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As a result of the surgery, her right arm was permanently swollen to twice the size of her left arm. The phlebitis she suffered also enlarged her right hand, adding to the impairments that left the right side of her body constricted and concave, all of which she took in stride. Her burdens never impeded her needle and crochet work; she still knit some three dozen new pairs of mittens for each and every grand and great-grand each fall.

Navy blue wool mittens with a red Charlie Brown stripe at the cuff. Year in and year out. Agatha was nothing if not consistent. As her long-ago dream of a musical career dimmed into the past, another dream must have begun to burn brightly in its place at some point in the s after her last child was born.

Where it came from exactly, no one could say, except that once she hit upon the idea of owning a farm in rural Maine that she could transform into her own personal Garden of Eden and where she could spend her retirement without the constraints of children to raise, she pursued that vision with a fervor.

At this juncture, Agatha was reborn in her dream. From her work as a Rosie the Riveter during World War II at the Charlestown Shipyard, she had saved two thousand dollars to bring her reverie to fruition. A masterful negotiator, she continued to lobby Robert that a farm would be in his best interest, a wise investment. Having grown up in New Hampshire, most likely having to work from sunup to sundown, Robert had no desire to revisit the country.

She only saw her dream unfolding here. Nor did it occur to Agatha that there was not one other person of color in the township, probably not in the entire county or the county next to it. The question of race did not cross her mind when she traveled to West Lebanon to have a meeting with the man who was selling Forest Edge.

He looked out of the window and saw Agatha. The wheels were set in motion. Wooten Armstead became the owner of Forest Edge.

She tended her dream, with the concerted effort of her children, patching up the farmhouse, barn, sheds, pens, and outhouse and working the land. For extra income she sold her pine, hay, and extra vegetables.

Then in the mid to late s, she prepared for the big and permanent move. There was only one problem yet to be resolved: He was a workingman. What was a man without work? No man at all, according to Robert. Besides, he might have been thinking that with all those dry counties, he would have to drive fifty miles for a taste of liquor. Agatha countered that he would find better jobs in Maine. True to her word, Ma studied up on the art of brewing and proceeded to master the ideal measurements of hops and yeast—soon yielding a brew that was said to get better every season.

While she was at it, Ma learned to make root beer for all the kids. As soon as Ma could hear the corks popping, she knew the beer had reached its robust potential—and it was time for the army of jugs to be moved down to the cold stone cellar, ready for Grandpa to sample, consume, and enjoy year-round. The beer in and of itself almost wooed him. He drank it straight from the cream and dark brown jugs that we later used for doorstops.

Resting the jug on his shoulder, Grandpa would let the beer pour into his mouth. Nobody said a word. His children and grandchildren understood without being told what Ma figured, that Grandpa was mellowing, ripening like the bounty in her garden and in her orchard, like the grapes on her Concord vines. That part of him that had commanded respect but had also been fearsome in the past now peeled away and he found a peace he had never known, as everybody experienced in the enchantment that was Forest Edge.

Eventually he discovered the rhythm of the days, weeks, and seasons, the rewards of his prized squash garden that he planted in front of the barn, the enjoyment he gleaned from hunting for pheasant and wild turkey. Content, he swore never to return to the city again. In early , almost exhausted of ideas, Agatha came up with a last-ditch suggestion that she proposed to Grandpa that went something along the lines of: She had many talents, but the steering and operation of a two-ton hulk of fuel-powered machinery was not her area of expertise.

Everyone knew that Agatha could drive her red Farmall tractor like the best of them, but wanting to please her husband, she abided. Robert would not let Agatha drive, causing her to be dependent on him or others for transportation—including regular errands and emergencies. Nonetheless, there was no doubt about who was actually steering their course that winter day as Robert reversed the car down the ice-and snow-encrusted driveway and out onto what was then the entirely unpaved Barley Road, on their way to Portland.

Years later when the county finally got around to paving, the stretch in front of Forest Edge would never be paved, which may or may not have had anything to do with the Armsteads being the only African Americans in the area. It was rather starkly obvious every time the winter-battered road was repaved. Nonetheless, snow and ice that January day did not deter the Armsteads from making it to the highway, traveling slowly and carefully, and then on toward Portland and Mercy Hospital, little suspecting what was awaiting them, much less the question they were asked after their abbreviated stories had been told: The upshot was that everyone emerged a winner.

The following May, she received a phone call, and by summer, after falling in love with Sheree and Lori, a new chapter as a foster parent had begun. Less than two years after she brought Sheree and Lori home, almost everyone tried to prevent Ma from even considering taking in a third foster child.

An exasperated Dorothy continued to say that the Division of Child Welfare believed that Sheree and Lori should also have the security of an adoptive home, but had no definite plans at this time.

Dorothy continued to write to Agatha as one mother to another, thanking her for all she was doing for Sheree and Lori and begging her again and again to do one more heroic act—to reunite Vicki Lynn with her sisters. Agatha and Dorothy collaborated tirelessly, even after the objections of another social worker, Ms. Hill, which were noted by Ms. It would not be wise to place Vicki with the Armsteads because of the extra physical strain on Mrs.

Armstead of caring for and lifting a baby. She is fifty-six years old and has not been used to this kind of work. Armstead is not asking that the baby be placed with her though Mrs. Rowell does say that the Armsteads are anxious to have Vicki. We have asked for administrative permission to place Vicki in adoption. Agatha wrote to the Taylors, the Sawyers, and the Dunns, letting them know that she saw them as family to me and that they would be welcome to visit me in West Lebanon as often as they wanted.

A short while later, Agatha and the social worker arrived to take me to Forest Edge. The April snowstorm and my earsplitting cries made Agatha really wonder if the right decision had been made. But Dorothy Rowell and the State of Maine assured her that it was. I adored him, and he spoiled me rotten. I was a little older than two and a half years old, and even though there is no explanation for why I have such vivid early memories, I do.

I can remember his rhythmic cadence, and, most of all, I can still connect with feeling safe and loved. Agatha later explained that I was the childhood he never had as an orphan and that he was being given a second chance at fatherhood. With strategies befitting a PhD in child psychology, Agatha also saw to it that I felt a sense of continuity with my former foster families, and she continued to arrange for the Taylor, Sawyer, and Dunn families to visit whenever possible.

This familial architec ture was her way of instilling the idea of heritage in me, encouraging me to honor all my relationships, blood or not, and to maintain contact through correspondence and visits. My crib sat to the left of a crooked kitchen doorway. One day, just five or six months after I came to Forest Edge, a big white car pulled up and two men dressed in white got out of it.

They took my Grandpa and never brought him back. I had lost three fathers in less than three years. No one told me at age two and a half that death was a consequence of illness. But as I got older I discovered, in an old bureau, his stainless steel hyperdermic needles and applicators for his diabetes and surgical clamps to tie off syringes, with which I tried in vain to cut out my paper dolls. The doctors told Ma there was nothing to worry about, but when she was sure that he had come down with pneumonia and showed no improvement, she called for an ambulance.

This was not an easy process. For starters, there were no phone lines on Barley Road. One would have to head to the West Lebanon Post Office, twenty miles from the farm, to make a call. By the time the phone call was placed and the old hearselike ambulance finally roared down the dirt road, it was too late. Grandpa was near death. From then on, I was not allowed to walk anywhere without something on my feet. Agatha Armstead, widowed at sixty, mourned in her very private way, quietly, led by prayerful meditation and her gardening, until a sufficient time period had passed and she announced to her family that she had a new undertaking to discuss.

Armsteads and Wootens and Kings would all come. In-laws and out-laws would all be invited. Better than any holiday or wedding or funeral, there would be food, laughter, softball, cards, good clean fun, music, and, of course, a mass conducted in one of the fields by a priest from our church. The preparations would be lavish. There was a stone fireplace nestled near a bank of mature pines on the property that would be perfect for grilling.

But to properly barbecue, Ma knew she had to have the finest state-of-the-art outdoor rotisserie, something she could only afford if each of us did our part. If you collected enough stamps, and pasted them in special books, you could earn gifts and prizes. My sisters and I knew one thing: One of my favorite visitors of this early era was the inimitable Mrs.

Doliber had grown up on our farm, formerly a dairy farm, as a child, insisting that Forest Edge was a slice of Eden. Doliber was proud of his history and one day told his wife they were taking a summer drive down memory lane, and she was not at all happy about it. Doliber was still fuming when her husband recognized Forest Edge, and the two stopped to ask Ag atha if she would mind letting them look around.

Doliber sent me a letter describing that day. I had a new friend. The only unhappy note was that much too quickly it was time for Mrs. A lifelong aversion to separations, no matter how short they promised to be, had already begun, particularly after what had happened to Grandpa. Just the prospect of saying good-bye filled me with worry, sometimes even making it hard for me to breathe.

As though in reverse, on that occasion, rather than acknowledging that it was time for Mrs. Doliber to go, I took off running, not sure where or why, through the woodshed, up the stairs, and into the adjoining kitchen.

Perched on my knees at the red Formica table, with paper and crayons, I began to frantically draw, soon producing a series of four images, each in its own square. Perhaps, since it was before I had the ability to write full sentences, I was trying to tell her that I was going to miss her, that she made me feel happy, and that I hoped she would come back soon.

Back outside I ran, dashing through the woodshed, past our artesian well, nearly tripping over myself, and I handed my drawing to Mrs. Where we used to go in the summer with the children. Came to us from the house, clutching a piece of paper. No one had seen Him before, and He had not seen us,. But from that moment all mankind was one people: And He grew and taught and suffered and died and said: I shall cherish to remind me of what Love really is.

Agatha was as moved as I was. To prove it, she put the poem on display, atop her baby grand piano, next to a vase of pussy willows she had cut from our pond. Agatha wanted me to understand that it was possible at any age to make an impression on a person, that it was never too late to learn how to love. Doliber had given me a taste of the transformational power of art, something that would become a lasting theme in my life.

For that gift, I was forever indebted to Mrs. Doliber and stayed in touch with her and her family, namely her grandson, Peter Doliber, from that day forward. Agatha continued in her determination to find the best education possible for me and my sisters.

Following the annual cookout in Maine in August , she insisted that she be granted permission to move my sisters and me to 2 Elm Street in Dorchester, Massachusetts, where she had raised her own nine surviving children, so that I could be enrolled in a local Head Start program at the ages of four and five, with the promise of returning me to Maine each spring.

Permission was granted, and so I watched her Steinway roll off of a moving truck and into a new beginning. Like many children who grapple with instabilities in their home and family lives, I depended on my early observational powers for stability, as a way to give me a desperately needed connection—not just to other human beings but to all that was certain and tangible: Forever, I could return to this world and the permanent collage of impressions that became my stability and my happy childhood.

I would walk through them blindfolded, knowing in my muscles and cells how long it took to run up the walkway to the front door of the farmhouse from Barley Road, or follow behind Ma through her vegetable garden, row after row, with her eyedropper, squeezing two or three drops of magic oil into the silk of each growing ear of corn.

We strolled beyond, to the open field where we gathered to celebrate birthdays and cookouts. Against the moss-covered stone wall that ran the far border of Forest Edge were wild blueberry bushes, bursting with berries waiting to be picked.

Before I could read and write, I could name flowers, birds, various types of reptiles, and every animal on the farm. Honeysuckle, spirea, forsythia, Japanese irises, roses, gladiolas, poppies, jonquils, peonies, lilacs, phlox, and crocuses all deserved a place of honor and bloomed from spring until our first fall frost.

I would secretly steal away to play it as often as I could, standing on the tops of my toes, swaying back and forth. As I passed the chicken coop, the pig and lamb pens, down a deep gully en route to the frog pond, the soles of my sneakers gripped the tall grass to ascend to the other side.

Before me was heaven all over again: After climbing a tree and plucking an apple, I headed back, passing our incinerator as it choked and puffed on anything we could turn into ash. The cool and controlled Aunt Kay unleashed her rage by raising the axe high in the air, beheading one chicken after another, spraying blood onto my favorite Capri pants. Not our place to question the whys of the world or the ways of the farm, we knew what was coming next. My job was to sit there, in dusty pigtails, on the same crate the now dead pets arrived in, plucking their headless bodies.

Sheree and I would take turns, striking matches until dusk, running the flame along the naked flesh, removing any remnant of eider, before I sadly carried the lifeless birds in to Agatha. Farm chores during these years became an extension of myself, like tying my shoelaces. Wrapping copper pipes with electrical cord we then plugged into outlets to warm the pipes and keep the water inside from freezing.

Securing plastic around windows. Stocking pens and sheds with food. Agatha had the most important job at the end of the day—making sure all the kerosene stoves were turned off. In an evening ritual, after supper, my sisters and I teamed up or divided duties. Endowed with cleaning tools that Grandpa had brought home from his days at the hospital, we attacked our responsibilities with a sense of purpose.

I would jump astride the wooden base and use my fisted hands to nearly choke the life out of its neck while Sheree pulled me around the kitchen, sweeping as we played. Continued laughter provoked her to call out to us from the front room with a memorable Agathaism: Even when she was scolding us, the music of her voice, warm with love, never off-key, was backed by an orchestra of sound that played season in and season out at Forest Edge.

It was the musical score of nature and the Rowell girls on the back porch doing renditions of the Supremes and our practiced choreography. Animated voices called for another round of play mixed in with the clinks of cans, bottles, and ashtrays. Later, my sisters and I buried pieces of Malty, a gravesite I still visit.

During hunting season, it was not uncustomary to see deer, eyes bulging, strapped to the roofs of cars or hanging upside down from the pine trees that lined Barely Road, creating tiny rivulets of blood. Also abundant on the farm were hornets, bees, bats, mice, spiders, and snakes—and that was in the house. Once a mouse I was rescuing bit my finger, drawing blood.

It would take me many years to apply this lesson to people. Never to be forgotten on a hot summer day was the cellar. Its distinct, pungent smell emanated from its dirt floor, luring me to carefully step down the uneven, warped stairs, clearing cobwebs along the way to my private cathedral. The natural cooling was lit by a single naked lightbulb and held a bounty that reminded me that we would never starve—eggs in crock dots, canned vegetables, and jarred jellies were everywhere.

During harvest season, I would climb into our potato bins and weed out the vegetables with potato rot, before dumping in freshly collected Russets from our burlap bags.

I loved the fertile honesty of moist soil between my hands and under my fingernails. Dirt came to mean two things: For me, later confounded by my rootlessness, destined to be a gypsy, the smell of wet soil would always remind me of home and that dirt was always mine to stand on.

Weeding diminutive carrot plants taught patience, lessons of transformation when green tomatoes, wrapped in newspaper, turned the Big Boys red. Chopping and mixing hay with manure—spreading it across the garden. Clean laundry hung out to dry in winter, freezing in shapes like Christmas ornaments hanging on the line.

Icicles kissing snowdrifts outside our windows. The wooden fences in the field bent sideways by wrathful winds and storms. Winter nights so black they were blue, pierced by a blanket of stars, then punctuated by the Big and Little Dippers.

The resilient emergence of the sun on a Maine winter day, dressing the world in blinding crystallized beauty. En route to the pond after it had been tested for safety, my secondhand skates slung over my shoulder, I avoided sliding on an icy patch of ground before reaching my destination.

We all skated on faith, especially Sheree, who was either naturally gifted in this arena or simply unafraid of falling. As I trekked back, with every step sinking at least one foot into the snow, I thought about Grandpa and his big snowshoes still stored in the woodshed, how vestiges of him were preserved everywhere.

Expeditions to Fernald Shores for swimming in the lake and skipping rocks; a quarter per person, cars filled to the gills, the chassis scraping against the bumpy path. The two lambs I raised since birth escaped death yet again due to an over-booked slaughterhouse. I would burst into the house after school desperately hoping for another day of grace for my lambs.

I took a chance and approached Ma, filled with angst. I took a deep breath before lifting the heavy metal lid of the freezer.

Becoming weak, I let the lid slam shut and ran up to the attic where no one could see or find me. Beneath a window on a chair was Patti Page, exactly as I had left her. Her voice, always dependable, expressed everything I was feeling from our s Crosley record player. She had a professional expertise in laundering and pressing clothes, which she acquired as a young girl when her family took in washing for wealthy clients on Beacon Hill and on the Cape. This meant that laundering at Forest Edge was a major to-do, an art, with conservation of the water supply from our artesian well being of the utmost importance.

Mesmerized, I watched the laundry move smoothly through the rollers of our round s-era washing machine that stood on four legs. Everything was hung out on the clothesline to dry. Ma, with a healthy supply of wooden clothespins in her pocket, signaled when it was time for me to haul the cumbersome ironing board from the pantry. A piece of wood four feet in length, wrapped one hundred times in white sheets—with character-building burn stains—held in place by safety pins, it went into position between a makeshift countertop and a kitchen chair.

She swung into action, mixing the starch herself, dipping her big hand into the filmy liquid, flicking it from her fingers onto the clothes. Agatha showed me how she wet her index finger and touch it against the face of hot iron with lightning speed, before grasping it and bearing down—committing her whole body into the gentle rhythm of pressing.

Blouses, shorts, linens, even my underwear. I could appreciate how Agatha turned something that was labor into an art. She taught me the dance of ironing, as well as the Zen of it. Images compete for attention in my memory. Our partners may use the information collected to serve you with targeted advertising, both through our Services and other websites, email, online services or mobile applications.

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