short distance between the house and the barn the aromas of the surrounding trees in full spring bloom and Mother’s perennials created a combination of smells unmatched by any botanical garden, and of course following every step of the way was my dog Rover!
After a hardy breakfast, it was back into the freshness of a Maine Day on the farm. No matter how high or hot the sun would get, there always seemed to be a gusty breeze to cool me down. As I went from spot to spot on the farm with my trusted friend by my side, doing whatever needed to be done, I was constantly confronted with the colors of creation. I remember bright-winged butterflies fluttering about, and green grasshoppers jumping about and with every moving insect Ross would either chasing them or snapping at them. I saw multi-colored apple blossoms hanging from the orchard, and big brown bugs hanging from the trees. I see white fluffy cloud floating over head against a brilliant blue sky. I walked in green and white pastures filled with clover watching black and white Holsteins grazing. Periodically, birds of ever shape and size and color would draw my attention skyward again. Pink pigs, cream cats, dark dogs, and rust colored roasters could also be found on the homestead on a typical day. But the best color of all was the black velvet of my faithful companion Rover!
As a day on the homestead neared its end, the air turned cold, and the stars began to appear in the open canvas above. It was then we often went out to the porch for nature’s grand show. Add to the lighting of moonshine and star shine and fireflies, the soprano of the sparrows, the tenor of the crickets, the melody of Rover my dog, and the bass of the bull frogs in a nearby pond, and you had the background music for our night’s entertainment. Against this quartet was the hum of the wind blowing through the trees that surrounded our home. Though we were often joined by millers and moths and an assortment of other bugs attracted by the porch light, we didn’t seem to mind them as we relaxed from a hard day’s work, reflecting on the beauty of the day, and the wonder of living it with a country dog for another day!
What is so nice about remembering such days in my boyhood was the spiritual lesson I was taught very early in my life. I can’t remember if it was my father, my mother, my grandparents or my Sunday school teacher that first pointed out this classic concept from the Psalms: “This is the day which the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24) Each day, every day was a day from the Almighty and we were to rejoice in each of them. What I like best about memory is the fact that a boyhood day spent with your dog can be relived and instead of rejoicing in it once it can be rejoiced in again and again!
BOYHOOD
I remember my boyhood for its independence of movement. I was allowed to roam freely throughout the farm with Rover at my side. I rarely remember being asked by my parents, “Where are you going?” Or, “Who will you be playing with today?” When you live on a back road farm in northern Maine, there were few options, so my parents were relaxed disciplinarians who gave me much latitude. With money always scares, there were few toys, but Rover and I had great imaginations!
Around chores, we had plenty of time for fun. We played basketball in the cow barn, on our own court; Rover loved any ball, especially a moving ball. We played baseball against the front of the huge barn that sat beside our old farm house. We went swimming in the frog pond in the cow pasture. We went fishing in the stream that ran long the backside of the homestead’s northern boundary. There were wars to be fought in the woods against an invading German force, and Indian uprising to be put down in the forts of the haymow. Needless to say, I had a very active boyhood with few physical shortcomings to interrupt my almost daily adventures. The only exceptions I can remember was a rare case of Ring Worm I contracted from my Grandfather Blackstone and a trip to the hospital to get my tonsils out. Other than those setbacks, my boyhood wealth was in my boyhood health and the companionship of a great dog named Rover!
As the years passed, I grew steadily. I was always proud I was the tallest, if not the biggest of my Blackstone cousins. The McDougal’s, our only real neighbors, had plenty of boys, but once again they were small in stature. I was athletic and skillful in all Perham sports. I was a Perham Pirate, the local Little League Team, and played a lot, even when I was nine. We had a great coach in Woody Doody, the meat cutter at Holt’s General Store, and at eleven, we won the district championship over the bigger towns of Washburn, Wade, Woodland, and Crouseville. In the school yard games, I excelled, whether in snow football, or tag. I was tall and lanky, and competitive. I still feel the joy of running through a sea of classmates for a touchdown, or going six for six against our rivals at the Woodland Elementary School in our annual baseball game. Before I reached high school, I had grown to 5’ 10”, and was a freshman starter on the Washburn varsity baseball team. (I reached my teenage years, but Rover never did!)
Rover and I loved the four seasons, for with each came something different to do. We got bored easily, so with the variety of work on the farm, and the variety of activities at school, there was always a change in the routine. We loved spring for dam making and tossing a baseball. We loved summer for haying and our annual trip to Dinsmore’s Camp on Madawaska Lake for horseshoes. I loved fall for throwing the grapples during potato harvest and for hunting partridge. I loved winter for its snow storms and playing basketball. As I look back, I realize that I was one of those fortunate lads who had a great boyhood with a dog! I don’t know if Jesus had a dog, but I have been teaching young people for years that one of the reasons we can believe in Jesus Christ is the fact He knew about being a kid. Whichever age you are at, He knows about being five and twelve and seventeen. Luke tells us this about the boyhood of Jesus: “And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom: and the grace of God was upon him . . . And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man.” (Luke 2:40, 52) Over the years I have been able to relate to Jesus because His boyhood in Nazareth was much like my boyhood in Perham with the exception of Rover, or was it?
RASPBERRY
I am recording these memories of my beloved, boyhood, dog Rover in the midst of a heavy wet snow storm in the middle of a March blizzard in Maine. I do not know the reason one’s mind skips seasons, but for me I suddenly was again on my family’s farm in Perham, Maine picking raspberries with my dog Rover; not your typical cultivated raspberries, but wild raspberries. The thing that makes this memory so strange is that I don’t even like raspberries, but what I liked was to pick raspberries with Rover.
It is late July somewhere in the early 1960’s. It’s hot, very hot and muggy. Dad would say: “good haying weather”, but on this particular morning I would work for Mum not Dad. To beat the heat I tell Mother I would go and pick her some raspberries for lunch. She loved raspberries and I knew just the spot to find them in abundance; big, bright, beautiful ones, and I also knew the perfect companion to go with.
As I made my way through the woods towards the Salmon Lake Road with Rover by my side, I felt better already. Walking in the woods with a dog is the surest way I know to cool off on a steamy summer’s day. The gentle breeze through the cooler trees is nature’s natural air conditioner, and if you live in the city like I do now, man has yet to come up with an adequate substitute, in my opinion. As we emerged from the forest about a half a mile up the road we headed straight for the rock and tree line that separated our farm from Abel Brissette’s land. Along that hedgerow grew the biggest wild raspberries I have ever seen. Maine Black Bears, and I’m not talking about hockey players, often feasted along that hedge. They know where to find fine dining in Perham. To my knowledge there was only one other place better than this for raspberries, and that was also on my Father’s farm; another place only known to Rover and me.
As I moved into the raspberry bushes I found the canes were loaded with berries. The weight of the fruit had bowed the canes to my knees. As I picked, I moved slowly through the harvest before me. Moving a scrawny bush aside, I discovered an inconspicuous cane bent very low in the back. When I lifted it up I found on its underside no less than twenty-five ripe raspberries. But they were not your ordinary raspberries. All I could think of was that cluster of grapes the twelve Hebrew spies brought
