"I remember Rob Golding, one of the last of that vanishing race of old-time Maine guides.
'He is an old friend', my wife said, 'and he is coming this spring to prepare a garden for us.'
One day in May, Rob arrived. The next morning, during breakfast, I began to wonder at what time
one should awaken a 92-year old man. At that moment he appeared at the kitchen door.
'I hope I didn't wake you,' he said. 'Tried to be quiet, but I kept striking your confounded Connecticut stones.'
He'd been hard at work since six.At the end of two days, Rob had laid out an extraordinary garden
with a split rail fence around it. I suppose local help would have made it a weeks work.
When I brought up the subject of pay, Rob gave me a lesson in human nature.
'Work is work when you're paid to do it,' he said. 'When you're not, it becomes pleasure.
There's a lot of time in heaven for me to rest, so I want to get in all the working hours I can while I'm still alive.'"
(Above: photo of our home c. 1895 with Jim Golding in foreground.
Right: Rob Golding 1898 in Spanish American War uniform.
Below left: aerial of our farm 1933 taken from the 'big pine'.
Below right: Nathaniel & Mary Golding c. 1900).