By Dagny Erickson 
 

(Ed.'s Note: This story was passed onto me by the former owners of Dr. Wheeler's home.)

  The word mutation has not as yet crept into our family's new but growing vocabulary.  Dr. Wheeler, our highly respected man of medicine, seemed to be well aware of Dad's linguistic shortcomings and gave his diagnosis of Mother's ailment in simple easy layman's terms.  Dad understood perfectly.  He, himself, had experienced very similar symptoms three years earlier than Mother.  She was reacting quite naturally and normally to the sudden, drastic changes of environment, climate, food, water, and lifestyle.  Today this troublesome variety of allergy is glibly called culture shock.
The physical signs of her emotional stress appeared as unsightly red blotches on her face, neck, and arms especially.  The disfiguring marks were also hard to bear during the heat and humidity of a hot summer.  This severely aggravated the itching and burning.  Dr. Wheeler, with the help of "Ted" Seymour, our beloved local druggist, concocted an ointment for her to alleviate the discomfort to some degree.
However, the horrible stuff was greasy and dark brown in color.  Our poor, fastidious, attractive parent must have suffered heart-breaking torment whenever she applied the salve to her soft fair skin.  Just how she managed it I can only surmise now, but I can never remember seeing her wearing the ugly coating.  Very likely she used it every forenoon after Dad went off to work, and we, having attended to our well-designated chores, had trooped off to school.  She must have made herself as presentable as possible before our return at noon.
Later, as the years sped by and as I grew a bit in understanding, I could look back upon that summer of 1909 and see it more clearly from my new and time-enriched perspective.  At last Mother's reasons for her discontent, and resulting physical distress, could be dealt with and evaluated with sympathy.  The complete turnabout in her circumstances must have been shattering, more so than even her symptoms proved.  The causes of her prolonged emotional stress were numerous and perfectly logical.
During our last three years in Norway, while we waited for Dad to send for us, Mother's life was easy and pleasant.  Our small third floor apartment in Oslo presented no household drudgery.   An ovenless built-in stove furnished heat, and provided a surface for the preparing of simple meals.  More substantial facilities were found in the basement.  Here were good ovens, and a laundry room equipped with a practical mangle for pressing the newly washed flat pieces.
Across the street from our arched entrance was an excellent delicatessen where freshly baked pastries, breads, and other prepared foods were available at all hours during the day and evening.  Then, too, we three older children had our hearty noon meal at school.
Mother's social life was a happy one.  Together with her Aunt Martina who lived in the adjoining apartment, she enjoyed lectures at the university and by the soapbox orators in the park.  The two women loved concerts, the theater, and opera whenever financial stringency did not prevent such luxuries.  Mother was only in her late twenties, and Auntie was but twelve years older than her niece. 
When Aunt Martina, who had followed us to America and lived in Woodland, came here for a brief visit, the happy pair had laughing sessions of reminiscing.  Both vowed that they could still move with the best of them in a lively polka.  They spoke interestingly of their varied activities during the long sun-lit summer evenings while attending the many outdoor events.  Such festivities continued usually until the sun dipped into the horizon in the southwest and hour or so before midnight.  Then they sauntered homeward in the slowly fading twilight, which within another hour blended into the bright banners of a new dawn.
Now, here in 1909 she found herself hovering over a hot stove, in a hot kitchen, on a hot and humid day.  A fretting tow-month old infant lay in his crib near at hand.  The softwood floor was tracked with muddy footprints that would require vigorous sweeping before the necessary scrubbing upon could proceed.  On a bench in the shed stood a wash tub full of soiled clothing that were soaking, with the back-breaking scrub board standing nearby.  There were hearty meals to be prepared for a hungry husband, and for the four ravenous appetites of fast growing children.
Probably she often stepped to the open shed door to breathe deeply of the fresh Maine air.  An assortment of odors assailed the nostrils, each distinguishable as belonging to the bustling mill community and the tidal river.  Always one inhaled the pungent smell of newly sawn lumber, and perhaps a whiff of sulfur from the paper and pulp mill, and at low tide the unpleasant sour reminder of exposed muddy shores.
Sounds, too, dominated our lives and became familiar: Whistles from the mills and river craft, the hourly clang of the trolley cars, the constant rattle of horse-drawn wheeled vehicles ponderously making their way through the rutted road, dusty when dry, but deep in mire when wet.  Voices came from all sides: The deep-throated bellows of river men in the cove, mingling with the high-pitched crescendo of children playing up and down the streets, or in the neighborhood door yards.
Mother's new world was a small one.  Our snug little house was situated on a small lot, restricted on all sides.  To the west, our back yard ended at the edge of a steep slope to the lumberyard.  On the north, our home sat on the edge of a busy road to the mill premises.  To the east, our porch touched the edge of a narrow sidewalk that continued beyond to front the three story tenement house near us, and the smaller home of our friends, the Doane's.  At the end of the sidewalk stood a sturdy, well-built carriage shelter, where local merchants and others could keep their wagons and carts.  These vehicles were protected and cared for by the Colemans who owned a livery stable across the street. 
To the south, Mother's world became a vista of better dimensions.  Although our yard ended at the edge of the flat, the view from it was widespread, and rather soul satisfying and splendid.  One could see a long stretch of the river, an exciting highway to Bangor or to the sea.  Much of Cove Street, then called Puffer Road, with its large lovely orchard was part of a picture which included the chapel side of Second Church.  However, this quite peaceful panorama was often hidden by scores of triangular prisms of shingles piled up on the flat to dry.  The large bandstand at the corner of Maine and Cove interrupted the semi-circular view.  By looking around the curve of the out-dated relic, one could see the terraced lawn and the imposing, attractive residence of Alston Sargent; then to the left of this get a glimpse of the railroad tracks.
 
 

Directly across the street from the Sargent property stood a huge monstrosity called the car barn.  This stretched in length from near the tracks to the bend in the road.  Within this service structure were housed all the cars and equipment required to provide all Brewer with public transportation, both in summer and winter.  Still standing at the corner of Stone Street is the so-called Marston house.  It then marked the "end of the line."  Here the motorman of the electric car swung the contact pole around to the rear till it reached the live wire overhead, in readiness for the return trip to North Brewer.
The owner of the house was Captain Marston, an unobtrusive, taciturn man whom few knew much about.  But he owned a parrot that everyone knew.  The bird was voluble and rather depraved.  His speech from the porch consisted of expressions heard at services across the way at Second Church, only badly perverted.  Nearer our home was Herrick's store, the busiest place in town for comings and goings at all hours.  In those days before electric refrigeration, perishable provisions were purchased as needed.  Most homes had iceboxes for mild and butter and such, but at Herrick's there were at least two great, built-in lockers with spaces at the back for ice.
Our village was actually a very interesting, bustling community, alive with meaningful activities, and hardworking enterprising people who were motivated by pride and purpose.  The several strata of local society had taken on almost perfect accommodation.  In time, Mother learned this and began to appreciate all America by seeing its typical miniature all around us.
Even if she had been able to speak and understand English, she would have found very little gaiety around to break the harsh monotony of her days.  Social gatherings were few and most of these were held at the church and carefully spaced.  Enjoyable enough, these were in the nature of suppers, sociables, amateur plays, and evening of variety entertainment.  As most if the men put in from ten to twelve hours at hard work in one of the four sawmills, or on longs shift at the paper an pulp mill, they had their own ideas of an evening well spent.  A comfortable chair, a pipe, a newspaper, and the younger children shunted off early to bed in the interest of peace and quiet, constituted a pattern for the bread-winner's right which developed into a home lifestyle.
There was but one social club then at this end of town.  It was made up of a few retired men, several Civil War veterans, and a number of somewhat younger ex-service men who had seen duty in the Caribbean during our "one hundred days war" with Spain in 1898.  This congenial group met almost daily in the clubroom over Herricks store to play cards.
Previously, luckily for all of us, Dad had become acquainted with three other Norwegian families in the vicinity.  In time it became a pleasant custom to make evening calls to each other's homes, and for lengthy coffee hours on Sunday afternoons.  Norway, at that time, had no pure official language.  Every small area near the fiords, and in mountain valleys, had its own dialect, largely made up of practical expressions relating to natural resources and resulting industries.  Often the conversation during the Sabbath sessions became somewhat scrambled, and strangely enough had to be translated into English by one of the bi-linguists.
Few opportunities came Mother's way to meet local people in situations that were casual friendly.  However, in the natural course of events, she came to know the two Sargent brothers as mill owners, and also as residents of the finest houses in Brewer.  Alston was very much the "lord of the manor," but Harlan, who occupied the beautiful fenced-in property across the street from our humble cottage, was the landlord to many.  She established a nodding acquaintance with Captain Doane the postmaster, our beloved druggist, the kind of generous grocer, the picturesque Dr. Wheeler, and the much-respected pastor of Second Church, Professor Henry Griffin who taught at the Bangor Seminary.  The parsonage was then tenanted by the church sexton, Mr. Chapin, "Chic" Baker's father-in-law.
Mr. Griffin lived on campus but served us well.  Besides officiating at the Sunday morning services, he presided at the Sunday and Wednesday prayer meetings.  When called during the week, he attended to special parish duties.  He came twice to our home to christen new additions to our flock.  On these occasions, his manner with Mother was gracious and easy, and she responded with warmth.
Dr. Wheeler had his place of business up over the sawmill office in the building still designated as 570 South Main Street.  His home was the pleasant, comfortable house just below our parsonage.  For many years the whole sloping area was known as Wheeler's Hill.  The doctor was a widower and had a small daughter named Cordelia.  A buxom housekeeper evidently took good care of them all.
When making his house calls one summer, the doctor rode over the dusty roads in a covered buggy driven by a genial character named Ed Doane.  In winter the routes were traveled in a lovely sleigh which looked much like an out-sized upholstered armchair.  Although sidewalks were plowed those days, the roads were not.  These were packed down, or even rolled, to provide a good solid foundation for the heavy logging sleds.  So the two men made the rounds with little difficulty, but with remarkable dedication to the needs of a widespread community.
We children had adjusted well to the new life and environmental differences.  Dad's adaptations were practical ones.  He screened the windows in summer, banked the foundation of the house for winter, and used what could be spared of the back yard for a small vegetable garden.  In that growing season of 1909 he had raised a rather large crop of beans.  Some were cooked when green, but most of them were allowed to wither and dry on the vine.  Later these were pulled up by their roots and stored in the little attic for future shelling and baking.
Dad was an unusually strict parent, but he possessed a laconic wit, and a subtle ability at understatement.  Once when Mother had been speaking admiringly of the colorful church windows in the south wall, and of the nice lines of the pillared front which had been so recently the entrance to the sanctuary, she commented, "But it still reminds me of a fine home."  Dad's reply was a question, "Well, isn't it?"
In early October Mother's ailment and its causes still persisted.  But there came a day when she had to leap the language barrier, at least, in order to prevent dire consequences from becoming the sad results.
One morning, after the boys had left for school and the breakfast dishes were done, she suggested going up to the loft to shell some beans.  "Tomorrow is Saturday, you know," she remarked as she finished coming and braiding my long hair.  Wasting no time, we hurried up the stairs, seated ourselves on some packing boxes and began our dusty tedious chore.  After a while she said, "You better go now, or you will be late."  Mother's mild requests were naturally ironclad orders.  Dad saw to that.  So when she added, "Don't wake the baby, wash your hands, and please button your coat as you should," I proceeded to obey implicitly.  Hurrying down, I slipped the bolt, tip-toed through the kitchen, dipped my fingers in the wash basin in the sink, wiped my hands on the fresh, clean roller towel hanging nearby (leaving dark smudges on it), and carefully matched my coat buttons with the right button-hole.  And then I was off.
When we arrived home at noon, Dad was already halfway through his dinner.  As soon as we were ready, Mother attended to our needs with quiet dispatch.  Soon Dad pushed back his chair and rose from the table.  He moved the chair back into place, then using its back as a lectern, he cleared his throat.  We children feared the worst, as the signs were ominous.  Usually he addressed the four of us as one - much as if we were Siamese quads.  But this time, he singled me out.  There was no anger in his voice as he said, "Dagny, do you know that you locked your Mother up in the attic this morning?"  Then he reached for his hat, said good-by to Mother, and hurried back to work.
Stricken, I slumped back in my seat and closed my eyes.  Then I remembered.  There was a hard and fast rule about that attic door.  It was located just around a corner into a dark alcove of the kitchen.  Left ajar, it could spell disaster to faces and features of anyone smashing into its unyielding edge.  Disturbing thoughts raced through my vivid imagination of what might have happened, but apparently had not.  Mother excused the boys, then took a clean cup from the shelf, and half filled it with the strong coffee to which she added a goodly slurp of thin cream.  She made me drink it while she smoothed my tousled hair, which I had disarranged earlier in pulling off my knitted cap.
The affair had evidently ended.
Afterwards, bit by bit I pieced together the events of the morning.  As soon as Mother realized her prisoner status, she set her resourceful mind to work finding ways and means.  Having no intentions of languishing in that cold upper room till Dad came home at eleven-thirty, she got busy.  Mother's prayer ritual was completely unorthodox.  She scolded and sputtered, always talking to the Lord as if he where a troublesome spirit who needed to be kept in line.  Very likely her petition on this occasion was more faultfinding than usual.  "Dear God, this is ridiculous!  You have got to help me!"  Then she dropped to her knees before the little window which faced the street.  Within the next half hour or so, a neighbor, Mr. Gallagher, who lived in the tenement next door came out from there and started to cross diagonally toward the store.  Rapping vigorously on the pane, she managed to attract his attention.  Then with some dramatic but informative pantomime, she made him understand her predicament.  He hastened around the house, entered the kitchen, and found the bolted door.
When Dad arrived home to dinner that day, he found Mother in tears.  Quickly she told her story, then moaned, "I was so ashamed.  I couldn't explain, and my face looked so awful!"
Dad put his hat back on and dashed out.  He returned in a few minutes grinning.  "Mr. Gallagher said you were great!  He understood everything."
Mollified, Mother smiled her thanks.
One evening of the following week Mr. & Mrs. Fred Johnson came to call, with good coffee conversation the objective.  Mr. Johnson was stevedore at Stern's sawmill across the river.  The other mills, Engals, Ayres, and Sargent's had such specialists in stowing lumber onto and into vessels.  Mr. Johnson was one of the best along this part of the river.  Their family home was a small farm on outer Elm Street near the Green Point Road.  Each morning for six days every week, he walked this long distance to the end of Puffer Road where his boat was tied to a very useful dock.  At five-thirty he rowed over to begin his day's labor at six.  Twelve hours later, he made his return trip.  If lucky he sometimes could hitch rides on wagons or carts going his way.  So our friend was not much of an after-supper socialite.  Mrs. Johnson had been concerned about Mother.  To set her mind at rest, he had harnessed up and brought her in.
The tired man gulped their coffee and retired to a bench in the back yard to relax and smoke.  The boys were off till curfew time and the twilight hour was quiet.
Inside, the women sipped the last of their coffee through cubes of sugar resting on their tongues.  I sat down with them, folding my hands on the table and cupping my chin on them.
First, the visitor asked exactly what the doctor had said.  Rather disparagingly, Mother answered, "He thinks the sudden move from such an old and interesting city which I loved so well, to this bustling boom town where I understand nothing, has been too much a shock to my nervous system."  They discussed this pro and con.  Then Mrs. Johnson asked, "When you discovered that you were locked in the other day, did you pray?"  Mother laughed, and said, "No, I scolded.  I told God I simply could not stay cooped up for three hours.  The baby needed attention, the fire would go out, and dinner had to be ready promptly at eleven-thirty."
When Mother was in deep earnest, she spoke softly and slowly.  She told how she kept reminding God that He had helped her all the long trip from Oslo to Boston.  How He had kept four lively children from being washed overboard in the rough North Sea, and how He untangled for her the badly snarled railroad transfers in Britain, when we had been sent from Hull to London, to Liverpool, and finally to Gaslow where our ship awaited.  She further reminded the Lord that she had been badly frightened while crossing the North Atlantic.
She elaborated to her guest that all shipping routes were far northward in an arc that shortens the distance.  This takes ships into the danger zone of drifting icebergs that break off from the Greenland glacier.  She felt sure these were more to be feared in August than earlier in the season.  In April, for instance, the one-tenth above water looms high with jagged peaks, towers, and other formations easily detected from far off.  In late summer, these visible structures have melted away, leaving a thick platform-like surface hidden by the wash of waves and foam.
Last, but not least, Mother had reminded God that He had stayed with her till she found the right train in Boston that would take us to Bangor.
Having spoken her piece that day in the attic, she crouched at the window and was rescued almost at once.
Mother never did adapt to her new life and the boisterous activities all around.  She loved the friendly elms that lined our streets, but she deplored the fewer suns-lit hours in summer and the bitter cold of winter.  She complained, "Here we are fifteen degrees farther south.  It should be milder than this!"  But she knew the reason.  She understood enough about the well-known warm ocean current that helps moderate the climate of all western Europe, and even encircles Iceland to make its coastal area as comfortable as much of New England.
Mother's skin trouble cleared after a time, and she became more content as she watched her children thrive.  We enjoyed the marvelous, outdoor freedom, and learned to swim and to skate.  We found the best berry pickings, the finest wild apples, and kept our school report card at top quality.  We were happy.
Now I know that these were the favors asked for in her prayers.  Although she made he requests in faith, she stood in awe of God's answers.