Signs of spring, such as sap running from a maple tree, promise a change of seasons. Dee Menear/Rangeley Highlander

In January I had the privilege of meeting a very special Rangeley area resident with the intention of writing her story. The challenge of writing well in another person’s voice can be stressful. Presenting a clear picture of a person through written word is not an easy thing to do. Still, personal stories are my favorite ones to write. Being able to put someone in the limelight for a moment brings joy to both my subject and myself.

As I traveled from the well-plowed downtown streets of town for the interview, I worried if my experience in telling people’s stories would measure up to her expectations. She was also a teller of stories; a seasoned newspaper woman with more years in journalism than I will ever have under my belt.

I had clear directions, and there was no question when I arrived at my destination that I was in the right place. I was greeted at the door by a woman I already admired.

Everyone has a story. In this business, it is something we are told early and often. It was something we both knew and I was there to tell her story.

She insisted that I have a seat and made me feel comfortable in her space. I took a chair next to her crowded bookshelves and noticed that several of her books mirrored the reference material I use almost daily. Yes, I still use a bound paperback thesaurus. Several versions of them, actually.

I took out the micro recorder I have used almost daily for the last dozen years or so and my subject inquired asked why I was there. I already heard her life story from a relative and she implied she didn’t have more to add.

“I might have the whole story, but I prefer to get it from the source,” I told her. “I am sure that is something you can appreciate.”

She was a newspaperwoman during an era when the business was dominated by men. Her career spanned four decades and she worked in every northern New England state.

“I have two thoughts on that,” she said.

The statement intimidated me. She didn’t expand on what those two thoughts may have been. I imagined they had something to do with using what I had for my story and to not waste her time.

My assumption couldn’t have been more off base.

She was looking forward to celebrating her 100th birthday and my intention was to walk through the last century with her and get a timeline of her life. As I moved through my list of pre-determined questions, she sidetracked.

She gave me much more, which is actually exactly what any teller of stories wants.

While she answered each question, she also told me things that only I will know.

“Off the record,” she would say.

We laughed each time she said it, because we both knew what those words meant to those in our profession.

At one point in the interview, she caught me looking out of a window at Loon Lake. The high wind made the trees shudder and whipped snow around with such force that it appeared a fresh storm had arrived.

“Are you worried about traveling,” she asked.

I admitted I was.

I watched her fix her gaze on the scene outside the window, taking in the conditions. I believed her thoughtful contemplation hid the fact that she was calculating my trip back to town. As we sat there in silence, I tried to comprehend how many trips to town were included in her lifetime. It was almost as impossible to imagine as conjuring an image of the end of the universe.

“You don’t need to worry,” she said.

I believed her. She had, after all, spent the better part of 100 years on Loon Lake. Surely, she must have had a keen knowledge of how the trees bend and the snow moves with the wind.

As our conversation continued, I found instances where our roles had been reversed. I became the interviewee. She peppered me with questions about my life, upbringing and what brought me to rural Maine.

She was looking for a connection, something writers tend to do. She found it. And I think I did too. By the time we said goodbyes, she had my number and a promise that I would check in with her after her celebration. We were no longer two journalists interviewing each other. I’d like to think we were friends.

Her story took longer to write than most. I stressed over every word, intent to tell the amazing story of this woman who willingly decided to live her life on the edge of a lake in as rural a part of the state as you can get.

There was one very important part I left out of my story even though it was such a big part of what made her who she was. Including that tidbit in my story could have drawn unwanted attention to the lady on Loon Lake. With her family’s blessing, I can tell it now.

While she relied on others for her mail, errands and trips into town, she lived independently and alone in her remote setting. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She loved Loon Lake more than I imagine any of us will ever love a space we are in. I could see it in her eyes when she talked about the lake and surrounding property.

I never get the chance to get her critiques and feedback on her story. More importantly, I never followed up on my promise to check in with her. I had intended to call her a few days after her celebration. I let busyness get in the way and put off what would have been a 5-minute phone call.

Fran York died one week after her celebration.

Her death, even at 100 years and 7 days old, reminded me that all those things we say we are going to do are important to do. Putting them off for another week, or even another day, may mean the opportunity to do them will never present itself.

She told me that I would have to come back in the summer to see the place that captured her heart back in the 1930’s.

I promised her I would.

And I will.