On the Road with Connie & Glen

A Children's Story

2012-01-22T12:33:00.001-05:00

We all remember the children's story of“The Little Red Hen”. It is a story that teaches the importanceof working together to reach worthwhile goals and the importance ofjustice. People who work diligently and faithfully should expect therewards of their efforts. People who choose to stand on thesidelines should not expect to share in the rewards. Common sensewrapped in a cute little story. It's how we humans seem to learnbest... from parables, fables and stories. But just how well have weactually learned this lesson? For instance, take the currentpolitical debacle in Glynn County, Georgia.

My wife, Connie, and I have enjoyed aremarkable front row seat to the entire spectacle... and it has beenspectacular. Someday the story will be written. Perhaps ascreenplay; a cross between Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and Midnightin the Garden of Good and Evil. The events of the last two years ofpolitical struggle for the Glynn County Superior Court Judicial seathave already been nationally broadcast on, no less than, thecritically acclaimed public radio program, This American Life. Therehas been good. And there has been evil. There has been victory anddefeat. There has been resignation and celebration. But the end ofthe story has yet to be written.

Former Superior Court Judge AmandaWilliams has resigned in disgrace. Her resignation shocked the goodresidents of this Coastal Georgia community and the very foundationof the political establishment. How had this happened?

The charges were serious: misuse ofpower, injustice, dirty dealings in the courthouse. These had goneunspoken for so many years. They were finally spoken publicly andbravely by challenger, Attorney Mary Helen Moses. Her courage wasnot rewarded in the election. The establishment vehemently respondedagainst her with political lies and innuendo. The privileged pouredmoney into Judge Williams reelection campaign. In the end the Mosescampaign was crushed at the polls... or was it?

I asked Mary Helen Moses why she hadexposed herself to such incredible public abuse in an almostimpossible effort to unseat a powerful and established politicalincumbent. Her response left me humbled and proud. “Because it'snot right. I am standing for justice. Somebody has to, and it seemsto be me.” Indeed.

Mary Helen Moses has dedicated her lifeto the Law, as a lawyer, as a law professor. It is who she is. Sheknows right from wrong . She stands for, fights for, right.

In her battle to right this terriblewrong in the Glynn County Courthouse she asked “Who will help me do this work?”

“Not I,” said the fearful,power-fawning legal community.

“Not I”, said the vested politicalestablishment.

“Not I”, said the privilegedelectorate and the timid media.

And so, Mary Helen Moses and a sturdyband of compatriots performed the herculean task themselves.Against all odds. Simply amazing...

The seat is vacant. With a wise andjudicious appointment by the Georgia Governor, the difficult task ofrebuilding lost confidence, reestablishing “justice for all”,reclaiming what is right may now proceed. So, who will fill thisseat?

“I will,” cried the tremblingpolitical establishment fearful of being further exposed.

“I will”, cried the gerrymanderingpublic official seeking the power and privilege.

“I will”, cried the opportunistic,wealthy lawyers.

Governor Deal, the eyes of SE CoastalGeorgia are upon you and our hope lies in your hands. For you, thereare undoubtedly many, many mitigating circumstances to be consideredin filling this important vacancy.

For us, it is as simple as achildren's story.

And the Bell Rang

2012-01-14T15:46:00.000-05:00

I remember the day the two girls walked into Environmental Science class. They didn't fit the mold. Most of the high school juniors and seniors in this elective course were from the elite social cast; Izod shirts, clean-cut, well groomed athletes and student leaders looking to round out their transcripts before applying to college. They oozed privilege and potential. Nothing wrong with that. It is, of course how our system of higher education functions.

Mary and Dede were of another cast, the untouchables, if there is such a social order in our North American culture. And I assure you that there is.

Mary wore black clothing from head to toe. Her long greasy hair was unwashed and pulled forward over her face. She smelled of cigarettes and dirty socks. Her nails were chewed to the quick and painted black. She was goth before there was a word for it.

Dede was huge, 200 pounds of giggling, whispering, flirting, tee-heeing, teen-ager. She wore heavy, blue eye shadow and walked on her tip toes in flowing, remarkable graceful movements. She wore an over-sized faded green combat coat and tight flowered petal pushers. Her hair was brown and her complexion poor.

They slunk into the back of the room and took the corner chairs. The other students seemed oblivious to their arrival. I don't remember ever seeing anyone speak with or look at Mary and Deedee the entire semester. It was as though they were invisible.

They did not, would not participate in class discussion. I would hear them whispering. Mary never made eye contact. Deedee never missed an opportunity to bat her heavily mascaraed lashes at me and giggle. So odd. Disturbing.

One day the bell rang to end the period while I was making an impassioned plea to save the whales or the rain forest or the planet... it was the 70's. Earth Day, Silent Spring, the birth of the EPA and environmental awareness. Everyone lunged from their desks, headed for the door and launched into loud conversations about the big game or the big dance... except Mary and Deedee. They lingered, clutched their books tightly to their chests until the door was clear and then moved swiftly. As she entered the busy hall Deedee called out "He's cute!" and she and Mary giggled down the hallway.

I worked the class hard, made them read and write, give presentations and lots of quizzes and exams. We were going to save the planet together or I threatened a C. Oh God! Can't have that on a college application. Some of them actually turned on to the subject to my delight.

It was sometime in November when I noticed Mary's alarming new behavior. She started wearing her hair covering her entire face, arms wrapped around her body, knees pulled up into a seated fetal position. Deedee had noticed, too. The giggling stopped.

At the end of class I stepped in front of her, blocking her usual escape. "Is something bothering you, Mary? You seem troubled." She cowered, would not speak. "Can I help? Can I get you some help... from the guidance counselor?" I asked. She bolted toward the door and into the hall. Deedee followed and called back, "I'll talk to her, Mr. Foss." OK... that didn't go very well.

I headed down to the guidance office to speak with my friend, Jerry. "Mary has a troubled past. She goes through periods of depression. That's all I can tell you," he said. "Just keep an eye on her. It usually blows over." Not much help.

The phone calls began soon after, calls late in the night... "Hello?"... no answer... "Hello?"... breathing... silence... click. I got a police whistle and on the 5th or 6th call blasted it into the receiver. "OWW! Why did you do that?" I thought I recognized the voice. "Mary? Deedee? Is that you?"... click. The calls stopped... until one, cold, rainy December night.

Connie was in Bangor visiting her family with the car. I was correcting papers when the phone rang.

"Hello?" ...silence.

"Connie, is that you?"

"No" the voice said "It's Mary." She sounded distant.

"Mary?"

"I just called to say good-bye," she continued.

"Good-bye, Mary? Are you going somewhere?" I asked fearing her answer.

"No... I'm going to kill myself," she said and began to sob.

I felt the panic well up in my chest. "OH GOD! No, Mary. NO! Don't do that, kid. It's not... it's not... PLEASE, don't do this. Where are you, Mary? Tell me where you are and I'll come." Silence.

"Please, Mary... Please," I begged.

"In a phone booth... by Firestone Tire..."

"OK Mary, I'll be right there. Stay right there. OK, Mary? OK?"

"... ok".

I ran out into the pouring rain and stood looking dumbly at the empty parking spot. "OH SHIT!" I screamed. Our landlord's truck was in the garage and I began pounding on the door.

"Moo Gee, Clist ay vous!" he yelled as he answered the door. " Wha da fuck, making all dat noise?" Louie blurted, alarmed and speaking with his French Canadian accent.

"Louie, I need your truck right now! And call the police. Have them go to the phone booth by Firestone Tire! Got that, Louie? Got that? She's going to kill herself... my student..."

"Yah, Yah! I got dat. Bad trouble, Glen... Bad trouble." he said as he passed me the keys.

I was drenched and shivering as I raced down Western Avenue. The wipers were on high and not keeping up with the downpour. The rain even seemed to extinguish the light from the streetlamps.

There was no traffic and I bolted through the red light and into the Firestone parking lot looking for the phone booth... There! The door was closed, the interior light was on. It looked empty... Something black... down low.

I jammed the truck in park and lurched to the phone booth. Mary was huddled down inside, curled up. There was a pool of red blood on the floor and smeared down the glass door. Oh God!

"Mary! It's me... open the door." She rose slowly, her face visible behind the dripping wet hair. her face was calm... serene. She clutched her sides, her hands withdrawn into her bulky black coat.

I squeezed partially into the phone booth and she raised her hands as if to keep me away. The sleeves of her coat fell back. Both wrists had been slashed. Gaping open wounds, bloody, but no arterial spurting. I grasped her forearms and held on.

We heard the sound of the siren and watched the blue lights flash off the wet highway as it approached. Her eyes flashed wildly. She struggled to loosen my grip.

"It's OK, Mary. It's going to be OK," I said though not believing my own words.

She whimpered "Will you stay with me?" I nodded.

The cop quickly assessed the situation. "Get in the cruiser... Cumon, Let's go!" he ordered.

Mary and I got into the back of the squad car. We sat silently speeding through the rain to the hospital emergency room as her blood oozed slowly through my gripping fingers.

Things happened quickly, Mary as strapped onto a gurney and taken away. Information was taken. And I found myself standing alone in the middle of a deserted waiting room. What do I do now? I had no clue. The cop approached me. "Come with me. I'll take you back to your truck." he said.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Back to the truck. Back to the apartment. It was warm and dry. I poured a stiff drink of whiskey and sat... numb. When Connie pulled in, I ran to the car and blurted out the story. She hugged me, took me inside, poured me another drink. Sleep...

My mind snapped to consciousness at first light and I had formulated a plan of action before I opened my eyes. Connie dropped me off at school and I walked into the guidance office to download to Jerry. He knew I was shaken, brought me coffee and the department head and the principal. I repeated the story until the bell rang and then headed for class.

Somehow I got through the morning classes. I don't remember. Fourth Period was my break and I retreated to the teachers room drinking cup after cup of thick, burned coffee. Jerry found me, took me back to his office and closed the door.

"OK buddy, first I'm sorry for what happened." he said." You handled it well. I think you need to know what you are dealing with, so I am going to fill you in. This is confidential information, but you need to know."

I sat numbly as he told the story. Mary and her brother had suffered from horrendous child abuse. They had been sexually molested, beaten, raped, locked in closets and the trunks of cars until the authorities had removed them from their family. Both were now wards of the state and living in foster homes. They had been in psychological counseling for years. It explained a lot of the bizarre behavior and it explained nothing.

"Why wasn't I prepared? Do the other teacher know what they are dealing with? Don't you think we should have been told?" I flashed. "I mean... my God!"

"Listen Glen, there are many, too many, kids here with similar stories. We deal with them every day. It's a shit storm. We can barely keep up. You're job is to teach science. Our job is to back you up. I'm sorry. We didn't see this coming." explained Jerry.

"Well I DID!" I stormed. "What do I do next time?"

"Come to me right away." he concluded. "I'm sorry."

The bell rang and I got to my feet feeling sick. That toxic coffee was eating a hole in my stomach. He put his arm around my shoulder. "Welcome to public education," he quipped. I just shook my head.

I walked into Environmental Science and turned to face the class. There was Mary sitting in the back corner, her wrists bound in bandages, head down. Deedee looked like a caged animal, eyes flashing from me to Mary and back to me.

I taught the class. It was on air pollution and electrostatic precipitators. The preppy kids took notes. I handed out assignments. And the bell rang.

I walked to the back of the room and leaned forwards speaking softly. "Mary, I didn't expect you to be here today."

She spoke,"I'm ok..."

"Are you talking with anyone? Is anyone helping you?" I asked.

"No..." she mumbled.

What the hell! She slashes her wrists, they bandage her up and send her back to school like nothing has happened? Can the system really be this broken? This was so wrong.

"Listen Mary, I have a friend who is a counselor at the mental health clinic. If I called, would you be willing see him ?" I was grasping at straws.

"Would you go with me?" she asked watching me intently from behind her hair.

"Sure. Sure I would. Give me your number and I will call you this afternoon." I said.

Mary and Deedee walked out of the door and into the teeming tumult of teenagers.

I hurried back to Jerry's office. "Somebody's got to take my study hall. I need to use your phone." I explained what had just happened.

" OK, OK, I'll cover you. You follow up with your psychologist friend. You're right. She needs to be seen today." Jerry hurried off.

My Doctor friend, Robert, agreed to see her at 3:00 that afternoon. I found Mary in her sixth period class and we agreed that I would pick her up at the address she gave me on Oak Street. Things were moving quickly.

Connie and I juggled the car after work and I pulled into Mary's driveway at 2:30. She was sitting on the steps. Her foster mother waved from the front porch as we drove away. Weirder and weirder...

The Doctor walked into the waiting room at 3:30 and asked us into his office. I sat uncomfortably as he began assessing the situation. It soon became clear that my friend and the mental health community knew much about Mary's unfortunate history of abuse.

Mary was unresponsive. He probed and questioned. She remained silent or responded with one word answers. After 20 minutes, the Doctor leaned forward and said, "If you don't talk with me Mary, I will be forced to involuntarily commit you to the State Mental Hospital for observation. You are clearly at risk of causing yourself further harm."

Mary exploded. She sprang to her feet and backed into the corner, teeth barred, fists clenched, spitting, screaming. "You Fucker! I'll kill you if you touch me. Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" The screaming didn't stop. Robert and I backed out of the office and into the hall. "She is totally psychotic and needs to be constrained for her own safety. I'll call her foster mother and the restraint team." he said.

Two very big guys showed up right away holding a jacket with belts and straps. They stood blocking the door as Mary continued to tear up the room, screaming long shrill animal howls. Robert came back breathless. "There is no answer at her foster home. Glen, will you authorize the order committing her? We need to act now."

What had I gotten myself into? I paced back and forth, trying to think it through. There was no walking away from this one. I had seen the gaping wounds in her wrists. She would do it again. I signed the order.

The restraint team moved in and wrestled her to the floor. Her screams were ungodly, like nothing I had ever heard. Sounds of agony. She flayed and bucked as they strapped her into the restraint jacket and onto a gurney. She was wheeled to a waiting ambulance and sped away.

I sat down with my head in my hands. Robert tried to reassure me. "You did the only thing you could do, Glen. I want you to go home and have a drink." And I did.

By 9:00 I had calmed down and was rehashing the nightmare when the phone rang. "Hello?"

"Hi, this is Mary's foster mother," the voice said. "I was wondering when you expected to bring Mary home..."

My mind began to burn at the base of my skull. Oh my God!

Deep breath. "Obviously, no one has contacted you. I'm so sorry. Mary has been committed to the State Mental Hospital. Someone will be calling you right back. I'm so sorry..." click.

I'm going to be sued. I'm going to lose my job. I'll probably never teach again. The thoughst were racing through my head as I called Robert. He assured me that he would call immediately, that there must have been an administrative screw-up... Ya THINK!

The next morning the guidance department chair and the principal sat dumbly and listened to the story. There were no words of counsel or support. Just worried expressions. They backed away and left me swinging in the breeze. I was on my own. Welcome to public education, indeed.

Four weeks later, Mary showed up in class. She acted as if nothing had happened. As she left class I said, "Glad you are back. Hope you are feeling better..." She nodded and left.

I never spoke with her foster mother again. I received no follow-up from guidance. I don't think it was still an issue when I was let go the next year; budget cuts, junior man... so sorry... the principal even shed a tear... I think.

There wasn't much time for reflection. Connie was pregnant with twins, we had just lost our apartment and I had to find work. I ended up working in a paper mill which led to a profitable and interesting career. I didn't think about Mary except to occasionally wonder if she had survived her nightmare life. I didn't see how she could have...

The year was 2000 when the letter came in the mail. Mary wrote that she was well, married and had children. She said she was happy. And she wanted to thank me for saving her life. Amazing...

I never wrote her back, didn't want to rekindle the relationship. Still, it was a gift to hear she was on her feet and still on the planet.

Life is such a mystery. Who knows why things happen as they do or what can happen as the offshoot of an individual action. All I know is that Mary got a life. And I got this story...

Life Lessons in Public Education

2012-01-12T18:01:00.001-05:00

1976. I was 25, newly married and working as a high school science teacher. Connie was also teaching. We were a cute little couple on a great adventure in public education. There was so much to learn.

Seven periods each day, five teaching blocks, one study hall and one period to shove a pb&j down my throat in the smoky teachers room, listening to the poisonous, cynical ranting of older teachers marking time toward retirement pensions. That's not fair. There were some wonderful educators who gave so much of themselves.

But my spirit was, as yet, unsullied, my intentions pure, my vision clear. I liked kids. Kids liked me. And I liked science. It was that simple... or so I thought. Plus, we liked to eat and between the two of us we were bringing in over $11,000 a year! Wow! Let the good times roll! Of course rent, car payments, food, bills and college loan payments ate it all up. But we were young, dumb and full of hope.

As the junior man in the Science Department, I pulled tough duty... one class of all freshman boys, behavior problems, lowest track... boneheads. Then there were two mid-level classes of general science, 30 freshman kids per class, a class of 30 sophomore Health students and one class of 25 juniors and seniors, Environmental Science.

The text books were 1960's era... "some day man will walk on the moon..." read one, They were tattered, torn, defaced with a decade of graffiti. In sharp contrast, the environmental science texts were current. And the students were gifted. I thought it was to be the bright spot of my teaching days.

First day of school. I paced back and forth nervously before the curious students as I attempted to communicate how much fun we were going to have exploring science in the new school year... not really believing my own words.

The freshman boys smelled my fear and, like a pack of wild dogs, attacked, circling their prey, waiting for a sign of weakness and a chance to lunge, rip out the throat. At no time in the College of Education had I been prepared for this kind of treatment. Neither had the school prepped me. My job was to maintain order. You're on your own, kid, Fish or cut bait. Survival instinct took over.

The ring leader's name was John. He was my size, obviously older than the other boys and, at 200 pounds, was the largest of his classmates. And he was rolling his eyes and mooing loudly, like a cow in heat, while the other 15 boys were laughing hysterically, slapping their desks and occasionally each other... Bedlam.

I approached his desk. "Cut it out, John." I warned. He began to cluck like a chicken to the wild screaming laughter of his peers. I pointed at him. "Come with me." He smiled cynically to my face and slowly rose from his seat, spilling books and papers onto the floor. First rule of warfare and public education; divide and conquer.

He followed me to the door and outside, leaning back against the lockers in the hall, all eyes following our departure. As I turned from the class I smiled a maniacal grin, walked into the hall and slammed the door with window rattling force. The stupid smile remained on John's face, but his eyes showed alarm. He was not unfamiliar with violence.

Out of sight from the classroom, I attacked the locker bay, pounding with my fists and feet. Teachers heads began to appear from their classroom doorways. After ten seconds, I turned to John and said, "OK, you're gone. Come back tomorrow if you want. But no more crap... Got it? If there is, I'm calling your father." His eyes flashed fear. The old man would pound more than lockers. He knew it. I knew it. He swaggered down the hall and out the door.

OK, now to reclaim my class. I swung the door open and entered the room. There was no talking, no animal noises. I had their undivided attention. Slamming the door behind me, I strode across the room and attacked the metal waste basket. The first kick sent it spinning through the air into the wall. As if a man possessed, I began stomping the metal flat, crushing it beyond recognition. Finally, winded and sweating, I turned to face the class.

"OK boys, let's begin again. Why is science important to us?" I love the Socratic style.

Their eyes registered alarm... and respect. This guy was crazy. And what had he done to John? Their imaginations were on overdrive.

The 90 pound boy in the back row raised his hand tentatively. I pointed at him and his voice squeeked and broke as he said "So we can learn about engines and work on cars and stuff...?"

I beamed. "EXACTLY!" I bellowed, "Do you like to work on engines?" He shook his head vigorously, like a cupee doll on the dashboard of a 57 Chevy."Because this semester we are going to strip down an engine in class!" I announced.

An electric shock ran through the room. "Really!"... "Cool!"... "I've got tools. Should I bring them in?"... Comments and questions from around the room. I had them.

We spent the rest of the class talking about where we would find an old lawn mower engine, drawing pictures of internal combustion engines on the blackboard, talking about carburetors, pistons, rings. They were bonehead boys. I knew them. I was them.

The bell sounded to end the period and they seemed to awaken as if from a dream. They glanced around the room at each other, embarrassed at their enthusiasm, and rose from their seats, filed out into the crowded halls.

They were my favorites... and they knew it. We planted terrariums, built flat plate solar collectors, learned how to gut deer and survive lost in the Maine woods. We dissected ducks and snakes and any other dead thing they brought in to class, we took field trips, collected rocks, studied the stars and UFOs. It was a science extravaganza.

John came back to class the next day and sat sullenly for the rest of the week. But when I asked him to remove the first bolts from the engine block, he came around. And whenever things started to get out of control, I had only to lightly tap my toe against the new trash can.

Some things just can't be taught in college education classes...

Pure Technicolor

2012-01-11T19:49:00.000-05:00

I walked into my mother's kitchen onNew Years Day in 1975, the day following my first date with ConnieJane Murphy. Mom and my two younger sisters turned to watch me enterfrom where they were sitting around the little table . "Welcomehome, honey. Did you enjoy your date?" mom asked. "I'm inlove." I answered. And they burst in laughter. I grinned andpretended that I was just making a joke. But I was not. Smitten fromthe first, she had me at hello.

We were married a year and a half laterand life has never been the same. Mom once said,"My son is apretty serious, black and white kinda guy. Thank God Connie came intohis life. She is pure technicolor." Truer words have not beenspoken. An explosion of color, of personality, she is my opposite inso many ways and our marriage has been "dynamic" from thebeginning. If I said zig, she said zag. If I urged caution, she wasall in. She made friends quickly and easily while I tended to hangback. For instance, she once claimed to have made friends with thesinger and television celebrity, Kathy Lee Gifford.

When our children were young, for atime, Connie was a stay at home mom. On this issue, we both agreedand she was a wonderful mom. But in order to temper the day to dayroutine of it all, she began to watch The Regis and Kathy Lee Show.And when I would get home from working at the paper mill, she wouldgo on and on about what her friend Kathy Lee had said or done thatday. She wrote her letters, joined the contests, even sent her a babygift when her son Cody was born. I thought it was sad and encouragedher to get out of the house and spend time with real people. I beganto kid her about "her good friend, Kathy Lee". And thesparks would fly!

Then one year on her birthday, while wewere living in Southern Connecticut on temporary assignment, I gaveConnie the gift of a night out in New York City with a girlfriend.They went the the Rainbow and Stars Room to see Kathy Lee performlive. She was so excited and returned with stories about having aconversation with Kathy Lee between sets. They had exchanged cardsand Connie even had a photo taken with Kathy Lee. After that, Connienever missed a TV show. We had boxes and boxes of video tape fromthose days when she couldn't watch in person.

Later that year, we were transferredback to Maine, but the "friendship" continued over the nextfive years. Every year Connie would send a Christmas card, a card onthe occasion of the birth of Kathy Lee's daughter, a specialcongratulations card for some honor, a condolence card for somesorrow. And then one year she received a Christmas card in return."See... she is my friend!" she beamed. I chidedher,"Connie, her assistants send out thousands of these cards.It's just good PR. She probably didn't even sign her own name."She pouted, "You kill-joy!" Still, the card and the prizedpicture sat prominently on the fireplace mantle for years. I would apologetically show them to visitors and make snide little commentsabout Connie and her "friend" Kathy Lee.

In 1995 I was on assignment as a loanedexecutive to then Governor Angus King chairing a commission of thefuture of Maine's paper industry. One initiative was to invite theGovernor to attend Paper Week at the Waldorf Astoria in New York Cityin order to meet and greet the CEO's of the countries major papercompanies. It fell upon me to coordinate the activities and, as theGovernors wife also wished to attend, I asked Connie if she wouldcome and help me make things flow smoothly. She was so great meetingand greeting and was always so helpful with the various socialrequirements of my job. We were a good team.

Paper Week arrived and we were fullyengaged in the comings and goings of the captains of business andgovernment. Everything was proceeding according to plan and ultimatesuccess loomed on the horizon. But something was bothering Connie andthat night she tossed and turned in bed. Finally at 4:00AM I turnedon the light. "What is wrong?" I asked bleary eyed. She satup and said "I want to go to the Regis and Kathy Lee Showtomorrow morning". But you don't have tickets I objected. Shewas insistent. "If I don't go tomorrow I won't have anotherchance. And maybe I'll never be back in New York to go to anothershow. I wrote Kathy Lee a letter and told her I would be in the Citythis week and asked her if she would send me tickets. She nevercalled me or wrote me back. But this is my only chance and I want totry. Will you help me?"

I felt so bad that she had not receivedcontact from her "friend" . It was what I had feared, thatmy wonderful wife would be disappointed by self important people. "Ofcourse I will help you honey. Let's get up now and go over to thestudio. Sometimes people who get there early and stand in line getlucky and get a seat." We quickly dressed and grabbed a cabacross town. The sun was just coming up as we bought Starbucks Coffeeand she joined the already forming line for the morning show.

" I have to go back to the Waldorfnow, honey. The Governor has appointments this morning that I need tomake happen. Have you got your cab fare to get back?" She smiledand assured me she would be alright whether she got into the show ornot and kissed me goodbye. As I rode back to the hotel, I felt hotfeelings of anger that Connie would be disappointed. It just wasn'tright.

I dashed back to our room, ripped offmy clothes and jumped in the showed. There was just enough time toget ready for another busy day. I had lathered up a full head ofshampoo when the house phone rang. I slipped and slid my way to thebathroom phone, soap in my eyes, dripping wet. Maybe it was thePresident of my mill... or the Governor's assistant. "Hello"?I gurgled.

The voice was female. "Hello, isConnie there?" she asked. I was confused. "No she's not.Who is this please?", I asked.

"Yes. Is this Glen? This is KathyLee Gifford and I'd like to get in touch with Connie." the voicesaid. I was speechless. "Hello? Are you still there? Can youtell me where Connie is?" she prodded.

"Yes... yes, Kathy Lee. Connie isstanding in line outside your studio hoping to get into today's show."I blurted.

"Oh Good! That's perfect. Thankyou." and she hung up.

As I stood there, naked and wet withsoap in my eyes, I realized how wrong I had been all these years.Kathy Lee and Connie were friends. And I was a fool to have doubtedmy amazing wife's ability to have made her a friend.

The rest of the story is that Kathy Leesent her assistant to pluck Connie from the line and escort her tothe VIP lounge and then to the first seat in the front row in thestudio. Between sets, Kathy Lee gave Connie a big hug and introducedher to Regis and after the show took her back to her dressing room tovisit. Before she left, she gave Connie her private number so that inthe future she could call directly for tickets and she signed anautograph. It said " To my good friend Connie, Much Love, KathyLee."

At home I secretly compared thesignature of the autograph with the signature on the Christmas card.They were identical.

After almost 36 years, I am still sovery much in love with my beautiful wife. I continue to learn totrust and rely on her technicolor skills. She is more passionate andexuberant about life with each passing year. And we are still a greatteam. The Ying and the Yang. I structure her. She softens me.

Smitten from the first...

Saint Simons Santa

2011-12-14T15:24:00.000-05:00

I followed him into the Saint Simons Island post office. From my vantage-point, he was short and round and dressed in red velvet with black leather boots and a white tunic. I knew that the lines to the counter would be long and, for a moment, I considered quickening my pace to beat him to the queue. But something in the back of my mind whispered, "he'll know if you're naughty or nice..."

The line was 15 persons deep, nothing to do but wait my turn, so I moved to the side in order to get a closer glimpse at this character in front of me. Long, straight white hair and a full white beard. His mustache was playfully waxed with upturned ends giving the appearance of a perpetual smile. He wore thin spectacles low on his nose and his outfit was complete with a broad black belt with a silver buckle. He was a perfect likeness to Santa Clause... or was he actually Saint Nicholas?

"Excuse me..." I mumbled over the back of his right shoulder. He turned to face me and his eyes sparkled and his mouth turned into a grin. His face was round and his cheeks were rosy. For a moment I was speechless, tongue-tied, just like I was when I was 6 years old sitting on his lap at Santa's Village in Conway, New Hampshire.

"I just wanted to say thank you for that bicycle you gave me in 1958 in upstate Vermont..." I fumbled.

He closed one eye and peered at me closely. "Oh yes... the red Schwinn. Did you like it?" It was a red Schwinn! "Oh, yes! It was my favorite bike." I blurted. "The only issue was that, with all the snow, I wasn't able to ride it outside until May. All winter long, I rode it around and around in the basement and when I got outside, I couldn't ride in a straight line!" He leaned his head back and laughed a hearty "Ho-Ho-Ho" and I felt like I was 6 years old again.

His turn came at the counter and he turned away to do his business with the US Postal Service. "Ask them for a discount," I called after him. "You've earned it." Again his laughter filled the room. As he was leaving, he walked over to me, took me by the elbow, put his finger to the side of his nose and, with a grin, whispered "Merry Christmas!"

Merry Christmas to you, too, Santa... I do believe...

It's a Circular Flow

2011-12-09T18:14:00.002-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-TWgZ7dym0&feature=player_profilepage

speaking of days that stick in your memory...

2011-12-07T19:40:00.005-05:00

December 8, 1999, the day that we learned that Eric died in New Zealand. 12 years... and the memory is still just as vivid and as profound. For 364 days each year we choose not to focus upon it, but on this day, regardless of where we are or what we are doing, it floods back.

We have taken on the priviledge of speaking with other parents who have suffered the loss of a child. Our work with Hospice has prepared us for this difficult role. Just this month, we have been emailed by two people, friends who have friends who are in the fire, one in Kansas, one in Georgia. Since the Oprah Show, there have been hundreds with questions like; What can we do? What do we say? We feel so helpless watching them suffer so profoundly.

So here is our very simple counsel; be present, pay attention, don't be afraid to speak the name of the loved one who died, be patient, take walks, hug, hold hands, nod your head when the parent rages or despairs, smile, come back the next day or the next week and do it again.

You can not fix it. Things will never be "normal" for these people again. But there will be healing. The huge holes in their hearts will never go away, but the grace is that our hearts grow to surround our loss.

Miss you, son. Love never dies.

February 20, 1962

2011-12-06T15:36:00.006-05:00

Some days just stick in your head. Those profound moments usually have to do with the occasion of some significant event and the resulting emotions that is triggered. It may be an historic event like the end of WWII or the assassination of a president. We remember September 11, where we were, how we felt, the horror of terrorism on our homeland. Or it may be a purely personal event such as a marriage, the birth of a child or the loss of a loved one. Memory is a funny thing.

One of my earliest, date specific memories was February 20, 1962 during the dead of winter in the mountaintop town of Sutton, Vermont, population 476. Our family was living in the valley in the station manager's house at the Portland Pipeline pump station. In those days, before computers and remote operation capabilities, each of the eight pump stations on the 236 mile long oil pipeline from the deep water tanker terminal in Portland, Maine to the refineries in Montreal, Canada, were staffed. Our dad was the station boss and part of the job was to live at the station.

Mom hated the isolation, ten miles to the nearest groceries in Barton, a mile to our closest neighbor, but for me, it was an exciting and early introduction to living in the North Woods. My sisters played with each other. I had 20 square miles of densely forested mountains and valleys, river, streams and swamps, as my companion. Cabins and tree houses, rafts and snow tunnels. Frogs, snakes, deer, rabbit, critters of all sorts. Spears, tomahawks, slingshots, bows and arrows Every day was an amazing outdoor adventure. I loved it.

The K through 8, four room school house was located in the small farming community on top of a mountain, elevation 1,400 ft. There were 8 to 10 kids per grade and two grades per room. I remember feeling fortunate that we had an equal number of boys and girls in my class for inside square dancing during the long, brutally cold winter months. God forbid I'd have to dance with another boy. Every school day, Kermit Weed's mother would stop her rusted, green, 4 wheel drive Suburban in front of our house on Route 5 and pick my sister and me up for the 10 mile drive up the steep dirt road to school. On the way, we would stop for Colin Sheehan and his sister and my best friend, Peter Friend and his brothers.

The community was dirt poor. At the pinnacle of the economic ladder were the handful of large dairy farmers, followed by the small subsistence farmers and then the hired help. The Wood family belonged to the latter and held the distinction of being one of the few black families in Caledonia County. I don't remember having ever previously met a black person. John Wood was in my class and we became fast friends. His brother was in my sister's class and I remember her crying because she discovered he didn't have underwear. She took a paper bag of my skivvies to school one day and left it under his desk. Gailie has always had the biggest heart. Such a good girl.

At the cross roads in town was a small building that housed the post office, the general store, the barber shop and the grain and feed depot, all in one room. It was definitely off limits to the school kids. We were strictly forbidden from it. I don't remember why John and I decided to sneak down the hill to the store that cold February 20th. We escaped, seemingly unobserved, from the back of the hay field that we called a playground, trudged through snow to our waists, and dashed across the street in front of the grange hall. We peeked inside the store and scurried back up the hill in order to catch our rides home. We knew we had broken a major rule and we felt wildly exhilarated, a couple dangerous outlaws living on the edge.

I walked back into the deserted classroom to gather my Rocky and Bullwinkle lunch box and to my horror, there on the front blackboards, in huge letters. were the names JOHN and GLENN. We had been found out! The breath caught in my throat and my brain burned in fear. I grabbed my things and ran to the Suburban avoiding our teacher, Mr. Fox. I was entirely frozen by fear. My mother and father would certainly be called to school for this major offense. I would have a record! Maybe, at 10 years of age, I would be sent to reform school where the bad boys went.

I don't think I slept a wink that night dreading the punishment and humiliation that was to come. I rode to school in silence barely able to breath and stumbled stiff legged to my desk, crumbled into the chair and cast my eyes to the floor. John and I cast furtive glances across the room. The jig was up. We were toast.

Finally Mr. Fox began the class. "Who can tell me what happened yesterday?" he said melodramatically. My ears were ringing with dread. Was I going to be forced to confess my crime before the entire class. Would I be able to speak? Would I be able to stand? Would I wet my pants? "It has to do with what is on the front blackboard." he hinted. My classmates were staring at my flushed face. John had his head on the desk, hands covering his eyes. Then Mr. Fox laughed, "No, it's not about your classmates, John and Glen. It's about John Glenn, America's first astronaut, who orbited the earth three times yesterday in a spaceship!"

I don't remember much else except for the warm wash of relief that flowed through my body. I was giddy. We had slipped the bullet. Our lives had been spared and I vowed to be a good boy from now on. We had learned first hand that crime doesn't pay. I never forgot.

Memory is a funny thing.

Outside the Window

2011-11-22T18:28:00.003-05:00

The Banana Spider,

http://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/galveston/beneficials/beneficial-49_banana_spider.htm

Impressive, but harmless. She's huge!

The Perfect Sendoff

2011-11-15T10:46:00.005-05:00

When we left the Island earlier this year our friend Jo was on the final leg of her journey. She knew it, welcomed it. And we knew that we would not see her beautiful face, hear her delightful southern speech, feel her warm love when we returned. Her parting words were," I do not know what is beyond... but wherever you are, my spirit will be around you." Connie wept until we hit the mainland, primarily out of gratitude that life had placed this person in our path. Jo breathed her last breath on June 12th, in the early dawn, the morning after our daughter 's wedding....in the arms of her daughter, Tara.

Jo was very much about structure... that is, she would instruct those around her as to her specific preferences and desires... this is about as gently as I can state that, like many mothers, she wished to control the events and the people in her life. I found myself involved in events in which I would never have previously participated, things like poetry readings...and tea parties... because Jo requested it. Whenever she called upon me for assistance, whether it was to repair an appliance or fix her computer or attend a gathering on her front deck on the dunes of East Beach, I gladly complied. Perhaps it was because I so missed my own mother's mothering. Perhaps it was because she would tell me how "brilliant" I was when I changed a battery in a clock or reset a tripped breaker on her garbage disposal. "You are a genius!" she would gush with her southern charm... and I would believe her.

David was also caught in the web of her charm. His love and kindness toward Jo and his incredible support allowed Jo to orchestrate her own end days, remaining in her beach house, saying her final good-byes, attending to her final wishes... describing him as a "good friend" is the ultimate understatement. She gave him her last instructions... no memorial service... scatter her ashes across the beach and in the ocean in front of the cottage where she loved to walk, where her husband Bill's ashes had been scattered. Knowing David as well as she did, she must have realized that her limited, though pointed, instructions left him maximum flexibility in execution. And the wheels began to turn...

I was driving a 45 foot box truck hauling 10 tons of lobster bait down the Orr's Island peninsula when David called toward the end of a long summer in Maine. He had hatched a plan and was seeking a fellow conspirator. The date was to be 11/11/11, the day of his 60th birthday. The place was to be among the dunes at Jo's beach house. The time was to be shortly after sunset. My part was to stop in South Carolina on our way South and purchase a sleeve of fireworks, specifically mortars. These were to be the delivery system by which David intended to fulfill Jo's final request. Would Jo have approved? Well... she hadn't specifically detailed the method of "spreading her ashes"... and she so enjoyed an outrageous, joyous approach to life... Yeah, I'm in David.

We were approaching the South Carolina-Georgia border when I pulled off the highway and into the truck stop. The fireworks shop looked like a bunker; spartan, square, windowless. Inside the single front door, the room was packed with all manner of exotic explosives. It was deserted of people with the exception of the man behind the counter. He sported a polished, petrified wood bolo tie around his neck, and gaudy gold rings on his fingers. "Can I help yew?" he drawled. Yup, we were back.

I explained what we were about and, without missing a beat ,he directed me to the shelf with the largest commercially available mortars in the state. It included a fiberglass mortar tube and six fused, elongated charges around the size of my fist. The clerk offered,"Sorry about yer friend. These should work jes fine... You wouldn't be military would you? We offer a discount." No. unfortunately... "Are you a truck driver?" I grinned and produced my CDL, "Why, yes I am." I spoke proudly and pocketed the cash discount.

This was not the first time David had messed with high explosives. Still, I chose to not be present for the deconstruction and reconstruction of the mortar shells, adding the ashes in the space around the explosive charges. As Kenny Rogers sings "Gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em..."

We gathered in Jo's cottage, sat on the floor, and told Jo stories. Her spirit was palpable in this place. Outside, a butterfly landed on Connie's outstretched fingers. She was "around us" indeed. The full moon was casting a shimmering highway of light across the ocean as David dug the four plastic PVC mortars into the sand. All four were connected with a common fuse, which David carefully lit and hastily retreated to a safe place to watch Jo's earthly remain soar into the starry sky. Four streaks of flame blasted into the heavens over the beach and exploded in reds and greens and blues in echoing roars of thunder.

We stood stunned by both the pyrotechnics display and the ensuing quiet and by the descending cloud drifting out to sea. As it passed through the moon-glow, a million silver rays of light erupted, but for an instant, and then it was gone, leaving us wondering if we had really seen what we had seen. It was the perfect sendoff...

The Island is not the same without her presence. Some of it's charm is gone. But there is no sadness in the place where she was. Only gratitude...

Happy Birthday Dad

2011-10-30T17:57:00.001-04:00

Happy Birthday Mom

2011-10-22T23:05:00.001-04:00

What a "good egg". Love you a "bushel and a peck". Happy birthday.

Happy Birthday Mom

2011-10-16T11:57:00.002-04:00

Always in out thoughts and prayers. Missing you on your birthday.

Jessie

2011-10-13T16:36:00.008-04:00

Jessie's father had a heart attack at age 39. Jessie had one today at age 38.

I hope none of my workmates on the dock are checking up on this blog. Last time I wrote about them it wasn't received well. But I feel compelled to write about some of the events of this summer as my time on the docks comes to a close.

Let me say at the onset that I do not stand in judgement of any of these men. I stand in humble recognition of their struggles and their many talents. The poverty, addictions and difficult conditions of their lives is entirely overshadowed by their pride and the incredible amount and quality of the difficult work that they perform. They value themselves and each other by the sweat of their labor.They are an example to me and I strive to be worthy to be among them.

Jessie got off a bus from Pittsburgh at midnight and walked down the dock looking for his future. 254 pounds of muscle, tattooed with Irish flags and symbols, he is a striking, dangerous looking bruiser. His head is shaved and his eyes are dark and expressive.

One of the guys was drinking a beer on the wharf waiting for the bait shop to open at 3:00AM so he could go to work. He usually takes the last bus in from Westbrook and sleeps in one of the truck until the doors open in order to be on time. So, Jessie asked him where he could find work. He told him to talk with the foreman. When the foreman came in at 3:00AM, he took one look at Jessie' massive arms and hired him on the spot... conditionally. Day to day, but that's how all these guys operate. He was looking for a bull. Jessie looked like he might fit the bill.

It wasn't long before he pulled the assignment to ride with me on a run where extra muscle was needed. That's part of my job driving the big 52,000 pound trucks that I enjoy, getting to know these guys. It seems to be the same with each of them. They never ask me about myself, but, with a few questions, they open up and tell me their stories.

Jessie grew up in the tough part of Pittsburgh. He tried to join the military, but got rejected for his criminal record. So he trained to fight in the cage, full contact mixed martial art. He is proud of his 16-2 record, but complains that the many knees and elbows to his head have slowed him down mentally. He compensates by obsessing about the decisions he faces and the day to day conflicts to the point of unhealthy worry. He doesn't do drugs anymore, just drinks beer. Lots of it.

In Pittsburgh, he worked as a bouncer between fights and training and one night, outside a strip club, two guys jumped him. He doesn't have a just short fuse. He has a detonation button. He beat them so badly that the judge put him in prison for 5 1/2 years. When he got out thing went poorly in Pittsburgh; warrants, back child support, too much drama. So he took a handful of quarters, threw them down and picked one up at random. It was the Maine quarter and he bought a bus ticket to Portland.

After a week on the job, they offered him a berth on the Irish Piper. The engine had seized and it was tied up along side the wharf awaiting a rebuild. Jessie was out to prove himself and made himself a nuisance for awhile asking the foreman for his next assignment. Finally the Boss growled at him. "You can see what needs to be done. Just do it! I'll tell you when to do something different."

Jessie is heavily muscled in the chest and arms, so much so that rolling barrels is awkward for him... and the crew pounced like sharks on a bleeding tuna. The waterfront has a pecking order like any gang of men and Jessie sensed he was quickly declining in that social order. He responded by becoming sullen and lazy which just confirmed the harsh judgements of the crew. "Useless..." mumbled one of the guys, the worst judgement you could ever receive.

I was working loading a truck at the Brunswick cooler when I overheard the phone conversation.

"I'm sending Glen down with 12 pallets of redfish racks. You ok with that?"

"Yeah, things have quieted down now that the ambulances and fire trucks have left..."

"What happened?"

"Jessie had a heart attack and the trucks blocked the wharf for an hour.. wish he'd had it down on Commercial Street."

I found him sitting at the bar at the Starlight, one of the so-called three gates of hell, the trio of seedy waterfront bars on Commercial Street.

"The sack around my heart filled up with fluid and blood and it hurt like hell. Don't remember what he called it, but the Doc at the Emergency Room gave me a script for some medicine."

"Angina? Congestive heart failure?" I suggested.

"Yeah, that was it." he said as he lit up a cigarette. "I'll be ok. Got to be. I've got things to accomplish with my life. Still can't find a place to live though and they want me off the boat soon."

I drove him up to the Preble Street Resource Center and he spoke with a social services counselor about his dilemma. They scheduled him for an appointment the following day. I dropped him off back on the wharf, slipped him $20 and a winter coat I had in the truck.

He shook my hand when I told him I was heading South. His eyes narrowed and watered. "Hey, I wanna give you something. I only give it to my friends...". He recited the Irish Blessing,

"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand."

Right back at you, Jessie. Good luck Brother.

Anna and Brian

2011-10-09T10:02:00.002-04:00

Wonderful lamb dinner with good friends on Orr's Island! Thanks Anna and Brian. It's the simple things in life...

And thanks ever so much for the toothpick stash! See you down South!

Sunday morning reading...

2011-10-02T10:05:00.000-04:00

"To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson-

Ralph gets it...

Without Issues

2011-09-30T12:11:00.004-04:00

Another run to Jackman to transfer lobsters to a Canadian truck." Dooda" showed up on time and we loaded the truck without issues. He only speaks French so there was no small talk. Plenty of truck traffic on US Route 201, long logs, finished lumber, box trucks and pickups, all with guns hanging in the back window. Moose season opened last week and judging from the many moose warning signs there must be plenty up here in the willy wags.

The two lane road from Skowhegan through Solon, Bingham and Moscow twists and turns along the Kennebec and Dead Rivers. No sunsets this trip. Gray clouds and light rain. The forests on both sides of the highway doing their best to reclaim the ugly strip of black asphalt.

I drove past the Northland Hotel, shaped like a barn, no windows. Not very enticing. And then I came to the Jackman Motel. Now these folks know how to attract the customers! Stay with us and get stuffed! LOL!

Jeff sings "Georgia"

2011-09-26T22:15:00.003-04:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1Ns6hpPPR0

Of all the colorful characters on Custom House Wharf, Jeff is among the most prismatic. He is sort of the elder statesman of the dock, his wisdom and experience often sought out especially around issues of sailboats, rigging, music and the day to day events that unfold up and down the wharf. He lives in a comfortable, temporary shanty erected on the dock as he completes repairs on his older wooden hulled sailboat.

Jeff can usually be found engaged in thoughtful conversation, maneuvering his bicycle around the potholes, puttering on his old Volvo or, of course, sailboat...or playing his music. His music is his passion and you can hear it in his voice, see it in the way the rhythm flows through him as he plays. He loves it.

Jeff has sailed his boat down the Atlantic coast (He's a "blue water" sailor.) more than once on his way to the Caribbean or the Florida Keys for the winter, has moored along Saint Simons Island in Georgia, knows where we are headed next month. And so, as our time in Maine draws to an end, he practiced this song, agreed to let me video it and post it on our blog.

Thanks Jeff. Much appreciated. Fair winds buddy.

I knew there were going to be issues...

2011-08-20T10:42:00.004-04:00

It started out as a typical Friday... 6 AM run to Georgetown followed by a trip to Harpswell. It was 3:00 when Craig called. "Hey, do you want to drive to Canada today?" ... "Ok, cousin. Whatever you need. I'll be back on the wharf in 15 minutes." "OK", he said, "I'll explain it when you get here. It's complicated."

If you look up the word tenacious in the dictionary, there's a picture of Craig. He never gives up, pounds his head against the wall and usually cracks the wall. So when he said "complicated" I knew this was head banging time.

When I walked in the bait shack office, Pete was talking to Tom, the other driver, about my assignment and he stopped short. "I can't talk to you about this. Craig needs to tell you", he laughed.

Craig walked in soaked from the chest down having just completed packing the 35 crates of lobsters for Canada. He sat down and said "OK, here's the deal. I've got an order from Canada for these hard shells. Good margins. Better net from this one run than from the entire rest of the week. Here's where it gets complicated. I don't have the necessary bar codes to get the truck across the border into Canada and the Canadian truck drivers don't have passports to get into the US. You're the only one who has a current US Passport, no criminal record and a CDL. You need to drive 4 hours to the border, park the truck on the US side, walk across the Canadian Customs, pick up the truck and the bar code from the Canadian driver, drive back through US Customs, hand transfer the 2 tons of lobsters , drive back through Canadian Customs, deliver the truck and walk back across US Customs. I don't know where you can do the transfer. That might be an issue..."

I said, "OK, sounds like a plan. Let's do it." At that point people began flying around, cleaning the bait juice and guts out of the truck, loading the crates, preparing the invoices. I called Connie and asked her to meet me at a truck stop in Yarmouth with my passport. As the last crates were loaded on the truck, the refrigeration unit failed. Small, but critical glitch. New plan. We would have to ice the crates down so the lobsters would survive the trip, so we drove to the Fish Exchange and Craig pumped 3 tons of crushed ice on top of the crates.

I hit the road and met Connie for the Passport transfer. She had brought the entire important papers folio, so I took the whole thing. Perhaps if I hadn't just driven for 9 hours I would have thought better of that decision. At this point I'm just thinking about the mission at hand.

I drove up I-95 to Fairfield and picked up US 201 to Jackman. Once I got above Solon the scenery was awesome, but the road was so twisting and turning, long hills to climb and steep downgrades that I didn't have an opportunity to really enjoy it. Still, I knew I was in God's country. Felt good. Every couple miles there were big yellow signs warning of moose crossings. Hmmm...

I slowly approached the border crossing just as the sun slipped behind the mountains and followed the signs into the US Customs visitor's parking lot. The facility was huge, complete with bright lighting, electronic scanning technology, processing facilities, they even had a couple large windmills. I locked up the truck, looked around for a few minutes. Everyone seemed cool so I walked across the complex, past the line of traffic waiting to get into Canada and presented my passport to the border cross agent. He was puzzled where I was going and why I was on foot. I explained I had to pick up a truck. He allowed me into the country.

It was all going like clockwork. The Canadian drivers pulled up to the curb and gave me the bar code. I headed back to US Customs with their truck and they waited on the Canadian side for me to return with the load.

The US Border Agent took my paperwork and asked what was in the truck and I explained it was empty, that I was going to transfer my load from my truck. "He pointed his finger at me and said "That's YOUR truck in the parking lot?" I nodded. He closed the window and got on the radio. 30 seconds later there were four large Border Agents standing around my truck with their holsters unclipped and their hands resting on their Glocks. I attempted to explain to the irate agent. He told me to shut up. "Think about this" he said in an icy voice, "A locked, unattended truck parked at our facility and no one has any idea what's going on." Immediately Oklahoma City flashed through my mind. I apologized profusely.

They talked for 10 minutes and then laid out the drill. I would park the Canadian truck and accompany the biggest agent into the building where I sat in a detention area while he checked my paperwork. As we walked to the building he asked, "Do you have any money on you or in the truck?" "$30 bucks" I said. He said "Well, I ask because we know the seafood industry is largely a cash business and it's against the law to take over $10,000 across the border. " I said, "Yeah, I wish I had that kind of cash."

He checked me out in the computer and instructed me to accompany him to my truck. I was to stand in front of the truck as he search the cab. It took him 20 minutes and I enjoyed watching the last dim light fading in the sky and the blades of the windmills gliding silently on the mountaintop. Finally he seemed satisfied, had me open the engine compartment and then the box. When he climbed out of the box he walked up to me, got close in my face and said "Why are you carrying all you personal documents in the truck", watching my reactions carefully. "Oh, my wife gave me the whole packet when she brought me my passport" I answered. "When were you last in Iraq" he asked. "What? Never..." I answered stunned at the question. "Why do you have $650,000 Iraqi dinar in your possession?" The thought flashed through my mind "Oh, my God... I'm going to jail." Slowly I explained. My cousin was in Iraq. He bought me $500 US dollars of Iraqi dinar hoping the currency would appreciate. You know currency speculation? He put me back in detention, metal bench bolted to the wall.

20 minutes later he came back, had me back the truck over near the other vehicle while he and 3 other agents strip searched the Canadian truck. At this point I had a guard with me. The agent said, "Do you know the Canadian drivers?" "No," I answered," but my cousin does." Do you know that as the driver of that vehicle you will be held responsible for any illicit material we find?" It was going from bad to worse. I saw a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel and it was sounding like a freakin freight train.

Finally the big agent called over to me. "OK, you can transfer your load." I fist pumped the air and climbed into the back of the truck... to find that the crushed ice had melted and refrozen forming a glacier over the crates. It took me 40 minutes of back breaking labor to free the crates and transfer the 2 tons of lobster, slipping and sliding on the ice, heaving the 100 pound crates, unstacking and re-stacking. I was drenched in sweat when I finished and the 4 agents approached me. "You are free to drive back across the border. Sorry for your inconvenience." said the captain. I noticed that their guns had been reclipped.

I apologized for the 20th time and thanked them for the work they did protecting our country, got in the truck and drove to Canadian Customs. They looked at my documents and instructed me to pull into a lighted area, turn off the truck and stay in the vehicle. Again 4 armed agents surrounded my truck and with a French accent I was told to step out of the vehicle. The 2 Canadian drivers walked over and the conversation turned into French. Finally, after they had reviewed my documents and searched the truck, they released the drivers and instructed me to walk back to their complex. As I was walking back across the security complex, one agent walked in front, one on either side of me and one behind me. It was a surreal feeling and I had no idea what would come next. They stopped at a gate, turned to me and said "You are free to leave the country."

I felt a huge wave of relief as I walked the 100 yards down the deserted gauntlet of electronic and radioactive sensing devices in the stark neon lights back to US Customs. Dressed in duct taped pants and rubber boots, stinking of sweat and fish, I presented my passport for the 4th time and stood for 10 minutes as the new guard got up to speed on who I was and what had gone down over the last 3 hours. Finally he passed my documents back to me and said "Have a good evening. Don't hit a moose on your way down the mountain." I started laughing and didn't stop until I hit Jackman.

I was so jacked up on adrenalin from the events of the evening that I decided to make the 4 hour push back to Portland. My body was humming and my ears were ringing as I climbed in bed with my wife an hour after returning the truck to the wharf. When I got up this morning and recounted the detail to Craig, his comment was "I knew there would be issues... there always are." It was then that I really realized that this was the story of his life. He had driven loads to Canada for 20 years. He knew what I was going into. It's but one of the many, many seemingly insurmountable obstacles that he faces every day. He's my hero.

Tenacious...

Waterville Hospice Healing Garden

2011-07-19T10:39:00.003-04:00

Some new pics from our friend Mary Jo of the Garden, green and blooming. Looks great!

"Eric's Cabin"

Lessons in Humility on the Waterfront

2011-07-16T09:22:00.007-04:00

Tasty little crustaceans. They drive Maine's waterfront economy every summer. From the herring and poggie fishermen to the bait shop and the tank room to the truckers driving up and down the coast delivering barrels of fish and picking up crates of lobsters, everyone is in high gear making money while to fishing is good.

Custom House Wharf is a throwback to earlier times, an eclectic mix of fish shops, waterfront restaurants, canvas sail and tote shops and the lobster business. My family has worked this wharf for generations. Great, great grandfather sailed from here. Great Grampa Clarence based his hard hat diving business here. Gramps Davis sold Clams to Boones Restaurant at the head of the wharf. My father ran the oil terminal across the harbor. And now my cousin runs his bait and lobster business on Custom House Wharf. Cousins, nephews, children, spouses, son-in-laws, they all show up to fulfill some function from shoveling fish, to working in the office, to unloading boats and trucks.

My designated role this summer is to drive the big trucks and fill in where needed, but in order to do the job I had to get a commercial drivers license (CDL). I thought "no big deal". Lesson in humility number 1. The process is onerous, a thick manual to digest followed by a written test and a permit. Next driving for weeks with a licensed driver and learning to operate a 52,000 pound GVW, a 10 gear, high/low range non-synchronous transmission, air brakesand suspension, dual axle, 30 foot box, BEAST of a truck. Then three more tests; an off road maneuverability test (back-up, offset drive through, parallel park and truck dock), a pre-trip inspection test and a road test. I visited the DOT testing site and watched 4 people flunk the test. Real confidence builder... I was hesitant to send in my request for the exams until my cousin pushed me to it.

All the trucks on the wharf were working, so I had to rent a rig for a couple days... and practice. I set up the cones and paniced as I repeatedly failed to perform the maneuvers. 12 hours later I was hitting 1 out of 3 times. I was almost out of daylight when I tried a final docking and backed right into the garage door of the business where I had been allowed to practice. Crunched it hard. Lesson in humility number 2.

Somehow I passed the tests. It was just luck or maybe the helpful woman test instructor or maybe divine intervention. Whateva'. To quote Blanche Dubois from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," I rely on the kindness of strangers". So I'm feeling pretty cocky now. What a hot shot. Passed the first time. Bragging to people that I had to update my resume; Glen D. Foss; BS, MBA, CDL. Pride goeth before the fall...

My first solo trip was the next day to the Georgetown Fishermens Co-op, a route I had driven several times. Up the wharf and through busy Commercial Street dodging traffic and pedestrians with scarce inches of clearance, north on busy I-295 through miles and miles of road and bridge construction, through Brunswick and Bath with snarls of traffic dripping fish juice from the 40 barrels of bait on pallets in the cargo bay, and down the peninsula over a narrow, winding, hilly road.

I was white knuckled and tense, but doing ok, not grinding too many gears, only stalled out once in the middle of a busy intersection and coming down a hill, fully loaded toward the narrow bridge in the fishing village of Georgetown when an elderly woman pulled out of a driveway in front of me and stopped broadside in my lane. My heart almost exploded in my chest as I locked up the brakes knowing full well I could never stop in time. At the last minute, she pulled out of my path. I laid on the air horn, across the bridges, a 90 degree turn followed by a steep hill. I was in the wrong gear and blew the downshift, had to stop on the hill, set my breaks and start up again in low gear, creeping my way up the hill, fish juice pouring out the back of the truck onto the waiting line of traffic stacked up behind me. Utter humiliation. Things couldn't be worse... except perhaps that I might have killed an old lady on my first trip out. Yeah, what's a little humiliation compared to that.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I backed the truck up to the wharf and shut down the engine. And then I opened the cargo door. Lesson in humility number 4. 40 barrels had slid off the pallets, fish and juice everywhere. An hour later sweating, stinking and sore, I finished unloading. Lesson in humility complete... for that day.

Every day I have new lessons presented to me. Criticisms from the crew for wearing my boots wrong ("you tuck your pant legs in... not out"), from my cousin for speaking out of school ("Don't talk about the business. You can't trust anyone"), and yesterday from the tank room crew when I dropped four crates of lobsters off a dolly ("The fishermen are all talking about your yard sale... good one.").

So why am I having such a good time? Don't know. But it feels right. Who ever said that by age 60 we should know it all. Remember the lessons from your younger years? "Failure is sometimes the result of trying to learn new things." "Even the best baseball players only hit the ball 30% of the time" .

Ultimately we are all just "Bozo's on the bus". When ego and status rear their ugly heads, life gets less fun. A healthy dose of humility, though mighty uncomfortable sometimes, isn't a bad thing. Nobody enjoys failure. But, as Helen Keller wrote, "Life is an adventure... or nothing". Adventures in humility...

The sunrises and the scenery are spectacular.

Who has more fun than people...

Priceless

2011-07-14T16:00:00.002-04:00

It was a steamy hot day in Portland on Commercial Street. And behind the window in Maggie's on the corner of Custom House Wharf, she was keeping cool with a vanilla cone. Still the melting ice cream dripped down her arm and smeared the glass. Ah, the joys of summertime in Maine...

Sweet

2011-06-13T05:58:00.010-04:00

Katie and Elnur's wedding day was such a wonderful time! We awoke at sunrise in the Peter McKernan Center overlooking Spring Point. The old sailors adage "Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning." proved true and the rain came canceling an outside ceremony. No worries. The backup plan worked flawlessly..

Chairs were set, table assignments staged, pictures displayed and flowers arranged with the help of wonderful friends and family (thank you all so much!).

The bride and groom dressed for the party and guests began to arrive. The mother of the bride was stunning in her blue dress!

It was truly an international gala with family and friends attending from Azerbaijan, England, Brazil, Russia, Belarus, New York, Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, Washington DC, California, Virginia, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maryland, North Carolina, Kentucky and, of course, good old Maine.

Weather not withstanding, no plan ever comes off without a few glitches and Murphy's Law prevailed once again as the pastor got stuck on the Portland draw bridge waiting for an oil tanker to pass. We all enjoyed a good laugh and she soon arrived and conducted a simply wonderful ceremony. Thank you Deborah!!

The bride was radiant if I do say so and Elnur was so happy to see his college buddies from Baku.

Then it was time for pictures,toasts and speeches. dinner and dancing. The food was great, especially the crab cakes, spanakopita, lamb kabobs and dessert baklava. And NOBODY can use a dance floor like the Foss clan and Katie and Elnur's crazy friends. They rocked the house!

More pictures to follow. Thanks everyone for being a part of this wonderful day. As Connie says "We Love love!" and the love was overwhelming. A perfect day...

Bittersweet...

2011-06-12T14:12:00.004-04:00

David called around noon and Connie answered the phone.

"Have you heard from Jo today?" he asked.

Connie was confused. "David, I understood that Jo had slipped into a coma yesterday. Has she rebounded?"

David said, "No, she slipped away this morning at 4:00AM in her daughters arms. I just thought that since she is now soaring through the Universe she might have contacted you to arrange for the next poetry reading or a dinner party..."

Our tears were tears of gratitude. Tears for the wonderful, beautiful, unique friend who would no longer be sitting on her front deck overlooking East Beach on Saint Simons Island. Tears for the courageous soul who lived life so fully, with so much love. Tears for her friendship and for the amazing friendship that our friend David provided in shepherding her to the Other Side.

Such a gift...

Karma

2011-06-04T19:11:00.002-04:00

Busy day getting ready for next weekend with Katie and Elnur. It's going to be fun. Hope the weather cooperates. Looking pretty good.

We were in Waterville shopping for wedding clothes and getting Connie's hair done. We visited 2 Country Way (open house, being sold again... that was kinda wierd), Eric's Cabin and the cemetery, stopped by the vet for the dogs distemper shots and hit the road south... right into 5 miles of construction, single lane beginning in Sidney.

We queued up in the right hand lane, creeping forward as the 2 lane interstate funneled down to a single lane . And, of course, there were the usual drivers who chose to drive passed the long line, to the front of the line, forcing their way in at the last moment. Sometimes I pull out into the open lane and block these inconsiderate drivers. Today I didn't feel like it. But I sensed my animosity for each driver who pulled the stunt. I was near the merge when a van from New York slowed beside me looking for a way into the line. They were a young family and I slowed, making a space in front of me for them to enter. The driver hesitated and then merged into the line. No biggie. Just a little courtesy.

We drove through the construction area slowly and when it ended we resumed our 70 mph trip south. I didn't notice that the NY van was in front of us as we moved through the toll in Gardner. But when we pulled up to the toll booth and offered our dollar the toll taker held up his hands and said "The car in front of you paid your toll."

Nice. What goes around, comes around. Not often. But sometimes. And that is enough...

RIP Waterville Waver... "It's what I do"

2011-05-20T06:54:00.002-04:00

A legend passes...

http://gdfoss.blogspot.com/2010/07/waterville-waver.html

Nothing like family...

2011-05-14T13:53:00.010-04:00

A birthday gathering at the old Boone's Restaurant on Custom House Wharf for Aunt Connie... great food (lobster, corn on the cob, mussels, strawberry shortcake... awesome), wonderful people, plenty of kids, lots of hugs and laughter.

Thank you, Johnson family! Great to see the Oklahoma crew. Great to see everyone. Hope you enjoy the pictures. (Let me know if you want me to send you a specific jpg sent so you can have it printed.)

Happy Mothers Day Mom.

2011-05-08T21:57:00.001-04:00

missing you...

Friends

2011-04-26T11:39:00.005-04:00

Somehow, every year or two, when the stars align just so in the heavens, an opportunity presents itself for we band of brothers to come together.

Gordon was in Maine being the good son to his infirmed, elderly mother. Bob drove down from his new home in Harpswell. We ate good food, drank margaritas and stayed up into the wee hours catching up on each others lives. We walked the beach, laughed until our belly's ached and enjoyed being in the company of real friends, people who know each other as well as anyone can know another fellow traveler. We are older, grayer, bad knees and sore feet, less hair, but wiser, more content, egos diminished. Still we are "better men".

What a treat. Thanks brothers. Until next time...

25 years ago... give or take... during the duck hunting era. What a crew.

just before the water went over his boots...

2011-04-18T12:22:00.003-04:00

Good to be home...

It just ain't right...

2011-03-27T19:41:00.002-04:00

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/sites/all/play_music/play_full.php?play=430

Poem by Mary Oliver

2011-03-27T11:42:00.001-04:00

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Sunset on the Marsh

2011-03-10T20:09:00.002-05:00

STS 133

2011-02-26T17:13:00.004-05:00

Ken, David and I drove 3 1/2 hours down I95 and took our place with 300,000 other people to watch the final flight of Spacecraft Discovery. She had already flown 143 MILLION miles and she proved herself worthy of one final mission before being parked in a museum. The 6 astronauts were all veteran spacemen and, as of this posting, they are safely docked at the international space station.

An amazing sight to behold, once in a lifetime, check it off the bucket list...

Here is a picture of us on our way home... good times!

Grandma’s Eulogy

2011-02-12T14:35:00.003-05:00

Grandma’s Eulogy
02/07/11
Christina Marie Goulette Murphy
Oct 16, 1927 – Jan 30, 2011
By: Ryan Joseph Foss

I am one of 18 Murphy Grandchildren. As we celebrate our Grandmother's life today, and I gather with all my cousins, the first thing that comes to my mind is how blessed we are.

I am in awe of the talents and the qualities the Grandchildren in this family possess. We are scholars, teachers, caregivers ... athletes, musicians, actors … hard workers, and good cooks. We all live our lives to the fullest, following our passions. We value family first and foremost and go through life maintaining a sense of humor; we laugh together at any chance we get. We are filled with tenderness, kind heartedness, love, and are strong in our faith. Most of all, we give.

Now, one could argue there was something in the water up there on the top of Brewer Street, starting all of this, flowing down throughout our family.
I would be more inclined to look with certainty that our Grandmother possessed all of these talents, qualities and these family values. Her faith and her love has carried through the generations.

She nurtured and cared for us, and not to mention, when given the chance, she would sustain us with three square meals a day.

Wherever Grandma was, Brewer, Winslow, New York, or at her Grandchildren's house, the Grandchildren would gather around her. While her grandchildren were her passion, It would not be fair to leave out the countless neighborhood kids that would come knocking at the door looking for Mrs. Murphy.

We cousins share some common memories of times with Grandma. She would lead games of Red Light Green Light and Mother May I. She would take us sledding. She would make Pomanders with us. She would write, produce, direct, and act as the costume designer for extravagant plays. Somewhere in between all the days fun, she would find the time to make dinner, where we would feast upon the world's best Mac and Cheese, finish dinner with talks of religion, faith, and God, and then retreat to bed for bible stories, fables, fairy tales, and stories of Mike and Spike ... only to be awaken by the smell of Grandpas bacon and treated to the best crepes in the world.
Our Grandmother was a teacher of many. I even had the privilege of attending her CCD classes, although at the time, I didn't always see this as a privilege ... Consequently, I ended up spending some time with the nuns transcribing the bible.

Our Grandmother passed on many things to her Grandchildren:

She taught us to eat until she saw the flowers on our plate.

Grandma taught us music and song. Her amazing gift resonated joy through us all.

She taught us to sew. It was in this act that her patience and attention to detail shined.

Grandma taught us cooking. Her cooking was gourmet.

She taught us to marry well, in that she married the best dishwasher on earth.

Grandma taught us grace as she attended pretend masses at the Bean House.

She taught us humor. She and Grandpa would fill the room with laughter. Boy did they love to laugh. She may have even been coerced by her grandchildren, once or twice, to take out her teeth, which was followed by shock, and then laughter by all.

Grandma taught us honesty. Although, there were times she convinced every one of her Granddaughters that she was the real Cinderella. In her defense, she even showed them her glass slipper..

She taught us French. Grand-mère, repose en paix.

Our grandmother instilled us with discipline. This discipline she conveyed was in something as simple as a session of Quakers meeting before dinner, or a tale from Essops Fables. More often, it was grounded in lessons only derived from a life of loyalty, sacrifice, and faith.

She taught us prayer. Our grandmother prayed for us, and we know this is another reason we are all so blessed. At some of the harder times in my life, she taught me how to pray. I was praying for the things in life that I thought were important and that I thought I should be praying for. Grandma taught me to open myself to God, so that I may be show what is important. She taught me to pray for discernment.

Our Grandmother taught us faith. She taught not only through her understanding of the word of God, but she taught us faith through the way she lived her life. Her faith stood at the center of all that she was and all that she is.

Considering all this nurturing we received from our Grandmother, I wish I could say that I was always well behaved for my dear grandmother. Yet, there were times that this may not have been the case. We never broke melmac plates over each other, but there were times Grandma would have ask, 'what had happened to the other Ryan, the other Eric, and the other Chris.

It was usually Chris and Eric's fault.

Grandma would then ask us to travel through the Brewer St. house, into the upstairs, through the bedroom, past the cat sheet bunk beds, where we would then proceed down the back stairs. Upon emerging from these back stairs, a transformation would occur, and the other boys, the good boys, would be revealed.

This transformation infinitely pales in comparison to the transformation our Grandmother has made.

The mysteries of her faith have been revealed, and she has gone to be with God.
In reflecting upon all that she has shared, all that she has given, all that she has nurtured, and all that she has taught, I look out at this moment and see all that she loved. I see the picture of the family she created.

It fills me with great joy to know that Grandma has given us the ability to see how blessed we are.

Here's to you Tina...

2011-02-01T21:16:00.003-05:00

Mother's Day with the Foss girls.

Ericka's wedding, Nov, 2010.

Geaghan's Restaurant Bangor.

Mothers Day... Mom had scallops.

Mother-in-Law, you were #1.

Arriving at the Veterans Home in Bangor, 2009 wearing Dragonflies.

Rest in peace. We know you will always be with us.

Tough neighborhood .

2011-01-23T19:01:00.005-05:00

blog entry by Sampson;

There's no telling who we are going to run into down here. Any given day on the beach, we come face to face (and face to butt) with hounds, terriers and rottweilers, shepherds, retrievers and poodles. It is a veritable canine united nations out there. My sister and I are certainly among the smallest... but only in physical size. Like they say, it's not the size of the dog in the fight. It's the size of the fight in the dog. Still, you've got to know when to hold em, got to know when to fold em, got to know when to walk away, got to know when to run! as Kenny Rogers croons.

Lulu is such a mouth. She is always the first to charge at another dog on the beach, yapping, causing a fuss and then bolting back to the humans to be picked up. And where does that leave me? I mean, some of these thick headed breeds think we are rabbits to begin with. I have to put on the tough guy act, growling, circling, snapping. Usually it works...

But the other day, we met our match. This was one baaaad dog. You could tell by the expression in her eyes, not to mention her other unusual behaviors. We steered clear of this one you can be sure. I mean, see for yourself...

sent by a friend

2011-01-22T11:37:00.000-05:00

Something new every day

2011-01-17T09:10:00.005-05:00

We have learned that Southerners are very precise with their language, both in word structure and in tone. For instance, if someone says "Bless yowah heart" sometimes it is a heartfelt statement of compassion or appreciation. Sometimes it means "You are nummer n' a lip full o' Novocaine"... it's all in the tone.

Some of this nations greatest orators hail from the South; politicians, pastors, radio talk show hosts, both past and present. Maybe it's something in the water. But even the "everyday man" will go to great lengths to engage in the verbal gymnastics, to attempt to add clarity to cloudy conversation.

My friend David, who is something of a mixture of sage counsel and local historian, received an email asking him to clarify the meaning of a word. Here is what he received:

Uncle David, I need your input as to the following. I figure you are the only person I know that really has the answer.

Breakfast is breakfast

Lunch is lunch

The evening meal is supper?

What is dinner? Please advise. MS

I mean, this is certainly one of the burning questions of life. We have all wrestled with this timeless conundrum and typically have allowed the question to slip back beneath the waves of conscious thought, unanswered. But that is not the SSOP (Southern Standard Operating Procedure). Here was David's thoughtful response:

"Dinner is the main meal of the day.When I grew up, Sunday dinner was around 1 or 2PM. Saturday dinner could be anytime from afternoon till dark depending on the heat of the day. Otherwise, during the week, dinner and supper were the same-the last meal of the day. So supper can be dinner-dinner can be lunch, but lunch cannot be supper although it can be dinner. Simple Y'all -D"

It has recently come to my attention that there are online courses to help people understand Southern. Perhaps you will find these useful. I know they cleared up many of my unanswered questions. Bless their hearts...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1NsC98xVN0&NR=1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5N1Im1xbjWQ&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Living Deliberately

2011-01-08T11:04:00.007-05:00

One of the good things about traveling around the country in a mini-van is that there are only so many square feet of space in the vehicle and, therefore, you must be very deliberate about what comes along and what does not. Connie is very insistent that we bring her massage table along, as I am adamant about my guitar... and of course there are the dogs, but they are not possessions. They're family. Everything else is negotiable.

Every year, as we swing through Maine, we visit the storage unit and stroll through the remaining materiality of our former lives. Things come out of the van and into storage or to Goodwill (such as our porta-potty and the double-wide screen tent.... seemed like good ideas at the time). Sometimes things come out of storage and into the van (such as the Cutco knife set and the shell lamp and shade that Connie found at a yard sale in Portland several years ago) or to Goodwill. More often, stuff of Ryan's or Katie's are added to the storage unit collection or materials flow out of storage and into their households (such as the turkey roasting pan and the Christmas decorations). We have determined that it is far more efficient, and fun, to collect any material things we may need/desire at the various locations in which we settle... from yard sales.

In Naples Florida, we picked up sun screens and beach mats. In Palm Springs, it was camping supplies; Tomales Bay, books and cookware. In Maine, I picked up a case of pickled fiddle-heads and an avocado green, 1970's era crock pot (which was left in Arlington) and in Georgia it was a charcoal barbecue grill and bicycles.

The art and the science of yard saleing is highly developed throughout the country, but the two most accomplished practitioners we have met are Jerry of Petaluma, California and David of Saint Simons Island. Both gentlemen have an uncanny ability to sense value and to immediately bond with the sellers. They have the vision, foresight and intelligence to buy, fix and sell. That said, they are quirky, amassing a "clinking, clanking, clattering collection of caliginous junk"( to quote the Wizard of Oz.)

Jerry has a collection of a dozen wheel barrows and rusted antique farm equipment scattered around the property. David has 3 or 4 vehicles, including a Jaguar, a Mercedes, a Jeep and a 1921 Excalibur, 12 cylinder, 400 HP roadster and a dozen power boats, canoes, kayaks and inflatable zodiacs. Their homes are fascinating collections of technology, trinkets and treasures discovered and collected from OPS (other peoples stuff). And it is amazing what people sell.

This morning Connie and I got up early to go yard saleing with David and Mary Helen. We were looking for another crock pot to replace the one we left with Katie and Elnur. Mary Helen made coffee, David scouted out the locations from the morning paper and Connie and I climbed into the back seat to enjoy the show.

There are two major roads on the Island, one runs north/south, the other east/west and so the procession of vehicles of Yard Sale Crusaders is a veritable parade. The faces are familiar and there is a sense of competitive comradery among them. But they often specialize. Some focus on books and DVDs, others clothing or furniture, still others are looking for art. David was scouting for building supplies this morning and, as always, fishing gear. Mary Helen sought a set of night stands. Connie wanted a very specific stainless steel slow cooker.

At the third stop we drove up to a shabby, low probability yard sale on a dead end street. The 40 year old male proprietor was wearing a fleece vest against the chilly 50 degree weather and a Georgia baseball hat. David immediately engaged him in conversation and quickly ascertained that he knew the value of his stuff and had marked items to sell quickly. There were collections of brand new neck ties, shirts in wrappers, shoes and sneakers still in the boxes. There was original island art, paintings and pencil sketches. And there was a brand new, stainless steel slow cooker. We haggled a bit on the price and settled quickly. Connie was pleased and I was headed for the car to store our purchase... when several vehicles including a police car quickly pulled up and stopped in front of the house.

Several men sprang from the first car and pointed a camera in my face. The flash went off and he announced "You have just purchased stolen property. That's my crock pot!" I froze in place expecting the cop to slap me in irons, but instead he walked up to me and said "You can keep that... it's ok." The incensed man then proceeded to run around the yard taking pictures of everything and repeating "That's mine. And that's mine!" while the Proprietor yelled "Bob, get off my property!" It was a bizarre scene and we quickly exited with our prize.

I am curious to see if my picture gets published in the Glynn County Police Beat in the Brunswick Newspaper, perhaps headlined "Crazy Yankee Caught with Hot Crock Pot". What is the criminal penalty for receiving stolen slow cookers in this state? What is this world coming to? I may next be blogging from the Milledgeville Georgia State Penitentiary for God's sake! It ain't right...

Who has more fun than people?

Tucker, Bailey and Jacob

2011-01-06T17:51:00.002-05:00

Maine kids. Outstanding...

It's our birthday!

2011-01-04T08:51:00.005-05:00

Let's toast to us! We're 11 years old and going strong, although with all this travel over the past 4 years, I've gotta say that sometimes Lu Lu seems a bit confused. Then again, she has always been a little spacey... ethereal . Actually, according to MummaLuv, our real birthday will be on 01/11/11. Yesterday she gave us both a bath so we would look good. Hope that means they are planning a party for us!

We left Maine in October and have been up and down the East Coast several times, just got back from Christmas in Arlington, Virginia with Katie, Elnur, Kristen and Ryan. Good times!! We stopped back in Saint Simons Island for a night and the weather has been so good and the people so nice that Glendog is having a hard time getting MummaLuv back in the van. He always threatens to duct tape her into the passenger seat. YEAH! Like that's gonna happen...

Besides taking rides in the van (40 states so far), we enjoy chasing things (doesn't matter what... anything that runs), treats, walks on the beach and singing. Everyone in the family has been on the receiving end of one of our singing birthday telegrams. In fact, just last week we sang to Molly in Kentucky and they taped us! It wasn't our best performance, but it will give you an idea of what remarkable dogs we truly are... if I do say so myself. So Happy New Years People and Pets! Stay healthy, eat well, exercise often and sleep at least 10 hours a day!

Licks and Wags,
Sam n' Lu

Happy Birthday Ryan

2010-12-31T13:08:00.002-05:00

Welcome to the world Anna...

2010-12-30T14:20:00.002-05:00

Congratulations Kristen and Adam.

Maine Road Sign

2010-12-28T14:13:00.002-05:00

2011

2010-12-26T15:27:00.002-05:00

2011, just around the corner. The years march on... double time, so it seems.

It seems to me that traveling around the country as we have these past, going on 4 years, has added new facets to the passage of time... new dimensions... certainly new thinking. I like it that now, when a memory pops into my head unbidden, it is often of some unique location or adventure, some interesting person or landscape, sometimes something profound and bizarre. Sure, the memories of standing on a rocky mountaintop in Zion, or at the base of a giant Redwood in Humbolt County or of paddling through Cypress swamps in the Okefenokee make for great memories. I cherish them above material things. But there are also treasures to be found among the flotsam and jetsam of the everyday, in the little backwaters of the great flow of Life. For instance, at Walmart...

We have shopped at Walmarts and Dollar Stores across America. If you pay attention, there's much to be learned wandering around the aisles of “Every day low prices”. You will always find a fascinating diversity of humanity. Diversity in ethnicity, age, dress, speech, behavior. It's always an experience of the great mixing bowl of Americana, each region with it's own distinct flavor. In Collier County, Florida you see a lot of Q-Tips, that is, white haired Seniors, pushing carts through the home goods section. In Palm Springs, it's Latinos with a uniquely California flair in dress and body art. In San Francisco, it's Asian; Chinle, Arizona, Native American; Heber City, Utah, White Mormons. And in Glynn County Georgia, Black.

One day while in a Dollar Store in Louisiana, I overheard two women talking in their distinct Cajun accent. The first woman said, “I do love de Dollah Stoah. It be real convenient... and casual.” The second woman said, “ Dat be for sure. And I don't have to get all dress up like going to Walmart or somethin.” Now there's an endorsement to build a advertising campaign around...

Brunswick, Georgia is the Glynn County seat, an eclectic cultural and socio-economic mixture of humankind. a gritty, declining manufacturing/fishing industry, a vibrant local and federal government sector, an aggressive and unhealthy legal community. It is the gateway to the Golden Isles, the resort communities of Saint Simons Island and Jekyll Island, earlier in history slave plantations, later the private refuge of the insanely wealthy; the Rockefellers, the Morgans, the Pulitzers, none of whom would every have shopped in Walmart.

In the Brunswick Walmart, the majority of dolls in the toy section and peoples images on greeting cards are dark skinned, the canned goods; turnip greens, okra, black eyed peas with snaps... and hair products selections; relaxers, straighteners, glosses, are not typical to a Walmart in, say... Waterville, Maine. The sense for me is always, as it is in every location across the country, a distinct ”You're not in Kansas anymore Dorothy.” feeling. And I love it. “New experience” as my Azeri son-in-law often says.

Walmart is aggressive in affiliating with other businesses in their stores. Banks, Credit Unions, Tax Services, Nail and Hair Salons, Eye Glass shops, Photo Studios, Urgent Care Medical Clinics, and, of course, food vendors. Where else can you get your oil changed, your toenails polished, your portfolio tweaked and a 12 inch Subway, turkey on honey oat bread with spinach, tomatoes and onions...

I was walking out of the Brunswick Walmart when I spied the empty sandwich shop. The Subway gift card that my thoughtful sister had sent me for my birthday had been burning a hole in my pocket. It was an “impulse purchase” for sure, but my impulse at that moment was hunger.... mmmm.

The young, white girl behind the counter was pleasant, a half smile on her face. “Welcome to Subway. How can I help yewww?” Georgia girl fer sure... She had dyed purple hair under her Subway cap and a barbed wire tattoo around her neck above her Subway shirt collar. The metal hoop rings in her nose and lip were not unattractive.

“Hi. May I have a $5, 12 inch, oven roasted chicken, on Honey Oat, toasted with Swiss, please?” I recited. Connie had taught me well. We would split the sandwich when I picked her up at Belks in a few minutes.

I watched her build the sandwich. Tattooed on the knuckles of her right hand were the letters L-O-V-E, one letter on each finger. This was not a professional tattoo. This was a jail house tat. Skin ripped with a sharp object and ink from an ink pen rubbed into the wound. She pursed her lips and concentrated as she added the veggies. “Yeww want sum sauce on thay-at?” She asked. Yes, please, sweet onion...

She cut, wrapped and bagged the footlong and I passed her my gift card. She looked puzzled as she swiped the card and started pushing buttons. Finally, the computer prompted her to enter the date. She gazed at me. “What's today?” she asked. “Wednesday” I answered. She blinked twice. “No, no... what's today's date?” she asked. “ I don't know,” I responded.

She raised her voice and called to someone unseen. “Mayhelen,” it sounded like one word, “What's today?” A voice responded “Wednesday...” She smiled, the deja vu humor not lost on her. “What's the date” she called back. Mary Helen announced “It's the 21^st...”

The counter girl turned to me and made eye contact. There was wonder on her face. “ The 21^st.” she repeated, “Where has time went... ?”

2011, just around the corner... Where has time went, indeed?

Profound and bizarre.

Happy New Year, folks.

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-14T16:53:00.002-05:00

Thanks for the pics Mike and Amy!! Perfect!

Pearl Jam Song

2010-12-08T14:10:00.002-05:00

"Off He Goes"

Okefenokee Swamp

2010-12-03T18:18:00.015-05:00

Just back from a kayak trip for a couple incredible days in the swamp. The Okeefenokee is an almost 500,000 acre National Wildlife Refuge located on the southern Georgia border with Florida and is unlike anything I have ever seen across the country. Okefenokee is a vast bog inside a huge sauce- shaped depression that was once part of the ocean floor. The word, Okeefenokee, is Native American for "land of the trembling earth". Peat deposits up to 15 feet deep will quake when walked upon.

It wasn't an "easy" trip. David, Beaver and the crazy Yankee paddled around 15 miles a day, at times in shallow streams, dragging our loaded kayaks through the thick swamp vegetation; marsh grass and water lily, struggling over downed trees of cypress and pine. The water level was very low, as low as David had ever seen it, but the upside was that we had the swamp entirely to ourselves.

The slow moving waters are tea colored due to the tanic acid released from decaying plants and is acidic, about the level of a carbonated cola drink, not good to drink. Perhaps, as a result of this and also the cool, windy nights, there were no bugs to speak of. But there were plenty of other critters; egrets, heron, turtles, piliated woodpeckers, ibis, sandhill cranes, hawks, bow fish, owls... and gators! Hundreds of them, from one foot babies to huge 12 footers, sunning themselves lazily on the banks or skulking in the water. Impressive, instinctually threatening, the hair on the back of your neck standing up on end when one swims toward you and submerges under your boat. In the backwater creek I bumped one (not on purpose) and it came up behind the boat hissing. Motivating!

The reflectivity of the water made for some great photos.

We limped into the "chickie" around dinner time... just in time. The raised sleeping platform was named "Round Top". God knows why, because it is located in the "praries"; flat, swamp for 20 miles in any direction. Truly desolate. Truly beautiful.
The sky was huge, the clouds were jaw dropping, and the stars that night were spectacular.

We set up tents and enjoyed some great steaks from Beaver's restaurant and a fine container of box wine from Winn Dixie, before some serious relaxing. A gator lived under the chickie and we named him "One-Eyed Jack". I tied a chunk of steak on a 3 foot piece of rope and got to meet him up close and personal. They are not too bright, but make up for it with ferocity. Here's a shot of Jack through my binoculars.

We hit the sack, enjoying the cries of the Sandhill Cranes, just down for the winter from Minnesota or Canada. An erie sound. Around midnight we were all awakened to another sound, the sound of wind... lots of it. The intensity of the coming storm built for about an hour and we scrambled to lash things down as the temperature dropped from 80 degrees into the 40's. The force of the wind was so great that our tents collapsed on us and we huddled waiting for what was to come. The rain exploded on the metal roof top and blew sideways into our tents soaking clothes and sleeping bags. And we three fools lay in the dark, howling with laughter, hysterically happy.

By 2:00 AM things had dialed back a bit and we lay in our tents, cold and wet, waiting for the light of dawn. Beaver was introspective as he spoke into the darkness. "You know, this is great. Now when stories are told, I can say "You think THAT was bad, well let me tell you about..." And we laughed for another 15 minutes. Awesome...

We rose before the dawn and got busy getting warm. Coffee, beef stew and a hibachi full of charcoal lifted our soggy moods even as we put on all of our clothes against the hand numbing coldness. Lacking orange juice, we took mega doses of Tylenol with the rest of the red wine further lifting our moods.

We attacked the 3 miles of shallow water paddling against a heavy head wind with stoic abandon... and more red wine. And by the time we reentered the main canal, the sun was bright, the temperature was up 20 degrees and the wind shifted to our backs. The Universe is good...

The vegetation was spectacular. Carnivorous Pitcher Plants in the bog, towering Cypress dressed in Spanish Moss, Cypress "knees" (root extensions) clumped like monks in prayer, yellow Swamp Dasie's, green floating rafts of Duck Weed, even the pond scum was beautiful.

Our shoulders were sore and our hands blistered as we loaded the kayaks for the drive back to civilization. But the smiles didn't leave our faces for days. Great trip David. You're my man. And Beaver... "You think THAT was bad...?" LOL!!!

Letter to Stephen King

2010-11-28T18:32:00.006-05:00

Dear Steve,

I just finished “On Writing”. Thanks. My favorite Stephen King book to date.From your book, I have gleaned the following information. I find it quite remarkable.

My grandmother's name was Nellie Pillsbury, from Shapleigh (Stephen's mother's name was Nellie Pillsbury). I grew up in southern Maine, SPHS class of 1969 (Stephen King grew up in Topsham, Brunswick High School, 20 miles from South Portland) . I attended UMO from 69 to 73 and remember you well (SK graduated from UMO in 1970 and doesn't remember me at all.) . You're "Study Dammit" picture was on my wall for 4 years and we both attended a Kent State “gathering” on the Fogler Library steps in the spring of 1970...). I taught high school, science, for two years in Waterville (SK taught high school, english, in Hampden). I drove a 1960 Ford Galaxy with a blown rear main seal (so did SK). I worked in an old paper mill in Madison Maine with rats as big as cats (SK worked at an old paper mill in Pejepscott with huge rats, the subject for one of his books). I married a girl from Penobscot County;Brewer... she lived on Grove Street (SK married Tabitha from Penobscot County; Old Town... and they lived on Grove Street). I met her at UMO (same with SK). She is my best friend (ditto SK). My mother died of cancer (ditto SK). We have 3 children (ditto SK). Our son, Ryan, a Mech Eng. from UMO, broke his tibia in 30 pieces in 2008 and has battled back from infection, depression and pain med addiction (ditto SK). My daughter, Katie, has a BA in English from UMO (ditto SK). I play guitar (ditto...). I like to write (duhhhh....).

Three and a half years ago, we sold our house in Waterville, quit our jobs and hit the road, coast to coast four times and about to strike out again. It's been a mind expanding adventure. So now, I'm dabbling in your craft of writing. No idea what I am doing, have tried to stop more than once, but seem to be addicted to this solitary obsession.

You may never read this letter (though I mailed it to you...). If you do, thanks for who you are and what you do, not just the writing, the philanthropic stuff, too. We're not that different, you and me; just a couple of Maine boys doing our best. Your best inspires me.

Best regards,

Glen

A day in the marsh

2010-11-23T21:46:00.002-05:00

David bought a 12 foot inflatable zodiac with a 90HP, 4 stroke Johnson outboard at a yard sale. He is the king of yard sales, knows the value of stuff, buys and sells, but he kept second guessing himself on this boat. We worked on it for a few hours and then he worked on it for another week. And the day finally came to take it out for a trial run.

We fueled it up, packed the survival kit and the beer and put into the marsh at mid-island. The engine started right at the turn of the key and soon we were flying through the creeks and rivers. Before we knew it we were 25 miles up the coast to Darien.

The boat handled pretty well at first and we experimented with air pressure in the pontoons. Throughout the day, steerage got stiffer and stiffer and it took longer and longer to plane out. By the time we got back, it was clear that something was going on. David discovered a hole in the hard under hull and drained off a barrel of water, 400 or 500 extra pounds.. Hmmm.

But, still and all, it was a great day to be out in the marsh. even in a leaky boat...

Veteran's Day

2010-11-12T12:07:00.002-05:00

Check this out!

Liberty Belle (WWII B17 bomber) at Malcolm McKinnon Airport, St. Simons.

The B-17, dubbed the “Flying Fortress” as a result of her amount of defensive firepower, underwent a number of improvements over its ten-year production run. B-17 Models ranged from the YB-17 to the B-17G model. Throughout the war the B-17 was refined and improved as the combat experience showed the Boeing designers where improvements could be made. The Final B-17 production model, the B-17G was produced in the largest quantities (8,680) than any other previous model and is considered the definitive “Flying Fortress”. With its 13 .50-caliber machine guns, Chin, top, ball and tail turrets; waist and cheek guns the B-17 was indeed an airplane that earned the respect of its combatants. In addition, the flight crews loved the B-17 for her ability to take and withstand heavy combat damage and return safely home.

During WWII, the B-17 saw service in every theater of operation, but was operated primarily by the 8th Air force in Europe and participated in countless missions from bases in England. A typical B-17 Mission often lasted for more than eight hours and struck targets deep within enemy territory. During the war, B-17’s dropped 640,036 tons of bombs on European targets in daylight raids. This compares to the 452,508 tons dropped by the B-24 and 464,544 tons dropped by all other U.S. aircraft. The B-17 also downed 23 enemy aircraft per 1,000 raid as compared with 11 by B-24’s and 11 by fighters and three by all U.S. medium and light bombers.

There were a total of 12,732 B-17’s that were produced between 1935 and May 1945. Of these 4,735 were lost in combat. Following WWII, the B-17 saw service in three more wars. B-17’s were used in Korea, Israel used them in the war of 1948 and they were even used during Vietnam.

Today, fewer than 100 B-17 airframes exist and fewer still are in airworthy condition. At one time, more than 1000 B-17’s could be assembled for mass combat missions, now less than 15 of Boeings famous bombers can still take to the sky.

RTE 17

2010-11-05T15:46:00.003-04:00

Dropped Connie off at Jacksonville Airport and drove back to Georgia on the back roads. North to Yulee, on to the Saint Marys River and into Kingsland where I started collecting political signs in Camden County. Put em up, take em down

Through Woodbine, across the Satilla River and to White Oak. Great names... Tarboro, the Folkson State Prison, Hickox, Winokur, Nahunta. I suppose visitors to Maine find our town names curious, too. Norridgewock, Passadumkeag, Ogunquit...

This is paper country. Lots of pulp trucks on the roads, stands of pine, clearcuts, at times the foul smell of digesters.

I met a man at a campaign meeting named Bob Torres. The causeway from the mainland is named after his father. Small world... his brother Joe, whom I know from my time in the paper industry in Maine, owned and operated Linclon Pulp and Paper Company. He provided a lot of good jobs to the area. Did a lot of good things in the state. Bob said Joe was very ill. Best wishes, Joe.

And then a picture worth a thousand words...

Birds, tides and tugboats

2010-10-31T10:50:00.010-04:00

The choices were to watch the annual Florida-Georgia football game at Hazels Cafe, complete with copious quantities of alcohol, red shirts and "GO DAWGS" banners... or to boat out to a deserted barrier island to visit a shipwreck. No brainer...

Georgia's 100 mile coast accounts for around three quarters of all the undeveloped salt marsh on the East coast. The water is brackish, unappealing to this blue water Northern boy, but the abundance of fish and wildlife that inhabit the ecosystem is jaw dropping.

We left at high tide from a little private dock on a creek that is accessed by a 500 foot long walkway through the march. It's right next to an historic pre-revolutionary war battle site called "Bloody Marsh" where the British repelled the invading Spanish. Some history here... At low tide the creek is navigable only to the experts who know the channels and the location of the shell rakes. David is one of those guys...

We loaded the 14 foot McKee (like a side console Boston Whaler... ) with picnic stuff, dogs and womenfolk and headed through Village Creek, across Gould's Inlet and under the bridge to Sea Island. Things got rough at the confluence of the Atlantic and the Hamilton River. We found ourselves surrounded by several dozen Bottlenose Dolphins, some surfacing within 20 feet of the boat. After fighting the waves for awhile, we opted to pull into a little side water and anchor on the bank, hopeful that the boat would stay afloat and not go aground while we walked the 5 miles of deserted beach.

There was a small amount of flotsam and jetsam probably washed down the coast from the New York garbage skows, evidence of the non-biodegradability of plastic products, but, for the most part, it was a magnificent, untracked beach. No houses, no people, no boats, no footprints. Sand, shells, crabs, welks, huge sand dollars and dunes. In one of the backwater swamps, a small alligator. And birds. Literally millions of what David called Waxwings in an incredible aerial display, flying in a huge tornado-like funnel, suddenly breaking into flashing squadrons that wheeled and turned into each other, a mind bending display of birds in an aerial dogfight.( Huh?)

We came around the point to the sight of a shipwreck rising out of the sand. It reminded me of the movie Planet of the Apes. Remember the scene with Charlton Heston and the Statue of Liberty? "You Bastards!"... I tried to do some research and find the history on this particular wreck only to discover that there are LOTs of wrecks off the coast and that the divers and the fishermen love them. This one being high and dry evidently wasn't deemed worthy of a public record. David said in the late 90s while being towed up the coast, heavy seas rolled it and it was abandoned. He said that within 4 days it was stripped of everything of value (He has a couple brass portholes).
We carefully climbed through the rusting superstructure before heading back to our picnic. Pretty neat.

We got back to find the boat high and dry... thought we would be spending the night... but with some superhuman motivation (the girls would have KILLED us) we muscled it back in the water. The sun was getting low and the sand gnats were beginning to swarm so we moved out into the river to eat our picnic of fried chicken, bree, crab dip, toast points and 2 buck chuck. Awesome.

David couldn't resist heading out to Pelican Spit in the open water to visit the 10 thousand pelicans sitting on the sand like bald headed druids in prayer and, as we approached, they lifted into the sky blotting out the sunset. Hard to convey the emotion...

The sun was dipping below the horizon as we sped through the marsh trying to beat the darkness and the tide... when the motor died. The adrenalin was pumping when, 30 minutes later, after wearing the battery dangerously low, after changing fuel tanks, after flooding the engine with no tools to clean fouled plugs, the engine started on one cylinder. We limped out of the marsh holding our breath until the motor suddenly burst into full speed. When we tried to throttle it down, it would begin to die... so David did what David does best... He drove through the twisting, turning creeks and shell rakes, at full speed, in the dark all the while, with Connie clutching the dogs, screaming in the back of the boat, me perched on the bow as ballast, Mary Helen laughing hysterically. What a great adventure! But it will be awhile before I get Connie and the dogs back in a boat! LOL!

Thanks David and Mary Helen! Good times!

Here's a neat little YouTube video of where we were that ya'll might enjoy...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a2cu_8bPKjY&feature=player_embedded

Southern Politics

2010-10-25T18:05:00.003-04:00

We arrived in Georgia late last week after 10 days moving and settling the kids in Arlington. They are is a wonderful location and doing great. Our work was done and we headed 10 hours down I95 to the island.

Our friend, Mary Helen, is running for Superior Court Judge and we are excited to be here for the final push. Unlike Maine, judges are elected. It is a nonpartisan contest, but it is a full fledged election campaign none the less. We have spent the last 5 days stuffing envelopes, attending campaign meetings, distributing stickers and signs and handouts across 5 counties; Glynn, Camden, Jeff Davis, Appling and Wayne.

Today I drove through Glynn County into Wayne County and posted road signs in Jesup and Odum. It's rural, farm country and forestry country. Stands of Lob Lolly and Long Leaf Pine. Fields of cotton and feed grain. The back roads are in good shape; no frost heaves. Half are dirt and it is dry. Lots of churches. Some beautiful antebellum homes, flat and fertile. And then there are the areas of trailers and shacks. A lot like Maine, but I didn't see one snowmobile and no ice fishing shacks.

We signed back up at the health club and Connie has been going to the yoga classes she loves. On my birthday my buddy, David, took me fishing out in the marsh. 12 foot McKee, like a Boston Whaler, with a 70 hp Merc on the back. He knows the creeks, the twists and turns, where the channels are and we flew through the marsh at full throttle. What a blast. And we found the fish, caught our limits of Reds and Trout, all 15 inches plus. Fish fry tonight!

I have found some consulting work with a local environmental firm. Interesting and exciting. Time to put some "juice in the jugg".

All for now...

Dedication tomorrow

2010-09-28T17:38:00.003-04:00

Ben Won!!

2010-09-28T10:12:00.000-04:00

Thanks for your votes!

http://www.sunjournal.com/city/story/916495

Local dad named 2010 Best Dad on Wheels

By Andie Hannon, Staff Writer

AUBURN — The Christopher and Dana Reeve Foundation announced Monday that a local 32-year-old father was named 2010 Best Dad on Wheels.

Ben Hayes said he was humbled Monday morning when he received the call from the foundation telling him that his story received more votes than any other. Paralyzed in an accident in late 2007, the Auburn man credits his large support team, which includes his wife, family, friends and co-workers, with helping reach goals many in his position would have given up on.

"I worked hard to get to this point," Hayes said Monday night. "I'm humbled that people recognize me for not being willing to give up and wanting to find ways to connect with my family and connect with (daughter) Isabel."

The nonprofit organization named after the late Superman actor sponsors the contest each year to honor those living with paralysis who demonstrate dedication, love, encouragement and goodwill.

Dedicated to curing spinal cord injury by funding innovative research and improving the quality of life for people living with paralysis through grants, information and advocacy, the Reeve Foundation invited the public to vote on its top 10 entries. Nominated by his college-sweetheart-turned-wife, Erin, Hayes received more than 8,000 votes to nab the grand prize, which includes bragging rights for the next year and a $500 gift package from Vineyard Vines Clothing.

"The ability to keep everything in perspective is the key," Hayes said in statement issued by the foundation. "Keep pushing and never let it stop you."

According to the foundation, Hayes embodies the spirit and courage of the contest because he doesn't allow the spinal cord injury to stop him from being an active father in the life of his daughter, Isabel, who was only 4 months old at the time of his accident.

"Ben and our other terrific nominees show that while paralysis limits the body, it doesn't limit the heart and mind's capacity to parent," the foundation said in a statement.

Hayes doesn't allow his wheelchair to stop him from doing all the things with his family that other husbands and dads do. He eats with his daughter, transports her around and tucks her in each night with bedtime stories. One thing that stands out is that he teaches his daughter that being in a wheelchair doesn't stop him from loving and guiding her as she grows.

"I try to tell people to be optimistic and try to keep things in perspective in terms of what they're trying to accomplish," Hayes said.

VOTE FOR BEN HAYES!!!

2010-09-14T19:23:00.001-04:00

Benjamin with his daughter

Benjamin Hayes

My husband, Ben, suffered a C4/C5 spinal cord injury on December 21st, 2007. Our daughter, Isabel, was 4 1/2 months old at the time. Ben has developed a loving relationship with Isabel.

He does everything in his power to connect with her and make her realize that even though daddy cannot move, he still loves her and can play with her every day. He uses what he has gained to "hug" her. He had her in front of him while he worked out and let her crawl on him like he was her jungle gym. They "swing" in his lift and once Ben could move his arm, she would hold his hand even though he couldn't hold hers. They eat together (see photo) and at night he tells her stories.

He does everything he can with her and teaches her every single day that daddy is no different than anyone else. He just needs a chair. The older she gets, the more questions she asks. Ben calmly answers them all in a way that she can understand. She knows about daddy's injury and she knows, just as she said, that one day daddy will get up and walk.

http://www.christopherreeve.org/site/c.ddJFKRNoFiG/b.6234103/k.2BE/Vote_for_the_Best_Dad_on_Wheels.htm?msource=email&auid=6976201

Vote for the Best Dad on Wheels - Christopher and Dana Reeve Foundation

www.christopherreeve.org

YOU decide who the 2010 Best Dad on Wheels will be! Read each entry then vote for the your favorite one! The Christopher and Dana Reeve Foundation is dedicated to curing spinal cord injury by funding innovative research, and improving the quality of life for people living with paralysis.

final touches

2010-09-05T10:18:00.002-04:00

More Eric's Cabin Pics

2010-08-27T18:43:00.002-04:00

Progress Report

2010-08-18T11:39:00.002-04:00

The Healing Garden/Eric's Cabin continues to come together. 98 trees and shrubs planted last week and Chuck is working on constructing the bridge across the dry rock creek bed. The dedication date is now set for September 29th. Something special...

Eric's Cabin Update

2010-07-31T14:05:00.003-04:00

The Cabin is just a thing of beauty. Work continues on the paths and the plantings. Dedication is Sept 27th.

Want to support the effort? Go to http://www.hvwa.blogspot.com/ and scroll down the left hand side.

This piece ran in the local paper recently. Go to Page 4... http://www.rem1.org/local_voices/images/2010b/summer_2010_local_voices.pdf

Thank you.

"Waterville Waver"

2010-07-31T09:30:00.007-04:00

His name is Don and he has been walking up and down Main Street for decades, smiling and waving at every passing car. When traffic is heavy, he uses both hands so as to not miss anyone, a constant, complicated ballet of motion.

His wave is complex, begins as an outstretched arm, then a twist at the wrist and elbow, ending with the palm facing backwards, again with arm outstretched, thumb and one finger extended, the other three partially curled. He has perfected the movement over decades.

20 years ago, he began wearing wristbands and the "urban legend" in Waterville spread that he was suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome from the repeated movement. Not so, he claims. They are to protect his wrists from contact during his practice of Hung Gar, a form of Chinese Kung Fu. His one inch long thumb nails are also a part of his practice.

"It's what I do," he replied when asked why he waves. "I can't explain it better, because my mind doesn't work good anymore. I started doing it when I worked for my Uncle's catering company back in the 50's and I just kept on doing it." I asked, "How old are you, Don?" "You got me with that one. My mind doesn't work good anymore. I'm not good with numbers and dates," he replied smiling.

The smile never left his lips. Thin, fit, balding, he is of average height and stands erect as he speaks with me and waves at each passing car. His teeth are pointed and it has been a very long time since he has seen a dentist. He dresses in dirty jeans and a tee shirt with a large eagle belt buckle. In his breast pocket he carries a Mega Bucks ticket. "Do you ever win the lottery," I asked. "Yeah, sometimes," he replied, removing the ticket and displaying three one dollar bills. "It's what you do with the 'ones'."

"I'll be 80 in a month... a couple months," he suddenly recalls. I replied, "Wow, Don, you're in good shape for 80. And I noticed your long thumbnails." He responded with a long, fluid martial arts movement which ended with both his arms outstretched and the thumbnails pointed about 3 inches from my eyeballs. "Hung Gar. It's the Hung Gar. Nobody knows it. It's not here. It's everywhere else, but not here." "Martial arts?" I asked. He nodded. "I can't explain, because, like I said, my mind doesn't work good anymore."

Out of the blue, Don offered, "It's the macular degeneration..." I asked, "Are your eyes bad? That must be tough walking in traffic." He said, "I can't see your face right now, but I walk in the road, especially with a lot of snow. It's safe, because everyone knows me. The cars move for me. I don't move for them. It's what I do."

The whiskers on his chin are sparse, white, 3 inches long. "Are you happy?" I asked. "Oh yeah, I'm happy." "Do you know John, the Jesus Man, who also walks around Waterville?" I asked. "Oh yeah, we're friends. He's a good guy." "Can I take your picture?" I asked. "Oh yeah, I'm not shy."

A car horn beeped at him, and, without breaking eye contact with me, he executed his complex, twisting wave. "I can't explain it, because, like I said, my mind doesn't work good anymore." he smiled.

As he walked away, I called after him. "You're like that guy Kane on the Kung Fu TV show, just walking the earth, enjoying your days." He looked back over his shoulder, smiled and gave me his wave.

j

On my honor...

2010-07-29T07:54:00.003-04:00

Headline...

Obama Missing Historic Boy Scout Jamboree for Fundraisers, 'View' Taping

"President Obama will make history as the first sitting president on a daytime talk show when he visits with the ladies of "The View." But he'll be missing out on another historic occasion -- the Boy Scouts' Jamboree marking the group's 100th anniversary, right in the president's backyard."

OK, that tears it. I concur with the "Jesus Man".

Full Circle

2010-07-20T15:20:00.005-04:00

After a very busy couple of months filled with happy events: weddings, rehearsal dinners, bachelor parties and showers; after traveling to Cape Cod, and Manassas, Long Pong and Cincinnati, Portland and Bangor, we have arrived where we began 3 years ago... Waterville. It seems like a logical and convenient place to just "be" for a month or two. Close to Tina in Bangor. Close to the kids in Portland. Close to family and old friends, dentist, doctors, vets... So we have rented a little place just down the street from the Hospice House for a while. Nice long, pillared front porch where we placed some white wicker rockers from the storage unit up the road. Great for reading and visiting... and the dogs love it, too.

Work on the Hospice Healing Garden continues and we are glad to be close to participate with the building of "Eric's cabin" and the planting. This week trees are being planted and walking paths are being roughed in.

It is odd being back here where we spent so many years... 31 years, raising our family, working careers, mowing lawns, shoveling snow. So many memories.

Speaking of "odd", I rode my bicycle down on Main Street this morning and spent an hour talking to John Lewis, a local, longstanding oddity. For the last decade or more, I had watched him walking the streets of Waterville with a homemade cross in one hand, wearing a red mackinaw wool cap, summer and winter. Snowmobile suit in winter, shorts and tee shirt in summer, he wears a small backpack, chartreuse earphones and wrap around sunglasses and blesses cars and pedestrians as they pass by. Anyone from Waterville would recognize the "Jesus Man" and, though I had not thought of him for 3 years, I was not surprised to see him walking down Elm Street in front of the library.

One of the blessings of being "unplugged" is the gift of time. Perhaps, in the past, I was too busy or too self important to take time to speak with this unique individual, but today was different. Or maybe I am different... not necessarily better... just different.

John is almost 70 years old. A native son, he attended Waterville High School through the 10th grade and worked for 30 years at the Wyandotte Woolen Mill in the carding department. Hot, brutal, menial factory work. Difficult work according to John. Difficult people, he emphasized. He spoke of his loving mother who "went with Jesus" years ago. The churches turned him out, were not interested in his evangelizing and prophesying of the impending Armageddon. "Churches only want your money. Yahweh will not be pleased with them on the Judgment Day." he lisped passionately.

"They" tell him who is good and who is from "the dark side". People, houses, vehicles, he claims he can sense whether they are of God or the devil. "You will know them by their works" he quoted. "Obama is the anti-Christ" he rasped. Nancy Pelosi also made the list of the damned, spawn of Satan.

At some point, he was institutionalized; "Locked me up for crazy until I learned to keep my mouth shut", he offered furtively. I told him I had seen him at the cemetery before. "50 years ago, as I walked up the steps to the large cross, the gates of heaven opened to me. It was so beautiful!" and he started to weep. "But them I was shown the gates of hell. It scared me so much. I almost went insane." So for the next 50 years he kept his vigil at that cross until he was "purified" and now he "marches for Jesus" on the streets of Waterville blessing everything and anything that comes his way.

He gave me his blessing as we parted, waved his cross over my head and warned me to be ready, to be among the chosen, when Jesus comes to save the faithful from the wrath of a vengeful God. And it will be soon... 2012 he stated with conviction.

The "Jesus Man" walked slowly across Main street waving his cross at buildings, dogs, passing ambulances and telephone poles happily living his own reality on the streets of Waterville. Nice to finally meet him. As the country song goes "These are my people..."

Mr. & Mrs. Chris and Molly Ahlman

2010-07-07T10:05:00.006-04:00

Congratulations family! Wonderful wedding. Beautiful bride.

Mr. & Mrs. Foss

2010-06-29T18:00:00.002-04:00

Happy days!

Congratulations Nate and Britt

2010-06-23T10:55:00.005-04:00

A beautiful wedding on Cape Cod. A beautiful bride, a handsome groom, a wonderful reception with lots of friends and family. And some hands on time with the newest member of the family, little Ava. Life is very good.

Happy 80th Aunt Chris

2010-06-22T21:00:00.002-04:00

Happy Times!

Eric's Cabin

2010-06-09T09:43:00.008-04:00

The timing of being back in Maine for Ryan's wedding and back in Waterville for a month could not have been better. It gave us the opportunity to lay some blood, sweat and tears on a new structure built behind the Waterville Hospice House, an organization in which we have been active for the past 10 years.

The Hospice Memorial Healing Garden was only an idea when I joined the board in 2001. But it was an idea that excited a lot of people. Richie Houghton, Eric's best friend, was studying landscape architecture at UMass at the time and he developed a plan and a model of the garden to be located on a piece of land behind the Hospice House... which we did not own, nor for which we had the money to buy. Talk about a dream.

Over the years, Dale Clark and her wonderful volunteers raised money, bought the land, and cleared and improved the property. Richie, now a licensed professional landscape architect in Boston, put together a fabulous, updated plan which called for a special, central structure in the healing garden. And the extraordinary Chuck Lakin prepared the plans and the materials for that structure. The structure is unique and impressive, the most outstanding features being the curved, laminated roof trusses, covered with tongue and groove Russian Spruce, stained with Australian Oil.

The building is called "Eric's Cabin" in memory of our son. That is a story that began years ago and a link to which is pasted here http://gdfoss.blogspot.com/2008/12/december-8th.html .

I love the way the Universe works. Everything begins with Intention. Add time and space and patience and persistence. Keep flexible. Keep faithful. Pay attention. Things never turn out as you had hoped for. They turn out so much better.

Busy Back in Maine

2010-06-05T11:38:00.007-04:00

Triplets in the Neighborhood

2010-04-17T11:56:00.005-04:00

Our little condo is on the corner of a lane leading directly onto the beach and we enjoy watching the steady stream of walkers, dogs on leashes, bikers, golf carts, runners... The dogs stand on the back of the couch and watch through the picture window. Always something going on. Today's triplets take the prize for "Cuteness".

The String Rays played at Palm Coast Coffee House last night and we enjoyed hanging with the SSI Village crew. From left to right: Mimi, Rosemary, Connie, Jay, Shelly... good looking bunch!

Getting geared up to hit the road and work our way North for a busy summer of weddings, showers, anniversary and bachelor parties. Gonna miss the slow and easy congenial pace of southern living, but then, everything changes. If we have learned anything, it's that life is best lived going with the flow...

Declan

2010-04-15T18:57:00.003-04:00

Declan died last week. Laima and Robert have always been dog people, but this one was pretty special. A noble beast who welcomed, or at least did not devour, Sam and Lu when we visited them in New Mexico in 2008... even when they drank out of his water dish. So sorry friends

Blogus Interuptus

2010-01-12T16:29:00.005-05:00

Time for a new computer. The level of my frustration has finally exceeded the heights of my frugality, both of which are Everest-like in stature. And perhaps also time to purchase access to the internet instead of relying on stray, unprotected wireless networks that come and go with the Georgia tides.

But for today I suppose blogging in this Palm Coast coffee shop is adequate. Happy New Year Ya'll.

Another December 8th

2009-12-08T08:17:00.004-05:00

always

Have Massage Table, Will Travel.

2009-12-02T15:01:00.008-05:00

I think it was in December 2004 that I bought Connie a massage table as a Christmas gift. I spent my lunch hours at Barnes and Noble reading books like "Massage for Dummies". At any rate, she loved the gift and so did Ryan and Kate. It is a gift that keeps on giving.

None the less, I was surprised when Connie insisted on taking the massage table along when we headed out on our cross country adventure in 2007. We figured out a way to secure it on top of a cot in the back of the van and it was actually a very comfortable place to relax as we explored this magnificent country.

I can't count the number of times over the past 2 1/2 years that I have dragged it out of the van to rub out Connie's sore back after a long day of sitting in those car seats. And she slept on it (with the legs folded down) instead of an air mattress in the tent as we camped in the National Parks across the West.

Last spring we were camped at Calf Creek in Southern Utah, an area called Escalante and we had just come back from a 5 mile hike through the desert canyonlands. The scenery was so spectacular, especially the 230 foot waterfall at the back of the canyon, but the hiking was in soft sand, like beach sand, and our legs were very sore. It was 90 degrees. When we got back to our campsite, Connie plopped down at the picnic table and promptly lost her balance and toppled over landing on the ground on her back and on top of Sampson.

They both started to howl in pain. After a few minutes, things began to quiet down, but Connie was still down on the ground when a male voice came out of the darkness.

"Everything OK over there?" he asked.

"My wife took a tumble," I responded.

The shadowy figure moved closer to the campfire and said "Is she alright?"

I replied," Her back is pretty sore..."

A 50ish, fit man dressed in hiking clothes walked into the light and smiled "Maybe I can help. I just happen to be a chiropractor."

I said,"Well, that's just great! I just happen to have a massage table!"

We set up the table and an hour later Connie felt much better. We spent time over the next few days hiking and talking with Martin and his wife, Billy, from Bozeman Montana. Great folks.

Fast forward through the summer of 2009 where the massage table stayed set up in the middle of Ryan's and Katie's apartments used by anyone and everyone with sore muscles and aching backs. Ryan and Kristen, Landace, Katie, Connie. I even got a little massage for my sore muscles from the long days working on the docks. Fast forward to Saint Simons Island where Connie and I have settled in for a few months enjoying the milder weather, the beach and the laid back low-country life.

We have rented a small. newly appointed two bedroom condo, 100 yards from the beach. It is one of 3 connected units, a triplex, and, like so many properties on the island, there is a For Sale sign out front. We unpacked the Thule, set up the massage table and are just enjoying being hunkered down for a time. It was a busy summer and we are catching up on our rest, reading and correspondence, just relaxing for a bit. We are also watching what we eat and drink, working on staying healthy, taking off a few pounds (they certainly come off harder than they went on...). We even joined the Saint Simons Island Health Club.

It's a great facility; swimming pool. gym, lots of aerobic equipment, weight machines and exercise classes from pilates to yoga. And, so like kids in a candy store, we overdid it in the first week. My tennis elbow started acting up from the curls and Connie's knee got swollen and sore from the treadmill and pilates classes. We went on line and read about conservative treatments, icing, ibuprofen, elastic support braces and so got busy getting better.

Connie was at CVS picking up a knee brace when there came a knock at the door. The man wearing a Western wide brimmed hat said he was from North Carolina and that his name was Dave. He wanted information about the property for sale. Connie walked through the door as I finished providing him contact info and she sat down and started to put on the knee brace.

Dave said "You're knee is swollen. I think I can help you."

Connie said, "Really?"

He said" Yes. I happen to be a chiropractor."

I said "Well that's just Great! I happen to have a massage table."

Now you tell me... Are these random or non-random events? Is something going on or isn't it? Regardless, makes for a cute story...

As they say here in Coastal Georgia "Anyway...."

Our Pebble in the Pond

2009-11-22T12:52:00.004-05:00

We continue to be amazed and humbled by the contacts we receive from around the globe in response to our story in Elizabeth Lesser's book, Broken Open and from the resulting Oprah show in January. Connie likes to make the analogy of a pebble being tossed into a pond. The ripples emanate outward and their impact is unpredictable, mysterious.

The impact is exponentially amplified by modern technology. When I google "glen and connie" or "broken open connie" links come up to our blog and to the TV show. Crazy... But it is how a young woman in Tunisia found Ryan and expressed her appreciation for the hope she received from his words in Chicago. It's how another young woman in Brazil found us last month and emailed us with grateful words. There are hundreds of such contacts, but after almost a year, we expected them to die out. Perhaps that is why we are amazed when another shows up.

We stopped in to see Cyn, Glenn, Izzy and Ian in New York City on our way down the East Coast. They are very active in their church, the Rutgers Presbeterian, which has a large, unique and very talented congregation. The choir is world class, professional musicians from the New York Metropolitan Opera and theater community. The performer Bono attends the church. It's an historic, active church which does much good work.

Cynthia emailed me a copy of the pastor's Sunday sermon last week. a Dr. David D. Prince. Her message was cryptic... "You're featured..." What could that mean? I read the sermon not knowing what to expect. And then, toward the end of the talk, he began to read from Elizabeth Lesser's book and from my story. He used my words to speak of hope and faith. Mind blowing.

http://www.rutgerschurch.com/Sermons/sermon110809.html

It is absolutely amazing to us how far our families message of hope has spread and continues to spread. We are so grateful. One tiny pebble in the pond...

Down the Road

2009-11-04T11:17:00.004-05:00

We left Portland on Halloween and drove into New York City to see Cousin Cynthia and fam. What a wonderful visit! On Sunday we took the subway to Brookline and stood on the street at mile 8 of the NYC Marathon to watch an incredible sea of humanity run by. Runners from every part of the country and the globe. 80 year old men and women in wheelchairs, disabled vets running on prosthetics, blind people with guides. It was overwhelming and inspiring. And for the entire 2 hours Izzy shook her pom-poms, jumped up and down and cheered them all. Such a sweet kid. Ian and his friend high-fived hundreds of runners. Glenn and Cyn danced and cheered. Thanks ever so much family.

On to Baltimore to visit Uncle Dick and Aunt Chris, a special visit to the oldest member of my maternal family. Dick and I visited Keith. We didn't talk much. Just passed the football around the yard. He hugged me tight when we left. Life is such a mystery.

Manassas was only a few hours away and the Lowe's were so welcoming. We are excited for the joining of our families with Ryan and Kristen's marriage.

We headed west to pick up the Shennendoah National Park Skyway and drove some remarkable ridge roads. The foliage was past peak, but magnificient in browns and auburns. Down into the valley for the night in Harrisonburg and on to Asheville to visit our friend Steve. He works at the Biltmore and hooked us up with passes and a very special night viewing of the Christmas lights. Spectacular. We sat around his fireplace, playing guitar, singing, getting to know Kate and Wendy, his roommates.

We hit the road late Friday afternoon and immediately got a text message from our friend Mimi on SSI in GA. "Dawg, where are ya? Get down here..." So we drove to Georgia and spent the night at Jay's. The next day we met up with our realtor friend, Micki, and found a sweet little 2 BR condo only 100 yds from the beach. Connie fell in love with it immediately and we are officially hunkered down for awhile. The address is 1038A Ocean Blvd, Saint Simons Island, GA 31522. If you're in the neighborhood, stop by.

So now some decompression time; reading, writing, resting, catching up with friends, walking the beach. Excited about what comes next. Life is good.

Making Bail

2009-10-28T15:20:00.003-04:00

We were in Waterville when the calls came from the Cumberland County Correctional Center. I couldn't accept the collect calls because I didn't have an inmate connection account established and try as I might, the telephone and internet system would not let me set one up. But the brief messages that were allowed through went like this.

"It's Ricky..."

"Need $2500 bail money..."

"My truck and climbing gear as collateral..."

I called the bait shop and let them know Ricky was in jail and when I got back in town headed for the docks. The Boss put up the additional money to spring him and I headed for the jail to see if we could make it happen.

When you enter the receiving area, past the surveillance cameras and the double doors, the tile floor and lime green walls look like any other institutional waiting area... except for the guards in brown uniforms and the heavy metal, locked doors. The woman behind the counter had dark hair, glasses and a loud voice. I stood in line behind a Somali woman and a 40ish man who talked nonstop to anyone listening. "Just want to bail my daughter out. This is bullshit. Hey, they've got an ATM machine here. Good to know for next time..." A little ADD.

The flow of people in and out of the locked door was constant. Guards, social workers, a black pastor dressed in black with a white collar, blond women in scrubs appearing to be medical personnel, administrators in ties. Some were wanded for metal before entering.

When it was my turn, I announced I had bail money for my friend. "Do you have $600 in cash?" she asked. Yes. "I'll call the Bail Commissioner. Go take a seat" The 24 gray seats were surprisingly comfortable and I hunkered down for the next hour to wait near the wall of coin operated pay lockers

There were pictures on the wall of the detention area. White walls, two stories of of prison cells surrounding a large open room with a glassed in, observation area overlooking. Gray metal railings, tables and chairs bolted to the floors. It looked fairly pleasant, but, no doubt, was the last place on earth anyone would want to spend time.

People came and went dealing with the issues of incarceration. "I need to pick up my boyfriends wallet and keys"... "When are visiting hours?"... "What are the charges this time?". Telephones rang and radios squalked . "I've got one from C and one from B2. Bring them down."... "No, I don't want to release my wallet to my mother. I want to talk to my case worker."

A man came out through the locked door shaking his head and walked up to the officer behind the desk. "'I don't deserve to be here...' how many times have I heard that." The officer said "I don't deserve to be here either. They all have the same story, year after year after year. It never changes." After he left I walked up to the counter and struck up a conversation with her. How long have you worked here? "22 years. Used to work out back but hurt my shoulder. 12 years out front now. I've seen it all. People wouldn't believe the way things are. It's not like on TV that's for sure." How do you keep from getting depressed, I asked. She thought for a moment. "The way I see it, you get what you give. Sure, there are some jerks, but most of them are decent. But it all boils down to, you get what you give".

We sat waiting. A lull in the activity, the only sound was the ventilation system and the hum and buzz of electronically activated doors being opened and closed... opened and closed. The sounds of incarceration. Out the window, the trees were brown and red and gold, the last of the autumns glory.

The bail commissioner appeared in the lobby. "Who is here for Ricky D.?" he called. I raised my hand and he pointed down the hall to a closed door right next to another locked door that said "Non-contact Visitations". I counted out the 6 $100 dollar bills and he pointed to a bench outside. "Wait there. He'll be out when I get the paper work done."

Half an hour later, Ricky walked out through the metal door wearing jeans and a tee shirt. He looked over and saw me and said "I should have known it would be you...". First stop was the corner store for cigarettes . He started making calls on my cell phone and I heard the story several times. "The only thing wrong I did was get out of bed. The baby was crying. She had been drinking. I hadn't even finished my cigarette when she had called the police on me. She said I threatened her, but I didn't. The girls were all there. They saw it. That's it. It's 100% phony and it's over. I just need to figure out how to get my clothes, my truck and my trailer, but the terms of my bail don't allow me to got near her. I don't know where I will live or what I will do for money, but I can't go back there."

We drove around while Ricky chained smoked and thought through his next steps. "Want a beer?" I asked knowing the answer before I asked it. "He looked at me with his piercing blue eyes and said "I need some beers, but it would violate my bail." Are you hungry I asked? "Yeah, didn't eat today. Traded my breakfast and lunch for a sleeping pill from a guy inside. But not now."Finally he said, "I'll just go to the docks." We drove down the wharf just as the crew was finishing up from a cold day of unloading herring trucks. They all milled around Ricky. "What they get you for? "Domestic". Oh yeah! Did you hit her? "No, I shoulda. "Yeah that happened to me once. Women just can't take a punch".

The conversation turned to me. "Hey, I read your blog and I'm not happy. You're gonna cost me my job and I can't afford that right now." "Yeah, and you mentioned my warrants. The last thing I need is to be tracked down." I apologized and promised to take down the offending remarks. I somehow knew this was going to happen. I'll have to find another way to write about this past summer while protecting the guys. Sorry boys.

The Boss and the Foreman came out of the shop and Ricky approached them to thank them for bailing him. The Foreman's comment was "I want to see you at 4:00AM tomorrow. You have $600 to work off." The Boss said "Go punch in. I've got a couple trucks coming." Ricky turned to me and extended his hand. "I'll call you", he said. "Maybe I'll come down to Georgia. Nothing holding me here now."

As I drove away, he was walking up the wharf looking for a hot cup of coffee and a coat against the frigid wind before he began his shift on the docks.

Parting Thoughts

2009-10-24T10:37:00.003-04:00

My internal clock is still set on 'dock time', waking up at 4:00. Some mornings I can manage to fall back to sleep for awhile, but never past 7:00. I sneak out of bed and the apartment so as to not disturb those who can sleep. This morning I walked onto the street with the dogs at 6:30. Cold and gray, the bite of winter in the air.

The van warmed up slowly and Sam n' Lu shivered in the passenger seat. I found myself driving around the deserted city streets aimlessly. As I woke up, I began to notice that those streets weren't really deserted at all. The man with the shopping cart half filled with cans and bottles was dressed in a dirty snowmobile suit, his thick gray beard covering all of his face not covered by the wool hat pulled down over his eyes. He waved at me as I drove by and I wondered if he was someone I had met this summer on the waterfront, when the days were warm and the living was easier.

The elderly woman with a cane walking painfully down an empty Congress Street poorly dressed in a thin red windbreaker, the dark, black man with a hood standing on the curb watching. The old man who struggled stiffly to his feet from behind a brick wall dragging his thin blanket behind him.

The van seemed to guide itself to the soup kitchen on Oxford Street where dozens of people lined up waiting for seats to become available inside. Some were dressed heavily, with layers upon layers, and had spent the night outside sleeping in alleys and vacant lots. Others had left unheated boarding house rooms drawn to the warm soup kitchen and the hot coffee. I was too much a coward to park the van and stand in line with them, felt too conspicuous with my clean clothes and fleece coat.

Last friday afternoon I stopped down to Bubba's Sulky Lounge hoping to run into Charlie. My excuse was that he owed me $20, but in truth, I just wanted to see him again before we head South. He was standing outside smoking with a short, black eyed woman with 4 missing front teeth. She was drunk and laughing at he own jokes." You ever hear a chain saw? Runnn-nigga-nigga-nigga.... runnn-nigga-nigga-nigga... Hahahahahaha!"She told the "joke" over and over until I heard a voice from behind me on the street. "I no nigga" the shawled Somali woman said. She stood firm for a moment then turned and walked away.

"Chain saw woman" then turned to me. Her eyes were bleary as she looked me over. "You a cop?" she asked, " cause you got a cops face." Charlie jumped in, "That's Glen. He works down at the bait shop with me... where I'm the fork truck guy..." At this point words failed him and he started making noises and motions like he was driving his big, brakeless Clark Hyster around the shop. " Brrrrooooommm, Errrch, Werrwerrr, Gittygittygitty, Ma-HaHaha!" He went on and on and I laughed until long after he stopped.

We moved inside and stood beside the roaring fireplace, warm, safe. Charlie tried to repay the money he owed me, but I offered to settle if he would buy a round of "Jimmy Specials", Allens Coffee Brandy with a splash of milk. Charlie racked up the balls at the pool table and Jimmy told a story about how he was living with his first wife in the back of a Humpty Dumpty Potato Chip truck cutting fish with Charlie and had once seen him open a lock with an bent old square nail.

I finished my drink and walked over to the pool table. "I'm heading out now Chuck, going south for the winter." I put my arm around his shoulder. "You stay warm and out of jail". His face got serious and he wrapped his arms around me. "You comin' back next summah right? Workin' on the docks again?" "Maybe" I said and he gave me a toothless grin from ear to ear, hugged me hard and said "You come see old Charlie." Four years my junior, I squeezed him back "I will, young fella."

As I headed for the door, it all happend at once. "Chain saw woman" called out, "You got a good lookin face, cop. You can come back again." Jimmy started to dance a lick to the music on the juke box "See you next summer!" he called. Charlie lifted his pool cue above his head and began to hoot. "See ya, Glen! Gittygittygitty... Ma Hahaha!!" I stopped a second and enjoyed the remarkable moment, warm and happy in a waterfront bar surrounded by poverty, alcoholics, the homeless, before heading back out into the cold and gray.

A warm little dysfunctional oasis in the gloom...

The Dock Chronicles - The New Guy

2009-10-20T21:40:00.005-04:00

My time working on the waterfront is over. It has been an experience of extremes of which I have written in previous blogs. But much was not written or, if so, not posted, so that I might continue to work unencumbered(and unscathed ) among the men on the docks whom I have grown to admire and who's friendship I value.

I kept notes in my trusty note pad of the goings-on over the summer and fall, a rich record of the experience, and hope to find a quiet place over the coming months to write the stories. My intention is not to, in any way, exploit these experiences. God knows these men have been, and continue to be, exploited by the system and hammered upon by society. They hold my deepest respect. I am proud to have worked among them.

Early in the summer, I wrote this short story and shared it with a number of friends and family.

The New Guy

He showed up at the bait shop at 4:00 AM looking cautious, on guard, as if he expected to be sucker punched at any moment. And a sucker punch is probably the only way anyone would ever get the draw him. New Guy was a brawler, six foot, solid with scared square fists and jaw. He spoke between tight lips, perhaps self conscious of his mouth of broken, missing teeth, an occupational hazard of a previous job as a waterfront bar manager/bouncer.

Three weeks had passed since my turn as the new guy. As the bosses’ cousin, I had been held at arms length by the seven man crew for the first few days. They watched and waited to see what the hell I was. At 58, I was the oldest man among them; Skully, the fork truck driver, with his tattoos, his off duty, black leather vest and dew rag was the only other 50 something on the crew, the rest in their 20’s and 30’s, maybe early 40’s. It was hard to tell. The working waterfront in Maine is a harsh environment and men don’t age well in it.

I shamelessly bought coffee and after work beers to crack the ice with these guys. That, and worked my ass off… silently. There was no job too wet and slimy that I didn’t jump into. And these guys do an incredible amount of hard, dirty work. Shoveling dead fish, spraying out totes of guts and blood, rolling 300 pound barrels of bait, slime and viscera pouring down your skins and boots, immersed in lobster bait, smelling like something only a codfish could love.

After a few days, they began to open up a bit. The first questions were “What do you think about legalizing marijuana?’ and “What do you drink?” They laughed when I told them I rode the “Silver Bullet” (Coors Light) and enjoyed an occasional medicinal brownie. The real test was whether I would keep my mouth shut when they lit up out back on the loading dock at 6:30 AM or found twisted tea in a coffee cup. In full skins and boots, I doubted I would float long off the end of the dock. Keeping my mouth shut was more than just wanting to be “one of the guys”.

By the second week, they worked me into their system. My primary value to them was to do the paperwork filling out bait slips tracking the barrels and totes of poggies, herring, redfish and mackerel winched down onto the decks of the boats, collecting the money. And in between shoveling fish off the floor, reefing on barrels and forking bait into totes.

By the third week, I watched in fascination as the waist of my pants became loose and the flab in my neck and face dissolved. My hands, soft from two years of driving around the country, calloused and toughened from daily exposure to the salt brine and manual labor. The pain in my muscles dullened; constant but tolerable as I cut back on the tylenol. Every now and then, I would tell a story from the road or from my years in the paper industry, another difficult work place. They listened, laughed, added another piece to the puzzle of the “old guy” in their midst.

Only 2 in 7 had a drivers license. Most make a choice at some point to give up driving.. and to continue to drink. At 4:00 AM the smell of alcohol is strong on their breath, even among the all pervasive stink of fish. Bleary eyed and hacking, the crew ramped up slowly as the boats and trucks lined up for loading and unloading. These early hours were the most onerous where the potential for getting hurt was most present. Conveyors clanging, people cussing, weaving their way across the shop floor dodging fork trucks carrying over-filled pallets of blue and white plastic barrels, a dangerous ballet of orange slickers in the morning dawn.

The “boss” is a yeller. It’s how he is heard above the clamor. And it’s how he runs the job. All those lectures at the MIT business school about participative management and an empowered workforce go right out the window here. From long years, the boss has learned how to keep this crew on their toes and as safe as possible. And in spite of the verbal barrage, they take ownership of their work, anticipating, backfilling, keeping things running at a frantic pace.

There is a hierarchy, a pecking order among them as there are with all groups of men. A few of the guys are only expected to accept abuse from the boss and they do it with a low grumble. Other guys take flack from all directions and the New Guy is among them.

The days are long and often hard. It is cool in the shop where hoses flow constantly, hosing the totes, flushing the conveyors, washing the blood and guts down the holes in the floors. On the docks, the weather prevails. Some days the sun is hot and uncomfortable and we fry in our skins. Other days we have to suit up in full gear against the wind and driving rain. Favorite days are gray and overcast when the crew will gather on a break to watch the sky, the boats and ferries maneuvering around the piers, sitting on barrels smoking hand rolled cigarettes, often in silence.

There is a resignation among then. Life has not turned out as they had hoped. But they don’t often complain. They know there are much worse places they could be. They have been to those places.

New Guy looked like he would fit in with the crew, but he is slow to jump in when work needs to be done. He’s not lazy, just cautious, watching the crew and the work flow. He worked as a tree climber, swinging high in the air with a chain saw, learned caution from experience. He’s nobodies fool.

Still, the crew ethic has no tolerance for hangers-back. Yesterday Dave looked at him and said “If you’re not going to do anything, go back inside”… and he did. It stuck in his craw and he repeated the insult facetiously several times during the morning. His mind is sharp as is his tongue. Had his family of origin been different, he could have easily been the CEO of some company. One day he said, “I wish I could just do it all again. I would have paid more attention.”

He looked rough this morning at 4:00, hung-over or still drunk, and they gave him the dirtiest job, standing under the huge bins of slimy fish as they dumped into the hopper, covering him with gore as he hosed out the totes. He walked out onto the dock after an hour, cigarette in his mouth, eyes glazed and hard, his face set in a dark scowl. “What’s up, Rick.” I said. “Just living the dream”, he answered. I chuckled at his dark sarcasm. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the ebbing tide as the sun rose in spectacular pinks and reds down the bay.

As he turned to walk back inside he stared straight ahead into space with distant eyes and spoke low, more of a growl.

“The dream is dead…” he said.

Last Days

2009-10-16T20:55:00.007-04:00

Uncle Bob died yesterday, the last of his line. Ryan and I drove up to Old Town to say good bye. Bob told me he read this blog every day Hope you read this one. You were one of a kind. We love you and we'll miss you.

ROAD LESS TRAVELED

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet, knowing how way leads onto way
I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood
And I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference

Robert Frost

And now there are two.

"props"

2009-10-04T11:23:00.005-04:00

"Props" (respect) are not given lightly on the docks. Props are earned through hard work, demonstrated skills and, to some extent, through the reputation of past deeds. Of course, reputation is a subjective thing, but that doesn't diminish the appreciation of a good story, true or not.

The "Kid" is 23 years old, 6 ft 4", 240 pounds. He's not an outstanding worker, has no discernible skills, but he tells some of the most outrageous stories I have ever heard. Both sides of his head are shaved, the remaining hair, long and black. He is Native American, Sioux and Blackfoot. The crew calls him "How". When he smiles, which is often, his eyes smile, too. He suffers the verbal abuse silently, stoically.

He was born on a train in a boxcar somewhere in New Mexico. His birth certificate says he was born in a field. His mother and father were druggies, his mother shot and killed his father and then shot herself. as did his brother. He says it did not affect him much. What affected him most was the death of his dog, "the best friend I ever had...". He still grieves.

At the age of 16, he joined the Marine Corp and was sent to Iraq where he was severely wounded, losing the vision in his right eye, double knee replacement to his left knee and shot through the chest/spine. The doctors told him he would never walk again, so he got out of bed and walked from California to Maine. He was trying to reach North Carolina, but ended up here. The crew says it is because he must have been dragging that left leg and got him off course.

He owns 800 acres in Montana with 1000 wild mustangs and was offered $9 million dollars, which he refused. His medical disability of $2,000/month goes to his daughter who lives in Russia. He can no longer see her because the last time he was there he beat up 8 cops in a bar, was placed in a Russian prison and charged with "crimes against humanity".

Once he was without food for several weeks, went to an animal shelter to get food for his dog and lived off the 50 pound bag they provided him for a month. The other morning, it was 40 degrees and he was wearing a tank top, shivering. I gave him my rain coat. Later he told me, "Thanks. It's really warm, like sleeping in a trash bag."

He is fascinated by the various animal marine life that he digs out of the fish hoppers and keeps a mental list of the different jellyfish, butterfish, skate, haddock, monkfish, eels, dogfish, crabs which he collects in a bucket and brings to me with a big smile on his face. He is always hungry and I share my sandwiches with him, buy him coffee.

He smokes handrolled cigarettes clumsily. We were discussing the Bible one day and his comment was "I smoked the Old Testament once..."... used the thin parchment paper for rolling stock. One of the guys once said, "I always thought I might like to be a college history professor... or an English professor". He said "I always wanted to be a dinosaur"...

The other day the topic of discussion during coffee was scars. Charlie showed his 56 stitches in his scalp and told of the idiot who hit him with a beer bottle for asking for a cigarette. Another guy showed his 26 stitches from a pool cue, another 6 stitches from a fist in his eye lid. They looked at me and the medical scar I have down my neck from parotid surgery in 2006. I turned my head, pointed at the scar and said "knife fight".

Major props... couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

Extremes

2009-09-27T10:11:00.012-04:00

The herring boat arrived with the dawn, with the sea gulls and with the seals, and another day unfolded on the wharf. The weather continues to be generally mild, but some mornings, before the sun blasts over the horizon, the mornings are cold and damp. On those days, the men dress in warm clothes and hooded sweatshirts, as we stumble around in the early morning darkness looking like ancient monks trudging to Lauds.

Harbor Seals are supposed to be reclusive. Guess these guys didn't get the memo. The 200-300 pound marine mammals spin and twirl, breach the water, sit up and beg like dogs for the fresh herring that the men toss into the water from the loading dock.

The waterfront is a place of extremes. It is a place of the profound and the mundane, of breathtaking beauty and dark dysfunction. From the sights, sounds and smells of this place to the unique characters of the fishermen and the waterfront workers, their lifestyles and attitudes... extreme.

The gigantic, 15 story glistening white cruise ships arrive every day or two, shepherded to the dock at the State Pier by the small, but powerful tugboats. Today the Queen Victoria steamed in. Incredible. We watch the tourists standing on the outside balconies of their staterooms, watching us. The crew marvels at the deck top waterslides, the 30 foot, poolside TV screen, the glitz of the casinos and the showrooms clearly visible through the ship windows with our binoculars. The stark contrast between these luxury vessels and their privileged passengers and the lives and living/work conditions of the men on this dock, the unprivileged, is another extreme.

The tourists pour off the ships and wander around Commercial Street, wallets in hand, seeking additional stimulation. The intrepid few who walk down the potholed cobblestones of Custom House Wharf to the end, invariably stop in bewilderment to look into the door of the bait shop at the men dressed in orange skins, black boots and blue rubber gloves, shoveling fish, driving fork trucks, loading boats and flatbeds. Some hold their noses, others gag at the smell. Most are curious and would like to engage, but the men are not about it, with a few exceptions. The other day a tall professional man walked by dressed in an expensive suit, placing his Gucci'ed feet carefully to avoid the gore. Ricky was carrying a stinking, fly covered trash bin filled with blood soaked cardboard to the dumpster and spoke to the man who was clearly alarmed by his approach. "Wanna swap suits?" Ricky grinned. "What?" said the anxious man. End of conversation.

The idea hatched one day as we sat on the dock watching the cruise ship, the tourists and the seals. These tourists would pay good money to feed the seals herring and watch them do their thing, we figured. I roughed out a quick business plan based upon the number of cruise ships and average number of passengers, a conservative 5% participation rate and a $10 profit margin per head. The numbers were impressive so I took the next step and called the Maine Department of Marine Resources and Portland City Hall to speak with the business licensing division. The Marine Warden at DMR was encouraging. The self important woman on the end of the phone at Portland City Hall was dismissive and unhelpful.

When she eventually returned my call, after speaking with her legal department, she informed me that this business concept would not be licensed by the city. I asked her to explain the issues and concerns and, with a huff, she began. "There are several. What will you do about the trash generated?" Trash barrels, I suggested. "And what about parking?" The customers walk from the cruise ship, I explained. "Well, there is the matter of sea gulls attacking the tourists for the fish," she continued. Ah... good point I conceded... and maybe even pooping on them, heaven forbid... Yes, a tent would be needed. "And then there is the matter of their hands getting all icky from touching those fish. What will you do about that?" Hmmm... here's an idea. How about a hand washing station?

She was on her high horse now. Who was this insignificant dolt on the end of the phone talking about generating revenues and jobs on the waterfront. Didn't he know that she was important and that her time was valuable. She saved her best argument for last and she delivered it with a slippery contempt dripping from her words.

"No, this is never going to work. Besides, we don't know if we even want harbor seals in our harbor! "...

I thanked her for her time and said I would get back to her after developing the business plan further. I did not suggest that she and the politicians pass local regulations to prohibit seagulls from pooping and seals from swimming in the harbor. I wanted to. Instead, I further researched the concept and learned about the Federal Laws prohibiting human contact of any kind with marine mammals. The seals that eat from the hands of the fishermen, that swim to the dock and beg for fish obviously didn't get that memo either. The United States Marine Mammals Protection Act of 1972 specifically requires seals and humans to remain a minimum distance of 164 feet from each other under penalty of severe fines and possible imprisonment.

The next day I informed the boys that feeding seals was a federal offense. They are all ex-cons and their reaction was predictable. They laughed cynically, suggested the politicians perform impossible anatomical acts upon themselves, filled their buckets with fish and provided the seals with so much herring in the water that a feeding frenzy occurred.

There ought to be a law pertaining to any public servant or politician elected to serve the people of Portland. They should be required to work for a month on the waterfront. To sweat with the taxpayers who work in the kitchens, on the boats and in the bait shops who provide their salaries, in order to better understand the day to day issues of their homeless, illiterate, hopeless constituents. And to recognize that seals and seagulls appear to have rights too and that no bureaucrat is going to outlaw them in Portland Harbor. After all, it's our harbor, too.

Bureaucrats... extreme arrogance.

Canoeing the Allagash

2009-09-09T17:25:00.012-04:00

The Allagash Wilderness Waterway is 98 magnificent miles long and we canoed 35 miles of it this past Labor Day weekend. Son, Ryan, and friends Richie and Nate dragged the old man across miles of the most spectacular Maine wilderness to be found. Other than a a couple of kayakers, who quickly left us in the dust, we only saw two other people in 3 days... no houses, no cars, no Walmarts... awesome.

However, we did see a half dozen moose, a couple deer fording the river, geese, gorbies, cormerants, bald eagles, loons and one dead bear.

Highlight of the trip for me, besides the great company, indescribable scenery and fabulous food, was fishing the deep holes from the bow while Ryan guided us single-handedly through the rapids from the stern.

Hi Diddly Dee... Bucket List item # 11. Check

Chuckie and the IRS

2009-08-29T20:53:00.008-04:00

They call him Chuck, but his real name is Charles. I learned this while standing beside him at the counter of the Internal Revenue "Service" (what an oxymoron...) on Monday as he faced the music for not filing taxes since 1998.

Chuck is a native son of the state of Maine, a Portland boy who fell through the cracks at an early age. 56 years old, he announces his birth date with the same line... every time.

"7 /7/54...3 days after the 4th of July. Mahahaha!!"

To say that Chuck is a little odd would be like saying that the waters of Casco Bay were a little chilly. Or that mud season in the cedar swamps of the Great North Woods was a little buggy. Even among the characters that make their living and live their lives on the waterfront, he is unique. He has his own language which few understand, for instance he calls maggots "cousins", wharf rats "little buddies", often acts out what he is attempting to communicate with sounds and actions. "

For the past 30 years he has worked this harsh environment, fishing, clamming, scalloping, working in the cutting houses filleting haddock, scraping the roe from the shells of sea urchins. Brutally hard and monotonous work. But for a man who cannot read or write, who is proud that he can tell the time from his prized wrist watch, who has lived his life trying unsuccessfully to stay out of jail and out of societies sight and mind, there are few other alternatives.

He could, of course, just give up as many in the growing welfare state have done, accepting the food stamps and the housing subsidies, the transportation stipends and the fuel oil assistance. But he is very proud and, if nothing else, intensely stubborn. It is how he has survived.

"Chuckie tales" filter through the waterfront. One disturbing story regards his childhood. As the story goes, his father beat him severely as a child and one day threw him out of the house. It had no running water, no toilet, no shower, but it had a porch. And the boy lived under the porch for several weeks... like a dog. He was asked what he ate during the ordeal and he explained that he was able to reach him fingers up through the cracks in the floor of the porch and eat the dogs food... unspeakable abuse.

Another story took place years later. Years of heavy drinking, drugging, 3 illegitimate children later... He had been dumpster picking, collecting cans and bottles is his second income, and felt the need for a bath, but being homeless, he was without the means. He improvised by buying a bottle of bubble bath from Joe's Smoke Shop and heading down State Street to Deering Oaks, a large public park with a pond which has a fountain in the middle. Before he waded into the pond, he hid his money, all $300, in a plastic bag wrapped in tin foil high in the crotch of a maple tree. When he got to the fountain, he poured the entire content of the bubble bath into the intake and made a huge amount of soap suds, took off his clothes and swam screaming and naked around the middle of the pond disappearing into the mountain of billowing suds.

The police responded and demanded he return to shore to which Chuckie replied "Come and get me!". And two police officers did paddle a canoe out to the fountain. And Chuckie did tip it over, retreating into the suds and laughing hysterically. He tipped over the second canoe as well, but by this time the pond was surrounded by policemen and they eventually got their man. The judge might have given him a lighter sentence if he hadn't flipped him off.The judge said "You can't do that in this court room!" Chuckie growled "I just did, didn't I!" Chuckie's comment was "I got a clean bed, 3 meals a day and even a shower in County. How bout that!... Good deal!" When he got out he went back to the park, climbed his tree and felt like the richest man in town, buying drinks for everyone at Bubba's Sulky Lounge.

In July, they found him. The letter from the IRS informed him that he owed $3500 in unpaid taxes and penalties for tax years 1999, 2000 and 2001 and placed a lien on his paycheck, this on top of the $20,000 attachment for back child support. For weeks he ignored the letter until the bait company pushed him take action... or his weekly paycheck would disappear.

He approached me as the sun was just breaking the horizon over Peaks Island. "Doin anything after work?" he mumbled. "What do you need, Chuckie?" I asked. "Need a ride to the IRS..." he growled. I nodded.

At 1:00 he climbed into the passenger seat of my truck dressed in his best holey jeans, a wife beater tee shirt, a backwards baseball cap and wearing a black elastic back brace. He wears the back brace because his back is shot from 30 years of hard labor and because he thinks it looks cool. He keeps 2 packs of Camels tucked in the waistband at all times. We both smelled like a bait barrel.

He was nervous, distant as we drove across the draw bridge to the IRS office. As we pulled into the parking lot he said, "They're probly gonna put me in jail. You keep this safe for me." He pulled a baggie of marijuana and a pipe from his waistband and shoved it in my glove compartment.

We took the stainless steel elevator to the second floor and he walked into the waiting area right passed the sign that said to push the green button and take a number. I followed the instructions and handed him his number. He wouldn't sit, shifted from foot to foot, looking disinterested, distant. Chuckie had his game face on.

The computer generated voice announced, "Number 116 to window 3." "That's you Chuck," I coached. The young woman behind the counter attempted to appear professional and businesslike though visible startled when Chuckie walked briskly to the window and scaled his ID at her like you would flip cards into a hat. He put one hand on the counter, turned sideways and stared into the distance. He learned long ago that the best defense is a good offense. The IRS agents nose began to crinkle up and several of the customers in line next to us covered their noses. I said, "Sorry for the smell. Just came from work." The woman in the next line stated the obvious. "Smells like fish." I smiled at her. "Yep, that's what we do". She smiled back. But the IRS agent didn't smile.

"What's the nature of your visit today, sir?" she queried warily. Chuckie whipped the document envelope from his back pocket, threw it across the counter and resumed his nonchalant pose, leaning on the counter, gazing at a bug on the wall across the room. She looked at me cautiously. "Am I authorized to discuss this information with this gentleman?" she asked motioning to me. Chuckie nodded without making eye contact.

She reviewed the documents, accessed her computer and spent 10 minutes reviewing screen after screen, occasionally rubbing the offensive stench from her nose. Finally, she spoke. "You must file taxes for years 2006, 2007 and 2008 before any further action can be taken. From our information years 2002 through 2005 need not be filed. Though you were due refunds in those years, because you did not file, your refunds are forfeit. The statute of limitations is 3 years for refunds." "What is the statue of limitations for taxes due?" I asked. "There is none," she responded curtly. I smiled. No surprise. "And then what?" I asked. "Any refund will be applied to the outstanding balance. Penalties will continue to accumulate until payment is made in full," she responded.

I said "OK, let's talk about the 06, 07, 08 filing. Can he claim the children to whom he is currently paying child support?" "Did the children reside with you during those tax years." she asked. Chuckie said, "What?" "Did your kids live with you Chuck?" I asked. "Haven't see them in 18 years." he said. No deductions there.

She continued down her checklist of questions. "Did you pay interest on your home mortgage?" she asked. "He's homeless," I said.

"Did you have any interest or dividends from bank accounts or investments?", she continued. "He's never had a bank account," I answered. "What about credit cards?" she asked. "Never had one of those either," Chuck said with pride.

"Did you pay excise tax on your vehicle?" she asked. "He has a bicycle," I answered. "Yup, a nice one," Chuckie added. "Did you have a second income?" she asked. "He collects bottles and cans," I said. "Does that count?" She was beginning to get flustered. "No, I don't think so. I'll have to check."

She continued down her list. "Did you employ any household employees?" immediately sensing the stupidity of the question. "He's homeless", I said sharply. "He lives in a storage room over a bait shop on the waterfront." Chuckie said, "I've got no place else to go."

Her final question was, "Did you suffer any physical or financial disasters during these tax years that impacted upon your estate?" I spread my hands, looked her in the eyes. "What could be more disastrous than this?" I implored. She shook her head. She had the picture.

A supervisor walked over to review the situation. His name badge said Harold Davis. "Are you a South Portland Davis?" I asked. "No," he huffed and walked away. Chuckie looked at me. "Just wondered if he was a cousin," I said. He grinned devilishly and said "They're ALL cousins!" (read maggots) and laughed loudly.

She provided us with reams of papers, copies of W2s, financial statement forms, tax booklets. Chuckie was impressed with the size of the pile, 2 inches in height. He looked at me and said, "Lotta words..." I winked and reassured him, "Don't worry Chuck. we'll work these up slick as a load of poggies." He grinned a toothless grin.

He strode out of the IRS with long, cocky strides, visibly relieved and breathing deeply. "He looked at his prized gold watch, "It's Beer:30," he crowed "Take me to Bubba's. I'll buy you a cold one!" I grinned. Budweiser cures many woes. We got to the truck and he immediately reached into the glove box, flicked his lighter and took a long hit on the pipe... right in the IRS parking lot. "Chuckie, not now! Let's get out of here!" I implored.

By Friday the tax forms were filed, the financial statement was submitted and the installment agreement was finalized... $6 a week in perpetuity. He will no doubt default on that when the fishing season ends and he becomes unemployed again, but for now he is in compliance. Mailing in monthly tax payments just isn't going to happen.

When I dropped him off at Bubba's on Friday, I declined the beer. He reached across the seat and shook my hand, not with a typical handshake. It was the handshake that bikers and dockworkers use. He placed his 3 fingered hand over our firmly grasped hands and spoke softly, gruffly. "Thank you ,brutha."

No, Charles... Thank you brother, for opening my eyes and for this story.

Old Dogs, New Tricks

2009-08-23T11:51:00.006-04:00

At the MIT Sloan School of Business, the Industrial Relations faculty pays a lot of attention to identifying and studying managerial styles. The categories range from autocratic to laissez-faire with varying degrees and nuances.

Attila the Hun was autocratic. My boss, Jack Chinn, at Madison Paper was above him in the hierarchy. Strong, aggressive, brutal, my way or the highway type of management. Although it would only be fair to mention that after 5 years of expensive "new age" touchy-feely management training, Jack moved back down the ladder to a position as a "communicating autocrat". He never made it to the next rung of "benevolent autocrat"... God bless his shinny head.

At the bottom of the management style ladder is "laissez-faire", French for "Let them do what they want...". I never saw this management style work successfully in industry, but it is the predominant style in government. Very unproductive, though the employees ends up with a hugely inflated self esteem, usually entirely unwarranted.

In the middle is the "situational manager", someone with all the tricks in his management tool bag and the savvy to use them appropriately, at the right time, with the right employee. This management style of win-win negotiations and participative management of a motivated workforce sometimes leads to managerial schizophrenia where the manager loses a total grasp of reality.

We spent months discussing managerial styles at MIT. Dr Edgar Shein, Professor Emeritus of Industrial Relations, introduced us to all the leading edge thinking and theories in the field. One of the "new techniques" of the day was termed "MBWA", Management by Walking Around. It was pretty lame, but the basic principle was for the boss to walk around the workplace demonstrating to the crews that he (or she) was just a regular guy who cared not only for the job, but for the human resource, "our most important asset". Hope my cynicism isn't shining through too brightly here...

So I was academically intrigued when I witnessed an entirely new and very effective managerial style on the docks last week. The crew had wandered out onto the dock loading area and were standing around as Don and I were working loading boats and filling totes with fish for the lobstermen. We had just made a coffee run to the Port Hole and everyone was wiping the slime off their hands so they could hold their cups and sip the hot, thick drinks, for most the first nonalchololic drinks of the day. Don called for someone to help him winch up the totes from the boats and fork them full of greasy herring. Everyone saw what needed to be done. Usually the men jump to when a task is at hand, but this morning they just wanted to sit down and drink their coffee... so no one jumped. Don grabbed his full cup of coffee off the winch and threw it with full force at the wall above everyones head. Coffee rained down on the stunned men's heads and they all snapped to action as Don stormed off the dock. The totes were filled and returned to the boat in record time and everyone went back inside and back to work.

I have coined the new managerial style "MBHCATW", Managent By Hucking Coffee At The Wall and plan to present a paper at the next Sloan Fellows Convention. Very effective and a lot cheaper than an industrial psychologist.

A few days later I had an opportunity to put theory into practice. I sold $500 worth of herring to my cousin Chipper Z. from Kennebunkport. The herring supply is drying up and we are holding back supply to nonregular customers. But Chip, even though a first time customer, is family so I went to bat for him and the boss agreed to the sale... this time. Afterwards snide conmments were made, all in fun, but when the boss ribbed me in front of the grinning crew asking if I had any more cousins, I picked up my coffee and drove it at a row of barrells. Everyone laughed and we went back to work. No more ribbing.

Who says old dogs can't learn new tricks...

Dog Days of Summer

2009-08-17T19:14:00.005-04:00

The weather has been great. 95 degrees today. We camped over the weekend in Bar Harbor with the Lowe family, a great time of camping, hiking the Bee Hive in Acadia National Park, lobster and fresh sugar and gold corn, blue berry pancakes. Perfect...

The Boss told me a story today about waterfront justice. He had noticed some lobsters missing from his tank room. Stealing is a serious charge down here, but is happens... not infrequently. And, like everything else, they have their own way of dealing with it. It is, after all, the waterfront and they have their own code of conduct and retribution.

He came around the corner from the dock and spied a long haired wino wearing a long coat standing beside the tank looking furtively back and forth as he snagged lobsters from the tank and stuffed them under his coat. The Boss quietly moved in behind him and when the wino bent over to grab another lobster, he grabbed him by the back of his collar and drove his head into the tank where he held him, flopping like a fish for an undetermined length of time.

When he finally pulled him out, drenched with water dripping off the end of his nose, he grabbed him by the front of his coat and pulled him close to his face. He said the wino made excellent eye contact, never wavering as the Boss told him in no uncertain terms to "never, ever come in this lobster shop again" (expletives deleted). The wino nodded his head, never broke eye contact and said, "Fair enough". End of story

We worked up a load of fresh herring today. They were small and a goodly number worked their way through the flights of the conveyor and washed down the drain holes into the ocean. The seagulls flocked and 3 harbor seals circled just off the dock. We began to throw them shovels full of tasty, fresh, bite sized fish and they put on a tremendous show diving and weaving, snagging herring at every turn. We offered them salted fish as well but they never ate one.

Great day despite the heat. As one lobsterman said, "We're gonna miss this in February..."

Smells

2009-08-12T14:39:00.004-04:00

Sunrise was breathtaking this morning. And there are, of course, other things that take away your breath...

When the tide is at just the right level, the stack exhaust from some of the boats blasts directly into the face of the person operating the winch. Breathtaking...

When redfish turns sour from sitting on the dock in the morning sun. Breathtaking...

The smell of fresh herring and pogies is actually sweet, pleasant to the nose

But the smell of a barrel of skate is by far the most impressive. It will paralyze your senses, cause an involuntary closure of the muscles in your throat. Literally, breathtaking...

And then, there's the bathroom...

Coor Boys and a wannabe

2009-08-04T19:09:00.000-04:00

Fog

2009-08-04T15:29:00.004-04:00

After 2 weeks of searching, the offshore trawlers located the herring schools and we have been busy offloading and salting down 150,000 pounds of fish. Makes for long and busy days. The early morning hours are spent tending boats and getting set up for the operation; fueling the fork trucks, setting out pallets, organizing tools and gear, assigning work details. Once the pumping of the fish begins off the boats and the big 2000 pound exactas are being filled off the boat, the sea gulls join the party in great numbers.

They are so thick and aggressive that it looks, all the world, like the Alfred Hitchcock movie "The Birds". They swoop and fight, squawk loudly, swallowing the spilled herring whole, attacking each other trying to make the other disgorge their prize. They fly around the bait shop, big Black Backed Gulls swooping clockwise and Herring Gulls counter clockwise, dodging and weaving, an aerial dog fight (bird fight?). For kicks, the crew throws fish, sometimes with cans attached with string to watch them swinging from the beaks of the flying birds. Ray caught one and it tried to take off my gloved fingers. Quick little buggers.

The conversation on the dock at break was about jail. I learned that if you are ever in jail and someone offers to give you the candy "Skittles" don't accept. There are prisoners that lick the skittles and use the colored coating for make-up...

Later, one of the guys sat looking at the sea and said to nobody in particular, "I hate whales." OK, I'll take the bait so to speak. "Why would you hate whales", I asked. "I don't like their attitude" he said. "They think they are better than everyone else." I laughed and asked "So I know they call you Swanson, but what's your real name". "Marty" he said "but I prefer my prison nickname."

"What's that", I asked.

He said "Skittles..."

Connie's in new Hampshire...

2009-07-29T16:55:00.005-04:00

Tina has been in the hospital in NH for a week. She is recovering nicely from a serious infection and will be moving from NY back to the Bangor Veteran's Home, an opportunity that came along at the right time. She was over a year on the waiting list. Mary Jo, Rick and family have done a fantastic job in NY. Know they will miss having her close.

So, Connie is at Anne's with the kids and being close for Tina. When I got through today at 1:00, Chuckie was walking down the wharf. Hot day. He accepted my offer for a ride to Bubba's Sulky Lounge down on Park Ave. Nice place. Lots of local color and characters.

I ended up drinking a beer with Randy. 42 years old. Been on the waterfront since he was 16. He tells of being out on Georges Bank in 1991 during the hurricane. You remember... The Perfect Storm? They received the may-day from the fishing vessel that was lost, the Andrea Gail. He is the stern man for German Joe on the Mary Lou III, perhaps the most seaworthy deep water lobster boat on the Maine coast.... until last week. He stepped through a hole and broke his ankle. Self employed, he has no workers comp, no medical insurance, no disability... on the high wire without a net. Just like most of the guys down here.

I walked back to my locked truck and spied my keys hanging from the ignition. The emotion is a sudden thud of realization, a sinking feeling of being number than a stump. Know what I'm talking about? Sure you do... So I don't see the old guy with a cane sitting in the shadows outside the bar watching me circle the truck, stupidly trying the locked doors, vainly attempting to cuss the windows down.

"Locked out." he stated the obvious. "Yup", I agreed. "Want me to open that?" he whispered, the smell of beer strong on his breath and evident in his bleary eyes. "Yup", I agreed. He pulled a slim jim from under his shirt, tucked down the leg of his pants. "Cost you a beer." he set the terms of the transaction. I shook my head and watched him work. He talked to the truck as he slipped the thin metal bar between the window and the door frame. " Old little truck... now where's the guard plate on the lock on this one... what year?" "94... Mitsubishi..." I answered for the truck. "Oh yeah, they have that connector rod... right about heeya." Maine through and through. He tugged gently and the lock button popped up. "Now that's worth a Budweiser" I praised. "Frickin-A" he winked, "Cheapa than Triple A". Back in the bar he bragged about being a car thief even though he got caught and spent time in jail. He complained about the new high tech locking mechanisms "Getting so a guy can't make a decent living." I shook my head dumbly and consoled him," Yeah, times are hard... the economy and all." He was suggesting we drink another as I slipped out the back. "Gotta go let the dogs out..." I called back to him. "I'll be here later" he offered. My new best friend, the car thief...

Katie is running in the Beach to Beacon 10K on Saturday. What a woman! I couldn't run 10 blocks...

Don't molest the Fish

2009-07-28T15:58:00.006-04:00

Fish or cut bait. The phrase has a whole new meaning for me.

Mike didn't show up for work yesterday or today. He lasted one week. The crews reaction is interesting... as if he didn't exist. There are lots of interesting quirks. For instance, no one makes eye contact or says much for the first hour or so, just keep their heads down and get the job done.

There are two electric drills near the loading dock for drilling holes in the plastic barrels in order to hook them to the winch cable and lower them onto the boats. Of course, you're standing in water and even the rubber boots and gloves don't prevent the occasional electrocution. Usually it is mild, sometimes moderate, but yesterday the drill had been dropped into a barrel of fish guts so when you pulled the trigger you got 110 volts direct, strong enough so that even the toughest couldn't endure it. We laughed behind our gloves when the Boss marched over and picked up the drill "Bunch of Sissies" he growled as he pushed the trigger. The jolt threw him backwards, caused his arms and hands to convulse and his eyes bulge. He turned around and stormed away. "Dry that thing out" he yelled over his shoulder.

The most asked question from the fishermen is not about the bait or the prices. It's "What's today's date?" They work hard and the days blend together. Today I answered, "It's Tuesday the 28th." "July?" he asked. I nodded. He shrugged and muttered " Couldn't tell it by the weather..."

Today one of the guys got a letter from the IRS. He can't read, but he understood the number. $3,500 back taxes and penalty for 1999, 2000 and 2001. And he hasn't filed for the past 7 years either.

There is no city water, no city sewer, but there is a hopper. Where it goes, we don't ask. Beside the hopper is a 55 gallon barrel with a submersible pump in it and which we fill with a hose. The discharge hose flows into the tank of the toilet. You have to turn on the light switch in order to turn on the pump and you get shocked if you don't wear gloves. Water sprays all over the floor, the walls are rotting, the ceiling falling down. It smells worse than a barrel of skate... well, maybe not that bad. On the wall is a typed notice in a dirty, plastic sleeve. "Employees must wash hands before returning to their station." They call it dark humor.

During brief periods of down time the guys goof off. They bowl with pogies, play soccer with herring, chuck them at the back of each others heads and at sea gulls. The Boss walked by and growled " Don't molest the fish!"

Gray Day

2009-07-22T14:33:00.003-04:00

The sun rose and the gray day brightened. Gray sky, gray bay on the waterfront, gray weather. The boats cruised into the wharf to pick up their bait and the conversations ranged from the price of lobster to the impending lobsterman's strike to the fishermans shooting on Matinicus Island. Things are tense on the waterfront.

The boat price of lobsters (paid at the dock by the retailers) is $2.75 per pound. Demand is down with the economy and all. But the lobstermen claim they can't operate profitably at below $3 a pound. So they are talking about tying up for a week, reducing supply, driving up demand. Might work. Might not. About half of them plan to keep on fishing so probably not.

Out on Matinicus things are getting heated. Yesterday a 75 year old fisherman shot a young guy in the neck at the town dock in front of a marine resources warden. The talk at the wharf went something like this.

"That's valuable bottom out there. The old salt has probably be fishing that ground for 50 years. And some young buck has moved in on his fishing ground. The old guy probably said, "You set over my traps one more time and I'll shoot you in the face." The young guy probably said, "Go piss up a rope old man." So the old guy shot him in the neck."

The young guy is in the hospital. The old guy is out on bail. Crime of passion. Justifiable attempted homicide? Only on the waterfront...

On the Road with Connie & Glen

A Children's Story

And the Bell Rang

Life Lessons in Public Education

Pure Technicolor

Saint Simons Santa

It's a Circular Flow

speaking of days that stick in your memory...

February 20, 1962

Outside the Window

More Waterfront Stories - Liam

The Perfect Sendoff

Happy Birthday Dad

Happy Birthday Mom

Happy Birthday Mom

Jessie

Anna and Brian

Sunday morning reading...

Without Issues

Jeff sings "Georgia"

I knew there were going to be issues...

Waterville Hospice Healing Garden

Lessons in Humility on the Waterfront

Priceless

Sweet

Bittersweet...

Karma

RIP Waterville Waver... "It's what I do"

Nothing like family...

Happy Mothers Day Mom.

Friends

just before the water went over his boots...

It just ain't right...

Poem by Mary Oliver

The Summer Day

Sunset on the Marsh

STS 133

Grandma’s Eulogy

Here's to you Tina...

Tough neighborhood .

sent by a friend

Something new every day

Living Deliberately

Tucker, Bailey and Jacob

It's our birthday!

Happy Birthday Ryan

Welcome to the world Anna...

Maine Road Sign

2011

Merry Christmas!

Pearl Jam Song

Okefenokee Swamp

Letter to Stephen King

A day in the marsh

Veteran's Day

RTE 17

Birds, tides and tugboats

Southern Politics

Dedication tomorrow

Ben Won!!

VOTE FOR BEN HAYES!!!

http://www.christopherreeve.org/site/c.ddJFKRNoFiG/b.6234103/k.2BE/Vote_for_the_Best_Dad_on_Wheels.htm?msource=email&auid=6976201

final touches

More Eric's Cabin Pics

Progress Report

Eric's Cabin Update

"Waterville Waver"

On my honor...

Headline...

Obama Missing Historic Boy Scout Jamboree for Fundraisers, 'View' Taping

Full Circle

Mr. & Mrs. Chris and Molly Ahlman

Mr. & Mrs. Foss

Congratulations Nate and Britt

Happy 80th Aunt Chris

Eric's Cabin

Busy Back in Maine

Triplets in the Neighborhood

Declan

Blogus Interuptus