I followed him into the Saint Simons Island post office. From my vantage-point, he was short and round and dressed in red velvet with black leather boots and a white tunic. I knew that the lines to the counter would be long and, for a moment, I considered quickening my pace to beat him to the queue. But something in the back of my mind whispered, "he'll know if you're naughty or nice..."
The line was 15 persons deep, nothing to do but wait my turn, so I moved to the side in order to get a closer glimpse at this character in front of me. Long, straight white hair and a full white beard. His mustache was playfully waxed with upturned ends giving the appearance of a perpetual smile. He wore thin spectacles low on his nose and his outfit was complete with a broad black belt with a silver buckle. He was a perfect likeness to Santa Clause... or was he actually Saint Nicholas?
"Excuse me..." I mumbled over the back of his right shoulder. He turned to face me and his eyes sparkled and his mouth turned into a grin. His face was round and his cheeks were rosy. For a moment I was speechless, tongue-tied, just like I was when I was 6 years old sitting on his lap at Santa's Village in Conway, New Hampshire.
"I just wanted to say thank you for that bicycle you gave me in 1958 in upstate Vermont..." I fumbled.
He closed one eye and peered at me closely. "Oh yes... the red Schwinn. Did you like it?" It was a red Schwinn! "Oh, yes! It was my favorite bike." I blurted. "The only issue was that, with all the snow, I wasn't able to ride it outside until May. All winter long, I rode it around and around in the basement and when I got outside, I couldn't ride in a straight line!" He leaned his head back and laughed a hearty "Ho-Ho-Ho" and I felt like I was 6 years old again.
His turn came at the counter and he turned away to do his business with the US Postal Service. "Ask them for a discount," I called after him. "You've earned it." Again his laughter filled the room. As he was leaving, he walked over to me, took me by the elbow, put his finger to the side of his nose and, with a grin, whispered "Merry Christmas!"
Merry Christmas to you, too, Santa... I do believe...
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
speaking of days that stick in your memory...
December 8, 1999, the day that we learned that Eric died in New Zealand. 12 years... and the memory is still just as vivid and as profound. For 364 days each year we choose not to focus upon it, but on this day, regardless of where we are or what we are doing, it floods back.
We have taken on the priviledge of speaking with other parents who have suffered the loss of a child. Our work with Hospice has prepared us for this difficult role. Just this month, we have been emailed by two people, friends who have friends who are in the fire, one in Kansas, one in Georgia. Since the Oprah Show, there have been hundreds with questions like; What can we do? What do we say? We feel so helpless watching them suffer so profoundly.
So here is our very simple counsel; be present, pay attention, don't be afraid to speak the name of the loved one who died, be patient, take walks, hug, hold hands, nod your head when the parent rages or despairs, smile, come back the next day or the next week and do it again.
You can not fix it. Things will never be "normal" for these people again. But there will be healing. The huge holes in their hearts will never go away, but the grace is that our hearts grow to surround our loss.
Miss you, son. Love never dies.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
February 20, 1962
One of my earliest, date specific memories was February 20, 1962, during the dead of winter in the mountaintop town of Sutton, Vermont, population 476. Our family was living in the valley in the station manager's house at the Portland Pipeline pump station. In those days, before computers and remote operation capabilities, each of the eight pump stations on the 236-mile-long oil pipeline from the deep-water tanker terminal in Portland, Maine to the refineries in Montreal, Canada, were staffed. Our dad was the station boss and part of the job was to live at the station.
Mom hated the isolation, ten miles to the nearest groceries in Barton, a mile to our closest neighbor, but for me, it was an exciting and early introduction to living in the North Woods. My sisters played with each other. I had 20 square miles of densely forested mountains and valleys, river, streams and swamps, as my companion. Cabins and tree houses, rafts and snow tunnels. Frogs, snakes, deer, rabbit, critters of all sorts. Spears, tomahawks, slingshots, bows and arrows Every day was an amazing outdoor adventure. I loved it.
The 1st through 8th grade, four room schoolhouse was located in the small farming community on top of a mountain, elevation 1,400 ft. There were 8 to 10 kids per grade and two grades per room. I remember feeling fortunate that we had an equal number of boys and girls in my class for inside square dancing during the long, brutally cold winter months. God forbid I'd have to dance with another boy. Every school day, Kermit Weed's mother would stop her rusted, green, 4 wheel drive Suburban in front of our house on Route 5 and pick my sister and me up for the 10 mile drive up the steep dirt road to school. On the way, we would stop for Colin Sheehan and his sister and my best friend, Peter Friend and his brothers.
The community was dirt poor. At the pinnacle of the economic ladder were the handful of large dairy farmers, followed by the small subsistence farmers and then the hired help. The Wood family belonged to the latter and held the distinction of being one of the few black families in Caledonia County. I don't remember having ever previously met a black person. John Wood was in my class, and we became fast friends. His brother was in my sister's class and I remember her crying because she discovered he didn't have underwear. She took a paper bag of my skivvies to school one day and left it under his desk. Gailie has always had the biggest heart. Such a good girl.
At the crossroads in town was a small building that housed the post office, the general store, the barber shop and the grain and feed depot, all in one room. It was definitely off limits to the school kids. We were strictly forbidden from it. I don't remember why John and I decided to sneak down the hill to the store that cold February 20th. We escaped, seemingly unobserved, from the back of the hay field that we called a playground, trudged through snow to our waists, and dashed across the street in front of the grange hall. We peeked inside the store and scurried back up the hill in order to catch our rides home. We knew we had broken a major rule and we felt wildly exhilarated, a couple dangerous outlaws living on the edge.
I walked back into the deserted classroom to gather my Rocky and Bullwinkle lunch box and to my horror, there on the front blackboards, in huge letters. were the names JOHN and GLENN. We had been found out! The breath caught in my throat and my brain burned with fear. I grabbed my things and ran to the Suburban avoiding our teacher, Mr. Fox. I was entirely frozen by fear. My mother and father would certainly be called to school for this major offense. I would have a record! Maybe, at 10 years of age, I would be sent to reform school where the bad boys went.
I don't think I slept a wink that night dreading the punishment and humiliation that was to come.
I rode to school in silence barely able to breath and stumbled stiff legged to my desk, crumbled into the chair and cast my eyes to the floor. John and I cast furtive glances across the room. The jig was up. We were toast. Finally, Mr. Fox began the class. "Who can tell me what happened yesterday?" he said melodramatically. My ears were ringing with dread. Was I going to be forced to confess my crime before the entire class. Would I be able to speak? Would I be able to stand? Would I wet my pants?
"It has to do with what is on the front blackboard." he hinted. My classmates were staring at my flushed face. John had his head on the desk, hands covering his eyes. Then Mr. Fox laughed, "No, it's not about your classmates, John and Glen. It's about John Glenn, America's first astronaut, who orbited the earth three times yesterday in a spaceship!"
I don't remember much else except for the warm wash of relief that flowed through my body. I was giddy. We had slipped the bullet. Our lives had been spared and I vowed to be a good boy from now on. We had learned first-hand that crime doesn't pay. I never forgot.
Memory is a funny thing.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Outside the Window
The Banana Spider,http://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/galveston/beneficials/beneficial-49_banana_spider.htm
Impressive, but harmless. She's huge!
Monday, November 21, 2011
More Waterfront Stories - Liam
Writing is something to which I am drawn. It's never easy for me. This blog post has been downright painful. But Life, real Life, is not all lightness, not all rainbows and butterflies. It's sometimes dark. I struggled with this one. Still, it is real Life and I watched it unfold on the waterfront.
His friendly smile, cautious eyes, and small, muscular physique earned him a job on the dock loading boats and trucks with 400 pound barrels on lobster bait; salted herring and poggies, redfish and skate. He showed up on time and worked hard doing backbreaking, dirty, honest labor among a crew of a dozen men. We worked from 4:00 AM until the job was done, typically 10-12 hours a day, six days a week. When the sun blazed, we sweltered in the heat. When the rain came and the wind blew, we shivered in our oil-skins.
There was no complaining. They were grateful for the work, appreciated the opportunity to feel pride, to feel productive in a world where welfare was all that society seemed to offer. And, for these men, there was no pride in that. There had been hard lessons in their past, most had spent time in jail, most struggled with some form of substance abuse, but most of these events were overlooked on the waterfront... most, but not all.
Liam rode with me three or four times on bait deliveries. We would head up the road in the early morning light to some fishing shanty on the coast, stopping on the way for diesel fuel and steaming hot coffee, and we would talk. He gazed out the window at the beauty of the sunrises, the ocean inlets and marshes, as he told his story; half Cherokee Indian, born on the California coast, learned to surf, moved to Phoenix during high school. He joined the Army and became a "tanker" for a couple years, driving massive Abram tanks, loading munitions. He loved to play guitar and write music, lamented that his prized Martin guitar was destroyed by a jealous girlfriend.He was 34, single, had "too many" girlfriends.He had been clean and sober for 12 months, didn't smoke. His dream was to buy a Harley Davidson and travel the country working the waterfront up and down the East and West coasts. "Waterfront work suits me." he explained. I liked him.
Liam seemed to fit in with the crew. He worked hard, didn't complain and didn't tolerate the petty criticisms of others who often would attempt to elevate their status by denigrating another. He wasn't looking for trouble... but trouble found him.
Most of the guys are wired... that is, they have cell phones, sometimes ipods, but one of the crew had a smart phone with internet access. It's an enigma of our time that someone without a home, without health insurance or a vehicle, who's worldly possessions would fit into a box, would spend his limited resources for a data plan and access to the web . But he did.
I arrived back at the bait shop from a run to Boothbay Harbor and backed the monster truck into the loading dock. It was always a relief to feel the thud of the truck body snugging up to the dock and know that I had not hit anything or anyone this trip. Unfortunately that was not true for all my runs. But, as they say, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Still, a smooth run brought a sense of satisfaction.
I swung the door open to find Allen standing there with his smart phone in his hand. "Everybody knows about it already. Look at this." he spoke in a low voice. I scanned the screen. It was the website of the Maine Sexual Offender Registry. Oh shit, this can't be good, I thought. There was Liam's picture with a description of his convictions, numerous unlawful sexual contacts with a minor under the age of 14, and his prison record, 6 years in the Maine State Penitentiary.
There is no tolerance on the waterfront for sex offenders. And violation of a minor is deemed the lowest of the low. They call them "skinners". In prison, I am told, skinners go through a special kind of hell. They are tormented and attacked. When they are released, they are required to register with the local police, report their place of residence and any change in residence. The have great difficulty finding work. Child molesters are not allowed to be within 500 feet of any school or playground. There lives are destroyed. For their offense, perhaps this is fitting... justice. Still, it is cruel to see.
I walked into the foreman's office to find him in conversation with the owner. "Close the door", he said. "We've got a situation here and I want your thoughts on it. You were a Human Resources director at the paper mill."
"I have already heard about it on the floor. Has anyone objected to working with him?" I asked
"Yeah, we've got complaints." said the owner
The foreman said "It's already a problem. None of the men will work with him."
I took a deep breath. "Then, by law, you are required to take expedient action. Failure to do so could lead to charges of sexual harassment against you, the employer. It's Employment Law: 101. If you deem it possible, he could be reasonable accommodated, reassigned to an area where he is not in contact with other workers who object to working with him. Failing that, you should terminate him. Document all your conversations and action."
The owner just shook his head.
I never saw Liam again. He drifted into that place where the damned go to live or to die, no one seeming to care which. I do not know, nor do I care to know, the details of his offense. Perhaps he is a cruel predator, a selfish sociopath capable of smiling into the faces of the unsuspecting and destroying lives. Perhaps there were mitigating circumstances, God knows what those might be. The jury found him guilty. I will never know.
I am conflicted. I liked him. And because I did, I glimpsed his damnation. I glimpsed his hell on earth. Tragedy... all around.
It ain't all lightness, rainbows and butterflies.
**********************
We would discover later that Liam was not his real name, but this technicality was insignificant among the wreckage of his life, later revealed.His friendly smile, cautious eyes, and small, muscular physique earned him a job on the dock loading boats and trucks with 400 pound barrels on lobster bait; salted herring and poggies, redfish and skate. He showed up on time and worked hard doing backbreaking, dirty, honest labor among a crew of a dozen men. We worked from 4:00 AM until the job was done, typically 10-12 hours a day, six days a week. When the sun blazed, we sweltered in the heat. When the rain came and the wind blew, we shivered in our oil-skins.
There was no complaining. They were grateful for the work, appreciated the opportunity to feel pride, to feel productive in a world where welfare was all that society seemed to offer. And, for these men, there was no pride in that. There had been hard lessons in their past, most had spent time in jail, most struggled with some form of substance abuse, but most of these events were overlooked on the waterfront... most, but not all.
Liam rode with me three or four times on bait deliveries. We would head up the road in the early morning light to some fishing shanty on the coast, stopping on the way for diesel fuel and steaming hot coffee, and we would talk. He gazed out the window at the beauty of the sunrises, the ocean inlets and marshes, as he told his story; half Cherokee Indian, born on the California coast, learned to surf, moved to Phoenix during high school. He joined the Army and became a "tanker" for a couple years, driving massive Abram tanks, loading munitions. He loved to play guitar and write music, lamented that his prized Martin guitar was destroyed by a jealous girlfriend.He was 34, single, had "too many" girlfriends.He had been clean and sober for 12 months, didn't smoke. His dream was to buy a Harley Davidson and travel the country working the waterfront up and down the East and West coasts. "Waterfront work suits me." he explained. I liked him.
Liam seemed to fit in with the crew. He worked hard, didn't complain and didn't tolerate the petty criticisms of others who often would attempt to elevate their status by denigrating another. He wasn't looking for trouble... but trouble found him.
Most of the guys are wired... that is, they have cell phones, sometimes ipods, but one of the crew had a smart phone with internet access. It's an enigma of our time that someone without a home, without health insurance or a vehicle, who's worldly possessions would fit into a box, would spend his limited resources for a data plan and access to the web . But he did.
I arrived back at the bait shop from a run to Boothbay Harbor and backed the monster truck into the loading dock. It was always a relief to feel the thud of the truck body snugging up to the dock and know that I had not hit anything or anyone this trip. Unfortunately that was not true for all my runs. But, as they say, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Still, a smooth run brought a sense of satisfaction.
I swung the door open to find Allen standing there with his smart phone in his hand. "Everybody knows about it already. Look at this." he spoke in a low voice. I scanned the screen. It was the website of the Maine Sexual Offender Registry. Oh shit, this can't be good, I thought. There was Liam's picture with a description of his convictions, numerous unlawful sexual contacts with a minor under the age of 14, and his prison record, 6 years in the Maine State Penitentiary.
There is no tolerance on the waterfront for sex offenders. And violation of a minor is deemed the lowest of the low. They call them "skinners". In prison, I am told, skinners go through a special kind of hell. They are tormented and attacked. When they are released, they are required to register with the local police, report their place of residence and any change in residence. The have great difficulty finding work. Child molesters are not allowed to be within 500 feet of any school or playground. There lives are destroyed. For their offense, perhaps this is fitting... justice. Still, it is cruel to see.
I walked into the foreman's office to find him in conversation with the owner. "Close the door", he said. "We've got a situation here and I want your thoughts on it. You were a Human Resources director at the paper mill."
"I have already heard about it on the floor. Has anyone objected to working with him?" I asked
"Yeah, we've got complaints." said the owner
The foreman said "It's already a problem. None of the men will work with him."
I took a deep breath. "Then, by law, you are required to take expedient action. Failure to do so could lead to charges of sexual harassment against you, the employer. It's Employment Law: 101. If you deem it possible, he could be reasonable accommodated, reassigned to an area where he is not in contact with other workers who object to working with him. Failing that, you should terminate him. Document all your conversations and action."
The owner just shook his head.
I never saw Liam again. He drifted into that place where the damned go to live or to die, no one seeming to care which. I do not know, nor do I care to know, the details of his offense. Perhaps he is a cruel predator, a selfish sociopath capable of smiling into the faces of the unsuspecting and destroying lives. Perhaps there were mitigating circumstances, God knows what those might be. The jury found him guilty. I will never know.
I am conflicted. I liked him. And because I did, I glimpsed his damnation. I glimpsed his hell on earth. Tragedy... all around.
It ain't all lightness, rainbows and butterflies.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
The Perfect Sendoff
When we left the Island earlier this year our friend Jo was on the final leg of her journey. She knew it, welcomed it. And we knew that we would not see her beautiful face, hear her delightful southern speech, feel her warm love when we returned. Her parting words were," I do not know what is beyond... but wherever you are, my spirit will be around you." Connie wept until we hit the mainland, primarily out of gratitude that life had placed this person in our path. Jo breathed her last breath on June 12th, in the early dawn, the morning after our daughter 's wedding....in the arms of her daughter, Tara.
Jo was very much about structure... that is, she would instruct those around her as to her specific preferences and desires... this is about as gently as I can state that, like many mothers, she wished to control the events and the people in her life. I found myself involved in events in which I would never have previously participated, things like poetry readings...and tea parties... because Jo requested it. Whenever she called upon me for assistance, whether it was to repair an appliance or fix her computer or attend a gathering on her front deck on the dunes of East Beach, I gladly complied. Perhaps it was because I so missed my own mother's mothering. Perhaps it was because she would tell me how "brilliant" I was when I changed a battery in a clock or reset a tripped breaker on her garbage disposal. "You are a genius!" she would gush with her southern charm... and I would believe her.
David was also caught in the web of her charm. His love and kindness toward Jo and his incredible support allowed Jo to orchestrate her own end days, remaining in her beach house, saying her final good-byes, attending to her final wishes... describing him as a "good friend" is the ultimate understatement. She gave him her last instructions... no memorial service... scatter her ashes across the beach and in the ocean in front of the cottage where she loved to walk, where her husband Bill's ashes had been scattered. Knowing David as well as she did, she must have realized that her limited, though pointed, instructions left him maximum flexibility in execution. And the wheels began to turn...
I was driving a 45 foot box truck hauling 10 tons of lobster bait down the Orr's Island peninsula when David called toward the end of a long summer in Maine. He had hatched a plan and was seeking a fellow conspirator. The date was to be 11/11/11, the day of his 60th birthday. The place was to be among the dunes at Jo's beach house. The time was to be shortly after sunset. My part was to stop in South Carolina on our way South and purchase a sleeve of fireworks, specifically mortars. These were to be the delivery system by which David intended to fulfill Jo's final request. Would Jo have approved? Well... she hadn't specifically detailed the method of "spreading her ashes"... and she so enjoyed an outrageous, joyous approach to life... Yeah, I'm in David.
We were approaching the South Carolina-Georgia border when I pulled off the highway and into the truck stop. The fireworks shop looked like a bunker; spartan, square, windowless. Inside the single front door, the room was packed with all manner of exotic explosives. It was deserted of people with the exception of the man behind the counter. He sported a polished, petrified wood bolo tie around his neck, and gaudy gold rings on his fingers. "Can I help yew?" he drawled. Yup, we were back.
I explained what we were about and, without missing a beat ,he directed me to the shelf with the largest commercially available mortars in the state. It included a fiberglass mortar tube and six fused, elongated charges around the size of my fist. The clerk offered,"Sorry about yer friend. These should work jes fine... You wouldn't be military would you? We offer a discount." No. unfortunately... "Are you a truck driver?" I grinned and produced my CDL, "Why, yes I am." I spoke proudly and pocketed the cash discount.
This was not the first time David had messed with high explosives. Still, I chose to not be present for the deconstruction and reconstruction of the mortar shells, adding the ashes in the space around the explosive charges. As Kenny Rogers sings "Gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em..."
We gathered in Jo's cottage, sat on the floor, and told Jo stories. Her spirit was palpable in this place. Outside, a butterfly landed on Connie's outstretched fingers. She was "around us" indeed. The full moon was casting a shimmering highway of light across the ocean as David dug the four plastic PVC mortars into the sand. All four were connected with a common fuse, which David carefully lit and hastily retreated to a safe place to watch Jo's earthly remain soar into the starry sky. Four streaks of flame blasted into the heavens over the beach and exploded in reds and greens and blues in echoing roars of thunder.
We stood stunned by both the pyrotechnics display and the ensuing quiet and by the descending cloud drifting out to sea. As it passed through the moon-glow, a million silver rays of light erupted, but for an instant, and then it was gone, leaving us wondering if we had really seen what we had seen. It was the perfect sendoff...
The Island is not the same without her presence. Some of it's charm is gone. But there is no sadness in the place where she was. Only gratitude...
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Jessie
Jessie's father had a heart attack at age 39. Jessie had one today at age 38.
I hope none of my workmates on the dock are checking up on this blog. Last time I wrote about them it wasn't received well. But I feel compelled to write about some of the events of this summer as my time on the docks comes to a close.
Let me say at the onset that I do not stand in judgement of any of these men. I stand in humble recognition of their struggles and their many talents. The poverty, addictions and difficult conditions of their lives is entirely overshadowed by their pride and the incredible amount and quality of the difficult work that they perform. They value themselves and each other by the sweat of their labor.They are an example to me and I strive to be worthy to be among them.
Jessie got off a bus from Pittsburgh at midnight and walked down the dock looking for his future. 254 pounds of muscle, tattooed with Irish flags and symbols, he is a striking, dangerous looking bruiser. His head is shaved and his eyes are dark and expressive.
One of the guys was drinking a beer on the wharf waiting for the bait shop to open at 3:00AM so he could go to work. He usually takes the last bus in from Westbrook and sleeps in one of the truck until the doors open in order to be on time. So, Jessie asked him where he could find work. He told him to talk with the foreman. When the foreman came in at 3:00AM, he took one look at Jessie' massive arms and hired him on the spot... conditionally. Day to day, but that's how all these guys operate. He was looking for a bull. Jessie looked like he might fit the bill.
It wasn't long before he pulled the assignment to ride with me on a run where extra muscle was needed. That's part of my job driving the big 52,000 pound trucks that I enjoy, getting to know these guys. It seems to be the same with each of them. They never ask me about myself, but, with a few questions, they open up and tell me their stories.
Jessie grew up in the tough part of Pittsburgh. He tried to join the military, but got rejected for his criminal record. So he trained to fight in the cage, full contact mixed martial art. He is proud of his 16-2 record, but complains that the many knees and elbows to his head have slowed him down mentally. He compensates by obsessing about the decisions he faces and the day to day conflicts to the point of unhealthy worry. He doesn't do drugs anymore, just drinks beer. Lots of it.
In Pittsburgh, he worked as a bouncer between fights and training and one night, outside a strip club, two guys jumped him. He doesn't have a just short fuse. He has a detonation button. He beat them so badly that the judge put him in prison for 5 1/2 years. When he got out thing went poorly in Pittsburgh; warrants, back child support, too much drama. So he took a handful of quarters, threw them down and picked one up at random. It was the Maine quarter and he bought a bus ticket to Portland.
After a week on the job, they offered him a berth on the Irish Piper. The engine had seized and it was tied up along side the wharf awaiting a rebuild. Jessie was out to prove himself and made himself a nuisance for awhile asking the foreman for his next assignment. Finally the Boss growled at him. "You can see what needs to be done. Just do it! I'll tell you when to do something different."
Jessie is heavily muscled in the chest and arms, so much so that rolling barrels is awkward for him... and the crew pounced like sharks on a bleeding tuna. The waterfront has a pecking order like any gang of men and Jessie sensed he was quickly declining in that social order. He responded by becoming sullen and lazy which just confirmed the harsh judgements of the crew. "Useless..." mumbled one of the guys, the worst judgement you could ever receive.
I was working loading a truck at the Brunswick cooler when I overheard the phone conversation.
"I'm sending Glen down with 12 pallets of redfish racks. You ok with that?"
"Yeah, things have quieted down now that the ambulances and fire trucks have left..."
"What happened?"
"Jessie had a heart attack and the trucks blocked the wharf for an hour.. wish he'd had it down on Commercial Street."
I found him sitting at the bar at the Starlight, one of the so-called three gates of hell, the trio of seedy waterfront bars on Commercial Street.
"The sack around my heart filled up with fluid and blood and it hurt like hell. Don't remember what he called it, but the Doc at the Emergency Room gave me a script for some medicine."
"Angina? Congestive heart failure?" I suggested.
"Yeah, that was it." he said as he lit up a cigarette. "I'll be ok. Got to be. I've got things to accomplish with my life. Still can't find a place to live though and they want me off the boat soon."
I drove him up to the Preble Street Resource Center and he spoke with a social services counselor about his dilemma. They scheduled him for an appointment the following day. I dropped him off back on the wharf, slipped him $20 and a winter coat I had in the truck.
He shook my hand when I told him I was heading South. His eyes narrowed and watered. "Hey, I wanna give you something. I only give it to my friends...". He recited the Irish Blessing,
"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand."
Right back at you, Jessie. Good luck Brother.
I hope none of my workmates on the dock are checking up on this blog. Last time I wrote about them it wasn't received well. But I feel compelled to write about some of the events of this summer as my time on the docks comes to a close.
Let me say at the onset that I do not stand in judgement of any of these men. I stand in humble recognition of their struggles and their many talents. The poverty, addictions and difficult conditions of their lives is entirely overshadowed by their pride and the incredible amount and quality of the difficult work that they perform. They value themselves and each other by the sweat of their labor.They are an example to me and I strive to be worthy to be among them.
Jessie got off a bus from Pittsburgh at midnight and walked down the dock looking for his future. 254 pounds of muscle, tattooed with Irish flags and symbols, he is a striking, dangerous looking bruiser. His head is shaved and his eyes are dark and expressive.
One of the guys was drinking a beer on the wharf waiting for the bait shop to open at 3:00AM so he could go to work. He usually takes the last bus in from Westbrook and sleeps in one of the truck until the doors open in order to be on time. So, Jessie asked him where he could find work. He told him to talk with the foreman. When the foreman came in at 3:00AM, he took one look at Jessie' massive arms and hired him on the spot... conditionally. Day to day, but that's how all these guys operate. He was looking for a bull. Jessie looked like he might fit the bill.
It wasn't long before he pulled the assignment to ride with me on a run where extra muscle was needed. That's part of my job driving the big 52,000 pound trucks that I enjoy, getting to know these guys. It seems to be the same with each of them. They never ask me about myself, but, with a few questions, they open up and tell me their stories.
Jessie grew up in the tough part of Pittsburgh. He tried to join the military, but got rejected for his criminal record. So he trained to fight in the cage, full contact mixed martial art. He is proud of his 16-2 record, but complains that the many knees and elbows to his head have slowed him down mentally. He compensates by obsessing about the decisions he faces and the day to day conflicts to the point of unhealthy worry. He doesn't do drugs anymore, just drinks beer. Lots of it.
In Pittsburgh, he worked as a bouncer between fights and training and one night, outside a strip club, two guys jumped him. He doesn't have a just short fuse. He has a detonation button. He beat them so badly that the judge put him in prison for 5 1/2 years. When he got out thing went poorly in Pittsburgh; warrants, back child support, too much drama. So he took a handful of quarters, threw them down and picked one up at random. It was the Maine quarter and he bought a bus ticket to Portland.
After a week on the job, they offered him a berth on the Irish Piper. The engine had seized and it was tied up along side the wharf awaiting a rebuild. Jessie was out to prove himself and made himself a nuisance for awhile asking the foreman for his next assignment. Finally the Boss growled at him. "You can see what needs to be done. Just do it! I'll tell you when to do something different."
Jessie is heavily muscled in the chest and arms, so much so that rolling barrels is awkward for him... and the crew pounced like sharks on a bleeding tuna. The waterfront has a pecking order like any gang of men and Jessie sensed he was quickly declining in that social order. He responded by becoming sullen and lazy which just confirmed the harsh judgements of the crew. "Useless..." mumbled one of the guys, the worst judgement you could ever receive.
I was working loading a truck at the Brunswick cooler when I overheard the phone conversation.
"I'm sending Glen down with 12 pallets of redfish racks. You ok with that?"
"Yeah, things have quieted down now that the ambulances and fire trucks have left..."
"What happened?"
"Jessie had a heart attack and the trucks blocked the wharf for an hour.. wish he'd had it down on Commercial Street."
I found him sitting at the bar at the Starlight, one of the so-called three gates of hell, the trio of seedy waterfront bars on Commercial Street.
"The sack around my heart filled up with fluid and blood and it hurt like hell. Don't remember what he called it, but the Doc at the Emergency Room gave me a script for some medicine."
"Angina? Congestive heart failure?" I suggested.
"Yeah, that was it." he said as he lit up a cigarette. "I'll be ok. Got to be. I've got things to accomplish with my life. Still can't find a place to live though and they want me off the boat soon."
I drove him up to the Preble Street Resource Center and he spoke with a social services counselor about his dilemma. They scheduled him for an appointment the following day. I dropped him off back on the wharf, slipped him $20 and a winter coat I had in the truck.
He shook my hand when I told him I was heading South. His eyes narrowed and watered. "Hey, I wanna give you something. I only give it to my friends...". He recited the Irish Blessing,
"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand."
Right back at you, Jessie. Good luck Brother.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Anna and Brian
Wonderful lamb dinner with good friends on Orr's Island! Thanks Anna and Brian. It's the simple things in life...
And thanks ever so much for the toothpick stash! See you down South!
And thanks ever so much for the toothpick stash! See you down South!
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Sunday morning reading...
"To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson-
Ralph gets it...
-Ralph Waldo Emerson-
Ralph gets it...
Friday, September 30, 2011
Without Issues
Another run to Jackman to transfer lobsters to a Canadian truck." Dooda" showed up on time and we loaded the truck without issues. He only speaks French so there was no small talk. Plenty of truck traffic on US Route 201, long logs, finished lumber, box trucks and pickups, all with guns hanging in the back window. Moose season opened last week and judging from the many moose warning signs there must be plenty up here in the willy wags.
The two lane road from Skowhegan through Solon, Bingham and Moscow twists and turns along the Kennebec and Dead Rivers. No sunsets this trip. Gray clouds and light rain. The forests on both sides of the highway doing their best to reclaim the ugly strip of black asphalt.
I drove past the Northland Hotel, shaped like a barn, no windows. Not very enticing. And then I came to the Jackman Motel. Now these folks know how to attract the customers! Stay with us and get stuffed! LOL!
The two lane road from Skowhegan through Solon, Bingham and Moscow twists and turns along the Kennebec and Dead Rivers. No sunsets this trip. Gray clouds and light rain. The forests on both sides of the highway doing their best to reclaim the ugly strip of black asphalt.
I drove past the Northland Hotel, shaped like a barn, no windows. Not very enticing. And then I came to the Jackman Motel. Now these folks know how to attract the customers! Stay with us and get stuffed! LOL!
Monday, September 26, 2011
Jeff sings "Georgia"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1Ns6hpPPR0
Of all the colorful characters on Custom House Wharf, Jeff is among the most prismatic. He is sort of the elder statesman of the dock, his wisdom and experience often sought out especially around issues of sailboats, rigging, music and the day to day events that unfold up and down the wharf. He lives in a comfortable, temporary shanty erected on the dock as he completes repairs on his older wooden hulled sailboat.
Jeff can usually be found engaged in thoughtful conversation, maneuvering his bicycle around the potholes, puttering on his old Volvo or, of course, sailboat...or playing his music. His music is his passion and you can hear it in his voice, see it in the way the rhythm flows through him as he plays. He loves it.
Jeff has sailed his boat down the Atlantic coast (He's a "blue water" sailor.) more than once on his way to the Caribbean or the Florida Keys for the winter, has moored along Saint Simons Island in Georgia, knows where we are headed next month. And so, as our time in Maine draws to an end, he practiced this song, agreed to let me video it and post it on our blog.
Thanks Jeff. Much appreciated. Fair winds buddy.
Of all the colorful characters on Custom House Wharf, Jeff is among the most prismatic. He is sort of the elder statesman of the dock, his wisdom and experience often sought out especially around issues of sailboats, rigging, music and the day to day events that unfold up and down the wharf. He lives in a comfortable, temporary shanty erected on the dock as he completes repairs on his older wooden hulled sailboat.
Jeff can usually be found engaged in thoughtful conversation, maneuvering his bicycle around the potholes, puttering on his old Volvo or, of course, sailboat...or playing his music. His music is his passion and you can hear it in his voice, see it in the way the rhythm flows through him as he plays. He loves it.
Jeff has sailed his boat down the Atlantic coast (He's a "blue water" sailor.) more than once on his way to the Caribbean or the Florida Keys for the winter, has moored along Saint Simons Island in Georgia, knows where we are headed next month. And so, as our time in Maine draws to an end, he practiced this song, agreed to let me video it and post it on our blog.
Thanks Jeff. Much appreciated. Fair winds buddy.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
I knew there were going to be issues...
It started out as a typical Friday... 6 AM run to Georgetown followed by a trip to Harpswell. It was 3:00 when Craig called. "Hey, do you want to drive to Canada today?" ... "Ok, cousin. Whatever you need. I'll be back on the wharf in 15 minutes." "OK", he said, "I'll explain it when you get here. It's complicated."
If you look up the word tenacious in the dictionary, there's a picture of Craig. He never gives up, pounds his head against the wall and usually cracks the wall. So when he said "complicated" I knew this was head banging time.
When I walked in the bait shack office, Pete was talking to Tom, the other driver, about my assignment and he stopped short. "I can't talk to you about this. Craig needs to tell you", he laughed.
Craig walked in soaked from the chest down having just completed packing the 35 crates of lobsters for Canada. He sat down and said "OK, here's the deal. I've got an order from Canada for these hard shells. Good margins. Better net from this one run than from the entire rest of the week. Here's where it gets complicated. I don't have the necessary bar codes to get the truck across the border into Canada and the Canadian truck drivers don't have passports to get into the US. You're the only one who has a current US Passport, no criminal record and a CDL. You need to drive 4 hours to the border, park the truck on the US side, walk across the Canadian Customs, pick up the truck and the bar code from the Canadian driver, drive back through US Customs, hand transfer the 2 tons of lobsters , drive back through Canadian Customs, deliver the truck and walk back across US Customs. I don't know where you can do the transfer. That might be an issue..."
I said, "OK, sounds like a plan. Let's do it." At that point people began flying around, cleaning the bait juice and guts out of the truck, loading the crates, preparing the invoices. I called Connie and asked her to meet me at a truck stop in Yarmouth with my passport. As the last crates were loaded on the truck, the refrigeration unit failed. Small, but critical glitch. New plan. We would have to ice the crates down so the lobsters would survive the trip, so we drove to the Fish Exchange and Craig pumped 3 tons of crushed ice on top of the crates.
I hit the road and met Connie for the Passport transfer. She had brought the entire important papers folio, so I took the whole thing. Perhaps if I hadn't just driven for 9 hours I would have thought better of that decision. At this point I'm just thinking about the mission at hand.
I drove up I-95 to Fairfield and picked up US 201 to Jackman. Once I got above Solon the scenery was awesome, but the road was so twisting and turning, long hills to climb and steep downgrades that I didn't have an opportunity to really enjoy it. Still, I knew I was in God's country. Felt good. Every couple miles there were big yellow signs warning of moose crossings. Hmmm...
I slowly approached the border crossing just as the sun slipped behind the mountains and followed the signs into the US Customs visitor's parking lot. The facility was huge, complete with bright lighting, electronic scanning technology, processing facilities, they even had a couple large windmills. I locked up the truck, looked around for a few minutes. Everyone seemed cool so I walked across the complex, past the line of traffic waiting to get into Canada and presented my passport to the border cross agent. He was puzzled where I was going and why I was on foot. I explained I had to pick up a truck. He allowed me into the country.
It was all going like clockwork. The Canadian drivers pulled up to the curb and gave me the bar code. I headed back to US Customs with their truck and they waited on the Canadian side for me to return with the load.
The US Border Agent took my paperwork and asked what was in the truck and I explained it was empty, that I was going to transfer my load from my truck. "He pointed his finger at me and said "That's YOUR truck in the parking lot?" I nodded. He closed the window and got on the radio. 30 seconds later there were four large Border Agents standing around my truck with their holsters unclipped and their hands resting on their Glocks. I attempted to explain to the irate agent. He told me to shut up. "Think about this" he said in an icy voice, "A locked, unattended truck parked at our facility and no one has any idea what's going on." Immediately Oklahoma City flashed through my mind. I apologized profusely.
They talked for 10 minutes and then laid out the drill. I would park the Canadian truck and accompany the biggest agent into the building where I sat in a detention area while he checked my paperwork. As we walked to the building he asked, "Do you have any money on you or in the truck?" "$30 bucks" I said. He said "Well, I ask because we know the seafood industry is largely a cash business and it's against the law to take over $10,000 across the border. " I said, "Yeah, I wish I had that kind of cash."
He checked me out in the computer and instructed me to accompany him to my truck. I was to stand in front of the truck as he search the cab. It took him 20 minutes and I enjoyed watching the last dim light fading in the sky and the blades of the windmills gliding silently on the mountaintop. Finally he seemed satisfied, had me open the engine compartment and then the box. When he climbed out of the box he walked up to me, got close in my face and said "Why are you carrying all you personal documents in the truck", watching my reactions carefully. "Oh, my wife gave me the whole packet when she brought me my passport" I answered. "When were you last in Iraq" he asked. "What? Never..." I answered stunned at the question. "Why do you have $650,000 Iraqi dinar in your possession?" The thought flashed through my mind "Oh, my God... I'm going to jail." Slowly I explained. My cousin was in Iraq. He bought me $500 US dollars of Iraqi dinar hoping the currency would appreciate. You know currency speculation? He put me back in detention, metal bench bolted to the wall.
20 minutes later he came back, had me back the truck over near the other vehicle while he and 3 other agents strip searched the Canadian truck. At this point I had a guard with me. The agent said, "Do you know the Canadian drivers?" "No," I answered," but my cousin does." Do you know that as the driver of that vehicle you will be held responsible for any illicit material we find?" It was going from bad to worse. I saw a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel and it was sounding like a freakin freight train.
Finally the big agent called over to me. "OK, you can transfer your load." I fist pumped the air and climbed into the back of the truck... to find that the crushed ice had melted and refrozen forming a glacier over the crates. It took me 40 minutes of back breaking labor to free the crates and transfer the 2 tons of lobster, slipping and sliding on the ice, heaving the 100 pound crates, unstacking and re-stacking. I was drenched in sweat when I finished and the 4 agents approached me. "You are free to drive back across the border. Sorry for your inconvenience." said the captain. I noticed that their guns had been reclipped.
I apologized for the 20th time and thanked them for the work they did protecting our country, got in the truck and drove to Canadian Customs. They looked at my documents and instructed me to pull into a lighted area, turn off the truck and stay in the vehicle. Again 4 armed agents surrounded my truck and with a French accent I was told to step out of the vehicle. The 2 Canadian drivers walked over and the conversation turned into French. Finally, after they had reviewed my documents and searched the truck, they released the drivers and instructed me to walk back to their complex. As I was walking back across the security complex, one agent walked in front, one on either side of me and one behind me. It was a surreal feeling and I had no idea what would come next. They stopped at a gate, turned to me and said "You are free to leave the country."
I felt a huge wave of relief as I walked the 100 yards down the deserted gauntlet of electronic and radioactive sensing devices in the stark neon lights back to US Customs. Dressed in duct taped pants and rubber boots, stinking of sweat and fish, I presented my passport for the 4th time and stood for 10 minutes as the new guard got up to speed on who I was and what had gone down over the last 3 hours. Finally he passed my documents back to me and said "Have a good evening. Don't hit a moose on your way down the mountain." I started laughing and didn't stop until I hit Jackman.
I was so jacked up on adrenalin from the events of the evening that I decided to make the 4 hour push back to Portland. My body was humming and my ears were ringing as I climbed in bed with my wife an hour after returning the truck to the wharf. When I got up this morning and recounted the detail to Craig, his comment was "I knew there would be issues... there always are." It was then that I really realized that this was the story of his life. He had driven loads to Canada for 20 years. He knew what I was going into. It's but one of the many, many seemingly insurmountable obstacles that he faces every day. He's my hero.
Tenacious...
If you look up the word tenacious in the dictionary, there's a picture of Craig. He never gives up, pounds his head against the wall and usually cracks the wall. So when he said "complicated" I knew this was head banging time.
When I walked in the bait shack office, Pete was talking to Tom, the other driver, about my assignment and he stopped short. "I can't talk to you about this. Craig needs to tell you", he laughed.
Craig walked in soaked from the chest down having just completed packing the 35 crates of lobsters for Canada. He sat down and said "OK, here's the deal. I've got an order from Canada for these hard shells. Good margins. Better net from this one run than from the entire rest of the week. Here's where it gets complicated. I don't have the necessary bar codes to get the truck across the border into Canada and the Canadian truck drivers don't have passports to get into the US. You're the only one who has a current US Passport, no criminal record and a CDL. You need to drive 4 hours to the border, park the truck on the US side, walk across the Canadian Customs, pick up the truck and the bar code from the Canadian driver, drive back through US Customs, hand transfer the 2 tons of lobsters , drive back through Canadian Customs, deliver the truck and walk back across US Customs. I don't know where you can do the transfer. That might be an issue..."
I said, "OK, sounds like a plan. Let's do it." At that point people began flying around, cleaning the bait juice and guts out of the truck, loading the crates, preparing the invoices. I called Connie and asked her to meet me at a truck stop in Yarmouth with my passport. As the last crates were loaded on the truck, the refrigeration unit failed. Small, but critical glitch. New plan. We would have to ice the crates down so the lobsters would survive the trip, so we drove to the Fish Exchange and Craig pumped 3 tons of crushed ice on top of the crates.
I hit the road and met Connie for the Passport transfer. She had brought the entire important papers folio, so I took the whole thing. Perhaps if I hadn't just driven for 9 hours I would have thought better of that decision. At this point I'm just thinking about the mission at hand.
I drove up I-95 to Fairfield and picked up US 201 to Jackman. Once I got above Solon the scenery was awesome, but the road was so twisting and turning, long hills to climb and steep downgrades that I didn't have an opportunity to really enjoy it. Still, I knew I was in God's country. Felt good. Every couple miles there were big yellow signs warning of moose crossings. Hmmm...
I slowly approached the border crossing just as the sun slipped behind the mountains and followed the signs into the US Customs visitor's parking lot. The facility was huge, complete with bright lighting, electronic scanning technology, processing facilities, they even had a couple large windmills. I locked up the truck, looked around for a few minutes. Everyone seemed cool so I walked across the complex, past the line of traffic waiting to get into Canada and presented my passport to the border cross agent. He was puzzled where I was going and why I was on foot. I explained I had to pick up a truck. He allowed me into the country.
It was all going like clockwork. The Canadian drivers pulled up to the curb and gave me the bar code. I headed back to US Customs with their truck and they waited on the Canadian side for me to return with the load.
The US Border Agent took my paperwork and asked what was in the truck and I explained it was empty, that I was going to transfer my load from my truck. "He pointed his finger at me and said "That's YOUR truck in the parking lot?" I nodded. He closed the window and got on the radio. 30 seconds later there were four large Border Agents standing around my truck with their holsters unclipped and their hands resting on their Glocks. I attempted to explain to the irate agent. He told me to shut up. "Think about this" he said in an icy voice, "A locked, unattended truck parked at our facility and no one has any idea what's going on." Immediately Oklahoma City flashed through my mind. I apologized profusely.
They talked for 10 minutes and then laid out the drill. I would park the Canadian truck and accompany the biggest agent into the building where I sat in a detention area while he checked my paperwork. As we walked to the building he asked, "Do you have any money on you or in the truck?" "$30 bucks" I said. He said "Well, I ask because we know the seafood industry is largely a cash business and it's against the law to take over $10,000 across the border. " I said, "Yeah, I wish I had that kind of cash."
He checked me out in the computer and instructed me to accompany him to my truck. I was to stand in front of the truck as he search the cab. It took him 20 minutes and I enjoyed watching the last dim light fading in the sky and the blades of the windmills gliding silently on the mountaintop. Finally he seemed satisfied, had me open the engine compartment and then the box. When he climbed out of the box he walked up to me, got close in my face and said "Why are you carrying all you personal documents in the truck", watching my reactions carefully. "Oh, my wife gave me the whole packet when she brought me my passport" I answered. "When were you last in Iraq" he asked. "What? Never..." I answered stunned at the question. "Why do you have $650,000 Iraqi dinar in your possession?" The thought flashed through my mind "Oh, my God... I'm going to jail." Slowly I explained. My cousin was in Iraq. He bought me $500 US dollars of Iraqi dinar hoping the currency would appreciate. You know currency speculation? He put me back in detention, metal bench bolted to the wall.
20 minutes later he came back, had me back the truck over near the other vehicle while he and 3 other agents strip searched the Canadian truck. At this point I had a guard with me. The agent said, "Do you know the Canadian drivers?" "No," I answered," but my cousin does." Do you know that as the driver of that vehicle you will be held responsible for any illicit material we find?" It was going from bad to worse. I saw a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel and it was sounding like a freakin freight train.
Finally the big agent called over to me. "OK, you can transfer your load." I fist pumped the air and climbed into the back of the truck... to find that the crushed ice had melted and refrozen forming a glacier over the crates. It took me 40 minutes of back breaking labor to free the crates and transfer the 2 tons of lobster, slipping and sliding on the ice, heaving the 100 pound crates, unstacking and re-stacking. I was drenched in sweat when I finished and the 4 agents approached me. "You are free to drive back across the border. Sorry for your inconvenience." said the captain. I noticed that their guns had been reclipped.
I apologized for the 20th time and thanked them for the work they did protecting our country, got in the truck and drove to Canadian Customs. They looked at my documents and instructed me to pull into a lighted area, turn off the truck and stay in the vehicle. Again 4 armed agents surrounded my truck and with a French accent I was told to step out of the vehicle. The 2 Canadian drivers walked over and the conversation turned into French. Finally, after they had reviewed my documents and searched the truck, they released the drivers and instructed me to walk back to their complex. As I was walking back across the security complex, one agent walked in front, one on either side of me and one behind me. It was a surreal feeling and I had no idea what would come next. They stopped at a gate, turned to me and said "You are free to leave the country."
I felt a huge wave of relief as I walked the 100 yards down the deserted gauntlet of electronic and radioactive sensing devices in the stark neon lights back to US Customs. Dressed in duct taped pants and rubber boots, stinking of sweat and fish, I presented my passport for the 4th time and stood for 10 minutes as the new guard got up to speed on who I was and what had gone down over the last 3 hours. Finally he passed my documents back to me and said "Have a good evening. Don't hit a moose on your way down the mountain." I started laughing and didn't stop until I hit Jackman.
I was so jacked up on adrenalin from the events of the evening that I decided to make the 4 hour push back to Portland. My body was humming and my ears were ringing as I climbed in bed with my wife an hour after returning the truck to the wharf. When I got up this morning and recounted the detail to Craig, his comment was "I knew there would be issues... there always are." It was then that I really realized that this was the story of his life. He had driven loads to Canada for 20 years. He knew what I was going into. It's but one of the many, many seemingly insurmountable obstacles that he faces every day. He's my hero.
Tenacious...
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Lessons in Humility on the Waterfront
Tasty little crustaceans. They drive Maine's waterfront economy every summer. From the herring and poggie fishermen to the bait shop and the tank room to the truckers driving up and down the coast delivering barrels of fish and picking up crates of lobsters, everyone is in high gear making money while to fishing is good.Custom House Wharf is a throwback to earlier times, an eclectic mix of fish shops, waterfront restaurants, canvas sail and tote shops and the lobster business. My family has worked this wharf for generations. Great, great grandfather sailed from here. Great Grampa Clarence based his hard hat diving business here. Gramps Davis sold Clams to Boones Restaurant at the head of the wharf. My father ran the oil terminal across the harbor. And now my cousin runs his bait and lobster business on Custom House Wharf. Cousins, nephews, children, spouses, son-in-laws, they all show up to fulfill some function from shoveling fish, to working in the office, to unloading boats and trucks.
My designated role this summer is to drive the big trucks and fill in where needed, but in order to do the job I had to get a commercial drivers license (CDL). I thought "no big deal". Lesson in humility number 1. The process is onerous, a thick manual to digest followed by a written test and a permit. Next driving for weeks with a licensed driver and learning to operate a 52,000 pound GVW, a 10 gear, high/low range non-synchronous transmission, air brakesand suspension, dual axle, 30 foot box, BEAST of a truck. Then three more tests; an off road maneuverability test (back-up, offset drive through, parallel park and truck dock), a pre-trip inspection test and a road test. I visited the DOT testing site and watched 4 people flunk the test. Real confidence builder... I was hesitant to send in my request for the exams until my cousin pushed me to it.
All the trucks on the wharf were working, so I had to rent a rig for a couple days... and practice. I set up the cones and paniced as I repeatedly failed to perform the maneuvers. 12 hours later I was hitting 1 out of 3 times. I was almost out of daylight when I tried a final docking and backed right into the garage door of the business where I had been allowed to practice. Crunched it hard. Lesson in humility number 2.
Somehow I passed the tests. It was just luck or maybe the helpful woman test instructor or maybe divine intervention. Whateva'. To quote Blanche Dubois from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," I rely on the kindness of strangers". So I'm feeling pretty cocky now. What a hot shot. Passed the first time. Bragging to people that I had to update my resume; Glen D. Foss; BS, MBA, CDL. Pride goeth before the fall...
My first solo trip was the next day to the Georgetown Fishermens Co-op, a route I had driven several times. Up the wharf and through busy Commercial Street dodging traffic and pedestrians with scarce inches of clearance, north on busy I-295 through miles and miles of road and bridge construction, through Brunswick and Bath with snarls of traffic dripping fish juice from the 40 barrels of bait on pallets in the cargo bay, and down the peninsula over a narrow, winding, hilly road.
I was white knuckled and tense, but doing ok, not grinding too many gears, only stalled out once in the middle of a busy intersection and coming down a hill, fully loaded toward the narrow bridge in the fishing village of Georgetown when an elderly woman pulled out of a driveway in front of me and stopped broadside in my lane. My heart almost exploded in my chest as I locked up the brakes knowing full well I could never stop in time. At the last minute, she pulled out of my path. I laid on the air horn, across the bridges, a 90 degree turn followed by a steep hill. I was in the wrong gear and blew the downshift, had to stop on the hill, set my breaks and start up again in low gear, creeping my way up the hill, fish juice pouring out the back of the truck onto the waiting line of traffic stacked up behind me. Utter humiliation. Things couldn't be worse... except perhaps that I might have killed an old lady on my first trip out. Yeah, what's a little humiliation compared to that.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I backed the truck up to the wharf and shut down the engine. And then I opened the cargo door. Lesson in humility number 4. 40 barrels had slid off the pallets, fish and juice everywhere. An hour later sweating, stinking and sore, I finished unloading. Lesson in humility complete... for that day.
Every day I have new lessons presented to me. Criticisms from the crew for wearing my boots wrong ("you tuck your pant legs in... not out"), from my cousin for speaking out of school ("Don't talk about the business. You can't trust anyone"), and yesterday from the tank room crew when I dropped four crates of lobsters off a dolly ("The fishermen are all talking about your yard sale... good one.").So why am I having such a good time? Don't know. But it feels right. Who ever said that by age 60 we should know it all. Remember the lessons from your younger years? "Failure is sometimes the result of trying to learn new things." "Even the best baseball players only hit the ball 30% of the time" .
Ultimately we are all just "Bozo's on the bus". When ego and status rear their ugly heads, life gets less fun. A healthy dose of humility, though mighty uncomfortable sometimes, isn't a bad thing. Nobody enjoys failure. But, as Helen Keller wrote, "Life is an adventure... or nothing". Adventures in humility...
The sunrises and the scenery are spectacular.
Who has more fun than people...
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Priceless
It was a steamy hot day in Portland on Commercial Street. And behind the window in Maggie's on the corner of Custom House Wharf, she was keeping cool with a vanilla cone. Still the melting ice cream dripped down her arm and smeared the glass. Ah, the joys of summertime in Maine...
Monday, June 13, 2011
Sweet
Katie and Elnur's wedding day was such a wonderful time! We awoke at sunrise in the Peter McKernan Center overlooking Spring Point. The old sailors adage "Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning." proved true and the rain came canceling an outside ceremony. No worries. The backup plan worked flawlessly..
Chairs were set, table assignments staged, pictures displayed and flowers arranged with the help of wonderful friends and family (thank you all so much!).
The bride and groom dressed for the party and guests began to arrive. The mother of the bride was stunning in her blue dress!
It was truly an international gala with family and friends attending from Azerbaijan, England, Brazil, Russia, Belarus, New York, Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, Washington DC, California, Virginia, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maryland, North Carolina, Kentucky and, of course, good old Maine.Weather not withstanding, no plan ever comes off without a few glitches and Murphy's Law prevailed once again as the pastor got stuck on the Portland draw bridge waiting for an oil tanker to pass. We all enjoyed a good laugh and she soon arrived and conducted a simply wonderful ceremony. Thank you Deborah!!
The bride was radiant if I do say so and Elnur was so happy to see his college buddies from Baku.
Then it was time for pictures,toasts and speeches. dinner and dancing. The food was great, especially the crab cakes, spanakopita, lamb kabobs and dessert baklava. And NOBODY can use a dance floor like the Foss clan and Katie and Elnur's crazy friends. They rocked the house!
More pictures to follow. Thanks everyone for being a part of this wonderful day. As Connie says "We Love love!" and the love was overwhelming. A perfect day...
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