Ebb Tide: Snapshots from My Three Lives

By Frances Train

Frances Cheston Train has lived a full and fascinating life. Born into a traditional Philadelphia family in 1926, she left home at fourteen to attend the Foxcroft School in Virginia horse country. From there, she went to Bryn Mawr College, but she dropped out after three years to get married at the age of twenty-one.

This affecting memoir takes the reader from 1940 to the present day, with detailed descriptions of the author’s three very different lives with three very different husbands—Whitney Tower, charming sportswriter and the father of her four children; Hugh Fosburgh, Adirondack writer-outdoorsman; and John Train, erudite author and respected investment advisor.

Francie’s life has been shaped by her three marriages, but she has remained very much her own woman throughout. Though she has seen her share of heartbreak and tragedy, the author is unfailingly upbeat and curious. She has traveled extensively, and the reader can climb aboard as she spends time with pygmies in the Congo, the Komodo dragon in Indonesia, fishing in Siberia, and hunting in the Adirondacks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532069574

Frances Train

Frances Cheston Train splits her time between Bedford, New York and Dark Harbor, Maine. When she isn’t writing, she is busy keeping up with four generations of her ever-expanding family. At age 92, she is often asked about the secrets for a long and happy life. Her response: “Keep in touch with nature, stay young at heart and maintain your sense of humor.”

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Copyright © 2019 Frances Train.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-6956-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6957-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/14/2019

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter 1 Foxcroft and Bryn Mawr

Chapter 2 Whitney Tower

Chapter 3 Moving to Bedford

Chapter 4 The American Museum of Natural History

Chapter 5 The Congo Expedition

Chapter 6 North Woods Memories

Chapter 7 For The Good Times

Chapter 8 A Buck For Hugh

Chapter 9 Fishing

Chapter 10 Travels With John

This book is

dedicated to…

Acknowledgements

To my eagle-eyed editor, Mark Donovan, thank you for your understanding and patience, and your uncanny ability to put together my jigsaw puzzle recollections. You molded my stream-of-consciousness memories into a book, without hurting my feelings, because your practical suggestions were to the point and easy to grasp.

On the practical side, thank you to my neighbor in Islesboro, Catherine Demchur-Merry, who guided me through the mysterious labyrinth of word processing. You are a wonderful teacher and a woman of many talents—always cheerful, even after falling out of an apple tree and splintering your ankle.

My computer life all became possible, 15 years ago, also in Maine, thanks to lessons from my tireless expert, Page Clason. And in Bedford I received invaluable emergency assistance from Sonia Dobson. Thank you.

Introduction

Writing this memoir at 92 years old has been like walking along the shore on an ebbing tide, when all sorts of hidden things—be they junk or treasures—are revealed and exposed, or re-discovered, with a fresh eye. Some say, why not leave them safely buried? But maybe it is good to let the thistles, weeds and blossoms bloom again in the daylight.

As I write, I turn to a diary that I kept sporadically during the sad years that led relentlessly down the boggy path to my second husband Hugh Fosburgh’s despair and eventual suicide. The diary helps me as I dig up those unsettled, complicated parts of my life that I had buried and sealed away because they interfered with the ingrained patterns of my growing up years, and my naive belief that my adult life would be serene and unmarred by turmoil or difficulty, like my childhood.

I had four children to think about, and I only now realize how hard it must have been for them to deal with a distracted and weepy mother. I should have shared the worry and pain about my dissolving marriage with them, but in keeping with my upbringing, one didn’t talk about such things as unhappiness, heartbreak, alcoholism or love affairs, and certainly not with the children. Never in front of the children was the accepted dictum of those times. Unlike today, sharing was not the norm, and mothers and fathers were supposed to be impervious to such weaknesses. These were things to be ashamed of, burdens to be borne by oneself, and kept secret.

It all started, I suppose, because I grew up in a loving, overly protective family cocoon. I was born in 1926, and, in retrospect, my childhood seems remarkable for its lack of drama, total ignorance of sex, and obedience to the Victorian-Edwardian manners and strictures of those days. My life was dominated by sentiment, by family, by well-loved houses and country environments with their animals, all so important to me. It was safe and insular and, above all, happy.

I remain uncomfortable with city life, not tempted by theater, concerts, restaurants or shopping. In fact, when I am dressing for a party, I think of it as choosing something exotic from the old costume trunk, a pleasant exercise in play-acting, not the real, blue-jeaned me. But then, as a friend once told me after I had changed out of my hunting garb, Francie, you clean up pretty good.

As a teenager, I believed that if I responded to the first inner stirrings of romantic love, that it would lead inevitably to marriage. I was clearly under the spell of all those handsome princes from my fairy tales and the unrealistic promise of happily ever after. I recall dreaming away in bed at age 18, in 1945, wondering if the decorated World War II pilot who had waltzed with me the night before might kiss me, and then… the inevitable leap to… Where would we live when we got married? How could I speculate about marriage after one night of dancing, and not even a kiss?

Now I understand why. It was all about Forbidden Sex. Because of the Everlasting Shame connected with a visit to that mysterious destination known as All the Way, my powerful, untried feelings had to be sublimated. The only way to open that Pandora’s box would be to marry.

Looking back, I have the strange notion that I have hardly ever not been married, or in a relationship. I never sought independence. I never had a chance to try it out. I married my charming first husband, Whitney Tower, in 1947, when I was barely 21. That marriage ended (most unwillingly on my part) in 1965. I married the handsome writer-outdoorsman Hugh Fosburgh in 1968. He died in 1976. I married the erudite and witty John Train in 1977, and this marriage has lasted—to date—41 years. Each of my husbands was (and is) special in different ways, and my time spent with each of them has given me three entirely different lives.

Frances Train

Bedford, New York 2019

CHAPTER 1

Foxcroft and Bryn Mawr

I t was preordained that I would be admitted to the Foxcroft School. Two sisters had gone there, as well as two first cousins and numerous friends, and sometimes even their mothers from the Philadelphia area. I had no say in the matter, but, happily, I had no reason to object.

When I arrived for my first day at Foxcroft in Middleburg, Virginia in September 1940, we new girls were greeted by the legendary head of the school, Miss Charlotte Noland. I was 14 years old, completely unsophisticated, dressed in a grey flannel suit made by the tailor who created my mother’s sidesaddle riding habits. I was wearing bobby socks and lace-up oxford shoes with rubber soles. Many of my classmates wore fashionable suits, pumps with little heels, stockings, and even, in some cases, LIPSTICK! I was carsick from the long, swaying bus ride from Union Station in Washington, D.C. I was also homesick, shy and confused.

Miss Charlotte was dressed in her sidesaddle habit, not her dress green one, but a serviceable navy blue twill. The long skirt was hooked up to its tab, and the once shiny black boots were splattered with mud. Her white hair was escaping from its bun in wisps, and her blue eyes flashed with life and vim. She had just returned from an early morning cub hunt, the first hunt of the fall season.

What did she show us first? The stables, of course, where her lovely grey hunter, Rokeby, was being sponged off after the hunt. There was a pole barrier across the lane to the stable yard, and she chinned herself several times, as we gaped in amazement. See, girls? It is good to be fit as fiddles and ready for anything! She led us on to the gym, where she swarmed up a knotted rope attached to a ceiling beam. A daunting how-do-you-do, to say the least.

Afterward, someone—probably Miss Shookie, the athletic director—took pity on us and led us to our new home in Porch House, a charming but flimsy-looking old wooden building. But where were the beds? On a sleeping porch! Iron cots were lined up, two to a cubicle, and the big windows opened wide to the outdoors except for bug screens and canvas curtains that could be pulled or pulled down according to the weather. Heavy wool army-type blankets were covered with stiff grey canvas against blowing rain or snow. Our dressing rooms were across the hall, each with two bureaus and not much else. There were dormitory-style bathrooms with a shower and an old-fashioned clawfoot tub, and very little hot water, as we soon found out. We washed our hair once a week.

It was a shock, even though we had heard many tales of snow on the canvas blanket covers from our older relatives and Foxcroft graduates, who enthusiastically recounted unusual memories of their school days. Sleeping in cold rooms has been a habit of mine ever since. After I was married, my husband Whit complained bitterly that he had had enough of trying to sleep in a sleeping bag in freezing conditions in the Army without shivering in his own bedroom. But I have always kept the windows open regardless of husbands.

Miss Charlotte left the indelible imprint of her personality those very first hours of our acquaintance. I have never known anyone like her before or since. In her engaging Virginia accent, she shared ideas and optimism, and exhortations to strive for the heights. She made plain her love for the outdoors. Her insistence on delicious home-cooked food from the school kitchens and vegetable gardens forever changed my preconceived notions about the dreaded idea of boarding school food. She made it all FUN, as well as stressing the importance of hard work, exercise, and reminding us that there were no limits to what we girls could attain. These standards made her an enduring force in the lives of us Foxcrofters. She was an example for all of us, long before the women’s movement.

P1%20Miss%20Charlotte.jpg

Charlotte Noland

My strangest memory from that very first week was when Miss Charlotte gave us an anatomy lesson on a fresh sheep carcass. Now there are the chops, the leg, the shoulder, and the kidneys are down in here. We were horrified as she pointed out the various cuts. Not many of us were farm-bred, and we dreaded the thought of being served up those lamb chops!

Miss Charlotte held a monthly religious service at school, where I learned oft-repeated hymns and spirituals by heart. The words of the hymns still come back to me today, more than 75 years later. Her sermons were filled with verve and rich biblical imagery. I particularly remember a scene she described of a woman who lay-a-dying in her cabin on a straw-filled mattress. Down from the sky came a glorious angel lit with unearthly radiance, accompanied by a heavenly choir, to transport her to the Promised Land! Amen!

Those sermons made lasting impressions, far more memorable than the boring sermons endured on our Sunday expeditions to the formal Episcopal Church in Middleburg. Attendance at those Sunday services was compulsory. We traveled to church in the back of canvas-covered pickup trucks, perched on long, jouncing planks, wearing our Sunday best green flannel uniforms, bundled in our long tan polo coats. And make-up was strictly taboo.

Miss Charlotte treated many of Foxcroft’s African-American employees as friends, and her attitude was transmitted to all of us students. I remember, with affection, Sam Small, the head butler, who ran a store during Lent, the only time when we could buy otherwise forbidden Coca-Colas; the devoted Kizzie, who is buried next to Miss Charlotte in the Foxcroft graveyard and always led the procession at Thanksgiving, bearing an enormous turkey; the jolly waiters like Roland Boland, and the stable workers, full of jokes and kindness. Courtesy and respect were given, and courtesy was received from all.

I suppose that certain aspects of the school might be thought of as eccentric by today’s standards; indeed, some were considered extreme even by the standards of the day. Military drill, for example. Every girl was expected to learn the manual of arms (we had been issued wooden guns), how to march in correct military formation, and to learn to respond instantly to our Drill Master, Col. Butler’s commands. Infractions drew the punishment of marching around and around the school racetrack, in freezing or stormy weather, until we worked off the designated hours for the misdemeanor. This was patterned after the Beast Barracks punishment at West Point, as was the rigid inspection of rooms and standards for personal neatness.

World War II had already started in Europe, and it was plain that the United States would soon be joining the Allies. Miss Charlotte firmly believed that military drill taught good discipline, how to think accurately and execute orders promptly. Drill created better posture and was excellent exercise, good for us privileged girls.

A few years ago, we discovered that 27 Foxcroft graduates and some current students were all summer residents or visitors to the island of Islesboro, Maine, where I have spent many summers. We decided to compete in the annual talent show, which had replaced the old fancy dress party, complete with makeshift uniforms, a marching exhibition, and a snappy manual of arms. We took the salute from Mary Aldrich, the oldest graduate on the island, who was seated in the front row in her wheelchair. We performed this exercise under the direction of a retired Army officer, the late Col. Philo Hutchinson, in his full Army uniform, and discovered to our amazement that we had forgotten very little. All we needed was a little practice. (Later, I learned that Col. Hutchinson did not think as highly of our performance as we did.)

There were many war babies from Britain enrolled at Foxcroft for the duration, and their stories of long separation from their families, the awful nightly bombing raids over London, blackouts and rationing demanded by their war effort, brought home the potential dangers for us. Of course, many of us already had brothers or fathers in early training for the armed services, but except for curtailed or lost vacation time, our own schoolgirl lives were little affected.

One war baby we knew as ‘Penelope Herbert’ never let on that she was the daughter of Lord Porchy Carnarvon, the playboy son of the discoverer of King Tut’s Tomb, who was married to the glamorous singer Tillie Losch. Nor did she mention that she often stayed at her grandfather’s estate, Highclere Castle, better known to TV viewers today as Downton Abbey. There were many daughters of privilege at Foxcroft, but we never knew or bothered to inquire about their wealthy or famous ancestry.

Also in my class were Elizabeth and Ann Winn, nieces of Lady Astor. They were funny mimics and gifted piano players. I remember a sweet, jolly girl named Davina Bowes-Lion, the niece of the Queen Mother (mother of the queen-to-be, Elizabeth II). Miss Charlotte had a wide and eclectic range of acquaintances, which was reflected in the makeup of the diverse student body. She was particularly effective in convincing tough, self-made businessmen that Foxcroft was the right place for their daughters. Many of my classmates were from the West and Midwest, contrary to the perception that Foxcroft only attracted girls from the Waspy world of the Eastern elite.

Integrity, hard work, intellectual excellence, and ability to understand all sorts of people were Miss Charlotte’s character yardsticks. J.C. Penney’s brilliant daughter Mary Frances was in my class. She was accepted at MIT when she was just 17. General Billy Mitchell’s daughter was also at Foxcroft when I was there. He is now regarded as the Father of the U.S. Air Force. One of my favorite schoolmates, because of her exciting pedigree and refreshing life style, was MyMy Howard, daughter of Col. Charles Howard, owner of Seabiscuit, the colorful and celebrated racehorse. MyMy brought a short fur coat with her from Los Angeles. It was soon confiscated.

What other American boarding school can boast its very own ghost? She was Mrs. Kyle, and her tale was of a violent, demented lady, the mad wife of the builder of the Brick House, an 18th century building on the school grounds, now used as an office and dining facility. The story was that she had been locked up on the third floor, and while attempting to escape from her keeper, she broke her neck in a fall down the steep stairs. She was rumored to pace around the school corridors and grounds, moaning and crying. Naturally, we girls were fascinated by this legend.

What happened next is part of Foxcroft lore. Miss Charlotte decided to dig up Mrs. Kyle to see if she could verify any part of the story. The girls were thrilled. Six high honors girls were chosen to be present for the digging. A couple of gravediggers dug three holes and found nothing. Finally, they came across a bone—a big man’s femur. Several more bones—the rib bones of a man—were unearthed. Miss Charlotte surmised that Mrs.