Chuckie and the IRS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Dogs, New Tricks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dog Days of Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smells

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

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

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

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

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

And then, there's the bathroom...

Coor Boys and a wannabe

Fog

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

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

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

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

"What's that", I asked.

He said "Skittles..."

Connie's in new Hampshire...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't molest the Fish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gray Day

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

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

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

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

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

Television Trauma

Is it just me or have the quality of television programs reached a new low? Granted, we have not watched TV much in the past 2 years. (I mean, we own one, but it's in a storage unit in Fairfield Maine.). But here at Katie's apartment we have TV and cable connection... 994 stations... and for the life of me, I can't find but 3 or 4 that I can watch. The Weather Channel, the History Channel, Sci Fi and a movie here or there.

As for the rest of them, most are so raunchy or violent that, in my opinion, any parent that allows their children to watch them might be guilty of child abuse. I cannot believe how twisted and negative TV has become. In the name of "Free Speech" we are condoning the poisoning of our children's minds. As more and more horrific crimes are committed, do we really need to ask "Why"?

I used to be a news junkie. Now, after a self imposed hiatus from Sean Hannity and Bill O'Reiley, their commentary offends me. Why would I want to put something in my head that makes me feel that bad? Why would I allow someone else to manipulate my thoughts, feelings and emotions? Obviously, my not paying attention for the past two years has not made any difference to anyone... but me.

Garbage in. Garbage out. It's just so wrong. We're all gonna pay for this... big time.

The Zen of Shoveling Bait

A flash of expanded consciousness. Ryan was right. Something Zen-like takes place while forking pogies from barrels... a rhythm... a flow. As Oprah said, "Who would have thought that shoveling dead fish could be a spiritual experience." A part of the show that was cut included a conversation where she asked me what I would do for work next. I answered, "I don't know, but it won't be shoveling dead fish." Never say never.

The sun rises have been spectacular and we all find a few moments between the flurry of activity to watch the colors develop in the morning sky down the bay. A couple harbor seals bob off the pier waiting for someone to toss a fish their way. The sea gulls don't wait, swooping down to steal breakfast right out of the barrels. Osprey, sea ducks, a few Lesser Bittern. And later in the morning the tourists begin to line up over on the State Pier for the ferries out to the islands. The Machigonne, the Aucocisco II, the Island Romance ferrying cars and mail, supplies and tourists out to the islands; Peaks and Long, Little Chebeague and Great Diamond. They call them the Calendar Islands because there are around 365 in total.

The green offload stanchon arms at Portland Pipeline Pier One where my father, Uncle Bob and Grandfather Goodwin worked break the horizon and the oil tankers rise out of the water as they offload their foreign cargo. Bug Light blinks at the end of the breakwater in South Portland near my mother's memorial bench at Spring Point. Pier Two is right across Casco Bay where I spent a summer painting pilings on a float under the pier. My Grandfather Davis used to shuck clams and row across the bay to sell them on Commercial Street in his day. And my Great Grandfather Willard was a hard hat diver setting the underwater footings for the bridges, laying electrical lines, setting pilings. One time he dove to salvage cannon balls from a sunk barge. So much history. It seeps into you quietly, just a whisper.

I think the crew has accepted me, more or less. They call me the "old guy" and I am the oldest man though I look younger than half of them. Life on the water doesn't age a person gently. 3 or 4 of the lobstermen are classmates of mine. Harry, Greg, Mick and Art; all at South Portland High School in the 60's. Good guys although Harry and several of his buddies punched me out in the corner of the bath room at Thornton Heights Elementary School when we moved back to Maine from Vermont in 1962. Not that I hold grudges, but I might drop a tote of herring on his head.

I listen a lot. Conversations range from which jail serves the best food to which bars serve the cheapest beer to which video games have the best graphics to which marijuana has the best buzz. And of course lots of sex conversation. One of the crew got arrested the other night at 3:30 while walking to work. The cop said, "You're going to work... Yeah right." They handcuffed him and took him to the station. It didn't help that he is Guatemalan, doesn't speak good english especially when handcuffed in the back of a cruiser and didn't have his papers on him. Another guy lives upstairs in the bait shop, does speak English, but isn't intelligible half the time. I bought him a couple beers at Bubba's, a local dive, the other day after work. We didn't talk much, but the beer was cold and the ice was broken.

Only 2 in 7 have a drivers license. Most have criminal records. One guy spent 4 years at the state penitentiary as a habitual offender... 4 years. He gave up driving, not drinking. You hear lots of stuff you never would have. Like this morning, somebody said, "Hey Barry, you've got seagull shit on your neck." And then there are long moments of silence when the crew sits on the dock smoking hand rolled cigarettes, smelling like fish, watching the sky in silence waiting for the next boat, the next truck, the next beer...

Sunrise over Portland Harbor

Work starts early on the docks... 4:00 AM. Yesterday it rained and blew... hard. Couldn't even see Pipeline Pier 2 across Casco Bay. But the boats still went out. This morning the sunrise lit up the sky down east and the boats lined up trying to capitalize on a rare day of good weather. It's been a rainy spring and summer so far.

On Monday we moved 220 barrels of bait, a record... herring, pogies, red fish, skate, mackerel. The mix and quality of bait is part of the art of lobster fishing I am told. Lobstermen (95% males... only 4 woman to date) are a unique bunch. Very secretive, wary, leathery skin, hard hands. It's tough work.

They looked at me, the new guy. cautiously... curious. I was taking notes on my pocket pad trying to make sense of the operation and one of them yelled at me, "What are you writing?". I replied "Boat names and numbers." "Why" he bellowed. "Trying to learn" I said. "You don't make any sense", he huffed. The next day he barked "Who are you?" I said "I'm with the IRS".and then laughed at the look of horror on is face. That took the wind out of his sails.

The 7 man crew in the bait shop were also pretty warry of me, one openly hostile. They knew I was the bosses cousin and thought I was there for an easy job. But there are no easy jobs on the dock. I kept my mouth shut and watched the flow of work. Filling boat orders is priority one. Everyone drops whatever job they are on when the call goes out "BOAT!". And between boats there is fish and salt to unload off the trucks, barrels to fill. move to the coolers. wash and stack the empties, totes to drag, slips to fill out and money/checks to collect. It is a fast paced, orchestrated circus of activity with rusted, brakeless fork trucks whizzing around at full throttle, people yelling for this or that, forking fish out of plastic barrels, working the winch up and down, up and down.

I ran an errand to the marine supply shop, picked up a dozen gloves and my "skins" and boots. First set is on the company. Rip 'em or lose 'em and you buy replacements. When I got back I suited up, punched in and pitched in shoveling herring off the floor around the conveyor. After a few days, the guys began to see that I was here to work and warmed up a bit.

They didn't want to know much about me except if I drank beer and how I felt about legalizing marijuana. I told them that I drank and enjoyed an occasional brownie. I told them I worked in a paper mill and had been driving around the US for a couple years. That seemed to satisfy them. And I stay busy.

I'm impressed with the way they work, staying one step ahead, anticipating, jumping into the heaviest, dirtiest jobs without hesitation or waiting for the next guy to take it on. I won't name names here. In the off chance someone read this blog, they wouldn't like it. And cousin or not, I'd likely end up in the harbor. Suffice it to say, they are Mainers, native sons who earn their living by the bend of their backs and skills learned on the docks, not in some ivy covered hall. Hard living and hard working. Proud. And I'm proud to be among them. I'll learn a lot. And it will get me back in shape... for sure.

The Boss called me after the first day of work, concerned that I might be unhappy with the work, giving me his blessing to back away. I told him I was happy to be there and thanked him for the job. He said "Well, some people don't like the dirty work, covered in blood and guts, the smell of dead fish." I laughed and said "I worked in Maine politics for six years. Compared to that sewer in Augusta, shoveling dead fish is clean, honest work. I'm staying."

Who has more fun than people...

Back East

photo by Marv

Connie flew out of New Mexico on Monday and I drove back across this amazing country.

Made some good time across "The 40" and onto the Blue Highways, as William Least Heat Moon dubbed them, through NM, OK, TX and into Kansas. Flat straight, 2 lane roads with amazing sky views. When I hit Kansas every town seemed identical; grain elevators, rail sidings, gas station, single traffic light... and onto the next. The sky was looking ominous when I spied the billboard that read "Visit Dorothy's House" with a giant picture from the Wizard of Oz... Oh, yeah... Kansas.

The van felt like it rocked up on 2 wheels when the wind gust hit and the windshield wipers were useless to keep up with the torrential downpour. Lightning lit up the blackness, tumbleweed and debris flying by... I thought I was going "over the rainbow". Suddenly the sun broke out beneath the storm clouds and turned the storm pink, orange and yellow... Surreal.

Jan and Paul were home and open for a visit, but it got too late especially when changing time zones so I pulled into a truck stop for a few hours sleep. My entire body was vibrating when I stepped out of the van. I thought "Whoa, I pushed this leg of the trip too far...". Then I realized that the dogs were vibrating too... from the diesels that surrounded me... Slept like a baby on the cot in the back of the van. Massaged to sleep on a "vibrabed". No quarters needed!

I arrived in Overland Park at 9:00 and enjoyed a great visit with the Carter's, Paul, Jan and Tresa. Sam and Lu met their new dog Wriggly. Lots of laughs, family news and a world class smoke barbecue brisket. You guys are the best... Thanks ever so much.

Back on the road, I-70 to Evan's State Park in Illinois. Nice spot on a lake. Only situation were the ticks... Pulled a half dozen off Sam, Lu and me. Showered, shaved and laundry done before 8:30 and on the road.

I tuned into talk radio after so many months (years...) away from it and TV. After a few hours I recognized that old tightness in the gut. So much contention, bad news, frantic advertisements. Conclusion; Life is simpler without the stimulation. Be a simple monkey as Trungpa wrote.

Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania on I-90. I detoured north to watch the sunset over Lake Erie and pulled into another truck stop at 10:00. We slept until 8:00 and pushed to Albany by 4:00.

After Connie went through security she discovered she had forgotten her cell phone in the car. No problem. I gave her mine. The unintended consequence was that I found myself at a truck stop late at night. walking two little white dogs, talking on a pink cell phone... When a big truck driver tried to hold the door for me, I recognized my dilemma. Said in my deepest voice " Thanks anyway, Bubba..." LOL... Who has more fun than people!

The tolls in NY totaled $16.50... more toll money than we had spent in the past 8 months driving from Georgia across the south, up the west coast, through the northwest and back down into the southwest. Ah, the northeast... land of taxation. And it has been raining here for the past 2 months. Connie said "Get planning for the next trip, Dawg... We're not staying long." With pleasure honey...

We will head to Maine in a few days... after the 4th of July... to celebrate Connie's birthday on the 7th with Ryan and Kate. Feel free to send Connie a card. She has sent hundreds over the past year. It would be nice for her to get a few... 243 State Street, Apt 2L, Portland, ME 04101.

And then to work on the docks for my cousin with his lobster and bait business. Time to put some juice in the jug as Eric used to say... and time to think about all that has happened. Some of you blog readers (about to hit 20,000 this week...) have suggested a book. That would be fun. Think we might take a run at it. I printed the blog... over 300 pages of notes. We'll see....

We are sleeping in a nursing home these next few days visiting Tina. A solemn reminder of where the future leads for many. So glad we unplugged for awhile. It's been 2 years this July 3rd that we sold the house. I had thought we had sold at the bottom of the market... never suspected we sold at the top of an economic/housing precipice. Of course the 401k fell off the cliff...like every ones. Illegetimus non carborundum...

Thanks for reading the blog and for staying in touch. When you do something like this, you truly do learn who your friends are. More valuable than gold...

Thank you Paul and Charlie

Photo by Lewis Pond.

Casa del Toro has been a delightful place to decompress, clean up and organize and enjoy some great times on the front porch with new friends drinking wine, telling stories, playing the guitar and singing James Taylor songs. Paul, the proprietor and Charlie the handyman were gracious and genuine. Mike and Carolyn from Irvine CA, Greg from Texas and Trish from Long Beach added to the fun. Good people. Thanks friends!

What a fabulous wedding!

Lauren and David were married on Saturday at the Lorretto Chappel in Santa Fe, a beautiful couple. The reception was held in an historic resort hotel named La Fonda on the rooftop La Terrazza.

It was a fabulous event. The location was fabulous. The people were fabulous. Wayne and Holly were FABULOUS!! Here are some pictures...

Saint Francis of Assisi
Loretto Chappel.



The happy Dad...A reflection of the ceiling stained glass at La Terrazza in a very nice glass of red wine...

The fathers...
Santa Fe sunsets are spectacular...

Wendy and Peter.

Gail and Roland.

The Road Warriors... The Mainers represented well.

Connie gets on a plane today for some Katie, Ryan and Tina time and I strike out for Maine with Sampson and Delilah. This has been a wonderful, happy capstone occasion for this leg of the journey.

Life is the journey, not the destination.

40 days tenting in the desert

We haven't slept in a bed for 40 days so when we found a sweet little bed and breakfast near the Square in Santa Fe we got excited. Indoor plumbing and everything! Good cell phone connection, great internet access sitting out back under a tree. Time to wind down.

Gail, Pete, Gail and Roland are a 5 minute walk away. Getting ready for the wedding on Saturday. Enjoying some laughs and a dinner at Wayne and Holly's last night.

Paul is the proprietor and has been so kind. He gave us a half price fare and showed us the sweet little accomodations in an adobe casetta. Beautiful paintings, tile floors, bunches of red chili peppers hung outside our door.We walked in his office and there was a copy of Broken Open on the desk. Serendipity? Me thinks not...


We went out to dinner with Gail, Wendy, Pete and Roland tonight and left the dogs in the room after telling Paul to call us if they got noisy. When we got home there was a note on the door... "The puppies are with me in the office". Guess Lulu did her whinny thing and woke up the neighbors. She is a lulu all right. Casa del Torro is the most pet friendly place on the planet!

Canyon de Chelly

Navajo country... so different. Lots to see... ruins, cliff dwellers, redrock spires, flowers, packs of wild dogs howling in the middle of the night, 10s of thousands of bats at dusk.... hand made Navajo silver and turquoise jewelry (Connie's birthday is coming up and the girl deserves whatever she wants!).

So many stories of people; Jack, the 78 year old widdowed campgroup volunteer. Ted, the Navajo jeweler (the picture in the Ansel Adams book "Navajo Woman and Child" is his mother and brother). Clarence the alcoholic old man at the grocery store. Roger, the Indian stone carver... So much poverty, so much pride in their heritage. They remember the "Trail of Tears" like it was yesterday.


Look closely below, at the photo of his mother, Rose, who passed away recently at the age of 103.


Camping here, 3rd night. Working our way to Santa Fe. Can't wait to see the family.

The Burr Trail

Incredible drive from Escalante through Long Canyon into Capitol Reef... through the back door. 75 miles, half of it dirt... we met 2 cars... and one was a couple wide eyed Germans who were lost. Driving through the canyon was surreal... as was driving down a 1500 ft switchback cliff face.


The sunset over Capitol Reef was spectacular and we continued the road until we ran into yet another National Park... Glen Canyon (how appropriate for father's day) for a couple days of camping on Lake Powell. Swimming in the desert...

Beauty surrounds us.

All for now... we are camping in the Navajo Nation, Canyon de Chelly. Can't seem to get enough of it...

Calf Creek

6 mile hike along the canyon floor... desert; beavertail cactus in full loom, whiptail lizards, snakes, sand. Navajo Sandstone rock formations, sheer cliffs, red rock and white, petroglyphs and ancient ruins. And at the end of the trail a 126 foot high waterfall. Green moss, columbine growing along the walls. The colors are so vivid.

Magical. Massive. It's impossible to convey the majesty and scale of this nature. Pictures don't do it. Words don't come close.

Utah

We've been camping in Utah for the past few weeks. Incredible country. Hiked Angels Landing (top pic ). Pa-Rus, Watchman, Bryce Navaho Trail, Queen's Garden, Wall Trail, Cape Royal... awesome.

Zion, North Rim of the Grand Canyon, Bryce, Capitol Reef, Escalantes... on to Arches and Canyonlands. Then into AZ for a couple spots recommended by Leslie and Jerry. Santa Fe for Wayne and Holly's wedding of their daughter Lauren next weekend in the Loretto Chapel and some time with Gail, Roland, Wendy and Pete.

We are presently camped out at Calf Creek off Rte 12. Hiked 6 miles to an unbelievable waterfall way back in the canyons. Absolutely unbelievable. Will post pictures later.

Zion was wonderful. Connie was the surrogate grandmother for all the campground kids. It was a blast meeting people from everywhere. Young people. older folks, foreigners, newly weds, kids...



Internet and phone access is spotty right now. We are sitting in a gas station in Boulder Utah watching the thunder storm rip across the expanse. Later kids...