The Rest of the Story

What is the reason to venture out, to leave the familiar for awhile… or longer? It's been described as the “travel bug”, a “virus of restlessness”, but it is neither an insect nor a disease. Why does the “bear go over the mountain”? Perhaps the word “Wanderlust” comes closest, a passion to see what we can see...

Recent interviews with John Steinbeck’s only surviving son, Thomas, suggest that his Nobel Prize winning father took his trip, memorialized within his book “Travels with Charlie”, because he was dying and that he passionately wanted to take one more look, savor one more delicious and drawn out taste of a country and a people that he loved.

William “Least Heat” Moon’s impetus for travel was also rooted in passion, in his case the pain of lost love, lost dreams. As he described in his best seller “Blue Highways”, the stars of change aligned above in a two punch combination, losing both his marriage and his position as an English professor. His writing reflects the dark night of his soul. Was he running into America or away from his pain. In truth, he carried his pain with him and drained his poison, slowly venting it out across the Blue Highways.

Passion certainly brought us to the road. Connie and I are among the baby boomer generation, old enough to remember Jack Kerouac and young enough to not qualify for Social Security… “Tweeners”… between middle age and old age, a place of reflection and revelation. How many of we Boomers are coming to this point of realization, that life is finite, that there is so much more to the experience than the collection and maintenance of material things.

Everyone has a story. As the reader, you have the questionable privilege to hear ours.” The rest of the story”, as Paul Harvey used to say, would be lacking without it.

We were married in 1976. Like Moon, I had run away from my roots as a 13^th generation Mainer to heal a broken heart. Six months working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week in a pipeline camp in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska pretty much burned that hurt from my heart. But I was not aware that my heart was yet opened for business until upon returning to Maine for a brief family obligation, I stumbled onto Connie. It was the most fortunate blunder of my life.

She was the beautiful, oldest daughter of 7 children from a staunch Catholic, French Canadian- first generation, Irish American family in central Maine and, with her love, she effortlessly convinced me not to return to Alaska. As I said, passion led us to the road…

My career had been in the field of environmental engineering and that specialty led me into the paper industry where I climbed the corporate ladder as we raised our family. Identical twin boys followed by a daughter 5 years later filled the bedrooms of our large home and kept us very busy with the joyful business of life. But along the way, things got complicated, my job grew exponentially more demanding, the lure of material things, the trap of “more”. Life became frenetic, unobserved, lost in activity; the American Story?

By 1999, I had been prepared to run the company and, in order to educate my children and provide my family with the standard of life that “society” demanded, I would have accepted the position though I detested the work.

On December 8^th, the call from the Department of State informing me of the death of our son Eric, who had been studying abroad for a semester in Australia, put an end to life as we knew it and thought it would ever be. Our journey through grief, like so many others who have stood in the fire, changed us. It changed what we felt was important, how we saw the world, how we lived our lives. It was not a peaceful, gentle process. It was an excruciating amputation of hopes and dreams without anesthetic.

I quit my job and spent the next year focusing on my family. We sought and discovered invaluable resources; books, compassionate friends we didn’t know we had, the infinite love of family, wise psychologists and physician, nurses, hospice workers, and grief counselors. When life resumed it was so different. We were so different.

Over the next seven years we planned and hoped for the window to open. And Life threw the kitchen sink at us. I am drawing a curtain over much of the detail of this period of our lives. It is not because I have blocked out those memories. At times I pray that I could. Relating the painful, traumatic details might titillate the sensationalist, Jerry Springer junkies among us. It might even sell books. But not this book.

I will tell you that if you ever thought there was a bottom to that deep well of darkness and despair, think again. There is not. No bounce. Only choice.

When the kids were out of college and employed, when the jobs wound down, when the tumor was cut out and tested benign, when the plates and screws were removed for our son and the leg was saved, when we had buried my parents and Connie's dad, when the house closed and we sold our “stuff”, the window opened. And we took a leap of faith.

For the first time in our adult lives, we were debt free, untethered from material things (except for some boxes in a storage unit) and without a long term plan. Wild, exhilarating, terrifying freedom.

What do “Boomers” do with our lives when we finally have the reigns in our hands? Do we move to a 55 Plus community in Florida and learn to play golf. Do we throw ourselves into community involvement and volunteering? Do we become totally involved in the lives of children and grandchildren? Yes. We do all of those things.

But for others, dreams have become amplified, super charged, tinged with craziness, outrageous. Freedom mainlined directly into the vein, hard core addiction and the road to recovery, to “normalcy” takes years.

Fast forward....

We have been driving around America, watching life flow, “hearing the speech… smelling the grass” for the past 13 years. And what a trip it has been.

We are no longer "tweeners", now full fledged, social security, medicare, retirement savings, senior citizens. We have watched the body and the mind slow down, malfunction, misfire and, so far, have been rescued by medical science.

We are very glad we took the opportunity to explore this beautiful country while we had the stamina and fitness to do it with gusto. I'm not throwing the towel in yet. Still more adventures we want to have, more travel and things to see, but right now we want to be close to family and grandkids. A familiar tune for Boomers.

Are we extraordinary? Not especially. But we are extraordinarily fortunate...blessed... to have been born at this time, in this place, to this family.

How to express gratitude? Give as much as you can give. Not just material stuff, although the judicious application of cash has its place, but especially love, attention, compassion, understanding, support, babysitting, home maintenance, advice...

So here is my advice for what it's worth. At this stage of life:

Surrender the ball. Let the younger ones take over, make their mistakes and earn their experience. Relax, Calm down. Be quiet and pay attention. There is more to see and learn and experience, but you're not going to find it on TV. Turn off the news and politics. It is so toxic and fake.

Body awareness. Realize your new reality. Hold onto the railing and each other. Eat plants, less meat, dairy, eggs, junk food. Control your vices whatever they may be. Lose weight. Moderate exercise like yoga. Stay active. Walk. Take naps. Easy does it. Enjoy your joy.

Understand that no one knows the answers to to the big questions and anyone who says they do is trying to control you. That goes for religion, too. Get comfortable telling yourself "I don't know" and leave it at that.

I don't know why I am writing this stuff. Kinda preachy. Maybe I'm just writing to myself, maybe Connie, maybe some future family reader. It doesn't matter. Enjoying the act of writing does matter.

Carpe Diem.

Payback

Dan lived up the hill from us in Waterville. He and our boys spent many happy hours exploring the woods near Devil's Chair building forts, damming the steams, playing army. Later he and Ryan roomed together in college. Dan was an avid military history buff, especially the Civil War, as am I, and we enjoyed many long discussions about tactics and battles.

After college Dan followed his dream and his father's footsteps and was commissioned as an officer in the United States Army. Despite his commission, he was required to complete basic training and specialty schools. He relayed a story from one such training at Fort McClellan Army Base in Anniston, Alabama.

On one particularly sweltering day at lineup under the blazing sun, the Drill Instructor conducted roll call.

"Lieutenant Kenny!"

"Present, Sir"

"Lieutenant Kenny, do I understand you hail from Maine?" barked the DI.

"Yes Sir!"

"Lieutenant Kenny, are you aware of the history of the Battle of Gettysburg in the War between the States?" questioned the DI.

"I am, Sir!" Dan responded.

"And can you tell me which Confederate Brigade attacked the position of the 20th Maine Brigade under the command of Colonel Joshua Chamberlain on July 2, 1862?" continued the DI.

"Yes Sir, Drill Instructor!" Dan replied. "It was the 15th Alabama Brigade under the command of General James Longstreet!"

The Drill Instructor leveled his gaze at Dan. "That is correct, recruit!"

"Now, grab your gear and give me 5 miles... doubletime!!"

They say that revenge is best served cold, but 150 years cold?

Payback...

Addendum to the story. I emailed the blog to Dan to check on the accuracy of my recollection and he responded as follows:

"That’s pretty much how it went down. He did ask me why I thought Maine won with such a poor place to defend from. All I could think to tell him was that Maine is the Deep South of the Great North, and that it was just a bunch of boys with beards that had experienced harsher winters and probably knew how to suffer just a little bit more. He did not like that answer at all, and I think that might be why he made me run laps around the whole base. I did have to eventually concede that Alabama had a better football team than anything Maine could ever produce. He made me shout “Roll tide” all the time"

Of course he did... Those Alabama boys are just like that. 

Other Valuable Considerations

Carlton Littlefield Goodwin was born on August 15, 1910 in Shapleigh, Maine. He passed away on February 8, 1973 at the age of 62. Too young. Too soon.

He was born to Harry Raymond Goodwin (1885-1977) and Grace M. Littlefield (1886-1966). They had two additional children, Helen Louise, born 1914 and Roland, born 1923. Roland is still living as of this date.

Here is  copy of writing from The Frank Waldo Foss Family Story written by Frank in the 90's about his step-father.

Nellie married Carlton Goodwin on August 1, 1936 (a super break for Frank and I assume Bob feels the same way)

Frank and Robert enjoyed a comfortable and happy childhood after Carlton and Nellie married in '36. Carlton, although he held a chemical engineering degree from the University of Maine, could not find a job in his field and went to work for the W.P.A. building Sebago State Park in Naples, Bradbury Mountain State Park in Pownal and clearing the land for what is now Shawnee Peak on Pleasant Mountain in Bridgton. They moved to Naples where we attended Naples elementary schools until Carlton, with money borrowed from his father, bought the 100 acre Faunt Mann farm on route 302 in Casco, which was later called the Stage Coach Inn before it burned in a spectacular fire in the late 1950's.The property also included a half mile of shore line on the Crooked River. This afforded many. many opportunities for happy childhood memories since the Mann’s left a six man wall tent at the farm and Bob and I occupied it most of the summer at our swimming hole on a sandy point down by the river.

I began school at the one room Ross School about two miles down the road from the farm. My first teacher was Ethel Goodwin who was married to Carltons cousin. She provided transportation to school since she drove by the house each morning.

Roland, Carltons younger brother, was in the upper grades at Ross School when I started. He remembers me sitting "down front"- a fitting place for the little kids.

The one room Bridgton Road School in Casco, a one mile walk from home, offered eight grades of education sufficient for acceptance into the three room Casco High School. For teachers I remember the names Hester McKeen who married Donald Mann, Mrs. Shane, a nameless one who had the upper-class boys paddle us each morning and Miss Metcalf who took us on our eighth grade graduation picnic at the park.

The Goodwin-Pillsbury union also provided three sisters to enhance Frank and Roberts life. Beverly Alma born October 12, 1937 at the Jewett house on route 11 in Naples with doctor Bischofberger in attendance. Marjorie Ruth born June 16, 1939 in the front room at the farm with Doctor Bisch in attendance and Priscilla Eileen who was born December 20, 1943 at the State Street Hospital on State Street in Portland- again with Doctor Bisch attending.

On the farm we maintained a small herd (5 or 6) of milking cows, one horse, a couple of pigs and a small flock of laying hens. For a short while we delivered milk in the local area (at 10 cents a quart). The birth of a new calf was a thrilling experience for all of us. Milking the cows and cleaning the stable was a daily chore which although not pleasing at the time, I don't remember it as now as particularly distressing. However. delivering the milk over the muddy roads in April was not much fun.

Haying and tending a large garden was a necessary evil in our lives especially when Bob would crawl the length of the row and sneak away without doing what I thought was his share of the weeding. Mowing and raking was accomplished with an old white horse named Harry (Carltons father was named Harry but I never associated the two). We did not have a hay bailer so the fields were rakes into "windrows'', these raked into piles and each pile of hay hoisted onto the hay rack with a pitchfork and out into the hay mows by hand. A homemade-tractor, often operated by our mother. sped up the collection and unloading operation.

The river and the old tent allowed us, along with several other neighbor kids, to spend the summers out of the house when we chose and gave us a great feeling of being nearly grown up and independent of our folks.

In 1941 Carlton (my step-father) had gone to work as a laborer, for a company building a pumping station in Raymond for a crude oil pipeline company being built between Portland, Maine and Montreal, Quebec, Canada. A University of Maine classmate named Lee Wescott persuaded him to go to work for the surveying company laying out the right-of-way for the proposed line. Through this association Carlton and Lee both secured jobs with the Portland Pipe Line Corporation, a subsidiary of Standard Oil of New Jersey who were to operate the pipeline.

Carltons degree in Chemical engineering allowed him to become a very valuable part of the organization. He later built their oil testing laboratory and became a noted pioneer in the development of cathodic protection of buried pipelines.

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I have many memories of my grandfather at 136 Elm Street in South Portland and of his visits to our home in Vermont, both in Barton and in Sutton. He was always a calm and quiet presence in an often chaotic family setting with loud children and grandchildren. I knew he was especially fond of me, his first grandson, as he was of all his grandchildren.

He enjoyed working in the large garden with his straw hat or sometimes a handkerchief protecting his bald head from the sun. When I was old enough, he hired me to mow the lawn. When I was in high school he would always challenge me in Indian wrestling. He would laugh his special laugh as I struggled to budge his short, solid body. I always lost.

I used to love the smell of his cigar. He wore hats. On my graduation from high school he presented me with an ink pad and a rubber stamp with my name on it to label my possession before going off to college. I remember sneaking up behind him and stamping my name on his bald head as a joke. He muckled onto me, laughing, and used his considerable strength to make me regret it.

I was a rock collector and Carlton was always very supportive, bringing me rocks from various parts of the country. Once he gave me a large fossil and a styrofoam cup filled with red Georgia clay and Spanish moss. Another time he gave me a small bottle of quartz crystals. I think he was, in his quiet way, encouraging me to consider geology as a career path. He would bring my sisters packets of sugar, soaps and post cards; memorabilia from his business trips.

When I was a Junior in college at UMO and my Volkswagen bus died, he provided me with a old car he had purchased from an elderly woman to help her out. It was a green Ford Falcon with a blown rear main seal. I would buy oil in 5 gallon container and top it off every 20 or 30 miles. I remember the bill of sale he wrote out for me. "Sold for the price of $1.00 and other valuable considerations"

In January of my Senior year, Dad called to tell me that Carlton had terminal cancer and that I should visit him sooner rather than later. I remember sitting with him shortly before he died. I told him about my studies and my hope to work in the field of environmental protection after college. He told me about his experience as a Mason and how it had been helpful to him in his life. He had lost a lot of weight with his illness, but did not complain. I felt when I left that I would not see him again. And I did not.

He was a steady, quiet influence on my life and on my fathers, always there for birthdays, holidays and graduations. 

Today, on the 47th anniversary of his passing, I just want to honor his memory. He was an extraordinary man.