A week ago Dolores and I were invited to a flagpole memorial ceremony at Bartlett Woods retirement community.

Marion Grant, daughter of the late Francis and Helen Cartaglia of Troy, NY, and her husband, Harry Grant, donated a flagpole to Bartlett Woods and dedicated it to Marion's parents.

Harry said about Marion's parents, "Both Helen and Frank lived in Troy, New York, and they met when Frank was a lieutenant in the U.S. Army. Frank had come to America from Italy when he was 10 years old with his mother and sister."

These two immigrants had come to the U.S. to seek their fortunes in America in the early 1900s, starting with nothing, not even knowing English. Francis Cartaglia began his career in the Great Depression-spawned Civilian Conservation Corps, served in the U.S. Army in World War II, was stationed in Italy, and later served in the U.S. Air Force. He retired as a decorated full colonel with the United States Air Force.

Grant said the couple, "...spent 35 years in the military raising four children."

Marion was one, and she loved her parents enough for her and Harry to dedicate the new flagpole to them and be reminded of them each time they visit Bartlett Woods where they both serve as board members.

Harry and Marion Grant of Rockport, board members at Bartlett Woods retirement community in Rockland, dedicated this new flagpole to the memories of Marion's parents, the late Francis and Helen Cartaglia, where Helen had resided until she passed away. Milt Gross photo.

But their memories are intertwined with those of others, family, friends, even Dolores and me.

All of us, who lived during a good part of the 1900s, have our memories. I wondered as Harry spoke where I was during the various phases of the Cartaglia's life story.

Things come together. I'm married to a niece, Dolores.

Over a noon dinner served by the retirement home staff, I learned a bit -- and even met a member of that family, Delores, known as DeDe, a distant cousin of Dolores, who now lives two miles from where I was raised and whose children attend the same high school I attended.

Small world.

DeDe told me that Conestoga High School was now famous, and she went on to explain the reason which I have since forgotten. To me, it was just a newly-built high school, and I found high school boring.

Except for an art teacher, who encouraged me to become an art teacher. I was color dumb and still am -- color dumb, that is, so made no attempt to become an art teacher. But that teacher also taught me through drawing and water color how to frame pictures. As a reporter in Maine years later, I put those lessons in framing pictures to practical use.

Harry, overhearing part of DeDe's conversation with me, said, "So you went to the same high school her children attend."

"Yes," I replied, "and after I left they put a roof on it and hired teachers."

It may have had a roof and teachers. But it was boring to me, so it doesn't matter much one way or the other.

A man, who had once hired Marion and Dolores, whom Marion had taken in to live with her in Boston after Dolores' mother died when Dolores was a teenager, chatted a bit with me. I found that connection of many years ago with Dolores and Marion fascinating.

His wife told me they live in Harpswell in a house they bought from one of their children. She told me that Maine was a beautiful state. I had heard that somewhere, and, in fact, it was a major reason I moved here right out of college in Pennsylvania.

Because this couple obviously had not taken a vow of poverty, as I had and tell those interested in moving to Maine that such a vow is a requirement to move to Maine, I wondered how close they were to being real "Maineiacs," which I can never be since I was born in Pennsylvania.

"Do you live in Harpswell year-round?" I asked the wife.

"Heavens no," she replied. "We could never stand the winters."

She had admitted that for her and her husband, as for most Americans, Maine's beauty has limits when it comes to actually committing oneself to life in our Pine Tree and Mosquito and Snow and Song April Rains state.

My children, with the exception of a wonderful daughter and her great husband, live out of state. But it would be a very long trip for us to drive to North Carolina, Florida, or Arizona.* I have a sister and brother in Pennsylvania, but we're not close enough to commit to such a long drive.

It's long enough to get through Ellsworth these August tourist days.

A tourist once asked me if I ever visit Pennsylvania.

"No," I replied, "I lost my map, and please don't give me one."

Memories are pleasant, meeting mine or Dolores' relatives from time to time here in Maine is nice, but not nice enough to drag us away from Maine.

Dolores has lived in Maine for 22 years after vacationing here since 1978 until she moved here.

Since moving to Maine 46 years ago, I've found my closest "relatives" to be folks with whom I work, with whom I am fellow members of the Maine Appalachian Trail Club, or a handful of friends I can count on.

A friend in Maine one can count on is better than a friend or relative out there in some other place that's not Maine.

* Flying would be out of the question, for Dolores because of health reasons and for me because I hate to have to take off my shoes, place my belongings in a tray for someone else to look at, and have my person examined for weapons. Besides my last flight was terrible, starting with the weather, the seats cramped together, and more that is not worth mentioning.

Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@midmaine.com.

Milton M. Gross Copyright 2011