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Unraveling Victor’s Story: A Postcard, A Nickname, and Family Ties, 1910-1918

To: Mr. Victor A Binford. From: Wren(?). 1910-1918

Dear Doc-

Card just rec’d. My school is going on fine. Hope you are enjoying life. Should be glad to hear from you again.

Best Wishes,

Wren(?)

Although this card was mailed in October, the year is unreadable. Either the ink has faded away or the card was never stamped well enough to begin with. Since it’s a divided back card, it’s 1907 or later, and based on the handwriting I’d say closer to the 1907 mark than the 1918 mark, but I can’t be sure. Suffice it to say, this card was mailed at the turn of the twentieth century. A time where World War I would see soldiers ride in on horses, and fly out on airplanes.

Bliss Business College was founded in 1897 by a set of brothers. It catered to a co-educational group of students and classes included shorthand, spelling, and penmanship. It closed in 1972, but not without a fight from those who had graced it’s halls. At heart, the college was a two year institution, but Wren (or perhaps Oren) must have met “Doc” Victor Binford there and retained a friendship. At least until Victor married.

Victor Abbot Binford was born in Mexico, Maine (yes, this is a place in Maine) on July 3, 1887 to Horace Jose Binford and Bertha Hortense Abbot. What immediately struck me about Victor is that his mother’s maiden name was his given middle name. A nice nod to his maternal side. In 1912, he married Marcia Reed, and together they had one daughter named Sarah.

Interestingly, the Maine Historical Society carries an archive of the Binford, Reed and Hatch family. The collection was gifted to the society after the death of Ann Hatch, Victor’s grand-daughter. Because of the archive, I know a number of things about Victor that I wouldn’t have known. For instance, his father was a medical doctor. Additionally, his mother died young, and Victor was adopted by his father’s new wife, Lula, who happened to be Bertha’s sister. Also, Sarah Hatch (nee Binford) raised arabian horses. Which…feels luxurious to me.

Victor died on January 16, 1960 at the age of 72. Although the postcard calls him “Doc” what’s likely is that Victor attended Bliss Business College, not that he taught there. In 1910 he was 22, single, and living at home. In 1920, he was a dowel turner at Birch Mill. By 1930, Victor was a private chauffeur…possibly for the Reed family. You see, Victor, Marcia, and Sarah all lived with Marcia’s family. According to the Maine Historical society, Marcia graduated from Smith College, and helped run The Roxbury Telephone company.

In 1940, Victor was the book keeper for “Wood Turning”, which I think is the Birch Mill because by 1950, he was the head of the household (no longer the son-in-law) and was the book-keeper for the Birch Mill. Marcia, on the other hand, was the tax collector for Roxbury County. It’s interesting, because I’m unsure if these are all family businesses, or if Victor truly bounced around. However, I’m somewhat certain that the sender of this postcard addressed him as “Doc” because his father was a doctor and Victor somehow got that moniker.

I’m sad I couldn’t find Wren. However, what’s certain is that I had a lot of fun following the threads of Victor and Marcia’s lives. I’ve said it before, but the cold black and white of papered archives gives very little actual detail of a life. However, it’s what we read between the lines that brings color into a life (hopefully) well lived.

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Mornings

Whispering tissue

Wonderment strewn on their face

Echoes of childhood

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family Flash Fiction Haiku Poems Poetry Work In Progress writing

Dreaming

Hand-stitched quilts and faded letters lay in the dusty boxes of my attic. The yellowed tape flakes when pulled open.

Fragmented memories flutter in the dust motes and cloud my mind like tangled wildflowers.

Your long fingers. Your knitting needle. Dried lavender. Rose gardens bereft with aphids.

The plastic smell of your favorite lawn chair.

Hair curlers and embroidered handkerchiefs.

You’re lost in time and space, but I have your nose and my daughter has your boisterous laugh, so somehow we found you, too.

And the blanket smells like lavender.

And your “L’s” look like mine.

Last night I talked to you in a dream.

Tonight your blanket lays on my bed because you were worried I was cold.

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Flash Fiction Haiku History Poems Poetry Work In Progress writing

Bodies

1920’s cozy fantasy WIP. Think Divine Rivals meets Indiana Jones in New York City. Name is open for suggestion.

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Flash Fiction Haiku Poems Poetry writing

Arctic

A smudged morning sky

Makes me think of the bruises

You left on my soul

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Flash Fiction Poems Poetry writing

Stellify

She was water.

With hair as smooth as sand and skin as incandescent as mist, her waves were fierce and wild, her wrath cold, and her depths immense. But the treasures laid deep within her azure folds kept her chest filled with voyagers vying for her love.

Skin of diamonds, shroud of black, and hair as silver as the moon.

He was the night.

He loved his Goddess. Adorning her neck with a hundred constellations, he soothed her tempests with delicate consistency. In return, she drowned his worries and quenched his thirst.

When her waters are calm, and his stars are bright, the two become one.

And that is where heaven lay.

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Rose glasses

Time flows like a stream; meandering ripples that sparkle in the sunlight.

Prisms of memories float through my mind. Your smile. My grief. Your struggles. My voice.

They glint in shades of chartreuse, teal, and gold, landing on my eyelids like falling snowflakes

Perfect moments, tinged violet in nostalgia.

How will you remember me?

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Flash Fiction Haiku Poems Poetry

Mein

Grit jaw. Steel eyes. A glare that could cut glass. You approach the world with weary confidence forged from a life of learned indifference.

But you crack for me.

It starts small. Wry amusement. A sly chuckle. Pupils dilating. Until the crack shatters and your lips puddle on mine like velvet.

And finally, I see you.

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Flash Fiction Haiku Poems Poetry Uncategorized

Terraform

The crow calls, and I open the door.

Snow and frost and bitter cold cuts deep into my skin, breaking open long healed scars that were once gaping wounds.

Barren trees tremble and the ground cracks with ice.

You came. You came.

Alone and needy, you smell my fire and melt into a smile.

And despite the crows warning, I give you refuge. I shelter you in my soft depths and keep you warm in the dark winter.

A sparrow sings. Snowdrops dip their heads above ground. On the first day of March, the moon blots out the sun. In the darkness, you slip away, leaving only petals in your wake.

I could never hold you. I am winter reborn. Frost and starlight, cold nights and silver moons. I sparkle like icy frost, but you glitter like morning dew.

You always leave. But this time you left a seed.

I feel it changing my body from within. Planting roots. Budding like a shy violet in the light of the day.

The crow tilts his head and murmurs.

Be patient little one, I whisper.

Be patient.

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Haiku Poems Poetry

Werewolf

Teal pink fades to black

A streak of silver shoots across the sky, illuminating my body in the glow of glitter and twilight.

I wrap the earth around me and wait for you to come.

Trees cry and the moon bleeds. Still, I am alone.

The change happens with a quick slowness, like a flower opening.

I know I am different than I was before, but somehow I unfurled and stretched with such lithe grace that I can’t remember where I started.

Or why I am here.

The moon is high.

You are alone.

And Im ready to feast.