Nothingman Baritone Sax by Ryan Foss

A Conundrum Wrapped in an Enigma

 "He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."

Aeschylus

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khGoLQ3Z-dU

Essay on Grief

 Grief Is Not An Emotion

Posted on January 15, 2017 by Debra Campbell

Grief is not an emotion. Grief is a time of feeling every emotion. It’s a time of feeling blinded to everything else; seared raw by the white light of the beloved soul’s final flare.

We are caught unawares, no matter how expected, in the flash, then the fallout from the ending of a personal epoch. When we lose someone to all the unknowns of death, life takes on a different light and the light of grief is stark and sharp and changes perception. Grief gives you blind sight that cuts through the superficial with its piercing white light, revealing only what matters most. The light is white because it’s made not of one feeling or mood, but of every feeling, every emotion. Each one in the spectrum entwining and rising with seeming randomness.

Grief rolls in waves, sometimes gentle and other times a tsunami. A force of nature, it’s sometimes fast and whips like wind, other times moving slow and deep, as the quiet earth. Ever present, grief forces you to attend to it, holds you captive in its white light until it’s ready to let you go.

Words come out wrong, no words can make anything right. Yet words are all we have to give voice to our immeasurable pain.

What then must we do to get by?

Words are never enough but you must speak them anyway – they help a little. If you cannot say it, write, write it all out.

Create your own memorial and let the wind blow it away or light candles in honour of your loved one and watch the flames dance.

Being still can be difficult, but take time for stillness anyway; time to listen, just listen. Then move again and be with others, not too much alone. Grief is a time that all must live through at some point and come to understand.

Achingly present, so painfully present, grief is over-sensitive and hyper-aware but that’s precisely what keeps the love raw, strong, and alive. Laugh one moment and dissolve in tears the next. This is what it is to be fully alive in your senses, your body and emotions. The loved will live on as you continue to love and learn from them.

Talk to your loved one in your mind, tell them everything and be patient when the answers come from new places, in new ways and in different voices. The answers to your pain will not be the ones you want to hear – the known, the familiar, the obvious antidotes to your suffering. They will not be satisfactory but they will be real, and they will get you through a moment, or an hour.

Michelle Moran wrote of moving through grief:
The test of our character comes not in how many tears we shed but in how we act after those tears have dried.

Reflect on what your loved one lived for, the best parts of them, what they gave you. Distil your loved one’s best qualities through your soul into a powerful elixir to flavour all things you do. The darkness outside is because you carry their light inside you now. You are more for loving them, you are more for knowing them, let their light shine through you now and always.

Dedicated to the memory of those who have gone before us

https://www.drdebracampbell.com/grief-not-emotion/

There is love

 

Teach Your Children

 ​Teach Your Children

Crosby, Stills and Nash

You who are on the road

Must have a code that you can live by

And so become yourself

Because the past is just a good-bye.

Teach your children well,

Their father's hell did slowly go by,

And feed them on your dreams

The one they picks, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you will cry,

So just look at them and sigh

And know they love you.

And you, of tender years,

Can't know the fears that your elders grew by,

And so please help them with your youth,

They seek the truth before they can die.

Teach your parents well,

Their children's hell will slowly go by,

And feed them on your dreams

The one they picks, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you will cry,

So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.

Song writer: Graham Nash

Ryan

https://www.athutchins.com/obituary/Ryan-Foss

https://www.gofundme.com/f/college-fund-for-davis-foss?sharetype=teams&member=5518906&utm_medium=social&utm_source=instagram&utm_campaign=p_na+share-sheet

Steven Penley

I was reading a library book the other day and stumbled on a name I remembered from a few years back. I thought I had written about this, but I guess it never made the blog...until now.

It was March of 2017 and we were living in a rental condo in Harbour Oaks on Saint Simon's Island, Georgia. I was working with Pete and he had taken on some big jobs; a cabinet build-out for a woman's clothing store, a 45 ft Red Grandis bar for the Augusta National Golf Tournament and an ongoing gig on Sea Island including art hanging and furniture moving. 

We worked long hours against some difficult deadlines, but I loved learning about finish carpentry...even though Pete rarely had me working on the "smart end of the tape measure". He is an incredibly talented person and I have learned so much from him. I even beat him at pool a few times...on his bad days.

On Sea Island, which is a 5 star, world renowned, gated resort, we never knew what job was coming down the line. We usually had to scramble to fit it in.

It was just such a rush job that we were called to at the opulent Sea Island hotel and restaurant, The Cloister. 

Our assignment was to transport a piece of art from the 3rd floor and install it in a soon to be opened Italian restaurant. And it needed to be done immediately for the opening.

We were met by the artist's assistant in the lobby. She was stressed and in a rush. She led us up the marble stairs to a guest room. The door opened and we were stunned as we took in the scene. The artist was standing in the middle of the cramped room covered in paint, hair disheveled and thick glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Dirty dishes, uneaten food and empty bottles were strewn on every available surface. He had been working for several days on a brightly colored piece of  framed canvas. The piece of art, a painting of an Italian sea side villa, was massive, over 6 ft high and 4 ft wide.

The assistant said meekly, "Steven, they are here to move your painting." He started painting more feverishly until after several minutes, he threw down his brush and walked into the bathroom. The assistant anxiously encourage us to get at it and we did...except that the piece was too big to get out the door! She went postal, flapping her arms and walking back and forth in the room like a frantic bird in gilded cage. Steven eventually came out of the bathroom and realized the predicament. He immediately grabbed  a battery operated screw gun and began to disassemble the frame. The wet paint got all over everything.

Finally we got it out the door. It was too big for the elevator so we wrestled it down 3 flights of stairs, across the lobby and into the restaurant.There were a gaggle of onlookers and staff there to observe the new art and the infamous artist.

By then, we were wise to the fact that this guy, Steve, was a big deal. He rushed into the room still covered in paint from head to toe, but had put on a blazer and a tie for the unveiling.

But the painting had not only been too big to get out of the room, it was too big to fit into the designated alcove! This time Steve stood back as Pete did his carpentry magic. Steve did jump in when Pete brought out his electric staple gun and proceeded to staple the begeezus out of the back of the canvas with reckless abandon. He was like a kid with a new toy. We were finally able to squeeze the painting into place.

 Everyone applauded and smiled and celebratory drinks were served, even to the picture hangers. The assistant rushed up to Steve and asked, "Would you like a beer...or a gin and tonic?" He thought for a moment and said, "Both". 

He sat down on the bench, a drink in each hand, as people watched his every move. So I grabbed my Coors Light, sat down next to him and engaged in a conversation. He was talkative, not standoffish and he told me about his life, his recent divorce and his children. He asked me about myself and was interested in my story of traveling the country for the past 10 years. 

Steven Penley. A very talented, quirky, truly nice guy.

---

 

 

Steve Penley was born into a family of musicians in 1964 in Chattanooga, Tennessee. The Penley family moved to Athens and then to Macon where Steve graduated from First Presbyterian Day School. Steve continued his studies of art at The School of Visual Arts in New York and at The University of Georgia.

After college, Steve was working odd jobs while painting when his talent was recognized by an attorney and art enthusiast, Robert Steed. Steed’s friendship and patronage helped Steve connect with many other clients and grow his business. Penley quickly gained recognition for his bold brush strokes, vivid colors and historical icon paintings.

Steve’s notoriety quickly increased and now he is one of America’s most celebrated artists with works exhibited worldwide. Steve has created many projects for Fox News, major companies such as Coca-Cola, AirTran/Southwest, Kaiser Permanente, as well as several U.S. Presidents.

Penley has authored several books of his own and illustrated books including several authored by Coach Vince Dooley. He has received a number of awards and honors for his talents and has donated countless paintings to charities and organizations in his community and state, as well as across the nation. He especially considers it an honor to be involved with numerous organizations that benefit our service men and women as well as our veterans.

Steve is proudest of his role as a father of three very talented artists and musicians: Lyall, Abbey and Parker

Aunt Marge

6/16/39 - 8/1/20

Marjorie Ruth (Goodwin) Swett

SOUTH PORTLAND – Marjorie Ruth (Goodwin) Swett, 81, of South Portland passed away on August 1, 2020, at her home in the presence of her loving family after a courageous battle with lung cancer. Marjorie was born in Casco to her parents Nellie (Pillsbury) and Carlton Goodwin on June 16, 1939. She was educated in South Portland schools and graduated from South Portland High School which was located in the building now known as Mahoney Middle School. After graduation she worked as a switchboard operator for the telephone company during the days of party lines. Marjorie married Glendon Swett on June 13, 1959, and raised four children. When her children became school age, she worked for the South Portland School Lunch Program until she found her dream job at Cross Jewelers. She worked for Cross Jewelers for 30 years until she reluctantly retired due to failing health. Marjorie was a longterm, involved member of the Elm Street Methodist Church until it closed. She loved the challenge of crossword puzzles although she admitted she sometimes cheated. As a lifelong Mainer, she waited patiently through each winter with great anticipation of opening the family camp on Watchic Pond. Her happiest days were those of large gatherings of family and friends with plenty of food and laughter.Marjorie was preceded in death by her husband of 56 years, Glendon Swett, her parents, Nellie and Carlton Goodwin and her brothers, Robert Foss and Frank Foss. She is survived by her sister, Beverly (Goodwin) Cloutier and her sister, Priscilla (Goodwin) Ware and her husband Joseph Ware. She was loved by her four children, Jani (Swett) Kinder, Glendon (Rick) Swett, Julianne Swett, and Joseph Swett and his wife Melissa Swett. She was blessed with 14 grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Her grandchildren, who will miss her greatly, are Joshua Kinder, Brittany Swett, Ashley White and her husband Macgregor, Dylan Swett Bullinger, Andrea Kinder, Allison Swett, Nicholas Kinder and his wife Becky, Joseph M. Swett, Jessica Haskell, Madison Haskell, Mitchell Haskell, Sarah Kinder, Julia Swett and Bradyn Swett. She was blessed to have time to spend with her great-grandchildren, Grant and Ivy White and Jack and Juliette Kinder. Visitation will be held 4-7 p.m., Friday, August 7, 2020. A graveside service and burial will be private. Due to Covid restrictions and challenges, a celebratory gathering will be held at a later date. Arrangements are by Hobbs Funeral Home, 230 Cottage Road, South Portland. The family wishes to extend our sincere thanks to Southern Maine Hospice and their angels Kiersten and Nancy, and to the New England Cancer Specialists. On line condolences maybe expressed at http://www.hobbsfuneralhome.com. In lieu of flowers, donations may be given to Southern Maine Hospice

Regis and Kathy Lee

Last week Connie mourned the recent passing of TV personality, Regis Philbin. Made me remember a story I had posted over 8 years ago. Here it is again...

http://gdfoss.blogspot.com/2012/01/pure-technicolor.html

Coming of Age

I talked with my Aunts today, my father's half-sisters. We talked about family and it made me remember.

As a boy I remember attending family reunions at my grandfather's parents farm, Great-Grampa Harry and Great-Gram Grace. It was up a long, dead end, dirt road way back in the woods. The house and farm pond were situated in a vale and the big barn was across the farm yard perched on a hill. The farm yard was littered with all manner of equipment; hay bailers, tractors, old trucks, piles of wood, stacks of hay.

The family, all country folk, consisted of several distinct clans. Hard working, honest people. No airs. No judgments. I was Frank's boy, Nellie's oldest grandson, Carlton's step-grandson and, even though we were city folk, we were embraced and loved on.

The women gathered in the house, each proudly presenting their pies and cookies and delicious pot luck dishes. There was corn and peas, snap beans and radishes, all fresh from their gardens. The menfolk all retired to the barn until the meal was served. The children milled around the farm yard and the farm pond catching frogs and pollywogs.

It was 1965 when Great-Gram died and the family gathered once again for a not so happy reunion. I was 13 and I knew the drill so I headed to the farm pond with the other youngsters. It wasn't long before my father called for me.

"Yes, Dad?" 

"Come with me."

I followed him up the hill to the large barn where only the menfolk went and into the dark coolness. It smelled of hay and animal stalls in the basement. The men stood in a circle shuffling their feet and we took our place among them. There wasn't much talk, but when a comment was made heads nodded. I don't remember any of the conversations, but I remember feeling special to be among them. 

Someone walked over to a dusty shelf and took down a large gallon glass jar. He screwed off the top, pulled out his knife and sliced off chunks of pickled tripe, cow belly. We were all offered a piece and I remember chewing the sour, rubbery membrane. There were smiles of amusement when I made a pucker face.

Next came a mason jar of amber liquid passed around the circle. I was not offered this drink. It was explained to me later that it was called Apple Jack. Apple cider was barreled in the fall and fermented. In January the barrel was drilled and the unfrozen liquid alcohol in the center was drained. High test moonshine. It was my turn to smile at the watering eyes and choking gasps as each man took his pull.

Soon the call came from the house to gather for the meal and we all headed down the hill. No words had been spoken to me. No ritual had been conducted. Or had it? I felt different. 

A coming of age.

Hiram

By Grace and by God, our family has lurched forward through the generations. Through tragedy and dysfunction and bad luck. So I really don't recognize my so-called "White Privilege". It has been only through perseverance, bullheaded determination and hard work that we have survived.

William H. was left behind when the family packed up the saw mills in 1860, hitched up the oxen and struck out for Minnesota. William was 17 at the time and was working in a saw mill in Orono when the Civil War erupted and he mustered out with the Second Maine on a three year hitch. Cannon fodder. He survived some of the most brutal battles of the war including Bull Run, Fredericksburg and Gettysburg only to come home, marry and work in a pulp mill in Gardner. Another brutal environment. Should I demand reparations for his pain and suffering and our families long term lost financial standing all for the cause of ending slavery and maintaining the Union?

William had 6 children, but my great grandfather, Arthur, was the only child to reach adulthood and procreate. He was the last namesake. Arthur  married, bore 6 children with wife Carrie, then died at age 40 from a fall in a paper mill in Oxford that ruptured his appendix. Carrie, for some reason, gave up her three youngest children to the state. 

My grandfather Hiram,the youngest child, ended up at 9 years old as a foster child working on a farm in Shapleigh, Maine. He married the farmer's granddaughter and had two sons. In the picture above he is holding my three year old father and my grandmother is holding my Uncle Bob. Hiram died 8 months later at age 28 from a blood disorder. Hiram's older brothers either died young or did not produce male offspring to carry on the family name.

My father, Frank, was the hardest working, most dedicated man I have ever known. He succeeded in working our family into the upper end of the lower middle class and sending my two sisters and I to college. Uncle Bob had no children.

As the last remaining male namesakes, Frank and I celebrated the birth of my sons, his first grandsons, twin Foss boys. Finally the tide was turning for our family. The Foss name might yet continue. I followed his hard work ethic example, added a beautiful daughter to the family and climbed the financial ladder. Tragedy revisited with the death of son Eric in 1999. Son Ryan bore a son, Davis, in 2014 before his marriage tragically ended. 

Davis is the most recent end of the line, end of the family name. He is magnificent. If the name ends here, it is enough. But it won't be for lack of effort. 

Seven generations. From tragedy to misfortune to dysfunction. We have survived. 

Tell me again about this "White guilt" I should be feeling...

Country Music

Now, it's my music of choice. That and jazz.

As a younger man I initially gravitated to rock and roll, but soon drifted heavily toward folk. My first LP  in 1961 was Chubby Checker. We were all doing the twist. Elvis exploded on the scene. You ain't nothin but a hound dog...

My next LP was Glenn Campbell, Wichita Lineman. That's when I picked up the guitar. Peter, Paul and Mary, John Denver, protest songs from 60s. When I first heard Mason Williams Classical Gas in 1968 I ran out and bought my first 45. I wore it out.

In the late 60s, Gordon Lightfoot, James and Livingston Taylor, Tom Rush, Simon and Garfunkel, Joan Baez, Jim Croce, Janice Joplin, Jimmy Hendricks, Credence Clearwater Revival.

In the 70's it was Boston, Pousette Dart, Fleetwood Mac, Cat Stevens. Bread, Chicago, Brewer and Shipley, Elton John, England Dan and John Ford Coley, Dan Fogelberg, Seals and Croft.  And Jazz.

I raised my sons on jazz. They both went on to become accomplished saxophone jazz musicians.

Today when I walk the beach I jam out to jazz. It pumps me up. But more and more I listen to Country music. It softens me. I love the lyrics. Makes me cry. It's about love and loss and remembering happy times.

And these days, remembering happy times is a soothing balm to my weary, ragged soul. It's a good thing.

Wet Markets

The Gift

She was one of my wife’s best and oldest friends, her roommate in college, her maid of honor. Brenda was a spark plug. She lived her life fully and with passion. And she died too young. 

Back in the 70’s, Connie and Brenda loved to listen to soul music and dance the night away at the Bounty Tavern and the Stable Inn. Ahh, the good times. Brenda married Doug, a merchant marine. They bore a son and a daughter and lived their lives together in Brenda’s hometown. For 26 years Brenda worked as a middle school teacher. It was her calling, her passion and she was widely recognized for the excellence she brought to her students. She was a vibrant and powerful presence in the lives of all who knew her. 

Six years ago, her behavior began to change; memory and speech issues, irrational comments, aggressive behavior towards family and friends. The doctors finally diagnosed Picks disease, a frontotemporal lobe degeneration that affects emotion, behavior, personality, and language. It is a rare disorder and mimics, in many repects, the more common Alzheimer’s disease. And, like Alzheimer’s, there is no cure. A tragedy. A heartbreak. 

As the disease progressed, Doug could no longer safely care for her at home and she was admitted to a long term care facility. She would wander the halls and mumble incoherently, incessantly. Eventually she became less mobile, less verbal and Doug brought her home and set up the living room with medical equipment and at-home nursing care. She was confined to a hospital bed and lapsed into a silent, semicomatose state. The end was near. 

Two months before she passed, before we headed South for the winter, we were invited to stop by for a short visit. The strain was clear on Doug’s face, but he greeted us with hugs and smiles. Such a good husband. Such a good man. He ushered us into the sunny front living room. Brenda showed no recognition of our presence, but seemed to respond to Connie’s loving touches and soft voice. 

I had recently read an article on the impact of music on dementia patients and had observed it on our many visits to nursing homes. So, after a while, I asked Doug if I might play some music on my phone. He agreed and I called up some Barry White music, one of her favorite dance tunes when we were all so young and happy and carefree. 

“Here’s your music, Brendie,” I spoke moving to her bedside. “Would you like to dance?” Incredibly, there was a glimmer in her eye. She began to bob her head and move her hands to the music. Doug looked on in amazement. 

I took her hand and we danced, she in her hospital bed, me twirling around her bedside. She closed her eyes and remembered. A distorted, but beautiful smile came to her face. I leaned in and said “You always were a better dancer than Connie.” And she laughed. 

As the song ended, Connie and the nurse had tears in their eyes. Doug stood frozen at the foot of the bed. She had not spoken in many months, but today, through the magic of music, she fixed her gaze on Doug and spoke in halted, but articulate speech. 

“Thank… you… very… much.” 

A fleeting, loving, lucid moment from the depths of her ravaged brain.  

Such a gift. 

We miss her. 

The Moment

We all go down

Some with a whimper

Some with a rage

Some with a purpose

Some so afraid

For some it is a competition to the very end. 

Who dies last,

who dies best, 

who is the world’s most interesting man.

We plan and we scheme, 

and we scurry about

like fiddler crabs on a mud flat

in the Georgia heat

Trying to stay

Trying to win

How will I go?

Hard tellin, not knowin, Ski.

It really doesn’t matter, but if I had my druthers,

With dignity

With grace

In comfort

And all my affairs in order.

THAT'S not going to happen.

So get over it.

And cherish the moment,

Cause that’s all you get.

Covid Thoughts

A new normal? Anything but. 

This pandemic has damaged so many. It has caused death and loss, especially ravaged the elderly and the nursing homes. It has prevented our traditional grieving traditions like funerals, disrupted our celebrations like graduations, destroyed our economies. It has illuminated the disgusting dysfunction of our politicians, media and scientific communities. It is all too much. 

I miss human contact. Meeting new people and shaking their hands. Seeing my family and hugging our grandson. Kissing. I miss seeing peoples smiles behind their multicolored masks.

We have been living on the surface of a bubble that has burst. There will be so many changes going forward. And that is what we must do. Pick ourselves up, cry for that which is lost, rebuild our businesses and our lives. And learn. We can now clearly see the "heroes" among us. Let's never forget.

A vaccine will be developed. This virus will be subdued. But there will be others. We must, this time, get ready, for our kids and grandkids, for future generations around the globe. We can do no less. We must do better. We must earn our place on this planet.

A new abnormal.

Working

Retirement at 57. I had worked hard, saved and invested. I was lucky. We had "enough". So we downsized, sold the house and hit the road to discover what was in store for the rest of our lives.

Sure, we had ideas about what we wanted to do. Travel, leisure, philanthropic activities, visiting friends and family, golf, fishing. And that is what we did for a couple years. But I felt a nagging uneasiness. A sour unhappiness. Something was missing. 

I began to pay attention to my moods and realized I was happiest when I was working at something. It didn't matter what; yard work, running errands, car maintenance, busywork. Any work. I felt better.

Studs Terkel wrote a "grand and splendid" book about the noble aspects of work in his 1972 best seller "Working". It's a book where people talk about what they do all day and, most importantly, how they feel about what they do. 

My father was my example. His workaholism infected me at an early age. Our lives revolved around his obsession for his work and it was understood, though rarely expressed, that his work was primary. I have a vivid early memory of my mother explaining to me on one of those rare occasions " Your fathers job comes first, before family, before everything." Of course it did. It was the source of our familial security, the foundation of our collective pride, the bedrock of our self respect. I watched and listened and learned. There was no greater compliment than for someone to say you were a good worker.

My work life began when I was 10. Instead of spending the summer playing ball at the playground, I would peddle my bicycle to a local farm and pick beet greens for $.35 an hour in the blazing sun. During the school year, I worked a paper route. I mowed lawns, shoveled snow, swept parking lots, painted for a couple motels, washed mugs at the A&W Rootbeer Drive-In. During high school, I was a dishwasher, a busboy and eventually a soda jerk/cashier at Howard Johnsons. I remember the feeling of pride when I would announce to my family that I had to "go to work". I wasn't good at sports or music or school. But, damn, I was a "good worker".

In college, I worked construction on the waterfront piers and oil tank farm where my dad was superintendent. I traveled the state gathering data for the first Ambient Air Pollution Survey in Maine. I painted oil tanks, carried sheetrock, cleaned up oil spills and built pole barns. I constructed manholes, drove dump truck and manhandled a jackhammer for the Maine DOT as a Bridgeman 1.

My first big job after college was as an Environmental Technician for the Maine Department of Environmental Protection traveling the state inspecting wastewater treatment plants. After a year, I quit and traveled to Alaska where I worked instructing in a health club before hiring out as an Environmental Engineer for Bechtel on the Alaskan Oil Pipeline.

After returning from Alaska I loaded and drove beer delivery truck before hiring on as the superintendent of the Bar Harbor Wastewater Treatment District. I quit to become a high school science teacher in Waterville for 2 years. During the summers I worked building condos.

A budget cut and a wife pregnant with twins led me to Madison Paper Industries. I began as an Environmental Engineer and progressed to Process Engineer, Technical Engineer, Pulp Mill Supervisor, Assistant to the President of Sales, and Human Resource Director. In 2000 I left to become a consultant for a year before becoming Vice President of the Maine Economic Research Institute in Augusta where I stayed until July 2007... when I retired.

In retirement I have worked shoveling lobster bait on the docks, driving trucks, installing signs, working golf tournaments, yardwork, construction, retail, limo driving, furniture and finished carpentry, odd jobs, handyman...anything and everything. And it's has been a blast. 

Studs was right. "I think most of us are looking for a calling, not a job...". For me the hard learned secret is to not overstay, to move on to new interests and passions and to be brave enough, confident enough to push forward and not fester in an unhappy position.

Easier said than done especially when providing for a family. But so worth the effort and uncertainty.

Russ

remembering Russ.

Snow Sculptures

I joined a fraternity at the University of Maine, Alpha Gamma Rho, a social/professional fraternity. Almost all the guys were studying life sciences or agriculture. Forestry, Wildlife, Biology, Ag Science, Botany, Soil Science, Biochem and a few in Engineering. We were a fairly nerdy bunch. We were a band of brothers. We studied hard. And we played hard.

Most of us lived at the fraternity house at 135 College Ave on fraternity row. And, as with all social systems involving young college age men, there was a pecking order. We competed with other jock fraternities in intra-fraternity sports and held our own, never the top of the pile, never the bottom.

They ridiculed us by calling us Alpha Grab -A- Hoe. The Co-eds dated us, but we were not the Preppies. We were the farmers. We were hunters and fishermen. And we could not have cared less. Except when it came to the Snow Sculpture competition.

Every year all the fraternities competed during Winter Carnival in a snow sculpture contest. ARP ruled. For a decade. No one could beat us. And they knew it. Our skills were so refined that we were once invited to participate in an international snow sculpture competition in Quebec City. At any rate...

It was the winter of 1971-72. There was not much snow that year, but it didn't deter us. Once the plan and the theme had been agreed upon, we threw ourselves into the effort. Plywood forms were constructed and crews of young men collected snow in pickup trucks from the steam plant parking lot. We filled the forms, wet down the snow and stomped it into slush. The sub zero weather did not deter our efforts, but did freeze the slush into carvable blocks.

Next came the artistry. We stripped the forms and began the sculpting with care and pride. The theme that year had to do with a proposed budget cut to University funding by the state legislature. We crafted a locomotive labeled Rising Costs running down the tracks toward Snidely Whiplash (the Maine Legislature) and a poor maiden (the University System) tied to the tracks. The Headline read " IS THIS A LOCO-MOTIVE?" It was a clever and politically astute sculpture and we were sure our winning streak would continue. Until one cold night before the judging...

We heard them before we saw them. A mob of drunk fraternity men were marching down College Avenue towards our house. They had decided to destroy our sculpture before the judging. The mob was loud and unruly and looking for a fight.

The young men in the house swarmed onto the front lawn to face the scoundrels. There were many more of them than there was of us. The frat rat leaders were screaming at their drunken followers to destroy the sculpture. And the mob edged closer.

Suddenly there was a loud report. All eyes turned up to the roof of the porch over our front door. Brother Guy stood on top of the roof with his 12 gauge shotgun in hand. He racked a shell into the chamber and stood calmly waiting for someone to make a move.

Now, Guy was a volatile guy. He was a true blue brother, but he experienced, shall we say, extremes in his emotional landscape. So we were all scared as shit. We knew that the first person who attacked the snow sculpture would probably be shot. We were sure of it. And, as it turns out, so were the frat rats.

They heaped verbal abuse on us as they retreated back up the Avenue. They were not able to do what they had intended to do. Not without bloodshed.

No one spoke about the incident, not on campus, not in the house. It was too fraught with danger, too irresponsible, to illegal to pull a shotgun on a drunken mob. But the message was clear. Don't mess with the farmers. Cause they will shoot your ass.

GRABBERS!

COVID 19 3/27/2020

So here I am journaling on a blog viewed by few, writing only for me, As it should be. Perhaps this will be read later by my kin. On that chance, I'll try to write about this profound moment in history.

It's not the first time humankind has been ravaged by a scourge. History chronicles many. The Black Plague, The Spanish Flu. Nasty, viscous snippets of RNA that wiped out large numbers of people around the globe. But this one is different for other reasons, primarily because of our culture, our political systems, our economies and out technology.

It is a small world. Air travel transports people and their vectors around the globe. The COVID 19 virus might have originated in Wuhan China, but it could have spawned anywhere there is poor hygiene, human contact and zoonotic opportunity. Breakout in a mega-city providing all of the above and an International Airport, as well as a secretive government, has made it what it is.

Maybe it came from eating bats or pigs or swine or birds, all of which have been associated with recent killer flu's. Here's an idea! EAT PLANTS. Been doing it for 5 years now and I'm better for it. I don't call myself a vegan because people on both sides of the practice extort the word for their own aggrandizing or hate filled purposes. Not that I care what other people think. It's just that I don't care. Think what you want. So will I. To my point, if you don't eat animals you do not expose yourself to zoonotic disease... except from those who do.

Our cultures and societies are causal. Massive cities, exponential human growth, centralized food production and economic interdependence. The conditions have been ripe for awhile. And 100 years ago, the Spanish Flu of 1918, was not that long ago. Still we forget quickly. We prepare poorly as a result.

There are no vaccines, no antidote. We self distance, isolate, sanitize, mask, glove, pray. Just like they did in 1347 with the Bubonic Plague. Interesting factoid. The first recorded case of that particular virus was in China...in 224 BCE. History repeats itself.

And that brings us to technology. For the first time in human history we have the technical ability to beat back these viruses and, hopefully this time we will not forget the lesson. We will prepare for the future scourges with all the genius and AI and cooperative human spirit we can muster. Frankly, I do not doubt our technical abilities. I doubt our human foolishness. Today the press and the politicians are making hay with our fear and our misery. At their own peril.

We will remember this time.