INTRODUCTION
Boyhood on a Vermont Farm in the 1920's and 1930's
It all started with a call from son David in Colorado. "Dad," he said, "you should write down some of those tales of when you were a boy back on the farm in Vermont. Our girls and the other grandkids would really enjoy them."
His choice of words made it clear enough that he never thought they were completely truthful, but in fact, they were. So much was different in the nineteen-twenties and thirties from today that you didn't have to enrich your stories to make them interesting. I'd never been tempted to write about them; it had been done by many already, and everyone had read enough about kerosene lamps and outdoor privies and no radios or running water and the like so I was about to tell him no, then thought about it a few days and said maybe.
The truth was I must have had a hankering to do it all along and didn't realize it. It was a way of returning to Vermont vicariously, and returning to Vermont had become a family pattern. Brothers Edward and Richard had been in World War II, had traveled and lived for extended periods in Florida but eventually returned to work and live in Vermont. My parents, after leaving the family farm, worked together in New York and Florida but returned finally to Burlington. The same was true of my wife's parents and siblings who worked and lived in far away places and finally returned to retire and build in the Green Mountains. The instincts of Vermonters are such that they will not infrequently disinter the bodies of close relatives who died and were buried in far away places and have them shipped back to a near and final resting place in the native soil.
We came to California after thirty years of military service and five children, seeking good schools and retirement job opportunities. Nearly every year we returned to Vermont for a family visit in the Fall, but with our grown children settled in the West we only occasionally considered moving back.
I finally told David I would get started on a memoir. It was an appropriate time -- I am nearly eighty-five years old and have recently been diagnosed with the first symptoms of Alzheimers disease. My short-term memory has become quite untrustworthy and at gatherings I often find it necessary to ask my dear wife of fifty-three years to whisper the names of people approaching--people with whom I have been familiar for years but whose names will not come to my tongue.
Strangely enough, the names of my New Haven neighbors in the 1920's and 1930's leap to my tongue as easily as thought: the Leaches, the Gills, the Cushmans, the Trudeaus, the Shermans, as do the names of my schoolmates.
I think, therefore, while this phenomenon prevails--and while my mind and memory remain equal to it--I shall attempt to describe to my progeny of the current century a few representative episodes and qualities of farm life during the time of their grand-parents and great-grandparents in rural Vermont.
I thought it would be easy, but sat and looked at blank paper a long time, then started writing individual words like "the Model T Ford," and "the cows," and "the school," but could find no verbal access to them.
Finally, leaning back in the chair at my desk with eyes shut, I tried to imagine the ledge across the road from the house and suddenly realized that for me, access to the avenues of memory was through the senses, not the intellect; what I had seen, or felt, tasted, heard or smelled. If I could shut my eyes and visualize the times and places, then the words would come to describe them and the remembered feelings to accompany them, and the more I peered into memory the more details would emerge.
It was a timely discovery and I found that certain senses were more responsive than others. I could close my eyes and see the outline of the mountains, the brook and the cows in the field. I could imagine hearing the sound of the crows across the meadow and the distant bark of a dog. I could not recreate the smell of breakfast cooking on a brisk winter morning, but my mouth would nonetheless water with the recalled delight of the hungry boy.
That became my approach to memory: visualize and wait for the individual images and words to come. It didn't always work. It seems there were pages of little scenes begun and never finished-- three brothers building a campfire near the walnut tree in the pasture, cooking fried potatoes and onions and some kind of meat. Did it really happen or was it one of my boyhood wishes?
I have written only the scenes that are certain in my memory, most of which can be confirmed by brother Richard who, while a year older, has a better memory for things past.
The incidents I shall record are from my birth in 1919 to graduation from high school in 1936, with some follow-on narrative concerning employment and relevant college activity prior to induction in the World War II Army.
This is an anecdotal account more than an historical one and derives from my personal memories and those of my brother, Richard Poulin, rather than from any official or published sources. As such, I beg the indulgence of New Haven residents and alumni for any unintended misrepresentation of name, place or fact. I am aware that the town of New Haven and its founders have a long and distinguished history that far exceeds the scope of this personal narrative, but this writing of itself is a testament to my enduring affections for the places and persons of my youth.
Retrospection has a hypnotic effect and in the process of documenting the incidents of long ago, I have frequently reverted to the bib-overalled boy with the holes in his sneakers who participated in these experiences of rural life four-fifths of a century ago.
I am greatly indebted to my brother, Richard Poulin, whose contributions as to people, places and events have enabled me to fill the gaps in this narrative. Richard has an extraordinary memory for the persons and character of the period, and has a serious interest in local history and family genealogy. He is a long-time Vermont resident and now makes his home in Charlotte, Vermont.
Among the first pages, I have included two illustrations to acquaint the reader with the individuals and locale of the story.
First is a photograph of the brothers, Edward, Richard and Paul in the year 1924.
Second is a map showing the New Haven town roads and identifying the locations of homes and events mentioned in the stories.
Our farm was probably typical for the period and area, with about 120 acres committed to dairy farming and described very ably by Richard in Chapter 8 entitled "Life on the Farm."
We were a family of five, father Oscar Poulin, Mother Cornelia, and brothers Edward, Richard and Paul. Their faces and characters will emerge in the chapters that follow.
These events are topical rather than chronological or sequential. For instance, in Chapter 4, "Baseball," my activities are covered from the time when I first learned to "throw like a girl" to when I pitched for the high school team.
Paul R. Poulin
Fair Oaks, California
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