I was born in Connecticut, but Maine is where my story truly begins. My father was in the Army. While he was away serving, my mother found herself far from her family and the support she needed. She made a brave decision. She brought us back home to Hodgdon, to a place called the Jackson Settlement. That move shaped my whole life. Not long after, when Dad returned from the service, he bought a house up the road and fixed it up himself. That became our family home. I lived there all through my school years, until I married Gerald.
When I think of my childhood, the first word that comes to mind is outside. We were outside kids. Our mother had to fight to get us inside at night. Bedtime was never easy. Times were different then. We didn’t roam miles away, but we were everywhere—yards, woods, corners of the neighborhood. We were free, and we were safe.
Faith came into my life early, too. An aunt—Darlene Blackie’s mother-in-law—started us in Sunday school. She was a very strict Baptist. We loved her, but she believed strongly in rules. Looking back, I learned something important even then: if you only tell children what they can’t do, they’ll find a way to do it anyway. Still, she planted seeds of faith in me, and I honor her for that. My grandmother Greenleaf was another strong influence. She was kind, gentle, and loving. She treated us kids with warmth and patience. I felt safe with her. I felt seen. We also had wonderful neighbors, and that mattered. Community mattered. Those early years gave me a sense that people look out for one another.
I met Gerald in high school. At first, I didn’t care much for him. He was a farm boy—tied down with chores, cattle, and responsibilities. I had more freedom. I wanted to go places. He couldn’t always leave the farm. But Gerald was persistent. During our junior year, I was chosen as the “Future Farmer Sweetheart.” He put my name on the list, and suddenly I had to be where he was. That’s how our slow, steady courtship began. Then I was in a serious car accident during high school. Gerald came to the hospital with flowers and chocolates. From that moment on, things changed. He showed up. He stayed.
We were together for 62 years. Gerald died in December, and that June would have marked our 62nd anniversary. The key to our marriage was simple but strong: we decided things together. Gerald never spent money without talking to me first. We discussed everything—big or small. We didn’t rush decisions. We respected one another. I could be pushy. Gerald was laid-back. Most of the time, I got my way—but never without conversation.
There was only one time I acted on my own. A friend invited us on a trip to Alaska and needed an answer immediately. Gerald was working, and I couldn’t reach him. I bought the tickets. When he came home and saw the papers on the table, he asked, “What’s this?” I told him to read it. He did. Then he said, “Maybe I can’t go.” I told him I could find someone else if needed—the tickets were paid for. We went. We had a beautiful time. I knew Gerald. I trusted him. That trust carried us a lifetime.
We loved to travel. Gerald’s dream was to have a home in Maine and a home in Florida. We lived that dream for 12½ years, traveling back and forth. We visited every state. My favorite places were Alaska and Hawaii—but Alaska wins. I love fishing. We hired a guide and caught over 360 pounds of fish. We boxed it, weighed it carefully, and still ended up overweight at the airport. The staff knew we had tried our best, so they let it go. We traveled with family whenever we could. We took our mothers with us. Those trips gave them joy, and they gave us memories that still live in old photo albums.
I worked in a nursing home for 46 years. At first, it was hard. I struggled with death. I struggled with the idea that people went there and often never left. One day, a chief nurse asked me to sit with a woman named Pansy as she was dying. She had no family. She was difficult, stern, and alone. I sat with her as she took her last breath. That moment changed me. I realized this was my calling—to make sure no one died alone, to offer dignity and presence. God showed me where I belonged.
The hardest loss of my life was my father. I was his right arm. He was my shining star. When he died, it felt like the biggest part of me was gone. I was 62. I was preparing to bring him home when my mother called to say he had passed. Letting go—especially deciding to remove life support—was the hardest thing I ever did. But sometimes love means release.
I grew up Baptist, but Gerald was Methodist. We married in the Methodist Church, and in time, it became my church, too. It was an easy and gentle transition, because it was Gerald’s church, and I was Gerald’s partner in life. The Methodist Church became home—not because of labels or rules, but because of people.
I love our humble little church. It is not fancy. It is not loud. But it is full of care. No matter who you are or where you are in life, people notice you. Often, you don’t even have to ask for help—someone just knows. A call comes. A card arrives. A hand is offered. That kind of quiet faith means a lot to me. It feels real. It feels lived.
At 85 years old, thanks to our new Bible study I read the full book of Matthew for the first time. Not just pieces. Not just verses. The whole book—from beginning to end. I marked each day in my Bible. I took my time. And when I finished, I felt something come together inside me. All those stories I learned as a child in Sunday school—Jesus’ birth, his teachings, his compassion, the cross, the resurrection—they finally connected. They made sense as one story, not scattered lessons. It felt alive. It felt personal. I realized it was never too late to grow deeper in faith. That reading gave me peace and a new kind of understanding.
My favorite hymn is Go Tell It on the Mountain. It reminds me that faith is meant to be shared, not hidden. My grandmother loved In the Garden. When I hear it, I still think of her—her quiet strength, her gentle spirit, her love.
My greatest hope for my children and grandchildren is simple and honest. I want them to come back to church. I want them to know God, not just know about God. I hope they follow their father’s footsteps. Gerald lived his faith quietly, but it was real. I want them to live that way, too. I know life is busy. I’ve lived it. I know faith can get pushed aside. But a mother never stops hoping. I trust God to keep calling them, guiding them, and drawing them back.
The greatest lesson I’ve learned in 85 years is this: you can never do enough to help others. There is always someone who needs a hand, a visit, a meal, a listening ear. I have always wanted to give more than I take. To serve quietly. To be present. That is how I have tried to live.
When I am remembered, I hope it is with kindness. I hope people say I was thoughtful, giving, and loving—like my mother. I don’t need to be remembered for big things. I believe I am one small cog in God’s great wheel, doing my part, helping things turn as they should. As I reflect on all of this, I am simply grateful to God for my life and for the grace that carries me each day.
When I think of my childhood, the first word that comes to mind is outside. We were outside kids. Our mother had to fight to get us inside at night. Bedtime was never easy. Times were different then. We didn’t roam miles away, but we were everywhere—yards, woods, corners of the neighborhood. We were free, and we were safe.
Faith came into my life early, too. An aunt—Darlene Blackie’s mother-in-law—started us in Sunday school. She was a very strict Baptist. We loved her, but she believed strongly in rules. Looking back, I learned something important even then: if you only tell children what they can’t do, they’ll find a way to do it anyway. Still, she planted seeds of faith in me, and I honor her for that. My grandmother Greenleaf was another strong influence. She was kind, gentle, and loving. She treated us kids with warmth and patience. I felt safe with her. I felt seen. We also had wonderful neighbors, and that mattered. Community mattered. Those early years gave me a sense that people look out for one another.
I met Gerald in high school. At first, I didn’t care much for him. He was a farm boy—tied down with chores, cattle, and responsibilities. I had more freedom. I wanted to go places. He couldn’t always leave the farm. But Gerald was persistent. During our junior year, I was chosen as the “Future Farmer Sweetheart.” He put my name on the list, and suddenly I had to be where he was. That’s how our slow, steady courtship began. Then I was in a serious car accident during high school. Gerald came to the hospital with flowers and chocolates. From that moment on, things changed. He showed up. He stayed.
We were together for 62 years. Gerald died in December, and that June would have marked our 62nd anniversary. The key to our marriage was simple but strong: we decided things together. Gerald never spent money without talking to me first. We discussed everything—big or small. We didn’t rush decisions. We respected one another. I could be pushy. Gerald was laid-back. Most of the time, I got my way—but never without conversation.
There was only one time I acted on my own. A friend invited us on a trip to Alaska and needed an answer immediately. Gerald was working, and I couldn’t reach him. I bought the tickets. When he came home and saw the papers on the table, he asked, “What’s this?” I told him to read it. He did. Then he said, “Maybe I can’t go.” I told him I could find someone else if needed—the tickets were paid for. We went. We had a beautiful time. I knew Gerald. I trusted him. That trust carried us a lifetime.
We loved to travel. Gerald’s dream was to have a home in Maine and a home in Florida. We lived that dream for 12½ years, traveling back and forth. We visited every state. My favorite places were Alaska and Hawaii—but Alaska wins. I love fishing. We hired a guide and caught over 360 pounds of fish. We boxed it, weighed it carefully, and still ended up overweight at the airport. The staff knew we had tried our best, so they let it go. We traveled with family whenever we could. We took our mothers with us. Those trips gave them joy, and they gave us memories that still live in old photo albums.
I worked in a nursing home for 46 years. At first, it was hard. I struggled with death. I struggled with the idea that people went there and often never left. One day, a chief nurse asked me to sit with a woman named Pansy as she was dying. She had no family. She was difficult, stern, and alone. I sat with her as she took her last breath. That moment changed me. I realized this was my calling—to make sure no one died alone, to offer dignity and presence. God showed me where I belonged.
The hardest loss of my life was my father. I was his right arm. He was my shining star. When he died, it felt like the biggest part of me was gone. I was 62. I was preparing to bring him home when my mother called to say he had passed. Letting go—especially deciding to remove life support—was the hardest thing I ever did. But sometimes love means release.
I grew up Baptist, but Gerald was Methodist. We married in the Methodist Church, and in time, it became my church, too. It was an easy and gentle transition, because it was Gerald’s church, and I was Gerald’s partner in life. The Methodist Church became home—not because of labels or rules, but because of people.
I love our humble little church. It is not fancy. It is not loud. But it is full of care. No matter who you are or where you are in life, people notice you. Often, you don’t even have to ask for help—someone just knows. A call comes. A card arrives. A hand is offered. That kind of quiet faith means a lot to me. It feels real. It feels lived.
At 85 years old, thanks to our new Bible study I read the full book of Matthew for the first time. Not just pieces. Not just verses. The whole book—from beginning to end. I marked each day in my Bible. I took my time. And when I finished, I felt something come together inside me. All those stories I learned as a child in Sunday school—Jesus’ birth, his teachings, his compassion, the cross, the resurrection—they finally connected. They made sense as one story, not scattered lessons. It felt alive. It felt personal. I realized it was never too late to grow deeper in faith. That reading gave me peace and a new kind of understanding.
My favorite hymn is Go Tell It on the Mountain. It reminds me that faith is meant to be shared, not hidden. My grandmother loved In the Garden. When I hear it, I still think of her—her quiet strength, her gentle spirit, her love.
My greatest hope for my children and grandchildren is simple and honest. I want them to come back to church. I want them to know God, not just know about God. I hope they follow their father’s footsteps. Gerald lived his faith quietly, but it was real. I want them to live that way, too. I know life is busy. I’ve lived it. I know faith can get pushed aside. But a mother never stops hoping. I trust God to keep calling them, guiding them, and drawing them back.
The greatest lesson I’ve learned in 85 years is this: you can never do enough to help others. There is always someone who needs a hand, a visit, a meal, a listening ear. I have always wanted to give more than I take. To serve quietly. To be present. That is how I have tried to live.
When I am remembered, I hope it is with kindness. I hope people say I was thoughtful, giving, and loving—like my mother. I don’t need to be remembered for big things. I believe I am one small cog in God’s great wheel, doing my part, helping things turn as they should. As I reflect on all of this, I am simply grateful to God for my life and for the grace that carries me each day.
Comments
Post a Comment