always
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Have Massage Table, Will Travel.
I think it was in December 2004 that I bought Connie a massage table as a Christmas gift. I spent my lunch hours at Barnes and Noble reading books like "Massage for Dummies". At any rate, she loved the gift and so did Ryan and Kate. It is a gift that keeps on giving.
None the less, I was surprised when Connie insisted on taking the massage table along when we headed out on our cross country adventure in 2007. We figured out a way to secure it on top of a cot in the back of the van and it was actually a very comfortable place to relax as we explored this magnificent country.
I can't count the number of times over the past 2 1/2 years that I have dragged it out of the van to rub out Connie's sore back after a long day of sitting in those car seats. And she slept on it (with the legs folded down) instead of an air mattress in the tent as we camped in the National Parks across the West.
Last spring we were camped at Calf Creek in Southern Utah, an area called Escalante and we had just come back from a 5 mile hike through the desert canyonlands. The scenery was so spectacular, especially the 230 foot waterfall at the back of the canyon, but the hiking was in soft sand, like beach sand, and our legs were very sore. It was 90 degrees. When we got back to our campsite, Connie plopped down at the picnic table and promptly lost her balance and toppled over landing on the ground on her back and on top of Sampson.
They both started to howl in pain. After a few minutes, things began to quiet down, but Connie was still down on the ground when a male voice came out of the darkness.
"Everything OK over there?" he asked.
"My wife took a tumble," I responded.
The shadowy figure moved closer to the campfire and said "Is she alright?"
I replied," Her back is pretty sore..."
A 50ish, fit man dressed in hiking clothes walked into the light and smiled "Maybe I can help. I just happen to be a chiropractor."
I said,"Well, that's just great! I just happen to have a massage table!"
We set up the table and an hour later Connie felt much better. We spent time over the next few days hiking and talking with Martin and his wife, Billy, from Bozeman Montana. Great folks.
Fast forward through the summer of 2009 where the massage table stayed set up in the middle of Ryan's and Katie's apartments used by anyone and everyone with sore muscles and aching backs. Ryan and Kristen, Landace, Katie, Connie. I even got a little massage for my sore muscles from the long days working on the docks. Fast forward to Saint Simons Island where Connie and I have settled in for a few months enjoying the milder weather, the beach and the laid back low-country life.
We have rented a small. newly appointed two bedroom condo, 100 yards from the beach. It is one of 3 connected units, a triplex, and, like so many properties on the island, there is a For Sale sign out front. We unpacked the Thule, set up the massage table and are just enjoying being hunkered down for a time. It was a busy summer and we are catching up on our rest, reading and correspondence, just relaxing for a bit. We are also watching what we eat and drink, working on staying healthy, taking off a few pounds (they certainly come off harder than they went on...). We even joined the Saint Simons Island Health Club.
It's a great facility; swimming pool. gym, lots of aerobic equipment, weight machines and exercise classes from pilates to yoga. And, so like kids in a candy store, we overdid it in the first week. My tennis elbow started acting up from the curls and Connie's knee got swollen and sore from the treadmill and pilates classes. We went on line and read about conservative treatments, icing, ibuprofen, elastic support braces and so got busy getting better.
Connie was at CVS picking up a knee brace when there came a knock at the door. The man wearing a Western wide brimmed hat said he was from North Carolina and that his name was Dave. He wanted information about the property for sale. Connie walked through the door as I finished providing him contact info and she sat down and started to put on the knee brace.
Dave said "You're knee is swollen. I think I can help you."
Connie said, "Really?"
He said" Yes. I happen to be a chiropractor."
I said "Well that's just Great! I happen to have a massage table."
Now you tell me... Are these random or non-random events? Is something going on or isn't it? Regardless, makes for a cute story...
As they say here in Coastal Georgia "Anyway...."
None the less, I was surprised when Connie insisted on taking the massage table along when we headed out on our cross country adventure in 2007. We figured out a way to secure it on top of a cot in the back of the van and it was actually a very comfortable place to relax as we explored this magnificent country.
I can't count the number of times over the past 2 1/2 years that I have dragged it out of the van to rub out Connie's sore back after a long day of sitting in those car seats. And she slept on it (with the legs folded down) instead of an air mattress in the tent as we camped in the National Parks across the West.
Last spring we were camped at Calf Creek in Southern Utah, an area called Escalante and we had just come back from a 5 mile hike through the desert canyonlands. The scenery was so spectacular, especially the 230 foot waterfall at the back of the canyon, but the hiking was in soft sand, like beach sand, and our legs were very sore. It was 90 degrees. When we got back to our campsite, Connie plopped down at the picnic table and promptly lost her balance and toppled over landing on the ground on her back and on top of Sampson.
They both started to howl in pain. After a few minutes, things began to quiet down, but Connie was still down on the ground when a male voice came out of the darkness.
"Everything OK over there?" he asked.
"My wife took a tumble," I responded.
The shadowy figure moved closer to the campfire and said "Is she alright?"
I replied," Her back is pretty sore..."
A 50ish, fit man dressed in hiking clothes walked into the light and smiled "Maybe I can help. I just happen to be a chiropractor."
I said,"Well, that's just great! I just happen to have a massage table!"
We set up the table and an hour later Connie felt much better. We spent time over the next few days hiking and talking with Martin and his wife, Billy, from Bozeman Montana. Great folks.
Fast forward through the summer of 2009 where the massage table stayed set up in the middle of Ryan's and Katie's apartments used by anyone and everyone with sore muscles and aching backs. Ryan and Kristen, Landace, Katie, Connie. I even got a little massage for my sore muscles from the long days working on the docks. Fast forward to Saint Simons Island where Connie and I have settled in for a few months enjoying the milder weather, the beach and the laid back low-country life.
We have rented a small. newly appointed two bedroom condo, 100 yards from the beach. It is one of 3 connected units, a triplex, and, like so many properties on the island, there is a For Sale sign out front. We unpacked the Thule, set up the massage table and are just enjoying being hunkered down for a time. It was a busy summer and we are catching up on our rest, reading and correspondence, just relaxing for a bit. We are also watching what we eat and drink, working on staying healthy, taking off a few pounds (they certainly come off harder than they went on...). We even joined the Saint Simons Island Health Club.
It's a great facility; swimming pool. gym, lots of aerobic equipment, weight machines and exercise classes from pilates to yoga. And, so like kids in a candy store, we overdid it in the first week. My tennis elbow started acting up from the curls and Connie's knee got swollen and sore from the treadmill and pilates classes. We went on line and read about conservative treatments, icing, ibuprofen, elastic support braces and so got busy getting better.
Connie was at CVS picking up a knee brace when there came a knock at the door. The man wearing a Western wide brimmed hat said he was from North Carolina and that his name was Dave. He wanted information about the property for sale. Connie walked through the door as I finished providing him contact info and she sat down and started to put on the knee brace.
Dave said "You're knee is swollen. I think I can help you."
Connie said, "Really?"
He said" Yes. I happen to be a chiropractor."
I said "Well that's just Great! I happen to have a massage table."
Now you tell me... Are these random or non-random events? Is something going on or isn't it? Regardless, makes for a cute story...
As they say here in Coastal Georgia "Anyway...."
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Our Pebble in the Pond
We continue to be amazed and humbled by the contacts we receive from around the globe in response to our story in Elizabeth Lesser's book, Broken Open and from the resulting Oprah show in January. Connie likes to make the analogy of a pebble being tossed into a pond. The ripples emanate outward and their impact is unpredictable, mysterious.
The impact is exponentially amplified by modern technology. When I google "glen and connie" or "broken open connie" links come up to our blog and to the TV show. Crazy... But it is how a young woman in Tunisia found Ryan and expressed her appreciation for the hope she received from his words in Chicago. It's how another young woman in Brazil found us last month and emailed us with grateful words. There are hundreds of such contacts, but after almost a year, we expected them to die out. Perhaps that is why we are amazed when another shows up.
We stopped in to see Cyn, Glenn, Izzy and Ian in New York City on our way down the East Coast. They are very active in their church, the Rutgers Presbeterian, which has a large, unique and very talented congregation. The choir is world class, professional musicians from the New York Metropolitan Opera and theater community. The performer Bono attends the church. It's an historic, active church which does much good work.
Cynthia emailed me a copy of the pastor's Sunday sermon last week. a Dr. David D. Prince. Her message was cryptic... "You're featured..." What could that mean? I read the sermon not knowing what to expect. And then, toward the end of the talk, he began to read from Elizabeth Lesser's book and from my story. He used my words to speak of hope and faith. Mind blowing.
http://www.rutgerschurch.com/Sermons/sermon110809.html
It is absolutely amazing to us how far our families message of hope has spread and continues to spread. We are so grateful. One tiny pebble in the pond...
The impact is exponentially amplified by modern technology. When I google "glen and connie" or "broken open connie" links come up to our blog and to the TV show. Crazy... But it is how a young woman in Tunisia found Ryan and expressed her appreciation for the hope she received from his words in Chicago. It's how another young woman in Brazil found us last month and emailed us with grateful words. There are hundreds of such contacts, but after almost a year, we expected them to die out. Perhaps that is why we are amazed when another shows up.
We stopped in to see Cyn, Glenn, Izzy and Ian in New York City on our way down the East Coast. They are very active in their church, the Rutgers Presbeterian, which has a large, unique and very talented congregation. The choir is world class, professional musicians from the New York Metropolitan Opera and theater community. The performer Bono attends the church. It's an historic, active church which does much good work.
Cynthia emailed me a copy of the pastor's Sunday sermon last week. a Dr. David D. Prince. Her message was cryptic... "You're featured..." What could that mean? I read the sermon not knowing what to expect. And then, toward the end of the talk, he began to read from Elizabeth Lesser's book and from my story. He used my words to speak of hope and faith. Mind blowing.
http://www.rutgerschurch.com/Sermons/sermon110809.html
It is absolutely amazing to us how far our families message of hope has spread and continues to spread. We are so grateful. One tiny pebble in the pond...
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Down the Road
We left Portland on Halloween and drove into New York City to see Cousin Cynthia and fam. What a wonderful visit! On Sunday we took the subway to Brookline and stood on the street at mile 8 of the NYC Marathon to watch an incredible sea of humanity run by. Runners from every part of the country and the globe. 80 year old men and women in wheelchairs, disabled vets running on prosthetics, blind people with guides. It was overwhelming and inspiring. And for the entire 2 hours Izzy shook her pom-poms, jumped up and down and cheered them all. Such a sweet kid. Ian and his friend high-fived hundreds of runners. Glenn and Cyn danced and cheered. Thanks ever so much family.
On to Baltimore to visit Uncle Dick and Aunt Chris, a special visit to the oldest member of my maternal family. Dick and I visited Keith. We didn't talk much. Just passed the football around the yard. He hugged me tight when we left. Life is such a mystery.
Manassas was only a few hours away and the Lowe's were so welcoming. We are excited for the joining of our families with Ryan and Kristen's marriage.
We headed west to pick up the Shennendoah National Park Skyway and drove some remarkable ridge roads. The foliage was past peak, but magnificient in browns and auburns. Down into the valley for the night in Harrisonburg and on to Asheville to visit our friend Steve. He works at the Biltmore and hooked us up with passes and a very special night viewing of the Christmas lights. Spectacular. We sat around his fireplace, playing guitar, singing, getting to know Kate and Wendy, his roommates.
We hit the road late Friday afternoon and immediately got a text message from our friend Mimi on SSI in GA. "Dawg, where are ya? Get down here..." So we drove to Georgia and spent the night at Jay's. The next day we met up with our realtor friend, Micki, and found a sweet little 2 BR condo only 100 yds from the beach. Connie fell in love with it immediately and we are officially hunkered down for awhile. The address is 1038A Ocean Blvd, Saint Simons Island, GA 31522. If you're in the neighborhood, stop by.
So now some decompression time; reading, writing, resting, catching up with friends, walking the beach. Excited about what comes next. Life is good.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Making Bail
We were in Waterville when the calls came from the Cumberland County Correctional Center. I couldn't accept the collect calls because I didn't have an inmate connection account established and try as I might, the telephone and internet system would not let me set one up. But the brief messages that were allowed through went like this.
"It's Ricky..."
"Need $2500 bail money..."
"My truck and climbing gear as collateral..."
I called the bait shop and let them know Ricky was in jail and when I got back in town headed for the docks. The Boss put up the additional money to spring him and I headed for the jail to see if we could make it happen.
When you enter the receiving area, past the surveillance cameras and the double doors, the tile floor and lime green walls look like any other institutional waiting area... except for the guards in brown uniforms and the heavy metal, locked doors. The woman behind the counter had dark hair, glasses and a loud voice. I stood in line behind a Somali woman and a 40ish man who talked nonstop to anyone listening. "Just want to bail my daughter out. This is bullshit. Hey, they've got an ATM machine here. Good to know for next time..." A little ADD.
The flow of people in and out of the locked door was constant. Guards, social workers, a black pastor dressed in black with a white collar, blond women in scrubs appearing to be medical personnel, administrators in ties. Some were wanded for metal before entering.
When it was my turn, I announced I had bail money for my friend. "Do you have $600 in cash?" she asked. Yes. "I'll call the Bail Commissioner. Go take a seat" The 24 gray seats were surprisingly comfortable and I hunkered down for the next hour to wait near the wall of coin operated pay lockers
There were pictures on the wall of the detention area. White walls, two stories of of prison cells surrounding a large open room with a glassed in, observation area overlooking. Gray metal railings, tables and chairs bolted to the floors. It looked fairly pleasant, but, no doubt, was the last place on earth anyone would want to spend time.
People came and went dealing with the issues of incarceration. "I need to pick up my boyfriends wallet and keys"... "When are visiting hours?"... "What are the charges this time?". Telephones rang and radios squalked . "I've got one from C and one from B2. Bring them down."... "No, I don't want to release my wallet to my mother. I want to talk to my case worker."
A man came out through the locked door shaking his head and walked up to the officer behind the desk. "'I don't deserve to be here...' how many times have I heard that." The officer said "I don't deserve to be here either. They all have the same story, year after year after year. It never changes." After he left I walked up to the counter and struck up a conversation with her. How long have you worked here? "22 years. Used to work out back but hurt my shoulder. 12 years out front now. I've seen it all. People wouldn't believe the way things are. It's not like on TV that's for sure." How do you keep from getting depressed, I asked. She thought for a moment. "The way I see it, you get what you give. Sure, there are some jerks, but most of them are decent. But it all boils down to, you get what you give".
We sat waiting. A lull in the activity, the only sound was the ventilation system and the hum and buzz of electronically activated doors being opened and closed... opened and closed. The sounds of incarceration. Out the window, the trees were brown and red and gold, the last of the autumns glory.
The bail commissioner appeared in the lobby. "Who is here for Ricky D.?" he called. I raised my hand and he pointed down the hall to a closed door right next to another locked door that said "Non-contact Visitations". I counted out the 6 $100 dollar bills and he pointed to a bench outside. "Wait there. He'll be out when I get the paper work done."
Half an hour later, Ricky walked out through the metal door wearing jeans and a tee shirt. He looked over and saw me and said "I should have known it would be you...". First stop was the corner store for cigarettes . He started making calls on my cell phone and I heard the story several times. "The only thing wrong I did was get out of bed. The baby was crying. She had been drinking. I hadn't even finished my cigarette when she had called the police on me. She said I threatened her, but I didn't. The girls were all there. They saw it. That's it. It's 100% phony and it's over. I just need to figure out how to get my clothes, my truck and my trailer, but the terms of my bail don't allow me to got near her. I don't know where I will live or what I will do for money, but I can't go back there."
We drove around while Ricky chained smoked and thought through his next steps. "Want a beer?" I asked knowing the answer before I asked it. "He looked at me with his piercing blue eyes and said "I need some beers, but it would violate my bail." Are you hungry I asked? "Yeah, didn't eat today. Traded my breakfast and lunch for a sleeping pill from a guy inside. But not now."Finally he said, "I'll just go to the docks." We drove down the wharf just as the crew was finishing up from a cold day of unloading herring trucks. They all milled around Ricky. "What they get you for? "Domestic". Oh yeah! Did you hit her? "No, I shoulda. "Yeah that happened to me once. Women just can't take a punch".
The conversation turned to me. "Hey, I read your blog and I'm not happy. You're gonna cost me my job and I can't afford that right now." "Yeah, and you mentioned my warrants. The last thing I need is to be tracked down." I apologized and promised to take down the offending remarks. I somehow knew this was going to happen. I'll have to find another way to write about this past summer while protecting the guys. Sorry boys.
The Boss and the Foreman came out of the shop and Ricky approached them to thank them for bailing him. The Foreman's comment was "I want to see you at 4:00AM tomorrow. You have $600 to work off." The Boss said "Go punch in. I've got a couple trucks coming." Ricky turned to me and extended his hand. "I'll call you", he said. "Maybe I'll come down to Georgia. Nothing holding me here now."
As I drove away, he was walking up the wharf looking for a hot cup of coffee and a coat against the frigid wind before he began his shift on the docks.
"It's Ricky..."
"Need $2500 bail money..."
"My truck and climbing gear as collateral..."
I called the bait shop and let them know Ricky was in jail and when I got back in town headed for the docks. The Boss put up the additional money to spring him and I headed for the jail to see if we could make it happen.
When you enter the receiving area, past the surveillance cameras and the double doors, the tile floor and lime green walls look like any other institutional waiting area... except for the guards in brown uniforms and the heavy metal, locked doors. The woman behind the counter had dark hair, glasses and a loud voice. I stood in line behind a Somali woman and a 40ish man who talked nonstop to anyone listening. "Just want to bail my daughter out. This is bullshit. Hey, they've got an ATM machine here. Good to know for next time..." A little ADD.
The flow of people in and out of the locked door was constant. Guards, social workers, a black pastor dressed in black with a white collar, blond women in scrubs appearing to be medical personnel, administrators in ties. Some were wanded for metal before entering.
When it was my turn, I announced I had bail money for my friend. "Do you have $600 in cash?" she asked. Yes. "I'll call the Bail Commissioner. Go take a seat" The 24 gray seats were surprisingly comfortable and I hunkered down for the next hour to wait near the wall of coin operated pay lockers
There were pictures on the wall of the detention area. White walls, two stories of of prison cells surrounding a large open room with a glassed in, observation area overlooking. Gray metal railings, tables and chairs bolted to the floors. It looked fairly pleasant, but, no doubt, was the last place on earth anyone would want to spend time.
People came and went dealing with the issues of incarceration. "I need to pick up my boyfriends wallet and keys"... "When are visiting hours?"... "What are the charges this time?". Telephones rang and radios squalked . "I've got one from C and one from B2. Bring them down."... "No, I don't want to release my wallet to my mother. I want to talk to my case worker."
A man came out through the locked door shaking his head and walked up to the officer behind the desk. "'I don't deserve to be here...' how many times have I heard that." The officer said "I don't deserve to be here either. They all have the same story, year after year after year. It never changes." After he left I walked up to the counter and struck up a conversation with her. How long have you worked here? "22 years. Used to work out back but hurt my shoulder. 12 years out front now. I've seen it all. People wouldn't believe the way things are. It's not like on TV that's for sure." How do you keep from getting depressed, I asked. She thought for a moment. "The way I see it, you get what you give. Sure, there are some jerks, but most of them are decent. But it all boils down to, you get what you give".
We sat waiting. A lull in the activity, the only sound was the ventilation system and the hum and buzz of electronically activated doors being opened and closed... opened and closed. The sounds of incarceration. Out the window, the trees were brown and red and gold, the last of the autumns glory.
The bail commissioner appeared in the lobby. "Who is here for Ricky D.?" he called. I raised my hand and he pointed down the hall to a closed door right next to another locked door that said "Non-contact Visitations". I counted out the 6 $100 dollar bills and he pointed to a bench outside. "Wait there. He'll be out when I get the paper work done."
Half an hour later, Ricky walked out through the metal door wearing jeans and a tee shirt. He looked over and saw me and said "I should have known it would be you...". First stop was the corner store for cigarettes . He started making calls on my cell phone and I heard the story several times. "The only thing wrong I did was get out of bed. The baby was crying. She had been drinking. I hadn't even finished my cigarette when she had called the police on me. She said I threatened her, but I didn't. The girls were all there. They saw it. That's it. It's 100% phony and it's over. I just need to figure out how to get my clothes, my truck and my trailer, but the terms of my bail don't allow me to got near her. I don't know where I will live or what I will do for money, but I can't go back there."
We drove around while Ricky chained smoked and thought through his next steps. "Want a beer?" I asked knowing the answer before I asked it. "He looked at me with his piercing blue eyes and said "I need some beers, but it would violate my bail." Are you hungry I asked? "Yeah, didn't eat today. Traded my breakfast and lunch for a sleeping pill from a guy inside. But not now."Finally he said, "I'll just go to the docks." We drove down the wharf just as the crew was finishing up from a cold day of unloading herring trucks. They all milled around Ricky. "What they get you for? "Domestic". Oh yeah! Did you hit her? "No, I shoulda. "Yeah that happened to me once. Women just can't take a punch".
The conversation turned to me. "Hey, I read your blog and I'm not happy. You're gonna cost me my job and I can't afford that right now." "Yeah, and you mentioned my warrants. The last thing I need is to be tracked down." I apologized and promised to take down the offending remarks. I somehow knew this was going to happen. I'll have to find another way to write about this past summer while protecting the guys. Sorry boys.
The Boss and the Foreman came out of the shop and Ricky approached them to thank them for bailing him. The Foreman's comment was "I want to see you at 4:00AM tomorrow. You have $600 to work off." The Boss said "Go punch in. I've got a couple trucks coming." Ricky turned to me and extended his hand. "I'll call you", he said. "Maybe I'll come down to Georgia. Nothing holding me here now."
As I drove away, he was walking up the wharf looking for a hot cup of coffee and a coat against the frigid wind before he began his shift on the docks.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Parting Thoughts
My internal clock is still set on 'dock time', waking up at 4:00. Some mornings I can manage to fall back to sleep for awhile, but never past 7:00. I sneak out of bed and the apartment so as to not disturb those who can sleep. This morning I walked onto the street with the dogs at 6:30. Cold and gray, the bite of winter in the air.
The van warmed up slowly and Sam n' Lu shivered in the passenger seat. I found myself driving around the deserted city streets aimlessly. As I woke up, I began to notice that those streets weren't really deserted at all. The man with the shopping cart half filled with cans and bottles was dressed in a dirty snowmobile suit, his thick gray beard covering all of his face not covered by the wool hat pulled down over his eyes. He waved at me as I drove by and I wondered if he was someone I had met this summer on the waterfront, when the days were warm and the living was easier.
The elderly woman with a cane walking painfully down an empty Congress Street poorly dressed in a thin red windbreaker, the dark, black man with a hood standing on the curb watching. The old man who struggled stiffly to his feet from behind a brick wall dragging his thin blanket behind him.
The van seemed to guide itself to the soup kitchen on Oxford Street where dozens of people lined up waiting for seats to become available inside. Some were dressed heavily, with layers upon layers, and had spent the night outside sleeping in alleys and vacant lots. Others had left unheated boarding house rooms drawn to the warm soup kitchen and the hot coffee. I was too much a coward to park the van and stand in line with them, felt too conspicuous with my clean clothes and fleece coat.
Last friday afternoon I stopped down to Bubba's Sulky Lounge hoping to run into Charlie. My excuse was that he owed me $20, but in truth, I just wanted to see him again before we head South. He was standing outside smoking with a short, black eyed woman with 4 missing front teeth. She was drunk and laughing at he own jokes." You ever hear a chain saw? Runnn-nigga-nigga-nigga.... runnn-nigga-nigga-nigga... Hahahahahaha!"She told the "joke" over and over until I heard a voice from behind me on the street. "I no nigga" the shawled Somali woman said. She stood firm for a moment then turned and walked away.
"Chain saw woman" then turned to me. Her eyes were bleary as she looked me over. "You a cop?" she asked, " cause you got a cops face." Charlie jumped in, "That's Glen. He works down at the bait shop with me... where I'm the fork truck guy..." At this point words failed him and he started making noises and motions like he was driving his big, brakeless Clark Hyster around the shop. " Brrrrooooommm, Errrch, Werrwerrr, Gittygittygitty, Ma-HaHaha!" He went on and on and I laughed until long after he stopped.
We moved inside and stood beside the roaring fireplace, warm, safe. Charlie tried to repay the money he owed me, but I offered to settle if he would buy a round of "Jimmy Specials", Allens Coffee Brandy with a splash of milk. Charlie racked up the balls at the pool table and Jimmy told a story about how he was living with his first wife in the back of a Humpty Dumpty Potato Chip truck cutting fish with Charlie and had once seen him open a lock with an bent old square nail.
I finished my drink and walked over to the pool table. "I'm heading out now Chuck, going south for the winter." I put my arm around his shoulder. "You stay warm and out of jail". His face got serious and he wrapped his arms around me. "You comin' back next summah right? Workin' on the docks again?" "Maybe" I said and he gave me a toothless grin from ear to ear, hugged me hard and said "You come see old Charlie." Four years my junior, I squeezed him back "I will, young fella."
As I headed for the door, it all happend at once. "Chain saw woman" called out, "You got a good lookin face, cop. You can come back again." Jimmy started to dance a lick to the music on the juke box "See you next summer!" he called. Charlie lifted his pool cue above his head and began to hoot. "See ya, Glen! Gittygittygitty... Ma Hahaha!!" I stopped a second and enjoyed the remarkable moment, warm and happy in a waterfront bar surrounded by poverty, alcoholics, the homeless, before heading back out into the cold and gray.
A warm little dysfunctional oasis in the gloom...
The van warmed up slowly and Sam n' Lu shivered in the passenger seat. I found myself driving around the deserted city streets aimlessly. As I woke up, I began to notice that those streets weren't really deserted at all. The man with the shopping cart half filled with cans and bottles was dressed in a dirty snowmobile suit, his thick gray beard covering all of his face not covered by the wool hat pulled down over his eyes. He waved at me as I drove by and I wondered if he was someone I had met this summer on the waterfront, when the days were warm and the living was easier.
The elderly woman with a cane walking painfully down an empty Congress Street poorly dressed in a thin red windbreaker, the dark, black man with a hood standing on the curb watching. The old man who struggled stiffly to his feet from behind a brick wall dragging his thin blanket behind him.
The van seemed to guide itself to the soup kitchen on Oxford Street where dozens of people lined up waiting for seats to become available inside. Some were dressed heavily, with layers upon layers, and had spent the night outside sleeping in alleys and vacant lots. Others had left unheated boarding house rooms drawn to the warm soup kitchen and the hot coffee. I was too much a coward to park the van and stand in line with them, felt too conspicuous with my clean clothes and fleece coat.
Last friday afternoon I stopped down to Bubba's Sulky Lounge hoping to run into Charlie. My excuse was that he owed me $20, but in truth, I just wanted to see him again before we head South. He was standing outside smoking with a short, black eyed woman with 4 missing front teeth. She was drunk and laughing at he own jokes." You ever hear a chain saw? Runnn-nigga-nigga-nigga.... runnn-nigga-nigga-nigga... Hahahahahaha!"She told the "joke" over and over until I heard a voice from behind me on the street. "I no nigga" the shawled Somali woman said. She stood firm for a moment then turned and walked away.
"Chain saw woman" then turned to me. Her eyes were bleary as she looked me over. "You a cop?" she asked, " cause you got a cops face." Charlie jumped in, "That's Glen. He works down at the bait shop with me... where I'm the fork truck guy..." At this point words failed him and he started making noises and motions like he was driving his big, brakeless Clark Hyster around the shop. " Brrrrooooommm, Errrch, Werrwerrr, Gittygittygitty, Ma-HaHaha!" He went on and on and I laughed until long after he stopped.
We moved inside and stood beside the roaring fireplace, warm, safe. Charlie tried to repay the money he owed me, but I offered to settle if he would buy a round of "Jimmy Specials", Allens Coffee Brandy with a splash of milk. Charlie racked up the balls at the pool table and Jimmy told a story about how he was living with his first wife in the back of a Humpty Dumpty Potato Chip truck cutting fish with Charlie and had once seen him open a lock with an bent old square nail.
I finished my drink and walked over to the pool table. "I'm heading out now Chuck, going south for the winter." I put my arm around his shoulder. "You stay warm and out of jail". His face got serious and he wrapped his arms around me. "You comin' back next summah right? Workin' on the docks again?" "Maybe" I said and he gave me a toothless grin from ear to ear, hugged me hard and said "You come see old Charlie." Four years my junior, I squeezed him back "I will, young fella."
As I headed for the door, it all happend at once. "Chain saw woman" called out, "You got a good lookin face, cop. You can come back again." Jimmy started to dance a lick to the music on the juke box "See you next summer!" he called. Charlie lifted his pool cue above his head and began to hoot. "See ya, Glen! Gittygittygitty... Ma Hahaha!!" I stopped a second and enjoyed the remarkable moment, warm and happy in a waterfront bar surrounded by poverty, alcoholics, the homeless, before heading back out into the cold and gray.
A warm little dysfunctional oasis in the gloom...
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Dock Chronicles - The New Guy
My time working on the waterfront is over. It has been an experience of extremes of which I have written in previous blogs. But much was not written or, if so, not posted, so that I might continue to work unencumbered(and unscathed ) among the men on the docks whom I have grown to admire and who's friendship I value.
I kept notes in my trusty note pad of the goings-on over the summer and fall, a rich record of the experience, and hope to find a quiet place over the coming months to write the stories. My intention is not to, in any way, exploit these experiences. God knows these men have been, and continue to be, exploited by the system and hammered upon by society. They hold my deepest respect. I am proud to have worked among them.
Early in the summer, I wrote this short story and shared it with a number of friends and family.
The New Guy
He showed up at the bait shop at 4:00 AM looking cautious, on guard, as if he expected to be sucker punched at any moment. And a sucker punch is probably the only way anyone would ever get the draw him. New Guy was a brawler, six foot, solid with scared square fists and jaw. He spoke between tight lips, perhaps self conscious of his mouth of broken, missing teeth, an occupational hazard of a previous job as a waterfront bar manager/bouncer.
Three weeks had passed since my turn as the new guy. As the bosses’ cousin, I had been held at arms length by the seven man crew for the first few days. They watched and waited to see what the hell I was. At 58, I was the oldest man among them; Skully, the fork truck driver, with his tattoos, his off duty, black leather vest and dew rag was the only other 50 something on the crew, the rest in their 20’s and 30’s, maybe early 40’s. It was hard to tell. The working waterfront in Maine is a harsh environment and men don’t age well in it.
I shamelessly bought coffee and after work beers to crack the ice with these guys. That, and worked my ass off… silently. There was no job too wet and slimy that I didn’t jump into. And these guys do an incredible amount of hard, dirty work. Shoveling dead fish, spraying out totes of guts and blood, rolling 300 pound barrels of bait, slime and viscera pouring down your skins and boots, immersed in lobster bait, smelling like something only a codfish could love.
After a few days, they began to open up a bit. The first questions were “What do you think about legalizing marijuana?’ and “What do you drink?” They laughed when I told them I rode the “Silver Bullet” (Coors Light) and enjoyed an occasional medicinal brownie. The real test was whether I would keep my mouth shut when they lit up out back on the loading dock at 6:30 AM or found twisted tea in a coffee cup. In full skins and boots, I doubted I would float long off the end of the dock. Keeping my mouth shut was more than just wanting to be “one of the guys”.
By the second week, they worked me into their system. My primary value to them was to do the paperwork filling out bait slips tracking the barrels and totes of poggies, herring, redfish and mackerel winched down onto the decks of the boats, collecting the money. And in between shoveling fish off the floor, reefing on barrels and forking bait into totes.
By the third week, I watched in fascination as the waist of my pants became loose and the flab in my neck and face dissolved. My hands, soft from two years of driving around the country, calloused and toughened from daily exposure to the salt brine and manual labor. The pain in my muscles dullened; constant but tolerable as I cut back on the tylenol. Every now and then, I would tell a story from the road or from my years in the paper industry, another difficult work place. They listened, laughed, added another piece to the puzzle of the “old guy” in their midst.
Only 2 in 7 had a drivers license. Most make a choice at some point to give up driving.. and to continue to drink. At 4:00 AM the smell of alcohol is strong on their breath, even among the all pervasive stink of fish. Bleary eyed and hacking, the crew ramped up slowly as the boats and trucks lined up for loading and unloading. These early hours were the most onerous where the potential for getting hurt was most present. Conveyors clanging, people cussing, weaving their way across the shop floor dodging fork trucks carrying over-filled pallets of blue and white plastic barrels, a dangerous ballet of orange slickers in the morning dawn.
The “boss” is a yeller. It’s how he is heard above the clamor. And it’s how he runs the job. All those lectures at the MIT business school about participative management and an empowered workforce go right out the window here. From long years, the boss has learned how to keep this crew on their toes and as safe as possible. And in spite of the verbal barrage, they take ownership of their work, anticipating, backfilling, keeping things running at a frantic pace.
There is a hierarchy, a pecking order among them as there are with all groups of men. A few of the guys are only expected to accept abuse from the boss and they do it with a low grumble. Other guys take flack from all directions and the New Guy is among them.
The days are long and often hard. It is cool in the shop where hoses flow constantly, hosing the totes, flushing the conveyors, washing the blood and guts down the holes in the floors. On the docks, the weather prevails. Some days the sun is hot and uncomfortable and we fry in our skins. Other days we have to suit up in full gear against the wind and driving rain. Favorite days are gray and overcast when the crew will gather on a break to watch the sky, the boats and ferries maneuvering around the piers, sitting on barrels smoking hand rolled cigarettes, often in silence.
There is a resignation among then. Life has not turned out as they had hoped. But they don’t often complain. They know there are much worse places they could be. They have been to those places.
New Guy looked like he would fit in with the crew, but he is slow to jump in when work needs to be done. He’s not lazy, just cautious, watching the crew and the work flow. He worked as a tree climber, swinging high in the air with a chain saw, learned caution from experience. He’s nobodies fool.
Still, the crew ethic has no tolerance for hangers-back. Yesterday Dave looked at him and said “If you’re not going to do anything, go back inside”… and he did. It stuck in his craw and he repeated the insult facetiously several times during the morning. His mind is sharp as is his tongue. Had his family of origin been different, he could have easily been the CEO of some company. One day he said, “I wish I could just do it all again. I would have paid more attention.”
He looked rough this morning at 4:00, hung-over or still drunk, and they gave him the dirtiest job, standing under the huge bins of slimy fish as they dumped into the hopper, covering him with gore as he hosed out the totes. He walked out onto the dock after an hour, cigarette in his mouth, eyes glazed and hard, his face set in a dark scowl. “What’s up, Rick.” I said. “Just living the dream”, he answered. I chuckled at his dark sarcasm. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the ebbing tide as the sun rose in spectacular pinks and reds down the bay.
As he turned to walk back inside he stared straight ahead into space with distant eyes and spoke low, more of a growl.
“The dream is dead…” he said.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Last Days
Uncle Bob died yesterday, the last of his line. Ryan and I drove up to Old Town to say good bye. Bob told me he read this blog every day Hope you read this one. You were one of a kind. We love you and we'll miss you.
ROAD LESS TRAVELED
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth
Then took the other as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet, knowing how way leads onto way
I doubted if I should ever come back
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood
And I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference
Robert Frost
And now there are two.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
"props"
"Props" (respect) are not given lightly on the docks. Props are earned through hard work, demonstrated skills and, to some extent, through the reputation of past deeds. Of course, reputation is a subjective thing, but that doesn't diminish the appreciation of a good story, true or not.
The "Kid" is 23 years old, 6 ft 4", 240 pounds. He's not an outstanding worker, has no discernible skills, but he tells some of the most outrageous stories I have ever heard. Both sides of his head are shaved, the remaining hair, long and black. He is Native American, Sioux and Blackfoot. The crew calls him "How". When he smiles, which is often, his eyes smile, too. He suffers the verbal abuse silently, stoically.
He was born on a train in a boxcar somewhere in New Mexico. His birth certificate says he was born in a field. His mother and father were druggies, his mother shot and killed his father and then shot herself. as did his brother. He says it did not affect him much. What affected him most was the death of his dog, "the best friend I ever had...". He still grieves.
At the age of 16, he joined the Marine Corp and was sent to Iraq where he was severely wounded, losing the vision in his right eye, double knee replacement to his left knee and shot through the chest/spine. The doctors told him he would never walk again, so he got out of bed and walked from California to Maine. He was trying to reach North Carolina, but ended up here. The crew says it is because he must have been dragging that left leg and got him off course.
He owns 800 acres in Montana with 1000 wild mustangs and was offered $9 million dollars, which he refused. His medical disability of $2,000/month goes to his daughter who lives in Russia. He can no longer see her because the last time he was there he beat up 8 cops in a bar, was placed in a Russian prison and charged with "crimes against humanity".
Once he was without food for several weeks, went to an animal shelter to get food for his dog and lived off the 50 pound bag they provided him for a month. The other morning, it was 40 degrees and he was wearing a tank top, shivering. I gave him my rain coat. Later he told me, "Thanks. It's really warm, like sleeping in a trash bag."
He is fascinated by the various animal marine life that he digs out of the fish hoppers and keeps a mental list of the different jellyfish, butterfish, skate, haddock, monkfish, eels, dogfish, crabs which he collects in a bucket and brings to me with a big smile on his face. He is always hungry and I share my sandwiches with him, buy him coffee.
He smokes handrolled cigarettes clumsily. We were discussing the Bible one day and his comment was "I smoked the Old Testament once..."... used the thin parchment paper for rolling stock. One of the guys once said, "I always thought I might like to be a college history professor... or an English professor". He said "I always wanted to be a dinosaur"...
The other day the topic of discussion during coffee was scars. Charlie showed his 56 stitches in his scalp and told of the idiot who hit him with a beer bottle for asking for a cigarette. Another guy showed his 26 stitches from a pool cue, another 6 stitches from a fist in his eye lid. They looked at me and the medical scar I have down my neck from parotid surgery in 2006. I turned my head, pointed at the scar and said "knife fight".
Major props... couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
The "Kid" is 23 years old, 6 ft 4", 240 pounds. He's not an outstanding worker, has no discernible skills, but he tells some of the most outrageous stories I have ever heard. Both sides of his head are shaved, the remaining hair, long and black. He is Native American, Sioux and Blackfoot. The crew calls him "How". When he smiles, which is often, his eyes smile, too. He suffers the verbal abuse silently, stoically.
He was born on a train in a boxcar somewhere in New Mexico. His birth certificate says he was born in a field. His mother and father were druggies, his mother shot and killed his father and then shot herself. as did his brother. He says it did not affect him much. What affected him most was the death of his dog, "the best friend I ever had...". He still grieves.
At the age of 16, he joined the Marine Corp and was sent to Iraq where he was severely wounded, losing the vision in his right eye, double knee replacement to his left knee and shot through the chest/spine. The doctors told him he would never walk again, so he got out of bed and walked from California to Maine. He was trying to reach North Carolina, but ended up here. The crew says it is because he must have been dragging that left leg and got him off course.
He owns 800 acres in Montana with 1000 wild mustangs and was offered $9 million dollars, which he refused. His medical disability of $2,000/month goes to his daughter who lives in Russia. He can no longer see her because the last time he was there he beat up 8 cops in a bar, was placed in a Russian prison and charged with "crimes against humanity".
Once he was without food for several weeks, went to an animal shelter to get food for his dog and lived off the 50 pound bag they provided him for a month. The other morning, it was 40 degrees and he was wearing a tank top, shivering. I gave him my rain coat. Later he told me, "Thanks. It's really warm, like sleeping in a trash bag."
He is fascinated by the various animal marine life that he digs out of the fish hoppers and keeps a mental list of the different jellyfish, butterfish, skate, haddock, monkfish, eels, dogfish, crabs which he collects in a bucket and brings to me with a big smile on his face. He is always hungry and I share my sandwiches with him, buy him coffee.
He smokes handrolled cigarettes clumsily. We were discussing the Bible one day and his comment was "I smoked the Old Testament once..."... used the thin parchment paper for rolling stock. One of the guys once said, "I always thought I might like to be a college history professor... or an English professor". He said "I always wanted to be a dinosaur"...
The other day the topic of discussion during coffee was scars. Charlie showed his 56 stitches in his scalp and told of the idiot who hit him with a beer bottle for asking for a cigarette. Another guy showed his 26 stitches from a pool cue, another 6 stitches from a fist in his eye lid. They looked at me and the medical scar I have down my neck from parotid surgery in 2006. I turned my head, pointed at the scar and said "knife fight".
Major props... couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Extremes
The herring boat arrived with the dawn, with the sea gulls and with the seals, and another day unfolded on the wharf. The weather continues to be generally mild, but some mornings, before the sun blasts over the horizon, the mornings are cold and damp. On those days, the men dress in warm clothes and hooded sweatshirts, as we stumble around in the early morning darkness looking like ancient monks trudging to Lauds.
Harbor Seals are supposed to be reclusive. Guess these guys didn't get the memo. The 200-300 pound marine mammals spin and twirl, breach the water, sit up and beg like dogs for the fresh herring that the men toss into the water from the loading dock.The waterfront is a place of extremes. It is a place of the profound and the mundane, of breathtaking beauty and dark dysfunction. From the sights, sounds and smells of this place to the unique characters of the fishermen and the waterfront workers, their lifestyles and attitudes... extreme.
The gigantic, 15 story glistening white cruise ships arrive every day or two, shepherded to the dock at the State Pier by the small, but powerful tugboats. Today the Queen Victoria steamed in. Incredible. We watch the tourists standing on the outside balconies of their staterooms, watching us. The crew marvels at the deck top waterslides, the 30 foot, poolside TV screen, the glitz of the casinos and the showrooms clearly visible through the ship windows with our binoculars. The stark contrast between these luxury vessels and their privileged passengers and the lives and living/work conditions of the men on this dock, the unprivileged, is another extreme.
The tourists pour off the ships and wander around Commercial Street, wallets in hand, seeking additional stimulation. The intrepid few who walk down the potholed cobblestones of Custom House Wharf to the end, invariably stop in bewilderment to look into the door of the bait shop at the men dressed in orange skins, black boots and blue rubber gloves, shoveling fish, driving fork trucks, loading boats and flatbeds. Some hold their noses, others gag at the smell. Most are curious and would like to engage, but the men are not about it, with a few exceptions. The other day a tall professional man walked by dressed in an expensive suit, placing his Gucci'ed feet carefully to avoid the gore. Ricky was carrying a stinking, fly covered trash bin filled with blood soaked cardboard to the dumpster and spoke to the man who was clearly alarmed by his approach. "Wanna swap suits?" Ricky grinned. "What?" said the anxious man. End of conversation.
The idea hatched one day as we sat on the dock watching the cruise ship, the tourists and the seals. These tourists would pay good money to feed the seals herring and watch them do their thing, we figured. I roughed out a quick business plan based upon the number of cruise ships and average number of passengers, a conservative 5% participation rate and a $10 profit margin per head. The numbers were impressive so I took the next step and called the Maine Department of Marine Resources and Portland City Hall to speak with the business licensing division. The Marine Warden at DMR was encouraging. The self important woman on the end of the phone at Portland City Hall was dismissive and unhelpful.
When she eventually returned my call, after speaking with her legal department, she informed me that this business concept would not be licensed by the city. I asked her to explain the issues and concerns and, with a huff, she began. "There are several. What will you do about the trash generated?" Trash barrels, I suggested. "And what about parking?" The customers walk from the cruise ship, I explained. "Well, there is the matter of sea gulls attacking the tourists for the fish," she continued. Ah... good point I conceded... and maybe even pooping on them, heaven forbid... Yes, a tent would be needed. "And then there is the matter of their hands getting all icky from touching those fish. What will you do about that?" Hmmm... here's an idea. How about a hand washing station?
She was on her high horse now. Who was this insignificant dolt on the end of the phone talking about generating revenues and jobs on the waterfront. Didn't he know that she was important and that her time was valuable. She saved her best argument for last and she delivered it with a slippery contempt dripping from her words.
"No, this is never going to work. Besides, we don't know if we even want harbor seals in our harbor! "...
I thanked her for her time and said I would get back to her after developing the business plan further. I did not suggest that she and the politicians pass local regulations to prohibit seagulls from pooping and seals from swimming in the harbor. I wanted to. Instead, I further researched the concept and learned about the Federal Laws prohibiting human contact of any kind with marine mammals. The seals that eat from the hands of the fishermen, that swim to the dock and beg for fish obviously didn't get that memo either. The United States Marine Mammals Protection Act of 1972 specifically requires seals and humans to remain a minimum distance of 164 feet from each other under penalty of severe fines and possible imprisonment.
The next day I informed the boys that feeding seals was a federal offense. They are all ex-cons and their reaction was predictable. They laughed cynically, suggested the politicians perform impossible anatomical acts upon themselves, filled their buckets with fish and provided the seals with so much herring in the water that a feeding frenzy occurred.
There ought to be a law pertaining to any public servant or politician elected to serve the people of Portland. They should be required to work for a month on the waterfront. To sweat with the taxpayers who work in the kitchens, on the boats and in the bait shops who provide their salaries, in order to better understand the day to day issues of their homeless, illiterate, hopeless constituents. And to recognize that seals and seagulls appear to have rights too and that no bureaucrat is going to outlaw them in Portland Harbor. After all, it's our harbor, too.
Bureaucrats... extreme arrogance.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Canoeing the Allagash
The Allagash Wilderness Waterway is 98 magnificent miles long and we canoed 35 miles of it this past Labor Day weekend. Son, Ryan, and friends Richie and Nate dragged the old man across miles of the most spectacular Maine wilderness to be found. Other than a a couple of kayakers, who quickly left us in the dust, we only saw two other people in 3 days... no houses, no cars, no Walmarts... awesome.
However, we did see a half dozen moose, a couple deer fording the river, geese, gorbies, cormerants, bald eagles, loons and one dead bear.
Highlight of the trip for me, besides the great company, indescribable scenery and fabulous food, was fishing the deep holes from the bow while Ryan guided us single-handedly through the rapids from the stern.
Hi Diddly Dee... Bucket List item # 11. Check
Saturday, August 29, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
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...
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...
Monday, August 17, 2009
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..."
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
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...
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
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..."
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
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!"
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!"
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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...
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...
Monday, July 20, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
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...
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...
Thursday, July 9, 2009
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...
Friday, July 3, 2009
Back East
photo by MarvConnie 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...
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