Robin Clifford Wood
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​You'll Never Be Quite the Same

Happy Birthday, Rachel Field (and some new archival photos!)

9/18/2021

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​         (cake decorations by Nadia Rosenthal)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY RACHEL FIELD!!
 
Rachel Field was born on September 19th, 1894. That may be part of the reason she loved the coming of fall, but I think more of it had to do with purple asters and goldenrods, meadows a-whir with cricket chorus, wild geese in V-formations on their way south, ripening apples, and the smell of wood smoke floating on the breath of a darkening evening. Her poetry and prose sang of all these things and more – leading to multiple national awards and academy award nominations.
 
I’d like to share six archival photos with you (courtesy of the Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe Institute) which were not included in the book about Rachel’s life: The Field House: A Writer’s Life Lost and Found on an Island in Maine. They have been seen by very few living fans!
 
In honor of Rachel’s birthday this year, can you help to give Rachel’s biography a celebratory boost? The book has surprised everyone with its successes:
  • The Field House has gone into its fourth printing since May.
  • It won a Gold Medal in the Readers’ Favorite 2021 Awards (read the wonderful review here!)
  • It has been featured on radio and television, in newspapers and magazines, in podcasts, zoom events, and in person.
  • Rachel’s story, blended with the story of her biographer in a hybrid of biography and memoir, has captivated readers’ hearts and imagination not only all over the US, but internationally. So far I’ve received enthusiastic feedback from England, Sweden, Canada, Germany, and Australia.
 
Books need chatter to sustain their momentum, and what could be a better birthday gift than to share Rachel’s story with new readers? Can you think of five people who might not have heard about this uplifting story of two strong women who connect through an old house on an island in Maine? Though they never meet, these two writers, born 66 years apart, form an uncanny alliance, helping each other fulfill delayed destinies.
 
Everyone could use a good boost right now – how about an inspiring story of perseverance under hardship, generous friendship, personal triumphs, and a bit of uncanny synchronicity with the past?
 
Here’s what you can do:
  • Share the link to this blog post with five (or more!) people.
  • Ask them to share it too!
  • Post a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or other book sites on the web.
  • Ask your library and your local bookstore to order The Field House for their shelves.
  • Ask your library if they have Rachel Field’s children’s books, novels, plays, or poetry available! Maybe we can convince a publishing house to re-release Rachel’s wonderful works.
  • Suggest The Field House as your book group’s next book.
  • Bring it up to friends and family next time you chat.
 
Rachel Field gave me so many gifts. One of them was the sustained motivation over nine years to get her story back into the world. So many thanks to all of you for reading her story, and for helping me present Rachel with a few more gifts of recognition during her birthday month.
 
Happy Birthday, Rachel! And many happy returns. 
 
Love,
Robin
 

photos below - courtesy of Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe Institute:
1. Rachel and her Scotty dog (not sure if it’s Spriggin or Trotty), in the tide pool on Sutton Island.)
2. Rachel in  California, ~1938
3. Rachel and Trotty (?) in a boat off Sutton Island
4. Can anyone help me identify this young girl in Rachel’s arms?
5. Rachel, Arthur, and Hannah, California ~1940
6. Rachel on a dock on Sutton Island

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Island wedding, and the return

9/10/2021

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I am typing on a sunny window seat, in a small cabin made of logs, cradled in a patch of blueberry, bay, and cranberry. How quiet it is, this first day of solitude. It’s the kind of quiet that roars in the ears, emerging from a long stretch of not-quiet. After a two-year build-up to a stalled, altered, adapted, improvised, and ultimately glorious celebration of marriage, I am in let-down mode. The last child’s wedding. The calm after the commotion.
 
“My youngest daughter has been married three times,” we’ve been saying. Married to the same man, that is. It is a covid tale: the called off wedding, the secret City Hall elopement, the tiny family event to replace the dream wedding. In our case, the dream vision came to pass at last, 18 months into the marriage, fraught by compromise but embraced at last in full gratitude.
 
Tessa wore my wedding dress, which was also my sister's dress 40 years ago. My sister, who I hadn't seen in two years, shared the day with us too. Tessa and Chris's dogs walked us (dragged us…) down the grassy aisle on a day of Maine September perfection. We danced, sang, toasted, hugged (vaccinations required). No one fell off a boat. The four-hour power outage during the island rehearsal dinner became an adventure rather than a disaster. Parents managed baby meltdowns deftly. Lost keys were found. Love prevailed, all around.
 
I am here on my dear island alone, appreciating this temporary suspension in solitude. The last contingent of family departed Sutton Island yesterday; Jonathan has returned to work. I can’t imagine greater happiness than bathing in my daughter’s joy amidst all the people who love her. I went full immersion – a shameless Grandma flinging herself around the dance floor, weaving around crowds of celebrants. But also, there’s this happy that I’m feeling now, fulfilled, returned home to myself, in quietness. I suppose that’s where we all land eventually, no matter the size of the crowd.
 
I’m not always content in solitude, but this one is blissful. Life's unpredictable veerings so often disappoint, throw our plans out the window. So I will try to immerse gratefully in every present tense: my arms around my daughter in a cacophony of joyful music; my empty cabin, empty arms, empty ears, overflowing heart. Beauty, I see you, in the roar and in the silence.

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Destination Maine: Cobscook Bay renewal

9/1/2021

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Checking social media activity and book stats became an unhealthy preoccupation for me this summer. The hyper-communication of book promotion had my brain stuck in overdrive. I was pretty exhausted. How lucky I am to have Maine’s summer at my door to provide respite.  
 
Over the years, thanks to excellent plan-ahead friends (a skill we lack), Jonathan and I have canoed Lobster Lake, the West Branch of the Penobscot, and lovely Donnell Pond; we’ve camped at South Branch Pond and skied Maine’s Huts and Trails in good company. Most recently, we discovered a stretch of Maine coastline that took our breath away and helped me break the spell of electronic addiction.
 
I might vote for Cobscook Bay, a lesser-known destination, as the most dramatic stretch of Maine’s 3500 miles of coastline. Quoddy Head lighthouse, the easternmost point in the US, is a popular stop. I’d been, twice! But I had never walked the coastal trail that begins right at the lighthouse. On day one, we walked in and out of an expressive fog that added texture to the stunning scenery.
 
Have you ever seen a “fogbow?” That’s all I can think to call it. A white rainbow, made of fog. Never seen anything like it.
 
Maine’s “Bold Coast” was our second day destination. It’s a long schlep through the woods to the shore, but worth every step for the jaw-dropping cliffs and crashing waves that you’ll reach. It helped that we had sparkling sunshine on a high tide surf creating a roaring soundtrack to accompany our hike. I’ll let the pictures do the rest of the talking.
 
Thanks, Maine. I am renewed.

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Rachel Field, Hitty, and the Cranberry Isles

8/13/2021

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Another banner day in the life of The Field House! I lugged two boxes of books out to Cranberry Isles, Maine last week, where Rachel Field’s famous Hitty doll was born (in her fictional life). There are five Cranberry Islands, and I got to two of them: Sutton, of course, and Great Cranberry (Islesford – give me a call!). Sutton held our annual island meeting and a belated 50th anniversary celebration of the neighborhood association, APSI (Association for the Preservation of Sutton Island). I was so happy that the book about Rachel’s life, largely set on magical Sutton Island, could be a part of the  festivities.

The next day we headed to Great Cranberry for a more formal presentation in the Cranberry House meeting hall, upstairs from the historical society museum with its Rachel Field collections and giant Hitty doll. I had a number of very special audience members.

·      Three Sutton Islanders living in Bunchberry Bungalow, Rachel’s first Sutton home of 11 years, arrived a tiny bit late, delayed by the bailing of their boat after the huge deluge of rain. Bravo for island perseverance!
·      Constance, drove over from Jonesport with her perfect little Hitty reproduction doll, who seemed to enjoy the talk as much as Constance. I’ve never been a doll person, but this little lady won me over. I feel privileged to have held her in my hands. She was made by the talented Gail Wilson, gailwilsondesigns.com. Doll enthusiasts: check out Gail’s website!
·      Lydia has just moved with her young family to GCI as a full-time resident, and happened to move into the home of Bruce Komusin! For those who follow the story of the book closely, you know that Bruce was instrumental in creating the GCI museum, Cranberry House, and was an avid collector of Rachel Field books and archival materials. It was Bruce who gave me Rachel’s voice on the radio recording that I share with audiences. Sadly, he did not live to see the book in print.

Rachel continues to guide my way, introducing to me to wonderful people, connecting me in expanding circles to this beautiful state of Maine.
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Stockbridge: Revisiting Rachel Field's Roots

7/27/2021

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My visit to Stockbridge last Saturday completed a circle that began twelve years ago, about a year into my Rachel Field odyssey. I launched my first Stockbridge trip in October of 2009. My Port City Life article about sharing Rachel’s summer house had come out during the summer, and I’d just begun to tackle the bigger job of writing a full-length biography. How naïve I was, and how lucky to be naïve! The yearlong biography project I imagined stretched into 13 years. Had I known, I would almost certainly never have taken on the task.
             
That October, I’d arranged to stay at the home of an old college friend in the area while I browsed the archival holdings in the library/museum in Stockbridge, Rachel Field’s childhood home. I remember being deeply moved by Rachel’s gravestone in the Stockbridge Cemetery, by my walk through her childhood home next to the library, where Rachel’s grandfather often fell asleep with “See-Saw” the dog in his lap. That night I talked to Roger and his family over dinner in their house in Lennox – his wife Lara, two young kids, his dad, and a dog named Brownie.

Last Saturday I arrived at Roger’s home again, this time with Jonathan as travel companion. Roger and Lara haven’t changed, but his dad has passed. They’re in a new house with a new dog, and the “kids” (as charming as ever) are now in their 20s. Circles of change and returning, growth and departures.

Rachel’s landmarks remain unchanged, but I am a different person now, holding the book that tells Rachel’s story in my hand. I had a chat with her in the cemetery, thanked her again for all that she has given me. I told her what was up with me and the book we created together. I also spoke to Rachel’s parents and sister, and her Great Aunt Henriette, all of them, now, part of my extended family.

Back in the Stockbridge Library, I got to share the stage with the original Hitty doll for my book talk about The Field House. Rachel’s Hitty, the very doll that sat on our Sutton Island mantelpiece in 1928 while Rachel and Dorothy Lathrop conjured her 100-year adventures, would become a Newbery-Medal-winning celebrity along with Rachel Field. On Saturday afternoon, Hitty was ceremoniously delivered into the light, out of the basement archives, to share my day in the sun.

This stop on my book tour moved me. It felt emblematic of completion, the closing of a long incomplete circle. Or maybe, arrival?  Sometimes you have to go back in order to move forward. Maybe that’s what the writing of The Field House was all about from the beginning. If Rachel’s spirit is still around, I hope she experienced the release that this Stockbridge visit gave me. In a way, Rachel, too, was relegated to the gloom of archival storage. I hope she might now feel free to dance away, wherever her heart leads.

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The Call of the Child

7/20/2021

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            Yesterday Nellie left this glorious Adirondack lake with Fiona, our 20-month-old granddaughter, after a visit with Grammie and Papa. I confess there was a bit of an exhale, a relieved catching of breath after a week’s emotional saturation with that small, mighty presence.
             This morning, though, I looked down the hall from my bedroom where Fiona’s pack-’n-play used to be, where the coos and burbles of her small, waking voice summoned me springing from bed in the mornings or after naptime (hers and mine), where I was dependably greeted by that charming smile of intimate familiarity.
              The call of the child intoxicates. It must be biologically programmed. I long for her presence, that dear face, the dancing, drunken gait, the soft arms wrapped around my neck, the rapt face listening to Winnie the Pooh’s theme song, “again” and “again!” I want to hear her voice saying “Grammie” as she reaches up for a lift into my arms. I miss her clear commands, her confident expectation that she will be heard and the world will respond – “sit”“beach” “nake” “backpack” “watch” “more” “moose.” How thrilled we are to comply.  
               60, however, is not the ideal age for that degree of sustained attention. Papa and I are happy to be sedately ensconced now with fellow 60+ year-olds, reading, playing Whist, disappearing occasionally into our own minds.
               But oh, that world of wonders! The discovery of raspberries on the bush, ducks flushed from the grass, boat rides, splash bubbles on the water, sand clouds created by underwater feet. Hefting the lithe weight of young bodies, we see the world anew through a child’s eyes, feel the Earth under our toes as we haven’t felt it in years. We hear the voice of burgeoning life in the call of the child, and run, spellbound, to bear witness.

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Nine women, unmasked. Bearnstow writer's retreat

6/29/2021

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I spent the summer solstice with a group of women I'd never met. Well, I'd met one of them, but we had barely crossed the threshold of acquaintance before spending a transformational weekend at the Bearnstow Retreat Center in Mt. Vernon, Maine. 

Bearnstow was built as a hunting and fishing camp in the 1880s. Though it became a dance and arts center in 1946, it retains the authentic look of an old-time hunting camp. To be honest, I was dubious upon arrival that I'd be comfortable in that squeaky old cot with the mothball-infused wool blanket, the rickety buildings, hard wooden benches and chairs (not a carpet or throw pillow in sight), under the shadows of a heavily treed canopy on the shore of Parker Pond. How quickly my ambivalence turned to enchantment. 

Nine women sat, unmasked, in a writer's circle, and we connected. Sometimes you meet a new person with whom you resonate. More rare is finding a communal bond as a group. We laughed, we sang, we told stories, we swam, we hiked, we wrote.

Maybe it was the fact that it was our first post-pandemic foray back into the world of community with strangers. Maybe it was the fact that we were the first group to retreat at Bearnstow after a two year hiatus. Maybe the weather, the delicious food, the brisk swims in the lake, the improvised dance performance by our hosts, the warm fireside in the evenings and early mornings. More likely it was the unique combination of kindness, creativity, and open heartedness that blossomed when these nine women sat and wrote, and listened to each other intently, supporting and celebrating each other's art and soul. 

Something broke open in me - the idea of possibility, a redefining of self and future at this advancing age we've come to. I left inspired. Thanks to all of you; thanks to Bearnstow and our bright-eyed, welcoming hosts. Thank you for reminding me that there are still worlds to discover, both inside and around me. 
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Eulogy for an unsung organ

6/3/2021

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Instead of book news, I'm happy to report the release - today! (June 4, 2021)  - of a new, micro-essay that I wrote for The Maine Review. "Come, Pain" is a contemplation about womanhood and motherhood from a particular terminus of the complex transit map of a woman's body.

It feels good to publish something entirely different from the book that has been absorbing my every waking moment for the last two years (at least, it feels that way...). The book marketing for The Field House goes well! Just this morning I was invited to call in to Maine Public Radio's "Summer Reads" special edition episode of Maine Calling, with Jennifer Rooks. Due to my high-intensity nerves when I went live on the radio, I think I succeeded in blurting out a surprising number of highlights about the book in a very short time. I had the shakes for about 20 minutes after that was done. 

I am eternally, astonished-ly grateful for the attention Rachel's story is getting. On the other hand, the writer inside me is itching to get back to writing. Seeing this little essay come out today is a nice change of pace. 
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It's only your first time once. Yes, dreams come true.

5/3/2021

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I had a moment today. 

Over the last month I've been whirling through the fevered world of book promotion, spurred on by my sister authors at She Writes Press, buoyed up by an avid team of friends and supporters before they've even read The Field House. I've dealt with writer's cramp after 1000 postcards and monkey brain keeping me awake at night - a merry-go-round of things I might have forgotten, places I ought to contact, connections not yet made, posts I must write. I've hardly had time to take in what is happening right now - the fulfillment of a dream I've carried in my heart since I was about 8 years old.  But today something cool happened. 

I have been in love with Left Bank Books almost since they first opened in an old bank in Searsport, Maine in 2004. Left Bank Books has all the qualities to love about an independent bookseller - cozy atmosphere, personal touches abounding, bright colors, varied textures, handwritten recommendation cards and reviews on the staff's favorite books. It's a curiosity shop of delights - feast for the eyes, the mind, and the soul.  They have moved to a larger space in nearby Belfast, but lost none of the charm and homey, welcoming ambiance.  Our trips to Belfast from the Bangor area always include a long browse in Left Bank Books and anticipation of new adventures in the books we carried home. 

I might have fantasized about "one day" having my own book on the shelves of a shop like Left Bank Books, but not with any conviction. I don't think I truly imagined it as a realizable goal. And yet, there I was today, welcomed at the door, invited to sit down with a stack of 22 of my own books to sign for readers, awaiting tomorrow's official release.

After the first few books I stopped to look around. Oh my god. I'm sitting here in my favorite bookstore, signing my own book. This is it, the real thing. Holy $#&%!  I looked over at Lindsay, one of the founders of LBB, sitting nearby. "I can't believe I'm sitting here in this store signing books," I said. I know, not very professional of me, but I am a first-timer here. I don't think she minded. You only get one first time. Stop, Robin. Bask. Be here now. 

Okay, can I say this out loud without sounding stupid?  Dreams come true. Yes.
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check out counter display at Left Bank Books today - The Field House surrounded by books from Rachel Field, and someone's personal Hitty doll from long ago. 
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Opening day like none before

4/25/2021

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            Jonathan and I took advantage of a sun-drenched Saturday in April to make our first 2021 trip out to The Field House on Sutton Island. No spring opening has ever held more import for me than this one, here on the threshold of launching Rachel Field’s book at last. The house survived the winter well, aided by the cloak of a new roof last fall.
            The interior, however, suffered the inevitable showers of debris that come with roof jobs in an open-frame house. Despite our attempts at draping, everything is carpeted in shards of wood, bits of shingle, roofing nails, and 100-year-old dust. No matter. You can’t take away the view, or the ocean’s deep springtime blue, or the layers of history adorning the walls and shelves. Rachel is still there, and I think she might have winked at me in the shine of this ancient, well-used ceramic bowl that I’m sure she used for biscuit-making or cranberry muffins long ago. I like to think she’s saying, “Here we go, Robin; Let’s do this thing.”

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    Author

    Robin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher.  She lives  in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families.

    To read about the "60th year in 60,000 words" challenge, go to the August 27th blog post. 
    ​
    https://www.robincliffordwood.com/youll-never-be-quite-the-same---blog/tomorrow-is-launch-day
    ​

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