Great Aunt Gladys
by Lee S. Wilbur
“By gawd Betty that s...poke is after those fish again,” says Aunt Gladys, looking down from the farm house and across the highway to the farm pond.
“What are you going to do about it ?”
“You watch this,” she says. “I’m going to shoot the worthless SOB.”
With that she picks up Father’s (Uncle Asa) lever action 30-30 rifle, takes two shells off the lamp table, steps out the front door onto the stairs, slides the two shells into the magazine and jacks one into the chamber. She slowly raises this fine workmanship of Winchester to her shoulder and at a distance easily approaching 100 yards, blows the cormorants head off. Now the farmhouse mind you sat across Rte. 9, the famous “Airline Road” from the field and between the two was Mace’s General Store.
“Last trout that beauty’ll ever eat,” she says, stepping back inside to daughter-in-law Betty’s wide-eyed amazement.
Few who ever traveled the Airline on any description of a regular basis, whether hunters in the fall. fishermen in the spring and summer, truckers to or from Calais and New Brunswick or Air Force personnel from Dow AFB staying at the R&R compound on Lake, who didn’t stop at Mace’s General Store. It was about the only gas/rest stop on that long and winding 100 mile road from Bangor to Calais. Soon you were a friend and part of Asa and Gladys’ family.
Gladys Mace, nee Tracey, was born Dec. 12, 1897, sister to eight of the nine reknowned “Tracey Girls” (no brothers), sister to my Grandmother. Good lookers all. Hell raisers and great dancers. Often repeated, if at least a few of the Tracey Girls weren’t in attendance, it was poor fiddlin’ at a grange hall dance.
Aunt Gladys let few things bother her. She had an eye and ear for a deal as sharp as Asa’s. Had a boisterous and endearing personality, ready and quick wit, and was your best friend to any and all she knew. She brooked no deceit and was herself as honest as the day was long. For many years she was the Town Clerk for the town of Aurora. Sportsmen from out of state would stop at the store or walk up to the house to buy licenses from her. When the state would neglect to get proper forms to her on time, she’d write the license on anything, brown paper bags, backs of envelopes, anything handy. Didn’t care a bit. “It’s alright,” she’d say, “everyone knows me.”
Betty tells the story of going partridge hunting before the official season had opened. They’re riding slowly along a woods road in the old Model A Ford.
“Shoot that bird Betty, to the right, to the right.”
Betty steps out of the car, brings her shotgun up and nails it.
Betty’d nor more than thrown the bird on the back seat floor and gotten in the front when Game Warden Ed drives up and stops. Gladys gives him a cheery wave and drives on by.
“Father” had a favorite old tomcat amongst several barn cats. Used to follow him around. Mangy looking devil. “Mother” despised him. Never cared for his looks and especially him hanging around the store where “Father” could be found a good part of the day.
One afternoon, Aunt Gladys happened to be tending store. Car from Massachusetts pulls in and the driver wants gas and a soda. Gladys goes out to the pump, rings down the last sale, picks up the pump nozzle and starts to fill the tank. Just then, the old Tom rubs by her leg. In a blink of the eye she leaves the nozzle, grabs the cat by the back of its neck, snaps open the trunk, throws old Tom in, slams it shut, and with a smile on her face finishes filling the tank and walks back into the store. Says to daughter Charlotte after the car pulls away, “They'll be home before they find that cat and Father will never know the difference.”
Took Asa four days before, “Mother, have you seen the old Tom around?”
Aunt Gladys was a strong, stout woman. Whole body kind of jiggled when she laughed, which was often. Had nine children in twelve years. First one was a boy, Douglas. Along about January or February, Gladys started having some prenatal problems. So they loaded her into a horse drawn sleigh and headed for Bangor. This was a midwinter night and cold. Snow was deep. Out by Parker’s Pond, the sleigh flipped and threw everyone out. By the time they got to Bangor that night, Aunt Gladys decided she’d spend the rest of the winter right there. Three months later she brought newborn Douglas back to Aurora.
I can only assume my Depression-era parents, with rightful concern, felt their number one son should, at a relatively tender age develop some sort of work ethic. Why else would I find myself delivered to the Mace farm in the heat of August to learn how to rake blueberries for pay. I lasted less than a day. Hated it. ADD didn’t help much either. Worse than digging clams. Easily understand why the rakers were imported. Next day I slept in. After a silent treatment farm breakfast, I walked across to the store and made it known to Uncle Asa I’d just as soon work at the store pumping gas, sweeping floors, stocking shelves, or helping myself to soda and ice cream. Anything but raking blueberries. He must have wanted company. Best job I ever had. Uncle Asa hated flies. I got 5 cents for every one I killed.
For rest of week I got to know Asa and Gladys, learned about country living, ate huge farm cooking, heard great stories, went to the Union River Fair (my first experience with country fairs) and piled up never to be forgotten memories such as white perch fishing at Middle Branch camp. Drove in with the Model A. Week’s end, Dad the Doctor, picked me up in his hot new 1956 turquoise and white Mercury Sedan. Though I said no, Aunt Gladys pressed the worst six dollars I ever made into my hand as I left. Day’s wages from raking the blueberries.
Good friend and hunting companion of AJ and Myself, “Binkie” Macquinn happened to mention this favorite recipe of her mother’s.
• R E C I P E •
Blueberry Drop Biscuits
4 cups flour
8 teaspoons baking powder
4 tablespoons shortening or lard
1 pint blueberries
6 tablespoons molasses
half cup sugar
Milk enough to moisten to drop biscuit from spoon — 1-3/4 to 2 cups.
Bake at 375 degrees for about 25 minutes.