Backwoods Blog

WINTER TRIP

The Isolation Blues;

reflections during covid-19

My father told me a story years ago about the time he took a load of grain to the grist mill in Houlton during the 1920s on a cold winter day. I wrote the story up at the time, but for the life of me, I cannot locate it anywhere (so much for my ad-hoc filing system). This is my earnest attempt to re-create it, the best I can, from what I remember of the original story. 

This is the story about how my father took a one-day grand adventure to town on a very cold day. He was a young man, still in his late teens but looking for a means to earn his way in this world and help the family out if he could. He volunteered to take a load of grain to the grist mill in Houlton, which was about twenty miles away and then return the same day with the milled product. Taking all the details of the story into consideration, the best I can, I’m guessing the trip occurred sometime during the month of January, 1927. He left early in the morning just before daybreak with a long sled loaded with grain and his father’s team. In those days the winter roads weren’t plowed as they are now, they were rolled. Once the snow was compacted it made a solid winter road for horse and sled, as in that era cars and trucks were stored for the winter. He set out on his adventure from the family homestead on the north end of Monticello almost to the Bridgewater town line. The Hutchinson farm was located on the Nichols Road (now called the Fullerton Road) a small side road to the east of US Route 1.  My father wore a long fur coat, boots with gummed rubber soles and high leather uppers, mittens, a heavy wool hat and a lady’s nylon hose stocking for a face covering. He passed very few travelers on the road that day and when he did (since it was too cold to stop) he would just make a friendly gesture and keep going. Since the team was moving slowly and also as a good way to keep warm, he got out of the sled and walked most of the time leading the horses towards town. 

He arrived in Houlton around 11am and left the load of grain at the mill which was located on the north end of Bangor Road closest to town. While the grain was milled he walked just down the street to Union Square and had lunch at Clark’s Hotel on Kendall Street. As my father told me his story I identified this as the highlight of the day (which should come as no surprise since food always seemed to find its way into his adventures). He ordered the pot-roast dinner which included potatoes, hot vegetable, homemade bread and a slice of pie for dessert with ice cream on top, all for the price of $2.89 (plus tip). He was back on the road heading north by early afternoon. His meal at the hotel would be his only hot food of the day. By this time he knew he would not be home by dark, but both he and the horses were well rested and eager to push on. I’m not sure what goes through your mind when you have that much time and that much space to fill as you cover mile by mile across the barren snow landscape. Of course he had no radio or human conversation to punctuate the monotony of his own thoughts, just the plodding sound of the team or of his own boot. In January all you hope to do is stay warmer than the outside environment, keep feeling your feet and your hands, watch the moist vapor coming out of your mouth into the frigid air and just keep moving, just keep moving… It was already getting dark as he reached the top of Lowell Hill coming into the village of Monticello and when he saw the lights of the downtown it made him feel just a bit warmer. (At the bottom of that hill was the farm and farmhouse he would buy years later, and where I am today.) He didn’t stop anywhere in town but just kept going. He knew he still had eight miles to go, but now it felt like he was in the home stretch. Even the horses seemed to know as Dad said they picked up their pace. He didn’t have a light source with him, but at this point it didn’t matter – the horses knew where they were going. It was the 1920s version of a driver-less vehicle! I don’t remember Dad saying much about his arrival or making a big deal out of it, just a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment of completing the long, cold journey. We hear about life circumstances, adventures and challenges that build character in an individual and, in part, define the rest of their life and I think this was one of those experiences that helped prepare my father for the hard years ahead. Interestingly enough, this was the only time I ever heard may father tell the story. My retelling of it (as much as I can remember) is an effort to keep these long departed memories of living the old ways alive.

In the woods,

Dave