Monday, June 30, 2014

The 1918 Home Tour of Quincy Falls (#15 of 15)


540 Windham Crest Avenue • Quincy Falls, New Hampshire ~ The Lewis Homestead

The Lewis Home Visit Information:
     The last house on our Home Visit Tour is to the Lewis homestead. This farmhouse has had many additions since it was built in 1801. The Lewis homestead originally was four hundred acres south to the Ashuelot River and north into the Monadnock Valley. As Quincy Falls grew so did the need for land close to town and close to the river. The Lewis homestead currently sits on one hundred and seventy-eight acres with the farmhouse and four homes across the street that are leased. One unusual factor in the home are all the windows having interior sliding shutters called Indian Shutters (to bank against roving Indians and early raids). This home has two sitting rooms, multiple porches and five fireplaces with four bedrooms up and two down. This working farm’s barns are open today to view the livestock, be sure to give Betsy a pat on the head; she’ll moo in contentment for you if you do. Mrs. Lewis has promised some of her sourdough baked bread and County Fair winning preserves (jars of preserves and jams are for sale) for our refreshments today.
     I be a simple man with little to want and little in needs.   
I’ve taken life as it comes and roll with the punches. I say build your fences horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong. If you lie down with dogs, you’ll get up with fleas. A penny saved is a penny earned. If you’re going to do something – do it. If not – don’t. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Life is simpler when you plow around the stump. Meanness don’t just happen overnight. Every road has a few puddles. The best sermons are lived, not preached. Don’t judge folks by their relatives. Live honorable, brave and with kindness. Don’t stick your noise into something that don’t pertain to you. Sometimes you get what you want and sometimes you don’t. If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop digging. Sometimes the corn is knee high by Fourth of July and sometimes it’s not. When you drink upstream from the herd, just remember someone else is thinking the same thing up from you. Letting the cat out of the bag is a lot easier than putting it back. Speak kindly and know that silence is the best answer. So what? So buttons on ice cream, if you can. Smile at your enemies, it will just confuse them. Live simply and your expectations will be met. Measure twice and cut once. Don’t worry; probably ain’t going to happen anyway. If it rains before seven it’ll clear before eleven. When there is enough blue sky to patch a Dutchman’s breeches, clear weather ahead. And as Will Rodgers has said, “When an old person dies, a library is burnt to the ground.”
     Me and the Mrs. has her little sister staying with us for a bit. How long a bit, no one seems to know. I’ve tried marrying her off to one of the Sullivan boys -- didn’t take. I tried marrying her off to one of the McClintock boys -- they were all taken and the wives were none to happy with me. I tried marrying her off to the traveling salesman staying with the Tuckers -- he just left town. I’ve suggested she give Mrs. Aldrich a hand at the children’s playhouse -- she came home in tears cause the kiddlins’ were so cute and went home to their own mothers. I’ve suggested she visit her brother over in Clarke County -- the Mrs. gave me the eagle look (raised eyebrow and scowling face), I said we’d boot out one of our tenants and give her a home -- again with the eagle eye. I suggested she check if the Quincy Fall’s Library needed any help -- she just came back with a stack of books about farming. I’ve just about given up, but I see the postman coming down the street -- I wonder if little sis is around to get the mail (I’ll suggest she invite him in for some of the Mrs. bread and jam).
     Me? I’ll just sit here in my rocker under the front trees, greeting the Home Visiting folks and think about the picnic Mrs. Stella Hudson just told me she is planning. She always serves her dill pickle potato salad and I sure love that dish. I could eat it in any season, Thanksgiving, Christmas or the Fourth’s picnic. Now I’m hungry, guess I’ll join the postman in the kitchen while remarking what a wonderful woman little sis is.



Thursday, June 26, 2014

It only took one look ~ 1948



     I was the gal Friday at my dad’s auto shop. I did Monday through Thursday, too, but my paycheck didn’t seem to take the extra days into account. It was my own fault, I know. Instead of heading off to college or learning a trade to trade-in on after high school, I slid into the vacant chair at Dad’s auto shop. My objective was to earn some fast cash (it’s not coming fast enough), buy one of Dad’s autos sitting on the lot (had my eye on a two year old Chevy over in the corner – who doesn’t love a red car?) and head out into the world. I wanted to find adventure, see sights I’d only read about and find myself on the by-ways of America’s highways. But, there I sat, answering the phone, giving a shout-out to one or another salesmen, reading the latest gossip in the movie magazines, twiddling my thumbs and listening to daily lectures from dear-ole-dad about missed opportunities. Until opportunity came knocking on my door -- to be truthful, it was Dad’s door that was knocked on, but I heard the sound loud and clear when I looked up into Skeeter’s baby blue eyes.
     Skeeter needed to get his new Pontiac looked at and was looking for an appointment, right away. I gave him two; one for his auto and one with me for dinner later that night. He was cruising through town on his way west or was it south? I wasn’t really listening to details after I heard, “I’m passing through town”. I suggested I might be able to show him around town, if he so desired. He did. And I took a long lunch. We walked around Central Park (ours is only one block by one block), strolled along the river (sitting for a spell on its banks), visited the town’s corn museum (not real exciting, but we laughed our heads off at the displays) had lunch at Mel’s Diner (we both ordered the exact same thing) and talked, talked, talked.
     Skeeter had met my dad at an auto show a couple of years ago while attending with his father (who owns the Pontiac and Ford dealership a state over) and had promised to look in whenever he was in the area. He wanted to open his own dealership, just not in the same state or time zone as his father and was taking a road trip to find the perfect place. When I talked about my ‘missed opportunities’ Skeeter looked right into my eyes and listened and listened and listened.
     He liked the Big Band tunes, I told him about my Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw collection. He had gone to college but said he got nothing out of it. I told him I had gotten nothing out of college either. He loved his family, but wanted to be out on his own. I said, “ditto”. We agreed two children would be just right. We both loved early morning sunrises and wanted to see the sunset on the Pacific Ocean. We laughed at each other’s silly jokes and bantered as if we’d known each other for years.
     By the time our dinner date had arrived we had both confessed that we thought we were in love. (Love at first sight does happen; I’ve read about it in the magazines.)
     When we approached my parents about us getting married immediately, my mother nearly fainted and Dad only said, “he’s going to sell Pontiacs and Fords for Christ sakes”. In one breath, we invited them to accompany us to the courthouse in the morning and I gave Dad my resignation notice. I packed, Skeeter picked up his Pontiac and we headed west (or was it south? I don’t remember).
     That was over thirty-five years ago. And we still laugh at each other’s silly jokes.       


Photo credits: from the collection of Attic Whispers

Monday, June 23, 2014

The 1918 Home Tour of Quincy Falls (#14 of 15)


536 Windham Crest Avenue • Quincy Falls, New Hampshire ~ The Aldrich Home

The Aldrich Home Visit Information:
     This standard clapboard home is anything but standard. Mrs. Aldrich has transformed portions of this settlement into Windham’s Childcare Playhouse. The homes attached carriage-house was renovated to accommodate the children’s play center with miniature tables and chairs used for painting, drawing and snack time. There are bales of hay stacked for climbing and small sawhorses made in the images of horses for the children’s adventure rides. One corner holds a pint-size house, home to a doll family and furnishings (made by Mr. Aldrich). There are baskets filled with dress-up and play clothes for the children’s imaginations. The large room is painted in a rainbow of colors and flooded with natural light. The outside enclosed area features a double swing and two low boxes filled with soft sand outfitted with buckets and shovels. Mrs. Aldrich’s Childcare Playhouse is open five days a week from 8:00am to 6:00pm to leave your child in her care while you attend work, run errands or have a peaceful rest at home. The Playhouse is open today for the Home Visit only.
     I’m not sure where this brainchild started except I was taking care of some neighbor’s children (quite frequently) and thought I might as well get paid for the effort. When we leased this home from Mr. Lewis (across the way) I had only wanted to settle down, start our family and send Garth off to do his job at the Quincy Sentinel newspaper. But, I have to admit it has been a barrel of fun revamping the carriage house into an enterprise filling out our budget and offering a service that has me hopping. Our two children love having playmates around and are so good to share their mom with the other children. I usually have five to six children, besides my own, on any given day. I ask the mothers to make arrangements with me in advance and have two of the Miller’s children every day while Cynthia Miller is working at Miss Cassandra’s Dress Shop.
     I was raised in a family of eight and being the eldest, child-raising came naturally to me. I had to entertain, feed, watch over and bandage more than a few scrapes for my siblings that my little cottage business is easy to handle. Oh, there are plenty of disagreements: taking turns on the sawhorses is a hard lesson to learn, old gowns and hats to share amongst the girls (the red dress is a popular one) and potty accidents. I only take out the musical instruments a few times a week (the noise can be heard all the way down the street). I have pallets of pillowy sacks and knitted blankets (thanks to Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Tucker) for nap-time (1:00pm every day) and gallons of water and juice after play. It seems to be working out for everyone and the mother’s leaving their children with me are so very pleased for the extra hand. Little Mickey calls me Mrs. Mom and considers this his other home. I’m glad and will be gladder when he stops pushing Garth Junior off the swing.
     My first winter in the playhouse was rough going. We had to move everything (left out the hay bales) into our home’s sitting room, while Garth and Mr. Lewis installed a wood stove in the carriage house; now the space is toasty warm and very comfortable during our harsh winters. I’ve hired Erin Sullivan to come in the mornings to give me a hand and let me sit down in my kitchen for a cup of coffee once in a while. She’s a gem and the kids love her.
     I knew if I signed up to have our house on the DAR’s Home Visit Tour, I was getting free advertising. So far today, I’ve signed up two more children to come three times a week and Mildred Hendricks (on E. Elm) recently enrolled at Marks Business School and has asked me to take her a three-year-old four days a week. Mrs. Fluke passed through a moment ago and whispered that we must make sure our pantries are full before the first snowfall. She’s heard that we’re expected to have an unusually cold and snowy winter before Thanksgiving. I had better ask Mr. Lewis for extra wood for the playhouse stove.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Home, again ~ 1946



     Coming home from the war was easy for me. I had floated from one military unit to another, capturing the stories and sending the news home to the folks anxious to hear what I had to say. Towards the end of the European conflict I was editing (per Uncle Sam’s instructions) the war correspondence’s pieces, filtering their words without losing the content of what was taking place on the front lines and behind the scenes. I was never in any danger, met men and woman from around the globe and came home to a great job with Burke & Chandler Publishing House as one of their literary editors.
     Submissions came in to the office from those same journalist and writers I had met during the war, who had one more thing to say about the war. They just couldn’t let it go. American’s were ready for a change and didn’t want to read about the war they had just been through, it was too much too early. We were looking for the voices that would lift people up, bringing us back to a normalcy we were all anxious for. During the war paper was at a premium and the publishing houses started using wider margins, lighter paper and soft covers creating a paperback book. Burke & Chandler published paperback novels, short stories collections and produced books for the growing book club readers. We didn’t have the Hemmingways or Fitzgeralds in our stable, but slowly grew on author’s mystery series, romance novels and the stand-alone fiction that hooked us from the first read. Until one day I opened an envelope from a woman writer that caught my attention.
     Her letter to me said she had been married to an Army Air Corps Major who had died in the war. She had kept all of his letters along with copies of the letters she had written him for over five years. She said that the wives and sweethearts left at home had felt alone, single and frightened. The letters they read and read again and again, were the only thing they had left of the man they sent off to fight, whether he came home alive and well or was gone to them forever. She wasn’t trying to share her hardship or sorrow, but wanted to show these women (and men) that they had not been alone, but had the memories, the stories and the love of these men was with them forever. If she felt this way, so did many, many other women and to read her story was a kinship to hearing their own. Not to forget, not to be sad, but be proud of the life they had shared during a time when the only thing they could share were their letters to one another.
     I worked with this brave woman for many months, formatting and editing (little to be done in that regard) and we published her book titled Home, again, a collection of letters that spoke of loss, heartbreak, success, coping, hope, forgiveness and love. We never received more letters from our readers then we did on account of this book. Women and men wrote to tell us that these personal letters brought closer for them, thoughtfulness, thankfulness and an understanding of how to move on and get back to the life of living. There won’t be a sequel to this book, but the author has told me she’s working on a collection of poems and would I be interested in reading her manuscript? You betcha!

Photo credits: from the collection of Attic Whispers

 

Monday, June 16, 2014

The 1918 Home Tour of Quincy Falls (#13 of 15)


534 Windham Crest Avenue • Quincy Falls, New Hampshire ~ The McClintock Home

The McClintock Home Visit Information:
     One of our founding father’s families, the McClintocks. We have two homes to view on the McClintock lands. This twenty-acre spread runs narrow and deep from the street to the back woods. Both homes are considered a Square Colonial with covered piazzas. The characteristics of these time-honored homes are the 4-over-4 window placements, the central and front chimneys and the galleries utilizing the outdoor space. The sugarhouse and carriage house replicates the same styling as these fine homes. Old oak, maple and buckeye trees fill the rear woodlands with a small tributary stream draining into the Ashuelot River to the south. Both McClintock family homes have incorporated family heirlooms, handcrafted furniture and Scottish imported wares to furnish their homes. The McClintock Clan Crest is prominently placed over the first home’s fireplace mantel. There will be a maple syrup sample tasting served in the sugarhouse from McClintock Maple Sugarhouse.
     So many folk a visiting today, I remember when there was barely a street to be named in The Falls. We’re fortunate that Mac’s grandfather wrote down the family history in the family Bible. The McClintocks came over from Inverness, Scotland in 1788, settling first in Connecticut and finally landing in The Falls area where the logging works were hiring. The story goes that Ian McClintock was seated in the town’s tavern when the recruiting officers came through signing up men between the ages of eighteen and forty-five to fight for the Governor. They offered him a five-year stint with an advancement of $24.00, $8 a month pay and three months pay plus one hundred and sixty acres upon his discharge. He signed his name to the paper, said good-bye to his fellow tavern drinkers and went off to war. After doing his duty during the Second War of Independence in 1812, Ian McClintock was given one hundred and sixty acres along the Ashuelot River on the opposite side from the small town, which was just fine cause it was all wooded in maple trees. And McClintock Sugarhouse Syrups was born, some of the finest grade syrups in the state.
     I came along with Par and Mar from the Sutherland district of Scotland in 1871, a youngin’ of 19 and fell in love with Mac and married the Scotsman in 1872. We raised six boys and one daughter and have six grandchildren with two more on the way by Christmas. Our youngest boy, Logan, and his new wife are living in the big house with us along with Megan still at home and attending Marks Business School. The back house has two of our boys, Ferguson and Ross, with their families (they each married sisters) and the rest of our troop is scattered around town. Mac and the boys have kept McClintock Sugarhouse alive and growing. They just bought another fifty acres of maple woodlands in Vermont; they plan to expand into our neighboring state across the way. I reckon our boy, Cameron, will be put in charge of the Vermont section of land, that boy loves to travel.
     Well, it looks like another group of visitors are coming up the steps from the sugarhouse, so I better get these old bones a movin’ and fill the shortbread plate, again. Doctor Dalton’s mother-in-law was just here and shared with me that the DAR is going to decorate the town with greenery and flowers for Thanksgiving. That seems a bit excessive since we’ll have tons of snow on the ground and a probably a cold snap or two before then. I must ask Lynette about those goings on when she comes to visit.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

The Telegram ~ 1916


     Flora Wesley was just leaving her front door when she noticed the Western Union Telegraph deliveryman, Mr. Collins, rushing up the front walk while giving Flora a determined look. “Telegram for you, madam.” He said while handing Flora the thin, pale brown envelope. Flora gave Mr. Collins a nickel from her satchel, thanked him and watched Mr. Collins hurry back down the front walk and scamper away. She looked down at the envelope, looked up gazing at the street then looked down again at the envelope clutched in her hand causing a worry line to form on her brow. “Oh no, this couldn’t be good,” she thought to herself, turned around and reentered her front door. Flora got as far as the staircase landing, clutched the burl banister and sat down on the lowest step still looking at the telegram that had just arrived.
     Flora’s thoughts came at lighting speed of who could be sending her a telegram: Her mother? One of her children? Her husband, Brain, away on business? Her best friend and cousin, Joyce? She wasn’t anxious to open the news, but anxious just the same at what the pale brown envelope held.
     She’d recently had a long letter from her mother telling her of her father purchasing a new Model T Ford automobile. “Has there been an accident and he’s in the hospital and they need me to rush to his side,” she queried to herself. “Or is it worst then that and Father has died at the wheel of his confounding machine?” “Maybe this is from Brian,” she thought to herself. Brian had left early yesterday morn for a meeting with his associates in the next town. He was to return this evening and Flora had been on her way to the grocer’s for their evening meal preparations. “If something had happened to Brian, I think someone from the office would come with the news instead of sending a telegram,” She mused while imagining the telegram’s content. Husband died in streetcar accident -- stop -- body to arrive at train station this afternoon -- stop -- sorry for your loss -- stop.
     As she glanced down at the message’s envelope she thought of Joyce, her cousin who lives a few miles away. “Perchance Joyce is ill and needs me right away! I just visited with her last week, she looked fine, but we still hear of the Spanish Flu running through the country and she might have come down with that dreadful disease.”
     Flora gave her self a headshake and admonished herself for such dire thoughts. “Just open it and get it over with,” she angrily told herself. “But to not know right now means everything is the same, no changes, no emergencies.” Looking up Flora started thinking about the Dime Novel she had just finished reading. A mystery that had included a run-away automobile crashing into a streetcar, killing three and the detective who determined it had been murder. “I must stop reading such horrific tomes,” she thought. Or watching with keen interest at the newsreel before the motion picture show last week about the European war ranging overseas. We don’t have anyone fighting at the moment and away from home. This can’t be an Army notice,” she determined. “I’ll just be brave, take a deep breath, put my arcane, unfounded impressions aside and open the envelope.”
     CONGRATULATIONS -- STOP -- YOU’RE A GRANDMOTHER -- STOP -- BABY BOY AND YOUR DAUGHTER ARE FINE -- STOP -- 8 POUNDS 6 OUNCES -- STOP -- BORN AT 4:30 THIS MORNING -- STOP -- LOVE YOUR SON-IN-LAW DAVID -- STOP.
    “OH my goodness a baby boy. I must telegram Mother right away!”

Photo credit: from the Eva Brewer CD collcetion




Monday, June 9, 2014

The 1918 Home Tour of Quincy Falls (#12 of 15)


533 Windham Crest Avenue • Quincy Falls, New Hampshire ~ The Windfield Home

The Windfield Home Visit Information:
     Quincy Falls’ Builders, Inc. designed and built the home for the Windfield sisters in 1902. The L-shape farmhouse model is very unique. The builder filled in the elbow of the L with an enclosed porch and an additional porch to the side creating a box shape with the slopping roofline. There are two entrances to the Windfield home through the porch doors. There is sitting room, dining room off the kitchen, a library study and three bedrooms upstairs. The simple form fits well on this Windham Crest lot. The Misses Windfields have furnished the home with family heirlooms, original needlepoint chairs and ottomans and a lovely collection of patterned quilts created by Miss Gina Windfield, one of our grammar school teachers. Miss Sonja Windfield has an extensive library housed on three walls of her study that was handcrafted in a rich maple wood by Thomas Sands of Quincy Falls’ Builders, Inc.
     Gina is quietly working on another of her quilts on the stretching form set-up in the front sitting room. We barely have room to walk, let alone sit, in that room. But, she’s happy and loves to explain to all the folks visiting today how she designs and sews her masterpieces. She’s showing them her sketchbook of ideas, her baskets of material and fabric swatches (thanks to Abel Herrin & Co. printed cloth scrap pile), her thread collection and stitching samples to the finished quilt. They are a work of art and Gina has hung five of her colorful quilts on the walls and upstairs’ hallway giving our home a warm personal touch.
     I’m nestled in my study, surrounded by my books and stacks of unfinished orders for more articles. I’m a writer; actually I’m an author, since I have published. I write about our women’s right to the vote for a multitude of magazines. I was hired by Women Voter Magazine to follow the 1913 ‘Army of the Hudson’ and the sixteen-day, two hundred and twenty-five mile march from Newark to our nation’s capital. I followed, I wrote and I marched along with my suffrage sisters. Yesterday, I had a conversation on the telephone with Genevieve Clark about writing a speech for her using one of my more recent articles, Women Now -- Now! We’re coming up on a vote in the Senate in September to finally put this matter to rest and Miss Clark will be making an appearance in Washington, D.C. to that effect.
     I have traveled by train to various state Suffrage meetings, which always leads to another article and another and another. Last year I was in Iowa for the Women Voter Magazine covering a mid-western rally when I met a lady named Kirsten Lunde from upper Minnesota. She took me home with her. I interviewed seven Norwegian immigrant women living in Mrs. Lunde’s town who were very passionate about women’s rights in America. Coming from a country that already recognizes our rights through progressive politics. Women Voter Magazine loved the piece I wrote titled, Ya sure You Betcha We Got It Right!
     However, I enjoy writing fiction, and also write for the dine novel industry. Those are mostly short stories with a few continued series that I’ve penned (or pecked out on my typing machine – I really should take a touch typing course at Marks Business School). I’ve even written under the name of Bertha M. Clay for Street and Smith Publishers; I’m just another cog in the BMC stories. With so many variations of Secret Service, Pinkerton, heroes from American history and the wild west themes, I strayed toward women in stories of heroism, romance and in the workplace using mystery and intrigue. Plus, I’ll sprinkle a dash of women’s rights dialogue between the lines. It’s great fun, brings me a good income and allows me to follow what I love to do -- write.
     Of course, every writer wants to write the Great American Novel (don’t let them tell you any different) and I’m no different. I have a manuscript I keep working on about the Women’s Movement through fact and fiction. It’s coming along, slowly. I have to step back now and then, adjourn to my private side porch light up my corncob pipe and have a think on the subject, my story and the direction of how I want the plot to evolve. I won’t tell you any more -- I’ll just have to show you when it gets published.
     Midge and Lynette just left and I over heard them discussing holiday possibilities for out-of-town guests to our town. I think at the next Daughter’s of the American Revolution meeting I’ll suggest sleigh rides and a ball. We could hold it at the DAR hall and decorate it with greenery and flowers.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

The Doctors ~ 1921


     Neville and Lindsey first met in 1901 at a medical conference in Washington D.C. This photo was taken shortly after they were married in 1902. Neville had attended the University of Chicago earning a doctorate degree in psychology and Lindsey received her medical training at the Women’s Medical College of Baltimore, also in psychology. The couple set up housekeeping and established a private practice in Lindsey’s hometown of Baltimore, Maryland. As you can imagine, their evening meals usually went untouched when their conversations and discussions took to comparing Freud and Jung, hysteria to overdramatic behavior and men vs. women’s mind sets.
     By 1921 Neville was becoming a specialist in the field of nervous disorders for the Great War’s returning soldiers. He was one of the first psychologists to work closely with the men in getting to the root of their shell-shocked minds and bodies. Not to just buck up and take it like a man, but to guide them in unearthing and releasing their traumatic experience. He realized quickly that when choices and control is taken away from these men, it was out of their own hands to know how to recognize and handle the stress of war. They may have gone to war through conscription (no choice), sent overseas to parts unknown (no control) and placed in dangerous situations (by force). He felt that they had been derailed for a bit and needed to get back on track and return to an assemblance of the life they had left behind. He encouraged the men to look on change as a positive action without losing the core of the man sitting in front of him. Once he gave them the tools to bring out that core, the rest fell into place. Of course some men were so damaged, it took months and sometimes years to help relieve their pain and suffering. Neville worked closely with the Veterans Bureau in Washington, establishing an avenue for the veterans seeking help without the stigma of actually admitting the need for help and not knowing where to turn or who to turn to. He provided informative brochures to the veterans on the signs of battle fatigue, the obstacles they faced and the hurdle to get answers and results for the men. He offered a safe and private path for the men that had gone to war and returned wounded in spirit and mind.     
     Lindsey, in her own right, was renowned in helping women diagnosed with a nervous condition (usually so labeled by their husbands). A popular label to place on a woman no matter the circumstances, conditions, past or present. Women felt comfortable coming to Lindsey and many had been through the gambit of male doctors only to land at Lindsey’s door batten and bruised from the misdiagnosed male professionals (a term Lindsey used sparingly). They had been given tinctures of laudanum only leading to addiction and masking the real problems these women faced. She created a timeline with the women, from their childhood, their marriage and childbearing to the present. Somewhere along the line a discussion erupted between Lindsey and her patient and a pinpoint was marked to the underlying conflicting time in the woman’s life. She noticed some women had little to say for themselves that didn’t include a dominant male figure: brother, father or husband. She taught them to think for themselves and assured them it was okay to disagree, be strong and acknowledge who they really were and what they really wanted out of life. Lindsey had a few upset husbands show up at her door, only to be escorted out by Neville after a short conversation about the pride they must feel in having such a healthy partner at their side. Lindsey also noticed that generally her female patients were happy and content, but just a little bump in the road took them off course: the birth of a child, a death of a parent, an unexpected event. Because women were more open-minded in seeking help, they often came to Lindsey because of their own stress in dealing with their changed husbands after the war. She would recommend the husbands see Neville and helped the women through the transition of before and after.
     Neville and Lindsey were a team, professionally and personally. They worked together in researching and procuring a solution for their patients and finding a balance in their own lives. They were happily married for over sixty years.

Photo credit: from the collection of Attic Whispers

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