OPPOSITES BY NANCY WHITWORTH
 
“I wish to speak a word for Nature, for absolute freedom and wildness, as contrasted with a freedom and culture merely civil, to regard man as an inhabitant, or part and parcel of nature, rather than a member of society.” From Thoreau’s “Walking” in Walden’s Pond My sisters and I are trying to stay warm. The flannel sheets wrap around us, a brown wool army blanket brought back from WWII stacked atop, followed by a wool Hudson Bay blanket, and a bed spread. In our room in our farmhouse, we are in the center of the full sized bed: on our right sides, knees bent, huddled together like links on a chain. Blankets are pulled over our heads to keep the body warmth in. When I raise my head to listen to the rhythm in the kitchen, I see my breath in the frigid air, even though it’s only September. I hear movement in the kitchen. My mother closes the old door of the dining room that serves as the bedroom for the three oldest girls. She takes the kerosene container outside to the barn where an exterior hand pump is used to feed fuel into the small metal, barrel shaped, can. Once in the house, the can is tipped upside down into a deep, metal receptacle with a spring mechanism. The gurgling kerosene is fed into the stove. In my bed, I hear metal clank against metal. On the right side of the stove’s large cast iron surface, a rectangular cover opens to reveal a reservoir tank to heat water. On the left are four burners with cast iron circular tops that can be removed with a utensil inserted into a slot cut into each cover. To the left of the stove is the old metal water tank. It provides all the hot water for the home. The six to seven foot tall tank is attached to the stove by metal coils. The cook stove, the main source of heat, is being lit. Mom removes a burner cover, strikes a wooden match, and inserts this in the stove, sparking a flame. Mom’s clanging and rattling in the kitchen stop. As water heats up, the tank makes a snapping noise to indicate that it is near the exploding point. The deep cast iron kitchen sink is used to drain some of the water from the tank relieving the water pressure. Mom’s daily ritual lulls me. Another hour will pass in bed before the kitchen is warm enough for my sisters and me to get dressed. As Mom gets the stove going, she turns on the radio, listening to the list of farmers postponing the harvest work for an hour or two due to frost. Once the kitchen is warm, Mom brings our dirty, stiff, potato picking clothes in from the unheated wash room. The clothes are placed around the stove to warm up before she gets us up for the day. I relish the extra time. Remembering my childhood gives me a new appreciation of the sacrifices my mother had made, and the impact family imparted as I entered college and then marriage. Leaving behind rural life for city life, the impact of my surroundings in childhood instilled in me an appreciation of open spaces, solitude, my faith, my heritage, small town roots, the spare rural way of life, and my love of learning. My deepest emotions reside with the wild, non judgmental nature of the land. It has always soothed me: that sense of permanence that links the past and present. The quiet calm exterior of rural nature asks for nothing. The world of college and marriage expects everything. The field road that led away from childhood and into adulthood was little more than a path, swaying grass indented by tire tracks. To my left a stand of pine trees, to the right the fallow rows of the potato field, straight ahead the headlands separating one farm from the next. The only sign of life lie behind me in the set of buildings that housed my family. Natures’ boundaries were welcome. A lonely figure surrounded by solitude, acceptance, beauty and the spirits of those who persevered, suffered, and left a piece of their souls for me to cherish — that was my childhood. Young adulthood brought a more urban setting, college and marriage — that growth was in unfamiliar surroundings like a weed poking between concrete sidewalk slabs. A marriage multiplies the opportunity for growth and may exacerbate the search for self. Perhaps the opposite qualities that attracted me to Brian, the man I would meet and marry while I was in college, would expand and expose areas that I hadn’t explored. As a child, Brian lived in close proximity to neighbors within an enclosed military community. Frequent changes of duty stations were normal and did not allow deep roots to take hold. The availability of sports facilities and the teen youth center provided Brian with opportunities for developing social skills and excelling in outside activities. During childhood and in his teens, Brian played drums at the Teen Youth Center, was a lifeguard at the Base pool, learned to play golf, and to downhill ski. His social life flourished while his dislike of academics was reflected in his grades. His extroverted personality offset my reserved nature. We did mesh our respect for hard work and for the faith we had both been brought up in. My childhood world existed five miles from town. We did have a library, but I only got there occasionally on Saturdays. My favorite books were biographies. The struggles of the pioneers were beyond anything I had experienced before meeting Brian. It gave me an appreciation of the character and strength of those who ventured into uncharted territory before me. I related to the love and sacrifice others made for independence, self sufficiency, and the love and respect for the land. Leaving for college, meeting and marrying Brian —all this created a pioneer of me, a neophyte to military life, military families, and foreign duty stations. Brian’s journey began in rural Vermont, but his father’s enlistment in the military began when Brian was a toddler, exposing him to a completely different world than the world of my childhood. For Brian, Kansas, Texas, Louisiana, California, New Mexico, and North Carolina were stepping stones to new schools and new experiences. Moving from base to base, the sense of permanence, of putting down roots were foreign to Brian. Brian and I met in March of 1968. He was an E3, airman first class, stationed at Dow Air Force Base in Bangor, Maine and I was a junior at the University of Maine, in nearby Orono. When the base was closed, Brian received his orders for Guam in May, 1968. We were married June 15th and Brian left a week later. I met Brian’s family during our 3 month courtship. His parents, Lorne and Jane, were currently stationed at Loring Air Force Base in Limestone, Maine, a thirty minute ride to my parents’ home and a three hour ride from Bangor. The youngest of four children, Lorne’s father emigrated from England and his mother emigrated from Canada. His work ethic reflected the hard work and responsibility of life on a small chicken farm during the Great Depression. His parents’ frugality was never forgotten. Lorne, a Lieutenant Colonel, captained a B 52 Bomber aircraft. The wives of those who flew with him expressed to Jane their confidence and relief when their spouses were assigned to Lorne’s crew for a mission. Although the pilots might complain his expectations bordered on perfectionism, they acknowledged the training made them better pilots. Jane Artesani was born in Rhode Island, the third of four children, in an urban setting. Her father’s family was from Gibraltar and her mother’s from Ireland. Both had been raised Roman Catholics. As a newspaper photographer, Jane’s father’s work was varied and the family had a wide social network. During World War II, Jane remembered servicemen on leave being invited for dinner and evenings of music and laughter. In the summer, vacations were spent in Vermont where the Artesani and Whitworth families met and became lifelong friends. My first visit to Loring Air Force Base was exciting, an insular enclave a world away from anything I had known. The bowling alley, the theater, the library, the youth club, the chapel— all clustered within walking distance of each other. Entering the Whitworth’s front door, the home for seven seemed smaller than the exterior. I realized that the linkage of several units gave the impression of expansiveness. The entry way opened on my left to a long room that ran from the front windows to the back windows of the home. The living area and dining area were separated by furniture. Beyond the entry, a hallway lined with closets on the right, and on the left, a staircase led to four bedrooms and a small bath. At the end of the hall, the kitchen and back door completed the space. In addition to the usual refrigerator and stove, the kitchen held a dishwasher. The space seemed to serve more as a pass through to the back yard with appliances and cupboards lining the walls. From the back door, I saw the rear of a long, one story building. This, I learned, provided parking for all the housing in this area. Between the garage and the house, a small expanse of green lawn provided open space. A clothes line hung just outside the back door, but the home also had a washer and dryer. During the winter, stiff, ice laden sheets flying through the air did not have to be chased down and pinned back on the line, as so often happened on the farm. Brian’s mother and siblings gathered in the living room. Conversation included traveling, past exploits, and upcoming activities. Family ski outings, bowling, golf, square dancing, mah jongg, trips to Vermont and Rhode Island—their stories about duty stations left me in awe. Brian had been to so many places and had so many experiences that were foreign to me. Lorne spent time most of his time in his upstairs office, a bedroom closet, studying to stay current on policies and regulations and preparing for tests. He also spent time on alert and on TDY (temporary tours of duty) in remote places. His parental role fell to Jane, but when the Light Bird, as Lieutenant Colonels were named, entered the living room, the atmosphere became much more subdued. There was an air of authority that probably resulted as much from the uniform he always wore as from the tone of his voice. His biggest smile appeared when he greeted the family cat, Spooky. Brian gave me a couple of guidelines to follow: No one was allowed to touch the bottle of Pepsi in the refrigerator. His father had bought it for himself. This held true for the bag of candy his father kept in the till of the Humber, an auto stored in the garage that Lorne bought when he was TDY in England. I stayed for supper on a Saturday night. The kids were all excited that the family was having hot dogs and beans. Brian said they looked forward to it. It puzzled me as the beans were out of a can, and not fresh cooked from dried, stored beans, as we ate them on the farm. Lorne had earthly superiors and a career to manage. He looked toward promotions, financial security, and retirement. His lists of duties extended to family members. His flight suits needed ironing, budgets for groceries and clothing were laid out, and chores were assigned. As a teenager, Brian ironed the flight suits. His mother hired and paid him for the chore assigned to her. Tuna casserole, shrimp pea wiggle, and beans and hot dogs were staples for dinner. Jane and her daughter, Candi, shopped at Zayre’s, a national discount chain, for clothes. Jane and Candi would sit in the car cutting the price tags off their purchases before leaving the Zayre’s parking lot. Family members joked about their father saving on energy costs. When Lorne and Jane went away for a weekend, Lorne also took with him one of the television tubes so the children couldn’t watch television and run the electricity bill up in his absence. Jane also smoked and ignored Lorne’s comments about her needing to quit. Jane ignored the matter of fact approach Lorne took as we ate. Her conversation was lighthearted and upbeat focusing on activities and the children. After supper with the Whitworth’s, I returned to the farm and entered the large room that was kitchen, dining, and family gathering place. The rocking chair had seen plenty of use rocking babies and cradling weary bones. This was the only home I had ever had. All my traveling was in dreams and thru books. Around the kitchen table at supper, my father’s mood dictated the level of discussion. If equipment had broken down, or the potatoes stored in the potato house developed rot and could not be sold, the children did not talk or complain. My father’s tension was expressed verbally and the anxiety was palpable. We ate in silence and left the table quietly. What was lacking in financial rewards, as a potato farmer, was offset by doing what Dad enjoyed, independent of earthly supervision, and on land cleared and worked by his ancestors. The connection to the past brought hard work, a strong faith, and a love of carrying on tradition. My father lived day to day watching the weather, fixing equipment in preparation for planting, nurturing the crop with fertilizer and other nutrients, and harvesting. There was no talk of savings, promotions, retirement, financial security, or vacations. The emphasis in my family was maintaining a roof over our heads and plenty of home cooked food on the table. One of the highlights of my day was getting off the school bus to discover what Mom had baked for us—cookies, brownies, doughnuts, date squares, or another goody. The fifty pound bag of flour my mother bought each week went quickly. Dad’s philosophy was that he would prefer to pay for groceries than to pay the medical doctor.. Thinking about the different lives Brian and I lived, I thought the title of a college textbook captured it best, “From Swords into Plowshares.” Opposites had come together, but the family structure of the time crossed barriers. The men were the heads of household and our mothers shared the same place in the family hierarchy. My mother, Ethel Grant, was the youngest of two, born the same year as Brian’s mother. At seven, her mother died of double pneumonia. She and her sister, Alice, moved in with their maternal grandparents. Her father remarried, settled down in the same town, and started a new family without the girls. My father, Emery, was the youngest of seven. His grandfather Devine emigrated to Canada with two sisters during one of the potato famines in Ireland. He married in New Brunswick but lost his wife and baby in childbirth. Eventually, he responded to a newspaper ad seeking a cheese maker in northern Maine. Dad’s mother was also Irish. Valedictorian of her high school class, she attended Normal School, and taught in a one room schoolhouse. Her first husband worked as a piano player at the theater for the silent movies. After their son was born, her husband died of a brain aneurism. As a single mother in the 1910s, my grandmother was not able to work outside the home and keep a separate household. Without many options, she sent her son to Boston to live with her sister’s family. She eventually remarried and had seven additional children. In early 20th century small towns, blood lines ran closely. The pool of eligible mates was limited. My mother and father were distant cousins. They married in 1946. Mom was 19 and Dad was 24. My mother never smoked or drank. My father made up for it. Independent, with a temper that flared easily, potato farming provided my father with the environment to take full advantage of both. His life was impacted as a young teenager while swimming in the river with his friends. He was not a strong swimmer and felt himself drowning. A hand seemed to support him and lift him to the surface. When his head appeared above the surface, all he could see was a bright light in front of him and the blessed mother. From that day, he always had a special reverence for the Virgin Mary. As much as alcohol played a significant role in his, and the family’s, lives, he could go to the priest and take a pledge not to drink for five years. He would stop cold turkey and resume again exactly five years later. With his two oldest brothers overseas during World War II, my father left school in the ninth grade to join his father on the farm. When his father died suddenly in 1945, he worked alone. He had little control over weather, market conditions, and commodity pricing of the product he produced, but he did have control of his property. The foundation of our family life was the Catholic faith. The priest was omnipresent. No one questioned his authority and accepted the premise of an angry God sending all non Catholics, divorced people, and sinners to hell. The Sunday sermon outlined all the ways one earned the road to perdition. I don’t know if it’s in the Irish blood, but change within the family was dependent on how the church, neighbors and community perceived it. The same was true on Sunday: word spread quickly if a parishioner did not attend mass that day, looked as if they had fallen off the wagon the night before, or fell asleep during the sermon. Although the Devines and Whitworths lived in two different worlds, authority in both families rested in the same hands, the fathers. But the mothers were left to carry out their husbands’ orders. Brian departed for Guam one week after our wedding in June, 1968. The Vietnam war was in full swing and Andersen Air Force Base was a strategic outpost for B52 missions. With Brian in Guam, I returned to the University in September for the fall semester. Within a month Brian and I made the decision to be together. I telephoned my parents, made arrangements to complete my senior year at Guam, and started the process to withdraw from all my classes. The decision had been made. The tickets had been purchased. The waiting had begun. Sitting in my dorm bedroom, opposite Brian’s mother, Jane, I shared the information. “You’ll have to go down to the car and tell him yourself,” she said to me. “Him” was Lorne, whom Jane expected to be unhappy about mine and Brian’s decision. Jane got into the front seat of the car. I opened the back door and slid in next to Brian’s sister, Candi, and my sister, Mary. Mary and Candi were the same age and had become friends since the wedding. “Lorne, Nancy has something to tell you,” Jane said. I simply stated my schedule with no expectation of discussion. As the women positioned themselves to take everything in, the questions began. “What about your education? You’re a senior this year. It would be a waste to leave your education unfinished.” Disappointment and disapproval registered on his face, but he did not pursue the discussion. Jane, casting her eyes down, shifted position. “Thanks for stopping in to see me. Have a safe trip home,” I said. As I sat on the bed in my dorm room, I wondered how quiet the three hour trip north to Loring would be.