I was born into a big family—one of eleven children, though my mother lost two before I was born. We grew up in Danforth, Maine. The girls were mostly older, and the four youngest were boys. Life back then was simple but full. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. We were sheltered in a good way, surrounded by people who cared.
Church was the heart of our life. We always went to Sunday School. There were five or six churches in Danforth when I was growing up. It was much busier back then. The church was our connection to others. Even though my father didn’t attend, and my mother only occasionally went, she always made sure we kids went.
I remember the warmth of that church community and how people always helped one another. My childhood was shaped by that village—neighbors who gave us little jobs, like errands or light housekeeping. My sisters and I all had someone we worked for. That kind of upbringing stays with you.
I had many good friends over the years. Some I’ve lost touch with; others have passed on. I’ve outlived many of my classmates. Time has a way of making those early friendships feel like a distant dream, though the good ones stay in your heart.
I met Dellie after he returned from the Air Force. His mother had moved down to the Portland area during the war to help her daughters with their children while their husbands were away. Dellie, the youngest, went to school in Portland. I didn’t know him until after the war, when he came back to Danforth. He stayed with one of his brothers, and that’s when I started seeing him around.
He was quiet, kind, and gentle. I always felt I was lucky to have him. He had been through a lot and didn’t have a solid place to call home at that point. He found work in Bangor, and we slowly got to know each other. One of my girlfriends actually noticed him first, but it took some time for us to connect. There was a bit of confusion—he thought I was seeing someone else named Ernie—but eventually, it all came together. I remember teasing him, saying, “What took you so long?” He just smiled.
I was 16 when we married; Dellie was 23. Some thought I was too young, including his sweet mother, who warned him to be careful with me. But we loved each other deeply, and we were married for 65 years. No regrets. He was a man of honesty and integrity. He worked hard and was kind to everyone. Truly, he was a blessing.
When we first married, there wasn’t much work in Danforth, so we moved down to the Eddington area. He worked with his brother at a department store and later at NH Braggs—a good family to work for. He also fixed up a house near his brother’s. He did so much with his hands. Even after he had a stroke, he built my mother’s cupboards and did beautiful woodwork—with only one arm. It amazed me. He could do more with one arm than many could with two.
The stroke was one of the hardest times in our life. He cried—just once—and said, “How am I going to take care of my babies?” That broke me. But we managed. We had five children, and even with the challenges, he stayed strong and resourceful. The church and community stepped in to help. We were part of Houlton United Methodist Church, and the love and support we received meant everything. People cared about Dellie. They would take him fishing, invite him to camps, and include him in life. That gave him so much joy.
I worked, too. I went back to school in Bangor and earned my diploma. Then I worked in the school systems—both down there and later when we moved back up north. I worked with special ed kids. Oh, they were so sweet. I remember a teacher saying, “Now, Georgia, don’t laugh,” because if I did, the kids would get going, and we’d lose the whole class! I loved those children. That job brought me a lot of joy and fulfillment.
Looking back, I’m proud of how we raised our children and how we made a good life with not a lot of money. We worked hard, leaned on our faith, and loved each other. That was enough.
Faith has always been part of me. I remember Bible studies, youth groups, and singing hymns. My favorite hymn is “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” It just brings peace. My dad loved singing, too—he had a good voice, though he was shy and never sang in public. Still, music was part of our home and our hearts.
As for books, I’ve always loved to read. I remember our school principal in Danforth—he was also our neighbor. He once took me aside and told me I was reading below my ability. Then he let me borrow books from his office, the “real” books. That meant a lot to me. It helped me believe in myself and opened up the world of stories. I’ve read many books since, though I can’t recall all their titles now. But that moment stuck with me.
My hope for my children and grandchildren is simple: that they live with honesty and kindness. They’re good people, and I hope they keep looking out for one another. That’s what we were taught growing up—to care for each other. One message I’d leave them is just that: Look out for each other. Be kind. Help when you can.
One Christmas, when I was still a young girl, I ran errands for a woman whose husband had been a judge. That Christmas, she told me to go to the local clothing store and pick out something I liked. When the store clerk hesitated, she called the woman and said, “Let her pick whatever she wants.” That stayed with me. Kindness like that makes an impression. I’ve never forgotten it.
If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that people matter most. How we treat others—whether it’s through small acts of kindness or just being there—that’s what counts. The world was simpler back then, and I do miss that sometimes. But I still believe goodness is out there. It lives in each of us.
And if I could be remembered for one thing, I hope it’s for being kind. That’s what I tried to be. I didn’t have all the answers, and life wasn’t always easy, but I always tried to treat people well. I hope that’s what others see in me, and I hope they carry that forward.
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