J'entends déja chanter l'été 
Sur l'arc-en-ciel on est monté 
Vers l'océan de l'éternité 

Sourire aux lèves, le coeur léger 
Fini le temps de s'attarder 
Suivons les ailes du goèland 
Dans un élan de liberté 

Un soir ils nous verront passer 
Ramons à fond sur les nuées 
Sur l'arc-en-ciel on est monté 
Vers l'océan de l'éternité 

Rame, rame, rame donc 
Le tour du monde, le tour du monde 
Rame, rame, rame donc 
Le tour du monde nous ferons.