Burial - Hodgdon, Me;

Burial - Forest City, N.B;

Came from USA to Canada in 1870 as did his wife Anna

Burial - Forest City, N.B;

Burial - 1952; Fosterville Lower Cemetery;

Died young with TB

Burial - Burtt's Corner, N.B.;

Burial - Geary, NB;

Burial - Branch Road Cemetery, Gary, N.B.;

1901 census lists Scovil {Byram - Unknown if this his last name or first name.?} as his adopted son born Jan 11, 1899. Scovil always went by the name "Boone" A granddaughter, Gertude Wood living with Alex and Sarah at time of 1901 census

According to the 1871 census for York County, Alex and family were living in Lincoln, about where the Princess Margaret Bridge is located today. Sometime in the next two years, he moved bag and baggage to Green Mountain, NB to live in a cabin on the land known locally as the "Albert Field" (referring to property owned at one time by Albert Veysey.)

Since the community was only about a dozen years settled, it is possible he moved because of employment as a "joiner", or carpenter. His uncle, Joseph Boone, was already living there, so it is possible some influence came from that direction. It is interesting to speculate the means and route Alex took to reach his destination. Most accounts state there were no roads to speak of, other than a wagon trail, linking Fosterville, Green Mountain and North Lake to Canterbury (where present day Meductic stands). Presumably, he came from Fredericton on a steamboat to Canterbury then overland. Did he have his own horse(s)? Household goods? Wagon to carry them? It seems most likely that he did because no chance of acquiring these items in that remote section of the country.

It is also possible he may have been part of a group movement. Buckingham's and Cropley's from nearby Sunbury County and Queens took up residency in North Lake around the same time.

How long he remained in the cabin is unknown. But on Nov 12, 1883, he purchased for $600, property known as Lot #16, from Joseph H Hall, his son in law. Located on the south side of the community at the foot of what became known as the "Boone Hill", the farm boasted 100 acres, over half of it in standing timber. Nearly 70 years later, his grandson, Basil (my father) would buy the property from Warden Boone, another grandson.

On Sep 16, 1895, Alex needed some ready cash which he obtained by taking out a mortgage on the farm for $200 with George Coulter, Douglas, NB (Vol 105, Page 355, LRO, Fredericton). It took him nine years to pay it off.

According to notes by Inez (Foster) Lounder, Alex continued with his carpentry to an advanced age. He built the school at Green Mountain around 1880 and the church in 1895. Eve Veysey mentions in her diary around this time that Alex is still working on the pews.

Basil Boone remembers his grandfather as a witty individual always ready with a flip remark. For instance on returning home one day from his regular visit with his Granddaughter, Gertude Wood (married to Wesley Vantassel) at the "Point", he was asked by Sarah if Gertrude was glad to see him. Alex said he didn't know; she didn't say and she didn't wag her tail. "Hmmmph!" said Sarah. Burial - Fosterville, NB;

Burial - Eastport, ME;

Married at the parsonage of the Brunswick St. Baptist Church by Rev Guiou.

Burial - Boone Family Plot, Lower Cemetery, N.B.;

Burial - 22 FEB 1956; Kirkland, NB;

Reortedly in Bridgewater, ME in 1890 working as a lumberman

The death of Allen C. D. Boone of Geary, NB occurred at the Dr. Everett Chalmers Hospital on Friday, March 28th, 2008. Born in Geary on July 15th, 1921, he was the son of the late Marvin and Etta (Smith) Boone. Allen graduated from Provincial Normal School in 1939 and began his teaching career. He held many teaching positions throughout New Brunswick for over 20 years and following that, he decided to become an office worker until his retirement. After his retirement, Allen loved to research genealogy. He is survived by his sister, Kathleen Drummond of Waasis, NB as well as several nieces and nephews. Allen was predeceased by his parents; sister, Florence; and brothers, Arnold and Alfred. There will be no visitation by request. A memorial service will be held at the Oromocto Select Community Funeral Home (357-5100) on Thursday, April 3rd, 2008 at 2:00 pm. Rev. Gerald Matthews officiating. Interment will take place at a later date in the Lower Geary Cemetery. For those who wish, memorial tributes in Allen's honor may be made to the Lung Association, the NB Heart and Stroke Foundation or to a charity of the donor's choice

Burial - Lower Geary Cemetery, Geary, NB;

The death of Alvin Gordon Boone (Uncle Dudley), husband of Alma (Sullivan) Boone, of McGivney, occurred on Friday, November 26, 2004 at the Dr. Everett Chalmers Regional Hospital, Fredericton, NB. Born in Geary, NB, he was a son of the late Gordon and Ruth (Carr) Boone. Alvin was an avid outdoorsman, enjoying hunting and fishing. Besides his wife, he is survived by one daughter, Ann (Stephan Vienneau) Hicks of McGivney, NB; adopted sons and daughter, Donnie Stennick, Terry Stennick, Luke Stennick, Travis Carr, Gordie Carr and Tina Stennick; three grandchildren, Gordon, Trisha and Kaylee; many adopted grandchildren; several nieces and nephews. In addition to his parents, Alvin was predeceased by one brother, Ronald and one sister Betty. Visitation will take place at York Funeral home, 302 Brookside Drive, Fredericton, NB on Sunday from 2 to 4 pm and 7 to 9 pm. The Funeral Service will be held on Monday, November 29, 2004 at 2 pm from the York Funeral Home's T. Gordon MacLeod Memorial Chapel. Interment will be in the McGivney Community Cemetery.

Burial - Geary, NB;

Burial - Carr Cemetery, Geary, N.B.;

Every night the whole Hall family would play cards after dinner. From time to time Annie (Boone) Hall would leave Forest City, New Brunswick to visit her daughter Claire in Brewer to help out with her Legasse grandkids. Annie Boone died shortly after her farmhouse burned down.

The Halls had a farm, but her husband, Joseph Hall (1852-1919), disliked farming and worked as the Superintendent of Mill Tannery at the local mill. The Hall boys also disliked farming, so the daughters did all the farm work and house work.

Burial - 2 AUG 1937; Union Corner, NB;

Jan 5, 1952

Funeral services for Mrs Annie E. McQuarrie, 55, of Hodgdon, were held Tuesday at the Dunn Funeral Home with Rev. Paul Kierstead officiating. The daughter of George and Maude Veysey Boone, she was born July 13, 1896 at Forest City, N.B., and died in Hartford, Conn., January 4, after a short illness. A resident of Hodgdon, she lived in Hartford for the past two months.

Surviving are her husband, Hallie McQuarrie of Hodgdon, two sons, George of Cary and Clifford of Boston; four daughters, Mrs Clifton Rockwell and Mrs Nelson Blinn of Houlton, Mrs Paul Addington of Hodgdon, Mrs James W. Piper of Portland, Oregon; two brothers, Otto and Basil of Forest City, N.B., four sisters, Mrs Clinton Gillispie of Canterbury, N.B., Mrs Max Goldin of Providence, R.I., Mrs Clarence Buckingham of Forest City, Maine, Miss Ella Boone of Portland; and 10 grandchildren. Interment will be in the Hodgdon cemetery in the spring.

Burial - 8 JAN 1952; Hodgdon, Me (vault);

Burial - Presque Isle, Me.;

Burial - Fosterville, NB;

Burial - 31 JAN 1964; Baptist Cemetery, Minto, N.B.;

Burial - Aroostook Jct., N.B.;

Burial - Hartland, NB;

Burial - Whitehorse, Yukon;

Burial - 7 APR 1947; Fosterville, NB;

Place of residence: Died young.

Known as: Basha

Basil went by a variety of nicknames (Jim, Zeeb), including a few that were applied in the heat of an argument, but the most common was "Hillbilly". Not because of his backwoods aura, but to distinguish him from his cousin with the same name living in the same commumity. Still, in some ways, the nickname fitted him like a glove.

From birth till death he never traveled any further than 200 miles from where he first saw the light of day. And then only if he could not find any excuse not to. Distaining any profession that would require regular hours, he much preferred working at seasonal jobs in the woods, guiding, trapping; in short, anything to keep him outside and in touch with nature. Of course the consequences of this life-style was that he had little in the way of material goods. Just enough to get by: an old house (no such thing as a mortgage), a well-used car or half-ton, boat and motor and so on. In retrospect, all perfectly natural for him.

During the early years of marriage, he and mother bounced around from relative to relative, living here for a few months, then moving on. For example, during the winter they were married, 1932-33, they lived with his sister Edith. In April, 1933, they moved to Fosterville to live in a house owned by his brother-in-law, Dalton Carr where they stayed until Fall, then moved in with Anne Howe for the winter. The following spring they share accomodation with Earl Atkinson until October, 1934, then moved back in with Edith. During 1937 and 1938 they lived with Anne Howe (where I was born), spent a year with Wesley (Jim) Farrell, before finally moving into a place of their own on Green Mountain.

It was hardly the Tah Mahal, but it was theirs. Constructed from logs, the building had one room and not exactly closed tight to the weather. It was not uncommon to wake on a winter's morning to find a fine layer of snow on the bedcovers where it has sifted in around the window. Although only three or four at the time, I can vaguely remember this.

But this was only a temporary dwelling. Basil tore down the old Vantassell house at the Point (Balm of Gilead), carted the lumber home and built a fine storey and a half directly in front of the "camp" as we called it. It had a kitchen, livingroom and two bedrooms upstairs with a porch on front. Bare studs adorned the walls, not a lick of insulation, so it took the cook stove and parlor heater both to keep the temperature above freezing in the winter. Eight cord of wood did the trick.<

But hey, it was home. Here my little sister, Joan, was born in November, 1943 and died a month later. I remember the neighborhood ladies preparing her little body for burial and holding a short service right there in the livingroom.

When we moved to Forest City, temporarily for the winter and spring of 1944, then permanently in August of that year, the house was sold to Warden Boone who moved it a couple of miles to his father's land. Warden eventually moved to Maine and sold the house to Charles Atkinson who moved it onto the land where Alex Boone lived. Basil rebought the house and land in 1951, lived there for two years while cutting the pulp from the land, then moved back to Forest City. He sold the house to Richard Atkinson who moved it to Canterbury where it is still standing today looking somewhat forlorn and showing its age. That house moved almost as many times as Basil.

Basil never had much formal education. He attended a one room school in Green Mountain reaching the fourth or fifth reader, probably the equivalent of grade five or six. But he could write well and was a voracious reader. Most of his "education" came from this activity as well as hands-on experience. And when it came to the great outdoors, he knew his stuff. He could fall a tree on a dime, build a fire in pouring rain, cook a meal, put up a temporary shelter, hunt, fish, and find his way home in pitch darkness over hill and dale through the woods.

Like all guides, he had a fondness for telling tall tales to the people he escorted around the lakes or during a hunting trip. I suppose to these sportsmen from such faraway places as New York, Pennsylvania, or Ohio, this grizzled guide fit the image. Basil played it to the hilt. During a fishing expedition on Spednic Lake with a man and wife team, the lady spotted a distant water fowl. She inquired as to what it was. Basil informed her it was a loon. When she wanted to know if they were good eating, Basil had his opening.

"Only if they are cooked properly," he said.

Now her interest began to rise. She readied her pencil and paper and asked Basil for the receipe.

He told her: "First, you find a large, round, smooth stone, place it in a large container, fill with water, add salt and bring it to a boil. Place the loon, feathers and all, on the rock in the boiling water and cook vigorously for five hours. Then add vegetables and cook one more hour.<br><br>

The lady is writing all this down. "And then...?" she asked<

"Then," said Basil, "you throw away the loon and eat the rock."

It took a minute, but she finally got the message: a loon is too tough to eat.

One other occasion he was on the lake with only his dog for company idling away a summer evening when another boat drifted by with another guide and sportsman aboard. Admiring the dog, the sport asked about the breed. He's a bass dog", replied Basil, "worth about $4000".

The sport, never having heard about this kind of dog, expressed a curious interest. He wanted to know what they were known for.

"Just what the name implies," said Basil. "He is something like a birddog, only he hunts for bass fish. When you get to where you think it may be good bass fishing, you tie the anchor around the dog's neck and throw him overboard. The dog would walk around on the bottom sniffing for bass towing the boat along behind him. When the boat stops, that's where the bass are."

The "city-slicker" was amazed. "Won't dog drown?" He was becoming a bit skeptical.

"Of course," said Basil. "You can only use them once. That's why they are so expensive."

With his knowledge of the field and stream, we never lacked for food. A crack shot, he could lever off a magazine of ammo from his old .32 special rifle like it was an automatic. He later acquired a .308 savage that he swore by. Never had much use for a shotgun, but did use a .22 rifle for his trap line.

He loved to hunt otter. Not only for the valuable pelt (which was often the only income he would see just before Christmas), but because the otter is an extremely intelligent animal that presented him with a challenge. They are so fast, you generally only got one chance at getting off a shot.

I recall one early spring day we were checking out some traps near Mud Lake Falls when he spotted an otter feeding on a rock quite a distance from shore and directly in front of the falls. The lake was frozen enough to walk on, but this area was dangerous because of the water current. The otter would dive through a hole near the rock, pop back up a minute later with a clam, get back on the rock for a tidbit. After watching the pattern for a few minutes, Basil took aim with the .22 rifle and as the otter settled on the rock, he fired. Almost before the crack of the rifle reached my ears, that otter had disappeared into the hole. Almost as quick, he came back up and flopped out on the ice to lay still.

Basil took a long stick and began to crawl on his stomach across the ice to where the otter lay. When he was close enough, he hooked the animal with the stick, and slowly crawled back to shore. He had hit the animal in the neck attesting to his sharp eye and steady hand. The scary thing though, the next day, that entire area was open water.

He wasn't always so lucky and not get wet. A short distance from this location, the lake (which is actually a wide stream created by the old dam which in turn created the Falls) narrows to a distance of only 50 feet or so across. There is a noticeable current through this gut that rarely freezes to any safe thickness. One always skirted this area into the rocky, wooded shoreline when walking by. One snapping cold day in mid-winter he was hiking along and either forgot about the danger, or more likely ignored it, when he dropped through the ice to his armpits. Although the water is deep at this point, the ice was solid enough around him that he managed to claw his way back out of the hole. He was a walking cake of ice when he reached home a mile away. He seemed to suffer no ill effects. Just another of those little things to take in stride.

Probably a good thing that mishaps didn't overly faze him. God knows he had enough of them. When his youngest son, Dana, was about seven he tested the soundness of Basil's head with a peevy handle. Not intentionally, of course, but with enough vigor to bring Basil to his knees. The old '46 Ford station wagon needed some repairs which were done on the grassy area next to the house. After completion, Basil was bent over picking up some loose odds and ends left over, moving to and fro in his quest, quite ignoring what was going on around him. Thus he failed to see Dana tossing a ball up in the air so he could hit a home run with his sawed off peevy handle. Up went the ball, a mighty swing back to be in position to hit the ball when it dropped, only on the back swing Basil's head was well within the arc of travel. The resounding "bonk" could be heard across the yard. I looked up to see Basil staggering backwards, knees bend, hands to his head, moaning something intelligible. All I could make out was "Oh. Oh. Oh." Dana, eyes as big as saucers, thought he had killed his father.

Nah. He had a king-sized headache for an hour or two, a lump for a reminder but that was gone in a week. That little incident almost ranked up there with the ice snowball Dana threw at his sister, which naturally missed her and hit Basil on the side of the head. Once more, he sagged to his knees. Another headache and a lump. It's a wonder Dana ever managed to make it to his teens.

Actually, I think Basil moved under a dark cloud much like that little character created by Al Capp in L'il Abner comic strip: Joe Mzxyp (or however he spelled it). One day while the car rested on a jack so he could crawl underneath to fix a muffler, it came down with a crash on top of him. Now this would have killed a lesser mortal, but because it was on the barn floor which had some weak spots in it, the weight of the car simply drove Basil through the floorboards into the space below. Somewhat bruised and shaken, he emerged unrepentant. Little wonder we only raised an eyebrow when a radiater hose came apart on his truck spewing antifreeze on his face. Shoving the hose blindly back to where it should have been, he stuck his finger into the whirling fan splitting it from nail to knuckle. A little adhesive tape closed the wound to heal with nary a scar.

Basil inherited some of his grandfather's carpentry skills but none of the finess for detail. Although he could solve just about any building problem from a loose rocking chair to a hole in the wall with a hammer, spike and haywire, he never really had the necessary tools to work with. But with an axe, a hand plane, a piece of broken glass, he could fashion an axe handle that would rival a commercial product. He could whittle out dancing dolls, repair a canoe or boat, build a fire pit outdoors and more. But do that stuff for a living? Perish the thought. He gave away as much as received.

His taste for alcohol, or lack of it, rarely came about. But on occasion, he could, and did, get a wee drap too much. On once such occasion, I was sitting at the kitchen table when he more or less fell in the back door, laughing so hard he couldn't talk. All he could get out, "I shot the wrong pig". It seems the next door neighbor, Carl Higgs, wanted Basil to slaughter one of his hogs for winter. Like I say, Basil had many talents. Normally, he would give the unlucky pig a blow to the head with a mallet, then bleed it before plunging it into boiling water to scrape away the bristles. This day he decided to shoot the pig with the .22 rifle. But before they got started, Carl thought perhaps a nip of old John Barleycorn might remove some of the chill. One sip led to another...and another. Finally, Bertha, Carl's wife, was getting a bit annoyed at their tippling, called Carl to the house for a bit of a lecture. While he was gone, Basil decided to get on with the job. Bang. Down went the pig and by the time Carl got back all was in readiness for the boiling pot. Except, Basil shot the wrong pig. Apparently Carl had two pigs, one a sow that he planned on breeding over the winter, the other a younger boar. It was the boar slated for slaughter. But now the sow lay stretched out ready for the knife.

All Carl could do was sputter, then they got to laughing so hard they could barely stand. Really fed up by now, Bertha sent Basil home and Carl into the house, then called a neighbor to finish what those two had started. They were not allowed to play together for week after that little episode.

When retirement became official in 1974, it meant for the first time in his life he had a steady income. Working for the Government now, he used to say as he waved his old age pension check. He tinkered away at odds and ends, building a cedar cabin on the old homestead, clearing away bushes, just to put in the time. For hours he would sit on the lawn in front of the house in a loose cloud of Raid to keep away mosquitoes, gossiping with all and sundry who happened to pass that way. Albert Deveau, a talented man with a chainsaw, carved a likeness of Basil from a pine log standing on end near the end of the driveway that drew people from all over. He posed for hundreds of photos (like the one above) beside the carving. It's doubtful if he ever saw a camera he didn't like.

Throughout his life, Basil enjoyed good health considering all the mishaps. His first visit to a doctor had an amusing overtone. Discovering blood in his stool one morning, he had no doubt the cause was cancer of the colon. Sitting around in a blue funk for a few days, he eventually agreed to see a doctor for whatever treatment may be deemed necessary. The doctor, amazed that Basil had never required medical treatment til that point, proceeded to give him a thorough examination, including all the questions that only doctors can ask. Basil, quite agitated by this seemingly unnecessary and totally useless process, kept pressing for a diagnosis of his problem. Finally, the doctor said, "Good heavens man! Have you never heard of haemoroids?" Basil floated out of his office.

The worst had yet to come. Around 1988, he developed respitory problems associated with emphysema. Asthma, he called it. He and Wally Knox, the local customs officer, used to compare daily notes on their "puffers", sort of an informal help group with two members. During the next five years, his condition gradually worsened until he required oxygen on a regular basis. Activity slowed to a crawl. He fought off several bouts of pneumonia, rallying back each time to the amazement of family and doctors alike. Also during this period, he developed cancer on his lower lip requiring surgery and radiation treatment. That seemed to cure that problem, at least for the time being.

But as his lungs deteriorated, the body weakened, and the cancer returned with a vengeance. No more treatments, he said. Nature will take its course. It's hard to say what finally gave out. His heart, so strong for so long, obviously could not continue its monumental struggle to pump oxygen starved blood thoughout the body. The cancer slowly devoured his lower lip, then began its insidual advance on the lower jaw inside his mouth. Painkillers were necessary.

All through his ordeal, he remained at home in familiar surroundings tended to by his wife assisted by his daughter, a RNA. Finally late in the afternoon, without having spoken a word all day, the body gave up. The last surviving member of his immediate family, Basil went to his eternal rest one month before his 89th birthday.

Father could be a cantankerous sort, opinionated, and never apologized for being wrong in his life (as far as he was concerned, he never was wrong, only a bit mixed up at times). Yet he was a good man, an honest man with friends and acquaintances from far and wide. It is interesting to note how he spanned the greatest advancement of knowledge in any generation before or since. Born in 1909 when travel in his community was limited to walking or horse and buggy, only a mere 60 years later man walked on the moon. Quite a thing to absorb all in one lifetime.

Rest well, Basil. The world is a better place for you having existed. Burial - 11 AUG 1998; Forest City, NB;

When we moved to Forest City in August 1944, dad bought a house for $175 from Basil William Boone, his cousin. That meant the community now had two Basil Boone's living side by side. To avoid confusion, Basil William became known as "Bog Basil" since he lived in the lower part of the landscape; dad had the name "Hillbilly" tacked on him in reference to his former residence on Green Mountain. "Bog Basil" heartily disliked that particularly nickname and so, because he was the elder, became known as "grandpappy", or simply "gramp".

Grandpappy farmed a little, had a 8-10 herd of jersey cows, team of horses, chickens, pigs that seemed to provide him with a decent living. A very conscientious individual, everything had to be just right, especially the haying operation. If the slightest bit of moisture remained on the mown grass, it stayed on the ground until completely dry. He deathly feared fire in his barn from damp hay erupting in spontaneous combustion. Consequently, stowing away hay in his steel roofed barn on a blistering hot afternoon in late July usually resulted in a loss of ten pounds in sweat. HIsa brother in law, Clint Gillispie, used to raze him about being so fussy, but Gramp never changed until he died.

The old house is long gone, but the barn is still standing in good condition. The property of 50 acres is now split between three onwers: I have 4 acres, my sister, Nancy, and her husband own about 21 acres; and Blaine Higgs, the remaining 25. Less than six of those acres are kept mowed as a lawn, the remainder grown up in cedar and white pine.

Burial - Forest City, NB;

spouse: Patterson, Lala Mae (1897 - 1977)
- m. 22 DEC 1915
----------child: Boone, Gladys Geneva (1916 - 2000)

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