My name is Nina, and looking back, I can truly say I’ve had a good life—full of love, laughter, challenges, and the grace of God woven all the way through.
I grew up in a farming family. My father was a potato
farmer, and we always had cattle, pigs, and plenty of food on the table. Not
everyone had that, especially during hard times, but we were blessed. Some of
my fondest childhood memories are of visiting my mother’s family out in
Masardis. They had sheep and a dog named Strongheart, who was always so excited
when we arrived. Those were carefree days—running across crusted snow in the
winter with our sleds, hauling water from the well, and picking potatoes with
my siblings. There were five of us—three brothers, my sister, and me—and we
worked hard, but we had a good time.
We walked to school when we could, and I remember the little
schoolhouse with a stove in the middle. We’d bring soup in jars and warm it on
the stove for lunch. The school had all eight grades in one room, so we heard
every lesson. Later, I moved to a bigger school in Easton, which felt like a
big change—more grades, more students, more of the world.
I met John in high school. He was a senior when I was a
freshman. I remember teasing him about how he used to visit the Washburn girls,
but somehow, I caught his attention. We didn’t start dating seriously until
after school. While he went off to college, I enrolled at the teacher’s college
in Presque Isle. When he joined the service and was stationed in Georgia, we
decided to get married. I flew down to Marietta, Georgia, and we were married
there.
That was the beginning of a new life—a military life. We
moved every couple of years. Texas, Puerto Rico, Louisiana, Indiana,
California—you name it. Every move brought its own challenges, especially for
the kids. Our daughters adjusted well, but our son had a hard time leaving his
friends behind. I think we all did, in a way. Still, we learned to adapt, to
make a home wherever we went. Each new place was an adventure. We always found
good neighbors, and we found a church community wherever we landed.
There have been hard seasons, no doubt. The hardest, for me,
was when our daughter, Norma Jean—who we now call Jeannie—was born with a
serious heart defect. She needed open-heart surgery at just five years old. We
were in California at the time, and I flew with her to Travis Air Force Base. I
remember that night before surgery—she looked at me and asked, “Mom, will I
die?” I told her, “No, dear, you won’t die. Jesus will be with you.” And I
meant it with all my heart. That night, I clung to faith more than ever before.
She made it through, by God’s mercy. Doctors never expected
her to live, but she not only lived—she soared. She became a pilot, flying
747s, and was a junior Olympic swimmer. That’s my miracle girl. Every time I
think of her, I see God’s faithfulness.
My favorite hymn is “I’ll Fly Away.” John loves it too. But
the one that speaks to me deeply is “Jesus Walked This Lonesome Valley.” I
sometimes hum it or try to sing it quietly to myself. That song reminds me that
even when we feel alone, we’re not. Jesus walked this road before us—He knows
our pain, and He walks with us still.
The military years weren’t easy, but they were meaningful.
We lived in Newfoundland among Jewish families who were kind and generous. We
served, moved, adapted. And after John retired from the Air Force, we came back
home to Easton. My parents were losing their home, and my father had gone
blind, so we built a house in Easton and had them live with us. They stayed
with us for nearly 28 years. It wasn’t always easy, especially when caring for
Dad, but it was right. I’m thankful we could give them a home.
As the years went by, we settled into life in Easton. I even
got a job at Sears—my first real job outside the home. I’d never worked before,
but one day at the beauty shop, I overheard someone say there was an opening,
and I felt like the Lord nudged me to go for it. I was hired and worked there
for 20 years—on the catalog desk, the sales floor, even in automotive. I
enjoyed the work, but more than that, I loved the people. It gave me a new
sense of purpose.
I’ve always loved painting. I worked in oils and painted
scenes from our travels—palm trees in Puerto Rico, ships, shells, misty lakes.
I never sold much, but I showed a few, and I kept many for myself and the kids.
It was a creative outlet for me—a way to reflect, to breathe.
Now, after 73 years of marriage, people ask me the secret to
our long life together. I always say: respect. You’ve got to respect each other
and be kind. Life throws changes at you, and not everything goes your way. But
if you’re kind, if you stay curious, if you find joy in new places—you make it
work. I always say, “I brought him up right,” and we laugh. But in truth, we
learned how to grow together.
My greatest hope for my children and grandchildren is that
they are happy with their choices and have good health. Life isn’t easy, but I
pray they’ll be wise in their decisions, have peace in their homes, and know
they are loved. Our son has his health issues—mostly brought on by choices—but
we love him deeply. I just want them all to have contentment, health, and
faith.
If I could leave one message for my family, it would be
this: be happy with your life choices, and take care of each other. You don’t
need to have everything figured out. Just be good to people, and keep growing.
Over the years, I’ve had many friends, but as time goes on,
you lose people. Many of my dearest friends have passed away. John had his
Civil Air Patrol friends, and we used to socialize with that group a lot. These
days, we meet folks at McDonald’s on Sundays—mostly other veterans. They sit
around in their service hats and share stories. It’s sweet to see.
As for how I want to be remembered… I suppose I’d like
people to remember that I was a people person. Someone who was kind, who tried
to bring joy. I painted, I loved beauty, I cared deeply for others. I tried to
be the kind of person who made others feel at home.
We’ve been part of the church community for many years, and
it’s been a blessing. We miss the Easton church—it closed, sadly—but we’re
grateful for the years we had there. That little community meant the world to
us. Church isn’t just a building—it’s people, gathered in grace, helping one
another along.
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