(Reprinted from the Nov. 9, 2001 Suburban News)

Fifty-six years ago I brought my wife home to Maine and my old farm. She was from Staten Island, the then rural part of New York.

She was used to electricity, running hot and cold water and a warm bathroom with indoor plumbing. She started out as a spunky wife as she had to put up with a hand pump by a black iron kitchen sink. Her only hot water was from a tank on the back of the stove or from a tea kettle.

As for indoor plumbing, its substitute was a little room built onto the summer kitchen with three holes, natural air conditioning and an old Sear’s catalog.

When she wanted a bath, a tin bathtub was brought into the kitchen and placed before the wood stove’s open oven door. Curtains were drawn, the door to the living room closed and the bath towel hung warming behind the stove. Second, a loving husband sat on the wood box on guard and keeping the fire burning.

Our bedroom was on the second floor on the north side of the farm. It was so cold that sometimes the thunder jug would freeze during the night under our bed. It was warm in bed because of two feather mattresses and a thick homemade quilt. If the outside temperature dropped too low a soap stone was warmed on the top of the stove and used to warm the bed before we entered.

Outside, there were no traffic noises or street lights. The only disturbing sounds would be that of a whip-poor-will sounding off on the well rock. But somehow she got use to it and to me. Over the years the things she left behind have caught up to her. I’ve enjoyed her as she has changed from city slicker to lover of Maine. Given a few more years you won’t be able to tell her from a native.