December 8th, 2020

 

21 years here...21 years there. Miss you forever.

The Big V

 Early in our marriage, Connie convinced me to give up my career in Wastewater Treatment and get my certification as a secondary education science teacher. It was a shitty job...both of them. I believe I got more respect in sewerage treatment. Poor teachers.

We both got jobs in Waterville, me at the high school, she at the elementary school. I taught 5 periods a day; 2 sophomore General Science, 1 Health, 1 sweat hog freshman Earth Science (15 boys. Boneheads, my favorite class. They would be called behaviorally challenged today.) and 1 Jr/Sr. Environmental Science. 

The large Environmental Science class were primarily college bound kids. Many of them were just looking for an easy elective, but some of them were starry eyed kids excited about learning how to save the earth from pollution and overpopulation. Jeff was one such serious student.

Jeff was a great kid. Always did his homework, took notes, paid attention in class. We clicked. At midyear he approached me after class and asked if I would write him a letter of recommendation for medical school. I was pleased and honored to do so. He was accepted.

The school year ended in a flurry. Connie got pregnant with twins. I got let go in a budget cut from my teaching job, we lost our apartment, I got hired as an Environmental Engineer at a local paper mill, we bought a house and the boys were born on New Years Eve. Whew!! 

So much for a career in public education. I did enjoy and miss the students. I did not miss the profession and the highly politicized administration. I was much happier among mill workers.

Fast forward 6 years. Katie was born in April of 84. Everyone was happy and healthy and, by July, Connie had decided we had our family and that it was up to me to make sure we didn't have more kids  A vasectomy seemed like the least risky, potentially reversible, way to go. I made an appointment with our primary care physician, an Osteopath named Dr. Suski. Nice guy. He was the high school sports doctor on the sidelines at all the football games, hockey games, basketball games. And at the local stock car track. My kinda guy.

The dreaded day arrived and the local anesthesia procedure was to be conducted at his office in Fairfield. His nurse, our next door neighbor, Peggy, greeted me with a grin and a laugh. It would soon be all over Fairfield Center that I got my nuts cut. So be it.

Dr. Suski took me into his office and prepped me for the procedure. I was laying on the table with my pants off and my legs spread when he asked, "I have an intern who would like to observe and assist if you are ok with that?" I thought for a moment and said "Sure. I support education" The office door opened and in walked Jeff.

Our eyes locked and he immediately doubled over in hysterical laughter. I jumped off the table, put him in a headlock and gave him a massive noogie. The Doctor was shocked. When things calmed down he said "Obviously you two know each other. Shall we begin? Or would you rather he leave?" I said, "No, he can stay. Obviously, he needs to be educated. Bonehead!"

Jeff completed his doctorate and took up practice as a much loved and respected pediatritian in Waterville. Well done, Jeffery. You wrote me a letter promising to respect my confidentiality. Too late for that now. Carry on, my friend.

Election Day 2020

 Election Day, 2020. So much at stake. Emotions so high. But, barring fraud and shenanigan's, at some point, we will know who the People have chosen for the next 4 years. 

I just listened to my friend Senator Susan Collins speak on radio. Hope she is reelected for the sake of the people of Maine. As the next in line for Chairperson of the Senate Appropriations Committee, she will be in a position to gavel in important benefits for Maine. Listening to her made me remember a blog I posted eight years ago on one of her  predecessors. Senator Margaret Chase Smith. 

Reposted on this occasion

Maine is known for lots of things, for instance lobsters, Steven King, Bar Harbor, Little Round Top, Joshua Chamberland... and Margaret Chase Smith.

She was the first woman to serve in both the US House of Representatives and the US Senate and the first woman to serve in either from Maine. She hailed from Skowhegan, Maine in Somerset County and was an elected official from 1940 through 1972. After her public service she returned to Skowhegan and lived until 1995, to the age of 97, in the Margaret Chase Smith Library, constructed on the banks of the Kennebec River.


Margaret Chase Smith was perhaps best known for wearing a red rose on her dress every day she served in government... and for standing up to the fascism of Joseph McCarthy during the "Red Scare". In her famed, "Declaration of Conscious" in 1949 on the US Senate floor she denounced "the reckless abandon in which unproved charges have been hurled..."^. She said McCarthyism had "debased" the Senate to "the level of a forum of hate and character assassination." She defended every American's "right to criticize...right to hold unpopular beliefs...right to protest; the right of independent thought.". For this, she became the target of Joseph McCarthy's vicious radicalism. After McCarthy's impeachment, she was heralded for her courage and said " Smears are not only to be expected but fought. Honor is to be earned, not bought." She also said "Moral cowardice that keeps us from speaking our minds is as dangerous to this country as irresponsible talk."

Words our politicians and "We, the People" need to heed...for sure.

The paper mill I worked for was 10 miles up the Kennebec River from the MCS Library. In 1981, our adorable identical twin sons were going on 3 years old  and I was working shift work at the pulp mill. It was a great work schedule for raising kids as I had 3 days off every 3 days on. The downside was that half of those on-day were night shifts, from 5:00pm until 5:00am so my circadian rhythms were whacked. For 5 years, my body never knew whether I should be asleep or horseback. But that was OK, because neither did the boys...

We would have lots of adventures. I would get home at 6:00AM and they would be bouncing up and down in their cribs. Connie so looked forward to me being available so she could catch up on some much needed sheep. We would hit the greasy spoons for breakfast and then take a hike or find a bowling alley or a shopping center... anything to extend Connie's sleep cycle and have some fun. One winter day we drove through Skowhegan. It was 8:00 am and the Margaret Chase Smith Library was open.


The boys were dressed in over-sized down jackets about 5 sizes too big for them. We had to make the money stretch back then and Connie was good at selecting clothing that the boys would "grow into". They looked like overstuffed blue and green feather pillows. But they didn't seem to mind... Cute as bugs.


I had been checking out the library displays and they were happily running around the book aisles when I suddenly noticed they were no longer under foot. I quickly looked up and down the aisles for them before panicking as they were nowhere to be found. The velvet red barriers partitioned the main library off from the living area, but that wasn't going to keep me from finding my sons. I crossed the barrier and headed down a long hall, peering into open doors.


At the end of the hall, I heard muffled conversation and I hurried around the corner. There was Senator Margaret Chase Smith sitting in a wheelchair holding Eric and Ryan in her lap. They were deeply engrossed in conversation and I watched as she let them fondle the red rose on her lapel. She smiled up at me as I apologized for my wayward sons, questioned me about who we were and where I worked. She expressed her enthusiasm about the newly reopened paper mill which created so many much needed jobs, wished me well and we were off. Gracious lady.


It was 1989 when I saw her last. I was the Director of Human Resources, had completed an MBA at MIT, 2 years in sales/marketing in Connecticut office and was back at the mill, We were dedicating a new multimillion dollar capital equipment project. It was good for the town, good for the employees, something to celebrate, so we invited local dignitaries to attend.


She looked very frail in her wheelchair. She was over 90 now, but the red rose was still displayed proudly on her lapel and she was in great spirits. I had sent my Safety and Security Chief to escort her to the event and she was so tickled to have been driven up the river by him. His name;


Joseph McCarthy.


God bless the Grand Old Lady. 

HBD FWF

3

13

23

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53?

63

73

Why Waldo? 

After the After

 I was rereading this chapter that I wrote for Elizabeth Lesser's book, "Broken Open: How Difficult Times Help Us Grow". 

Before and After

————————————

In our sleep, pain, which cannot forget

falls drop by drop upon the heart,

 until, in our own despair, against our will

comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

—Aeschylus

 

            At the end of a talk I gave on the subject of death and grief, a man and his wife lingered behind to speak to me. Several hundred people had been in the audience, but my attention had been drawn all during the talk to these two people. They were listening intently, as if their lives depended on it.

            Before we said anything, the man handed me a laminated card. On the front was a drawing of a young man being held by an angelic figure against a sky-blue backdrop. On the other side was a copy of their son’s obituary. “He was 21,” the man said, as I read the card. I caught my breath. One of my own sons had just turned 21 a few days previously. Suddenly I could find no words. I put my hands on the shoulders of the man and his wife, and we just stood there looking at each other, nodding our heads as if we were speaking in some secret, silent language.

            I stayed in touch with Glen and Connie. When Glen heard that I was writing a book of stories that focused on being broken open by change and hardship, he asked if he could send me his own story. Many people have done this, and I have been touched by every story I received, and have woven strands of many of them into the book. But Glen’s story needs to be shared in its entirety. It is the story of a man who rose from the ashes of one of the most difficult Phoenix Processes a person is asked to make. Glen divides the process he and his family went through into two sections, “Before” and “After.” These are his words:

 

Before. . .

 

Eric and his identical twin brother, Ryan, were born on New Years Eve. My wife, Connie, and I were so busy and so happy. And when Katie, our beautiful little girl and final child, was born 5 years later, our lives were complete.  And life was very good. A well paying job for me allowed Connie the opportunity to stay home with the kids and manage the endless activities of a big family: sports and scouts and school and backyard play. We lived life fully and happily.

As the years went on our kids excelled. They were Eagle Scouts, state champions in sports, high honorees in academics, accomplished musicians. So many blessings, so easily taken for granted. Then Eric and Ryan went off to college, one to study mechanical engineering, the other electrical engineering. Summers were spend hard at work earning college tuition for the coming year, but we always found time to enjoy each other and the Maine summers at the lake and coast.

Eric earned an opportunity, through good grades and hard work, to apply for a semester abroad and was accepted at Melbourne University in Australia. He flew off on his adventure one beautiful summer morning. We communicated often over the next 5 months and shared in the adventure he was having. He was recruited to play rugby for his college team.  He formed a jazz combo and played the drums and the sax. Rock climbing in Brisbane; sheep herding in Adelaide; dirt biking in the outback. Eric loved people and made wonderful friends from around the world. And he kept a journal which—later, during the “after” part of this story—was such a bittersweet blessing for our family. The school semester ended in November and Eric took 3 weeks to travel in New Zealand. He traveled as students do with a backpack, sleeping in youth hostels, and reveling in the joys of being young and in some of the most beautiful nature on God's earth. His letters were frequent and filled with awe at the majesty of New Zealand's "Southern Alps" and ice blue glaciers.

Right before he was to return home, Eric and two school friends did the longest bungee jump in the world. We found a videotape of his jump in his belongings two weeks later. He was tanned and muscular and smiling broadly as he faced the camera with arms around the shoulders of his friends. He was filled with the joy of living. The next day he got on his rented motorcycle to make his way back Christchurch to catch a flight back to the states, back home to us.

The police officer that attended the scene of the crash said, “He was traveling near Mount Cook, on a dry, straight stretch of road, with an incredible view of the snowcapped mountains. As near as we can determine, he must have had his eyes on the distant view when he drifted into the ditch.” He was unconscious when a man who saw the crash ran to his aid. And he died in that beautiful place.

 

After. . .

 

The agony of the days that followed shocked me to the core. I had never dared to dream of such darkness. I clung to my friends and family as we plummeted into the depths of despair. The awful pain of having to tell my wife and children of Eric’s death will live in my heart for the rest of my days.

The days began and ended with sounds of sorrow. The time between troubled bouts of sleep was filled with previously unimagined tasks of sadness—arranging for Eric’s body to be returned from the other side of the world; buying a casket and burial plot; preparing his clothes and planning a service; receiving telephone calls and visitors and flowers and food and books and cards. We walked as if in a terrible dream, praying to be awakened from the reality of it all. In those weeks and months, our minds reeled and recoiled from the horror.

And we awoke, each of us, in our own time.

In hindsight, my life “before” was about quantity and velocity. Bigger jobs, larger houses, more things . . .quicker, sooner, now.  I justified my lifestyle as a way to be the best provider I could be for my family. It came at a price and yet I paid it. As my family grew, I abandoned my former career path in environmental biology and took a better paying position with a paper manufacturing company. In that decade especially, the paper industry had much work to do to clean up their operations and I told myself, with some truth, that I was not “selling out” but rather working for change from the inside. But then came the opportunity to climb the competitive career ladder. Two years in Technical, five years in Production, two years in Sales and a Masters degree from MIT. By the age of 38, I was so successful that I was positioned to take the next step to the top. Even though I had grown to hate my job, I worked long and frantic hours, accepting thankless tasks (as well as big bucks). My thought process was a constant countdown: “Just 10 more years, and if the stock market cooperates, then I will have my life back.” I had discussed my dissatisfaction with my family and they all told me they supported me in changing course. But I didn’t. I was controlling the universe, keeping my family safe and prosperous, and if sacrificing my values and happiness was the price I had to pay, then so be it. By the fateful summer of Eric’s death, I was being courted to accept the president & CEO position at a newly acquired manufacturing facility in Chicago.

My delusions of control were destroyed on the day Eric died. My family fell apart. None of us knew we had been living life on the surface of a bubble until it popped. Katie, who had been a talented and happy sophomore in high school, found it impossible to go back to life-as-usual. Ryan did not return to college. Connie, who had always been active in school, church, and community stayed close to home. My greatest agony was in having no ability to “fix” the despair of my family.

My colleagues at work desperately wanted me to put the past behind me and “get back in the saddle.” For most it had to do with their extreme discomfort in having to confront my pain. Others were more concerned about my productivity and the profitability of the company. I became furious as the attempt was made to shoehorn me back into the mold. I was outraged that the world had not changed for others as it had for us. I was stunned at the people who placed profit and the status quo of the system above my family’s loss. 

I began to devour books searching for words of wisdom to face each day. I discovered there are entire sections of bookstores and the Public Library dedicated to loss. As we reached out, we began to understand that we were not alone in our pain. Many others had walked this terrible path before us. A wise and sober understanding came over me. Before Eric’s death I had suffered relatively little of life’s losses. I had thought I was in control of my life; now I knew I most certainly was not. I looked around at others now—those who were living the way we had before—and I knew that they too, in their own time, would have to learn what we were learning.

We tried to learn it from the books. They helped. But we learned that the lessons of grief, like music or medicine or art or parenting or marriage, must be lived to be fully understood. And so began our journey through the “awful grace of God.”

At one point in history, mankind believed the world was a flat table, and that those foolhardy enough to venture too near the edge would fall off into a terrible world of fierce sea monsters and destruction upon the rocks. They were right. Eric's death pitched us headlong off our daily plane of existence into the darkness to be wrecked upon the rocks. For weeks and months, we roiled and thrashed in pain, submerged in agony, not sensing the light or knowing in what direction to turn. We fought to hang onto each other and the lifelines tossed to us from above were not recognized or were purposefully ignored. Each of us prayed at times to simply drown and be done with it. Were it not for friends and family—who flung themselves into our brokenness, to hold our heads above the water—we may well have drowned in our sorrow

This place of hopelessness and fear is real, not a cute little allegory. Some people never leave that place and are broken on the rocks. Some people stop fighting and slip into the depths. We came to understand that although we do not have control, we do have choice.

God or Spirit or Creator or "Whatever" wants us to go down into the dark waters, but also wants us to come up to the light. God will not force us to do so. We are free.  We are made so and it is our great gift. We can choose darkness, fear, addiction and despair. We can choose light, hope, meaning, and joy.

By the grace God, I chose life. I chose to find a way back up. It helped me to visualize myself climbing out of the dark sea, and back up onto the table of daily life. I actually began drawing pictures of tables as I attempted to communicate my deepest emotions to my wife, son and daughter. I named each of the table’s four legs:  Faith, Courage, Growth, and Love. The leg of faith was the weakest part of my table. And it continues to be the primary focus of my path forward. My daily mantra is, “Surrender and relax…into the mystery.” Before Eric’s death, my concept of reality had been that I was responsible for everything that happened past, present and future. But afterwards, I recognized this could not be true.  Even though I had dedicated my entire life to securing my family’s well being, I had been unable to do so. And so, I dedicated myself now to having faith in life, no matter what happened. My attempts to climb back onto the table were often met with silence and, at times, with contempt especially from my son, Ryan, whose loss of an identical twin brother was something none of us could truly comprehend. But my concepts and sketches gave me a place to hang my thoughts.

One day I sketched a table on a napkin in a restaurant while talking with a friend. I didn't notice that he slipped it in his pocket as we left, but that next week, he stopped by the house and gave me a watercolor painting of my "table".  As I write these words, I look above my computer screen at that painting. It is written upon and surrounded by clippings of words and other pictures, pieces of my broken soul, pieced together like an incomplete puzzle. Pieces missing, amputated, never to be replaced, rough and tattered, but treasured, not for it's artistic beauty, but for what it represents. It is a model of our faith, our courage, our growth, and our love. Our survival.

Six months after Eric’s death, after twenty three years with the company and following long discussions with my family, I quit my job. It wasn’t any great act of courage. My family was faltering. I chose family over career. It felt right. After so many years of making decisions based upon my logical, cognitive mind, I felt an incredible euphoria following my intuition, my heart.

We rented a secluded cottage on the lake for the summer. As Eric Clapton said after the death of his infant son, “For a while I just went off the edge of the world.” At times we feared the grief would twist us up so badly that we could not hope for healing. We chose to walk into the darkness and to trust that we would be led back out. We read, we sailed, we rested. We ate well, took long walks and canoe rides in the moonlight, we cried a million tears.

By September we felt ready to begin again. Katie went back to school and a new soccer season. Ryan enrolled at the University of Maine for another semester of Mechanical Engineering. Connie enrolled in an intensive Hospice Volunteer training program, and taught half-time as an elementary school reading specialist job. We bought two wonderful little dogs. I painted the house.

In October I started a consulting company out of the house to earn a little money and because I had always wanted to experience being self-employed. It also allowed me to set my own schedule and stick close to home most of the time. I started to think about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. When I was ready, I accepted a Vice President’s position with a small nonprofit 15 miles from my home. It is a meaningful job and I have a real passion for the company’s mission. It is so delightful to look forward to Monday morning after so many years of dreading the arrival of a new week of work. I have also accepted board positions on two local community organizations—one, for hospice volunteers, and the other an agency that provides social services and transitional employment opportunities for the mentally ill. I seem to possess life skills that these groups value and I am pleased to be able to contribute where I can.

Ryan is entering his last year of college and is coaching a 10-12 year old little league team. He plays his saxophone at every opportunity and you can feel his beautiful soul when he blows his horn. Katie went to Bolivia last summer to work with homeless children and the poor. Since then she has been accepted at Boston College in Nursing beginning this fall. Her excitement is boundless.

Connie is now a Hospice Volunteer instructor and just completed teaching a 16-week program preparing new volunteers to assist the dying and those left behind. She is loved by her 5 and 6-year-old students and fellow teachers and adored by her own children and husband.

Eric is always near. We see him in nature; birds, butterflies, rainbows, and sunsets. But mostly we feel him. We are, each of us, Spiritual Warriors. We are awake and nothing can break our circle. Nothing will ever be the same again.

 ..........................................................

The circle is broken. 20 Years has passed since Eric died. And, with Ryan's passing, we must survive yet another horrific tragedy. Life isn't fair and Life ain't for sissies. But Life is good.  We will do our best to reclaim our joy. This is a tough one.

Nothingman Baritone Sax by Ryan Foss

A Conundrum Wrapped in an Enigma

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

Aeschylus

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

Essay on Grief

 Grief Is Not An Emotion

Posted on January 15, 2017 by Debra Campbell

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

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

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

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

What then must we do to get by?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dedicated to the memory of those who have gone before us

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

There is love

 

Teach Your Children

 ​Teach Your Children

Crosby, Stills and Nash

You who are on the road

Must have a code that you can live by

And so become yourself

Because the past is just a good-bye.

Teach your children well,

Their father's hell did slowly go by,

And feed them on your dreams

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

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

So just look at them and sigh

And know they love you.

And you, of tender years,

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

And so please help them with your youth,

They seek the truth before they can die.

Teach your parents well,

Their children's hell will slowly go by,

And feed them on your dreams

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

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

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

Song writer: Graham Nash

Ryan

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

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

Steven Penley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

Aunt Marge

6/16/39 - 8/1/20

Marjorie Ruth (Goodwin) Swett

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

Regis and Kathy Lee

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

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

Coming of Age

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Dad?" 

"Come with me."

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

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

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

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

A coming of age.

Hiram

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Country Music

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wet Markets

The Gift

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank… you… very… much.” 

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

Such a gift. 

We miss her. 

The Moment

We all go down

Some with a whimper

Some with a rage

Some with a purpose

Some so afraid

For some it is a competition to the very end. 

Who dies last,

who dies best, 

who is the world’s most interesting man.

We plan and we scheme, 

and we scurry about

like fiddler crabs on a mud flat

in the Georgia heat

Trying to stay

Trying to win

How will I go?

Hard tellin, not knowin, Ski.

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

With dignity

With grace

In comfort

And all my affairs in order.

THAT'S not going to happen.

So get over it.

And cherish the moment,

Cause that’s all you get.