Introduction by Stephanie Noyes McSherry
I started writing with a small group of women at the Lincoln Home in January 2021. My friend, Kim Traina, who handles marketing and is deeply committed to The Lincoln Home, had mentioned a few residents were interested in writing memoirs. Kacie Orff, activities director, was hoping to bring more offerings into The Lincoln Home. COVID-19 was raging, vaccines were not available, and the residents were staying put without seeing family and friends. Little did I know my time there would be the balm I needed in a painful point in my own life.
We started writing together on Wednesdays. We talked about memoir, inspired by the work of other writers. I provided wide-open prompts in the form of poetry, song lyrics, and quotations.
At first, writing for three or four minutes felt intimidating, and just a few brave souls volunteered to share their work. Some folks popped in for a session, having heard about our meetings from friends. There was the familiar whisper, “I’m not a writer,” and the response, “If you write, then you’re a writer.”
We established ground rules – no negative self-talk – and the ladies began to remind one another when someone started a share with “this isn’t any good.” As time went on, we had a core group, and our sessions became the highlight of my week. Jean Nuss noted, “You know, we didn’t really know each other until we started writing.”
We had become a community of writers. I was again reminded of the power of writing to connect, to heal, to help us grow. I was touched by my writing partners’ vulnerability, their willingness to share the deeply personal – both from the present and the many rich chapters of their lives. The vivid memories, incredible stories, the sensory experiences their writing provided for readers needed to be shared.
By then, we were the Tidal River Writers, a nod to the river so often our muse from the windows of the long yellow building. I asked Maia Zewert to join us on a sunny May day when we wrote and picnicked together at the Merry Barn. It was no longer enough for these stories to be held within the walls of The Lincoln Home – our community needed to hear them and know these incredible souls.
Two and a half years later, we are still writing. We are a group of about 13. Four minutes of writing no longer suffices, and everyone shares. These women are a light and an inspiration.
Our culture has an uncomfortable relationship with aging. From hair dye to fad diets, we seem hellbent on trying to avoid the inevitable. Perhaps if we don’t talk about getting older, eventually dying, it won’t happen. Every time I write with these women, I am reminded what it is to live fully, to embrace the darkness and the light. Their lives are full of stories, and these phenomenal women continue to make memories every day.
It has been my privilege to bear witness to their stories. Now that honor is yours.
(Stephanie Noyes McSherry is the executive director of the Merry Barn Writers’ Retreat, a community literacy and arts center in Edgecomb devoted to cultivating creativity, curiosity, and community.)
‘In the Pea Patch’
Olive Hart
By Olive Hart
Originally published in the 2023 Goose River Anthology
Day was breaking when I slid quietly from the bed, slipped into old clothes, and tip-toed down the stairs with Kippy at my heels. Through the cool silent house, hoping not to disturb the family, we went to the kitchen, where the aroma of fresh coffee greeted me. I managed to swallow a delicious cupful without burning my tongue while Kippy swiftly emptied her breakfast bowl. I closed the screen door quietly behind us.
Such a perfect July morning in the country! The air was fresh and still night-time cool, smelling green and earthy, a favorite smell. The birds were just waking to herald another clear summer day. One little finch always chose the tallest tip of the spruce tree to serenade the coming sun. Often, if I whistled a few notes to him, he would listen and then sing a sweet answer.
But today no delays; I had to be on my way. Those peas were perfect, ready for picking, and I planned to pick, shell, blanch, and pack them into the freezer before lunch. Well, maybe before dinner. It would depend on how many there were.
I took the path beside the barn, sniffing happily at the meadow fragrance of grasses and flowers. The track was lined on my left with tall grass where spiders seemed to practice their web-building skills. I often saw their webs in the early morning. Ah, there was one today. It was a large one, perfectly shaped, every silky strand pearled with tiny drops of the night-time dew, a real beauty. Suddenly I wished I had my camera. But no…I had filmed some nice ones on Tuesday. This morning I had paused long enough.
Kippy’s warm, furry body against my knee was quivering in her eagerness to keep moving. So, on we went to the garden, where the long green rows of pea vines grew tall and thick on their wire fencing. After a little of the required sniffing and checking the area, Kippy settled down in the grass at the edge of the garden, her observation post, while I started down the row on the right, picking quickly but carefully to avoid tearing or breaking the vines, leaving them to produce more peas another day. I was amused as usual at the little squeaky noise the pods in my hands made when they rubbed against each other.
At first, the thick green wall of them gave me pause; leaves and pea pods being the same shade of green, so it was hard to distinguish which to pick. But the ripe pods were firm to touch, the leaves soft, and my fingers soon learned the difference, even if I couldn’t see them. It was not long before I took a moment to open a pod to sample the sweetness. Delicious right from the vine. Oh, yes, Kippy reminded me that she wanted a turn, too. I opened her pod, and she was quick to come down the row. Then she carried it back to her grassy spot where she settled down to pick the peas out with her teeth. Yum, yum.
The silence surrounded me as if I were the only person in the world. The one sound was the buzzing of the honeybees, bumbling contentedly among the sweet blossoms farther up the vine above me, collecting the sugary treasure for delivery to their queen.
A cow mooed from the dairy farm up the road. Must be milking time. Later a screen door slapped shut and a car started down the road – our neighbor on the way to work the early shift. By now I had finished my row, turned, and started back up the other side.
The sun had risen and was warming my back. The basket was getting heavy, and I picked on. Time for Kippy’s second treat. Two was her limit because her tummy was a little finicky if we strayed far from her regular dog food diet.
It became warmer and warmer down between the rows of vines, and I was glad to hear a small voice calling.
“Mummy, there you are. Are you gonna come cook breakfast?”
“Yes, I’ll come right now, okay?”
“Yeah, did you pick all the peas?”
“No, but I’ll leave the rest for our supper. What do you want for breakfast?”
“Pancakes. Blueberry pancakes. They’re the best.”
“Sounds good. I think I can do that.”
We took the homeward path, the heavy basket in my right hand, Julie’s small hand in my left, and Kippy leading the way. Before I stepped inside the back door, I paused for one more deep breath of fresh air, a glance at the clear blue of the sky, the rich green of grass, old-fashioned pink roses hanging over the old stone wall, and the trumpet vine climbing over the kitchen door. I could hear familiar family sounds inside the house. This might not be heaven, but for me it came pretty close.
(Olive Hart is, and always was, a Maine girl and a nature lover of green and growing things, the four-footed friends in the farm and gardens. She graduated from the University of Maine in 1948 and married that evening. She stayed in Orono for two more years until her husband graduated in 1950. Their first baby was born that same year.
Olive stayed at home raising her family of four until her youngest was in seventh grade. She then went on to teach reading, English and writing in middle school for 17 years.
Her father was always interested in Maine’s history, not politics but how it came to be. He had taught Olive the geology of Maine’s formation that occurred during the Ice Age and that the family’s lake was one result of that.
Her mother’s interests lay in books, in knowledge and education. Olive has always thought her mother was the smartest person she knew, and still does, in fact.
Olive feels as though she is the product of their influences. She tried writing off and on over the years entirely on her own but was never satisfied with the results and disposed of them. Encouragement in her 90s astonished her and has uncorked her bottled-up words. Now she can’t stop.)
