Amy K. Gaskin
ROOTS BEFORE I KNEW THEY WERE ROOTS
Long before I was born.
There was Lynnfield, Massachusetts.
My Mom grew up on Edward Ave, and my Dad on Edgemere Rd.
My Grampa built most of the roads in Lynnfield.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Infrastructure was in our blood before I ever understood the word legacy.
🌳 ROOTS BEFORE I WAS BORN
Before I had a name, I had roads.
Literally.
Edgemere Road was more than pavement. It was lineage.
My father and his sister built homes next door to their childhood home.
For a few years before we moved to Maine, we all lived side by side.
We did everything together.
Family wasn’t a concept in my life.
It was infrastructure.
But I was born into community.
The Train, The Trees, and the Girl Who Was Never Alone
One of my favorite poems is The Train of Life.
Another is Trees by Joyce Kilmer — the one Grammie used to recite before she tucked me into bed.
The train reminds me that people step on and off at different stations.
The tree reminds me that roots matter more than branches.
My life has been both.
I was born September 1, 1972.
Labor Day weekend.
It was supposed to be the annual Labor Day Pool Party at Bucky’s house – everyone went. Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, Great Aunts, Great Uncles, neighbors, and friends. Entire families layered into one another’s lives. And my Mom went into labor.
Instead of burgers and cannonballs, my parents ended up at Lynn Union Hospital.
And Amy Kristen Fletcher was born.
I was one of the last babies delivered there.
Was it because I was miraculous?
Or because they didn’t want to risk another like me?
We may never know.
But I was never alone.
🌊 THE VILLAGE YEARS
Memorial Day.
Fourth of July.
Labor Day.
Everyone went to Bucky’s.
My grandparents.
My great aunts and uncles.
Neighbors.
Their friends.
My parents’ friends.
This wasn’t hosting.
This was gathering.
Later, my parents would establish their own annual pool parties and BBQs with their circle. And as children, my cousins and I were folded into it all.
We weren’t raised privately.
We were raised publicly — by a village.
And children behaved — not because their parents were watching — but because everyone was watching.
That was how life was.
🎆 EDGEMERE ROAD & THE PARADE
Every Fourth of July, Edgemere Road showed up.
Bikes decorated. Strollers decorated. Costumes handmade. Judges watching.
Cousins like Brian, Todd, Jennifer and Andrea. Neighbors Tara, Adam, Matthew, Nikki. All representing our street.
My favorite year?
Brian and I as Pebbles Flintstone and Bamm Bamm Rubble.
I was in it to win it — smiling big for the judges, elbowing Brian when they weren’t looking so he’d stop dragging his bat.
Performance. Playfulness. Belonging.
Roots: Excellence and Celebration
My dad believed in excellence, not excuses.
If I didn’t understand something, he explained it again. And again. And again. Until I got it.
We played endless board games and card games. Every year I proudly joined the “Father, Son & Amy” fishing trip. He never let the absence of a son define our bond.
He went to every softball game. Every race. Every event.
I was his “Doll.”
And I knew I was seen.
My mom built celebration into ordinary life.
Holidays weren’t events — they were experiences.
Christmas. Valentine’s Day. The Kentucky Derby. Random Wednesdays.
Our home had breakables everywhere. She taught us to appreciate beauty — to know what to look at and what to touch.
Discipline wrapped in creativity.
Joy wrapped in structure.
Presence wrapped in intention.
She celebrated not just me — but my cousins. My friends. Later, my kids and grandkids.
She owns The Cuckoo’s Nest – her sports memorabilia store – and taught me loyalty. In New England, you don’t just cheer when teams win. You stay when they lose. You remain a lifelong fan, no matter where you live.
Patriots. Red Sox. Bruins. Celtics.
Stand by your people.
From my father, I learned perseverance.
From my mother, I learned celebration.
From both, I learned to show up.
First Loss
My first loss came at four years old when my Grampa died.
I was sleeping over Kimmy and Carrie’s house. I woke up in the night, somehow knowing he was gone before anyone told me.
Even now, I still feel him.
That was the first time I understood that love doesn’t end when someone steps off the train.
Connection runs deeper than presence.
Grandparents: Strength & Calling
Grampie came next.
During an eighth-grade cross-country race, a bee stung me and I wanted to quit. He was standing in exactly the right place yelling:
“Go! You’ve got this!”
I ran faster. I finished.
I still hear that voice when things get hard.
I lost him just days before starting high school.
I didn’t play sports again until Tae Kwon Do in college.
But I became sports editor of the yearbook — still following the athletes.
Nana remembered me even through dementia.
When I was in college, I drove two hours every month to bring her photo albums and retell family stories. She always remembered me.
Those drives shaped my future more than I realized. That’s where my heart for seniors began — dignity through memory.
Grammie showed me strength.
She took me to Paris.
She shared her car with me. . .the Gram-mobile, which became a big part of me in both high school and college.
Endured pain with grace.
Wednesdays became sacred — summer lunches with her and her oldest brother, Great Uncle Henry. Our favorite place was Yoken’s.
She recited Trees at bedtime.
Roots. Always roots.
Great Aunts & Uncles: Character & Calling
And then there were my grandparents’ siblings — the extended roots.
Grammie’s brothers:
Great Uncle Walter in Cape Canaveral.
Great Uncle Joe in Jupiter.
And Grampa’s sister — Great Aunt Alice.
Walter lived simply. Proud Moose Lodge member. Married to Auntie Eleanor, who introduced me to Bingo nights and rock shrimp dinners.
He taught me:
Wealth is not money.
Wealth is presence.
Uncle Joe came from nothing.
Worked relentlessly.
Built success.
Became a millionaire.
Married to elegant Great Aunt Grace.
He taught me:
Hard work creates opportunity.
From Walter, I learned contentment.
From Joe, I learned ambition.
Both shaped me.
Then there was Great Aunt Alice.
Strong. Independent. Owned her own store.
She fell at home. Was alone for days before anyone found her. She never returned to live independently again.
Her story planted the seed for my fascination with aging-in-place technology.
Sometimes calling becomes clear in hindsight.
Cousins: My First Friends
I was an only child — but my cousins made sure I never felt like one.
Among my first cousins, I was the only girl on one-side and the youngest on the other. So, you can imagine, I was spoiled and looked after. But my world, there were extended cousins too. Family is important.
We did everything together.
On my father’s side, there was Brian, just a few months older than me and Todd, 4 years under. Then 2nd cousins with Andrea and Jennifer who we saw annually when cutting down our Christmas tree at Great Uncle Bill’s.
On my mother’s side, there was cousin Lisa who was 4 years old and cousin Chip who was 2 years older. I was Maid of Honor at my cousin Lisa’s first wedding. My cousin’s kids were all in my wedding in 2000.
Brian, Todd, and I got to enjoy riding bikes, playgrounds, the beach, a trip to Florida, weekend trips to the lake in summer, parades, and more.
Holidays: Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, and even Valentine’s Day, Mardi Gras, St Patrick’s Day, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Halloween – any excuse to be together. And a holiday that my family created . . .
Tree-cutting Saturdays after Thanksgiving at Great Aunt Jane and Uncle Bill’s log cabin.
Feast. Performances. Cousin chaos.
Later, my kids would stand on the hearth and perform too.
Everything comes full circle.
Cousin Chip always made me feel safe.
Cousin Brian and I celebrated our 21st New Year’s together — and I learned alcohol was not my calling. The 50 Fire & Ice shot vials in my coat pockets confirmed that lesson.
Love can’t be forced.
Later, I would try setting up my best friend, Marlo with both my cousin Brian and my cousin Chip.
Neither worked out.
Apparently, I was not good at marrying Marlo into my family.
But she married her high school sweetheart — and stood beside me as maid of honor.
Brian married Angela.
Chip married Kristen.
My cousins-in-law became siblings.
Family deepened.
The Blizzard of 1978
Before stories had names, there was a storm.
The Blizzard of ’78.
Massive snowbanks. Silence. Stillness.
My dad built me an igloo big enough for him to stand inside — and he’s over six feet tall.
I didn’t know it then, but I learned something that day:
When the storm hits, you build something inside it.
That metaphor would return decades later.
Lessons Before Seven
In Maine, I collected over 100 “free” paint samples from a hardware store before the owner followed me home and made me return each one to its slot.
Lesson: Just because something is free doesn’t mean it’s yours.
🍬 AUNTIE BARB & THE LESSON
My Auntie Barb wasn’t just my aunt.
She was my godmother.
She took me on girls’ days. Plays. Fancy lunches. Sometimes just her and I, other times with her friend, Linda and Linda’s daughter, Tara.
One night, we were off to Boston. First we went to a fancy restaurant, I was dressed up and feeling pretty special. I ordered Chicken Cordon-Bleu and Grasshopper pie and at it all like a polished young lady.
Until I stuffed nearly fifty unwrapped mints into my long coat pockets.
Not purse.
Pockets.
All of them.
I had to apologize.
And I wasn’t allowed candy at Peter Pan.
Growth sometimes requires repetition.
Apparently so does humility.
I had to apologize to the restaurant owner. No candy at the play.
Apparently, integrity sometimes requires repetition.
GREAT UNCLES: CONTENTMENT & AMBITION
In Florida, I spent time with two of my Grammie’s brothers.
Great Uncle Walter in Cape Canaveral.
Great Uncle Joe in Jupiter.
Walter lived simply.
Moose Lodge member.
Rock shrimp dinners.
Bingo nights with Auntie Eleanor.
He taught me:
Wealth is not money.
Wealth is presence.
Joe came from nothing.
Worked relentlessly.
Built success.
Became a millionaire.
Married elegant, formal Great Aunt Grace.
He taught me:
Effort changes trajectory.
From Walter: contentment.
From Joe: ambition.
Both mattered.
🏡 WINDMILL LANE (Hampton Years)
August 1979 — we moved to Windmill Lane in Hampton, New Hampshire.
Jackie and Jill — the twins who truly lived up the hill.
They were biking down. I was pulling out. Bam.
Jackie and I collided.
And formed a trio from second through eighth grade.
The older kids – Missy, Beth, Tracey, Gary, Johnny, and Aimee – watched out for us. Jackie, Jill, Brian, and I rounded out the middle. The littles followed behind.
The neighborhood played together. Took care of one another.
That was how it worked in the ’70s and ’80s.
By twelve, I was babysitting the Windmill Lane gang. By fifteen, I was babysitting all over town — including a one-month-old infant.
That is trust.
That is how we were raised.
The Aquaboggan Story
One mischievous summer, Jackie, Jill, and I were pushing limits.
So Joyce and my mom packed our bags and told us we were going to an orphanage in Maine.
It was the quietest car ride of our lives.
An hour later, we pulled into Aquaboggan Water Park.
Best. Day. Ever.
Three well-behaved girls for the rest of the summer.
That was creative discipline.
That was love.
🌴 FLORIDA ROOTS
Every February, my mom took me to Florida to visit my grandparents wintering in Cape Canaveral.
We saw: Great Auntie Eleanor. Great Uncle Walter. My mother’s cousin Sandy and his children — Tara, Soleil, and Sasha.
Florida wasn’t vacation.
It was connection.
“WRONG LANE AGAIN, TED”
February 1979.
Six months after forming my bond with Jackie and Jill, my mom invited Ted, Joyce, and Missy to Florida.
Twenty-four hours in Ted’s sedan.
Ted, Joyce, and my mother in the front.
Four girls crammed in the back.
And somewhere between Hampton and Cape Canaveral, my sarcasm was born.
“Wrong lane again, Ted!”
Every toll booth. Every single one.
I’m not sure how Ted survived ten days in Florida with two women and four girls.
But that was the trip where I learned voice.
And humor.
panic less. Think faster.
The next year, my dad came with us and we took Brian and Todd with us. Brian vomited all over the back of the station wagon. My dad threw the sleeping bag into the woods somewhere in North Carolina.
On the way home, my parents had spent every last dollar.
In South Carolina, speeding tickets had to be paid on the spot.
My mom had my dad exit into an abandoned gas station, kill the lights, and we all dropped into the footwell pretending to search for quarters.
Dad didn’t speed again that trip.
Leadership lesson:
Panic less. Think faster.
Merging Friends with Family
Brian and I once tried to surprise each other at college during a snowstorm and ended up stuck on I-95 in a blizzard.
Marlo and I drove up to surprise my cousin Brian at college in Maine.
A storm hit. He had left to surprise me.
We ended up trapped on I-95 in a blizzard — highway closed behind us.
In the Gram-mobile.
Ice everywhere.
We pulled off at a restaurant.
And who did we find?
Brian.
He followed us home. Spent the weekend.
My 21rst New Year’s Eve
A year later, we rang in our 21st New Year’s together — and I relearned the “don’t take what isn’t yours” lesson when nearly fifty Fire & Ice shot vials ended up in my coat pockets again.
Friends as Close as Family
The Fletcher Road Rally scavenger hunts.
Pool parties at Kathy and Ronnie’s.
Fourth of July at Gary and Vicky’s.
And decades later — all of them at my wedding in Alexandria.
Friends who become family are treasure
High School: Marlo and Divergence
High school shifted things.
Jackie and Jill and I grew in different directions.
But they never left my heart.
The lice year. Dads washing our heads in the sink during card night.
Summers at their family restaurant on the beach.
In 2025, when life got hard, they showed up again.
Love changes form — it doesn’t disappear.
Marlo became my steady ground.
British exchange program.
First jobs together. First boyfriends together, who were best friends.
Driving in blizzards to surprise cousin Brian at college and getting stuck on I-95.
Then off to military school.
With Marlo headed off to Georgia, my senior year, I took off to Randolph-Macon Academy.
Randolph-Macon academy
Norwich: Structure and Belonging
I chose Norwich over Embry-Riddle.
Legacy over prestige.
Norwich University and Vermont College — my parents’ schools — merged the year I was born.
Destiny unfolding.
Two degrees in education.
Five years.
Then one more year in Vermont.
Kimiko — Wednesday appreciation nights.
Steve — D&D and belonging.
Tim — Tae Kwon Do and cultural growth.
Paul — courage and acceptance.
College was community.
Even the town — Halloween trick-or-treating for ramen and deodorant. Snow sculpture competitions on the Quad.
I didn’t want to leave.
But I did.
Vermont After College
Apartment with Crystal.
Director of daycare center.
One-hour commute.
Six years safely wrapped in familiarity.
Then Northern Virginia.
City life.
Nanny for Steven in McLean.
Metro rides to Anacostia to see Tim.
Watching prejudice try to root in a little boy — and gently replacing it with relationship.
Then teaching at Naylor Road School in Southeast D.C.
Kids removed from traditional schools.
“Kids are kids,” I said.
I learned context matters.
Structure matters.
Belief matters.
And that year would prepare me for motherhood in ways I couldn’t yet see.
🎓 TRANSITION FORWARD
From Edgemere Road. To Windmill Lane. To Florida winters. To cousins. To sarcasm. To humility. To belonging.
TRANSITION
From roads my grandfather built… To parades… To snowstorms… To blizzards on I-95… To Windmill Lane…
The train was already moving.
And I was learning something in every station:
Belonging matters.
Integrity matters.
Loyalty matters.
Presence matters.
And love never truly leaves.