There were times when I wished my parents hadn’t moved to Lewiston. Following the money seemed like the right thing to do back then.

After Portland, Lewiston was the second largest city in Maine, sometimes referred to as “Little Boston.” Thriving with factories, woolen mills, shoe shops and department stores, to name a few.

Canadians were coming in by the hundreds to seek work and a better life. No handouts back then. You stayed with relatives or friends and, thus, a “Little Canada” was created near the Androscoggin River.

Whenever my father could get a three-day weekend from the woolen mill on Lincoln Street, a trip to Fort Kent was in the making. My mother would make sandwiches and Kool-Aid for the long, dreaded journey.

Our father would be home at 3:30 p.m. and ready to leave. So, now is the time to use the bathroom.

It was a 345-mile trip, and no Interstate 95 back then. Route 100 to Route 11 to Lincoln and Smyrna was the cutoff to Fort Kent. Two adults, six kids in a ’56 Mercury Montclair.

As we were getting to Waterville we would ask: “How much farther?” “Are we there yet?”

My mother would tell us to go to sleep, and before you knew it we would be there.

Have you ever opened a can of sardines and noticed how tightly they’re packed? That’s how we were in that ’56 Mercury. Twelve long hours, but once we arrived we were treated like royalty.

Memere always had ployes, chicken stew, dumplings, creton and pies. Pepere had cut branches for fishing brook trout and, when worms weren’t available, cheddar cheese was used for bait.

If only we could go back in time.

Joe Voisine, North Monmouth