Reed Ide

The early 18th century barn still stands, still bereft of all indoor stalls, with only a haymow on two sides, just as it was in the 1960s. Today, the only difference is a low red addition to the left side. The outside of the main section looks the same with weatherbeaten siding clinging to its timber frame. It still has its smaller, human-sized doorway,  through which we entered the cavernous interior most mornings.  To this day it and Maggie Tourtellotte remain in my memory as a poignant day I shall hold dear forever.

Located just off the main drag and down a short hill from the town’s school, the barn was perfect for freshmen just learning to smoke. Eight young teenagers “practiced” each morning before school began – until the secretary to Headmaster Alan Walker interrupted my Geometry class one afternoon to hand me an envelope with my name on the front. Unknown to me, seven other students had their classes similarly interrupted. Being a sophomore, I was especially vulnerable to notes that had to be sent home. Nothing that day required my parents’ signature -  thank God. Inside my envelope was an invitation from Maggie Tourtellotte for breakfast the following morning.

Maggie, in my youthful eyes, was the epitome of what a proper country Lady should be. With her short cut dark hair and her private school teacher’s demeanor, she was every inch the stalwart town scion I needed her to be.                                                                                      

My mother had Mrs. Conkey from our church, who was constantly held up to my younger brother and me as the epitome of manners at the dinner table.  But I had Maggie Tourtellotte, author of early nineteenth century tales of our country town and head of the Theft Detecting Society, which our citizens held dear.                                                              

It was with no small amount of trepidation that I joined my compatriots outside her home the following morning. Quaking, six boys and two girls (Yes, we boys liked allowing girls into our midst at that point in our pubescent lives.) rang her doorbell promptly at 7:30 in the morning. We all agreed that we should hide our cigarette packs until we knew more about what might be on the other side of that front door.                                                                                           

Our collected fears were unfounded. Maggie turned out to be a wonderful hostess. Ashtrays were placed strategically in her well-appointed, even luxurious, living room. Coffee (with milk, cream and sugar), juice, and a wide assortment of Danish and French pastries were in abundance. Everyone quickly lit up, even Maggie. I was suitably shocked.

Another revelation came. Maggie owned “our” barn. Following social amenities, she offered a worthy compromise, precluding the barn’s burning to the ground some morning in the future. She said her patio, outside of her kitchen, was ideal for cigarette smoking. She would provide ashtrays, even juice if she had it some mornings. We could smoke there all we wanted.

This was a handsome offer in 1962.  We all agreed at once.