As the commercial says, “Life comes at you real fast.”

I often swear I’ve paid a yearly bill, only to find out it really was last year—not last month. Since embarking on this “memories-to-pen” journey, stories have been coming at me really fast, too. It’s true. One only has to tell a story to get several back. I knew it was true at my own dining room table and from reading personal e-mails. But since Mountain Home made a call for your stories, they also materialize in the grocery store aisle, at the local coffee shop, on the phone, and, yes, the most complete stories come in the mail. Those people take the time to commit to paper. I’ve even received a few from a Hank in Omaha. That’s right, Nebraska. (Later on you’ll hear why his grandma burned down the outhouse.)

So it’s really true. MH is slowly moving across the country and even into Europe. Some have found it to be one of the best ways to keep that feeling of home alive in them. And if these stories prompt you to write your family stories, our families’ and friends’ lives will be that much richer for it. I’ve seen the evidence. Who hasn’t said at some point, “I wish I’d asked my grandparents more about what their life was like.” And, we don’t know how long we have to ask our questions.  “Life comes at you real fast.”

For example, there is Mary Myers, of Wellsboro. She is legally blind yet with her family’s help she’s found a way to read, which includes Mountain Home. Mary also writes her stories. Sometimes she phones to share some of her pieces to “my” stories. Remember the Grubb Hole story in August? Mary wrote this:

“Mid Rockwell, one of Wellsboro’s two true artists (Rosa Hamilton being the other at that long-ago time), used to tell this one on herself. She said that she answered her phone one day and an authoritative female voice said, ‘Good morning! This is Mrs. Grubb.’ Mid, new to the area and to any family named Grubb, responded cheerily, ‘Good morning, Mrs. Grub. This is Mrs. Angleworm.’”

Mary went on to explain how some local men built a raft with empty oil drums, added a diving board, and floated it at the swimming hole.

“They finished their work on a hot Sunday afternoon with a fair-sized appreciative crowd in attendance. One of the raft-builders was a modest citizen of the town, whose first name was Paul. I never knew his middle name, but his wife often used its initial when she referred to him. As he climbed to the diving board that Sunday for the first time, he gained instant attention when his wife called out with evident pride, ‘All right, everybody! Now, watch Paul P.!’”

Recently, Jean Fuller Fish, retired cafeteria manager of Don Gill Elementary School, phoned to share her memories of living in the Grubb Hole area in the ‘30s. She remembered a Mrs. Grubb who came to her family’s home along Route 6 to buy eggs and other fresh produce. Jean was about ten years old when she first saw Mrs. Grubb, who appeared in the back seat of a huge touring car when it pulled into the driveway. Mrs. Grubb remained inside the car as her chauffeur took care of transactions. Jean said the woman always sat very erect and wore a large, black hat and veil, in spite of the hot weather. 

Then one evening Russ Dodson, Mansfield University geology professor, called to say how much he enjoyed the stories. He mentioned the little cable car that spanned Pine Creek at the Grubb Hole and said the U.S. Geological Survey had built those cars to help measure the water’s height at any given hour and to keep track of possible flooding and water-table levels. This solved the mystery of the car’s size and reason for building it in a place where few would care to cross. See? Others may have pieces of your story. Yes, some of the best stories and memories are about everyday people doing everyday things, reminding us of who we are and what we share and value most.

My July article, “Flag of My Father,” spurred two stories. Jim Clark, former owner and manager of Clark’s Hardware and Sporting Goods, recalls very well the July 4 Life magazine in which my “father’s” flag appeared. In 1960, the magazine became an omen that he was making the right decision to move to Tioga County and begin his business. After picking up a copy on his way here from Washington, Pennsylvania, he noticed the picture of the glass-ornament flag, which he’d seen in the 1950s when he taught school in Mansfield and was living in Wellsboro. He also recognized the picture of George Bluhm, chairman of the Republican Party of Pennsylvania and family friend. Jim has never regretted his move to Wellsboro, where he has been a resident for more than fifty years.

Don Hayden, retired quality control manager of the local glassworks plant, recalls working on the flag renovation after Osram sold the plant to GTE. In 1970, Osram had refurbished the flag after many “mysterious disappearances” of ornaments had occurred and age had deteriorated parts of it.  Originally, the star ornaments had been made from silver-coated, old-fashioned photography flashbulbs. Osram placed painted light bulbs on the flag—something that displeased me as well as others who remembered the original flag. After GTE took over, the plant started to make clear glass again and, in 1993, they refurbished the flag, returning it to its original glory. Don recalls the plant replaced the dried-out cork wrapped around the pegs used to hold each bulb. We have the plant’s Trades Department to thank for their work.

I’ve received the biggest response from September’s “Home is Where you Feel It” column and the comments mostly come those who are originally from here and by those who have connections to the area. Recent transplants and those who chose to live in this area years ago explain the “feeling” that the area evoked in them when making a decision to select this as their new home.             

And, of course, I receive comments from my own kids. My daughter Maxine, now living in Annapolis, Maryland, wrote this to me while watching children in the present “making memories” for the future:

“Mom, I just finished reading your ‘Home is Where you Feel It’ as well as the publisher’s ‘Mountain Chatter.’ Nobody else is here, it is quiet, and there is an amazing breeze, today coming from the south (a bit unexpected this time of year). It is sweeping up our hillside from the docks, and carries with it the sound of all the children stealing their last fragments of summer, and creating their memories on the little beach across the cove from our house. I was reading the magazine while perched on the porch swing that you know (and shared with the neighbor’s dog a few years ago). As I started reading, I found myself, while not annoyed, definitely distracted by their shouts and laughter. Of course, the water seems to carry all of these sounds and almost amplify them as they are deposited on the opposing shore and carried up with the breeze to our porch. Anyway, my mild distraction suddenly became a welcome prop to your story, and your connection to the sand, the water, the beach, your family, that still familiar and treasured attachment to your past and to them. Well, gradually I realized, and suddenly delighted in knowing that is what those kids were doing. There I was, witnessing those youngsters’ future (decades-later) memories. How fortunate I was to have that ability to sense the future, a time that, in all likelihood, I won’t even be alive. I so enjoyed hearing, reading your story. I also love to see in print that you are writing your memoirs for your children . . . since reading it, at once erased 40 years . . . thank you for that. I love my magazine, and look forward to reading your column every month for many years. You still have a lot of stories to tell . . . Love, Max”

Maxine’s daughter (my granddaughter, Allison, a Williams College junior who is studying in France at the Sorbonne this semester) said this about “home” after reading the article:

“Grandma, Your ‘Home is Where you Feel It’ was such a great start to my day here in Paris! I had completely forgotten that you had lived near the coast in Rhode Island. It always seemed a little bit of an anomaly that my country-girl mommy would become so nautical, but maybe you secretly passed along your coastally-bound tendencies!

“Between moving back and forth between Reston and the Keys, St. Andrews, Williams, roaming Europe, studying abroad, and living in OTHER family’s homes . . . I’ve definitely had to remain flexible with my sense of ‘home.’  I can totally relate to the serendipitous joy one experiences when little reminders of home sneak up. I rely on all my senses too—and would put pressure on the claim ‘Home is Where you Feel It” only to say it is also where you smell it, taste it, hear it. Sometimes it will begin as simple background music (like hearing Van Morrison playing over a store radio in Fez, Morocco of all places) but escalate into an emotionally moving (almost teleporting) moment.

“One of the reasons I feel so lucky with the family I live with in Paris is because they have such a warm relationship between one another. It’s not as tangible as a REAL home memory (like your baked-apple smells, for example!) but just being at the table as my sister Celeste and her brother Constantin playfully tease each other makes me feel so ‘at home.’ I love you. bisous, [Fr. I love you] Allison”

Out of the mouths of children! Their memories of you come “teleporting” back to you (baked apples) at the most surprising moments. Some day you may be the subject of their memoirs. It could be when their grandchild says, “Grandma, tell me a story!”

Patricia Brown Davis, retired music teacher and professional musician, sincerely  thanks Hank, Mary, Jean, Russ, Jim, Don, Maxine, and Allison for sharing their thoughts and particular stories with us. She says, “This is what gives real meaning to our lives, this sharing.”