by Monica Wood
Dan Abbott lived this book with me; thank you, sweetheart.
I thank also my angelic sisters—Anne, Catherine, and Elizabeth—for allowing me to write about them so deeply. And my big brother, Barry, for adding to the final polish, not to mention for all the music over the years.
It takes a village to write a book about a village. I’m indebted to so many people for sharing their knowledge and memories. The librarians at the Rumford Public Library, especially Sharon Madore, had to set me up anew on a balky microfiche every time I came in. The ladies at the Rumford Historical Society—Dru Breton and Myrtle McKenna—offered ongoing good cheer and allowed me to look at original copies of the Rumford Falls Times from the 1960s, which helped me immeasurably. The Mexico Historical Society offered me my first chance to speak publicly about my book, which led me to people who once worked with my father. Tiny historical societies like these exist all over America, usually run by volunteers who have taken on the thankless task of preserving the story of us. If your town has one, for God’s sake, give them some money.
Many thanks to Mike Madore, for so patiently talking me through the papermaking process; to Harry Carver, for sharing his memories of my father and his work; and to Lucienne (Gagnon) Buckingham, for granting me a poignant afternoon in her kitchen to reminisce about sewing shoes. Norma (Hickey) Berry answered my questions by return e-mail, sent me photographs of the Wood girls as children, and added details to my recollection of our colorful landlords. I owe more to Theresa Vaillancourt than I can ever express, but I thank her here specifically for saving my first completed book, Omer and Brownie, all these years. And to Denise Vaillancourt, who cried her way through early drafts, just as I predicted: Denise, your friendship is my treasure.
Wes McNair first urged me to write about my hometown for the anthology A Place Called Maine, published by Down East Books. I’m so grateful. My pal Amy MacDonald accompanied me, at a nearby table in the University of New England library, throughout the writing of this book. Hannah Holmes offered tea and sympathy (wine and sympathy, to be precise) at critical junctures. Susan Nevins came up with the title and offered me her camp at Moosehead for the writing of Chapters 4 and 5. And I owe an unrepayable debt to Polly Bennell, who picked me up at a low, low point and coached me through the beginning, the middle, and the end. Polly, you have no idea.
Last, another nod to my sister Catherine, whose memories can hardly be separated from mine. She made me start all over again, from a first draft that read like an appliance manual. Ecana egala forever, Cath.