June Woodman

June Woodman, 86, of Westbrook, Maine passed away on November 8th. Daughter of Richard and Marion Mansfield, and loving wife of Robert Woodman, she passed away surrounded by immeasurable love. She is survived by her loving husband of 25 years, Robert, her dear sister Betty, her dear cousin Phil and his wife Mary, and her beloved children and grandchildren; Doug and his daughter Katie Rose, Sarah and her son Justin and his son Jasper, Hilary, and Craig. June was an avid reader and artist who enjoyed poetry, music, gardening, and theater. She did not follow a standard path in life, but rather sought experiences and occupations that served as her higher education. She finished high school in Mexico City where she learned Spanish and lived with a family friend and author who became one of her many mentors. She was an airline stewardess in an era when that was like being a movie star, and she looked like one. She loved the vibrant, creative energy of New York City, where she would later marry Robert, the one true love of her life, in Saint Patrick's Cathedral. They spent many happy years there together enjoying theater and music, and running one of their many business ventures, Oh Christmas Tree, which delivered authentic Maine Balsam Firs to people in the city who dreamed of the serene Maine woods and wanted a small piece of country tradition in their homes. For many years, she was the president of a community theater in Ohio, and she later used that experience to start a community theater in Dexter, Maine where she wrote grants to fund many theater projects, built sets, selected props, finished costumes, directed, and even wrote a few plays. Wayside Theater represented everything that she believed in; community, cultural enrichment, and hard work. In Dexter, she and Robert established a home and businesses and became involved with the local community. Her love of history and her creativity guided her in the renovation of their Greek Revival home to historically accurate decor and aesthetic. This home became her real-world canvas, and she brought it back to life with the same passion and love that she put into every project she undertook. June's creative outlet was drawing, and she carried this skill with her throughout every stage of her life. Ever the champion of the underdog, she enjoyed seeing something old, neglected, or broken and imagining what it had been, and who had loved it in the past. Her favorite things to draw were old trees and old homes, and in her paintings we will be able to see her optimism and her ability to see beyond the surface of things in order to find their true nature and beauty. Her great appreciation for history, and reverence for the strong belief that we should cherish those who came before us led her to the role of family genealogist. She carried family photos, letters, and memorabilia through dozens of years and dozens of moves across the country in order to preserve and share her history with all of us. The family is very proud of the children's book and the family genealogy she wrote, and in these two books we will always be able to hear the strength and determination of her voice. Always ready with a helping hand or homemade soup for a sick neighbor, an offer to help a child with a project or a foreigner learn our culture, or to help write a winning resume, all those who knew June were touched by her quiet, kind nature, her passion for her various interests, and her love of family. She often said that being mother to her children was her greatest joy in life, and she truly felt their pain and happiness as if it were her own. She loved each of them uniquely, thoroughly, and unwaveringly. She was a unique individual with a kind heart and a determined spirit who shared her many gifts and talents with friends from around the world. She will be greatly missed, but her pain and struggle are over, and she is at peace, finally. A Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated Wednesday, November 13, 2019, at 10:00AM, at St. Peter's Roman Catholic Church, 72 Federal Street, Portland, Maine. A burial will be held at a later date. Arrangements are under the direction of the Conroy-Tully Walker Funeral Home of Portland. In lieu of flowers, the family respectfully requests that donations be made to to one of the following charities that are significant to June and to her family: Portland Players Theater, The Animal Refuge League of Greater Portland, The Alzheimer's Association. Below are two of June's poems: My Mother's Hands and On The (Renovated) Waterfront: My Mother's Hands Her hands were strong and worn, and tough, ringless fingers under broken nails. Her touch, not softened by a scented cream, was often rough. Her clothes were plain, for work. I didn't like that much, when I was young. I thought, "why can't my mother be like those I read about and see in picture books. Why can't she curl her hair, and wear a dress, for me." I was too young to know, to see beneath her outward looks. Those roughened hands were badges earned, marked with acts of selfless love and care. Without a thought, she bore each scar and woodstove burn, as medals of the trials she felt were hers to bear. She used those hands for work, not show. She dressed for work because she worked. Her life did not permit the time for curls, or dainty bow or pampered skin. She was a mother, first, and wife. In youthful ignorance, I stood and watched, outside, unhelping, while she sweated over steaming tub of clothes I'd worn. Too hot, it was, to do the work inside. With acid soap on washboard, wring and scrub, wring and scrub. In March she planned next year's food from rainbow colored catalogues. Choosing long before the time to plant what we would eat, what she would grow, her hands the tools that did the work when time was right. Those same rough hands, turned strangely gentle, when a bloodied knee or splintered thumb from climbing trees rushed me tearful to her care. Her hands seemed soft again, and as she cleansed my wounds, she wiped away my tears. Deftly, as I squirmed to run and play, her nimble fingers wove the timeless weave of braid above my sunburned face. Impatience closed my eyes, I did not see that ancient act of love, I did not feel the tenderness, the mother's grace. I never thought she would grow old and die. I thought such strength would last, and conquer time. But soon old age, unwelcome guest to all, stopped in to say hello and brought the change we all must know. She did grow old; her years became a cage. No longer useful, then, except perhaps to brush away a tear, those loving hands, without familiar work, turned soft. The scars and marks withdrew, her nails were trim, her hair now brushed by strangers' hands, unnatural, sternly coifed. It seems my mother's hands now grow on me. I see this scar, that stain of age, the broken nails, and know the truth, that I am now who I could never let her be. I cling to what I knew of her, and sadly, sadly, let her go, and try to keep her strength, and hope, and remnants of her quiet grace. My hands have had their years of toil and pain and only I can tell their history. I step uncertain still into my mother's place. I wear my mother's hands, and wonder if I've used them well. On The (Renovated) Waterfront By June Mansfield Woodman "Tear it down and build it over, set the fuse and run for cover, blow it up and dig it out! the builders cry. In the sacred name of progress (sanctioned in our local congress) let the lifestyle of our fathers fade and die. May all the wharves be dedicated now to buildings renovated, and the condos overlook the laughing sea. Trendy shops and lots of plastic, (won't the residents go spastic if the fishing boats invade their privacy). "It's our money, and our wish is to remove the taint of fishes, before our cruisers and our condos start to smell Just remember, we're on YOUR side, from Cape Cod to Falmouth Foreside; we're the future, and we only mean you well! The success of this revival means much more than your survival, and the waterfront, we claim, is now our turf. All the shore-side streets are ours now, all boutiques and fancy bars now, there's no room for fishing boats on our new wharf. In fact, as long as we're progressing (please excuse us for digressing) our image should be something more urbane. The builder's wife is "Cindy" and his daughter's name is "Lindy" So, we'll change the name to Cindy-Lindy Lane. Our goals are not malicious, there's just no reason now for fishes, and the fishermen can all go somewhere new. We'll find a means of fish-repelling, make our harbor sweeter-smelling, And improve our condo owners' pricey view. Let's go further in our planning and take some needed steps for banning all hose noisy, smokey ferries to the isles. Let's do the Islanders a favor (it would be a great time-saver!) A chain of bridges stretching out for miles! The developers have their eyes on any promising horizon (they'd develop Heaven, for a price). They could tear down all the eyesores, change the name to "Bali-Hi Shores," and create a golf and tennis paradise. And when our children's children wonder who performed this giant blunder that made their world a concrete shopping mall, say that it was OUR prospectus, and they really should respect us, for we made a better life for one and all. "Tear it down and build it over, Set the fuse and run for cover, Blow it up and dig it out!" the builders cry. In the sacred name of progress (sanctioned in our local congress) Let the lifestyle of our fathers fade and die." June M. Woodman, Wayside Grange #590, Dexter. Maine