Burial - Presque Isle, Me.;

Until his retirement, Arlie farmed at Green Mountain beside Alex'sproperty and across the road from his aunt Margaret Wetmore. Thepicture of me and Arlie's horse was taken in 1952 after raking loosehay into windrows. In the background is the Wetmore farm and the oldJames Crone property to the right.

By 1964 they were living on St Andrew's street in Woodstock where theycelebrated their 50th wedding anniversary on Oct 11, 1964. The localpaper reported all the family present.

Mrs Edward Hebert (Mary), their daughter, made the wedding cake andserved it. Tea was poured by Mrs Delbert Boone and Mrs Arthur Boone,and served by Miss Evelyn Boone, Miss Linda Hebert and Miss BettyBoone, grand-daughters.

During the day, they received a telephone call from grand-daughter,Barbara Boone, Anniston, Alabama, and a telegram from Clifford Hebert,Dartmouth, NS.

Arlie holding his young brother Basil, probably around 1912

Mrs Boone attended Teacher's College and taught several years in theschools of NB. Mr Boone joined the Orange Order in his youth andreceived his 50 year pin in 1963. (Note:- About 20 years later one dayhe was visiting my father when I happened to be there. He mentionedthe Orange Lodge. Did you know, I asked him, that the Orange Order wasstarted by two members of the Masonic Fraternity? I might as well hithim with a hammer. To think his beloved fraternity may have had anyconnection with that - that - mysterious group the Masons, simplybordered on heresy. It is true, by the way.

The paper went on to say that on the previous Wednesday evening,friends and neighbors in this part of town had a get-together for thecouple at their home. They received many useful gifts.

On Apr 5, 1978, the Bugle carried a story on "84-year old Arlie Boonepassing the long winter by hooking rugs" Over the past five years hehooked about 25 of them after learning to be a "happy hooker" whilespending the winter with his daughter, Mary, in Dartmouth, NS.

Even as he approached his 90th birthday, he would hike from his homedown to Stedman's for coffee and chat with "the boys". Quite aremarkable man.

Burial - Fosterville, NB;

Burial - 31 JAN 1964; Baptist Cemetery, Minto, N.B.;

Burial - Aroostook Jct., N.B.;

Burial - Hartland, NB;

Burial - Whitehorse, Yukon;

Burial - 07 APR 1947; Fosterville, NB;

Died young.

Known as Basha

Basil went by a variety of names (Jim, Zeeb), including a few thatwere applied in the heat of an argument, but the most common was"Hillbilly". Not because of his backwoods aura, but to distinguish himfrom his cousin with the same name living in the same commumity.Still, in some ways, the nickname fitted him like a glove.

From birth till death he never traveled any further than 200 milesfrom where he first saw the light of day. And then only if he couldnot find any excuse not to. Distaining any profession that wouldrequire regular hours, he much preferred working at seasonal jobs inthe woods, guiding, trapping; in short, anything to keep him outsideand in touch with nature. Of course the consequences of thislife-style was that he had little in the way of material goods. Justenough to get by: an old house (no such thing as a mortgage), awell-used car or half-ton, boat and motor and so on. In retrospect,all perfectly natural for him.

During the early years of marriage, he and mother bounced around fromrelative to relative, living here for a few months, then moving on.For example, during the winter they were married, 1932-33, they livedwith his sister Edith. In April, 1933, they moved to Fosterville tolive in a house owned by his brother-in-law, Dalton Carr where theystayed until Fall, then moved in with Anne Howe for the winter. Thefollowing spring they share accomodation with Earl Atkinson untilOctober, 1934, then moved back in with Edith. During 1937 and 1938they lived with Anne Howe (where I was born), spent a year with Wesley(Jim) Farrell, before finally moving into a place of their own onGreen Mountain.

It was hardly the Tah Mahal, but it was theirs. Constructed from logs,the building had one room and not exactly closed tight to the weather.It was not uncommon to wake on a winter's morning to find a fine layerof snow on the bedcovers where it has sifted in around the window.Although only three or four at the time, I can vaguely remember this.

But this was only a temporary dwelling. Basil tore down the oldVantassell house at the Point (Balm of Gilead), carted the lumber homeand built a fine storey and a half directly in front of the "camp" aswe called it. It had a kitchen, livingroom and two bedrooms upstairswith a porch on front. Bare studs adorned the walls, not a lick ofinsulation, so it took the cook stove and parlor heater both to keepthe temperature above freezing in the winter. Eight cord of wood didthe trick.<

But hey, it was home. Here my little sister, Joan, was born inNovember, 1943 and died a month later. I remember the neighborhoodladies preparing her little body for burial and holding a shortservice right there in the livingroom.

When we moved to Forest City, temporarily for the winter and spring of1944, then permanently in August of that year, the house was sold toWarden Boone who moved it a couple of miles to his father's land.Warden eventually moved to Maine and sold the house to CharlesAtkinson who moved it onto the land where Alex Boone lived. Basilrebought the house and land in 1951, lived there for two years whilecutting the pulp from the land, then moved back to Forest City. Hesold the house to Richard Atkinson who moved it to Canterbury where itis still standing today looking somewhat forlorn and showing its age.That house moved almost as many times as Basil.

Basil never had much formal education. He attended a one room schoolin Green Mountain reaching the fourth or fifth reader, probably theequivalent of grade five or six. But he could write well and was avoracious reader. Most of his "education" came from this activity aswell as hands-on experience. And when it came to the great outdoors,he knew his stuff. He could fall a tree on a dime, build a fire inpouring rain, cook a meal, put up a temporary shelter, hunt, fish, andfind his way home in pitch darkness over hill and dale through thewoods.

Like all guides, he had a fondness for telling tall tales to thepeople he escorted around the lakes or during a hunting trip. Isuppose to these sportsmen from such faraway places as New York,Pennsylvania, or Ohio, this grizzled guide fit the image. Basil playedit to the hilt. During a fishing expedition on Spednic Lake with a manand wife team, the lady spotted a distant water fowl. She inquired asto what it was. Basil informed her it was a loon. When she wanted toknow if they were good eating, Basil had his opening.

"Only if they are cooked properly," he said.

Now her interest began to rise. She readied her pencil and paper andasked Basil for the receipe.

He told her: "First, you find a large, round, smooth stone, place itin a large container, fill with water, add salt and bring it to aboil. Place the loon, feathers and all, on the rock in the boilingwater and cook vigorously for five hours. Then add vegetables and cookone more hour.<br><br>

The lady is writing all this down. "And then...?" she asked.

"Then," said Basil, "you throw away the loon and eat the rock."

It took a minute, but she finally got the message: a loon is too toughto eat.

One other occasion he was on the lake with only his dog for companyidling away a summer evening when another boat drifted by with anotherguide and sportsman aboard. Admiring the dog, the sport asked aboutthe breed. He's a bass dog", replied Basil, "worth about $4000".

The sport, never having heard about this kind of dog, expressed acurious interest. He wanted to know what they were known for.

"Just what the name implies," said Basil. "He is something like abirddog, only he hunts for bass fish. When you get to where you thinkit may be good bass fishing, you tie the anchor around the dog's neckand throw him overboard. The dog would walk around on the bottomsniffing for bass towing the boat along behind him. When the boatstops, that's where the bass are."

The "city-slicker" was amazed. "Won't dog drown?" He was becoming abit skeptical.

"Of course," said Basil. "You can only use them once. That's why theyare so expensive."

With his knowledge of the field and stream, we never lacked for food.A crack shot, he could lever off a magazine of ammo from his old .32special rifle like it was an automatic. He later acquired a .308savage that he swore by. Never had much use for a shotgun, but did usea .22 rifle for his trap line.

He loved to hunt otter. Not only for the valuable pelt (which wasoften the only income he would see just before Christmas), but becausethe otter is an extremely intelligent animal that presented him with achallenge. They are so fast, you generally only got one chance atgetting off a shot.

I recall one early spring day we were checking out some traps near MudLake Falls when he spotted an otter feeding on a rock quite a distancefrom shore and directly in front of the falls. The lake was frozenenough to walk on, but this area was dangerous because of the watercurrent. The otter would dive through a hole near the rock, pop backup a minute later with a clam, get back on the rock for a tidbit.After watching the pattern for a few minutes, Basil took aim with the.22 rifle and as the otter settled on the rock, he fired. Almostbefore the crack of the rifle reached my ears, that otter haddisappeared into the hole. Almost as quick, he came back up andflopped out on the ice to lay still.

Basil took a long stick and began to crawl on his stomach across theice to where the otter lay. When he was close enough, he hooked theanimal with the stick, and slowly crawled back to shore. He had hitthe animal in the neck attesting to his sharp eye and steady hand. Thescary thing though, the next day, that entire area was open water.

He wasn't always so lucky and not get wet. A short distance from thislocation, the lake (which is actually a wide stream created by the olddam which in turn created the Falls) narrows to a distance of only 50feet or so across. There is a noticeable current through this gut thatrarely freezes to any safe thickness. One always skirted this areainto the rocky, wooded shoreline when walking by. One snapping coldday in mid-winter he was hiking along and either forgot about thedanger, or more likely ignored it, when he dropped through the ice tohis armpits. Although the water is deep at this point, the ice wassolid enough around him that he managed to claw his way back out ofthe hole. He was a walking cake of ice when he reached home a mileaway. He seemed to suffer no ill effects. Just another of those littlethings to take in stride.

Probably a good thing that mishaps didn't overly faze him. God knowshe had enough of them. When his youngest son, Dana, was about seven hetested the soundness of Basil's head with a peevy handle. Notintentionally, of course, but with enough vigor to bring Basil to hisknees. The old '46 Ford station wagon needed some repairs which weredone on the grassy area next to the house. After completion, Basil wasbent over picking up some loose odds and ends left over, moving to andfro in his quest, quite ignoring what was going on around him. Thus hefailed to see Dana tossing a ball up in the air so he could hit a homerun with his sawed off peevy handle. Up went the ball, a mighty swingback to be in position to hit the ball when it dropped, only on theback swing Basil's head was well within the arc of travel. Theresounding "bonk" could be heard across the yard. I looked up to seeBasil staggering backwards, knees bend, hands to his head, moaningsomething intelligible. All I could make out was "Oh. Oh. Oh." Dana,eyes as big as saucers, thought he had killed his father.

Nah. He had a king-sized headache for an hour or two, a lump for areminder but that was gone in a week. That little incident almostranked up there with the ice snowball Dana threw at his sister, whichnaturally missed her and hit Basil on the side of the head. Once more,he sagged to his knees. Another headache and a lump. It's a wonderDana ever managed to make it to his teens.

Actually, I think Basil moved under a dark cloud much like that littlecharacter created by Al Capp in L'il Abner comic strip: Joe Mzxyp (orhowever he spelled it). One day while the car rested on a jack so hecould crawl underneath to fix a muffler, it came down with a crash ontop of him. Now this would have killed a lesser mortal, but because itwas on the barn floor which had some weak spots in it, the weight ofthe car simply drove Basil through the floorboards into the spacebelow. Somewhat bruised and shaken, he emerged unrepentant. Littlewonder we only raised an eyebrow when a radiater hose came apart onhis truck spewing antifreeze on his face. Shoving the hose blindlyback to where it should have been, he stuck his finger into thewhirling fan splitting it from nail to knuckle. A little adhesive tapeclosed the wound to heal with nary a scar.

Basil inherited some of his grandfather's carpentry skills but none ofthe finess for detail. Although he could solve just about any buildingproblem from a loose rocking chair to a hole in the wall with ahammer, spike and haywire, he never really had the necessary tools towork with. But with an axe, a hand plane, a piece of broken glass, hecould fashion an axe handle that would rival a commercial product. Hecould whittle out dancing dolls, repair a canoe or boat, build a firepit outdoors and more. But do that stuff for a living? Perish thethought. He gave away as much as received.

His taste for alcohol, or lack of it, rarely came about. But onoccasion, he could, and did, get a wee drap too much. On once suchoccasion, I was sitting at the kitchen table when he more or less fellin the back door, laughing so hard he couldn't talk. All he could getout, "I shot the wrong pig". It seems the next door neighbor, CarlHiggs, wanted Basil to slaughter one of his hogs for winter. Like Isay, Basil had many talents. Normally, he would give the unlucky pig ablow to the head with a mallet, then bleed it before plunging it intoboiling water to scrape away the bristles. This day he decided toshoot the pig with the .22 rifle. But before they got started, Carlthought perhaps a nip of old John Barleycorn might remove some of thechill. One sip led to another...and another. Finally, Bertha, Carl'swife, was getting a bit annoyed at their tippling, called Carl to thehouse for a bit of a lecture. While he was gone, Basil decided to geton with the job. Bang. Down went the pig and by the time Carl got backall was in readiness for the boiling pot. Except, Basil shot the wrongpig. Apparently Carl had two pigs, one a sow that he planned onbreeding over the winter, the other a younger boar. It was the boarslated for slaughter. But now the sow lay stretched out ready for theknife.

All Carl could do was sputter, then they got to laughing so hard theycould barely stand. Really fed up by now, Bertha sent Basil home andCarl into the house, then called a neighbor to finish what those twohad started. They were not allowed to play together for week afterthat little episode.

Age 70

When retirement became official in 1974, it meant for the first timein his life he had a steady income. Working for the Government now, heused to say as he waved his old age pension check. He tinkered away atodds and ends, building a cedar cabin on the old homestead, clearingaway bushes, just to put in the time. For hours he would sit on thelawn in front of the house in a loose cloud of Raid to keep awaymosquitoes, gossiping with all and sundry who happened to pass thatway. Albert Deveau, a talented man with a chainsaw, carved a likenessof Basil from a pine log standing on end near the end of the drivewaythat drew people from all over. He posed for hundreds of photos (likethe one above) beside the carving. It's doubtful if he ever saw acamera he didn't like.

Throughout his life, Basil enjoyed good health considering all themishaps. His first visit to a doctor had an amusing overtone.Discovering blood in his stool one morning, he had no doubt the causewas cancer of the colon. Sitting around in a blue funk for a few days,he eventually agreed to see a doctor for whatever treatment may bedeemed necessary. The doctor, amazed that Basil had never requiredmedical treatment til that point, proceeded to give him a thoroughexamination, including all the questions that only doctors can ask.Basil, quite agitated by this seemingly unnecessary and totallyuseless process, kept pressing for a diagnosis of his problem.Finally, the doctor said, "Good heavens man! Have you never heard ofhaemoroids?" Basil floated out of his office.

The worst had yet to come. Around 1988, he developed respitoryproblems associated with emphysema. Asthma, he called it. He and WallyKnox, the local customs officer, used to compare daily notes on their"puffers", sort of an informal help group with two members. During thenext five years, his condition gradually worsened until he requiredoxygen on a regular basis. Activity slowed to a crawl. He fought offseveral bouts of pneumonia, rallying back each time to the amazementof family and doctors alike. Also during this period, he developedcancer on his lower lip requiring surgery and radiation treatment.That seemed to cure that problem, at least for the time being.

But as his lungs deteriorated, the body weakened, and the cancerreturned with a vengeance. No more treatments, he said. Nature willtake its course. It's hard to say what finally gave out. His heart, sostrong for so long, obviously could not continue its monumentalstruggle to pump oxygen starved blood thoughout the body. The cancerslowly devoured his lower lip, then began its insidual advance on thelower jaw inside his mouth. Painkillers were necessary.

All through his ordeal, he remained at home in familiar surroundingstended to by his wife assisted by his daughter, a RNA. Finally late inthe afternoon, without having spoken a word all day, the body gave up.The last surviving member of his immediate family, Basil went to hiseternal rest one month before his 89th birthday.

Father could be a cantankerous sort, opinionated, and never apologizedfor being wrong in his life (as far as he was concerned, he never waswrong, only a bit mixed up at times). Yet he was a good man, an honestman with friends and acquaintances from far and wide. It isinteresting to note how he spanned the greatest advancement ofknowledge in any generation before or since. Born in 1909 when travelin his community was limited to walking or horse and buggy, only amere 60 years later man walked on the moon. Quite a thing to absorball in one lifetime.

During my youthful days, he was continually teaching me the ways of the ways of the world around me: how to bait a hook, clean a fish, care and use of a firearm, the art of hunting and trapping, how to under-cut a tree so it fell whereyou wanted it to land, the proper etiquette while in a lumber camp, how to make a fire in pouring rain, how to drive a car (although he was not the world's best driver, preferring his half of the road in the middle) and dozens of other things. On one or two rare occasions he used a leather strap to enforce the message. But you know, despite the modern day belief that one should never physically punish a child lest his self esteem be damaged, I never suffered any ill effects from a sound thrashing. In fact, I learned there were always consequences for my actions. Bad actionsproduced unpleasant results. Unfortunately, it seems many young people today fail to grasp that concept.

Rest well, Basil. The world is a better place for you having existed.

Burial - 11 AUG 1998; Forest City, NB;

When we moved to Forest City in August 1944, dad bought a house for$175 from Basil William Boone, his cousin. That meant the communitynow had two Basil Boone's living side by side. To avoid confusion,Basil William became known as "Bog Basil" since he lived in the lowerpart of the landscape; dad had the name "Hillbilly" tacked on him inreference to his former residence on Green Mountain. "Bog Basil"heartily disliked that particularly nickname and so, because he wasthe elder, became known as "grandpappy", or simply "gramp".

Grandpappy farmed a little, had a 8-10 herd of jersey cows, team ofhorses, chickens, pigs that seemed to provide him with a decentliving. A very conscientious individual, everything had to be justright, especially the haying operation. If the slightest bit ofmoisture remained on the mown grass, it stayed on the ground untilcompletely dry. He deathly feared fire in his barn from damp hayerupting in spontaneous combustion. Consequently, stowing away hay inhis steel roofed barn on a blistering hot afternoon in late Julyusually resulted in a loss of ten pounds in sweat. HIsa brother inlaw, Clint Gillispie, used to raze him about being so fussy, but Grampnever changed until he died.

The old house is long gone, but the barn is still standing in goodcondition. The property of 50 acres is now split between three onwers:I have 4 acres, my sister, Nancy, and her husband own about 21 acres;and Blaine Higgs, the remaining 25. Less than six of those acres arekept mowed as a lawn, the remainder grown up in cedar and white pine.

Burial - Forest City, NB;

Bessie never married

Burial - Lakeshore Cemetery, Ont.;

Provided the information on James Herbert Boone's family, on Oct 25,1992

Burial - St Stephen, NB;

Burial - Rural Cemetery, Fredericton, N.B.;

--Other FieldsRES: Place: Kitchener, Ont

Adopted.

Burial - Fredericton Jct, NB;

Burial - Fosterville, NB;

Burial - Douglastown, N.B.;

Burial - Coldstream Cemetery, Coldstream, N.B.;

PANB births 1810-1899 records his birth as Apr 30, 1974 in North Lake,NB as does the 1901 Census

Burial - 03 APR 1937; Fosterville, NB;

Raised by Tom Howe and went by the name of Howe

See his parents Charles E Boone + Charlotte Stiles

Burial - 18 JUN 1979; Nobleboro, ME;

The passing of Charles Robert Boone of Oromocto occurred on Friday,April 10th, 2009, at the Oromocto Public Hospital. He was 79. Born inFredericton Junction NB, the son of the late Samuel Edward andCaroline (Horseman) Boone. A truck driver for many years with DevonLumber, Charles enjoyed reading Western Novels and working on Jigsawpuzzles as well as being a very loving father and best friend to hiswife of 47 years Mary Christine Gabriel. Survived by wife MaryChristine Gabriel Boone, one daughter, Roberta Ann Boone at home inFredericton, son Roger Edward Boone of Abbotsford, BC; twostep-children, Simon Jerome Gabriel of Calgary Alberta, Harold ThomasGabriel of Tracy, NB; five grandchildren, Nigel Boone of Victoria, BC,Alison Gabriel of Halifax, NS, Joseph Gabriel (Terry Lynn) of St.Mary's, Caitlynn Boone of Calgary, Alberta, Austin Hay of Fredericton;as well as one great-grandson, Myles Joseph Gabriel of St. Mary's; onecousin, Mabel Delong of Saint John; two special nieces, Jackie andLorie of Pleasant Point, Maine, USA as well as several other niecesand nephews. He was predeceased by his parents, two brothers, JohnVincent and Edward Boone, as well as one sister, Mary Wolcott.Respecting the wishes of Charles no visitation or funeral service willbe held. Interment will take place in Saint Anthony's Cemetery at alater date. For those who wish, memorials may be made to the Heart +Stroke Foundation or to the Fredericton SPCA.

Married Alton Taylor and lives in Drummond, N.B.

Burial - Hoyt, NB;

Burial - Brockway, NB;

Burial - Fredericton Jct, NB;

Lloyd Boone records birthdate at Dec 19, 1862.

Burial - Hartland, N.B;

Burial - MAY 2005;

The death of Donald M. Boone of Aroostook occurred on October 1, 2005at the Hotel Dieu Hospital at the age of 78. Born in Aroostook he wasthe son of the late Arthur Sr. and Vivian Boone. He is survived by hiswife Dorothy Boone of Aroostook; three daughters Deborah (Dimitrius)Eliakis of Fredericton, Darlene (Brian) Francoeur of CaliforniaSettlement and Barbara Boone of Aroostook; one son Brian (Denise)Boone of Aroostook; five grandchildren; one sister Betty (Kenneth)Shmidt of New Denmark. Predeceased by his parents, two brothers ArthurJr. and Gordon, nephew Mitchell Shmidt. Resting at White's FuneralHome with visiting hours on Tuesday October 4th from 2-4 + 7-9 PM.Funeral service will be held on Wednesday October 5th at 11 Am fromWhite's Funeral Home Chapel with Rev. Maynard Rector officiating.Interment in the Presbyterian Cemetery. Memorial donations to theSouthern Victoria Cancer Fund, St. James United Church Building Fundor donor's choice would be appreciated by the family. Arrangements byWhite's Funeral Home, Perth-Andover, NB.

Burial - Vet's Cemetery, Woodstock, NB;

Cremated and ashes sent to Forest City by her son, Dana Baker.

Burial - Forest City, NB;

Burial - Los Angeles, CA;

Burial - Aroostook Jct., N.B.;