The Suit

Hanging on the wall of my parents home is a picture of my father, Raymond. My guess of his age in the photo is eighteen to nineteen years old. In our first home in Milford, Connecticut, the picture hung above a photograph of my parents dancing at a wedding. When we moved to Maine, it was placed in the same arrangement...just a different wall. The same as when my parents moved to Florida for a year then came back to Fairfield, Maine. Their last home is their current home. They’re number thirteen on a dead end street across from a cemetery. Some might find that a little creepy. I think it’s pretty funny, myself.

On Tuesday, my mother had a doctor’s appointment so I volunteered to stay with my father while my sister took mom to see her physician. It was routine stuff. It wouldn’t take long, they said. The roads had been cleared of the snow that had fallen overnight. Dad was always worried about all of us when the weather wasn’t sunny and 75. Come to think of it, he worries about us when it’s that nice out, too.

Dad and I made small talk about the stimulus package the government was looking to pass, the weather for the weekend and how my son, Anderson, was doing in school. I sat in my mom's chair and looked up at the wall of photographs. The one of my father was hanging below a sketch drawing of the church they were married in. He had mentioned to me about six months before that he wanted me to find a tie just like the one in the photo so he could give it to Anderson to wear to church. I looked all over. I scoured the internet, called department stores in Connecticut, to no avail. 

I asked my father “Dad, where did you get that tie?”

And the story began.

“I bought that tie. I bought the suit, too, with my own money.”

He went to tell me exactly how.

My father was thirteen years old in 1949. The family was very poor. There were five sons at that time before the two little sisters came along. The house on Madison Avenue in Bridgeport they grew up in is now a parking lot next to an ice cream shop. His father was a box nailer at the Bridgeport Brass Company. That company, years before my father and his father were born, is credited for spinning the copper wire that made the first long distance telephone line from New York City to Boston possible. His mother, with five boys, worked hard at being a mom. From the stories they have told me...she had her hands full.

On a late winter day his mother, Grace, brought home new clothes. They had saved enough to buy each of the rambunctious boys pants and shirts. They were growing like weeds and hand me downs only lasted so long. She presented my father, who was tall and very lean, a pair of knickers. In the 1940s, it was common for teenage boys to wear “short pants” or knickers. They came just below the knee and sometimes they fastened with a buckle. My father took one look and asked her to return them because he was NOT going to wear them. She wasn’t very happy about the response. They had spent their hard earned money on new clothes for their eldest son only to have them refused by him. His excuse? He wanted to wear pants. Long pants. 

She told him “If you want pants, buy them yourself.” Grace took him and the pants back to the store she had already come from and told the manager her son didn’t want them. The manager asked him “What do you want?” My father perused the clothing and his eyes landed on a suit.

The Suit.

“I want this.” His mother knew she couldn’t afford it and, once again, told him he would have to buy it himself. Raymond walked right up to the suit and looked at the manager and asked him “Will you please hold this suit for me? It may take me awhile to get the money but I will be back for it.” He picked up a tie and asked him to hold it as well. They left the store with no pants and no suit. However, he did leave with a determination and an idea.

Before it became cheaper to buy at grocery stores, milk was delivered in glass containers by the milkman. A man in a white suit and cap would travel by truck with hundreds of bottles of milk to deliver around the city. He would arrive in the early hours of the morning, go to the stoop of a home and pick up the empty containers. He would then leave fresh full bottles in their place. With five growing boys, the family went through a lot of milk. 

Raymond, being the go-getter he was, woke up early the next morning and greeted the milkman. He asked him if he could work for him to earn a few dollars a week. The milkman thought a moment and told him “Well, I would finish earlier every day. Why not?” So they made plans for the next morning for Ray to start delivering milk.

After a month it had turned to Spring and the earning was slow. It was getting closer to Easter and Ray wanted to be able to wear the suit to church on Easter Sunday. The grass had sprouted up so he took the family lawnmower and went around to the houses in their neighborhood and sometimes beyond. On the weekends he went door to door asking to mow lawns. The money started adding up but it still wasn’t enough. He didn’t think he would be able to purchase the suit in time. What could he do?

Go to his favorite uncle, of course.

Howard Holt was born Halvor Fostvet in Eydehamn, Norway. He came through Ellis Island on the ship Stravangerfjord in 1923. A master craftsman who built cabinets, tables, chairs, and even boats, Uncle Howie, as he was lovingly referred to, was a kind man. He and his wife, Dorothy, doted on children. They couldn’t have any of their own so they spoiled all of their nieces and nephews. I can say I was lucky enough to be spoiled by them as well. He was my godfather and I was his only godchild. Never a holiday went by without them sending me a card with a little something stuffed inside whether it be a two dollar bill or a bunch of stickers. When they would visit, a bag of candy was brought with them just for me. Their hugs were the biggest, the warmest and the longest.

After school, Ray went to visit Uncle Howie who was building another project in his workshop. He wasn’t at all surprised at his nephew’s unannounced visit. They lived less than four miles away. Ray would often take the half hour walk to see him and help him with whatever he was working on. It was with him my dad learned to make the cabinets in our home in Milford, put upstairs bathrooms in our homes in Fairfield. He even built a garage. We were always so amazed that he could do all these different things. When we asked where he learned how to do it all he would always answer “Uncle Howie”.

That day Ray started helping like he usually did and tried, as casually as a thirteen year old boy could, to slide into conversation that he was saving money for something special. Uncle Howie, who could read between the lines, mentioned that he could use an extra hand around the workshop. “Some jobs are just too big to handle alone.” Right away Ray asked if he could have the job. How could he say no to his favorite nephew?

In a matter of two months a young man went from having no job to having three all at once. Each day was closer to Easter and he wanted that suit in time. In the mornings he would deliver milk. After school he would mow lawns. In the evenings he would help his uncle.

The Saturday before Easter, Ray counted all his money and headed straight for the store. The tinkling of the bell went off and it announced to the manager the arrival of the young man with whom he made a deal with a few months prior.

“So, I suppose you’re here to pick up your suit.” said the manager.

“And tie.” Ray quipped.

“Hmmph,” was the manager’s response. He went out back and a few minutes later a large cardboard box tied with string was in the man’s hands. Ray counted out the bills and coins to the exact amount. When the manager was satisfied he rushed home to his room. There he untied the string and lifted the cover. It was just like he remembered: Navy blue with a matching tie with an embroidered cross. He resisted the urge to put it on right then and there. He didn’t want to risk a single wrinkle. He hung it in his closet to await the next morning. 

And what a morning it was. Easter Sunday was as big a deal then as it is now. Families getting ready to head to church would see a flurry of activity in order to get there on time. Can you imagine what my grandmother went through to have five boys clean, fed and in their Sunday best before it was time to leave? 

Things came to a standstill when my father walked into the room. There he was in his new suit and tie standing before his mother, father and four brothers. “Raymond! Where did you get that?” 

“You told me to buy it myself so I did.” He told them of everything he did and how much he had saved in order to wear the new suit special for Easter. His parents were so proud of what he had accomplished. His brothers, well, they’d rather wear the knickers.

St John’s Episcopal Church on Fairfield Avenue in Bridgeport was full that day. Each person sitting in the pews had a full view of the choir raising their voices to the Lord in song. In that choir was a tall, young man in a snappy new suit and a big smile on his face. Though no one’s smile could be bigger than the ones of the parents watching their son who had worked for months just to wear a new suit to Easter Sunday service.

Where is the suit now? My parents like to be prepared for everything and that includes the time they pass on. The suit is now in a box and is ready for when my father passes on. The suit he bought as a thirteen year old boy will be the suit he is buried in. 

And tie. Never forget the tie.

Queenie - The Dog Who Would Be Queen

 My mother, Mary, is one of eight children. For a family of ten all under one roof life on Prospect Street in Stamford, Connecticut, wasn’t easy. When I inquired where it was located she told me “the wrong side of the tracks”. I decided to take a look and, well, she was right: it wasn’t in the best part of town. My mother always said they didn’t have much but what they had was enough.

Still, life was good. My grandmother, Fanny, was a stay at home mom while my grandfather, Daniel, worked as a brakeman for the railroad. He assisted the conductor, switched tracks when necessary and applied the brakes to the train when needed. His job was especially important because he worked overnight. My grandparent’s lifestyle bled into my mother’s own adult life when she married my father. He was a night worker who drove trucks. 

When residing in the “bad part of town”, being a woman with eight children and not having your husband home at night in the 1940s was a potentially dangerous situation. Luckily, one day they brought home a new member of the family of the four-legged kind that would provide a little security to the household. 

Queenie was a female, smooth-haired, Whippett-Terrier mix. She was white with a black saddle and very lean. She quickly became the family’s best friend. My mother once said she bit Queenie and the dog bit her back. That’s what she got for biting a dog, she said. Grandmother Fanny felt much safer with a dog in the home. This way the dog could alert them to anything or anyone who shouldn’t be hanging around. She slept better at night because of it.

When my mother was about eight years old she remembers Fanny giving Daniel a kiss goodbye and closing the door as he went off to work with his lunchbox. That night everything was normal. Doors were locked, kids were in bed sleeping and Queenie was snoozing in the living room.

Around midnight a man who had a bit too much to drink (or as my mother said “he was loaded”) mistook their house as someone else’s he knew. Could have been his own. No one really knows for sure. He was pounding on the door. Queenie started barking. Fanny told the man to go away but he persisted. He was yelling for the door to be opened and pounding the door even harder. As you can imagine all nine residents were very frightened. So Fanny did what she thought best.

She opened the door and shouted “Get ‘em, Queenie!” and the dog went after the man!

She could see the man run away as fast as he could but Queenie chased him across the street then across the ball field (which is now the interstate). Fanny lost sight of her in the dark. She anxiously waited for the dog to return. The kids were worried she would never come back.

But come back she did.

With the seat of the man’s pants in her mouth!

That dog was heralded in the house that night as the true “queen” she was! “Good dog!” and “Yay Queenie!” were heard over and over as they petted her in gratitude for the tremendous deed she had done. She wasn’t sure what all the attention was about but she was certainly happy with all the love she was receiving. 

While my mother was at school the next day, Daniel returned from the night shift. Fanny told him what had happened. He couldn’t believe it! Who would have thought the little dog would be such a big protector. The man never returned and no one ever bothered their house again.

When Daddy Sang

 

I sat there and tried not to let the tears flow. I really did try…but in the end I lost the battle…again.

Bing Crosby put me over the edge.

On a Sunday afternoon while home with my husband and son, I had the urge to watch a movie from my childhood. I wasn’t born until the mid 1970s but I grew up on black and white musicals from the 1940s and 1950s that television would broadcast on Saturday and Sunday afternoons much to my parents liking. That, for us, was family time. Stars such as Jane Powell, Fred Astaire and Mario Lanza would come thru the speaker of our 1960s Sears floor model television while I lay on my stomach watching intently.

Was this what people did in real life? Walk around and burst into song? They did it so, naturally, I followed suit. The hallways of school, the grocery store, dancing down the street: there wasn’t a place I could hide my excitement for life.  I was like a human version of Linda on Bob’s Burgers. At least, that’s what my family says.

It’s true.

I can remember Debbie Reynolds telling (or singing) to Gene Kelly “Here we are: Sunset and Camden!” during Singin’ in the Rain. Now, being 46, I arrive at a destination to drop someone off I will sing the same thing. There’s not a lamppost I haven’t hung off of or a park bench I haven’t tapped my feet under as I sit. It was all so REAL growing up, I have made it part of my life…part of me.

Sometimes it embarrasses my husband or my son. They have become pretty used to it and have ignored my theatrics for the most part. There are those times though. There are things they just don’t understand. Once I am able to tell them why I do the things I do, they are able to see me in a totally different way and I think I come off as not so crazy once they do.

While sitting on the couch watching “Going My Way” starring Bing Crosby I knew the part was coming up. I certainly tried to hold myself together but the dam burst and there I was wiping away the tears on my shirt sleeve.

Elder Father Fitzgibbon (Barry Fitzgerald) had come in out of the rain late one night and was put straight to bed by house keeper Mrs. Carmody (EIly Malyon) and Father Chuck O’Malley (Bing Crosby). The subject came up where Father Fitzgibbon had not been home to Ireland in 45 years. He missed his 90 year old mother. He always said he would go home if the church’s problems were solved and there was someone there to take care of things while he went for a visit. To fight off a bit of chill, Father Fitzgibbon mentioned that hidden in the bookcase was a music box that held a decanter of whisky and two shot glasses. When the case was opened the old Irish tune of “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra” began to play and made Father Fitzgibbons think of home. After a quick drink, Father O’ Malley sings the elderly priest (almost) to sleep while singing along with the music box.

It’s at this point of the movie my husband and son look at me like I’m completely nuts. What on earth could possibly make me bawl? It wasn’t like we were all watching Marley and Me all over again.

When the movie was over and I could breathe through my nose again, I said to them there was a reason I was crying. I explained the vivid memories of when I was a little girl.

There wasn’t a song my father couldn’t sing or whistle for that matter. Hearing my father’s voice boom throughout the house with a song from Bing Crosby or Perry Como was a normal thing on a weekend. My mother would play the records while she cleaned and my father would sing along. His voice was truly amazing. He sounded just like the records and the men in the movies I had watched over and over. Sometimes he would sweep my mother off her feet and dance her around whatever room they were in and sing at the top of his lungs. It was like watching “The King & I” on a Broadway stage right in our very own living room.

Back in 1974, the year I was born, Hoffman Distillery bottled their whisky in decanters shaped like leprechauns. The alcohol would come out of their hats and they had a music box attached to the bottom. My parents owned two of them. One of the played “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” and the other “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra”. Being little and loving music, I would ask for them to play the music box of the latter. My father would sing along to that music box and, to this day, I can still hear his voice: Strong, deep and gentle. Bing Crosby had nothing on my dad.

Emphysema and COPD has silenced that beautiful singing voice. 65 years of smoking can do that to a person. He stopped smoking cold turkey six years ago after a heart attack scare. Doctors say he is with us now because he let go of that nasty vice. My mother followed suit a few years later. Each year, each DAY for that matter, that passes is another moment with them. I am so grateful.

My husband and son now know another little piece of why I am the way I am and do the things I do. If you see me in the grocery store dancing with my shopping cart or if I suddenly start singing my answers to your questions, you’ll now understand why.

It’s just me being me and thinking about my dad when he sang.

True Tales of a Talker #6: The Birthday Girl

 

When people ask me what my favorite holiday is I always answer the same: my birthday. Mine is October 6^th and I love celebrating it! I guess for one day a year it makes me feel special. In my family it marks the beginning of Christmas. Yes, the holiday is still over two months away from that date but I am the only one in my family with a birthday after July if you don’t count my dad’s which is in August. I get to signal the start of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas and all the decorating it brings.

On this particular day, I was calling Medicare for information on how to fix an MSP claim. That’s when another insurance is primary over Medicare. Things have to be just right in order for it to pay.

Gina, the representative, was very nice. It sounded like she was having a good day already. And, being me, I wanted to find out why.

I asked her flat out “Just what has you in such a great mood today?”

She answered back “It’s my birthday!”

I immediately sang the ‘Happy Birthday’ song to her. I refrained from the “Are you 1? Are you 2?” and so on.

She let out a little squeal and thanked me. I could tell she wasn't working from home as so many employees are doing at call centers during the pandemic. She was using her inside voice.

I inquired as to how she was going to celebrate. She was eager to say she celebrates for an entire week. Last week her family took her out for dinner. Another day, her husband spent the entire day with her going to their favorite places. A few nights before the kids had made her favorite for the family dinner. Just last night she went out for drinks with her coworkers.

I was amazed. "You've had quite the week! What do you plan on tonight?"

She took a deep breath and let it out. "To tell you the truth, I hope we just stay home. It's been a wonderful week but I'm kind of tired. A night in with my family relaxing would be the best thing right now."

Totally get you, girl.

She went on to help me with my claim and when we were finished I, again, wished her a very happy birthday.

I have worked on my birthday before. In fact, I remember a long time ago on my 20th birthday I was working at Ames Department Store and, much like I do now, if work needed me I never said no. Well, I can't say NEVER because I am getting better at saying no for the sake of my family and my own sanity. Back then, though, I didn't miss an opportunity to work because we had no money when my first husband and I got married. Minimum wage in 1995 was $4.25 an hour. We needed to make every penny we could.

On my birthday that year, I remember my manager, Mr. Scott Finnemore, calling me and asking me to work. I knew we had a band practice that night (or so I thought). We needed the money more than I needed to practice. I said yes and I told my husband at the time that I was going in. The person covering the front desk called out sick and they had no one.

While I jumped in the shower to get ready, my husband quietly called my workplace and explained the situation. When I came out of the bathroom I got another phone call saying they didn't need me and that the other person was coming in anyway. I thought nothing of it. I asked if they were sure because I would cover for anyone. I didn't mind. He laughed and said "Enjoy your night off." 

We went to a band member's house and it looked like no one was home. We walked into the house and the lights came on. It was a surprise party! I literally had no idea. My husband said "I had to call Ames and tell them you couldn't work tonight. We all had this planned for you." 

The next day when I walked in Mr. Finnemore wished me a belated happy birthday. I thanked him and asked how he knew. He told me that my husband had called in a panic last night and explained everything. "That's why I called you back and said we were covered." He then said "Sharon, what would ever make you think to work on your birthday?" 

I told him what my father always told me.

When you work hard and give 150% every day you WILL be rewarded. Your boss will recognize this and see the dedication you have to your work. Never slack off. You'll be better off for it.

He just looked at me, nodded and said "Okay...but next year you are not working your birthday."

I have used my father's advice every day of my life. It HAS paid off. I think every supervisor I have ever had has realized the good work ethic my parents installed in me from a young age. From working 4 jobs at once to put my first husband through nursing school to still working 4 jobs...somethings never change. Granted 3 of the jobs I have now are per diem: the radio station Cruisin' Country 93.5, the tv station WABI-TV and my band, Sharon Hood & Dixon Road. I have the best full time job in the entire world here at Maine Veterans' Homes. 

And I now take my birthdays off.

 

 

True Tales of a Talker #4: The Flat Tire Edition

 

There is a story with every person on the planet. Each one is completely different than the last. Think about it. Just as no two fingerprints or snowflakes are the same, there are no two people that are the same.  There may be identical twins or triples but no two human beings in this world are exactly the same. 

And each life is amazing.

You can learn so much from just a few minutes of conversation with a complete stranger. That's what I did on a hot summer day in August 2020.

I was headed to pick up my son from paintball at my friend Julie's house when I saw my turn coming up. As I got closer I saw an old woman parked at a stop sign with a red car directly behind her. There was no one behind me so as I slowed to take the turn I asked if she needed help. She said she had a flat tire. I told her to move her car into the parking lot and I would help. When she had successfully moved her car into the dirt lot the red car moved up and sped away.

I pulled in and could see the passenger side rear tire was flat. She got out of the car and met me at her trunk. She said she had a spare and we unloaded all her packages to get to it. She didn't have a jack or wrench. Her son had taken them out a week ago because while using her car he too had a flat tire. I told her I would get mine. It wouldn't take long to change it out. 

I introduced myself and she told me her name was Maryann. She had been traveling from her apartment in Levant to medical appointments in Augusta. That's a seventy mile trip and takes over an hour. Something was telling me she wouldn't be making those appointments on a donut. It was already four o'clock.

I got her spare tire out and went to my car to get my things. I had never seen my spare tire, tire iron or jack because, truth be told, I hadn't thought to ever look. I had never needed them before.

I put down a blue sweatshirt to protect my knees from the gravel and got my first real glimpse at the tire. Not only was it completely flat, it also had no tread and was bulging out in one spot. It was no wonder it had gone flat. I went about jacking the car. I located the frame and lifted it up. I put my tire iron to the first lug nut and found it was too big. 

What was I going to do?

I told her I would call my friend Julie who lived about 10 houses down and ask her to bring hers over to see if it would fit. She said she would bring them down right away.

All this time people were driving past and looking at us. They would drive past the road or even turn up the side road and rubberneck to see what was happening. You could clearly see the spare tire, the jacked up car and the tools from every angle. 

Yet no one else stopped.

Until I flagged down a sheriff.

Somerset County Deputy Sheriff Stephen Arminger pulled in and asked if he could help. I explained the situation and he went immediately to the problem and took a look. He got the tire iron out of his vehicle and tried it.

Still too big.

He said he lived just up the road.  He would drive there and bring his back. His iron had 4 sizes. One HAD to fit.

While he was gone, I talked to Maryann. What else was there to do?

Maryann was one of seven children. She was the fourth in line. First came triples, then her and then three brothers. I told her I came from a large family too. There were nine in mine. She said it was just her and her youngest brother left. She was seventy-two and helped take care of a ninety-two year old man who lived alone. 

Maryann had four children: two daughters and two sons. She lived with one daughter because she had medical problems and her daughter helped to take care of her.  Her other daughter lives in Kansas City, Missouri and works for an eye doctor.  One of her sons moved in with them after the COVID-19 virus hit. He was just accepted into college. She said he had just turned twenty-five and told her it was time to to do "big boy things".

I asked her if I could call anyone for her and she said no. If she could just get back home, she would be okay.

Julie arrived with her tire iron and it was too big as well. Deputy Arminger came back and, sure enough, brought his four-sided iron. It turned out he and Julie knew each other.  While we were trying to figure out what to do, a Pittsfield police cruiser had turned in to see what was going on. 

Officer Jeff Vanadestine offered his assistance as well. He saw Deputy Arminger in his attempt to loosen the lug nuts but to no avail. The wrench didn't fit some and the ones it did fit were on too tight.They put their heads together and decided to call a friend of theirs that lived on the outskirts of Palmyra. It would take him about fifteen minutes to arrive. He owned a towing business.

Julie had to head home to a house of boys who were playing paintball while being supervised by her husband, Brett. She said she would drop off Anderson to me since I wasn't far away. The officers stayed and struck up a conversation with Maryann. I stayed too. My jack was still under her car but I really just wanted to keep her company. We had already been there an hour. What was a few more minutes?

So I talked. 

More.

I told her the story of when I was eight months pregnant in 2006 with my only son, Anderson. I was driving from Oakland to Waterville when I discovered I had a flat tire myself. I pulled over and thought "Well, time to get dirty." I put my hazards on and started getting the spare tire and equipment out of my trunk. 

What I didn't notice was that where I pulled over was directly across from KMD Driving School. Owner Mike Perkins was in a car with one of his students and saw what was happening. As I remember from him telling me a few years back he told the student to pull in behind me. The student asked why and he told him "You're getting your first real lesson on how to change a tire." The young mas said "Why?" Mike looked at the young man and asked him "You'd seriously leave a pregnant woman to change a tire on the side of a busy road by herself? Remember this, son, whatever you put into this world is what you're going to get out of it." 

Back to 2020 and Mike Perkins is now a 2nd term State Representative.

I called my son's scout leaders to tell them we would be a little late for our meeting and what was happening. They said it was fine and that they'd see us when we got there. Julie stopped and dropped off Anderson and I told him what was happening. I also introduced him to Maryann. About fifteen minutes later the tow truck arrived and the man from All Time Towing and Recovery immediately put a jack under the car. I removed mine and packed up my car. I gave Maryann a huge hug and she said thank you. She asked what I owed her. I told her I didn't do anything. All I wanted was for her to get home safely. 

I am a lover of country music and one of the songs that sticks out to me is a song by one of my favorite writers, David Lee Murphy. Sure you may know 'Dust on the Bottle' but my absolute favorite song by him is 'The Road You Leave Behind' . It never made it to #1 on the charts but it became #1 in many listeners hearts including mine. The lyrics tell the story of a young David traveling in the backseat of his dad's car when his father stops to change a family's tire in the rain. When David asks why he did it the chorus rings out:

"The road your leave behind you

Is another road you're gonna have to come back down.

It's just the way this big old world turns 'round.

You'll find somehow somewhere someplace sometime

You gotta go back down the road you leave behind."

I remember them stopping. I remember them helping. I remember not taking anything and not asking for it either.

I also know after talking to Mike many years later that the young man never forgot the lesson. I hope Anderson remembers on this day I stopped to try and help and the wonderful officers and business owner who helped as well.

It's a lesson well worth remembering.

Christmas and The Little Red-Haired Girl

Looking through my parent’s photo albums is one of my favorite things to do when I visit them. I always go back to the one album that has a very specific Christmas. I believe it was in 1980 when I was 6 years old and my little sister, Jenny was almost 5.

On the eve of Christmas, Santa happened to make a surprise visit to our home in the middle of dinner. You can probably tell how excited we were just by thinking about two little girls hearing sleigh bells and a loud "HO! HO! HO!" coming from the next room. We tried to dash to the living room but our mom told us we couldn't until we finished our dinner. That night's dinner, however, was not very appealing to the two of us. When I think about it now I am thankful we even had a dinner but at the time fish sticks were not very appetizing. We weren't to leave the table until our plates were clean. Jenny and I held out...so long that my mother (who in her heart really didn't want us to miss a visit with Santa) finally released us.

Rushing into the living room and seeing Santa sitting in my dad's recliner and his elf standing over his shoulder, I thought they looked an awful lot like our Uncle Charlie and his son. I asked mom is she saw the resemblance and she said no. Santa was asking Jenny what she wanted for Christmas and after talking with her he handed her a candy cane and set her off his lap. He motioned for me to come forward and I jumped up. With the bellowing "Ho, Ho, Ho" he asked me what I wanted as well. I can't remember what I said but I do remember getting the candy cane, too.

That night we were all sound asleep. At least some of us were. Around two o'clock in the morning, our brother, Ray, sisters Jane and Wendy came into our room and tried waking us both up quietly. Telling us to shush and not to wake up mom and dad, they had us leave our warm beds to go and spy on what Santa had left us!

With flashlights in their hands we followed them down the hall to the tree. It was like going into a bank vault to see the many bars of gold. Our eyes were huge as the lights gazed upon the filled everyday socks we used as stockings hanging on the window stool and then to the presents that piled beneath the tree. We must have been really good that year. With nine kids, seven of which still lived at home, there were so many. Jenny and I didn't know where to look first. We saw Jane shake one of the gifts and then we heard Ray make a noise. It was then were heard the ominous voice of my mother:

"GET IN THOSE BEDS!"

We were back to our beds faster than you can say "Dash away all!" Jenny and I were under our blankets thinking we were in so much trouble! After about fifteen minutes, our siblings ventured up from their basement bedrooms again and told us to come with them. I told them I didn't want to go because if we got caught again we might get the wooden spoon! They convinced me otherwise and again we all ventured stealthily into the living room.

They started to shine their lights on other parts of the room where there set four GIANT boxes! We all looked around them for name tags and could only see one: Wendy. I guess we would have to wait until Christmas morning. Just then, one of them made another noise and there was my mother's voice again:

"I SAID GET IN THOSE BEDS!"

That was it. The tone in her voice said she meant business. After that we all never left our beds for the rest of the night.

Hours later, morning arrived and all of us one by one ventured into the living room. The ONLY thing we were allowed to touch was our stockings. Inside the usual fare of candy, toothbrushes and doodads filled them almost to the top. We all wore knee socks so there was a lot to fill. It wasn't until mom had her two cups of coffee and put on her Santa hat that it was time for presents. She would sit near the tree, take a present and call out the name of whose it was. She would either hand it off to the person, the person would go and get it or she would toss it over to them. That year there were a lot to get through. 

We all had fun and used a giant black trash bag for all of the wrapping paper. The four huge boxes still remained. And for those boxes Dad wanted to be the one to hand those out. Dad called out Wendy's name first and she opened it up and it was a brand new state of the art stereo from Sears. It had a record player, AM/FM radio and cassette deck. She was so excited! Ray was called next and he revealed the same thing. Jane opened her box and, of course, the same exact stereo system was inside. But who was the last box for? There was no name on it.

Many years before, our sister Audrey had made a best friend of a young redheaded girl who lived a few streets away. Ever since, Trish has been a part of our family as well as her siblings. She came by for dinner usually on Mondays. Every Monday was spaghetti night and my mother made a huge metal bowl of it. I remember her taking a massive knife and cutting through the pile of it so it was cut into quarters. It was easier to serve and eat that way. Every now and then Trish would be wearing a white blouse and, inevitably, spaghetti would find its way onto it. They teased her about it but it was done with love. They would tell her “Don’t wear white on Mondays!” Trish was sweet and fun and we all loved her. Still do.

That Christmas morning, our mother called her house and asked her to come over. Trish came by and, being the very polite person she was, said “Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Everlith!” She still greets them the same way. I think my parents thought it was always good to have another kid in the house especially when they were as nice as Trish.

When we were all gathered in the living room my father explained to her that Santa had left one of her presents at our house. It was the last big box. She was so surprised she didn’t know what to say. We all knew what was in it and I remember Jenny and myself giggling because we knew she would love it. Santa had thought of everything!

She ripped the paper and opened the top of the box to reveal the brand new stereo. She had no words. It may have been thirty-nine years ago but I still remember her happy tears. She gave a big hug to our mom and dad and kept saying “thank you”. Audrey says she thinks they carried the stereo all the way back to her house on foot. 

I remember us many times not having a lot but I never remember a time when I ever wanted for anything. My parents taught me at a young age three very important lessons: to be thankful for what I had, never be too proud to ask for help when needed and to give back when I could. Those are lessons that I have never forgotten and all of us have never forgotten that Christmas day.

The Old Mainer

The temperatures in Maine in the month of January are frigid. That’s the best way to describe bone-chilling cold that seeps through the layers that we throw on to keep it away from our bodies. Winter in Maine is not for the faint of heart but it is for the Old Mainer.

I met him at the Irving rest stop in Augusta on my way to work when I stopped to fill my tank. It was three below zero and the wind was whipping at a good fifteen miles an hour. I had on my knitted hat, my LL Bean mittens and winter boots because it had snowed almost two feet the night before. Under my heavy fleece jacket were the layers of long sleeve shirt and bulky sweater. I was warm but it was one of those mornings where the wind pushed through everything and you just felt cold.

He pulled up a few pumps away in an older white Mercury sedan about the same time. I watched him get out. My guess was he was at least eighty years old. His skin sunk in a little around his cheeks and was wrinkled. He wore a clean pair of Levi’s, LL Bean duck boots, a white t-shirt and a buttoned blue flannel shirt. He had on his weathered brown Carhartt jacket and a baseball cap covered what little white hair remained on his head. He walked into the store at a leisurely gait with cash in his hand to prepay for his gas.

When I started to fill my car, a newer, black Ford F-150 pulled in a few pumps away on the other side. The man in his thirties jumped down from the lifted truck, pulled out his debit card and started pumping gas. He looked at me and said “Man, it’s cold this morning.” I replied that was pretty chilly. He left the truck and the pump running, did a big shiver, pulled his knit cap a little lower over his ears, shoved his gloved hands into the pocket of his puffy coat and hurried to the store.

The old Mainer was on his way out and held the door open for the young man as he rushed over the threshold.  He walked to his car and proceeded to fill his tank. While it was going, he used the squeegee brush to clean his windshield and his headlights. I notice his hands had no gloves. There was no protection from the wind on his ears.  

The younger man rushed back to his truck, took care of the nozzle and drove away.

The wind picked up and I started to shiver as the handled clicked and told me my tank was full. As I got into my car and prepared to leave, I decided to sit and watch him. He saw me and he gave me a small wave and I waved back and smiled. He finished with the gas cap, got in his car and proceeded to drive away. His license plate was in support of agriculture.

The cold didn’t faze him. He wasn’t in a hurry. He was like many of his generation that adapted to the unpredictable weather in Maine. Two feet of snow? It’s just a dusting. Three below zero? It’s a bit chilly. Here was one of the last of a dying breed of men and women who went about their business, minded their own and complained not of the temperature but adapted to the situation around them and carried on. Here was a man who was helpful to the next generation and polite to those around him. All good lessons you can learn from an Old Mainer.

Always Listen To Your Dad

It was the summer of 1997. I had just quit my first band. I felt I needed to go in a different direction. My biggest love was singing and, suddenly, my weekends were now free and there was no interest from other bands in the area of having me sing with them.

I was heartbroken.

I went to my parent’s house to visit and told them what had happened. I just started crying uncontrollably asking “What am I going to do? I love it so much.”

My father was visibly shaken. He had 1 son but he also had 8 daughters and hated to see any of them cry. He took my face in his hands and lifted my eyes to his. I will never forget that moment. When I looked in his eyes there were tears. He held my head and said “You know what? You have what I didn’t. You’ve got ‘IT’. You have a chance to make it. Don’t you worry. You’ll be okay. You are too good not to sing.” Back when he was in his early 20s, his voice had a close resemblance to that of Josh Groban thanks to training from the priests of his church he received. He missed his chance due to circumstances beyond his control.

Looking into his eyes that day I was determined to not let him down. I wasn’t going to let myself down. When Dad told me something, I always believed him. I wasn’t about to stop then.

Fast forward 21 years.

My father, 82, and my mother, 75, are now housebound. The only time they leave the house in the winter is to go to doctor’s appointments. In the spring, summer, and fall they venture out to their mailbox, their front yard to watch the parade pass by, the fenced-in backyard or are driven to a family gathering by one of us children. We all take turns running errands, cleaning house, cooking meals and just plain old visiting. We all love to visit and talk with them. We bring their grandchildren by to see them. Mom especially loves to see how big they are getting.

I had run an errand to the Christmas Tree Shop in Augusta and the Village Market in Fairfield the day before and stopped in to visit and deliver their purchases while my son was at Boy Scouts and my step-daughter was at basketball practice. They reimbursed me for the items I had bought them and we started talking.

My mother always asks “What’s new?” So I told them about the antics we had at work at the Maine Veterans’ Home that day, my meeting with the Stake President of my church and our plans for Christmas Day. I had them laughing when I told them about our cat who repeatedly clears a room due to its flatulence.  I mentioned that we had the weekend off from playing in the band because it was Christmas weekend and my dad startled.

“That reminds me,“ he piped up, “I had a dream about you last night.” I was so surprised. Dad never mentioned things like this.
“Me? What was I doing?” I started to laugh.

“Remember when you were at the Waterville Opera House and Ma and I were in our seats on the aisle and you sang that song to us?” I did. It was one of the best moments of my life. “The one where you got the standing ovation? Man,” he said “that was incredible. It was so good. You need to do that again. I dreamt about that last night.”

I was fighting back tears. My mind flashed back to that summer day 21 years ago and I had to hold it together. I didn’t want my dad to think he was making me cry even if they were tears of joy.

I cleared my throat and managed to make an announcement to them. “Thanks, Dad. As a matter of fact, I have big news. I have started a Miranda Lambert Tribute band and our first gig is in 3 months! I will be up on stage again just like that. The crazy thing is that I just booked a second one with a wonderful lady that says it’s going to be great. I haven’t even performed the first one yet! I am really hoping they go well because I’d like to branch out and take the show all over New England.”  Their eyes lit up.

“Wow! All over New England, you say?” said Dad. 

“That sounds cool,” added Mom.

I explained how I would wear a wig and have a costume change or two and how my younger sister, Jenny, would be singing back up. Practices were starting right after Christmas. I have a great group of musicians behind me including lead player Bruce Burpee, bass player Ed Nevins, rhythm player Larry Tilton and drummer Kyle Melcher. My husband, Chad, would be running the sound for us.

“Well,” Dad said “that sounds good. Good, good, good.”

“I’m glad you like it, Dad. I’ll make a video for you and you’ll be able to see it.”

“Good, good, good.” He nodded his head and smiled.

I have been singing in bands since I was 17 years old. Six years ago, thanks to the encouragement of my husband, I started my own band, Sharon Hood & Dixon Road. We have since opened for Luke Bryan, Keith Urban and, yes, Miranda Lambert. Now I’ve started this new venture paying tribute to a woman I admire so much.

Dad was right.

I was okay.
And I’m still singing.

Mysterious Truck Driver

In early 2000, I was a 26 year old contestant in a karaoke contest at a Skowhegan, Maine bowling alley/restaurant and lounge. If you made it to the finals you had the chance of winning $1000. I was excited because I loved to sing and we could really use the money. Back then, I was working three jobs and helping my, now former, husband get through nursing school. He would be graduating in just over a month and starting what would be his lifelong career. Myself, I was a medical biller for a mental health facility making just over $9/hour. I was also working for a temp agency and sang in a band almost every weekend until the wee hours of the morning.

 

The few trips we had made out of the state included Virginia, Florida, Tennessee and Washington, DC. This time, however, I would have to be making a trip alone. Washington D.C. in the dead of night was going to be quite the challenge.

 

The evening that I won my preliminary round of the contest I was told the date of the finals. My jaw dropped. It was the only weekend that I would not even be in Maine. The people who ran the contest looked at me incredulously. They told me I HAD to be there because I had a really good shot at winning. I needed to make a decision.

 

The reason I would not be able to participate was because we had promised my sister, who had never driven anywhere by herself, that we would travel to DC with her for the weekend. She was a huge fan of the television show, Emergency!, and her favorite actor, Randolph Mantooth, was going to be there that same weekend of the contest. He was the guest of honor at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. There was going to be a display of memorabilia from the show and he would be there to introduce it. She really wanted to meet him.

 

I couldn’t be in two places at once.

 

When I told my husband he asked what we were going to do. We talked with my sister and hatched the plan to have him drive down with her in her car and spend the one night in the hostel we had all found in a travel book. I would drive down as soon at the contest was over and meet them at the Washington Monument the next morning at 8am.

 

At 5 am the day of the contest I wished my husband a safe trip and he left to meet my sister to travel the nearly 600 miles to their destination. I tried to go back to sleep. I took the day off specifically for that purpose but to no avail. I had always been a morning person and that day was no different.

 

I packed a light bag for the trip because I knew, win or lose, we were staying overnight and traveling back the next day. As luck would have it, I won the contest and the $1000 prize!. It was 10 o’clock at night and after changing my clothes I climbed into my 1993 Mercury Tracer and headed for the highway.

 

In 2000, I had an actual map. That’s it. No GPS. No cell phone. No English woman’s voice on an app to help guide me. It was me and the Rand McNally Road Atlas of the United States. I would travel I-95 South the entire way down.

 

As soon as I hit the Massachusetts border I noticed something peculiar. There were no cars. The only vehicles on the road were tractor trailers. When you’re under five feet tall in a compact car and there are semis in front, behind and to each side of you, you start to feel a bit nervous. I kept wondering if they could even see me at all. I found an opportunity to get to the right travel lane. I put my blinker on and it just so happened the truck in front of me put its blinker on. I moved over and so did they. When he would change lanes I did as well. This went on for a little while.

 

I finally had to pull over. Being awake for almost 20 hours was starting to take its toll on me. It was nearly 2 am and, though I had packed an overnight bag, I had failed to pack snacks. I saw the sign for the next rest stop and realized the truck was also going to rest as well. I parked my car and went to the McDonald’s to order food and a drink with caffeine. I never drank caffeinated drinks but I needed to stay awake for the rest of the drive. I looked at around at the people coming inside the building wondering if the truck driver who had been my guide was one of the patrons filing in.

 

I finished my late night snack, used the facilities and headed out. I filled the car with gas and started back on my way. I pulled back onto the highway with another six hour drive ahead of me.

 

About ten minutes down the road a truck pulled up alongside me and I saw a light go on in the cab. I saw a manly hand wave at me but that was all I could see. I turned my light on and waved back. Our lights went out and I heard his air horn blare. He sped up and pulled in front of me.

 

My truck driver was back!

 

Sure enough, the license plate was the same. It’s hard to forget when you were staring at the back end of the same truck for hours. Together until we reached DC the semi and I changed lanes. The driver would always wait for an opportunity to make certain I had enough space to change lanes with him.

 

The sun was starting to come up and the miles melted away. I started to see signs for the DC area. I knew I had to start following them. My hand reached for the signal but I didn’t really want to. I had followed the same truck for nearly 400 miles. I considered it and its driver my guardian angels. I flicked the blinker on to take the exit and I could see his hand wave out his window. I rolled down mine and waved back. He blew his horn and I exited the highway to find the Monument and my waiting family.

 

I’ll never know who he was or what triggered him to stay with me for so long or remember the name of the company he drove for. All I will remember is that this driver was a friend. He made my trip more enjoyable, less stressful and definitely more interesting. 10-3. If you're a trucker, you'll know what that means.

Just Me and My Dad

It's not often a forty-two year old woman gets to sit at the foot of her father and read to him.

But today I did.

I visited my mother and father after work this evening and brought them some information I thought he might like to hear. My sister, Audrey, was finishing up their few dishes in the sink when I arrived.

My dad is a proud veteran of the US Navy having served during the time of the Korean War. He was aboard the USS Newport News from 1956 until 1957. In their home hangs a beautiful picture of the ship he was on. They had nicknamed it 'The Grey Ghost from the East Coast'. When I was little I would ask him questions about the 'boat' as I called it and he would point out where he manned the five inch guns.

He never talked about being in the armed forces much. Every now and then I bring it up and a story might happen to make its way out to be told. My dad is a few months shy of eighty-one so it's understandable not remembering too much of things that happen sixty years ago.

But remember he does.

I sat on the floor next to his recliner and started to read aloud the article of his ship. It was interesting to find out it was the very first fully-air conditioned ship in the US Navy. When I said a certain Admiral's name, my mother started to laugh and said "that's the one he punched". She didn't elaborate any further. My dad didn't expand on it either. I guess that's a story for another time.

It mentioned many different cities the ship had visited: Barcelona, New Orleans, Balboa, Guantanamo Bay. The most fascinating place to me was the Panama Canal. I had not read the entire piece before I arrived so I was amazed when I read it. I looked up at him and asked "YOU went through the Panama Canal?"

Not missing a beat he replied "Well, you had to. If you didn't, you'd have to go all the way around to get where we were going."

That's when a story came to light. He remembered when one of his shipmates was down in the boiler room. He radioed up he wanted a cigarette. One of the crewmen brought it down and when the soldier lit it up, the room exploded. Two men died and another two were injured. Ten minutes later, he said, he was radioed again saying he had a phone call from his mother. Thinking something had happened to her, he ran to pick it up. He asked if she was alright and she said she was fine. Then she asked if he was. Confused he said he was and wondered why she was calling. Somehow it made the news that there was an explosion aboard his ship! The Grey Ghost's phone lines were 'blowing up' with calls from worried moms and dads making sure their sailors were unharmed.

Then, he gave me a request.

My husband, Chad, and I are taking our blended family on its first family vacation. We had told my parents a few months ago were were headed to Washington, D.C. to take in all the monuments and museums.

My father said at the Korean Memorial it has a computer program inside its building where you can search for a soldier's name and the time they served. My father has asked me to go and search for him. I hope I find him. I'll do more research on what he's talking about but if his name is anywhere in Washington, D.C. I want to find it and show him.

I wonder how many more stories I'll hear from him. The unusual thing about my father is he hardly ever tells the same story twice. They're always new. At least to me they are. When we get back from our trip, I look forward to sitting with him and showing him all the amazing ways our country has remembered its soldiers. Most of all, I just look forward to spending time with him.