2024 Greater Midcoast Region

3 It Makes No Never Mind

James Nalley

5 The First Lady Comes To Camden Memories of meeting Eleanor Roosevelt

Bonnie Wynne

6 The Kennebec And Portland Railroad Company

Bringing the steel rails to town

Brian Swartz

11 The Black Gold Rush

The endangered Atlantic sturgeon

John Murray

18 Portland’s Gorham Corner

Kitchen saloons and false-front grocery stores

Charles Francis

22 Yarmouth’s Elizabeth Oakes Smith

Ahead of her time

James Nalley

26 Bowdoinham’s Orrington Lunt

One of the Founders of Northwestern University

James Nalley

30 A Cundy’s Harbor Miracle

Darling brothers rescued by the Portland Lightship

Brian Swartz

34 Pilgrims Visit The Kennebec Valley

Pursuing the lucrative Indian trade

Brian Swartz

40 Boothbay’s Railway Village Museum

Celebrating 60 years in 2024

Brian Swartz

44 George Lincoln Rockwell

The godfather of evil in Boothbay Harbor

Charles Francis

51 Colonel Robert Rheault

The Rockland and Owls Head connection to Apocalypse Now

James Nalley

57 Chicken Memories From An Old Broiler Queen

Memories of the Maine Broiler Festival

Debbie Bird

63 Rockland’s Hanson Gregory

The legend of the doughnut hole

Wanda Curtis

Publisher Jim Burch

Editor Dennis Burch

Design & Layout

Liana Merdan

Field Representative

Don Plante

Contributing Writers

Debbie Bird

Wanda Curtis

Charles Francis

John Murray

James Nalley

Brian Swartz

Bonnie Wynne

www.discovermainemagazine.com

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FORM ON PAGE 61

Front Cover Photo: Family and hunting party in front of Walter Hillman’s house in Belfast. Item # LB2000.52.1.10 TL from the Coombs Collection and PenobscotMarineMuseum.org

photos in Discover Maine’s Greater Midcoast Region edition show Maine as it used to be, and many are from local citizens who love this part of Maine.

are also

from

collaboration with the Maine Historical

and the Penobscot Marine Museum.

AIt Makes No Never Mind

by James Nalley

t the time of this publication, sunny days and warmer temperatures will have arrived, making it a great opportunity to get out and see the sights. One of the unique aspects of Mid-Coast Maine is that there are few locations on the East Coast where you can hike a mountain, visit a beautiful beach, and travel to an island all in the same afternoon. Naturally, the attractions to visit are just as varied.

First, there is the Rockland Breakwater Lighthouse. This historic lighthouse sits at the end of a granite breakwater that stretches approximately 4,300 feet into Rockland Harbor. Construction of the breakwater was completed in 1900, while the permanent lighthouse was built in 1902. During the seawall’s 18-year construction, a series of temporary lights/lanterns were placed to warn mariners. More information can be found at www.rocklandharborlights. org.

Second, beginning each May, a rare colony of puffins arrives at Eastern Egg Rock, located a few miles off the coast of Southport. There, they lay their eggs and raise their young before migrating north by the end of the summer. It is important to note that the puffins that inhabit Maine make up the southernmost colony in the world, considering

that they are typically found in Iceland and Norway. One of the best ways to view one of Maine’s most endangered species is by taking a puffin cruise. In this regard, there is Cap’n Fish’s Audubon Puffin Cruise (www.boothbayboattrips.com), which departs from Boothbay Harbor. Each cruise is narrated by a certified marine biologist. Another option is Hardy Boat Cruises (www.hardyboat.com), which depart from Bristol. In this case, an Audubon naturalist accompanies every puffin tour and a portion of the ticket sales go toward Project Puffin, the National Audubon Society’s effort to protect the future of the colony.

Finally, a great way to experience “the olden days” is to step through the front doors of the following historic theaters. First, there is the 1912 Colonial Theatre (www.colonialtheatre. com) in Belfast, which offers recent movies, staged events, and indie film screenings. Second, there is the 1923 Strand Theatre (www.rocklandstrand. com) in Rockland, which offers indie film screenings, live performances, the Met Opera HD Live broadcasts, and family theater. Third, there is the 1875 Lincoln Theater (www.lincolntheater.net) in Damariscotta, which offers 500 events each year, including

first-run films, the Met Opera HD Live broadcasts, and in-house productions. Fourth, there is the 1959 Maine State Music Theatre (www.msmt.org) in Brunswick, which offers at least four mainstage musical productions, various concerts, and family theater. Last, but not least, is the 1895 Camden Opera House (www.camdenoperahouse.com), which offers live performances, stage productions, comedy shows, ballet, and national/international conferences. At one point, it was the tallest building in Knox County!

At this point, let me close with the following jest: A hunter kills and eats a bald eagle, and is arrested for violating the Endangered Species Act. He throws himself at the mercy of the court. The hunter begs, “Your honor, I had no idea that it was illegal to kill and eat a bald eagle. If you let me go, I will never do it again.” The judge replies, “Your crime is serious, but you were clearly unaware of the law. So, I will overlook this just once. However, I am going to ask you one question.” “Anything!” shouted the hunter. The judge asks, “Can you please tell the court what a bald eagle tastes like?” The hunter thinks for a moment and says, “Well, it’s kind of a cross between a spotted owl and a California condor.”

The First Lady Comes To Camden

Memories of meeting Eleanor Roosevelt

by Bonnie Wynne

It was a clear, cold day on February 8, 1943, when the First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt, came to the Camden Shipyard to christen the Pine Tree, the first wooden barge to be built for World War II. It was also the largest wooden vessel launched in the United States in twenty-three years. Nearly seven hundred tons of lumber was used constructing it.

The entire town was filled with excitement over this event. My father, the Rev. Henry Beukelman, the pastor of the local Methodist church, took my four-year-old sister, Leanne, on ahead with him, while my mother and I, eight years old, were behind in the crowd.

piece

After the launching was over, my mother and I returned to the church for a meeting. In the meantime, my father and sister, having been among the first to arrive, were at the end of the crowd as it left the shipyard. While they were strolling by the residence on Sea Street, where a Tea was being given for Mrs. Roosevelt, one of the uniformed men at the door asked my father why his little girl was crying. He replied, “She’s upset because she couldn’t see Mrs. Roosevelt.” The man motioned my father to come to the door, and after a brief consultation inside, he led them into the room where the Tea was being held. There, Mrs. Roosevelt tenderly picked

up my sister and fed her some cookies, all the while soothing and talking to her.

The next thing we knew, my sister burst into the church meeting and exclaimed “I just sat in the Government’s lap!”

That little girl, Leanne Beukelman Smith, grew up to earn a doctorate in American Studies at Yale University. But she never forgot the day when Eleanor Roosevelt took a personal interest in an unhappy child. My sister Leanne, who was born in East Boothbay on June 19, 1938, passed away on July 27, 2007.

The Kennebec And Portland Railroad Company

Bringing the steel rails to town

by Brian Swartz

Fourteen years passed between initial approval for a railroad linking Brunswick to the outside world and the day the first locomotive rolled across that line. In 1835 the legislature passed a bill incorporating the Brunswick Railroad Company, which would run “from the Androscoggin River, near Brunswick village, to some navigable waters of Casco Bay, with one or more branches.” Obviously, Portland was the intended location of “navigable waters” on Casco Bay. The railroad’s corporators met on June 4, 1835 — and never met again.

In 1836 the legislature passed a bill establishing the Kennebec and Portland Railroad Company, its route “commencing at a point in the city of Portland” and heading north through “North Yarmouth, Freeport, Brunswick Village, and Topsham” to Gardiner before ending in Augusta. The bill required the railroad’s backers to complete the Portland-to-Brunswick track and run trains “within six years” from August 1, 1837, and the entire railroad had to be completed by August 1, 1847.

Backers were authorized to raise $1.2 million in capital by selling

shares at $200 apiece, a princely sum in 1830s Maine. The railroad must also “provide and maintain … suitable and convenient cars” to carry “persons and freight of every description,” including “the United States mail.”

Fundraising proved difficult; the legislature later extended the deadline for raising capital and building the railroad. Then the 1846 legislature enacted yet another bill affecting the K & P RR, this time authorizing backers to extend the line “through and east of the village Brunswick” as far as the “tide waters in the village of Bath.”

Bath officials wisely got legislators to stipulate that their branch would be “completed simultaneously” with the rail line being constructed “between Portland and Brunswick.” Railroad backers wisely got the legislature to stipulate that as track was laid, the K & P RR could haul “passengers and freight” on completed sections before the entire rail line was completed.

Bath ensured its branch would not be forgotten, and K & P RR organizers ensured that revenue would be coming in as the railroad was built. With $400,000 needed to construct the Bath branch, capital would be raised by selling shares at $100 apiece.

Construction on the K & P RR started “near Brunswick” in 1847. The first steam locomotive pulled into Brunswick on June 9, 1849. That July fourth, the locomotive “Kennebec” ran an excursion train all day between Bath and Yarmouth Junction. Passengers boarded for free and stood mostly in “gravel

cars” (also called “dump-cars”).

The trip gave passengers “a new and gratifying experience.” The public clamored to start “running a passenger train at once,” and the railroad’s backers started passenger service on July 5, “without any preparation of books, blanks, or tariffs.” At Yarmouth Junction passengers and freight shifted to the Atlantic & St. Lawrence Railroad for the remaining trip to Portland.

At the time the Atlantic & St. Lawrence charged stagecoach passengers 25 cents each for transportation to Portland from Yarmouth. That July the K & P RR added 25 cents to the fare charged its passengers for traveling to or from Portland.

Then the Atlantic & St. Lawrence billed the K & P RR 35 cents per passenger, requiring the latter line (which was headquartered in Brunswick) to lose a dime on every Portland passenger. Negotiations led the Atlantic & St. Lawrence to lower the per-passenger

fare by a half cent. The incensed K & P RR directors ultimately cut out the Atlantic & St. Lawrence altogether by building a separate railroad line to Portland a few years later.

But until then passengers had to use the Atlantic & St. Lawrence. The first K & P RR train for Portland left Bath at 6 a.m., stopped briefly in Brunswick, left there at 6:30 a.m., and then traveled to Yarmouth Junction. Passengers traveling between Brunswick and Portland paid 75 cents each.

The Kennebec & Portland Railroad finally reached Portland in 1850 via Deering Junction and a track built “past Deering Oaks up the valley and over Congress Street and round the west side of the city to Commercial street and a junction with the Portland, Saco & Portsmouth Railroad.” Construction also went the other way, with the K & P RR reaching Richmond in 1851 and Augusta in 1853.

The Kennebec & Portland Railroad (cont. on page 8)

CABIN PIZZA?

BOSTON GLOBE

“One of the best in New England!” PORTLAND NEWSPAPER

“The only real pizza in Maine.” DOWNEAST MAGAZINE

“About as good as it gets in Maine.” OFFSHORE MAGAZINE

“A local tradition. Some would argue the best pizza in the entire state of Maine.”

THE CABIN

(cont. from page 7)

bought a lot to construct a depot near Maine Street in Brunswick. A depot measuring about 160 feet long and 100 feet wide opened in July 1855. Three railroad tracks ran through the depot, where passengers used the north wing and freight passed through the south wing.

After that depot burned in 1857, the K & P RR soon built another depot that underwent expansion later in the 19th century. From Brunswick passengers could easily reach Augusta, Portland, or Boston, only six hours away rather than the three days required by stagecoach. One-way fare from Bath to Boston was $2, but train travel was pretty reliable, and people who did not enjoy traveling by steamboat certainly thought the fare was reasonable.

The & Kennebec & Portland Railroad later merged with the Maine Central Railroad, and passenger traffic returned to Brunswick with the arrival of Amtrak in the 21st century.

• 1754Chapman-Hall House,Damariscotta

• 1811Museum&OldJail, Wiscasset

• 1761Pownalborough CourtHouse,Dresden

by John Murray

TThe Black Gold Rush

The endangered Atlantic sturgeon

he Atlantic sturgeon is the largest and oldest species of fish found in Maine waters. They were here when dinosaurs ruled the earth nearly 200 million years ago, and fossil records document that the physical body of the Atlantic sturgeon has been virtually the same during this wide expanse of time.

Unlike most other species of fish that have bones, the Atlantic sturgeon has an internal frame of cartilage. Different from other fish that have scales, they have an outside body of bone-like plates which are called scutes. These hard plates are present along the length of its body in five distinct rows. Atlantic sturgeon can reach colossal sizes

during the extent of their typical 60year long life span. Average body size are lengths that can reach 16-feet, and weights that can exceed 800 pounds. Larger species have been documented, and among the largest was a 24-foot Atlantic sturgeon that was caught in the 1800s. It was estimated that this specimen may have been nearly 100 years old.

Historically, the Atlantic sturgeon thrived in North American rivers all along the length of the coast from Florida to Canada. Most of the life span occurs in the deeper depths of the ocean, and Atlantic sturgeon have been documented at depths of 600 feet along the

continental shelf. In late June or July, the Atlantic sturgeon migrates to the coast in large groups, and enters freshwater coastal rivers to spawn and lay eggs. When the Atlantic sturgeon enters the river basin, the fish will often leap out of the water. The reason for these leaps is unknown, but it is speculated it may be performed to attract mates, or perhaps to loosen the eggs in the female. A large, full-grown mature female can produce between 400,000 to 1 million eggs.

Difficult to catch in the deep depths of the open ocean, it was during these summer spawning migrations that the Atlantic sturgeon could be readily cap(cont. on page 12)

(cont. from page 11)

tured, and the entire fish was utilized as a food source. The sturgeon was a documented fishery for the colonists in Maine as early as 1628, and the Native Americans were harvesting the Atlantic sturgeon for hundreds of years before that. Native Americans would spear the sturgeon in the shallow water of the river basin, and initially the colonists adopted this spearing technique. Colonists would sometimes shoot the sturgeon, and large nets were utilized to capture the big fish.

As the years passed and the human population of North America grew, a growing local fondness was also being cultivated for the small black eggs of the female Atlantic sturgeon. These small black eggs were called caviar, and that name is derived from the Persian word Khayadar, which means “egg bearing fish.” With a long history of consumable use, caviar was considered an expensive delicacy by generations

of the European wealthy class who procured their caviar from Russian waters. In comparison, the readily available North American caviar harvested from the nearby rivers created a commodity that was considerably more reasonably priced for the residents of Maine and other states along the eastern seaboard.

Even though caviar was consumed as a byproduct of the Atlantic sturgeon for many years, extensive commercial harvest of the eggs did not occur in Maine until the 1800s. With prolific numbers of Atlantic sturgeon present in the surrounding river basins, the largest documented commercial harvest for caviar took place in 1849, with a harvest of 145 metric tons of Atlantic sturgeon eggs. A typical female sturgeon was capable of producing between 2 to 11 pounds of eggs, so approximately 58 thousand female sturgeon were harvested to achieve that tonnage of caviar. Large commercial harvests

continued after that, and in 1873 a savvy German immigrant by the name of Henry Schacht began exporting the caviar to other parts of the world. With no regulations present during that time that required country of origin, exported North American caviar would often be labeled as Russian caviar.

The exportation of caviar created an immediate spike in both the harvest and price of the caviar. This was the beginning of what is now known as the “black gold rush.” With increased prices being paid for the caviar, many residents of Maine were now actively pursuing the Atlantic sturgeon. Other people throughout the country were also flocking to the river basins in search of becoming rich from the caviar market. As the price for the caviar rapidly excelled, harvest techniques became more efficient. Nets were strung across river basins and nearly every spawning sturgeon that swam upriver

was captured. As the years ticked past, fishermen began noticing a decrease in the number of Atlantic sturgeon being harvested. In 1880, the harvest of caviar from Maine rivers dropped to 5.7 metric tons. But with harvesting of Atlantic sturgeon now in full swing along the entire length of the eastern seaboard of North America, the export to the world market continued, and the price of the available caviar continued to rise.

With years of unregulated harvest the fishery was now beginning to show serious signs of stress. The Atlantic sturgeon were virtually disappearing from many rivers up and down the east coast, and Maine was also experiencing fewer and fewer sturgeon in the river basins. By 1890, more effort was extended to capture more sturgeon, and the total concentrated harvest of caviar from the eastern seaboard peaked for the last time at a number comparable to

(cont. on page 14)

(cont. from page 13) the amount harvested in the year 1880.

The next few years showed a drastic decline in the numbers of Atlantic sturgeon and by 1901 the export market for North American caviar collapsed. Even though it was a distinct element, over fishing for the Atlantic sturgeon was not the only cause for the decline in population numbers. The new construction of multiple dams on rivers throughout the east coast also prevented the spawning runs for the Atlantic sturgeon.

Today, the Atlantic sturgeon is officially listed as a threatened species in the Gulf of Maine, and an endangered species along the North American east coast. In Maine there are now only four coastal rivers that have spawning Atlantic sturgeon. In our current time, only a handful of Atlantic sturgeon are present in the Penobscot, Saco and Merrimack Rivers. The Kennebec River has the largest population, with estimates of

63 to 110 Atlantic sturgeon returning to spawn. When the spawning run begins, residents of Augusta can occasionally see large Atlantic sturgeon announcing their presence as they leap out of the water. To have the opportunity to witness a fish that has been on this planet

for 200 million years is something to be cherished, because these Atlantic sturgeon swam alongside the dinosaurs.

Portland’s Gorham Corner

Kitchen saloons and false-front grocery

by Charles Francis

It is hard to believe that once Portland’s streets were little more than lanes that jigged and jagged as if some demented giant had taken a sharp pointed stick to draw them out on the slopes leading down to the Fore River and Portland Harbor. Yet that is the way it was. You still get a sense of just how haphazard Portland thoroughfares were when walking along Fore Street. Fore Street is crooked. The reason for this is that it conforms to the contours of Portland’s original waterfront.

Not all that long ago — before the development of the Old Port — Fore Street’s crooked course was lined with rows of dilapidated and oftentimes

deserted, weather-beaten, ramshackle, brick and frame buildings. Anyone with memories of Portland of the late 1960s can recall this.

Once upon a time, Fore Street was Portland’s commercial center. This was in the early decades of the nineteenth century. Back then, streets that were in actuality little more than alleys linked Fore Street to the waterfront and the broader streets like Congress further up the hill. These alleys had names like Lime, Turkey, Love, Fish, Fiddle, and Moose. These names became a thing of the past, never to appear again, when the great fire of 1866 destroyed much of Portland.

When, in the mid part of the nineteenth century, Commercial Street was laid out, Fore became something of a secondary byway. From that time on, until the development of the Old Port, it had something of an unsavory reputation, at least some sections did, some of it deserved and some undeserved.

The heart of Fore Street was Gorham Corner where Danforth, York, Pleasant, and Bank streets meet it. It is there that one finds a statue of the most famous person to have ties to Gorham Corner, Hollywood director John Ford. Ford’s father owned and operated five grocery stores in the immediate area. Actually, they were something more than grocery

stores. The grocery store was a front — a front for a saloon.

Like the false-front grocery stores belonging to John Ford’s father, the name Ford was also a facade. The famous director’s last name wasn’t really Ford. It was Feeney, although sometimes Ford said it was O’Feeney, and sometimes he said it was O’Fearna. John Ford was decidedly Irish — O’Fearna is about as Gaelic as you can get.

John Ford’s parents came from Ireland. The father, John Augustine Feeney, came from Spiddal in County Galway. The mother, Barbara Curran, from Kilronan on one of the Aran Islands. They settled in Maine in 1875. Though they would eventually make Cape Elizabeth their home, initially they lived in Gorham Corner. Most Irish were drawn there.

John Augustine Feeney was a ward heeler. He helped newly-arrived Irish

immigrants get jobs, get settled, become citizens, and register to vote. Feeney was a power in the predominantly Irish longshoremen union, the Portland Longshoremen’s Benevolent Society.

The Irish of Gorham Corner and its immediate environs were a power in Portland. They had been a power before John Feeney arrived on the scene. One reason they were a power is that they almost always voted as a block. That wasn’t the only reason they were influential, though.

Back in 1855 the Irish of Gorham Corner were the chief instigators of a protest against the Maine Law and its chief advocate and creator, Portland Mayor Neal Dow. In reality it was more than a protest. It was a riot. History books call the disturbance the Portland Rum Riot and sometimes the Maine Law Riot.

The Maine Law went into effect in 1851. Neal Dow viewed it as his per-

sonal political triumph. The law was wide-ranging in its powers. There were fines for illegally selling alcohol. Repeat offenders could be jailed for from three to six months. The teeth of the act — which was what made it noteworthy, even revolutionary — were found in the provision for search and seizure. Any three citizens who suspected someone to be involved in illegal liquor dealings could obtain a warrant to search any business and seize any alcohol found there. It became the responsibility of the businessman to prove that he was a legal importer or bonded distributor. With the support of the Brotherhood of Temperance Watchmen and hired professional informers who were paid from the fines on those they turned in, Dow felt he was well on his way to drying up Portland. Of course, the wealthy who lived in the fine residences up the hill from Fore Street always had their fine wines — clarets, port, and Madei(cont. on page 20)

(cont. from page 19)

ra. But those less well-to-do folk who lived down the hill, especially around Gorham Corner, had their ways of obtaining an illicit drink or two as well.

Tavern keepers adjusted to the Maine Law by moving their kegs and bottles to back rooms. They were quite willing to pay the fine associated with the Maine Law. Their business was that good. Then there were men’s private drinking clubs. These catered to the more flush or prosperous. For the less well-to-do there were kitchen saloons. Gorham Corner was known for them. The kitchen saloon was just what it sounds like. A housewife in need of a bit of hard cash opened her kitchen to those in search of a cheap dram or drought. Like as not the good wife had one of her children act as a lookout for the almost omnipresent Temperance Watchmen.

What set off Portland’s Rum Riot of 1855 was the rumor that Mayor Dow

was sitting on a cache of illegal city alcohol. And in a way, Dow was. He had authorized the purchase of some $1,600 worth of alcohol for medicinal and mechanical purposes. However, the Board of Aldermen hadn’t authorized the expenditure. News of the liquor cache got

out. First there were complaints made to City Hall. The complaints escalated to name-calling and minor vandalism. Dow was quite used to this. In the past, anti-prohibition forces, of whom the Irish were the most vocal, had targeted Dow. Windows in his home were broken and empty bottles were dumped in his yard. Once, a dead cat was left on his steps.

The Rum Riot took place on June 2nd. Protesters began forming in the early afternoon outside of the warehouse where Dow’s alcohol was stored. The crowd grew, and as it did, the occasional rock hit the warehouse. By evening there was a full-fledged, jostling, shouting mob. Figures for the number involved range from just over a thousand to three thousand. Portland police could do nothing to disperse the crowd. Mayor Dow then called out the militia. Exactly what happened next is unclear, but the militia opened fire on the crowd

The Park Danforth has been providing quality senior housing since 1881. Situated in the lively community of Portland, The Park Danforth offers active seniors the choices and options that they deserve.

Portland Mayor Neal Dow

and one man was killed. This unfortunate man named John Robbins wasn’t even from Portland. He was a sailor off a Deer Isle fishing boat.

In part, the Portland Rum Riot led to the repeal of the Maine Law. Neal Dow was prosecuted for obtaining the alcohol that caused the riot. Though Dow was acquitted, his pride and joy, the Maine Law, was repealed in 1856. Much of the credit for the repeal goes to Portland’s Irish.

Gorham Corner and Fore Street have greatly changed since the days of the kitchen saloon. They have changed since the days John Feeney was a ward heeler. Yet, the ten-foot tall, bronze statue of John Ford recalls those days for those who know their Portland history. So too, did Bull Feeney’s on Fore Street. “Bull” was John Ford’s nickname when he was an All-State fullback for Portland High School’s state championship football team.

Gorham Corner in Portland, a largely Irish-American neighborhood, ca. 1904. Item # 6674 from the collections of the Maine Historical Society and www.VintageMaineImages.com

Yarmouth’s Elizabeth Oakes Smith

by James Nalley

When it comes to social reforms and women’s rights in the United States, various names, such as Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Matilda Joslyn Gage, come to the forefront. Susan B. Anthony was pivotal in the women’s suffrage movement, the push towards the abolition of slavery, and the campaign for equal rights for both women and African Americans. However, there were other women, including one from Yarmouth, who not only argued for women’s equal rights to political opportunities, but also put her thoughts on women’s rights to economic opportunities and higher education into writing. Elizabeth Oakes Smith was born on August 12, 1806, near Yarmouth.

After her father, David Prince, died at sea when she was two years of age, her family lived with her grandparents until her mother remarried, after which they moved to Cape Elizabeth and then to Portland. According to the article Portraits of American Women Writers by the Library Company of Philadelphia (LCP), “Smith learned to read at the age of two by overhearing her older sister’s lessons in their home in Maine, and she imitated the heroines in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs by fastening a large mustard plaster to her leg and bearing the pain until she fainted.” She also dreamed of going to college and becoming the head of her own girls’ school. However, at her mother insistence, she married Seba Smith, a 30-year-old editor and contrib-

Elizabeth Oakes Smith in 1844

utor to several Portland-based journals, at the age of 16.

Although Smith managed a household that included several of her husband’s apprentices and five sons, she still found time to pursue her interest in writing. By 1833, in her husband’s absence, she assumed editorial responsibilities for the Portland Daily Courier and eventually became a regular contributor to the newspapers and magazines that her husband edited. As stated by the LCP, Smith did this either anonymously or with the signature “E.”

When land values plummeted in the Panic of 1837, her husband lost much of his fortune, after which the family moved to New York City in 1839 to find work. Within a short period of time, she became a popular member of the New York literary scene, publishing children’s books as well as various poems and short stories. One book was Riches Without Wings, a children’s story that not only appealed to victims of

the Panic of 1837, but also stressed the importance of spiritual wealth over material wealth. Moreover, her narrative poem The Sinless Child, published in 1842, made her a recognized name on a wider scale. This was followed by two novels, Park Benjamin’s New World (1842) and The Salamander (1848).

In the 1850s, as the women’s rights movement gained momentum, Smith naturally joined the cause. Interestingly, she was somewhat dismissed by leaders, such as Susan B. Anthony, due to her fancy dresses and traditional, feminine appearance. Despite this initial rejection, Smith began a series of articles on women’s rights in the New York Tribune titled, Woman and Her Needs, which was also published in pamphlet form. In this work, she wrote the following: “There are thousands capable of a sphere beyond the fireside and being thus qualified, they hold a commission to God himself to go out into this broader field.” She also be-

came the first woman to present regular lectures on the Lyceum Movement circuit, which was a series of lecture tours that extended to St. Louis and Chicago. In her lectures, she regularly spoke out on prison reform, abolition, and women’s rights. In 1852, Smith was nominated to serve as the President of the National Women’s Rights Convention in Syracuse. However, the influence of the women’s rights movement still had a significant effect on how women should dress for such positions. More specifically, Smith was rejected for the position, since she and her friend Paulina Wright Davis arrived in dresses that exposed their necks and arms. Undaunted by such setbacks, Smith, in 1854, published two novels, Bertha and Lily and The Newsboy, which presented her positions on women’s rights and child labor, respectively. Meanwhile, Smith continued to edit several of her husband’s ventures in journalism such as The Weekly Budget (1853-

(cont. on page 24)

(cont. from page 23) 1854). By the late 1850s, Smith and her husband had accumulated considerable income from their work. For example, in November 1858, Smith purchased Emerson’s Monthly, and in 1859, she and her husband retired to a large home in Patchogue, Long Island, which they named “The Willows.”

The apparent success of Smith as a writer, poet, and women’s movement leader, however, was not without tragedy. For instance, during the 1850s, her son Appleton had ventured into the shipping business, but became involved in the filibuster (i.e., unauthorized warfare against a foreign country) campaigns of General William Walker in Nicaragua. When Walker’s bid for U.S. recognition failed and his militia was ousted from the country, Appleton began to employ his ships in support of the Confederacy. In 1861, Appleton was captured in New York and indicted for equipping a slave ship. In the following years, Smith personally met

with government officials in New York and the President of the United States himself in order to secure her son’s innocence.

Stigmatized by her son’s arrest, Smith continued to write, but her popularity had waned in the literacy circles. Meanwhile, additional tragedies occurred in the 1860s. For instance, her son Edward died of yellow fever in 1865, her husband died in 1868, and her son Sidney drowned in 1869. In 1870, she sold her home in Patchogue and moved in with her youngest son Alvin near Blue Point, Long Island.

In the late 1870s, Smith continued to attend conventions on women’s suffrage and even presented a lecture titled, Biology and Woman’s Rights, at the 11th Woman’s Suffrage Convention in Washington, D.C. According to her personal journal, Smith focused more on her traditional religious faith in her later years, as interest in fictional writing rapidly decreased in society. On

November 16, 1893, Smith died at the age of 87 and was buried beside her husband and son Edward at Lakeview Cemetery in Patchogue.

Regarding the importance of Smith, perhaps it was best stated by Jane E. Rose in her article titled, Expanding Woman’s Sphere, Dismantling Class, and Building Community: The Feminism of Elizabeth Oakes Smith: “Smith fulfilled many roles during her lifetime in both the public and private spheres. Because of these conflicting roles, her feminism emerged as she began to recognize the limitations and restrictions placed upon women’s intellect, aspirations, and potentiality. But unlike her contemporary Margaret Fuller, Smith and her contributions to 19th century feminist thought have received little scholarly attention. Nevertheless, her feminist influence should not be overlooked, for many of her ideas are ahead of her time.”

Bowdoinham’s Orrington Lunt

One of the Founders of Northwestern University

by James Nalley

Situated on the shores of Lake Michigan is the Chicago suburb of Evanston, Illinois, home of the main campus of Northwestern University. Although it is currently one of the top universities in the country, its simple beginnings date back to 1851, when it was chartered by the Illinois General Assembly and affiliated with the Methodist Episcopal Church. At that time, one founder, benefactor, and eventually president, was a Maine-born man who started out working as a store clerk and became a wealthy grain merchant and philanthropist. Due to his contributions to society, American educator and women’s suffragist Frances Willard aptly referred to him as “The Discoverer of

Orrington Lunt was born in Bowdoinham on December 24, 1815. His early life was humble, and he balanced his

days by going to school and working at his father’s store. At the age of 21, Lunt became a partner and continued the business after his father died a few years later. Approximately five years later, the business struggled to be sustainable, after which he and his wife, Cornelia Gray, decided to sell it and head west to Chicago. There, he began his career as a commission merchant, mainly dealing in produce and grain. By 1845 (at 30 years of age), he had made a fortune in the grain trade, and expanded his investments in the railroad and real estate sectors.

In 1850, six prominent Chicago businessmen, including Lunt and John Evans (for whom Evanston is named),

Orrington Lunt in 1895

and three Methodist leaders had formed the idea of establishing a university to serve what was then the “Northwest Territory.” According to the article “Keeping the Faith” (2020) in Northwestern magazine, “The school’s nine founders, all of whom were Methodists (three as ministers), knelt in prayer and worship before launching their first organizational meeting.” Interestingly, “Although they affiliated the university with the Methodist Episcopal Church, they favored a non-sectarian admissions policy, believing that Northwestern should serve all people in the newly developing territory by bettering the economy in Evanston.”

Subsequently, 379 acres of land along Lake Michigan was purchased in 1853, after which “Old College” became the first building on the campus. As stated in the article “Perpetual Scholarships Provided Early University Funding” (2007) in Northwestern magazine, “In order to raise funds for

Northwestern University in 1907

its construction, Northwestern sold $100 ‘perpetual scholarships’ entitling the purchaser and heirs to free tuition.”

Although intended to be temporary, the building served a variety of purposes throughout its history, including housing for Northwestern’s prep school, a weather observatory for the Department of War in the 1870s, home of a

naval training program during World War I, and the offices of the College of Liberal Arts.

Meanwhile, Lunt continued to work as a grain merchant until he retired in 1862. This was when he spent much of his time on charitable, education, and religious efforts. For example, during the U.S. Civil War, he assumed a lead(cont. on page 28)

(cont. from page 27)

ership role in organizing and supplying regiments and was a leader of the Committee of Safety and War Finance. He was also the treasurer and secretary of the Garrett Biblical Institute (currently the Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary) located on the Northwestern University campus.

In October 1871, the so-called Great Chicago Fire occurred, which burned 3.3 square miles of the city (including 17,000 structures) and left more than 100,000 homeless. As for Lunt, his home was completely destroyed. Meanwhile, although the Northwestern University and Garrett Biblical Institute campuses were spared, Lunt continued to assess the needs of Evanston and focus on the future of the two campuses. In 1872, the Lunt family moved to Evanston, where they called their house “Anchorfast.” Approximately three years later, Lunt became the Vice-President of Northwestern Uni-

versity, which was a position he held until 1895, when he accepted the Presidency of the Board of Trustees.

Over his tenure, Lunt continued to address the needs of the university, especially in light of the Great Chicago Fire. For instance, in 1892, he donated $50,000 for the purpose of building a new, fireproof library, i.e., the Lunt Library (currently Lunt Hall). According to the Northwestern University Archives, “In 1894, the library was completed, and a large ceremony was held to dedicate the library on September 26.” Apparently, the Lunts had also become well known and admired in the community. In this regard, “On January 16, 1892, the town of Evanston came together to celebrate Orrington and Cornelia’s 50th wedding anniversary. This was an important event in Evanston, and many people used the opportunity to celebrate the life of Orrington Lunt.”

In late 1896, Lunt’s health began to fail. As stated in The Chicago Tribune (April 6, 1897), “After a heart attack, Lunt sank steadily. Last Friday, periods of unconsciousness set in, and his respiration was so faint that it was barely perceptible. Three physicians attended the aged patient, and during the earlier part of the attack, it seemed as though they would be able to restore his faculties. They gave up all hope on Saturday evening and declared that he would not be able to live two days longer.”

Lunt died on April 6, 1897, at the age of 81. He was subsequently buried at Rosehill Cemetery on the north side of Chicago. As for his legacy, the Orrington Lunt Library on the Northwestern University campus is named after him, along with Orrington Avenue in Evanston. However, when news of his death reached Evanston and Northwestern University, it was felt by everyone, ranging from students and faculty/

administrators to community leaders, serving as a testament to his lifelong devotion to the region and his religious faith. According to then-President Henry Wade Rogers:

“It is now my duty to make a sad announcement that Mr. Lunt died a few moments ago. This is not the time to enlarge upon his character or services to the university. That will be done on some subsequent occasion. I will now only say that all who have known Orrington Lunt intimately will probably agree in saying his was the most beautiful character they have ever personally known. He met death in a manner as beautiful as he lived his life…I shall say no more at this time.”

A Cundy’s Harbor Miracle

Darling brothers rescued by the Portland Lightship

by Brian Swartz

Despite their best pitches, two fishermen from Cundy’s Harbor struck out only themselves during a windy afternoon in June 19

Erland Darling, 27, and his brother, 26-year-old Daniel Darling, had fished for whiting throughout Monday, June 2. Working the easterly approaches to Casco Bay, with Halfway Rock Light often inview on the horizon, the Darlings steamed back and forth in their 42-foot dragger, the Olive May

By late afternoon, as the sun remained high in the late spring sky, the brothers agreed to turn toward

home. They had landed some six tons of whiting, a respectable catch, but would require a few hours to steam into the New Meadows River before docking at Cundy’s Harbor — better to sail home with a setting sun rather than work into Cundy’s in the dark. With Halfway Rock Light somewhat to port, the Olive May pointed her bows northward.

The Darlings had acquired the Olive May a month earlier, and experienced a few mechanical problems with the dragger. Riding relatively low in the water that Monday afternoon, the Olive May parted the sea as she chugged homeward.

Then the northwest wind intensified, catching the Olive May almost broadside and shoving the starboard gunwales too near the sea. Erland and Daniel sensed the moment when the sea came over the gunwales; the Olive May suddenly seemed heavier, slightly staggering through the increasingly rough water like a punch-drunk boxer. An already laden dragger can easily capsize if water suddenly pours into its hold, its cargo shifts, or wintertime ice turns its topside top heavy. The Darlings knew they must lighten their ship. So, they dived atop their cargo, grabbing dead whiting, and pitching the fish overboard as fast as possible.

In every tragedy there occurs a moment to which survivors look back and ask, “What if?” What if the Darlings had loaded a lighter catch that Monday? What if they had sailed for home an hour earlier? What if they had pitched enough whiting over the rails?

The brothers desperately tried, constantly chucking fish without calculating its lost value. Beneath their boots the Olive May physically staggered as the sea relentlessly swept aboard. If the Darlings threw enough fish overboard, the dragger might right herself and lift the starboard gunwales from harm’s way.

What if they had been granted another ten minutes? Fifteen minutes? With a heart-wrenching screech sounding the Olive May’s death knell, a rudder chain snapped about 3:40 p.m. The dragger swiftlyswung broadside across the wind-tossed seas,

slipped more water ― and died. What if the Darlings had not donned their lifejackets that afternoon?

They had, though. The Olive May visibly settled in the driving swells; the pounding waves finally cleaved the cabin from the hull and the brothers launched a one-man raft atop a floating cabin wall. The dragger sank about 4 p.m.

Within a short while, a dragger sailed past the struggling brothers They waved and shouted , but the other dragger’s crew, apparently intent on home, missed their signals. “I guess they couldn’t hear our shouts nor see us riding so low in the swells,” Erland later commented.

The Darlings clung to their makeshift refuge throughout a long twilight. Waving to passing aircraft, they gradually realized they would not be found — or even missed — by sunset. Not due home until well past supper-

time, their last position unreported to anyone, the Darlings quietly talked as day slipped into night.

Fortunately, a June night lasts only some eight hours in Maine, but adrift in the sea, eight hours becomes an eternity. Falling asleep would doom either brother, so they struggled to stay awake, hoping against hope that friends or the Coast Guard would find them.

“I never prayed so hard in all my life,” Daniel later recalled. “Couple of times I gave up hope, then I thought of my wife and four kids and mother and dad, and then I prayed all the harder.”

Erland remembered after the last aircraft vanished before sunset “that I thought we were goners. But my brother kept telling me to hold on, and God would take care of us. I don’t know as I could have lasted the night if it hadn’t been for him.”

Dawn brightened the eastern sky (cont. on page 32)

(cont. from page 31)

about 4 a.m., but in the wave-tossed life raft, the Darlings could see little beyond the adjoining crests. Then about 5 a.m., God answered Daniel’s prayers.

Oh, what a grand sight, the Portland Lightship, looming on the near horizon! “I never had any idea what paradise would look like,” Daniel said. “But when dawn broke, and we saw the lightship on the horizon I knew

couldn’t look any better.”

Crewmen aboard the lightship soon spotted the Darlings and rescued them. The brothers reached Portland later that Tuesday before returning to a hero’s welcome in Cundy’s Harbor.

Pilgrims Visit The Kennebec Valley

Pursuing the lucrative Indian trade

by Brian Swartz

American students learn about the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving in grade school, although textbooks concentrate on the feast and gloss over the Pilgrims’ other activities, including those of a business nature.

Few Maine students learn that business brought the Pilgrims to the Kennebec River and to Cushnoc, a settlement later named Augusta.

In late May 1622, a shallop inbound from Great Britain anchored at Plymouth and discharged seven passengers and some correspondence. The ship and crew had evidently skirted the Maine coast before beating south into Massa-

chusetts Bay, since the correspondence included letters from the skippers of fishing boats plying the waters around Damariscove Island.

A Captain John Huddleston warned in a letter to the Pilgrim leadership that Virginia Indians had risen and killed several hundred colonists near Jamestown. The Pilgrims knew Jamestown existed, but history suggests they had not explored the Maine coast; they sadly lacked an account of the voyages of Samuel de Champlain, the intrepid French explorer who had mapped the Maine shore years earlier.

Since the shallop’s skipper planned to return to Great Britain via Dam-

ariscove, then home to a thriving warm-weather fishing colony, Plymouth Governor William Bradford told Edward Winslow to take another shallop and escort the leaving vessel as far as Damariscove Island.

The Pilgrims had not yet adequately adapted to New World living. Relatively poor farmers (Old World techniques imported to the New had not always sufficed), not yet faced with hostile Indians (hostilities between the Indians and the colonists would not erupt in New England for another generation), the Pilgrims needed food supplies in case their 1622 harvest failed. Bradford hoped that Winslow would find food

1938!

among the Damariscove fishermen. Winslow met Huddleston and other captains, who sent food supplies to Plymouth and eschewed payment. Winslow dutifully charted his route so other Pilgrims could follow; as Bradford wrote, “they knew ye way to those parts for their benefit hereafter.”

The Pilgrims sent other ships to the mouth of the Kennebec River in the next few years. Writing about 1625, Bradford noted that “after harvest this year, they send out a boats load of corn 40. or 50. leagues to ye eastward (an early reference to sailing ‘down east’ to Maine), up a river called Kenibeck.” The expedition was led by Winslow, who knew the way, and several greenhorn Pilgrim crewmembers, because “for seamen they had none.”

The Pilgrim traders, for trade was their purpose, sailed upriver in “one of those 2. shalops which their carpenter had built them ye year before; for

bigger vessel they had none,” Bradford wrote. The Pilgrims spread their corn out to dry on “a little deck (laid) over her midships,” endured some inclement weather, and traded with Kennebec Indians.

“But God preserved them, and gave them good success, for they brought home ... beaver (furs possibly worth 700 English pounds, then a small fortune), besides some other furrs,” Bradford wrote in describing the expedition’s success.

The Pilgrims knew a good trade when they made one. In the following years, Pilgrim shallops took corn and other trade goods up the Kennebec to trade for furs. If the Pilgrims could dominate the trade, they would prosper, but Bradford sensed competition would rise.

It did. In 1626 or 1627, non-Pilgrim traders disrupted the lucrative Kennebec River trade by trading the Indians

twice as much corn for a similar number of furs than had the Pilgrims. These traders also introduced nonedible trade goods, which the Pilgrims had avoided. Bradford immediately responded to the threat. The Pilgrims needed a larger vessel, so they hired “an ingenious man that was a house carpenter,” who had worked with the Plymouth Colony’s late shipbuilder. The carpenter cut “one of ye biggest of ther shalops” in two and lengthened it “some 5. or 6. foot, and strengthened her with timbers, and so built her up, and laid a deck on her,” Bradford wrote.

This enlarged shallop sailed in 1627 and remained in service for the Pilgrims another six trading seasons. The ship carried more corn to the Kennebec so the Pilgrims (with Winslow probably at the helm) could meet the competition’s price.

Yet Bradford did not intend to duke it out for the Kennebec River trade just (cont. on page 36)

at the local level. The Plymouth County shipped Isaac Allerton to London in 1627 to acquire a royal charter granting the Pilgrims exclusive trading rights on the Kennebec.

Allerton brought home the charter, plus a legal muddle, in 1628. Ill-defined boundaries left the grant in question, so back went the petition (and Allerton) to London in 1629.

This time the Pilgrims obtained exactly what they sought: exclusive trading rights along the Kennebec and all the land “the space of fifteen English miles on each side of the said river,” as well as unhindered access to the river mouth at Popham. The charter defined the regional boundaries as the Cobbosseecontee Stream (spelled “Cobisecontee also Comosoconte”, which indicates the difficulty the English experienced in phonetically translating Indian pronunciations even then) to the south and Winslow, described in (cont. from page 35)

the charter as “a place called the falls of Nequamkike,” or possibly Norridgewock to the north.

And the charter forbid “all others to traffick (with) the natives or inhabit any of the said limits (boundaries)” without the permission of William Bradford, “his heirs & Associates…” “ Granted the charter, the Pilgrims would not allow other white traders to usurp their territory. And if the Pilgrims found other colonists doing so, the charter authorized them “to take, apprehend, & make prize of all such (persons), their ships & goods as shall attempte to inhabite or trade” with the Indians living along the Kennebec River. What the Pilgrims did with captured interlopers, ships, and goods was not spelled out in the charter.

Despite the authority granted by the charter, Bradford realized a royal paper would not deter unscrupulous colonists from trespassing on Pilgrim terri-

tory. Figuring the 1628 charter would hold when Allerton sailed to England in 1629, Bradford convinced Pilgrim leaders to build a trading post on the Kennebec. The Pilgrims dispatched men, where they “now erected a house up above in ye river in ye most convenient place for trade.” “That location would be Cushnoc, known today as Augusta, where high bluffs briefly shoulder the river. Closer to Gardiner (Cobbosseecontee) than Winslow (Nequamkike), the Cushnoc post controlled access to the upper river.

The Pilgrims manned Cushnoc yearround, supplying its habitually undermanned garrison with various food staples (“biskett, pease, prunes, &etc.”), clothing, trade goods, and money for buying other supplies from “the fishing ships” working the Kennebec waters.

The Cushnoc trading post lasted at best a few decades. The Indians heavily trapped the available fur-bearing stock (cont. on page 38)

(cont. from page 36)

within the original land grant, and by the mid-17th century, tensions between Indians and colonists simmered, finally breaking into a war that stopped trading between red men and white men at Cushnoc.

While they held Cushnoc, though, the Pilgrims traded relatively fairly with the Indians. Other white men were occasionally “run out of town” by the Cushnoc garrison, but in 1661, the charter passed by purchase to several Boston residents.

The Pilgrims were gone from Cushnoc, never to return.

Boothbay’s Railway Village Museum

by Brian Swartz

TCelebrating 60 years in 2024

he Railway Village Museum at 586 Wiscasset Road in Boothbay celebrates its 60th anniversary this year. Among the first buildings that people see when turning into the parking lot is the train station that led George McEvoy to found the museum

all those years ago.

Born and raised in Massachusetts, McEvoy “summered here all my life” at Southport and knew the Boothbay region very well. “My father worked 27 years with the Canadian Pacific Railroad, so I grew up knowing about transportation quite a bit,” he said. “I was a train fan” who had electric trains when he was young.

After graduating from Nasson College in Springvale, McEvoy lived in Brunswick while working as the Bowdoinham school principal. Phillip Carr, a friend, worked as the Maine Central Railroad’s station agent in Freeport. The mail train running from Bangor to Portland picked up the Freeport mail bags at 9:03 p.m. McEvoy often visited Carr in the evening and sometimes helped “load these heavy bags when the L.L. Bean catalog came out.” One night he saw a sign indicating that the MCRR was closing and selling the Freeport station. It had to be moved — or it would be torn down.

“It was a beautiful station, built in 1912,” McEvoy said. Bidding “a few hundred dollars, not much,” he got the building. McEvoy decided to relocate the station to Boothbay and turn it into a railroad museum.

A carpenter friend examined the sta-

tion and said it could be moved. South Portland-based Kennebec Trucking — “steeplejacks and movers of odd things” — cut the station’s roof into five sections and the building into four sections in 1963. With a state permit in hand and the Maine State Police controlling traffic, Kennebec Trucking transported the sections trailer by trailer east on Route 1 to a field McEvoy had purchased on Route 27 in Boothbay.

There he and others reassembled the Freeport station on a new foundation. “We were a whole year putting her together,” he said. “We filled it with railroad material and memorabilia.”

The Railway Village Museum opened in 1965. “All we had were two driveways, a parking lot, and a train station sitting in a field,” McEvoy said. After people suggested adding an operational train, “we put in a 2-foot narrow-gauge railroad” that ran 0.7 miles from the station “out through the woods and back to the station.”

McEvoy purchased a narrow-gauge steam locomotive from Germany and “some freight cars and a lot of wheels and axles” from a Massachusetts machine works. Boat builder Cecil Pierce built a smaller version of a passenger coach based on plans for a Wiscasset, Waterville, & Farmington Railroad

passenger coach.

“We put this car on the tracks, I got my steam license, and it’s running today, 60 years later,” McEvoy said. He later acquired additional locomotives.

Museum attendance was “very spotty” that first summer. “People liked what I was doing,” though, and “they gave me a lot of ideas,” he said. The museum expanded as people donated railroad-related items, including crossing towers and a railroad station built in Thorndike in 1871.

The museum acquired 25 buildings that now comprise “the historic village” spread around the village green and near the railroad tracks, said Bob Ryan, hired by McEvoy in 1984 as the museum’s executive director. He retired in 2015.

“What I really enjoyed about it was, it was such a Maine-focused historical facility,” Ryan recalled his early years at the museum. “The core of the museum is trying to capture and save Maine history and to give people a peek” into that history. “I don’t pretend to know every museum in New England or the U.S., but I think there are very few where you can take a ride on a historic narrow-gauge steam train and see these historic buildings.”

Among them is the Boothbay Town Hall, built in 1847 for $700. The location where Boothbay voters gave their nod to Abraham Lincoln in the 1860 (cont. on page 42)

Child standing with antique cars at the Boothbay Railway Village Museum (photo courtesy of Bob Crink and the Boothbay Railway Village Museum)

presidential election, the town hall “is a gorgeous building” with a balcony, a stage, and post-and-beam construction, Ryan said.

A new town hall built in the 1990s turned the old town hall into a storage building. The museum sought and obtained voter permission to move the 1847 building up Route 27 and reassemble it on site. Voters still hold the annual town meeting in the building, which remains town property.

Another historic building is Spruce Point Chapel, built in Boothbay Harbor in the 1920s, used by St. Columba’s Episcopal Church, and moved to the museum in 1995. Weddings take place in the chapel. Other buildings range from a one-room schoolhouse to a farmhouse and barn “moved from across the street” to “a fire station filled with fire trucks from all over Maine,” McEvoy said.

The museum “built a reproduction (cont. from page 41)

of the Bowdoinham freight shed, an exact reproduction. We have a large HO-gauge electric train operating in that building,” he said.

Next door stands the Antique Auto Museum displaying 55 antique automobiles. Most of the “very vibrant and interesting car collection is pre-World War II,” Ryan said. “It actually surprises people, it’s such an extensive collection. Some of the pieces in there are really rare,” including a car “that is only

one of three in the world.”

The Railway Village Museum will open for the 2024 season on Father’s Day, Sunday, June 16. Visitors will agree with Ryan that the museum “is very ambitious and fascinating and has a very broad scope of interest,” from railroad and highway transportation to the historic village and “is a really great opportunity to see Maine back in the day.”

Children riding the train at the Boothbay Railway Village Museum (photo courtesy of Bob Crink and the Boothbay Railway Village Museum)

George Lincoln Rockwell

The godfather of evil in Boothbay Harbor

by Charles Francis

In 1946 the man who would become what many considered the most despicable American of the last half of the twentieth century made Boothbay Harbor his home. That man was George Lincoln Rockwell, the founder of the American Nazi Party. In 1946, however, Rockwell was yet to achieve his infamy. Actually, Rockwell and his wife Judy made Boothbay Harbor their home for only a part of 1946. At the time, the couple was pressed for funds, and because Rockwell had connections on his father’s side of the family here, the two opted for what they hoped would be a simple and relatively inexpensive lifestyle. They came with plans of catch-

ing lobsters, and starting a small photographic business. From what little is known of the couple’s brief stay in the mid-coast in 1946, it would appear that Rockwell failed at both lobstering and photography. Before winter set in, the couple had moved to New York City.

1946 was not the first time George Lincoln Rockwell visited Boothbay Harbor. He was here as a youngster, spending idyllic summers doing what most young people do here today, frolicking on the water, and even finding part-time work in a local hotel.

Today George Lincoln Rockwell is remembered by Mainers for many noxious public acts that he performed

Rockwell during his time in the Navy

during the 1960s. He is known to have thrown wreathes into Portland Harbor to commemorate events in Nazi history like Adolph Hitler’s birthday, and gave speeches at various state landmarks in which he denied the Holocaust and denigrated Blacks and homosexuals. He is also remembered as the first of the neo-Nazis to meld anti-Semitism and racism — a philosophy which was taken up in later years by his only truly significant disciple, David Duke. Duke became the most influential leader in the history of the modern Ku Klux Klan.

That the self-styled Commander of the American Nazi Party should choose Maine for some of his more flamboyant demonstrations is not all that surprising given his Boothbay Harbor connections. Rockwell’s father also had a summer home here, and in his later years made Maine his full-time residence. In fact, George Lincoln Rockwell spent a

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year at Hebron Academy, where he became involved in what he later referred to as his first political conspiracy.

George Lincoln Rockwell — he always referred to himself as Lincoln Rockwell — was born in 1918. It has been mistakenly stated in several sources that he was the son of the great illustrator Norman Rockwell. While they may have been distantly related, George Lincoln Rockwell was, in reality, the son of George Lovejoy Rockwell, one of the foremost vaudevillians of the first half of the twentieth century. The elder Rockwell, who had divorced George Lincoln’s mother, and lived with a common-law wife, appeared on stage as Doc Rockwell, a supposed chiropractor whose chief prop was a banana. Doc Rockwell was such a popular stage performer that even during the Depression he was making $3500 a week. When George Lincoln visited his father in Maine, frequent house

See operating antique turn-of-the-century Kiss Wrapping Machine. Watch the Harbor’s only candy-maker cook, pull, flavor, design and wrap Maine’s nicest-eating Saltwater Taffy. Our Peanut Butter Kisses are World’s Best!

guests would include such well-known figures from the entertainment industry as Fred Allen, Benny Goodman, Walter Winchell, and Groucho Marx. Doc Rockwell himself spent the last years of his life contributing a regular humor column on doings in Boothbay Harbor to Downeast Magazine.

Lincoln Rockwell grew up in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Most of the year, his father was on the vaudeville circuit. Each summer, however, the elder Rockwell summered at Boothbay Harbor, in what the founder of the American Nazi Party would later refer to as an “idyllic home in the Maine woods.” Rockwell’s typical summer adventures included sailing around Southport Island and to Pemaquid. In fact, the summer before he entered Brown University, he lobstered off Boothbay, and worked as a waiter at Green Shutters, a small Boothbay Harbor hotel.

Most of Lincoln Rockwell’s second-

(cont. on page 46)

(cont. from page 45) ary schooling was at Atlantic City High School, and at Central High School in Providence, Rhode Island. However, when his grades began to drop off at Atlantic City High School, he was sent to Hebron Academy in the little central Maine town of Hebron. It was here that Rockwell became involved in his first political cabal. Rockwell would later describe the occurrence in his autobiography, This Time The World, which he dedicated to Adolph Hitler, among others.

The most hated instructor at Hebron Academy was a chemistry teacher by the name of Foster. Rockwell and some of his fellow Sturtevant Hall cronies organized a secret society called the Phi Phis. The Phi Phis’ reason for existing was to make Foster’s life miserable. Its members posted derogatory signs maligning Foster all over the campus, held torch-light marches demanding his dis-

missal, and even burned him in effigy. At one point, they even tried to dupe the dormitory’s biggest “boob” into throwing nitroglycerin into Foster’s living quarters. Obviously, Rockwell was already conversant with Nazi tactics of intimidation — and they worked, for Foster left Hebron.

Lincoln Rockwell enrolled in college at Brown University. From Brown he went into the Navy, where he learned to fly P-38s at Pensacola Naval Air Station in Florida. He spent most of the latter part of World War II stationed at Pearl Harbor, and was honorably discharged from the Navy shortly after the close of hostilities.

George Lincoln Rockwell’s American Nazi Party — Rockwell later changed the name to the Nationalist Socialist White People’s Party — had, at its height, some one thousand members. In 1967, shortly after his last trip

to Maine, Rockwell was killed in a hail of bullets as he was driving his car outside of Arlington, Virginia. An attempt was made to bury him in a military cemetery, but protests prevented it.

At the time of his death, one political cartoonist portrayed Rockwell as a giant spider, weaving a web of deceit and deception. Another showed him as a Mafia-like godfather of evil. This latter characterization was, without doubt, the most accurate, as the American Nazi Party served as inspiration for such later right-wing hate groups as the Skinheads.

Colonel Robert Rheault

by James Nalley

The Rockland and Owls Head connection to Apocalypse Now

The Vietnam War was a long, bloody, and divisive conflict in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia that lasted from November 1, 1955, to the fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975. In total, more than 58,000 American soldiers were killed. Opposition to the war in the United States bitterly divided Americans, even after President Richard Nixon ordered the withdrawal of U.S. forces. Thus, when the U.S. Army charged a Green Beret commander and six of his officers with murder and conspiracy in July 1969 for the secret execution of a Vietnamese spy, as stated in The New York Times (in an article dated

November 1, 2013), “It caused widespread consternation on both sides of the growing American divide over the war in Vietnam.” Interestingly, his persona inspired screenwriter John Milius to immortalize him as Colonel Walter Kurtz (played by Marlon Brando) in Francis Ford Coppola’s film Apocalypse Now. There is even an Owls Head and Rockland connection to this charismatic colonel, who could “scale mountains and speak flawless French.”

Robert Rheault was born on October 31, 1925, in Westwood, a suburb of Boston, Massachusetts. His father, Charles Auguste, served with the Roy(cont. on page 52)

Robert Rheault, USMA class of 1946

(cont. from page 51)

al Canadian Mounted Police and was stationed in Labrador, where he met his future wife, Rosamond Bradley. Rheault spoke French from an early age and eventually graduated from Phillips Exeter Academy in 1943. After graduating from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point in 1946, he continued on and earned his master’s degree in international relations at George Washington University.

During the Korean War (19501953), Rheault achieved the rank of captain and was awarded the Silver Star for his actions in combat. After Korea, he taught French at West Point for several years and attained the rank of major. In 1961, as tension was brewing in Southeast Asia, Rheault completed the Special Forces Qualification course (informally, the Q-Course), after which his initial Special Forces assignment was the 10th Special Forces Group in Germany.

According to the Los Angeles Times (in an article dated November 2, 2013), “In 1969, Col. Robert Rheault landed a long-coveted assignment in Vietnam: commanding the Fifth Special

Forces Group, championed by President John F. Kennedy and glorified by John Wayne. However, he held the job for only three weeks, when a scandal broke, one that ‘Time’ magazine would later call ‘second only to the My Lai killings.’” As stated earlier, he and six of his officers were charged in the secret execution of Thai Khac Chuyen, a South Vietnamese translator who was working with the men on covert operations in Laos. Meanwhile, his supporters condemned the charges, since they saw it as a Catch-22 military absurdity; that is, the prosecution of front-line soldiers for killing the enemy during war. Yet, opponents of the war presented it as proof of American involvement in a campaign of terror and assassination. Rheault and the six defendants, all of whom denied the charges, were immediately arrested and placed in a military stockade in Saigon.

As mentioned in The New York

November 1969 cover of Life Magazine with Robert Rheault (courtesy of Henry Groskinski)

Times, approximately two months later, “there was a second firestorm, when Stanley Resor, the Secretary of the Army, stated that the charges against the seven defendants were being dropped because the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), whose operatives were key witnesses, had refused to cooperate.” Upon their release, Rheault called the charges, “a travesty of justice and accused the Army of prosecuting dedicated soldiers for doing their job, carrying out their mission, and protecting the lives of the men entrusted to them in a wartime situation.” Unfortunately, in the press and public, the dismissal of the case left Rheault and his men in a so-called “moral gray zone” in which they were neither convicted nor exonerated.

According to The New York Times, “Witnesses told Army investigators that in May 1969, Mr. Chuyen was suspected of being a double agent, with photo-

graphs showing him (or someone who looked like him) chatting with North Vietnamese Army officers. After interrogating him for 10 days, investigators said that the Green Berets decided to execute him. He was then drugged, tied, taken by boat to the middle of Nha Trang Bay, and shot. His body, weighted with chains, was tossed over the side…The Army paid his widow about $6,000, but gave her no explanations.” However, although the investigators never established who had given the “go-ahead,” it was suspected that the CIA had somehow been involved. Moreover, Robert Marasco, one of the Green Berets charged in the case, told “The New York Times” in 1971 that “he had indeed carried out the execution on the basis of ‘oblique yet very, very clear orders’ from the CIA.” Neither the U.S. Army nor the CIA responded to his comment.

Rheault resigned from the Army and became part of two opposing aspects regarding Vietnam: one that was tarnished and one that was inspirational. As for the latter, John Milius, who wrote the screenplay to the 1979 Vietnam War film, Apocalypse Now, based the Marlon Brando character of Walter Kurtz on both the fictional Kurtz of Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” and the real-life Colonel Rheault. According to Milius, “Colonel Rheault was a great man, and men like him could’ve helped us win the war.” This quote was taken from “Life” magazine in November 1969, when it gave Rheault an admiring profile. The magazine also stated that he “exemplified national ideals of patriotism, challenge, and duty… and, through no fault of his own, he had been caught in the moral twilight between civilian ethics and the aberrant, equivocal principles of war as it is waged in the shadows.”

Several months after his release, (cont. on page 54)

(cont. from page 53)

After his retirement, Rheault became an active and respected member of society. For example, he served as an instructor, program leader, and a member of the board for both “The Apprenticeshop” (a traditional boat-building and maritime school) and “The Warrior Connection” (an organization devoted to the rehabilitation of military veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)). He also served as acting president of the Hurricane Island Outward Bound School in Rockland, Maine. He retired from the school in 2001, after 32 years of service.

Rheault died on October 16, 2013, at his home in Owls Head, Maine. He was 87. According to his son, Robert Rheault Jr., his father remained stoical for the rest of his life about the sudden end of his military career. In fact, “He never spoke ill of the military, only of certain individuals in the military.”

Three women standing with lobster traps in Rockport, ca. 1957. Item # 1977.55.1122.1.1 from the Carroll Thayer Berry Collection and www.PenobscotMarineMuseum.org

Chicken Memories From An Old Broiler Queen

Memories of the Maine Broiler Festival

by Debbie Bird

I’ll be sixty years old this summer and this milestone has me feeling nostalgic as I look back at the life that brought me this far. It’s been a good life all and all. Most of it quite ordinary, though lately I’ve realized that there was a part of my childhood that was unique to a few country people from the area where I was raised. I grew up in Belfast, across the road from my grandparent’s farm where my grandfather raised thousands of broiler chickens for Penobscot and Maplewood Poultry Companies from the early 1950s into the 1970s.

If so, give us a call.

Though the road I lived on was named Pitcher Road, it was locally known as Littlefield Road, because everyone living on that road was a Littlefield relative. Growing up in this large extended family of aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, and grandparents I had a loving support system of people who played together and worked together. As a child there was always plenty of time for play, but on certain occasions everyone pitched together for work, even the children. One of those occasions was when we prepared for the new chickens’ arrival at Grandpa’s (cont. on page 58)

Debbie Bird, 1967 Broiler Queen

(cont. from page 57)

three-story chicken house.

I grew up hearing and believing that Belfast was the “Chicken Capital of the World.” Every July the town sponsored the Maine Broiler Festival where thousands of visitors arrived for the gigantic parade through town, barbecued chicken in City Park overlooking Penobscot Bay, pie eating contests, games, dances, and the crowning of the Maine Broiler Queen. Living in the country we didn’t get to town too often, but this festival was the celebration of the year for chicken farmers, so all the Littlefields piled into the old pickups and headed to town for the entire day and late into the evening. What a time we had; but for me, the crowning of the broiler queen was the most exciting event. We kids would choose the beauty who we thought would win, and root for her. Of course, all of us little girls aspired to be up on that stage some day, too. Broiler Day was definitely a highlight of our summers, but there was

much work behind the culmination of that celebration.

Raising chickens was generally dusty, dirty, and very stinky hard work. Over seven thousand chickens lived together on each floor of the chicken house. The grain room was attached to the Quonset style barn and held 100-pound burlap bags piled on top of each other filled with a chick mash for the young and poultry feed for the older chickens. Bags of cracked corn and crushed stone lined the wall for the older chickens. Cracked corn was spread by hand to fatten up the broilers before being taken back to the factory. Crushed stone was also spread by handfuls to help the chicken’s digestion process. The stone in the bird’s crop helped to grind up the food before digesting it into the stomach below. Below the grain room was the coal room that stored the fuel for the numerous stoves spread throughout each floor of the barn.

Grandpa and Uncle Gene fed, watered, and cared for this huge flock daily. They didn’t have automated feeders and waterers in those days. All the work was done by hand, carrying buckets of grain from the grain room to each feeder, up and down the stairs, in and out numerous times. Glass waterers were re-filled each day, and stoves were filled with coal twice a day to keep the young chicks warm and cozy. This work continued for seven to nine weeks for the pullets and up to 14 weeks for the roasters. After a few weeks old, a crew of men from the chicken factory would come, herd the flock into a smaller fenced off section of each floor, and de-beak them by burning the tip of the top beak back. As a child I thought the purpose of that process was to keep them from pecking me, but I suppose it was actually done to keep them from pecking each other. Chickens feel no loyalty toward each other and will very quickly turn on a weaker brother or sister and peck them to death. At seven to nine weeks, the factory crew would return and again fence off the chickens to gather up the pullets to take to the factory. A long flatbed truck stacked several layers high with wooden crates would pull into the yard and up to the end of the chicken house. After loading all the pullets, the truck with each crate stuffed to the gills with chickens would slowly pull out of the yard. We’d stand in the driveway watching the feathers fly and listening to the squawking until it was out of sight down the road. A few weeks later the whole process would be repeated with the roasters. Then it was time for the kids to get involved! Raising chickens was mostly Grandpa and Uncle Gene’s work, but there were times they needed the whole neighborhood of relatives to help. After the chicken house was cleared out of its inhabitants, a crew of male friends and relatives descended on the barn. Starting with the top floor they would shovel the packed chicken droppings mixed with old nasty sawdust into wheelbar-

rows and dump the waste down threefoot square holes that were aligned with the same size holes on the second floor into dump trucks parked on the bottom floor under the holes above. When the third floor was cleaned down to the cement, the crew would move to the second floor and clean it. The bottom floor was easier to clean because tractors with buckets could drive in to gather up the waste. The full dump trucks would haul away the waste and spread it onto a farm field far from the house. Mammie, my dear grandmother, had a nose like a hound dog, and wouldn’t stand for the smelly refuge to be spread within a couple of miles of the house. The chicken house was smelly enough on ordinary days but stirring up that mess spread that ammonia chicken smell far distances.

Washing the dishes was considered woman’s work in my family, and that rule spread to the chicken barn as well.

(cont. on page 60)

Debbie Bird getting crowned Boiler Queen in 1967

(cont. from page 59)

While the male relatives were cleaning the barn, we girls set up two large metal tubs in the grain room to wash the waterers. The two-piece glass waterers had caked on crud from living with the chickens for weeks and getting them clean for the next round of baby chicks was not an easy task. We set up two large metal tubs in the grain room, one for soapy water and one for rinsing, changing the nasty water every half hour. We’d take turns washing, rinsing, and stacking the clean waterers on long boards stacked four deep and four wide. The washing would take about three days to complete, but the camaraderie of storytelling, gossiping, and jokes would make the time fly by. When I was quite young Mammie, Aunt Wilda, and Aunt Bev were the chief bottle washers, but as the next generation of girls grew old enough, we took over the responsibility. My cousins Bren-

da, Rhonda, and Linda and I have great memories of working on the waterers for several years. Rhonda reminded me lately of the time Mammie picked up a dirty waterer and found a nest of baby mice in it. Not fazed, she quickly disposed of the vermin and continued with the task at hand. When finished with the washing and cleaning up the grain room, Grandpa would give each of us girls a silver dollar for our efforts. I always saved that silver dollar to spend at the Union Fair every August.

Next came the sawdust truck. It had a long shute attached to the back of the truck that could fit into the barn windows, and sawdust was blown into huge piles on both ends of each floor. I loved the day that the sawdust truck came, because we kids would get to play in the huge sawdust mounds, sliding down the sides and playing king of the mountain. After sufficient playtime,

it was time to spread the sawdust about six inches deep over the floors. Using wheelbarrows and shovels we kids worked together with the men to finish this chore. In the wintertime Grandpa would keep the coal stoves lit for us, and the warm and sweet-smelling barn was a cozy place to be.

The next step to ready the barn for the new chicks was to place rolled corrugated cardboard rings around each coal stove. We’d tuck the bottom of the rings into the sawdust and edge it with our feet so it would be stable. Then we’d lay newspapers inside of these rings, so that the baby chicks wouldn’t eat the sawdust. We kids had contests to see how fast we could lay papers, but Grandpa’s inspection always made us be careful to lay them correctly with no sawdust showing. Next, we filled the waterers and feeders and placed five of them in each circle. Now the chick-

en house was ready, and excitement mounted for us kids.

My favorite chicken memories were when the day-old babies arrived. My cousins and I would wait on the big rock on the front lawn guessing which upcoming vehicle sound would be the chicken truck, anxiety growing with each passing vehicle. When it did arrive, we kids would run to meet the small crew bringing this precious cargo. The covered trailer held stacks on stacks of cardboard boxes with circular breathing holes showing little beaks and fluffy heads peering out. Instead of the squawking of the grown chickens going to the factory, the greeting of soft peepers coming to us from the factory was music to our ears. Each of us would wait in line to carry a box of baby chicks into the barn and stack them in the grain room for the two upper floors and the coal room for the bottom floor.

After the truck was emptied and, on its way, we would take each box to a warm coal-fired stove circled with cardboard rings and papered so neatly. Then we would reach our hands into one of the four compartments in the box and lift out the soft little balls of fur, so warm and sweet. The memory of that act is still so vivid in my mind. Over and over, we would reach in and gently empty out box after box of the babies into their new home. For me, the climax of the week of work we had done in preparation for their arrival was the moments we handled those little ones. I would go to visit those chicks each day for a week or so until they started growing big feathers. At that point they weren’t cute and sweet anymore, and my attention would turn to some other adventure on the farm. Then the work in the chicken house turned back to Grandpa and Uncle Gene once more

until we all would be needed again in 14 to 15 weeks.

Each year the poultry company would give bonus checks to farm raisers who raised the healthiest chickens with the fewest death rates. Grandpa always received a bonus check, and a few times was named “Grower of the Year” by the poultry company. During those years he would be invited to a celebration and banquet hosted by Penobscot or Maplewood Company. Mammie was always too shy to attend these functions with Grandpa, so Aunt Bev went with him a few times.

As I grew into a teenager and was busy with school and summer jobs, the chicken work was turned over to younger siblings and cousins. However, we all still celebrated the chicken industry every July at the Broiler Festival. My little girl’s dream of being on that queen’s stage came true for me in (cont. on page 62)

(cont. from page 61)

1967 when I was crowned Maine Broiler Queen. My chicken raising family picked me as the beauty of their choice, and the cycle was completed. The Portland Press Herald featured a picture of me with my crown and trophy and titled it, “The Pick of the Chicks.”

During the next ten years my grandfather retired from raising chickens, and the chicken industry in Belfast was dying. Today the factories are gone and only a few old chicken houses remain in the mid coastal area of Maine, and these few remaining barns now are renovated into storage facilities or for other uses. Yes, looking back over these past 60 years at my ordinary life, I realize that my chicken raising experiences weren’t all that ordinary. Those days are gone forever except in the memories of the aging populace from “the Chicken Capital of the World.”

Rockland’s Hanson Gregory

The legend of the doughnut hole

by Wanda Curtis

One of America’s favorite snack foods today is the delicious treat referred to as a “doughnut.” CNBC reported in 2015 that Americans consumed more than a half billion dollars’ worth of donuts, from convenience stores alone, during the previous year. The authors of www.statisa.com report that, by 2024, doughnut revenue is projected to reach 55 billion U.S. dollars worldwide.

What doughnut fans may not realize is that most historians credit a seafaring young Mainer with the invention of the first doughnut with a hole in the center. They report that a Glen Cove teenager, Hanson Gregory, was the first

one known to have intentionally poked a hole in the center of a doughnut in 1847, and he made history.

An earlier version of the doughnut, created by the Dutch, was known as an “olykoek” or “oily cake.” That was made with flour, eggs, yeast, baking powder, and dried fruit mixed, shaped into a ball, and fried in lard. The problem with olykoeks was that often the center did not get completely cooked and it tasted “doughy.” Nonetheless, olykoeks were a favorite of many people, including well-known American author and diplomat Washington Irving.

In 1809, Irving wrote the following

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about “olykoeks in A History of New York, from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty

“Sometimes the table was graced with immense apple pies, or saucers full of preserved peaches and pears; but it was always sure to boast of an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog’s fat, and called dough-nuts, or oly koeks: a delicious kind of cake, at present scarce known in this city, excepting in genuine Dutch families.”

Like many young men living on the coast of Maine, Hanson Gregory was employed on a ship at a young age. Historians report that he was just (cont. on page 64)

(cont. from page 63)

16 years old when he headed out to sea, transporting lime on a schooner, with a package of his mother’s deepfried dough tucked beneath his arm. Hanson’s mother garnished her fried dough with cinnamon, nutmeg, and lemon rind. She also placed nuts in the center (where the dough might not cook through) and called her pastries “dough-nuts.”

The tale has been passed down through the years that Gregory created the first hole in a doughnut by skewering one of his mother’s doughnuts on the ship’s wheel to keep his hands free. However, Gregory told a Washington Post reporter (in a story printed March 26, 1916) that he used the top of the ship’s round tin pepper box to cut a hole in the middle of his mother’s doughnut. He claimed that was “the first doughnut hole ever seen by mortal eye.”

According to the New England His-

torical Society’s website, Hanson later asked a tinsmith to fabricate a doughnut cutter and soon cooks everywhere were using those to make doughnuts with a hole in the center. The website says that Gregory taught his mother how to make doughnuts by that method and she took several plates to Rockland where people fell in love with them. “After that,” it says, “the donut never looked back.”

Captain Hanson Gregory died in 1921. However, he will always be remembered for his tasty invention. The townspeople of Glen Cove erected a memorial plaque in that town, in 1947, which marked the 100th anniversary of his invention. Doughnuts continued to increase in popularity.

According to a March 1998 Smithsonian Magazine article, “The History of the Doughnut,” the first doughnut machine was invented by a Russian immigrant Adolph Leavitt in 1920. The

author of that article wrote that Leavitt began selling fried doughnuts in his New York bakery and that “hungry theater crowds pushed him to make a gadget that churned out the tasty rings faster, and he did.” The same author David Al Taylor reported that Leavitt’s machines eventually earned him “a dreamy $25 million a year mostly from wholesale deliveries to bakers around the county.”

Doughnuts became even more pop-

ular when the Salvation Army sold doughnuts during World War I to raise money for the war effort. They also opened canteens, in towns away from the front lines, where they served coffee and doughnuts to soldiers, offering a bit of comfort food to remind them of home.

Troy Lennon, history editor for The Daily Telegraph noted in a June 22, 2017 article that women who operated the canteens were known as “Doughnut Dollies” and that they also served doughnuts in later wars. Lennon said that doughnuts were popular not only among American soldiers but also among Australian soldiers. That increased the demand for doughnuts in both the U.S. and Australia when the soldiers returned home. Australians now eat more than 100 million doughnuts a year, said Lennon.

Charles "Charlie" Laurance Humphrey Francis, age 80, of Lower Wolfville passed away June 10, 2023, in the Valley Hospice, Kentville. Born October 1, 1942, in Portland, Maine, USA; he was the son of the late Henry Russell Francis and Marguerita (Woods) Francis.

Charlie was first and always a teacher. He grew up in the Unitarian Church. He was also a voracious reader in the fields of science, theology, literary critique, and popular history. Genealogy was a strong interest. He became a regular contributing writer for Discover Maine Magazine, sharing articles on the popular history of Maine for over 20-years until his death.

Charlie earned degrees from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst; Mount Allison University in New Brunswick, where he obtained a degree in Canadian Studies; and University of Maine at Orono, where he earned a Master of Science Degree in Education. After his studies, Charles taught first in Mars Hill, Maine, USA. He then continued teaching at NYA in Yarmouth, Maine, USA, and at Searsport District High School where he taught history and English, was involved in curriculum development and coached cross-country.

Following retirement in 1990, Charlie moved to Monroe, Maine, USA, where he served as Chair of the Selection Board. In the early to mid-1990s, he served aboard the light ship “Nantucket”. His interest in the history of his community was shown in his leadership in restoring the Civil War statue in Monroe. His fascination with Canadian history led him to Halifax and his Howe family connection.

Charlie fell in love with his wife’s country and became a proud and fervent citizen of Canada in 2002. Together they were the owners of his “Shangri-la” near Annapolis Royal. He delighted in living in the heart of Canada's birthplace. Nature and the environment were his sources of spiritual connection. Gardening, daily runs, which in later years became daily walks, fed his joy.

Charlie is lovingly remembered by his wife, Mary Lou Rockwell of Wolfville; daughter, Sarah Francis of Gray, Maine, USA; grandchildren, Curtis Austin and Margaret (Maggie) Austin of Gray, Maine, USA; special first cousin, Jack Woods, Peapack, New Jersey, USA; and Jetta the Cat of Wolfville.

Cremation has taken place and in accordance with Charlie’s wishes, there will be no service. Memorial donations may be made to the Valley Hospice in Kentville or The Lodge That Gives in Halifax (1-888-939-3333). Arrangements have been entrusted to Serenity Funeral Home, 34 Coldbrook Village Park Dr., Coldbrook, NS, B4R 1B9 (902679-2822).

Courtesy of Serenity Funeral Home

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