This Old House

By Robert Wesley Clement

Recipe For A Long Lasting Secret

Fill This Old House with seventeen good eggs, slightly scrambled.

Bind the batch with the strength and wisdom of Mama.

Stir in a body of cold water inhabited by large eels and who knows what else.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 2020 LITERARY GROUP LLC
• Release date: Apr 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9781962868891

Book preview

This Old House

Copyright © 2024 by Robert Wesley Clement

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN

978-1-962868-88-4 (Paperback)

978-1-962868-89-1 (eBook)

978-1-962868-87-7 (Hardcover)

Dedication

Events in the past six months have proven the wisdom of taking on this story. My two oldest brothers are battling health issues with the same tenacity and spirit that Mama and Daddy instilled in all of us. I would like to thank all my brothers and sisters for the memories they shared with me.

Tom Keegan, thank you for believing in me. I hope this book does you proud.

My wife Carey, you keep me on an even keel, both oars moving us in a direction that keeps a song in my heart. I love you.

My children, Scott, Khristian, and Shellee thanks for letting me be your friend as well as your Dad.

My editors, Carey Clement, Zane Clement, Louise Clement, Bernard Peatman, thanks for keeping a watchful eye on the project. Any mistakes that remain belong to me. A special thanks to brother Zane and his son Braden for putting me on the right track early in the process.

Sister Patty, Thank you for all the reconnaissance missions you took on my behalf. Your efforts enriched the story. Mrs. Jackson you are truly amazing, still the Teacher for the community of East Madison.

Table of Contents

Forward

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Final Chapter

About The Author

NO ONE EVER KEEPS A SECRET

SO WELL AS A CHILD

(Victor Hugo)

Forward

We all have secrets. I don’t recall now what my first secret was or when it occurred. I remember breaking a glass, stealing candy from my sisters, listening to private conversations and being in places I was not allowed. I surmised even at an early age that secrets take on a life of their own and force you to into awkward situations. They become living breathing stand alone additions to our lives.

If forced to the surface secrets try to hang on for dear life giving up scant information trying to lessen punishment or loss of status. Some secrets are harmless attempts to show independence.

Secrets may form bonds of friendship that last a lifetime. Those same secrets may destroy a relationship. Sealing a pact of secrecy with an exchange of blood is very common in the young.

When secrets invade a community they grow like weeds in an unattended garden. Along with those secrets, lies and rumors raise their ugly heads. The truth many times takes a back seat and in the end is known by few. Some secrets hold on to the death of those involved.

In writing this story I called upon my brothers and sisters to recall the time we lived in East Madison. I have received written correspondence, numerous phone calls, emails and personal support for this effort. I have been in touch with Mrs. Jackson, who taught a fair number of the Clement children.

Further, Mrs. Jackson has spear-headed an effort to research the town and the many historical events that took place in this area. To that end, a history house has been established with a number of local residents contributing time and energy. The East Madison Historical Association is housed in a new building at the edge of the fire station property.

Using research materials, memories provided by my siblings, a visit with Herb and Cathy Edgerly who have three slate quarries on their property; what follows is just a snap-shot of the town, the times and the life lived by our family in the 1950’s.

This Old House is a book that blends fact, fiction, fun and fear of the unknown. What emerges is an elixir more restorative than the legendary Father John’s medicine we all took as children.

IT IS SO SOON THAT I AM DONE

FOR WHAT WAS I BORN FOR

(Anonymous grave stone)

Chapter One

I wasn’t born in East Madison. A larger town, Skowhegan four miles to the south, housed a hospital offering an opportunity to be born under a bright light rather than a flashlight.

A number of my 14 brothers and sisters were born at home under that flashlight, some older, some younger. Didn’t seem to have hurt them any. They have all their limbs and time has proven them a capable lot.

Anyway you will need to be able to count on two hands and a foot to get to know all of us kids.

I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I am the one telling this story when so many of my siblings could probably tell it better. I pondered this for a very long time and have finally concluded they intend to keep quiet to their graves. Mama settled the issue for me by keeping a record of her children in a Journal. Some of my siblings might not have known the secret, so in advance I ask for their understanding.

As stated earlier I was born in a hospital at the height of a late winter storm.

March 18, 1946 is when I tried my best to enter the world from the back seat of a 1939 Ford sedan lent to my father to get my mother to the hospital. The two mile trip from the Middle Road in Skowhegan, took nearly two hours as the snow measured fourteen inches with blowing drifts that stymied my father’s efforts three separate times.

Well we got there, but with all the pushing and tugging, hollering and swearing, slipping and sliding, let’s not forget the muttering and moaning, Daddy the excitable sort encouraged Mama not to waste any more time. That bright light mentioned earlier was in the corridor as we were cruising our way to the delivery room.

Looking back I was always a little different. That observation was first noted by a special lady we all called "Mama."

Mama kept a journal and measured the progress for each of her fifteen children. She documented height and weight, childhood diseases, age of first tooth, first step and spoken word. She described the personalities of each child as they developed, in their own little section of her Journal.

I received a copy of Mama’s Journal from sister Patty. After reading how she saw me taking shape from birth to age eight I understand she was giving me permission to write this story.

You will meet my brothers and sisters in this story; they played a key role in my life and are the main players of this story. Mama’s insight into how her children would blossom is incredible.

They remain among the closest people in my life.

Meet the Clement family members:

George Durward Clement born June 08, 1909

Capitola Estelle Clement born August 15, 1911

Marie Louise Clement born July 31, 1934

Richard Everett Clement born August 31, 1935

Russell Alan Clement born September 7, 1936

Loretta Alma Clement born April 23, 1938

Laura Elaine Clement born March 11, 1940

George Durward Clement Jr. born February 23, 1941

William Roland Clement born March 23, 1942

Phyllis Eleanor Clement born November 4, 1943

Patricia Ann Clement born March 17, 1945

Robert Wesley Clement born March 18, 1946

Daniel Louis Clement born April 10, 1947

Nora Elsie Clement born June 12, 1948

David Earl Clement born August 16, 1949

Kathleen Ruth Clement born February 10, 1951

Zane Scott Clement born March 31, 1954

You will learn what an impact MAMA and DADDY played in our upbringing.

We moved from Skowhegan to East Madison, Maine in 1948 and it is from this small town that my earliest memories emerge.

From this same small town secrets would be shared, gossip would ride the wind, and lies would take root; eventually burying the truth in detritus.

This might be an appropriate time to introduce you to the town of East Madison. Having an idea of where the town is located and a brief description of roads, landmarks, buildings and paths our family traveled, will prove useful in unraveling this mystery.

Being introduced to some of the people we met in those places and on those roads and paths will further aid your effort to reveal the secrets that are at the heart of this story. Good luck with that.

On a map of Maine, East Madison is a mile and a half to the east of Route 201 in the County of Somerset. The major portion of that distance being the width of Lake Wesserunsett, a mile wide and two miles long.

On the western shore of the lake lies the small community of Lakewood, famous for its summer theater and the area’s only golf course.

Along the eastern shore of the lake lies the town of East Madison.

Route 201 is a north-south roadway that more or less follows the Kennebec River. The roadway stretches all the way north to the Canadian border.

Benedict Arnold is probably the most famous person to have traveled the Kennebec and walked a bit on what would become Route 201.

For our purposes we will place East Madison four miles north of Skowhegan, the government seat for Somerset County.

Traveling a mile north from downtown Skowhegan route 201 takes a pronounced swing to the left, on the right is a narrow road-way called the East Madison Road. As Robert Frost gave notice in his famous poem, THE ROAD NOT TAKEN, the less traveled road we came to travel has made all the difference.

Two miles north on that road, the southern end of Lake Wesserunsett appears.

An access road to the left skirts the southern end of the lake and rejoins route 201. A gravel drive a quarter-mile west off this access road ends at the world famous Skowhegan Art School. In the fifties it was still named for its founders, the Cummings family.

The next mile north offers views of the lake where cottages and year round homes dot the shoreline and adjacent roadway.

Suddenly you descend a hill, cross a small bridge and enter the village of East Madison.

A mill pond providing an exit for the lake flanks the front and back side of the village center.

Water leaves the pond to form Wesserunsett Stream running west to east away from the village toward a section of town called the Lower Village, also known as Lower Mills.

East Madison has two main roads. The East Madison Road continues through the village and ends two miles north at Route 43. A second road beginning in the village runs east for approximately a mile and a half where the town line for the next town, Cornville, begins. To sum up, a crow flying at a hundred feet could view Route 201, the lake and the East Madison road without turning his head. If that same crow turned right in the village on a sunny day, he would cast a shadow over the location for most of the action in this story; the Lower Mills Road.

Within the main village a Grange Hall, located on a dirt road near the lake, serves as the official social center for the town. Many of my brothers and sisters were members of the Junior Grange.

The lake itself has a public beach and boat landing that attracts locals and folks from surrounding towns during the summer months. Also a good place to exchange gossip, quietly though; sound travels near water.

The village boasts two general stores side by side that serve as an unofficial social center for the town. My sister Marie worked in one of the stores.

Later, Brother Russell would take her place at the cash register. Customers exchanged much more than money at the two general stores.

Between the two stores a town water pump is frequented by many of the summer camp and cottage owners who have no wells of their own.

The town pump offered free water, allowing the opportunity for gossip to gush forth as milk cans and glass jars were being filled; with a lot less priming.

It is also between these two stores that band concerts are held during the summer time. One of my earliest memories is sitting across the roadway listening to the horns and drums of men in straw hats on a make-shift raised platform. Quartets of men decked out in bright colors sang songs in harmony. This usually took place around the Fourth of July.

Daddy loved the singing and raised his own voice as many of his favorite songs were dusted off for the occasion.

Up the hill heading north out of the village sits the only church. Most of the people attending have no clear denomination; they are simply looking for a place to exercise their faith or perhaps trying to find it.

They sang songs there too that Daddy would have loved but Daddy wasn’t a church goer. The church stood vacant during the week, but in the summer vacation bible school was conducted for several weeks.

Sister Patty faithfully attended those weeks as she learned the stories of Jesus she would come to love.

I went a couple of summers myself but my mind wasn’t on Jesus. A girl by the name of Dale Fish attended. She didn’t go to the little school I attended. I’m not sure she went to any school; I think she was an angel sent to earth. Anyway she was my own first love. I never told her. One of the many secrets being revealed here for the first time, The church bell could be heard on Sunday mornings at our house over a mile away, when the wind was right.

That bell signaled God was in residence and people were praying for us. That seemed to be all the reassurance my family ever needed.

A short distance east of the village, on what is called the Lower Mills Road, sits the one room school.

Serving four grades and at times forty-two students our teacher Mrs. Jackson was busy indeed. Though not the social center for the adults it certainly was for all us kids in town. Our education took place on both sides of the three large windows that constantly beckoned me to the pencil sharpener.

My older sisters brought home some of the learning and mannerisms of their teacher Mrs. Jackson. Playing school was one of the childhood activities our sisters introduced, I prefer the term (subjected), us to very early in life.

The fire station adjacent to the school was manned by volunteers.

A Women’s Auxiliary kept the firefighters fed and offered further social opportunities.

Suppers organized and served at the grange hall raised money for equipment; a great place to fuel rumors too. The largest fire ever fought in East Madison involved what had been a huge spinning mill located on the mill pond just behind the two general stores.

It was being used as a chicken plant at the time and you could smell burned chicken for months after the fire was extinguished. The fire created scars on memories of a time when this sleepy little town had been a bustling community. The face of the community was forever changed.

The Old Spinning Mill

Fire destroys Old Spinning Mill

ALL THE BROTHERS WERE VALIANT

AND ALL THE SISTERS VIRTUOUS

(Inscription on tombstone of Duchess of New Castle in West Minster Abby)

Chapter Two

My family lived in the last house on the left, on a road running past Lower Mills that continues on to Cornville. The marker ending our town was located just one-hundred feet from our driveway.

When I reached the age of five my world changed dramatically. I had heard the stories of school days, the mile walk to school, making new friends, recess adventures and had in fact met many of the friends my older brothers and sisters went to school with. I was well prepared for school; my siblings had provided constant stimulation for all my senses.

The sounds of kids shouting and laughing and crying took place all hours of the day and evening. Those wrestling matches, fights and competitive games formed a resilient young lad.

The discipline and common sense that came from Mama ran through the veins of my sister Loretta, who was charged with taking care of us a good deal of the time. We all learned a lot from Loretta.

The grudging taste of a Popsicle, pie, or a snack cake called Snowballs, my older siblings occasionally brought home, had us younger kids looking for opportunities to make money to buy our own.

All the older brothers and sisters worked jobs of one sort or another.

Bean Picking in the summer by all the brothers and sisters old enough was a given.

My sister Loretta won a state championship bean picking event. Harold Bosworth’s bus arrived early in the morning and transported area kids to farms in other towns for the day. You stood in line and were given a bushel basket and a burlap bag then directed to an area of the bean field.

Our older brothers and sisters warned us ahead of time that fooling around or fighting would not be tolerated.

During the next eight hours you were expected to pick only the beans ready to be harvested. The smell of dirt, fertilizer and green beans, combined with a relentless Sun, numbed you into a trance like state. Bend, pick, and place the beans in the basket then stretch and move along the row, dragging your half-filled burlap bag. As you were filling your basket, you mentally calculated what a full bag might weigh; you could already taste the pastry your efforts had earned. A filled bag was left in the row to be collected by the boss. It would be weighed and you would be paid one and a half to two cents per pound.

We got good at estimating weight and by the end of the season could usually guess within a pound or two of what we had picked in a day.

It was a long hot day with a break only for lunch. We carried a mason jar of water with us and quenched our thirst on the fly.

On some especially hot days, on the way home, Mr. Bosworth would stop at a store or ice-cream stand.

WE ALL LOVED MR. BOSWORTH WHEN HE DID THAT!

Bean picking season would last about a month. Most of our school clothes were bought from our efforts.

We all became good bargain hunters. The money was precious but we always wanted to look as good as our friends. Of course, looking good had a price that went beyond the cost of new clothing. Mama admonished all her children to, Act as good as you look!

Babysitting, haying, farming and splitting wood were other jobs filled whenever the opportunity arose.

Our neighbor farmer, Mr. Chamberlain, hired Danny and I at age six and seven to pick rocks from a field he had plowed up.

As this story unfolds you will find it was more than rocks that would be harvested in the spring of 1953.

When my family wasn’t working, playing games filled the air with sound and assorted balls. All the kids in the neighborhood came to our house to play.

By the time I reached school age two more sisters and two brothers had been added to the family. One more brother, Zane, would be born a short time later to total fifteen.

You guessed it: The Z in Zane signified the last letter in the