Donald became a captain in the Rainbow Division which almost immediately was sent to fight in France. There he won the Distinguished Service Cross for bravery. He never talked about it, but we learned later from the War Department and other sources what happened. After one of the heavy German bombardments at the front lines, Donald and another volunteer climbed out of their trench, crawled over the barbed wire in the dark across to No Man's Land, where one of their comrades lay badly wounded. They also located a machine gun nest that had been strafing their company. They picked up their wounded comrade and started to return to the trench. The Germans sent up flairs and began to shell their position again. Fortunately they found a shell hole to roll into until the flares and shelling stopped. The hole was half full of water with several corpses in it. Donald had been hit in both legs by shrapnel, but the two men continued their rescue attempt and reached safety with their seriously wounded comrade. Donald told me that he had gotten one of his asthma attacks and had to stuff his handkerchief into his mouth to muffle his coughing. It was the most frightening part of the episode because they were so near the enemy lines.
During the war, I spent nearly all my vacations in St. Albans with Aunt Julie who had professed to disliking children. Nevertheless she coerced me into sitting before the Ouija Board with her to ask the occult for news of Donald's whereabouts and if he were safe. I was always suspicious since Aunt Julie liked things to go the way she wanted them to. I was quite sure that she gave little pushes to the small planchette to help it on its way. It was supposed to point to letters of the alphabet to spell out words. When I hinted at my suspicions, she replied haughtily that she would certainly never do such a thing. But, whatever the force, the messages were invariably optimistic and Donald came back safely except for a limp. I was in the Bishop Hopkins Boarding School in Burlington, Vermont. Donald came to see me and oh, the pride I had in showing him off. He seemed very romantic in his uniform, especially with his limp and cane. The girls all thought him very handsome. Not long after he returned from the war, he was married. His bride was a young debutante from Boston, named Helen Thorndike. Her mother and my mother had been good friends, and her mother was still a good friend of Aunt Julie's. After Donald got his PhD from Columbia University, he accepted a professorship at the University of California in Berkeley, a position he held until his death at 58 in 1952.
It was years before I saw them again. In the meantime, their four children were born in California: Young Donald Sage Mackay who was killed in action at the beginning of WWII, Thorndike, followed by young Helen and finally, Betty Ann, who at the age of eleven visited us one summer in Blue Hill. It was a pity that we lived such distances apart. Winifred had married Tom Hutchinson whom she had met on a trip West. They lived in Oregon with their two children. Ann and Bill were much the same age as my two daughters, Shelby and Hope, and we spent one summer in Oregon with them. Besides their house in Portland, they had a lovely summer house in Newport, high on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Annette and Edwin lived in New York city on East 64th Street with their five children: Eileen who was named for our little sister who died, Nancy, Edwin Jr., Hugh and Julie, the same age as my daughter Shelby. Stewart had married Mary Shepard, a friend of Winifred's. They had shared an apartment in New York at one time. Stewart's two daughters, Mary Sage and Stephanie, were also the same ages as my two, and so there was much visiting back and forth over the years. Stewart and I became very close as adults and we saw a great deal of one another. But this was all after we grew up.
Looking back, it was a wonderful era to live in, at least for people with money. there were no radio or tevevision to distract or disrupt one's thoughts. there was secutity and purpose in life, and the frantic hustle and bustle of later years had not yet begun. My brothers and sisters continued to drift in and out of my life. annette was busy in New York with her settlement work. Winifred was still at smith college and Stewart at Hill School. But we all gathered together in Blue Hill for the summers. there was always a house party going on. Friends from all over the country came to visit us. In thosae days one could take a boat dirctly from Boston to Bunksport, where one was met by a car and driven 18 miles to Blue Hill. Or one could take the Bar Harbor Express from New York to Ellsworth, only 15 miles from Ble Hill. To me the boat trip was more exciting though I invariably got seasick on the overnight journey. there was also a little steamer that sailed the coast, I think from Portland, and docked right in Ble Hilll Harbor. I emember watching it steam through the narrows and tooting proudly as it turned to dock at the wharf.
I must go back to the old St. Alban's house as it played such a large part in our lives, especially mine. The house, a big, Victorian brownstone edifice, was built by my grandfather, John Gregory Smith. it was very large, very imposing and architecturally quite hideous but very typical of its time. It had a tower at one side and a slate mansard roof and was ornamented with iron fretwork here and there. At the head of the curved driveway were iron statues: two clothed ladies, holding large urns with flowers in the summer and snow in the winter. An iron deer with branching antlers stood on the lawn and was an object of great delight to us children, who enjoyed tumbling off him and riding on his back over the years. Farther down on the lawn was a fountain with two white imitation swans, floating majestically about the splashing water.
At one side of the house were acres of beautiful gardens and greenhouses.
Inside, the house - referred to as The Governor's Mansion - was awesomely Victorian: heavy, turkey-red, wall-to-wall carpeting overlaid with thick oriental rugs. I remember there were no sounds of footsteps. People glided about silently like ghosts. TTe big rooms were filled with heavy furniture, marble busts and suits of armor. There were cut flowers from the greenhouses everywhere, scenting the air with their perfume. The big, spooky attics were a child's paradise, stacked with discarded toys: doll houses, old-fashioned tricycles, electric trains, old-fashioned dolls. Who had been the owners of these treasures of bygone days? My cousins, I suppose, and perhaps even my moher and aunts and uncles when they were children. There were racks of costumes and old-fashioned suits and dresses to dress up in and play-act.
My grandfather had been a lawyer and an astute businessman. the Central Vermont Railroad was built by him, as was the eastern section of the Northern Pacific Railroad. This section joined another from the West Coast in a little town in the middle of Minnesota that was too small to have a name. So my grandfather named it "Brainerd", my grandmother's maiden name. The town is still there on the map. It was lateer that John Gregory Smith ran for governor of the state of Vermont and was governor for two terms (1863 - 1867). His son, Edward Curtis Smith became governor later (1898 - 1902.) Both my grandfather and grandmother, Ann Eliza Smith, died before I was born. Aunt Annie, who was their eldest, told me she remembered meeting President Lincoln and even sitting on his knee when she was a small child.
To my great sorrow, my Uncle Beecher, Aunt Annie's husband, died when i was ten years old. From then on, Aunt Annie lived alone in the vast house, taken care of by her loyal servants. There was Thomas Rodin, the butler, a tall, distinguished-looking man with a flowing white mustache. He and his wife Mary and their children lived in a little red house a short distance up the hill, on the estate. They had been with the family for many years. Their daughter Francis was my age and a good friend. There was also Minnie the cook who made wonderful Hermit cookies. i must have been a dreadful nuisance, getting under her feet, raiding the cookie jar, asking countless questions and begging to sample everything. They were dear, long-suffering persons who understood and bore with me, Then there was Agnes, Aunt Annie's maid, who also kept an eye on me when I was in St. Albans and who was also a great friend of mine. She became a sort of surrogate Janet, There were numerous gardeners and a coachman who later became a chauffeur. He lived above the stable and I was strictly forbidden to bother him. The gardeners were very firm when it came to children in their greenhouses. We were allowed to look at and smell the beautiful flowers but not to touch. There was an entire greenhouse devoted to carnations, my Uncle Beecher's favorite flower. They filled the house all winter with their lovely scent and Uncle Beecher always wore one in his buttonhole. A fresh one was sent up to his dressing room every morning.
Aunt Annie's house was a wonderful and fascinating place to visit and as a child I was always welcome. We all were. One Christmas I was given a bicycle and Uncle Beecher taught me how to ride it. From then on I was never far from it. I rode up and down and around the garden paths and driveways, making up games as I went along. The stable was the most scary but wonderful place to explore. The old box stalls were empty of horses of course but there were a few old carriages that had belonged to my grandparents, still smelling of horses and hay and mildew and all covered with dust sheets. It was fun to climb under the dust sheets, get into the carriages and sit there pretending to be a grand lady, going for an afternoon ride, calling on friends. I still remember that pungent, delightful stable smell.
After my father died, my mother sold our former house in New York City at East 66th Street where Stewart, Eileen and I were all born. It was eventually torn down and rebuilt as an annex to the Jewish synagogue around the corner on Fifth Avenue. So, the landmarks of our family were slowly disappearing. Many years later, after my aunts and uncles died, the big St. Albans brownstone mansion that my grandfather had built and where I had spent so many happy times, was torn down to save taxes. It was far too big for any modern family. The heating alone cost a fortune, and servants became harder to find. I never went back to see the great hole in the ground or later, the community of modern houses built in its place. Some years after that our big Blue Hill house suffered the same fate. Taxes were going up, repairs were prohibitive and the family was widely scattered. We all had our own houses as well. So Donald suggested that we keep the bungalow on the shore with its one acre and divide it up into small lots among the five of us. And that's the way it stands today.
When I was fourteen, I was entered at Miss Spence's School in New York on West 55th Street. Miss Spence, a very strict, very frightening lady, had been a great admirer of our father and attended his church on Fifth Avenue. Annette and Winifred had gone to Spence's so it was natural that I should follow in their footsteps. The first year I went as a boarder. I roomed with three other girls, whom I liked, but everything else i hated. In fact, I got into such a nervous state that I started to walk in my sleep. Unfortunately, a teacher found me wandering around the halls one night and reported me to Miss Spence. After a harrowing interview I think she finally believed in my innocence. Our daily recreation, if you could call it that, consisted of long, dull walks up and down Fifth Avenue. The rules were absurdly srict. We were not allowed to acknowledge any acquaintance we might meet, We were not allowed to talk to one another or look into shp windows. How I hated those walks! Once a year we were allowed to have a so-called "Midnight Feast", supervised, of course by the teachers. I must admit, the food was marvelous. I remember the chocolate marshmellow cake, but the whole episode fell flat because of its legality and supervision. The feast was not held at midnight either but soon after the lights-out bell rang and was held in a downstairs drawing room. We ate, kept our voices modulated, curtsied to the teachers in our nightgowns and departed to bed.
The second year I became a day pupil and lived with Annette and Edwin on East 64th Street. This was primarily to save money, but I was much happier and began to enjoy school. My health also improved. In the afternoons I went to the park to rollerskate and gaze at the animals in the Zoo, feeling sorry for them in their little pens. Or sometimes I walked with my growing family of little nieces and nephews, of whom I was very fond and proud that I was their Aunt Bo.
After that second year at Miss Spence's, I went to other boarding schools. Then, because I was growing up and craved independence, I went to live at age 18 in a Chaperone House, as they were called. It was almost opposite Annette's on East 64th Streeet. i was considered too young and vulnerable to live alone. Chaperone Houses were really glorified boarding houses for young women who came to New York to take finishing courses in art, music, drama or whatever, and at the same time be chaperoned and protected from the pitfalls of the big city. If you were 19 or over, you were allowed to go out at night with an escort and have a front door key to let yourself back in at the end of the evening. Coming home after midnight was frowned upon. I was not yet 19 so I had to be in by 11 o'clock, before the chaperone went to bed. My chaperone house, just across the street from Annette and Edwin, was not only convenient for baby-sitting but had the added advantage of my older sister keeping an eye on me.
The Chaperone House was run by two elderly sisters who came fro, a most respectable New York family but had fallen on hard times financially. Miss jennie and Miss Lilkian has a brother, Mr. Judson, who worked for a bank. He had a room elsewhere but took his meals with us. He was a kindly and dignified old soul whho took a polite interest in the daily doings or the young residents. There was anothr brother who I imagine was more successful. He lived in a man's club and came only occasionally for a meal. I don't think any of them had ever married. Aside from the shame of not having a key, I was quite happy. My weekends weere given over to dates with boys down from college whom i had met from time too time through school friends. There was usually a group of us. We went to movies or tea-dancing, and later to various speakeasies. There we drank champagne cocktails and felt very sophisticated, but still had to be in by 11 o'clock.
Suddenly, to my great surprise, Winifred moved in with me. She was a little old to be in a chaperone house but that didn't worry her. (1924) Apparantly she as having trouble with one of her more intense boyfriends. Since she was in love with Tom Hutchinson who lived in Portland, Oregon and whom she later married, she found it expedient to move in with me. Life with her was lively to say the least—never a dull moment. She had a great knack for creating drama wherever she went. When the lovelorn young man called her up, I was more often than not sent to the telephone to say that my sister was away or otherwise unavailable. I was even coerced sometimes into acting as a chaperone for her on dtes, much to the irritation of the gentlemen. winifred was most attractive, but she ws a frustrating combination of beiong both flirtatious and puritanical. Aftr numerous and expensive calls to and from Oregon, she and tom finally selected a date for their wedding. I ws to be hr only bridesmaid. So, accompanied by Aunt annie and aunt Julie we took Uncle Ed's provate railroad car to Tacoma, Washington where they were to e married. it was a very exciting time for me. Tom's Best Man was his brother Bill who was most attractive and who acted as my escort for the time we were out there. But after it was all over, i felt terribly let down. i suddenly realized how much I was going to miss my sister. It was several years before I was to see her again.
The following year (1925), I was back at the Miss Wild's Chaperone House for young ladies. it was not very different from my first year except that I had gotten a job in a bank, was over 19 years old and allowed to have a key to the front door. it wasn't as much of a big deal as i haf imagined. i could come and go as I pleased, but it actually made very little difference in my life. I could stay out a litle later; that was all.
Still that summer I did go on a tour abroad with Miss Jennie and Miss Lilian and two other girls, both of whom had been schoolmates. The Misses Wild had arranged a cathedral tour, visiting the famous cathedrals of england, Francem Belgium and Holland. It was great fi=un. Nineteen twenty-five was the year for young people to travel. all our friends, it seemed were pouring over to Europe on the big ocean liners. The nights on board ship were gay and loud with dancing to the muisic of college bands. in Paris one was sure to run into all sorts of acxuaintances. While in england, i took a few days off to travel to Glasgoe, Scotland to visit my Uncle will, my father's brother, Aunt ella abd their five children. It was a lovely visit and exciting to meet the Scottish cousins. I was to see more of them in the years to come as they came to America to visit all of us from time to time.
I must now try to describe my two aunts, Annie and Julie, who played such close roles in all of our lives. In her memoirs Annette has ably described them from her point of view. i'll try to remember them from mine. I was always very close to Aunt Annie who lived in my grandfather's St. Alban house on Smith Street. She was a combination of aunt and foster mother to me. she had beautifully coiffed white hair and was always elegantly dressed in black. I never saw either of my aunts in colors-always black, relieved by touches of white. They both wore black velvet ribbons around their throats, pinned with a pearl or a diamond brooch. Aunt Annie's maid Agnes was in attendance every morning, helping Aunt Annie with her dressing. She did her hair and saw that there was always a clean, scented black-bordered handkerchief tucked into her cuff. When Uncle Beecher was alive he would emerge from his dressing room at the same time, with a fresh carnation in his buttonhole. When ready, Aunt Annie would go down to breakfast at 9 o'clock. Thomas, the butler, would be waiting for her in the dining room, ready to pull out her chair. There she would sit, behind the big silver coffee service, sipping her coffee and reading her mail. My Smith cousins, Gregory, Curtis or Edward, would drop in on their way to their office downtown, kiss Aunt Annie "Good Morning". chat for a few minutes and then go on their way. Those breakfasts were sumptious affairs by today's standards, packed with calories and cholestorols: big bowls of oatmeal smothered in thick cream, chicken hash sauteed in butter, delicate little lamb chops and of course delicious biscuits, muffins and toast with a generous array of jams and marmelades. True, most people of Aunt Annie's age ate sparingly but they also took very little exercise. Yet, despite their seemingly unhealthy routine, they mostly lived out their fourscore years and more.
After breakfast Aunt Annie would go directly to her little study off the living room. There she wrote letters, paid bills and did her telephoning. Telephoning was a pleasant business in those days in St. Albans. Aunt Annie would have a short chat with the operator, then ask to be connected with her brother, The governor, whose telephone was seven. Aunt Annie's number was five, Aunt Julie's was 14. Then Aunt Annie would visit the kitchen to discuss the day's meals with Minnie the cook. After, if the day was fine, she would have Joseph bring the car around and take a drive, or make calls, or do errands down in the town. Aunt Annie was also a great knitter. She spent many hours making beautiful and colorful sweaters for her numerous nieces and nephews. She had a closet full of wools under the stairs and sometimes she asked me my advice on color combinations, because her eyes were beginning to dim. When my own children came along, they too wore Aunt Annie's lovely creations. Neither she not Aunt Julie had children of their own.
I was never very close too Aunt Julie. I was the youngest of the family and, since Aunt Julie did not care for children, I was more or less ignored until I reached a more interesting age, except when she needed me to run an errand or tell her the plot of the book I was reading. She enjoyed being told stories as well as telling them. But soon she would lose interest in my tale and turn to the older children-Annette, Winifred and Donald. Stewart and I were still too young to be interesting for long. Aunt Julie was a fascinating conversationalist, a brilliant pianist and a perfect hostess. Her friends were largely drawn from the world of music. Among her close acquaintances were Leopold Stokowski, Olga Samaroff and other famous musicians of the time. Aunt Julie had married a Bostonian by the name of Oliver Crocker Stevens. They had a house on Beacon Street as well as one in St. Albans, and led a busy social life in both places.
Aunt Annie and Aunt Julie had identical cars--Packard twin-six touring cars, enormous compared with our modern cars, as roomy and comfortable as riding around in one's living room. As I grew older, I was included in some of their motor trips. There were few paved roads in those days—just narrow little country lanes, pretty but very dusty. The country around Lake Champlain, through the Adirondack Mountains and the Green Mountains of Vermont was spectacular. Since the chauffeur was never allowed to exceed 25 miles an hour, we were able to enjoy the scenery. My two aunts were adamant on the subject of speeding. Twenty-five miles an hour was enough to allow one to enjoy the passing scenery, stir up as little dust as possible and protect whatever animals one met on the road. It was something of a family scandal that Uncle Ed's chauffeur drove 30 m.p.h. They thought he was running a grave risk of an accident and should be reprimanded, but nothing was ever done about it.
The trips that I remember often took us across to new Hampshire and through the White Mountains, staying in some of the lovely old resort hotels. Aunt Julie always had great presence. Small and upright, she would march into a hotel followed by the chauffeur with the luggage and Anita, her maid, with her jewel case. Desk clerks snapped to attention, bellboys flew to collect our luggage and we were escorted to our rooms in great style. I suppose that both Aunt Julie and Aunt Annie tipped generously, but it was more than that. Aunt Julie had a certain air that made people want to please her. Yet she was never overbearing. She was always charming and gracious. I'm sure that she would have been surprised to learn that as a child, I was terrified of her.
The Aunts were very dear to all of us. They showed us a way of life that our mother, had she lived longer, would have shown us—a way of life that has all but disappeared. One can look back now and think how unrealistic it all seemed, and yet there was a dignity and a sense of responsibility to one's self and to one's family. and, yes, there was a certain beauty and pride and faith in God. Of course there was also poverty, incurable illesses, unfairness, but there were fewer people in the world and these problems seemed easier to contain and manage, As they used to say in those days, "The poor, like death and taxation, will always be with us." Let's hope it will not always be true.
So I come to the end of these early memories, memories seen through the eyes of a little girl who always thought her family was special. These memories are from another time, another era: one foot planted in the Victorian era and the other just stepping into the Flapper age— the gateway to moral freedom, liberation of women, great technical strides and on to the computer age. It was a huge jump and I'm glad I have experienced such totally different points in time. I'm glad to say I never found life to be boring —at times violent, tragic, happy, fulfilling but always exciting.
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