Telling Our Stories

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Community, by Carol Boudrieau

I like to make lists. Lots of tasks, written in no particular order, marching down the page. My family loves to tease me about it; “ Mom and her lists!” they mumble, rolling their eyes. My favorite part about making lists is crossing off what I’ve done. Sometimes I even include things I’ve already finished just so I can cross them off and feel a sense of accomplishment. Today’s list was pretty short: Max to groomer’s; return fabric samples; go see Jan at the Thrift Shop, and Memoir Club . Sadly, there was nothing I could cross off without actually doing it. I only had a half hour to see Jan before Memoir Club. I grabbed my fleece off the back of the kitchen chair noticing the large stain on the upholstered seat. Judi had spilled a mug of Dana’s hot syrupy goodness that he called hot chocolate last December at our first annual siblings’ cookie bake. I made a mental note for a future list: replace fabric on kitchen bar stools . I reached into my purse fee

Hot Flash Annie's, by Donna Ciappina

August 2001: It had been one year since my mother’s death. The year was complicated by family conflicts over her estate, and I was still emotionally raw from the losses. My husband and I were vacationing at our favorite vacation spot, Acadia National Park. I was shopping at some of the gift shops in South West Harbor. Specifically, I was in a little shop called “Hot Flash Annie’s”. How could I not go in/! I picked up a little glass stone with the word JOY written on it. It reminded me of a stone I had given my mother years ago that sat on her kitchen table for the rest of her life next to her bills, newspaper articles, and ashtray. When she died I took it back even though it was covered in nicotine. I was wondering how I would find joy again. When I got to the register to pay for the stone, I began to tell the owner/cashier about my mother and the stone. I stood there sobbing, she came around from behind the register and hugged me and said, “I know.” I was comforted by

The Haircut, by David Moore

It was spring and I came home from school with a notice that class pictures were about to be taken in school at the end of the week. This, normally, would not have been such a big deal but it was short notice and I needed a haircut before I was to be immortalized in an infamous school portrait. For another reason, this would not have been such a big deal because I lived in a family full of hairdressers and barbers. Out of my 11 aunts and uncles, 5 of them owned clippers and one of the family events on a Sunday night every month or so was a “clip in” in my grandmother’s kitchen, with my uncle doing all boys. I was going on 9 years old and secretly longed for a chance to get a real haircut, in a real barbershop like my Dad, without an audience of giggling cousins. It just so happened that the stars were in line and my Mom forgot about the picture date until the day before the big shoot and it was crunch time. It didn’t make much difference to me whether I was trimmed for the picture, b

Remembering Kathryn Mary, by Kathleen Capraro

I never met anyone as loyal to her family as Kathryn. She always said that everything that had happened to her was her own doing. She never blamed anyone else but herself. We met her at two months old when my sister and her husband took into their home their foster baby. She was adopted one and one-half years later. My husband, Paul, and I were thrilled to be the Godparents to our dear Kathryn Mary. I always called her Kathryn but my husband always called her "Mia Bella Bambino." Kathryn took up all the space in any room -- especially learning to walk, which she did by running and crashing into walls. Never was a baby sweeter or friendlier than Kathryn. She loved to eat, and she ate anything you put in front of her. The first sign of trouble arose for her in school when she encountered math, and that was her downfall. She struggled all through school, which made school years all the more difficult. She was never accepted there. Once she was a teenager, more trouble aro

The Flag Pole, by David Moore

I was walking by the Hunt School (School Street School) the other day and I remembered a story about how I saw the flag rescued one afternoon. I was in the fifth grade with Mr. Nourse, on the second floor, in the front of the building. It was the usual custom for the custodian, Mr. Holbrook to stop by each afternoon and take in the flag which flew just outside the center window. It was a particular windy spring day and the flag had gotten wrapped around the pole and could not be drawn in. He tried to free it with a broom handle but to no avail. As Mr. Holbrook stood looking out the window trying to figure out a solution to the problem a fellow student spoke up, “Mr. Holbrook I can get the flag in.” The whole class turned to Walter Hathaway in curiosity, as he volunteered, “I can climb out the window, shimmy up the pole, and unwrap it.” Now, Walter was known as an adventurous kid, often in trouble for “kid stuff” so we were not all that startled by his su

A Comforting Reunion with a Spirit, by David Moore

It was the end a of cool spring day and my wife and I were looking for an escape from our regular route to walk our dogs. We chose to visit an old cemetery just outside the center of town. The sky was becoming clouded over with rays of sunshine peeking through. It was marked with shades of dark blue clouds mixed with patches of blue sky. The air had turned crisp with sunset approaching, as we got out of our car. Our dogs we oblivious of the natural beauty around us, they were just interested in the new smells. The stark grey leafless trees, inside of the granite fence posts with their rusted red iron rails marked ancient family plots. An occasional evergreen and a few lonesome daffodils added a little color to the scene. The grass is still brown with patches of green and a few tattered flags, that had made it through the winter. Walking along the paths of the aging roadway I notice names of folks once prominent in the town. Among them are not only names from history but as time g