Author: lmbrown2013

by Lyn Mikel Brown

When Teresa and Richard Monk moved into their house in 1970, they discovered two big brass horns in the cellar. They’d bought the house from Lloyd Day, a customs inspector, but the instruments, they soon discovered, came from another house Mr. Day owned, once Perley Blanchard’s, a member of the Vanceboro town band. The Monks donated both horns to the Vanceboro Historial Society, where they now sit under a photo that includes Blanchard and the rest of the twenty-two uniformed band members.

The Vanceboro Brass Band was organized and directed in 1922 by Harold Bonneau, a U.S. Customs officer who played and taught violin and clarinet. By 1925, the group was in high demand, playing for parades, at home and away ball games, offering concerts on Memorial Day and the joint celebration of Canada’s Dominion Day, July 1^st, in McAdam and U.S. Independence Day, July 4^th, in Vanceboro.

Every September the band traveled to the St. Stephen Exhibition, a popular county fair, complete with harness racing, stage shows, agricultural displays, and carnival rides. Bands from the surrounding area were invited, a different one on display each day of the week. The band of the day would parade from the international boundary halfway across the Ferry Point Bridge and proceed to St. Stephen, down Water Street, left onto King Street and on to the exhibition grounds.

Herb Gallison, in his memoir, The Life and Pretty Good Times of Herb Gallison writes about Vanceboro’s turn to parade on September 1925. To appreciate the story one needs to know that, prior to their departure for St. Stephen, a number of the band members had a taste of the good stuff.

On the Vanceboro Band’s day, the members assembled at the Knights of Pythias Hall, mostly bright and generally early. Uniforms pressed, white caps gleaming, duck trousers chalk white, black shoes shined, and instruments mirror-bright, except for the clarinets and drums, which were naturally dull. The members boarded various privately owned automobiles and went bumping down the old Woodstock Road with chins held high by the choker collars….Squeezing the tuba into the trunk didn’t appear to be easy. Someone was heard to remark, “That car is loaded to the gills.” It was never determined whether the remark was actually directed at the occupants.

Somewhere along the route the five-passenger sedan containing seven uniformed musicians got separated from the caravan. They finally showed up on the bridge just before the band was due to step out. Most of the musicians were not immediately aware that they had detoured through Milltown, where a certain apothecary was reputed to be dispensing the much-sought-after elixir.

The band assumed parade formation in the middle of the bridge. The command was issued and it moved out toward Canada. As it made the right-angle turn down Water Street the band was playing “The Gladiator” by Himself, John Philip Sousa. It is a difficult enough number to play while seated in a concert hall. Near the Canadian Pacific Depot the band made the sharp left turn up King Street.

In front of Burns’ Restaurant, with the thoughts of delicious boiled lobster dripping melted butter causing general salivation, the band struck up “Invercargill,” an old favorite it could play by memory in the dark. Suddenly a trolley car on the rails in the middle of the street came rattling from the direction of the band’s destination.

Something had to give, and the car coming downgrade wasn’t fixing to stop. With the old familiar march tune blaring forth, the band took a starboard tack toward Cliff Hanley’s meat market—all but the tuba player. From the front row on the extreme port quarter he swerved left and marched along the gutter in front of Johnson’s drug store, never missing a note, while the streetcar passed between him and the rest of the band. As the car creaked on by, the marchers swung back to the middle of the street and the tuba left the ditch to join formation, still Oompa-oomping those resonant bass notes.

Thanks to the Monks, the Vanceboro Historical Society has that rogue tuba. We don’t know if the tuba player had a bit to drink or if he simply made the safest maneuver. Either way, if you think it’s easy playing the Invercargill March side-stepping a trolley, give a listen.

For a town its size, a great many young men and women from Vanceboro served their country. All but a few returned to build and support a community where people looked out for one another. Those who experienced loss were shored up by friends and neighbors who mourned with them, brought food, attended services and funerals. Dorothy Cummings Amero describes Memorial Day as “a big deal in Vanceboro” with “a parade that went from the Legion Hall to the cemetery” and included most of the town: “Legion members, Boy Scouts, Knights of Pythias, and the school kids, grade by grade.” Officiants and veterans stood on the hill of a cemetery decorated with flowers and flags. There were speeches, bowed heads, a lone bugler playing Taps, a twenty-one gun salute. “Even as kids we knew why we were there,” Dorothy remembers, “to express our gratitude to those who fought and died so that we can live the way we do.”

Please take a moment to reflect on those community members, both men and women, who served and send love into the world for those who made the ultimate sacrifice.

While the railroad station was connected through telegraph pretty much from the town’s beginnings, telephones came to Vanceboro and surrounds in 1919.

Folks remember the old crank telephones and party lines well into the 1950s. As is so often the case in border towns, things, well, operated a bit differently. Calls were directed through Canada and then back to the states.

Philip Palmer, stationed in Quantico, VA in WWII remembers that calling home went something like this:

Me to Virginia operator: “Vanceboro 545 ring 5.”

Operator to DC: “Vanceboro 545 ring 5.”

Repeat to New York, Boston, Bangor, Calais, St. Stephen.

“Sometimes there would be a long delay before the St. Stephen operator would answer and the Virginia operator would get frustrated and wonder out loud what was taking so long,” Mr. Palmer explained. “I told her that we were going from the U.S. to Canada so it had to be inspected, which was causing the delay. She said, ‘Oh.’”

Mary McAleney, then living on Salmon Brook Road with her family, also recalls how the connection downstate went through Canada. Her family didn’t have a phone until 1960, so she walked into town to make a call.

“To call my Grandfather in Brooks we would go to Tid Sears’ store to use the phone. I remember when I was entrusted with this task. After clearing things with Tid, I called the McAdam operator who connected to St. Stephen to Calais, then to an operator in Bangor then Belfast then Brooks, where I would ask for my Grandpa.”

Bill Brown remembers the sense of awe he felt with their first family phone.

“Definitely an ‘…everything’s up to date in Kansas City…’ moment for me when it was installed. It was a two piece crank phone, with a wooden box that had the ringer, attached to the living room wall. You “dialed” the phone by picking up the black receiver/mouthpiece and then turning the crank on the side of the box. One long crank to get an operator and an out of town line. People were given a two or three ring “number.” Ours was two longs and a short. There were two and four party lines. If someone was talking on your line, you had to wait your turn. And you could hear a click from someone else’s phone or hear them breathing when they would pick up to listen in on your conversation.”

Operators, of course, and sometimes a nosy neighbor or two on the party line had the full scoop on town gossip. Some folks remember grouchy operators, no doubt annoyed at those who didn’t follow protocol. Harold Little from McAdam, whose mother Dorothy (Brown) Little grew up on High Street, recalls his Uncle Lindy visiting from Vanceboro. 

“He’d call Kenny Essensa to see if he was home. He would grab that handle and give it about two complete turns. He knew he would get hell and the supervisor would come on the line to give it to him. But he knew that supervisor all his life and he would say, “Is that pretty little Annie Egan?” Annie would say, “Oh my God, Lindy Brown!” and they would have a great chat.”

Party lines remained through the 1970s and early 80’s and many can recite their numbers to this day. Among the artifacts at the Vanceboro Historical Society is an original crank phone as well as its successor, itself a relic of the past, the rotary phone.