Yesterday when I met Esther for lunch, I started out with good intentions.  My notebook was in my pocketbook, and my aim was to just chat with Esther about this and that. But when Esther started talking about her school days in rural Maine in the 1940s, I grabbed my bag and fumbled for my notebook and pen. Esther is a treasure trove of stories, and how silly of me to forget that I am her Boswell.

We had been talking about the delightful documentary On the Way to School, available through Netflix. The movie follows children in various countries—including  India and Kenya—as they make their long trek to school, which takes the children hours. Jackson, from Kenya, was particularly proud he had been chosen to raise the school’s flag, and he and his sister hurried to school so that he would be there in time for the opening ceremony.

Esther said, “It was the same way for us with washing the chalk boards at the end of the day. It was quite an honor to be chosen, and we all wanted to do it.” I could picture children wriggling in their seats, waiting to be picked for this special task.

Esther continued, “But then one year, the teachers decided to make washing the chalkboard a punishment, and suddenly, nobody wanted to do it anymore.”

“Interesting psychology,” I said, thinking about how this might be applied to other aspects of our society. “When washing the chalkboard was an honor, the children wanted to do it. As soon as it became a punishment, they didn’t.”

Esther shrugged philosophically. “Well, the teachers had to come up with something, I suppose, when they weren’t allowed to hit the children anymore.”

“And children are impudent,” I put in, knowing I wouldn’t last one hour in a classroom. “How big were the classrooms?”

“There were about twenty-five pupils per class, but there were only three teachers, and one was also the principal, so the classes were mixed grades. The teacher would spend time with one group, give them their lessons and move on the next group. It worked out very well.”

“It must have been hard on the teachers.”

“It didn’t seem to be,” Esther replied. “The classes always ran smoothly.”

“How many buses ran for so few children?”

“Three, but only one real school bus. The other two were panelled trucks with benches along each side. You didn’t get to choose who you were going to sit by, and some of the children didn’t smell that good.” I made a face. “Oh, they couldn’t help it,” she added quickly. “Most of them didn’t have running water, and they had outhouses.”

“What about you?”

“We didn’t have running water or a bathroom either. But we had a pump, and that made things easier. ”

We then moved on to the topic of unpaved roads, but that will be a post for another day. Oh, the things I learn when I get together with Esther.

Note: Neither of the buses shown are exactly as Esther described, but they are so funky and charming that I had to include them in this post.

Yesterday, I went for my annual physical at Winthrop Family Medicine, which is conveniently located right here in town at a health center in an old converted factory. Although I dislike going to the doctors as much the next person, I am very grateful to have this health center in Winthrop, where the staff is friendly and efficient and the services range from lab work to imaging, including walk-in mammograms. Winthrop, population 6,000, is one lucky little town. (When my husband broke his arm, he was in and out of the health center in an hour, and that included getting a cast. )

Dr. Gasper, my doctor, went over my blood work with me, and for someone who is, ahem, carrying a little more weight than she should, I am in amazingly good health. I suppose it must be partially genetic and also partly because that even though I eat more than I should—I am a good eater, after all—I do eat well, with plenty of fruit and vegetables in my daily diet, very little red meat, and a fair amount of olive oil.

Then we moved on to a topic that has dominated my life for the past six years—breast cancer. In the summer of 2010, I was diagnosed with this disease. Fortunately, the cancer was slowing growing and lazy, both very good qualities when they’re applied to cancer. I had a lumpectomy and radiation. Chemotherapy was not needed.

Dr. Gasper, that rare doctor who actually has a calming effect on people, looked at me and smiled. “You are considered cured,” he said.

Cured! What a wonderful word.

Now, Dr. Gaspar wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. At the Cancer Center in Augusta, after five years, I was given the option of  going to my primary care physician for yearly check-ups, and that’s exactly what I decided to do.  I will not miss those trips to the Cancer Center, and going to my regular doctor makes me feel like a regular person, which, after breast cancer, is a wonderful way to feel.

But to hear my doctor say those words—“You’re cured”—well, it was as though he had given me a gold star.

After I left, feeling oh-so-happy, I reflected on the power of words and their ability to either bolster us or drag us down. Kind words, even if they are true and self-evident, can ripple forward for years, leaving a good impression in our memories.  They can steer us in the right direction and help us to think better of ourselves.

Going forward, I will be more  mindful of what I say. Are my words kind or unkind? Do they help or hurt? Even if they are true, do they need to be said?

A final lesson for me: No matter how old we are, we can always learn to become more mindful. And more kind.

Last week I had lunch with my friend Esther at the local Barnes and Noble in Augusta. I must admit, the food wasn’t too bad. I had a cup of black bean soup that actually had a bit of a zing as well as a tasty tomato  and mozzarella sandwich, all for under $10. A real bargain for lunch nowadays.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, Esther was my mother’s friend—my mother died eight years ago—and she is my friend now. I love hearing her stories about growing up in rural Maine in the 1940s and 50s. On this blog, I share her stories with such frequency that I have decided I am, in effect, Esther’s Boswell. (One of these days, I’ll actually have to read The Life of Samuel Johnson.)

I have found that stories can’t be hurried. Nothing puts a damper on the conversation quicker than “All right. Tell me some stories of times gone by.” No, the stories must come naturally in the flow of our talk. First we might discuss the weather, a most important subject in Maine. Next, we’ll inquire about each other’s families and catch up on the news. Esther, with six children, has such a big family that this can take a while. From there, we often move to politics, and we are usually in complete agreement.

Then, then, come the old stories, the meat of the conversation. Last week, after we had finished with the weather, family, and politics, Esther said, “My father had a saying that not everyone understands.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“I didn’t make a new dollar for an old one,” came the the answer.

I wasn’t sure I entirely understood the meaning.

“My father was a farmer, and he was referring to when his crops failed. There was no return on his investment. Some years were like that, and they were hard.”

I nodded. “I know what you mean. During the Great Depression, my great-grandparents lost their potato farm in Aroostook County. They owned hundreds of acres and had to go live in a small apartment in Skowhegan.” (Skowhegan, in central Maine, was once a prosperous mill town.)

Esther said, “Fortunately, my father never lost his farm.”

From there we moved on to Nancy Bown, a friend of Esther’s who was from Wales.

Esther said, “When the war started in Britain, Nancy left her post as a scullery maid and joined the armed forces. She helped plot the course of incoming aircraft from Germany so that alarms could be raised in cities and towns.”

“That was quite a responsibility,” I said.

“Life and death,” Esther replied. “After the war, she came with her husband to central Maine. She was the first war bride in Waterville.”

As it so happened,  years ago, I had met Nancy, and I remember her friendly, buoyant  personality. I mentioned this to Esther.

“Oh, yes. Nancy was a complete person,” Esther said.

“A complete person?”

“A whole person. Nancy had a strong personality. Nobody could shove her around. But she was not domineering, and she knew how to have fun. At Grange meetings, she used to sing songs in Welsh. We loved listening to her.”

I could picture Nancy, with her ready laugh, singing for the folks in the Grange in East Vassalboro. In my mind’s eye, I could see the Grange members, mostly Yankees but with at least one Franco-American thrown in—my mother—listening to Nancy’s songs, sung in a language they did not understand but was, nonetheless, very beautiful.