Rumford History

Rumford, Maine

This is a combined piece about the town I grew up in. I have used a poetic timeline, musings, and the memories of a man who told me of our town approximately thirty years before I trod the same streets in my boyhood. Here is our story:

This is the story of my town.
First there wasn't much around,
except a big river, with water good,
and trees of soft and hardwood.



If you can settle a community
of 36 families in six years
they told Mr. Walker back in 79,
you can create a town.
That is 1779, not 19...
Well John Chandler built a grist mill
on the mighty Androscoggin,
but most of the families
packed up and headed
down the mighty river flowing free.

Old Aaron Moore bought the mill
and decided to make it a go,
but sometimes
things don't work so well
as you know.

At the turn of the century
David Abbott bought the buildings
at the bend of the river
and renamed them Abbott’s Mill
you see.



In February the town of Rumford
was finally incorporated,
and all 252 farmers
finally had their name on the map,
according to historical record.

This is the story of my town.
First there wasn't much around
except a big river, with water good,
and trees of soft and hardwood.

21 years later Putnam’s Ferry
was placed on the river
to transport people and wagons
across the Androscoggin.
That old ferry remained for 100 years
until a steel bridge
sped up the commute for those
who could not tarry.



Now you may not believe this
but progress was the name of the game
in Rumford, Maine.
Before other countries
raised a negative flame
called communism;
In1859 the community
built The Town Farm
to feed the poor
when misfortune
darkened their bliss.

In the beginning of the 1870's
the aye's outweighed the nay's
and allotted Lieutenant John Chandler
$400 to build a saw mill on the
Androscoggin river near the Rumford Falls,
and our little town
never looked back
as we learned to better
harvest and use the trees.

This is the story of my town,
and how it slowly came around
next to the big river with water good,
we built mills for soft and hardwood.



In 1882 Hugh J. Chisholm
paused in his travels
above the mighty falls
and envisioned a grand future
for the little cluster of homes
and great river that
would dictate the lives
of fathers and sons
for a century and more.

An engineer came up from
way down in Rhode Island
to measure the falls
and calculate
the power of water
and discuss ways to harness
the power of nature some.

"The Rumford falls is 163 feet long,"
wrote J. Herbert Shedd.
A dam built at the falls
would provide 35,000 horse power,
He reckoned
in a letter he sent along
to his boss making the calls.

In the fall of 1888,
A saw and grist mill were completed.
Water was diverted from falls
along wooden flumes to power the mills.
Thus our paper industry they did create.



This is the story of my town,
and how it slowly came around
next to the big river with water good,
we built mills for soft and hardwood.

One would think the town
would grow in leaps and bounds
with all the industrial progress
growing along the river,
and it would be so, had in not been
for a mass exodus
caused by the gold rush in California.
It seemed no one wanted to stick around.

Mr. Chisholm had a plan
to make Rumford into his town,
the finest in the land,
so he bought the community,
every trail, stream and tree.
His friends and he drew streets
and named them all,
built the Rumford Power Company
on the river falls so tall.



In 1892 a gust of black smoke
and billowy steam
blotted out skies, blue.
The clatter of steel wheels
announced the railroad
had reached Rumford too.
Once again the community had woke.

In 1893 60 tons of paper a day
rolled out of the Rumford mill,
but Hugh Chisholm had only begun,
for a few years later
he founded International Paper
combining 20 different mills
into one large company.
We thought King Paper
was here to stay.

This is the story of my town,
how she grew in leaps and bounds.
The river water isn't so good,
but look at the piles of pulpwood!

Around the turn of the 20th century,
Rumford was one of America’s
great pulp and paper centers,
but the complaints arose,
born upon the odors
that blew with
the clouds of sulfurous smoke
from mill stacks
taller than the tallest tree.



The Rumford Realty Company,
started building houses
across the river
from the great mill.
This little settlement,
now called Mexico, Maine,
started as housing for
the worker and his family.

Just after the new century got under way,
pulp and paper was king
as you can see:
Oxford Paper Company
manufactured 3 million postal cards a day.

The International papermen
produced 190 tons of paper a day.
The Oxford Paper company
rolled out 125 tons of finished paper
a day with 900 workers again and again.



The Continental Paper Bag Company
made 48 million bags a day.
The sulphite mill dropped
130 tons of pulp a day.
and the ground wood mill
produced 100 tons
of ground wood pulp a day you see.

The flags flew low
and banners hung in a somber black
when Hugh Chisholm died in 1912,
but his son,
called Hugh too
took over the company,
still providing jobs and paper
for you and me.
The machines were never to slow.

This is the story of Mr. Chisholm's town,
we pause a moment with head's down,
thinking of this man so smart and good,
and what he could do with paper and wood!

In 1920, the population
of Rumford was 8,675,
somehow they coaxed
250 tons of paper a day
out of their little mill;
quality paper, second to none.



The rains and melted ice came,
like they often do,
in the Spring of 1927,
threatening to drown
me and you.
The mighty Androscoggin
rose out of her banks
and raged through downtown,
but the mill hunkered down
and waited for the waters to leave,
"The river won't stop us,"
was the claim.

When all was dried,
they started the machines churning away;
by 1930 Oxford Paper Company
was producing 350 tons of paper a day.
But the big river came back in '36
flooding the town and its factories.
It couldn't wash away progress,
though it tried.



In 1941 the Sanitary Water Board
said 90% of the pollution
along the Androscoggin
came from the paper mills,
so they lagooned the water
when the river ran low.
When the waters ran high,
they pumped the lagoons dry,
down-river the waste would go.
Thus was the mill owners' accord.

Halfway through the 20th century
there were over 12,500
living in Chisholm's town
and untreated sewage
flowed into every river and stream free.

This is the story of our town,
built around a river flowing down.
Somehow we destroyed water good,
but by God, look at that wood!



In 1953, the old wooden shacks
and sodden paddles
of the power station
were ripped out and replaced
by a brick and steel complex
upon the great fall's back.

The Rumford Point Ferry,
originally named after Mr. Putnam,
became a memory in '54.
A a three span bridge
of steel was built,
allowing cars to cross the river for free.

The third Chisholm, took over leadership
of the Oxford Paper company
in the middle of the 50's,
after his father, Hugh Jr.
retired with 44 years at the helm
of the paper ship.

From 1960 to 1967
1,000 tons of paper
a day rolled out
of the Rumford mill,
and the mill workers
and owners were in heaven.



This is the story of our town,
built around a river flowing down.
Somehow we destroyed water good,
but by God, look at that wood!

30 years later,
Boise Cascade,
and the Rumford mill
was sold to the Mead Corporation
who sold it to New Page in 06,
We lamented loss and economy;
remembered when paper mills were greater.

They did a headcount
at the turn of the millennium.
There were 6,472 people,
2,876 households,
and 1,754 families residing in town,
which was about half
of the 1950 amount.

In 2009, down here in Rumford
they're slowing the paper mill down.
One more machine slowly grinds to a halt,
and the Union lets workers go.
No more does the mill yard
fill up with pulp wood by the ton
stacked cord after cord.



This is the story of our town,
built around a river flowing down.
With the EPA's help we made the water good,
but almost quit making paper from the wood.

By my friend "Dog Viger"

The Road to Penley Hill

It wasn't very big you know, That house on Penley Hill.
In fact it was a chicken coop With just one window sill.
But Dad made it'a house for us With a privy in the rear
A pump to get our water
And clotheslines that were near.
Pine trees all around us,
Far back as you could see
And we would play for hours Just climbing up those trees.
Eight of us, and mom and dad And we were very poor
But what made it not matter
Were the people passing by our door.
The nicest friends and neighbors Kids walked with us each day.
Down all those paths to Kimball School And we would run and play.
Again at three we'd make the climb, and all this at full run. Sometimes
We'd stop to rest and sit on this huge rock.
We'd stop to view clear "over town"
But mostly we'd just talk.
Each day when Kimball school let out
We'd stop by Allen's store.
Counting our penny candy And wishing it was more.
We liked to climb the ledge, up its steep, steep path
Past the picnic area, the initial tree, just barely hanging on.
Cause the view was sweet, clear to Congress Street
With the river winding down through the town.
Yes, the Mighty Androscoggin, wound around the Oxford Paper
And the old town clock with its white, white steeple,
The rushing falls up Virginia way, the red fall colors
And we could see all the town's people.
People on the foot bridges, going off to work
Women pushing strollers,
Some people in their cars.
Each making their way in a small town•
Life. Sadly, some of them heading to the bars.
We won't forget the Gottos, the Vigers and the Knights, The Mocks,
Forriers and Whitemores (especially Toe Joe), The Sinclairs, Browns,
Taylors and Arsenaults, And what about John D'Lessio?
Who were the Woosters and Richards (way up by the ledge?)
Some familes we scarcely knew.
Don Axtle, and one thing I do remember -
The Leblancs and McKennas lived where apple trees grew.
We had the Allens, the Michauds and the Lizottes,
The Grondins and sweet Maggie Robinson,
The Powells, Shirtleffs, Holbrooks and Wickens,
Mable Hannington, Dawsons and us Thompsons.
Going down the Big Hill were Harlows and Chesseys,
And all the paths we traveled, when coming off that hill
Sometimes the snow would be so deep
We'd walk "the long way" on the roads down to Kimball.
Often we'd try the path by Donald Haines Up Harlow Hill, p
ast Romey's Store.
We'd find our way to the "official Big Rock"
Next to Latandresses and across from our front door.
Let's not forget the path just behind Romey's
That we'd climb real steep and come out at Knight's
Across from Nancy Viger's - it was oh so steep
This path was a short but real big fight.
Sometimes we'd take the path up across from Chessey's .
Through the trees and up to the old McDonald homestead.
Then down the hill to our house, past Vigers and Allens and Michauds.
In spring and again in fall when it was red, red, red.
But my favorite and most memorable path
Was the one going up the ''big hill" across from Allen's Store
It was a mammoth mountain and we ran up it to catch the view.
It took us by a real big rock and on to Gotto's
And in the spring the apple blossoms grew.
Yes, most of us remember the folks and our home town.
We stored up memorable riches, and we sure did have our fill
Traveling up and down that mountain -
Using all "our paths to Penley Hill."

My Hometown

"I'd sit on his lap, steer as we drove through town
He'd tousle my hair and say son take a good look around
This is your hometown, this is your hometown
This is your hometown, this is your hometown"
-Bruce Springsteen My Hometown

Paul Bunyan moved across the street
near the Information Booth so neat.
He stands guard, mighty axe in hands
best lumberjack in the northern lands.
Nearby is a tribute to Ed Muskie,
our hometown politician, you see.
This is my hometown.



Down on Hancock, bulldozer, backhoe
and dump trucks have traffic going slow
as they widen the narrow street,
bringing fresh pavement and concrete.
This road brought me to high school,
six of my brothers and sisters too.
This is my hometown.



The old Ralph Clark sign fades each day,
one day I fear it will just go away.
I would like renewal for the three story brick,
and not tearing down an empty building, sick.
Down on Waldo and Falmouth the kids still play,
at St A&J the faithful still gather to pray.
This is my hometown.



Down at Glover's, they did my oil for free,
shook hands, cast a doubtful look at the debris
that was in the bottom of the drain pan,
"If we can't fix your engine, no one can."
I remember thinking on that hot summer day,
Thank God good people and small towns never go away.
This is my hometown.



Down in the Swift River they still swim,
by sun spotted rocks, pools filled to the brim.
I was tempted to give into the stream's lure
contemplating clear water so cold and pure,
but I drove on, remembering the books with me.
I read on a park bench behind the public library.
This is my hometown.



The evening breeze came slowly sneaking along,
so I walked across Memorial Bridge, whistling a song.
The Androscoggin River tumbled far below.
(Makes me happy now that it is clean y'know.)
Up and down Exchange Street I walked,
past the lot where dad sold produce and talked.
This is my hometown.



I stopped in the shadow of the mill's smoke stack,
remembering bringing scavenged Coke cans in a sack
to Ralph's store to be sorted and counted.
My dad, country through and through, always recounted
"It smelled like something decaying at death's door."
Now progress and industry doesn't smell rotten to the core.
This is my hometown.



I turned my car south and east down Route 108,
trying for a few hundred miles before it got too late.
I carry my family, friends and hometown with me,
as I stand proud, serving in the military.
My home, Rumford, Maine has changed and grown,
I have too, thankful it always remains my home.
This is my hometown.

"The old home town looks the same
as I step down from the train,
and there to meet me is my Mama and Papa...
...It's good to touch the green, green grass of home."
-Hank Snow Trad. Green , Green Grass of Home

A good friend of mine, an older gentleman, named Stephen, "Whitey" Bulger, who grew up in Rumford, Maine, my hometown has begun to share the following details about life in our town in the 1950's. Keep in mind there are parts missing, which I will work to fill in when I have more details and time to research. I may turn this into a book format on here and add pictures of the town from different eras.


"I'll begin at Rumford Avenue. On the west side were a couple of apartment buildings before Maine Avenue, then the backside of Strathglass Park houses until the Armory at the corner of Hancock and Lincoln Avenue.

I should say that there was a walkway with steps up from Hancock across from Oxford Avenue. This walkway, which was used by mill workers, mothers going to shop on Waldo, and kids going...who knows where, led west through Strathglass Park to another set of stairs that brought you to York Street and Oxford Avenue by Stephens High School.

I also must say that the Armory, while being the home of the National Guard, had a good sized gymnasium that was used by Stephens High School for its home basketball games as well as special events like the annual Hospital Fair that featured craft displays, homemade goods, foods both nutritious and otherwise (cotton candy and candied apples come to mind) and games of chance like a midway at a carnival. The Fair was a charitable event benefiting the Rumford Community Hospital. Lastly, the Armory was the site of many Saturday Night dances whose attendance dwarfed St. Rocco's (and seemed to be preferred by parents).

The east side of Hancock began with Taylor Buick followed by two apartment buildings before Maine Avenue, then the other Strathglass Park-style homes (which are still there). Just before Essex Avenue was St. Cyr's Service Station, which the St. Cyr's closed and moved to Mexico on Route 2 just before Dixfield.

After Essex Avenue was THE DAIRY QUEEN which was bordered on the north side by a huge rock that served as a playground for us kids as we ate our five-cent, double scoop soft-serve cones. That building was torn down, the rock blasted away, and the Telephone Company put up a building to house the switching facility that allowed us to upgrade from phones that had no dials (you simply picked up the handset and spoke to a live operator who took the phone number you requested and connected you) to rotary dial phones. What an innovation it seemed at the time!

After the boulder was a used car lot, then a building housing Rita's Laundromat and the new state liquor store which had moved from Waldo Street. Last was Hanson's Gulf Station which was one of the busiest car repair businesses in town.

North of Lincoln Avenue on the west side were several multiple-family and single-family houses followed by Bisbee Grammar School. Next was Tom Richardson's home, he brought cable TV to Rumford, then Beliveau's stately home. Old Judge Beliveau was a retired Maine Supreme Court Justice and his sons Severin and Albert followed in his footsteps. His beautiful daughter, Judith, was a high school teacher who, tragically died as a young woman.

The remainder of Hancock Street on that side was all residences down just past Tasker Avenue. From there on, there was nothing except Viger's house and Scotty Richardson's land, which gave us our ski area, Scotty's, with its rope tow and two ski jumps. Swift River Park was built sometime in the late 50's and early 60's. Beyond that was the Fontaine's Beau Rivage, a function facility, and a few houses up to Isthmus Road.

On the east side were several multi-family apartment houses followed by a building housing a bakery and three garages. Next to that was Daigle's Body Shop, then multi-family buildings to Strafford Avenue.

On the north side of Strafford Avenue were single and multi-family dwellings down to Tasker Avenue where Porter's Store was located. From there to Scotty's there was nothing until Richardson's farm which served as the site for our Red Cross Swimming lessons (we had to put our towels down in a pasture and sidestep the cow pies to get to the Swift River where we learned to swim.)

Beyond Richardson's was only the river up to the Rumford-Mexico line. Incidentally, at one time I was told that the Rumford-Mexico area had the highest percentage of swim-trained children in western Maine.

On the east side of Oxford Avenue, on the corner was the "green door" or state liquor store, which subsequent became Rumford Drug owned, I believe, by the Orino Family. Next to it were a couple of storefronts that I can't recall, followed by Legere's Hardware store (with its memorable Sherwin-Williams paints sign - "Cover the Earth) followed by Edgar Carey's Home Heating Oil, some apartments and lastly, Yukabaitis's Market where Mr. Yukabaitis, a first generation Lithuanian immigrant with a very thick accent made sausages and hung strong cheeses. Fis display case contained foods and prepared dishes that I can't remember and couldn't pronounce or describe even if I COULD remember.

On the west side from the corner of Oxford Avenue was the Corner Lunch with its short-order grill and jukebox that always seemed to be playing "Ramblin Rose" by Nat King Cole (a personal favorite of the lady behind the counter). Next to it was Hamann's Sporting Goods which was the source for Head, Kastle and Kneissel skis as well as baseball, football, tennis, golf, fishing and many other sporting interests. The came a several apartment buildings with a little variety store sandwiched in between (the little store had steamed hot dogs and buns for a nickel each). After the apartments was the old Snowshoe Club (before it burned and was replaced), and some more apartments.

Between Maine Avenue and Rumford Avenue was St. Rocco's Hall, which was the site of some of the best sock-hops and rock 'n roll dances in the area. The bands that played there were legendary (to us). Bands like The Impacts, the Innkeepers, and others gave teens enormous pleasure and caused many parents to become apoplectic - but then, that was our job as teens.

Some of the apartment buildings on the south end were in tough shape back then, and a massive fire wiped out several of them. Even so, Waldo Street was a vibrant, energetic neighborhood. It had its share of problems with some of the most hardened juvenile delinquents, but also some of the "salt of the earth". One resident of the south end was David Thibodeau, whose name - sadly - appears on the Vietnam Memorial at the end of Congress Street. David was a really tough guy, but a natural leader, so it's not surprising that he volunteered for Nam and found himself in the thick of the action. God rest, Dave.

Is Poor a Crime?  (E) Is Poor a Crime #1510767 by Lou-Here By His Grace

Is Poor a Crime?

Is Poor a Crime?
The local newspaper in big bold letters
proclaimed, "tenants won't move."
They were criminals, lowlifes and thieves,
maybe even druggies or worse,
because they didn't pay the rent,
without remorse, into the street
they should be sent.

Crime and decadence
is not what we see,
after peeling back layers of lies
to let the people's voice
speak loud and free,
but a family in need
of humanity and love,
not deserving to be victims of greed.

Is poor a crime?
In the fine line between
the haves and have nots
in our community and world,
we unfortunately have hard working
and willing, able bodied people
who lose out to the economy time after time.
These unfortunate souls still need a place to stay.

The man has no money to move
because he builds houses
and the economy doesn't need men
who work with boards, plaster, nails
and fulfill other homeowner's dreams.
It is a vicious, sad irony
that he could build a mansion
but can't afford the wood
and concrete it seams.

He wonders if being poor is a crime,
as he stares out into the empty street,
trying to comfort his fiance,
and tiny baby,
so pure innocent and sweet.
His wheelchair bound mother,
sits sad and confused,
but he vows to protect them
with a pride and strength like no other.

The young mother is barely scraping by,
doing her best to keep a smile
on the baby's face,
so pitiful to hear her cry.
Temporary Aid to this needy family
gives them less than $300 a month,
but her rent is $400 you see.
One of her family members
digs deep to send her
the other $100 dollars when she can.

$100 dollars a month in Food Stamps
to feed a mom and baby
is barely enough to
fight back hunger cramps
it is true,
but the poor baby
has committed no crime.

The man has made mistakes in the past
and paid for his misdeeds long ago,
but he carried a label for life
that makes finding work hard
With a dark mantle he is cast,
his applications marked 'discard.'

Yes he paid for his errors then,
and continues to pay again and again.
He wants to provide for his new family
and aging mother, disabled,
but he has been labeled
by those who would exhume
skeletons best left in a closet.
Perhaps they disregard the advice
given by the Lord above
who said "judge not least ye be judged."

Now they never leave the house
except in an emergency,
fearing harassment
from those who should protect
and serve you see,
they believe poor equals crime
and attempt to persecute these people
time after time.

Social morals that the town
is pushing upon these families,
for being unwed and having
made mistakes in the past,
could result in homelessness
for three generations,
who relied on a broken promise
of the town fathers to help
that was quickly forgotten
by those who's abuse of power
has become renowned.

It's not their fault that their landlord,
didn't pay her taxes
and the town acquired the property
by hook, crook, or accord.
They had finally found
a home that they could afford, (barely)
a roof over their head
and all the small things
that make a group of people
rich or poor a family.

In our town the charter says
the Board of Selectmen
and the Town Administration
are the Overseers of the Poor.
I guess they don't want to do
their job any more,
so they pass judgment so neat
and cast the poor into the street.

Is Poor a Crime?
The local newspaper in big bold letters
proclaimed, "tenants won't move."
They were criminals, lowlifes and thieves,
maybe even druggies or worse,
because they didn't pay the rent,
without remorse, into the street
they should be sent.

Looking at Waldo Street now makes my heart heavy to see the deterioration that has occurred there. Before Hannaford Brother's Grocery moved in at the corner of Waldo and Lincoln Avenue, that land was Simard's farm, consisting of a poorly-maintained farmhouse, barn and outbuildings typical of a working farm of the past. One of the saving graces was that the downhill boundary abutted Hosmer field, which presented several spots along the Hosmer fence where us juvenile delinquents could "jump the fence" to avoid admission to sporting events or to simply go down to the baseball field for a pickup game or a drink of water from one of the two outdoor water fountains.

Going south on Waldo from Lincoln Avenue there was a variety store on the east side next to the recently condemned 435 block. From there to the corner of Essex Avenue was Bouffard's Market and, later, Bouffard's furniture, which burned one terribly cold night in the early 60's. (I believe that we lost a firefighter, Bill Soucy, in that blaze). On the opposite side of the street there were apartment houses, one of which had the office of Dr. Carrigan, a podiatrist. Other than that it was strictly housing.

Ralph L. Clarke

Once it stood painted bright, tall and wide;
red, white, and blue, twenty feet, side to side.
Mr. Henry came with scaffold and bucket
from Portland, Oxford, or maybe Pawtuckett
to create a fancy billboard to catch the eye,

(Good stuff in that store it seemed to imply)
The people came from throughout the valley,
parking all along the street or in the alley,
to ask advice on how to fix a broken furnace,
or to buy an Evinrude boat motor from this place.

No one needed a handyman anymore.
They closed the plumbing and heating store,
and turned the fix-it shop into an apartment.
Don't call the landlord and mail in your rent
once a month on time and hope for the best.

Even that dream slowly died with the rest.
The old Ralph Clarke sign fades each day,
one day I fear it too will just be wiped away.
Another block falls from the three story brick,
slowly crumbling like the old sign, pale and sick.

From Essex Avenue south to Oxford Avenue, the east side had Ralph L. Clarke Plumbing, followed by an insurance agency, the VFW, some apartments, and Doiron's Market. The west side had apartments of which the one across from the VFW (the one with poles on the ground level supporting the upper balconies) had a couple of small shops, one of which was a bakery at one time. Then, there were more apartments followed by a building that housed four businesses - "Skunk" LaFleur's radio and TV repair, Vito Puiia's Shoe Repair, Vachon's (subsequently Anastasio's) barber shop, and finally The Corner Pharmacy with its full service (with delivery) drug store, soda and ice cream fountain (with the unique Coca-Cola dispensing machine), various sundries AND the well-stocked comic book carousel.

To enter the pharmacy, one had to step up fron the sidewalk into an alcove, then through the front door, up three semi-circle wooden steps onto the main floor. At any given time, there would be one or more young boys sitting to the side on those wooden steps reading the latest edition of Marvel and DC comics. (I can attest personally to that).

Invalid Item  This item number is not valid. #1507857 by Not Available.

Sitting on Benches

"Saturday in the park
I think it was the Fourth of July
People dancing, people laughing.."
-Chicago Saturday in the Park

We walked across the old Memorial Bridge,
cool afternoon sun bathing mountain valley ridge.
We stopped at Perry's Variety on Congress Street,
green awnings, shades, and painted trim so neat
for a copy of the weekly Rumford Falls Times.
I bought candy for my boy, counting his dimes.
We trod back across the cement and steel span
laughing and chatting, dad and son, hand-in-hand.
I made jokes from a child's story about a troll
and billy goats tripping over the bridge he patrols.

Perry's Variety, was the place for a seventh grader,
I remember playing Pac Man and Space Invader
on the beat up machines crammed in the back
while smoking Marlboro's from my brothers pack.
One day my buddy Mike and I stole Koolaid mix
only to find that 'unsweetened' can make you sick.
These were my musing thoughts as we walked along,
my childhood memories made me sing a song.
"Don't throw your trash in my backyard," it went,
"Don't throw your trash in my backyard," was the extent
of the words I knew, but the song amused my boy,
but we walked along caught in a net of joy.

After a visit the little brick Rumford Public Library,
we read surrounded by fallen autumn leaves from trees
on a stone legged bench in the quaint little Chisholm Park
down where the Androscoggin flows by signing like a lark.
I perused the small hometown newspaper, and he a story.
While scanning headlines, sports, and pictures of Old Glory,
he read the antics of Curious George that crazy monkey.
It felt like a bit of heaven, this relaxing park, to me.
The evening shadows crept along, shading and chilling air,
but we were ready to go, thankful for our time there.

Such is the hometown saved deep within my memories
and the dreams I look to when my mind's eye sees
where I come from and where I long to draw near.
These images last but a moment before returning here.
It seems that the only thing left of my hometown for me
is summed up in this stark and lonely current reality;
Broken benches of concrete with no wooden seats
stand alone in this place that used to be so neat.
I long to come home and nap while the boy reads,
I shall pray the idea called 'regrowth' sprouts seeds.



"Try to avoid the scandals...
The pump don't work
'Cause the vandals took the handles"
-Bob Dylan Subterranean Homesick Blues


Empty Plaza

At the foot of the mountain green,
the buildings slowly rose
out of the old Abbot Farm fields,
now smoothed and paved.

Finishing touches were added;
ball park lights so tall,
yellow painted parking lines,
and signs upon display windows.

Discount shoes and movies,
clothes and meat by the pound
all vied for shoppers' attention
as they wandered wide sidewalks.

Department stores and a grocer
stood alongside the movie theatre.
There were small shops to delight,
with merchandise to entrap the wallet.

In the early 80's when I walked
through the filled parking lot
with family or friends on a spree,
it was our Mecca, Alpha, Omega...

Now the wide plane of patched asphalt
echos empty footprints and I sigh,
thinking how deserted stores
and empty windows scare me.

At the foot of the lonely mountain,
the desolate buildings still stand.
Long gone is the old Abbot Farm
and the dreams created by this Plaza.

Broken Benches



I had warm visions of visiting my old home,
relaxing, contemplating the distances I roam.
Coming down Fall leaf strewn highways,
reminded me of past crisp autumn days.
I thought everything must be right
as evening skies turned to dark night,
heading into my hometown.

Down Congress Street I slowly motored;
no bright shops, boarded windows instead.
I wonder where all the stores and people went,
doors, locked signs showing building for rent.
There used to be groceries and junk shops,
what about Diconzos, one of my favorite stops?
Missing the Home in my Hometown.

I headed across the Bridge to Route 108,
to visit my brother before it was too late.
They used to get up early in this town,
but more and more they lay around,
no jobs to be had with the mill draw-down.
What happened I wonder with a frown,
to my memory of my hometown?

I had a great idea with the sunrise,
it brought a sparkle to my eyes.
I would visit the Rumford Public Library,
then read in the park under a tree,
listening to the Androscoggin flow by
like I did when I was in Junior High,
the glory days of my hometown.

I found a newspaper, headed out the door,
scanning headlines and wanting more
than the usual small town stories,
only to find the old park grown up in trees.
Broken benches with no wooden seat
in a place that used to be so neat;
more lost pride in my hometown.

I frowned sadly and looked around.
Still captivated by the river's sound.
I know I came to the right place,
now damaged and left in disgrace.
A beautiful respite I remember years ago,
left to summer's heat and winter's snow.
Is this the fate of my hometown?

I think of the rest of my community
and shudder at the thought of disunity,
widespread corruption and greed.
I wonder in this time of deep need
if it will always bear this rotten stench,
or be left in squalor like an old park bench.
Please save my hometown.



Congress Street Early Fall

Small town America is slowly slipping away,
at least that is what they say.
I look left and see Hotel Harris standing tall,
on the right is still the bank after all.
As I breathe the cool Fall air,
all is right and intact there.
Down at the end of the street,
the old Agway still looks trim and neat.

This is where I grew up, it's true,
so it wouldn't mean as much to you.
I am happy even if my glasses are rose.
I don't see this town in death throes.
It is a beautiful Autumn day,
you sure can't take that away.

Hard working people from rough stock
built a town that can stand a shock.
We have been down trodden before
and Rumford can take a whole lot more,
so when you roll down Congress Street,
Think not of brick and concrete,
but our town planners and builders.

Sometimes what is in the heart bewilders,
because we love this little mill town.
and we strive to keep it from being beat down.
Small town America will never slip away,
if we who love her have our say.