Minnie, Monty, and a Lady Named Cora

My great aunt Wilhelmina (“Minnie,” for short) was born in 1894 and in her 98 years saw the arrival of many life-changing inventions, everything from radio and television to the electric toaster and Polaroid cameras. Aunt Minnie, though, shunned all these newfangled contraptions and most others that came along, she having spent much life with a near obsessive aversion to technology—a phobia rooted in the untimely death of her husband Freemont (“Monty”). 

     By all accounts, Monty was a kind and hardworking man, if a bit lacking in the commonsense department. A cobbler by trade, he specialized in making and repairing spiked boots for the men who worked river drives, and was highly regarded from Bangor to the Canadian border for his craftsmanship and reasonable prices. In fact, Monty’s business proved so lucrative that, in just three years of running his own shop, he managed to save enough money to buy a Model T Ford.

     The shiny new automobile arrived by train in the spring of 1915 and, for the next several days, Monty and his young bride reveled in cruising around town, making endless loops back-and-forth between the Junction Wharf and the scenic lookout on Blair Hill. Monty and Minnie, the story goes, might well have been the first Greenville couple to ever go “parking.” As owners of one of only three “horseless carriages” in the region, they were having the time of their lives. Then, on June 3, 1915, tragedy struck when Monty lit a cigarette while driving to the post office.

     Model T gas tanks were located directly beneath the seats.

     Widowed and traumatized, my aunt blamed the car, and from that day forward shunned all new inventions, preserving like a time capsule her home and manner of living for the next 68 years. Finally, in 1983, Minnie--age 88, her mind and body slowing--moved to Beaver Cove to live with her younger sister.

     Aunt Minnie adapted reasonably well to her new, infinitely more modern, surroundings. One thing, though, continued to intimidate her: her sister’s telephone. You see, in Minnie Belmont’s 88 years on earth, she’d never once used a phone. Ever. And she flatly refused to call anyone with her sister’s phone for fear that the rotary dial might sever the tip of her finger or, worse, break a nail. Months’ worth of encouragement from family and friends, however, eventually provided Aunt Minnie with enough gumption to begin taking calls, and she seemed to enjoy the conversations despite a constant fear of eavesdroppers. You see, in 1983, Beaver Cove remained one the last places in America with party lines.

     I was thirteen that year and, having watched Minnie talk on the phone, I can attest that it was quite a production. The woman was scared to death of the thing. She’d pick up the handset with the timidity of someone attempting to diffuse a bomb, and she always spoke into the mouthpiece as if taking the call in the middle of a Sunday service. In person, Minnie presented as gregarious and pleasantly boisterous. On the telephone, though, she whispered—no doubt in effort to protect herself from nosy neighbors. I called one day. When she answered--on something like the 72nd ring--I heard a voice soft as that of a church mouse.

     “Hellooooo?”

     Even four decades later, I’m not proud to admit this, but I decided right then and there to play a little joke on my elderly aunt. I said—with my best little old lady voice—“Hello, is this Minnie?”

     My aunt whispered, “Yes, who’s this?”

     To keep up my little charade, I made up a name. A completely fictitious name. I said, “Minnie, this is Cora Fielding.”

    “Who?”

     “Cora Fielding!” I shouted. “Minnie, I haven’t seen you since 1930!”

     For a long moment, I heard only silence on the line, and I visualized my aunt standing there, eyes narrowed, the wheels of her mind slowly turning. Suddenly, she burst out.

    “Holly MacIntosh!  Cora, how you doin’?”

     Continuing with my little-old-lady impression, we had a nice chat for two or three minutes. Then, no longer able to keep from laughing, I reverted to my normal voice and said, “Auntie, what are you doing!”

     “Travis,” she said, “get off the line—I’m talking to Cora Fielding!”