The Sole Survivor of the Edmond Fitzgerald

                                                                    Don on left, with his brothers.

Don's pics of the Fitz.

Before I met him, I would see him from our 4th floor apartment window, working around his house or working on cars or cutting up an old tree that had started coming down in pieces. Before I met him, I heard him cussing like an old sailor. It turns out that is what he was. And it also turns out that he would become a good friend.

We are about the same age and about the same height and weight. We share the same conservative world view (Don established that at the get go. He doesn't suffer liberal fools lightly...or at all, for that matter). And we both enjoy reading and talking, especially about history.

He was born in a working man's neighborhood in Quincy, MA to Robert and Mary. Don has two brothers and a sister, and he loved his parents fiercely. He went to Abbington High School where he distinguished himself in student government and athletics graduating in 1970. 

He was also a good student and was appointed to The Massachusetts Maritime Academy, graduating in 1974, President of his class, with a degree in Marine Engineering. Don football and lacrosse at the Academy. His nickname was Mad Dog. He liked to hit people.

His first job after graduation was as a junior Engineer on the Great Lakes...on the Edmond Fitzgerald. 

The SS Edmond Fitzgerald was the pride of the Great Lakes.  She had many nicknames; The Fitz or Mighty Fitz, Pride of the American Side, and The Titanic of the Great Lakes. When launched in 1958 she was the largest ship on the NA Great Lakes. The Fitz was 13,623 GRT, 729 feet long and 75 feet wide. She could haul a maximum load of 25,500 tons, built to haul taconite, smelted iron ore pellets, from Duluth to Detroit and other destinations. 

Don worked on the Edmond Fitzgerald for three months. And then he was bumped due to union seniority. A senior man took his position. It was a fortuitous event in his life. Shortly thereafter, The Fitz sank in heavy seas with all 29 hands lost.  Here is a YouTube video of Gordon Lightfoot's song "The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald".

"The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" - Gordon Lightfoot (HD w/ Lyrics) - YouTube

Don says the hatch covers were typically poorly secured and, in heavy seas, some were torn free. Water flooded the cargo hold and the four big bilge pumps were likely fouled with iron ore silt. On November 10, 1975, fully loaded and heavy with water, in near hurricane force wind, with 35-foot waves, the Fitz broke in half and sank within minutes. The Fitz had made 748 round trips, over 8 million miles. Don says he knew all the men lost that night. He calls himself the sole survivor of the Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald though there are undoubtedly others who can make that claim.  But none who were onboard that ship that ill-fated night.

Don went on to a long and colorful career aboard "steamboats". He travelled the world on huge freighters and climbed the ranks to Chief Engineer. It changed him, made him hard. I could relate from my 25 years in the paper industry. It's hard to see the changes as they are taking place. But is the price you pay.

When it was time to come off the seas, he continued his career as Chief Engineer with large companies like Dennison and ran the power plants at Harvard and MIT.

I love listening to his sea stories. They are, at times, other worldly, something that cannot be understood without experiencing them. I especially enjoy his stories about his shipmates, a motley, colorful and dysfunctional crew from around the globe. 

Connie and I to stayed with him at his cottage on a lake in NH this past summer. We played his extensive 70s and 80s record collection late into the night. A good time. Connie loves him. And so do my grandkids. 

Recently his daughter, named Katie, like my daughter, gave birth to his granddaughter. He is cautiously entering into the role of grandfather. A lot to learn. A lot of unfamiliar emotions. Last week he taught me how to change brake shoes and rotors on Katie and Elnur's 2017 Subaru. He has all the tools. And we try to repay his kindness with homecooked food and tech support.

It's nice to have a new, old friend. 

Reposting February 20, 1962

 On the Road with Connie & Glen: February 20, 1962 (gdfoss.blogspot.com)

Indignities

 As I age, I need to keep on learning, keep on laughing, keep a sense of humor...or I'll shoot somebody. 

I just read "A Man Called Ove" and watched the Americanized movie version "A Man Called Otto". Lots of food for thought. Well done. Recommended. Without revealing any real plots, it's about a man struggling to find meaning and purpose in a changing world, a world changing too fast for him to keep up. I can relate.

Former blog posts talked about the exponential growth of technology and fast paced societal change. Maybe in this one I'll simply relay a few of the frustrating but funny events that seem to be happening all the more frequently.

Navigating the web, keeping track of usernames and passwords, interacting with automated telephone communications, are becoming more and more tedious, sometimes impossible. Even giving instructions to our Google player. It doesn't seem to understand. Thank God for my son in law, who just the other night quickly set us up with an Apple+ subscription on the TV, something I had unsuccessfully attempted to do for the previous hour. He also guides us with our cell phones and computers. Every family needs at least one techno-savvy member.

I have had my taxes prepared for the past 17 years by a CPA firm in Waterville. Always been happy. Until last year. The bill more than doubled. Time for action. I had always successfully done my taxes before...on paper with IRS books. So I attempted it this year. It took me two days and I knew I had done it wrong. It said I had under withheld by $2,500 and owed a penalty which I also couldn't calculate. Was it always so difficult? Or was I no longer up to the task. 

I signed up for free tax prep at our Senior Citizen Center and showed up for my appointment with all my paperwork. A pleasant, elderly woman took my information and my paperwork and an hour later we were called in to sign documents. Not only did we not have to pay a penalty, we got a $1,500 rebate! Happy...but chagrinned.

Hearing loss adds to my disgruntledness. And face masks make lip reading and understanding impossible. My hearing aids help, but only to a point, especially in noisy environments. Connie has become my interpreter, my hearing ear dog.

My first reaction to the indignities of aging, like Ove, is to behave like a grumpy, old curmudgeon. My second reaction is to laugh at myself. I prefer the latter. And I try to be mindful about it.

Last month we were herded like hogs through the airline security and customs systems on our trip to Grand Cayman. It was degrading and exhausting. We lost things, dropped things, got in the wrong lines. Connie lost her cell phone as we were pushed through the TSA march from hell. And I hurt my knee.

It swelled up like a balloon and I gimped through MIA International like an old man. The gate attendants in Grand Caymen suggested a wheelchair...and I begrudgingly agreed. But when we disembarked at the gate, there was none. I stormed off like an old curmudgeon. And, an hour later, was barely navigating. It slowed us down so much we almost missed our connect.

The following week I made an appointment to have the knee checked. The X-ray tech was a heavyset young, black woman with dreadlocks and a mask. She escorted me back to a dressing room and, with her back turned from me, gave me instructions which I didn't understand. I said, pointing at my hearing aids, "I didn't hear you." She turned around to face me, stepped up to my face and yelled "TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS!".... which I did.

I tried to get a haircut last week. I called my regular place and got put on hold for 5 minutes, then disconnected. I called back and the attendant asked me to hold. I announced my name said I had been holding and could I drive over for a cut. She said "Yes, we are very busy"...and I was disconnected again. So I drove over. When I walked in the attendant asked if I had an appointment. I said yes and told her my name whereupon and a stylist whirled around and said angrily, "I tried to tell you there would be an hour wait, but you hung up on me". I turned around and walked out without comment. Time for a new barber.

So I walked into Bruno's across the street. A woman in a mask pointed a finger at me and yelled across the room "Are you Walter?" I shook my head no. She yelled "Well, who are you?" I said, "I want a haircut." She said, "Well, you need an appointment. And I don't have any!" Again I turned around and walked out. 

I was about to give up, just like I had with the TV Apple+ subscription and the taxes but decided instead to plod up the street in the -10-degree weather and walk into another barbershop that had recently opened. The big burly barber greeted me, took my coat and gave me the best razor cut and shave of my life. He was from Lebanon and his English was poor, but a hour later after a neck, shoulder, face and head massage, and after he trimmed my eyebrows, my ears and my nose, I tipped him well. He held my coat and gave me lollipops. 

New barber, Check.

Some people are kind and accommodating to people with disabilities and with the aged. Some people are not. Some people are human beings. Some people are dicks. I am determined to not be a grumpy, old curmudgeon dick. It's not easy.

 Just need to keep plodding along because it's not going to get easier. Just gotta keep laughing.

In your face, CHATGPT!

ChatGPT

 We have all been reading about the developments associated with Artificial Intelligence and, most recently, an application called ChatGPT. Some online accounts predict this technology will create major impacts on many of today's careers from financial management to journalism to engineering and especially software engineering. There are already reports of students using the app to write papers and newspapers producing articles. Future workforce beware. One online account described the concerns as being BS and overblown. So what is the truth? 

My daughter and son-in law are tech savvy millennials and we talked about the issue at dinner the other night. They both have used the app and agree it will have a major impact in the short term, not only on their jobs, but in the global work world. I asked for a demonstration.

I have been thinking about writing a funny blog about the indignities of aging. So what would ChatGPT produce when simply instructed to write a lighthearted article about the topic? In less than 30 seconds, it wrote the following...

The Indignities of Old Age: A Lighthearted Look

"As we age, we experience a multitude of changes in our bodies and minds, some of which can be quite humorous. From forgetting names to shuffling around like we have a permanent limp, the indignities of old age can be quite a laugh riot. But, seriously, what's the deal with gravity? How does it suddenly get so strong? And why do our joints start creaking like a haunted house?

One of the most noticeable indignities of old age is our declining memory. We forget things that we once knew by heart, like our own phone number or the name of the person we just met. It's like our brain is playing a game of hide and seek and the memories are hiding just out of reach. And don't even get us started on trying to remember passwords. Our password is usually "password123" but we can never remember if it's with a capital P or not.

As if that weren't enough, our bodies start to rebel against us too. Our once nimble fingers now fumble and drop things, and our once strong legs now shake and quiver. And don't even get us started on the aches and pains that seem to pop up out of nowhere. It's like our bodies are saying, "Hey, remember when you were young and carefree? Well, payback's a b*tch!"

But, despite all these indignities, we can still find the humor in the situation. After all, laughter is the best medicine, right? Just imagine the look on the face of the young cashier who asked us if we need help reaching the top shelf, and we replied, "No, but thank you for offering. I just wanted to see if I still had my arms."

In conclusion, the indignities of old age may be many, but we can still find the humor in the situation. We may forget things, we may shuffle around, and we may ache in places we didn't know existed, but we're still here and we're still living life to the fullest. So, let's laugh and make the most of it!"

Not bad. The humor is trite. And the conclusion is lame. What seems to be missing is the personal experience piece. But the technology is simply amazing. And AI learns and becomes better at an exponential rate.

I will still write my blog on the subject...later.

The Singularity is Now.

Abbie Emma York Willard

Much of this information was collected by Frank and Norma from direct conversations with Abbie.

January 4th, 2023 is Abbie's 144th birthday. She was born in 1879 on Orrs Island, Maine, the oldest surviving child of Merrill York and Harriet Drusella Webber. Three siblings preceded her, each living 3 months or less. Four sisters and two brothers followed her although Mary Elizabeth, born the year following Abbie, died at 13. Abbie's line of descent is from Richard of Yorkshire, England who came to the Colonies in the mid 1600s and settled near Durham, N.H.

Abbie's parents were married in 1875 and moved to Orrs Island, where he was a fisherman. The family moved to Ferry Village in South Portland in 1903. The story from Abbie was that Harriet loaded up the family possessions on a scow and had it towed to South Portland...while William was out fishing. Strong women run in the family.

Abbie used to enjoy accompanying her father fishing. The fish were plentiful in the mid 1880s and, though William sometimes fished the Grand Banks with his uncle, he usually set his lines and nets inside Cliff and Chebeague Islands from his double ended dory. He was known to be a strong man and regularly rowed the 20 miles to and from Orrs Island. Another Abbie story is that one winter the ice was frozen solid on Portland Harbor, so he walked on the ice to get home.

She related conversations she had with her father while fishing. Once she spied some islands and said to him "Be that England, Father?" He reflected and replied, "Land sakes no, child. England be a hundred miles or more." Another time, while watching seagulls fly, he told her "You know Ab, someday a person will be able to fly in the sky just like those birds." Abbie said she was frightened and thought her father had become "daft".

She read the newspaper, front to back, well into her 90s, and stayed informed of everything going on in the state and the world. The only thing that slowed her down was losing her hearing and her eyesight. She was especially interested in the weather. Abbie never lost her interest in learning. She was often found reading the dictionary. One day her great grandson, Glen, who had been studying cirrus and cumulus cloud formations in school, asked her about the cloud overhead. She said, "You know, Sonny Boy, father always called them "Summer Floaters". And so we tell our grandchildren the same.

Other Abbie expressions were that someone kookie was "half past two" or "24 cents short of a quarter."

She only completed 5th grade on Orrs Island. Her parents said she had learned all there was to learn at that school and that further attendance was unnecessary. She always loved books. After she died her grandchildren and great-grandchildren donated children's books to the Orrs Island Library. It would have pleased her.

At age 13 Abbie came to Portland to work at Boones Restaurant on Custom House Wharf, the same wharf where great-grandson Craig built his lobster and bait businesses. She secured a room directly above the restaurant which proved to be quite exposed to the men on the waterfront. Even with her furniture barricading the door at night, it was not place for a 13-year-old girl. She moved into her Aunt Henrietta Woodbury's home in South Portland and worked as a housekeeper and a nannie. Clarence was living with his grandfather, Zephania Crockett, in South Portland and so they met. Clarence used to tell that Abbie loved ice skating and that she often wore a red wool skirt that used to "melt the ice".

Abbie and Clarence "courted" for 5 or 6 years before getting married. Abbie finally inspired him to "step up or step out". They were married on September 8, 1901, and moved in with his parents where George Linwood and later Mabelle Christine were born. They moved to Front Street in Ferry Village where Martha, Paul, Helen, Natalie and Robert were born, all without the benefit of electric lights.

Clarence began working as a well-paid hard hat dive in 1916, which should have made Abbie' life easier, but "circumstances determined it would not." Clarence was a hard drinker and there are stories where Abbie would send George and Mabelle to the wharf to get grocery money from Clarence before he spent it all in the Commercial Street Taverns. Abbie was a very resourceful provider. She knew which greens in the field were edible and she loved cooking and eating them. I remember well the crocks of salted dandelion greens, fiddleheads and salt fish that she prepared with Mabelle at 23 Morse Street. She used to cook boiled beef tongue for Frank as a special treat.

Abbie created clothing for her children from grain bags. She knew how to use sumac flowers to dye muslin and knitted mittens and scarves. She was very resourceful and never wasted anything. Her father was often at the door with fresh caught cod fish which she called "Cape Cod Turkey". She washed the clothes once a week, on Monday, boiling them on the woodstove, using homemade soap. 

Abbie and Clarence moved several times and eventually, at age 70, Clarence retired from diving. From 1952 until 1960, they occupied a small apartment at the Gould Equipment Company on Haskell Street in South Portland, near Cash Corner. Craig and I remember visiting there. Clarence chewed plug tobacco and there were empty cans around the house, but always clean. Abby would have it no other way. I remember riding down to the Dairy Queen at Cash Corner with Clarence in a Model T Ford truck. Craig remembers getting in trouble for helping Clarence to his feet whereupon the went into the warehouse for a shot of rum. 

At Clarence death in 1960, Abbie went to live with Mabelle and Morris on Morse Street in Pleasantdale until 1969 when Morris retired, and he and Mabelle moved to Florida. Abbie moved to Falmouth Manor when she lived until 1978. I remember sitting with her at Falmouth Manor, watching TV as an astronaut walked on the moon. She was reflective and told me about sitting on the point on Orrs Island as a child and watching the first steam powered boat enter Harpswell Sound. She witnessed so much change.

With failing health, she moved to Devonshire Nursing Home where she died on March 17, 1979 shortly after her 100th birthday party where she enjoyed a birthday meal of salt fish, potatoes, fiddlehead greens and homemade biscuits. 

Shortly after the party she was able to meet and hold her great, great grandsons, Eric and Ryan. She also met and held great, great grandchildren Sayde and Christopher. Gail and Wendy knew her well. She told Gail she was pregnant with Kimberly...before Gail knew she was.

Abbie had 20 grandchildren, 41 great-grandchildren and 4 great-great grandchildren at the time of her death. She took a special interest in each. 

To quote Norma, Abbie was "truly quite the lady."

Please feel free to provide me any personal memories or stories you might have or have been told by your folks and I will add them on this blog to perpetuate her memory.

Click here for audio YouTube of Abbie Emma   https://youtu.be/qbQMfsT_nsc

Forever young. Forever loved.

 

An old show

 Just discovered they are still playing reruns of the Oprah Show we were on way back in 2009.

https://youtu.be/NPtwn35G4AI

I watched it with a critical eye after all these years and, judging by the comments, feel like we achieved our goal of "helping if only one grieving person." It tugged at my heart to see Ryan and hear his brave message. But, despite our best efforts, we were unable to save him. Such a loss. 

Miss my boys.

Uncle Stan

By the time I was old enough to remember him, around 12, he had firmly established himself as a cranky old curmudgeon. No one in the family spoke much of him. He was my mother's uncle, married her Aunt Helen, Mabelle's younger sister. Somewhere along the line, my folks decided it would be a nice thing to do to send me to their home on the Upper Narrows Pond in Winthrop for a work week. It wasn't the first time they had farmed me out. I had spent 4 days at their friend's home in the woods of Sutton Vermont working in the cedar swamp cutting logs. My job was to use a spud to peel off the bark. The sticky sap covered my arms and clothes and attracted the moose flies which ate me alive.  Were my folks trying to teach me some lesson? The value of hard work?

Stanley Lester Loyer was born in January 1911 in Hollard, Michigan. His father, Leonard Lester Loyer and his mother, Lena Dewitt Loyer were born in 1883 and had 4 sons and a daughter. Stan was 3rd in line. His high school yearbook said he was on the football team his junior year (gotta love Ancestry.com). 

 

He enlisted in the US Coast Guard in August of 1934 and was discharged 20 years later in November of 1954. Would love to know his military history, but too many hoops to jump through to get it from the government. I do know he served in WWII and in Korea. Somehow, I remember he was in Africa. I don't remember him ever talking about it.

I do know that he married Aunt Helen Iris Willard on May 15, 1943, in the middle of World Wat II and that they lived in Washington DC through 1950. In 1956 the records indicate they lived in Portland, Maine and, at some point, bought their cottage on Upper Narrows Pond in Winthrop. They never had children, something Helen tearfully lamented on her deathbed.

The one-story cottage was on the pond at the end of a steep dirt road off Rt 202. It had a glassed-in front porch, 2 small bedrooms, a small living room and kitchen. The basement was accessible from outside. There was a dock and a 12-foot aluminum boat, 2 gardens, an outbuilding and a half dozen beehives. Stan was the honey man in town and was well known in the State in the care and keeping of bees.

He wasn't a talkative man, but he was quick to teach me what he wanted done and how he wanted it done. I raked a lot of leaves, weeded the gardens and mowed the lawns. He taught me about bee keeping, tending the supers, collecting the combs. In the basement he had built a separator and my job was to cut off the top of the combs with a hot knife and spin the honey into a bucket where the debris and larva was filtered out.

He taught me about how bees dance to communicate, how to not get stung and how to deal with a sting when it happened. I remember making the mistake of releasing some bees from the basement and soon they had let the hive know where the honey was as they swarmed the windows.

He was a very smart man. If he wanted to learn something, to build something, he would. He read constantly.

One day he had me dive down to a waterline in the pond and attach a rope so we could haul it up and replace the foot valve. The next day he taught me how to make beer, lots of beer, in the basement. My job was to cap the bottles. Durning the night a case exploded. Might have been my fault. I cleaned up the mess.

At night he let me take the boat out with a gas lantern to fish and I burned the bejeezus out of my hand but didn't tell him. He also let me take the boat down to the Lower Narrows to visit my sister who was at Methodist Youth Camp. 

When I was older, living in Fairfield Center with Connie and the kids, I would occasionally drive down to visit. Aunt Helen loved the boys. We helped with the leaves in the fall. And one year, when Winthrop lost power in an ice storm, I drove down and took all his frozen food to a freezer near my home.  After the power was restored and the food was returned, he showed up at my house and gifted me with several saw blades for my radial arm saw. I talked to him about issues I had and projects I was planning with the house, and he sent me a long, detailed letter on how I should approach them. 

I remember several conversations with him about finances and politics. He was very right wing and invested in blue chips and gold. He was not a trusting man of the government.

In the summer of 1989, after we moved back to Maine from Stamford and from MIT, I got word he was in Togus Veterans Hospital and that he was failing. I visited him. The conversation was limited, He seemed resigned to it, but he thanked me for visiting and for our times together. He was a good man.

 He died on July 21, 1989. There were no services. He was cremated and buried at Togus Cemetery. Shortly afterwards, my folks and I helped Aunt Helen move back to South Portland. She sold the cottage and gifted me the aluminum boat...which my mother made me pay for. 

What was she trying to teach me?

One important lesson I have learned; Never miss an opportunity to ask the questions you want to ask a person. 

Cousin Leslie recalls:

 I do remember spending a week with Aunt Helen and Uncle Stan one summer: a fabulous week because I was finally an only child with two doting adults.

Every morning I got all the honey I wanted on my toast. Uncle Stan and I hung out together all day - one activity to the next. Donning the beekeeper's helmet! I was delighted by the worms layered in newspaper. We cruised the lake! I caught scads of sunfish off the dock. 

Guess a girl was just treated to more fun. Never questioned why it was a one time experience...I had a ball with Aunt Helen and Uncle Stan at the lake!

Sister Wendy texted.

 I also remember an old wringer washing machine that he converted into a night crawler farm just at the right side of the bulkhead in the cellar. He would reach into that rich black dirt and pull out a fistful of huge, juicy worms! Grossed me right out. He enjoyed watching me try to be polite and impressed!

Happy Birthday Frank Waldo and Norma Mae

Mabelle's Story

 This story is signed and dated by Mabelle Davis on February 1, 1978. It was undoubtedly transcribed and typed by Frank.

"This story was told to me, Mabelle Willard Davis, by my grandmother, Nellie Crockett Willard, when I was a small child. My grandmother, if living, would be about 125 years old and this story is about Nellie's father Zephaniah Decrow Crockett."

Zephaniah Decrow Crockett was born 6/18/1837 on Deer Isle, Maine and died 1/5/1908 in South Portland, Maine. He is buried in Mount Plesant Cemetery in South Portland.

"My Great-grandfather lived on what is now called West High Street in South Portland. There were no paved streets then, just wheel tracks or tote roads. Whenever they were traveling anywhere, either on foot or by horse and wagon, the men always took along their muskets because of the Indians."

"It seemed that my Great-grandfather had had some trouble with an old Chief who had told him, "I will kill you if I ever get the chance."

"One day Great-grandfather Zephaniah was taking his corn to the mill to be ground into meal. As he walked along through the woods, he saw the old Chief asleep under a tree and realized that he had dozed off while waiting to ambush him. My Great-grandfather knew that if he did not take advantage of this chance to kill the old Chief, the Chief would surely kill him at the next opportunity. Realizing that firing his gun would alert the rest of the tribe, he sneaked up to the tree and hit him over the head with his musket. He put the Chief into his own canoe, filled it with rocks, pushed it out into deep water and sank it."

"About two days passed and when the Chief did not return to his tribe, they began a search for him, Great-Grandfather Zephaniah realized that if he did not join in the search, they would become suspicious of him so he went along with them and that is where the story ended."

"We have come a long way in the last one hundred and fifty years and I think we should all be very proud of this wonderful country. It is good to remember what our ancestors went through to make it a good place to live for all of us."

                                                                                        Maybelle Willard Davis                                                                                               February 1, 1978

I'm not saying this ever really happened. Sounds a bit contrived. But it is an interesting bit of folklore passed down through the generations. Hope you enjoy.

Morris and Mabelle Davis 1969 at my high school graduation.

Cap Willard

Captain Clarence Linwood Willard was my great grandfather. Yesterday was his 155th birthday. The day before, October 23rd, was his death day. I remember it well. I was 9 years old, it was 1960 and it was also my birthday. We lived in Sutton, Vermont and I found my mom crying, sitting near the phone. She sent me off to school and I spent the day confused about how I was supposed to feel and act. It was my first experience with death.

I have ended up the recipient of all of dad's genealogy papers, files and pictures. He had collected a lot of information on Clarence. I'm providing it here for our family. Part of our history. Much of the following is from an article written by John Willard of Billerica, MA and Sally Willard of Burlington, MA and was published in the Willard News Newsletter in Dec. 1993. Additionally, I incorporated some Portland newspaper articles, Navy records and dad's research,

Clarence was born in South Portland, Maine, in the house on the corner of Front and Stamford Streets on October 24, 1877. His father, Benjamine Upton Willard, was of English descent, beginning in the lineage of Major Simon Willard born in 1604 in Horsmonden, Kent, England. His mother, Nellie Etta Crocket, who was born in Sunshine, Maine, a small fishing village on the eastern shore of Deer Isle Maine below Blue Hill, was of English Irish decent. Her father. Zephaniah Decrowe Crockett, was English and her mother, Margaret Conary, came from Northern Ireland. (I will post an interesting story recorded by Grandmother Mabelle Willard Davis about Zephaniah later.). Nellie had one other child, Mabel, who died at 3 months.

Benjamin and Nellie

As a boy, Clarence went to Pleasant Street School in South Portland. His grandfather, Daniel Willard, owned the sailing vessel Nellie Sawyer and his father, Benjamin, sailed with him. The vessel made many trips from the quarries of Blue Hill to New York harbor. The granite used to build the Brooklyn Bridge was excavated there and the very first load was delivered by the Nellie Sawyer. It was also employed in transporting molasses from Barbados to New York,

Nellie Willard often accompanied Benjamin whenever he shipped out and Clarence usually went along. A good part of his younger life was spent at sea. On one trip to New York when he was nine years old, Clarence and his dog missed the sailing, and he was left to shift for himself until the return trip. He was befriended by a black family and a month later, although he had no idea where to look for him, his father spotted his black dog near the dock and following the dog, found Clarence.

 

Clarence on left

At age 20 Clarence enlisted in the US Navy and was assigned to the USS Montauk which was stationed to protect Portland Harbor during the Spanish American War. Clarence's account was published in the newspaper in the 50s. "We were on the USS Montauk, an old Civil War Monitor type. She was armored about like a tin can in comparison to what they are using now. I was a bosun's mate. We were in Portland Harbor for a long time and then they decided the Spanish would never get this far so they sent us down to the battle zone- the Philadelphia Navy Yard where we spent the rest of the war." That was a joke, of course, Clarence was fond of saying that he fought the battle of Trundy's Reef which is a well-known buoy marking the passage into Portland Harbor. 

His enlistment papers describe him as a Sailor by occupation, with blue eyes, light brown hair and a ruddy complexion. He was 5 ft 8 1/2 inches in height and weighed 155 pounds. He had burn scars on his right side and tattoo's on both arms. On September 13, 1998, after serving four months in the navy, he was honorably discharged at League Island, Pennsylvania.

Clarence and Abbie

Upon his return to South Portland, he continued to sail until he married Abbie Emma York, whom he had been courting since she was 15 years old (i.e., since 1894) on September 8, 1901. Abbie was born on Orrs Island, Maine on January 4, 1879, the daughter to William Merrill York and Harriet Drusella Webber. Clarence and Abbie resided in South Portland most of their married life with only a short residence on Edgewood Ave in Portland.

After marrying, Clarence came off the water for a time and worked for a short time at E.T. Barrows in Portland making screen doors and windows. He also worked one winter at the old Lovell Diamond Arms Co. in Portland making hubs, sprockets and wheel assemblies for their well-known bicycles of that period. But he soon returned to the sea, sailing yachting, fishing and as a Merchant Marine. He recalled, "One season I went sword fishing on the Fanny Bell. Hadn't been to sea for so long that I didn't have any gear left. Old Capt. Murphy wanted me to go as striker. He loaned me the money for boots and skins and we sailed for Georges. We got 43 fish in three weeks and shared $12.50 a man. My gear bill was $12.50 so that ended that. I was in the clear, but in no condition to kick up my heels ashore."

Clarence and Abbie had seven children: George Linwood 7/31/03- 9/28/68, Mabelle Christine 11/30/05-9/3/99, Martha Mae 3/24/10-4/18/72, Helen Iris 6/22/12- 8/24/2002, Paul Everett 11/13/13- 5/31/88, Natalie Eleine 1/12/16- 3/14/77, Robert Mencher 9/19/19- 4/9/94.

In 1916 just after Natalie was born, Clarence was seining for herring aboard the Go-Getum out of Portland for the Nichols Packing Company on Front Street in South Portland. On their way on September 23rd, they saw the Bay State- one of the Boston to Portland steamers- founder on the rocks off Cape Elizabeth. They alerted Mr. Nichols, who sent help to the vessel, and everyone was rescued. On that same night, the Go-Getum went ashore and was demolished. Clarence and his net tender swam ashore safely.

Shortly after that incident Clarence went to work for Nat Gordon, the only marine diver in the Portland area. It was here that he learned the trade that he is still widely remembered for on the Portland waterfront.  His first job was diving for cannon balls at the Fort Preble wharf. He'd been a tender for some time before that, but Nat had never let him go down. "Can't remember the year. Doesn't make a difference anyway. They'd shipped a load of cannon balls up from Fort Popham and a breeze of wind came up and the barge turned over spilling cannon balls all over the bottom of Fort Preble. T'wasn't much of a dive- 12 or 14 feet, but it was work. Those balls weighed 85 pounds apiece. There was also some great steakers left over from the Civil War that went 300 pounds apiece. Old Nat went down for them cause he was afraid they were too much for me." When Nat retired, Clarence bought his gear and went into business for himself.

With tenders Clark Corey and Christian Ritter and working off Walter Cloughs\'s barge, he laid waterlines and power lines to Peaks Island and South Portland, did the underwater work during the construction of the "Million Dollar Bridge" to South Portland, set the pilings for the State Pier in Portland and cleaned debris from dams in about every mill town in Maine. Salvage work and water line repair were their mainstays, but at times they were asked to retrieve lost objects. 

On one memorable occasion a $5,000 diamond ring was lost at White's Bridge in Windham. Clarence was amazed to spot the ring sparkling in the sun's rays while making his decent to hunt for it. He spent some time looking around the bottom at the rocks and bottles in order that it not appear too easy a task! In those days, Clarence got $45 per 5-hour day or $45 per dive if it did not take a day. This was good money because the average weekly wage was about $10.

Clarence never took a job requiring a dive more than 40 feet. This probably saved his life on many occasions, but on one in particular a vessel had sunk on a sand shelf with very deep water on both sides. A young diver named Irving Williams took the job of attaching a lifting cable to the vessel when Clarence had refused the job because it was too risky. Irving slipped off the edge of the sand shelf, parting his airline and losing his life.

Clarence was known on the waterfront as being an honest man and was respected as a man of his word.  At his funeral in 1960, his employer and friend Mr. Gould of the Gould Equipment Company wrote a eulogy that was published in the newspaper. He wrote:

"Cap did not come back to us from Togus- he succumbed to his ailments... Cap Willard came to us ten years ago along with his devoted wife. They occupied an apartment connected to our warehouse on Haskell Street in South Portland. Cap was the caretaker and never was there a better one. Cap was such an unobtrusive man. He was in the navy in the Spanish American War, was a deep-sea diver for over 40 years working from Eastport to Portsmouth and descending into most of the larger lakes and rivers in Maine and New Hampshire. He was a captain of a schooner and sailed all up and down the Atlantic...he loved to travel, in planes, trains, ships or buses. Cap liked to drink, liked to watch fights and wrestling matches. He had such good credit that he could walk the length of Commercial Street and borrow $5 from every other man he met- as they all knew he would be back with it in 48 hours... He was a good man. Cap was 82.

Clarence stopped diving when he was 70 years old although he continued to act on a consulting basis on repair projects for both the water and the power companies. He took excellent care of his diving gear. "Diving hasn't changed a bit since I was an apprentice, except that they've got young fellas doing it instead of old waterlogged birds like me. The stuff still weighs more that you'd want to lug around above water and the only improvement to my gear during the 35 years that I was diving was one time when the railroad banged my helmet around during shipment and sprung it a bit. It never fit quite right before that- like when you pick up someone else's hat at a restaurant. Well, the old pot was fine for years afterwards- just seemed to fit like an old pair of slippers.

He carried his air hose. head piece and shoes in a large woven wicker basket reinforced with iron strapping for additional strength. When he gave up diving, he took all of his gear to the Boyce Machine shop on Commerical Street in Portland to be sold. The end of an era- the end of a colorful segment of Portland waterfront life.

In 1949 Clarence and Abbie sold their home on Edgewood Avenue and moved to an apartment on 58 Haskell Ave in South Portland, as a caretaker for Gould Equipment Company. His employer, Ralph Gould and his manager, Bud Barrett enjoyed talking with him about his life and were very good to him. Clarence never lost his affection for the sea, and his happiness, even as an older man was walking from his home, 4 miles to the waterfront and talking about the daily happenings of the harbor with many who knew him. He was blessed with a wonderful wife and hardworking children who realized that his first love was the sea, He was a hardworking man who enjoyed listening more that talking. One of his greatest joys was his grandchildren of whom he saw 19 of 20 born. 

He died in Veteran's hospital in Togus, Maine on October 23rd, 1960, at the age of 82- one day before his 83rd birthday. According to his death certificate he died of carcinoma of the lung, metastatic from prostate.  He and Abbie are buried in Forest City Cemetery in South Portland in lots 396-397.

I remember taking a ride with him in an old Model T truck down to the Dairy Queen at Cash Corner for an ice cream.

There are stories about his heavy drinking back in the day. One was that Abbie in the early days would send the kids down to the docks when his ship was due to get money for groceries before he gave it or drank it all away.

Craig and I have memories of visiting Haskell Ave. It was very small. Great Gramps liked to chew plug tobacco and there were many small cans around the apartment always kept clean by Great Gram. Clarence would sit in his chair and had trouble standing up. One memory is when he had Craig help him onto his feet so he could go out in the warehouse for a nip. He got in trouble with Abbie for helping him up.

My mom bequeathed me with his basket. I don't remember it being around the house or at Morse Street. I think it came back from Peter Nappi when he passed. in NYC in 1992.  Mom was the executor of his estate. Wish we had his diving helmet.

And that's all we've got on this remarkable man.  Please let me know if you have additional information, real or anecdotal, about Clarence so we can include it in this writeup. Hope you enjoy.

The Approaching Quiet

With age, I notice how much things change. Certainly the body and the mind. Aches and pains. Wrinkles and warts. Interests wain. Cognitive abilities decline.It's not just biological. Tragic Life experiences also wound and degrade. 

The end (ongoing) result is a slowing, a deescalation. So different from the constant acceleration of youth, the endless addition of skills, materials and capacities... endless? Poor choice of words.

Technological advancement and societal complexity compond the rate of change. Exponentially. The rate of change has changed.

Kurzweil wrote of an approaching Singularity, a point in time when the rate of change in technology exceeds the ability of humans to comprehend. Technologies like computer science, robotics, nanoscience, biological sciences, material sciences, astrophysic,,,all the sciences.

And societal change with gender and sexual identity, critical race theory, cryptocurrency and shifting geopolitical powers has already reached that point of noncomprehension... at least for me.

There are choices to be made. Rage against the flow of time? Or relax into the mystery. Transition from participant to spectator. Shed the worries and refocus on what matters most. Easier said than done. The ego is powerful.

At times, I am able to just observe the ebb and flow of daily life. Other times, I find myself expounding, babbling, proving to someone or myself that I am still vital. But, increasingly, I am content to be quiet, able to slap down the ego's need for external validation.

Mark Twain wrote, "Never miss an opportunity to shut up." 

Rings true.

  

Sugar On Snow

Spring is coming and the sap is running. Fond memories of life in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. 

We moved to Barton,Vermont when I was 4 and Gail was 18 months. We moved back to South Portland, Maine when I was in 5th grade. Most of my childhood memories were from that time, the 50's and early 60's. Good memories of a simpler time and a simpler place. 

Our friends were country/small town folks, salt of the earth. Every spring, withot fail, they would invite us to take part in the annual ritual of tapping the maple trees and boiling down the sap. The whole community, young and old, got involved and there was plenty to do.

The Maple groves were tended during the winter pruning deadwood and brush. Firewood was cut, hauled and stacked near the sugar shack. Buckets, spickets and equipment to haul the sap were readied. 

Warming temperatures started the sap flowing and everything shifted into high gear. Trees were tapped and galvanized buckets and lids were installed. 

We joined the Richardson family at their sugar shack one Saturday to help collect sap and boil it down to syrup. We followed the horse drawn tank wagon through the grove on muddy and snow covered tote roads. I remember dashing from tree to tree checking buckets. First order of business was to remove any drowned or swimming field mice and carry the buckets to the wagon where it was emptied into the tank. Then we would return the empty buckets to their trees and hang them back in place. But not before getting on our knees and letting the sweet sap drip into our mouths. A typical tree will produce 10 to 20 gallons of sap per season.

When the tank was full we would trudge back or ride on the back of the wagon  to the sugar shack and transfer the sap to a holding tank. Sap was boiled down over a wood fire in batches in a large flat pan. It took around 3 hours to finish a batch. The sweet smell of the boiling sap is a sweet memory.

One part of the art of sugaring off was testing the consistency of the syrup with a long wooden paddle. It would drip off the paddle in sheets when it was ready. 40 gallons of sap produces 1 gallon of sweet amber syrup. Liquid gold.

Next came the tasting. A small amount of syrup was boiled down even further until it begame thick and tacky and a tray of snow was collected and placed on the table. The thick syrup was poured over the snow and immediately became solid and taffy-like. We twirlled up the sticky treat on forks. Sugar-on-Snow. Nothing like it. Guaranteed to pull the fillings out of your teeth. It was served with homemade sour pickles and raised donuts which had been cooked in the boiling sap.

By this time all the kids were on a sugar high, but the festivities continued. We all received a small bowl of the boiled down syrup and a spoon to stir and whip it into thick creamy maple sugar candy. We saved some on waxed paper and gobbled up the rest, licking the bowl clean. 

I remember feeling sick to my stomach after these events. Just the price you pay for all the fun.

Great memories.

31522

 

Warren

 

We pulled into the Hampton Inn in Fredericksburg, Virginia after a grueling 9 hour drive down  the I-95 Road from Hell; NYC, the GW Bridge, major accident delay on the NJ Turnpike and, the finale, the DC I-495 Beltway. I was relieved this leg of the trip was behind us. Never fun.

We were overnighting at our usual spot on our way to Saint Simons Island for some time away from the New England cold and snow. I-95 South from Fredericksburg is a walk in the park; no potholes, no snow, no tolls… although lots of speed traps.

After checking into our room, I wandered next door to the 7-11 for some cold adult beverages and spied him sitting on the curb. It was a cold evening and he was bundled up in a wool hat and hoodie, but his sparkling eyes and wide smile were visible above his long, white beard. He looked like William Lee Golden of the Oak Ridge Boys.

I dropped 4 bits into his plastic cup on the way out and he flashed me a smile. “Hey, thanks! You’re a good guy.” I returned his smile. “Stay warm, brother.”

As I walked back to the hotel, I wondered about him so an hour later I picked up a couple bananas from the hotel and walked over to find him in the same spot. He smiled when he recognized me and as I dropped a buck in the cup. “So what’s your story?” I asked as I sat down on the curb across from him.

“You really want too hear it?” he asked and I nodded.

I passed him the bananas and he beamed.”Cool!”

“Well, my house burned down. Lost my three dogs. Chimney fire. My grandson put me up in the Red Roof Inn, but I just found out I can get Social Security money in June when I turn 65. I’ll be ok.”

“I miss my dogs. I walk dogs during the week at the animal shelter. Keeps me sober”

“Need anything from the store?” I asked.

“Serious?” he replied.

I nodded.

“Pack of cigarettes?”

“What’s your brand?” I asked.

“Kools”

Made me smile and think of my father in law, Joe.

I returned and passed him the smokes. Two banana skins laid on the ground at his feet.

What’s your name?”

“Warren…can I shake your hand?” he replied.

Big hands. Strong grip. Another big smile.

Thanks for the story, Warren. Good luck, brother.

Music

 Yeah, I play the guitar. It was very cool in the 60's to be able to strum and croon ,'The Rising Sun' or 'Bogangles'. And I sure wanted to be cool.

In truth, my meager song writing and guitar playing abilities is likely how I enraptured my wife, the most significant, the most fortuitous event of my life. She had music in her and she was attracted to someone who shared the muse. 

But I never learned music. It's all by ear for me. And it was so for my dad, Frank. He played guitar a little, but more, the ukelele. It worked so much better at the church talent shows.

I passed on a passion for playing instrumental music to my kids, especially my sons, and Connie passed on her singing gift to our daughter. The boys both wanted to play the saxaphone and, in 5th grade ,we rented two alto saxes from Al Corey. About 9 months into it, I called them to the living room for a serious discussion. "You are not spending time practicing your saxaphones. Should I send them back?" They both broke down in tears. And so it began.

They joined Band. And Marching Band, And Jazz Band. They went to Jazz Camp. They were awarded State Jazz Band honors. Eric learned to play the drums and bought a set with his own money. He joined several bands and they all practiced in our bassement...where the drums were.

These were grunge bands. "Captain Suck". "Bung Monkey". "Statistical Density". Loud. Edgey. The girls loved it. I used to pass the band members hearing protection on their way to the basement and flicker the lights when it was too late...or too loud.

They both took the music with they when they went off to college and they jammed whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

We know that Eric played drums and sax at  Ormond College. in Australia. He shared his music and they loved it. Such an intimate connection.

At his funeral we played "Off He Goes" by Pearl Jam. It is my connection.

Ryan grew musically. He was elected "Best Jazz Musician", in high school, in Portland, in the press. He played locally. at clubs, with bands, walk on. The music was in him. And he understood the music. Like I never did...or  ever will.

And now, they are both gone. So, did the music die with them? I did my best, brought it to the peak of excellence with my prodgeny.

It will go on.

Just not my job any more to make it so.

Energy

I have less of it these days. My gas tank always used to be full. Sure, when I worked hard, I would sleep hard and magically the tank was full again. I was able to juggle many balls in the air at the same time, figure things out on the fly, achieve whatever I set my mind and body to achieve.

Age and wear and tear has changed the recharge schedule. I spend more time sitting and idyling my engine. I've been ridden hard and put away wet, become more of a spectator and less a participant.

I don't like it. Like an old war horse, I want to be in the action. I just don't have it like I used to. It feels like laziness, but it's not. It's a distasteful, grudging acceptance of a slower pace. I've rounded third base and am ambling into home. Might as well, because we will all be thrown out at home plate.

Unless we go into extra innings. Never enjoyed that part of the game. Usually boring and ending in "sudden death".

Faith

 My quandry is not with the existence of God. It is with the nature of God. My "faith" is in the order of the Universe and of the quantum world. The magnificent Non-Randomness evidences something behind it all. But to humanize that Cosmic Force, to expect favors and protection, to claim an understanding and to constuct dogma and religion and edifices is pure folly. 

Surely, something is going on. What? The true mystery of our faith. Unknowable. So stop pretending. Stop manipulating. Stop killing in the name of God.

My Bright Abyss

 "Human love can reach right into death. Such a realization should ease loneliness-even for the griever who is left alone; it should also, in time, help to propel one back into life. Nothing is served by following someone into a grave. Somehow, even deep with extreme grief, the worst pain is knowing that your grief will pass, all the sharp particulars of life than one person's presence made possible will fade into mere memory, and then not even that. Consequently, many people fight hard to keep their wound fresh, for in that wound, at least, is the loss, and in the loss the life you shared. Or so it seems. In truth the life you shared, because it was shared, was marked by joy, by light. Cradled in loneliness, it becomes pure grief, pure shadow, which is a problem not simply for the present and the future, but for the past as well. Excessive grief, the kind that paralyzes a person, the kind that eventually becomes an entire personality- in the end this does not honor the love that is its origin. Is, not was: our dead have presence. You don't need to believe in some literal heaven to feel the ways in which the dead inhabit us-for good, if we let them do that, which means, paradoxically,...letting them go."

My Bright Abyss; Meditation of a Modern Believer

Christian Wiman

Happy Birthday Norma Mae