Brian

Today’s Portland Press Herald headlines; “Tear gas, arrest end six-hour standoff. Brian Kelley, 48, is charged after a woman is shot in the chest.”

Surprising… only 48.  I would have guessed 60.Then again, gauging a person’s age on the waterfront is hit or miss at best.

Brian was always drunk when the crew gathered at the bait shop each morning at 4:00 AM. He would stumble down the stinking, dark, cobble stoned Custom House Wharf, always on foot.  He had permanently lost his license to drive, served 5 years in the State Prison in Thomaston as a Habitual Offender. If it was raining heavily, he would sometimes accepted a ride in my little red pickup truck. He smelled strongly of  booze, cigarettes and fish, a familiar… and strangely comforting aroma.

I liked him. Over the two years we worked together on the dock, we always greeted each other cordially each morning. It might go like this;

 “Mornin, Glen.”

 “Mornin, Brian.”

“Wet one, huh?”

“Yes-suh. Stay dry”

“Ayhuh…”

He would retreat to his barrels, dumping and hosing the fish slime and blood from the blue and white plastic 55 gallon drums, stacking them 2 high , preparing for another day of filling them with salt and fish that the lobstermen used to bait their traps. I would head for the wharf to take the orders from the fishermen and winch the barrels down to waiting boats. The crew wouldn’t let Brian run the winch or the fork trucks. He was too dangerous.

When the Porthole coffee shop opened at 6 o’clock, I would often bring him a steaming cup of  the  bitter, black brew. He drank it with 2 creamers and 5 sugars speeding the decay of his already rotting, black teeth. When the work flow allowed, we would sit on the dock, smoke hand rolled cigarettes and watch the sun rise out of the ocean. Sometimes we would talk.

He told me about earning his living as a younger man diving for urchins… before his scuba gear was stolen, before his strength was wasted by injuries and abuse. He talked about life in prison and how he couldn’t trust anyone inside the walls. He spoke bitterly about how he had been falsely labeled as a “skinner”, a child abuser, in jail and how he had confronted and beaten the liar to clear his name. On his forearm was a prison tattoo that he bought for $5 from an inmate who used needles and an ink pen to draw a map of the state of Maine behind bars.

On day he was raging about another guy on the crew who had disrespected him. “He better back off. I can get real angry I’ll hurt that son of a whore.” he growled.

All day long, he would work under the fish conveyor, covered in fish guts and salt dust, filling barrels. His eyes were red and irritated. I brought him a pair of safety glasses which he wore until they were stolen. When the fishing season slowed down in December, Brian was laid off and signed up for unemployment compensation.

The newspaper article reported that he had allegedly shot a woman in the chest with a pellet gun. The pellet had not broken the skin, but the Portland police had dispatched swat teams and snipers to bring him to justice. After a 6 hour standoff, the police had tear gassed his 3^rd floor slum apartment and taken him into custody.

 My friend Brian is in a world of shit today. I’m sure there is more to the story, but it’s unlikely he will beat this rap. It’s far more likely he will spend more years behind bars. It’s tragic all around.

The only good news is he’s already got the tattoo.

Tall Ships in Savannah

The Tall Ships are coming to Savannah this weekend. My buddy, David, and I decided to beat the crowds and go up on Thursday. It was a good call.

Savannah is a neat city. Lots of history, lots of parks, an active waterfront and interesting people. Alex has manned the Occupy Savannah site in Bay Street for 284 consecutive days. I admire his calm and thoughtful approach to the multitude of social issues to which they object. And I've got to say I do not disagree with many of them.

 

14 Tall Ships are expected from countries around the world. Savannah is their first US Port of Call. They plan to sail up the East coast, stopping in 4 or 5 other cities. We toured the Indonesian 2 master, the Dewaruci, and viewed 6 or 7 other vessels from France, Cook Island, US Coast Guard; The Penobscot Bay,12 Tribes of Israel; The Peacekeeper, the HMS Bounty.

And, of course, the main attraction was the people. This elderly lady used her walker to pamper her puppy, sun visor and all. We took a run out to Tybee Island, about 30 minutes from Savannah. It's a nice beach, but over developed little barrier island, kinda of an upscale Old Orchard Beach, nicer than the Outer Banks, much nicer than Myrtle Beach not as snooty as Hilton Head, but it ain't no Saint Simons. I'm just sayin...

 

Still ,real nice folks. We stopped by The Crab Shack for a cold beer and met the 60ish woman bartender named Boo. I asked "So, are you neighbors with Atticus?" referring to the characters in To Kill a Mockingbird, a book that ranks second only to the Holy Bible here in the south. That brought a big smile and she forgave me for being a damn yankee. She must have given me total absolution because she kept feeding me free stuff; a free pina colada, a free mojhito and two complementary cups of crab soup and Brunswick stew.

As we were talking a teenager walked up and asked for a virgin pina colada. Boo said in a loud voice, "Oh no baby, we don't do virgins here." I snorted crab soup out my nose.

The shadows started getting long and we headed down the interstate, but not before attempting to capture some shots.

 

 

Savannah... neat place.

Father's Day with Joe and the Boys

At 82 years of age, a defibrillator in his chest, emphysema in his lungs and cancer in his prostate, he smoked a pack a day. Kools. Every now and then I would have one with him. The experience kept me from being a serious smoker.

Joseph Charles Murphy, 3^rd generation Irish American, the youngest of five children in a staunchly Catholic family, rampant with alcoholism and all the dysfunction it spawned. He and his 3 brothers went to war in the 1940's. Joe was barely 19. He worked in supply and maintenance as a U.S. Army Air Corp specialist and spent 18 months in England in the 362^nd P51 Fighter Squadron ("Chuck Yaeger's group. Greatest guy I ever met"… must have told me a thousand times in the 30 years I have been married to his oldest daughter, Connie). And after VE Day in '45', he spent 6 months in Munich near the Dachau Concentration Camp. Joe rarely spoke of this.

In May of 2004, when the all-powerful and self-important men in Washington eventually got around to it, when 75% of the men and women who saved the world from tyranny in WWII were gone, when the honor could no longer be ignored, a memorial was finally dedicated. On the television we watched the white haired, bent and weathered gathering of those to whom we owed so much.

The crowning glories of Joe's life were his 6 children. Three sons, now men, quickly grasped the opportunity and within days, the plans were made. Each brother had his own strengths and I marveled to watch them as they worked together on the trip.

Sunday, Fathers Day, standing on the edge of the World War II Memorial, the refection pool before us and beyond that the Lincoln Memorial. The Washington Monument was casting it's shadow from behind. We stalked the circumference cautiously, observing the crowds; mostly young families, kids, teens on skate boards and bicycles, milling around the interior, bathing their feet at the fountains edge, taking pictures of rock and sculpture, words carved in granite. We had expected crowds of elderly veterans. There were scarce few.

As walked down the ramp toward the interior, Joe stopped and read the memorial pictures, cards, notes tacked on the wall by each state's column. On the far side of the memorial we found the Maine column, took pictures and felt a sense of pride.

Joe clasped his hands behind his back and walked silently through the crowds. There seemed to be a parting of the crowd for him and the few other gray hairs. When the WWII Vets did walk past each other, there was little conversation. A nod, a passing greeting, seldom more. It was as though they did not care to speak of it, but honored each other in their special way.

Several younger people approached Joe, shook his hand and thanked him for what he had done in the war. Joe's reply…"I didn't do much…". He didn't speak of the death of his brother-in law at St. Lo or of the terrible wounding of his brother Dickie, or of the suffering of any of his brothers, his friends or his generation. A truly humble man.

The sun was dropping when he said, "Let's go back". He meant back to the hotel. Back to the U.S. Open and to a cold O'Doul's and a Dove Bar. Back to our conversations, invariably about another person who was always "the greatest guy I ever met".

Considering his "family of origin" it would be extraordinary if Joe hadn't battled booze in his life. They say it wasn't pretty, .One of the boys told me " Glen, you don't know the way it was. You weren't there."  He was right and I shut my mouth. But what I wanted to say was, "You're right. I didn't know the way it was. I only know Joe now and "he's the greatest guy I ever met."

Margaret Chase Smith

Maine is known for lots of things, for instance lobsters, Steven King, Bar Harbor, Little Round Top, Joshua Chamberland... and Margaret Chase Smith.

She was the first woman to serve in both the US House of Representatives and the US Senate and the first woman to serve in either from Maine. She hailed from Skowhegan, Maine in Somerset County and was an elected official from 1940 through 1972. After her public service she returned to Skowhegan and lived until 1995, to the age of 97, in the Margaret Chase Smith Library, constructed on the banks of the Kennebec River.


Margaret Chase Smith was perhaps best known for wearing a red rose on her dress every day she served in government... and for standing up to the fascism of Joseph McCarthy during the "Red Scare". In her famed, "Declaration of Conscious" in 1949 on the US Senate floor she denounced "the reckless abandon in which unproved charges have been hurled..."^. She said McCarthyism had "debased" the Senate to "the level of a forum of hate and character assassination." She defended every American's "right to criticize...right to hold unpopular beliefs...right to protest; the right of independent thought.". For this, she became the target of Joseph McCarthy's vicious radicalism. After McCarthy's impeachment, she was heralded for her courage and said " Smears are not only to be expected but fought. Honor is to be earned, not bought." She also said "Moral cowardice that keeps us from speaking our minds is as dangerous to this country as irresponsible talk."

Words our politicians today need to heed...for sure.

The paper mill I worked for was 10 miles up the Kennebec River from the MCS Library. In 1981, our adorable identical twin sons were going on 3 years old  and I was working shift work at the pulp mill. It was a great work schedule for raising kids as I had 3 days off every 3 days on. The downside was that half of those on-day were night shifts, from 5:00pm until 5:00am so my circadian rhythms were whacked. For 5 years, my body never knew whether I should be asleep or horseback. But that was OK, because neither did the boys...

We would have lots of adventures. I would get home at 6:00AM and they would be bouncing up and down in their cribs. Connie so looked forward to me being available so she could catch up on some much needed sheep. We would hit the greasy spoons for breakfast and then take a hike or find a bowling alley or a shopping center... anything to extend Connie's sleep cycle and have some fun. One winter day we drove through Skowhegan. It was 8:00 and the Margaret Chase Smith Library was open.


The boys were dressed in over-sized down jackets about 5 sizes too big for them. We had to make the money stretch back then and Connie was good at selecting clothing that the boys would "grow into". They looked like overstuffed blue and green feather pillows. But they didn't seem to mind... Cute as bugs.



I had been checking out the library displays and they were happily running around the book aisles when I I suddenly noticed they were no longer under foot. I quickly looked up and down the aisles for them before panicking as they were nowhere to be found. The velvet red barriers partitioned the main library off from the living area, but that wasn't going to keep me from finding my sons. I crossed the barrier and headed down a long hall, peering into open doors.


At the end of the hall, I heard muffled conversation and I hurried around the corner. There was Senator Margaret Chase Smith sitting in a wheelchair holding Eric and Ryan in her lap. They were deeply engrossed in conversation and I watched as she let them fondle the red rose on her lapel. She smiled up at me as I apologized for my wayward sons, questioned me about who we were and where I worked. She expressed her enthusiasm about the newly reopened paper mill which created so many much needed jobs, wished me well and we were off. Gracious lady.


It was 1989 when I saw her last. I was the Director of Human Resources, had completed an MBA at MIT, 2 years in sales/marketing in Connecticut office and was back at the mill, We were dedicating a new multimillion dollar capital equipment project. It was good for the town, good for the employees, something to celebrate, so we invited local dignitaries to attend.


She looked very frail in her wheelchair. She was over 90 now, but the red rose was still displayed proudly on her lapel and she was in great spirits. I had sent my Safety and Security Chief to escort her to the event and she was so tickled to have been driven up the river by him. His name;


Joseph McCarthy.


God bless the Grand Old Lady. 

 

A Children's Story

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

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

Former Superior Court Judge Amanda Williams has resigned in disgrace. Her resignation shocked the good residents of this Coastal Georgia community and the very foundation of the political establishment. How had this happened?

The charges were serious: misuse of power, injustice, dirty dealings in the courthouse. These had gone unspoken for so many years. They were finally spoken publicly and bravely by challenger, Attorney Mary Helen Moses. Her courage was not rewarded in the election. The establishment vehemently responded against her with political lies and innuendo. The privileged poured money into Judge Williams reelection campaign. In the end the Moses campaign was crushed at the polls... or was it?

I asked Mary Helen Moses why she had exposed herself to such incredible public abuse in an almost impossible effort to unseat a powerful and established political incumbent. Her response left me humbled and proud. “Because it's not right. I am standing for justice. Somebody has to, and it seems to be me.” Indeed.

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

In her battle to right this terrible wrong 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 political establishment.

“Not I”, said the privileged electorate and the timid media.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For us, it is as simple as a children's story.

And the Bell Rang

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

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

I walked into my mother's kitchen on New Years Day in 1975, the day following my first date with Connie Jane Murphy. Mom and my two younger sisters turned to watch me enter from where they were sitting around the little table . "Welcome home, honey. Did you enjoy your date?" mom asked. "I'm in love." I answered. And they burst in laughter. I grinned and pretended that I was just making a joke. But I was not. Smitten from the first, she had me at hello.

We were married a year and a half later and life has never been the same. Mom once said,"My son is a pretty serious, black and white kinda guy. Thank God Connie came into his life. She is pure technicolor." Truer words have not been spoken. An explosion of color, of personality, she is my opposite in so many ways and our marriage has been "dynamic" from the beginning. If I said zig, she said zag. If I urged caution, she was all in. She made friends quickly and easily while I tended to hang back. For instance, she once claimed to have made friends with the singer and television celebrity, Kathy Lee Gifford.

When our children were young, for a time, Connie was a stay at home mom. On this issue, we both agreed and she was a wonderful mom. But in order to temper the day to day routine 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 would go on and on about what her friend Kathy Lee had said or done that day. She wrote her letters, joined the contests, even sent her a baby gift when her son Cody was born. I thought it was sad and encouraged her to get out of the house and spend time with real people. I began to kid her about "her good friend, Kathy Lee". And the sparks would fly!

Then one year on her birthday, while we were living in Southern Connecticut on temporary assignment, I gave Connie the gift of a night out in New York City with a girlfriend. They went to the Rainbow and Stars Room to see Kathy Lee perform live. She was so excited and returned with stories about having a conversation with Kathy Lee between sets. They had exchanged cards and Connie even had a photo taken with Kathy Lee. After that, Connie never missed a TV show. We had boxes and boxes of video tape from those days when she couldn't watch in person.

Later that year, we were transferred back to Maine, but the "friendship" continued over the next five years. Every year Connie would send a Christmas card, a card on the occasion of the birth of Kathy Lee's daughter, a special congratulations card for some honor, a condolence card for some sorrow. And then one year she received a Christmas card in return. "See... she is my friend!" she beamed. I chided her,"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 prized picture sat prominently on the fireplace mantle for years. I would apologetically show them to visitors and make snide little comments about Connie and her "friend" Kathy Lee.

In 1995 I was on assignment as a loaned executive to then Governor Angus King chairing a commission of the future of Maine's paper industry. One initiative was to invite the Governor to attend Paper Week at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City in order to meet and greet the CEO's of the countries major paper companies. It fell upon me to coordinate the activities and, as the Governors wife also wished to attend, I asked Connie if she would come and help me make things flow smoothly. She was so great meeting and greeting and was always so helpful with the various social requirements of my job. We were a good team.

Paper Week arrived and we were fully engaged in the comings and goings of the captains of business and government. Everything was proceeding according to plan and ultimate success loomed on the horizon. But something was bothering Connie and that night she tossed and turned in bed. Finally at 4:00AM I turned on the light. "What is wrong?" I asked bleary eyed. She sat up and said "I want to go to the Regis and Kathy Lee Show tomorrow morning". But you don't have tickets I objected. She was insistent. "If I don't go tomorrow I won't have another chance. And maybe I'll never be back in New York to go to another show. I wrote Kathy Lee a letter and told her I would be in the City this week and asked her if she would send me tickets. She never called me or wrote me back. But this is my only chance and I want to try. Will you help me?"

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

" I have to go back to the Waldorf now, honey. The Governor has appointments this morning that I need to make happen. Have you got your cab fare to get back?" She smiled and assured me she would be alright whether she got into the show or not and kissed me goodbye. As I rode back to the hotel, I felt hot feelings of anger that Connie would be disappointed. It just wasn't right.

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

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

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

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

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

As I stood there, naked and wet with soap 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 doubted my amazing wife's ability to have made her a friend.

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

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

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

Smitten from the first...

Saint Simons Santa

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

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

speaking of days that stick in your memory...

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

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 1st through 8th grade, four room schoolhouse 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 crossroads 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 with 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

The Banana Spider,

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

Impressive, but harmless. She's huge!

More Waterfront Stories - Liam

Writing is something to which I am drawn. It's never easy for me. This blog post has been downright painful. But Life, real Life, is not all lightness, not all rainbows and butterflies. It's sometimes dark. I struggled with this one. Still, it is real Life and I watched it unfold on the waterfront.

**********************

We would discover later that Liam was not his real name, but this technicality was insignificant among the wreckage of his life, later revealed.

His friendly smile, cautious eyes, and small, muscular physique earned him a job on the dock loading boats and trucks with 400 pound barrels on lobster bait; salted herring and poggies, redfish and skate. He showed up on time and worked hard doing backbreaking, dirty, honest labor among a crew of a dozen men. We worked from 4:00 AM until the job was done, typically 10-12 hours a day, six days a week. When the sun blazed, we sweltered in the heat. When the rain came and the wind blew, we shivered in our oil-skins.

There was no complaining. They were grateful for the work, appreciated the opportunity to feel pride, to feel productive in a world where welfare was all that society seemed to offer. And, for these men, there was no pride in that. There had been hard lessons in their past, most had spent time in jail, most struggled with some form of substance abuse, but most of these events were overlooked on the waterfront... most, but not all.

Liam rode with me three or four times on bait deliveries. We would head up the road in the early morning light to some fishing shanty on the coast, stopping on the way for diesel fuel and steaming hot coffee, and we would talk. He gazed out the window at the beauty of the sunrises, the ocean inlets and marshes, as he told his story; half Cherokee Indian, born on the California coast, learned to surf, moved to Phoenix during high school. He joined the Army and became a "tanker" for a couple years, driving massive Abram tanks, loading munitions. He loved to play guitar and write music, lamented that his prized Martin guitar was destroyed by a jealous girlfriend.He was 34, single, had "too many" girlfriends.He had been clean and sober for 12 months, didn't smoke. His dream was to buy a Harley Davidson and travel the country working the waterfront up and down the East and West coasts. "Waterfront work suits me." he explained. I liked him.

Liam seemed to fit in with the crew. He worked hard, didn't complain and didn't tolerate the petty criticisms of others who often would attempt to elevate their status by denigrating another. He wasn't looking for trouble... but trouble found him.

Most of the guys are wired... that is, they have cell phones, sometimes ipods, but one of the crew had a smart phone with internet access. It's an enigma of our time that someone without a home, without health insurance or a vehicle, who's worldly possessions would fit into a box, would spend his limited resources for a data plan and access to the web . But he did.

I arrived back at the bait shop from a run to Boothbay Harbor and backed the monster truck into the loading dock. It was always a relief to feel the thud of the truck body snugging up to the dock and know that I had not hit anything or anyone this trip. Unfortunately that was not true for all my runs. But, as they say, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Still, a smooth run brought a sense of satisfaction.

I swung the door open to find Allen standing there with his smart phone in his hand. "Everybody knows about it already. Look at this." he spoke in a low voice. I scanned the screen. It was the website of the Maine Sexual Offender Registry. Oh shit, this can't be good, I thought. There was Liam's picture with a description of his convictions, numerous unlawful sexual contacts with a minor under the age of 14, and his prison record, 6 years in the Maine State Penitentiary.

There is no tolerance on the waterfront for sex offenders. And violation of a minor is deemed the lowest of the low. They call them "skinners". In prison, I am told, skinners go through a special kind of hell. They are tormented and attacked. When they are released, they are required to register with the local police, report their place of residence and any change in residence. The have great difficulty finding work. Child molesters are not allowed to be within 500 feet of any school or playground. There lives are destroyed. For their offense, perhaps this is fitting... justice. Still, it is cruel to see.

I walked into the foreman's office to find him in conversation with the owner. "Close the door", he said. "We've got a situation here and I want your thoughts on it. You were a Human Resources director at the paper mill."

"I have already heard about it on the floor. Has anyone objected to working with him?" I asked

"Yeah, we've got complaints." said the owner

The foreman said "It's already a problem. None of the men will work with him."

I took a deep breath. "Then, by law, you are required to take expedient action. Failure to do so could lead to charges of sexual harassment against you, the employer. It's Employment Law: 101. If you deem it possible, he could be reasonable accommodated, reassigned to an area where he is not in contact with other workers who object to working with him. Failing that, you should terminate him. Document all your conversations and action."

The owner just shook his head.

I never saw Liam again. He drifted into that place where the damned go to live or to die, no one seeming to care which. I do not know, nor do I care to know, the details of his offense. Perhaps he is a cruel predator, a selfish sociopath capable of smiling into the faces of the unsuspecting and destroying lives. Perhaps there were mitigating circumstances, God knows what those might be. The jury found him guilty. I will never know.

I am conflicted. I liked him. And because I did, I glimpsed his damnation. I glimpsed his hell on earth. Tragedy... all around.

It ain't all lightness, rainbows and butterflies.

The Perfect Sendoff

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...