Alice Blair, Danville’s Oldest Woman

By Sharon Lakey

Just to get a his­tor­i­cal per­spec­tive on what it is like to have lived near­ly one hun­dred years in Amer­i­ca, here are a few Inter­est­ing events that occurred nation­al­ly the year lit­tle Alice Eliz­a­beth John­son was born: Woodrow Wil­son became Pres­i­dent after Ted­dy Roo­sevelt died in his sleep; pro­hi­bi­tion became a law; the Grand Canyon was named a Nation­al Park; the US Con­gress approved the 19th Amend­ment to guar­an­tee women the right to vote; the U.S. sent the 7th Cav­al­ry Reg­i­ment across the Mex­i­can bor­der to repulse Pan­cho Vil­la; WWI was offi­cial­ly end­ed; the first suc­cess­ful transat­lantic flight by a diri­gi­ble land­ed in New York; and Curly Lam­beau found­ed the Green Bay Packers. 

The John­son farm locat­ed on the old Route 2 just on the bor­der of St. Johns­bury and Danville.[/caption]Baby Alice was born at home on a love­ly farm that bor­ders Danville and St. Johns­bury on the old Route 2, now known as Route 2B. She joined an old­er broth­er, Gilbert. Two years lat­er, sis­ter Lucia would be wel­comed at home and last­ly, lit­tle Paul. The for­mer John­son farm­land is now part of Danville’s Library Road and the devel­op­ment in that area. 

Her father, Fred­er­ick Gilbert John­son, and moth­er, Lucia (Day) John­son, orig­i­nal­ly came from the town of Lunen­berg. Both grew up on farms. Fred worked at Merchant’s bank in St. Johns­bury, but because he con­tract­ed tuber­cu­lo­sis, he was warned by doc­tors to change pro­fes­sions. Now, we might find that sug­ges­tion med­ical­ly puz­zling, but then it must have made sense, and that is why the fam­i­ly bought and moved to the farm. 

But when Alice was just two years old, her father gave up his new voca­tion, sold the farm and moved the fam­i­ly to Cliff Street in St. Johns­bury and became the sell­er of coal at E.T. and H.K. Ide. He would spend the next 50 years work­ing there, even­tu­al­ly becom­ing the Vice Pres­i­dent of the com­pa­ny. He retired when Tim Ide came of age to take over that position. 

One of her last­ing exhil­a­rat­ing mem­o­ries from liv­ing on Cliff Street was when her sib­lings and friends walked to Mt. Pleas­ant Ceme­tery in the win­ter, drag­ging a travis behind them, get­ting on and speed­ing down the road, clear sail­ing down to the Fair­banks Mill where the motel now sits, a total of about two miles. 

All of the John­son chil­dren grad­u­at­ed from St. Johns­bury schools. Her old­er broth­er, Gilbert, became the man­u­al arts teacher at the St. Johns­bury tech­ni­cal school. He was refused for the Army in WWII, because his feet were too big–size 17–even though he was only 6’3” tall. Her younger broth­er, Paul, served in the War on a sub­ma­rine. He was report­ed miss­ing at one point, but the sub came limp­ing in after being dam­aged in a bat­tle at sea. Sis­ter Lucia mar­ried William Pearl; they owned a beau­ti­ful farm in Danville on Jami­son Road. Broth­er Paul remained in the Navy until retire­ment, and then trav­eled the world to help set up machin­ery for large Amer­i­can com­pa­nies overseas.

After grad­u­a­tion from St. Johns­bury Acad­e­my, Alice attend­ed a year-long prep pro­gram busi­ness course at the Acad­e­my. After­wards, she attend­ed a col­lege in Farm­ing­ton, Maine that lat­er become part of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Maine. She took the course in Home Eco­nom­ics. Dur­ing two sum­mers in Maine, she cooked for U.S. Sen­a­tor Brew­ster and his wife. “That is when I learned how the oth­er half lived!” she exclaimed. A col­lege friend of hers con­nect­ed her to that job. That young friend cleaned and served, and Alice cooked. She remem­bers one July 4th event where they were to help enter­tain Air Force mem­bers sta­tioned at Skowhe­gan. She cooked an entire salmon, head to tail, to be served on a large, sil­ver plat­ter. “My poor friend had to car­ry this heavy dish to the table with­out help. She could hard­ly car­ry it, and the Mrs. would allow no one to help her. After the fish was eat­en on one side, it was brought back to the kitchen, and I had to flip the fish to the oth­er side, and out it went again”

This job helped her work her way through col­lege. She grad­u­at­ed in 1942, receiv­ing her BS degree at age 23. The year after, she began teach­ing high school in Uni­ty as a Home Eco­nom­ics teacher, a job that she kept for three years. Dur­ing those sum­mer breaks, she worked as a cook at the can­nery, serv­ing five meals a day to 50 work­ers. We made 21 pies a day, and we always ran out of pie,” she said.

In 1945 she moved back to Ver­mont where she went to work uti­liz­ing her degree in Home Eco­nom­ics and food man­age­ment skills. A total of 13 years were spent in schools includ­ing St. Johns­bury, Danville, Con­cord and Peacham. At that time Home Eco­nom­ics was a required man­u­al train­ing course in all junior high schools. She taught hands-on mate­r­i­al: uphol­stery, refin­ish­ing fur­ni­ture, out­door cook­ing, using chap­ters in a book writ­ten for boys that explained “how to choose a wife,” and even giv­ing instruc­tions on how to darn socks. The socks thing tick­led the Peacham boys, but they swore her to secre­cy. “Do not tell our moth­ers we know how to darn socks!” 

She did have a one year teach­ing stint out of her water, so to speak, when she accept­ed a job in Danville to teach a 7 and 8 grade year, replac­ing a young woman who was preg­nant. “Preg­nant women were not allowed to teach then,” Alice explained, “and it took Mr. Roberts, the Super­in­ten­dent, to go to the State Board and get per­mis­sion for me to teach in her stead, even though I wasn’t cer­ti­fied to do so. I have nev­er worked so hard for my mon­ey as that job,” she said, with a steely look in her eye. “That junior high class was out of con­trol. They inter­fered with the whole high school.” She remem­bers one of many ras­cals was none oth­er than her present good (and upright) neigh­bor, Tim Ide. Regard­less, the class didn’t get the bet­ter of Alice, and she smiled while recount­ing some of the spe­cial moments between teacher and stu­dents dur­ing that “long” year. 

Alice met her future hus­band, Ken­neth Blair, for first time while work­ing in Danville. Esther Hol­brook, Ken’s niece, hap­pened to be in her Home Ec class at the time. When the prin­ci­pal dropped in to say that Ken­neth would be com­ing by to fix the refrig­er­a­tor, lit­tle Esther exclaimed, “That old man! Don’t get him to talk­ing; he’ll talk your ear off.” Ken­neth was 11 years old­er than Alice. “He didn’t impress me at all dur­ing that first meet­ing,” she said, but they were mar­ried in 1947, when she was 28 years old and Ken was 39.

Alice said, “I nev­er felt Ken was that much old­er than me.” She chuck­les, though, relat­ing the sto­ry of Ken’s opin­ion on her col­lars. It seems the cou­ple had a meet­ing, fol­lowed by a tea with the trustees at Peacham Acad­e­my. On the ride home, Ken­neth act­ed dis­grun­tled and dis­gust­ed. Inquir­ing as to why he was upset, he final­ly told her she need­ed to “get rid of those Peter Pan col­lars!” Fur­ther inquiry revealed that when he went through the receiv­ing line, Mr. Rowe (the father of Dr. Rowe) told him he had just met his daugh­ter. “Get rid of those col­lars; they make you look too young!”

A few years into their mar­riage, Ken start­ed to feel poor­ly and Alice went with him to see Dr. Coburn in St. Johns­bury for a thor­ough exam. They thought it might be pneu­mo­nia. After the exam, the doc­tor called Alice into his office to tell her that Ken­neth had can­cer. “It is all through him,” Dr. Coburn said, “and he doesn’t have long to live.” Alice didn’t know how to tell Ken, so she turned to Danville’s Dr. Paulsen for advice. “Dr. Paulsen told me the sto­ry of his own moth­er, who had can­cer,” said Alice. “He said when he dis­cov­ered his mother’s dis­ease, he told her and she just gave up, went to bed and died. Dr. Paul­son rec­om­mend­ed that I with­hold the news from Ken­neth; per­haps he would live a year or two with­out many symp­toms, and then I could tell him. I took his advice.” The only per­son she did tell was her moth­er; Ken­neth lived anoth­er 35 years. 

They enjoyed a social life in Danville that includ­ed local cou­ples that dubbed them­selves the “Dirty Dozen.” It was a potluck group that met for din­ners and con­ver­sa­tion that includ­ed Phil and Joan­na Man­ning, George and Bet­ty Morse, Otis and Irene Brick­ett, Howard and Miri­am McNaughton, and Dick and Mar­garet Ide. “It was a nice time,” said Alice, who enjoys remem­ber­ing the warmth of their friend­ships. Alice and Ken lived in an apart­ment in Danville for five years before they pur­chased a home on the cor­ner of Brain­erd Street and what is now Moun­tain View Dri­ve. Alice espe­cial­ly enjoyed her large gar­dens there behind the house. 

Many local women have sto­ries of Alice Blair, because she became the Coun­ty Exten­sion Agent and Home Dem leader for Cale­do­nia Coun­ty for 24 years. She taught them every­thing from how to stuff a turkey to how to tai­lor-make a man’s suit. She was in charge of 50 Home Dem clubs that gath­ered once a month in homes of mem­bers. Twice a year, she ran the meet­ings of these clubs in someone’s home. This meant long hours on the road, many at night. Ken­neth was adamant that she trav­el safe­ly. “He made sure I trad­ed cars every two years,” she said. “They were good, sol­id cars.”

Ver­mont Coun­ty Agents were a col­lab­o­ra­tive group. Not only did they trav­el and meet in-state, they went to many dif­fer­ent states for their required con­tin­u­ing edu­ca­tion. “I’ve been to every state in the union, except Hawaii,” said Alice, “even to Puer­to Rico.” Ken­neth, on the oth­er hand, pre­ferred to stay home. That didn’t mean he didn’t care, though. “He was a big read­er, you know,” said Alice. “He knew more about the places I trav­elled to than I did.” Ken­neth Blair sto­ries abound. He was an all-around handy­man and a char­ac­ter with plen­ty of Ver­mont personality. 

When she turned 60, Alice retired from her job with the Exten­sion. After return­ing from a two-week cruise to Alas­ka, she was sur­prised to find that she was the new own­er of the fam­i­ly camp on Newark Pond. “My father had put my name on the deed,” she said. She actu­al­ly moved to Newark for sev­en years, though Ken­neth wouldn’t make the tran­si­tion there. “I vot­ed there, but I still kept all my Danville con­nec­tions and mem­ber­ships, trav­el­ling to Danville for church every Sun­day.” She tore down the orig­i­nal camp and built in its place a beau­ti­ful log cab­in. “I always want­ed a log cab­in,” she mused. “Ken­neth didn’t care for them, but he fin­ished all the inte­ri­or in the cab­in.” Because she was on the road between Newark and Danville so much, she pur­chased a new car. This time she splurged. “I bought a beau­ti­ful, white, lux­u­ry Cadil­lac. Peo­ple who rode with me said you couldn’t even feel a bump in the road.” 

In 1985 Ken­neth was once again feel­ing down. “I took him back to Dr. Coburn. When the doc­tor came out to see me, he was wide-eyed,” said Alice. “Why didn’t you tell me he was still alive?” he asked. “This time he was diag­nosed with a heart con­di­tion,” said Alice. “It felt like he just fad­ed away.” Ken died that year; Alice was 66 years old. 

As we know, there was still a lot of life left for Alice to expe­ri­ence. She kept up her life between the two com­mu­ni­ties, but one morn­ing at a Christ­mas break­fast held at Glo­ria Morse’s house on Moun­tain View Dri­ve, Alice noticed a “For Sale” sign buried in the snow of the for­mer home of Mrs. Farn­ham, who had lived to be 100 years old. Alice thought to her­self that this was the size of house in which she should be liv­ing. The camp on the pond was get­ting to be too much for her to man­age. She pur­chased the home in 1992, rent­ing it for awhile until she could make the move back into Danville. The house is just a small dis­tance from her for­mer home on Brain­erd Street, and she found her new neigh­bors a close-knit, friend­ly and sup­port­ive group. When she moved there, her new neigh­bor on Moun­tain View, Selden Houghton, was skep­ti­cal that she could get the Cadil­lac into the small garage. She proved him wrong. “I backed that car in with just inch­es to spare,” she said with a twinkle. 

Final­ly, at 96, Alice decid­ed it was time to give up dri­ving. That was a dif­fi­cult deci­sion for her. Her med­ical doc­tor told her it was a good idea, because if she were ever in an acci­dent, she would get blamed because of the strong med­ica­tions she was tak­ing for her shoul­der. “My nephew, who was a State Troop­er, told me that was a ‘darn good doc­tor who would tell you that.’” So Alice decid­ed they were right and put a “For Sale” sign on her beau­ti­ful white car, one she had dri­ven this time for six years. “It was sold in all of ten min­utes,” said Alice, still sur­prised about the speed in which her car disappeared.

Now, with the med­ical sup­port of her local extend­ed fam­i­ly mem­bers, a lim­it­ed num­ber of hours of hired help to do laun­dry and house­hold chores, and amaz­ing neigh­bors Doug Lamothe and Jen­ness Ide, she is still able to live in her own home. Her appre­ci­a­tion is unmis­tak­able. “I love the peo­ple in Ver­mont. I’ve nev­er want­ed to live any­where else. Moth­er Nature seems kinder here, too. Even in our most severe weath­er, it doesn’t seem scary.” 

On aging, Alice is, as one would expect, a real­ist. “I have pain and I fall,” she said. Thus, when Doug LaMothe encour­aged her to get a Life­line, there was no quar­rel. And, she’s used it. “I’m not afraid of dying, but I’m not push­ing it, either.” 

If you are won­der­ing if that icon­ic Cale­do­nia Coun­ty Exten­sion Agent is still alive and well, offer her a sum­mer straw­ber­ry short­cake at the North Danville July 4th Church din­ner. “Would you like half a serv­ing or a whole?” I questioned.

“Ask if they use real cream,” she responded.

When they answered in the affir­ma­tive, she smiled and said, “I’ll take the whole.”