November 30, 1989
by Isabel Morse Maresh
Much has been said and written about the economy of Maine, especially that of Waldo County in recent years. We hear the country music songs about growing up in poverty, and I recall that someone once said, "We never knew we were poor until we were told."
I'm inclined to believe that poverty is a state of mind. Being born after The Great Depression, I think that perhaps the whole neighborhood in the back section of Northport went without lots of things and made do, never thinking that we were poor. No one had told us so.
One of the most versatile and resourceful women that I have known as I was growing up was my Aunt Hazel. By the time that I spent many hours at her home, most of her children had grown. Oh, how the older cousins loved to tease!
Aunt Hazel was born in Belmont on Oct. 13, 1898, the daughter of John W. and Jennie (Levenseller) Morse. When she was eight years old, her mother died. She was the second child of a family of seven, making much work tending the younger children. When she was old enough, she was boarded out to do housework for others.
Aunt Hazel married Roscoe Hurd Dean of Northport on Aug. 16, 1918, where they made their home and raised Earl, Ken, John, Bertha, and Barbara.
Aunt Hazel's kitchen had a hand punk in a black sink, a gray Glenwood cookstove with warming ovens, and pantry cupboards.
She hummed as she worked in her kitchen, rolling out biscuits, cookies, and making gingerbread, while nieces and neighborhood children ran in and out, pestering her.
She told us stories as she worked, many about the grandmother who helped raise her, poems about neighbors, and tales of the War effort. It was many years later that I realized that the family stories were about my ancestors. She lived in the days when flour and crackers were bought by the barrel. My mother told of being sent to bed without supper and grabbing a handful of crackers on the way.
Aunt Hazel made quilts with dyed white grain bags for backing and color. She made clothing for her family and the. most professional tiny doll clothes that I ever remember. She made featherbeds and straw tickings. how I wish that I had learned more.
I remember sleeping with my cousins, Bertha and Barbara, in the bed-chamber over the kitchen in the winter with heated bricks wrapped in flannel at the foot of the bed for warmth. The quilts were piled on, and we slept in a feather bed. The covers were so thick, and the room was so cold that you just didn't want to move out of bed. It didn't take long to get dressed, either under the covers or a mad dash to the just-started living room fire, in the one-piece long underwear and the hated long brown cotton stockings.
Early in the morning, we could hear the sounds of starting the morning fires, and of attempting to thaw the hand pump and the sink drain before Aunt Hazel went to the barn to help with the chores. She worked long and hard. Some of my fondest memories were of stays at Aunt Hazel's. She passed away Oct. 18, 1970, at the age of 72. Surely she was one of whom the bible spoke of: "Her children shall rise and call her blessed."
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