For my Father (roots),
and For Me (trees).
Photo: Hollis Kelly (1940-1990)
Allagash, Maine
"Now when I was a child...". That's how my Dad would begin his stories. Sitting on his lap I'd listen to him tell me tales of his childhood and how he grew up in an old log cabin in the deep, dark woods of Allagash, Maine.
His stories were simple, but magical. He wasn't theatrical, quite the opposite really. He was reserved, quiet, thoughtful. He spoke when needed and not a squeak more. I'd never heard him raise his voice - not once. He had a very somber look about his face at all times. If you didn't know him, you'd probably assume he was miserable. Perhaps he was, though he never complained. His face was older than his years; a result of exhausting hard labor working as a construction worker and truck driver. His hair was always the same - a slick, black D.A. doo from the 50's. He wore white t-shirts and a flannel open over it, and blue jeans with black boots he kept polished, or slip-on canvas shoes when he was relaxing at home. I remember the smell of his Camel Cigarettes always kept in his shirt pocket. With my head against his chest I'd sit and listen to his story; smelling the tobacco in his pocket and playing with the thick weathered skin on his elbow and on his rough knuckles while he spoke.
Now that I'm older, those little stories Dad would take the time to tell me are more than just stories to pass the time. Now they're treasured memories of a special time in a special place. Stories of Allagash that should be remembered and told again and again because they are chock full of beautiful life lessons. He was planting tiny seeds. Seeds of Allagash planted in me. Even though he moved miles from his home to our home in New Milford, CT, he'd always be that Allagash boy. And he always longed to return, though it's lack of jobs there would never allow him to.
My roots are strong and deeply rooted in the heritage and land of that wilderness in Allagash. By planting the seeds of story and love for his home and people in Maine, he'd passed on a part of himself, and ancestors before him, for me to keep alive. I've been pouring hours of my time into my Family Tree and now branching off into blogging my Dad's stories. People die, but memories live on and on. So here I will write all the stories I remember them, as I find them, and as I make my own in hopes to make that "Return To Allagash" trip Dad and I had planned before he died back in 1990.(Photo: Hollis Kelly, his Mother Lucy Kelly, and me, Katina Kelly Loomis, age 5)
