Happy Anniversary Morris and Mabelle

 

Married Sept. 2, 1927

A Taste of Normalcy

The local art center here in Natick is the bomb! It's just a short walk from our 3rd floor condo unit down Main Street. They call it TCAN.

It's located in an old historic fire house. The lower level is the performing arts stage. Small venue, good seats, sound and lights. Not a bad seat in the house. And the concession stand serves local brew IPAs. The upper level is a movie theater.

On Thurdsay evening we watched the Anthony Bourdain documentary, Roadruner. Intense and thought provoking.

On Friday I enjoyed a Pousette-Dart Band performance. Who? said my daughter and son-in-law. Great band from the 70s. Great show. Had to show a Covid Vac Card and mask to get in. 

Have also seen the James Montgomery Blues Band and Mark Cohn.

A little Covid safe oasis. Almost feels normal...
 

Happy Birthday Nellie Jane

 

notes from the waterfront

 Bill lives at Dave's house, dates his mulato daughter... went to alternative school in Windham with Mikey... worked as a form carpenter, foundations, concrete. Drank too much, got hurt and started taking pain killers, moved onto Oxy, moved onto heroine, convicted of aggrivated assault on a drug dealer, spent 2 years at Warren. When he got out, found his girlfriend had left him, his friend had sold his vehicles, his tools had been stolen. Wants to get his head up, buy back some tools, get back to construction. Worked as a mover for awhile.

 Opened up to me on the second day. "Only people in Windham are Skinners and Rats... (pedophiles and snitches). Skinners do hard time. The other inmates abuse them. Brian was labeled a skinner because he stayed in his cell and read. "The inmates and the guards hated me and I hated them. Hard time."

 The brakes were fixed on the forktruck. Watching Skully do donuts with a full exacta of fish on the forks, skidding on the slimy floor, screaming like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, Ralph said, "Well Skully's got brakes. All he needs now are brains." 

Story about coaching Ralph to ask for a raise and how to deal with the rejection and the ultimate success when he got it. Story about Skully's tote. 

Sent down to spy on the competition. if they were receiving a pogie truck that was promised to us. sent to run an errand across town. felt like I had been promoted until I was told that I was the only one with a license... 

My position as a coffe bitch. Skully calls from his forktruck across the shop to ask me to bring him his coffe which is closer to him than to me. I threw up my hands in disbelief as the crew laughed, then I got him his coffee. Later when the crew was all around the desk I yelled across the floor to him and told him to bring me my soda... which was arms lenght from me on the desk... they all laughed. 

Skully was showing off his numerous scars and stitch marks. " 54 here from a bar bottle at Ricky's... 26 here from a pool que at Bubba's... 2 in my eye lid from a fist... Not to be left out I showed him my surgical scar on my neck from parotid surgery... He said, Where'd you get that..." I lied "Knife fight... New Orleans". My stock went way up...

Conversations with Craig

 Conversation with Craig. 

"I've worked down here on the waterfront for 30 years now. I don't know what normal is any more. This is the only place I feel comfortable... like I fit in my own skin. So when I get together with regular people I find myself thinking "What would normal people say in a situation like this?" I'll say "So, how's the family..." And then they go on and I try to look interested."

"Don't tell anyone I said that..."

my God

 My God is bigger than your God.

My God embraces all religions/philosophies; Christians, Catholics, Protestants, Fundamentalists, Mormons, Jehovah Witnesses,  Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Sikhs, Buddhists,  Atheists, Agnostics, Cosmismists, Darwinists ,New Age thinking, .... everyone, everything, every idea.  My God embraces scientists, sinners, sailors, sociopaths... all the s words and all the words beginning with every letter in the alphabet. Yes, even the homosexuals.

My God is bigger than infinity, stronger than Superman, smarter than the Singularity. And silent. My God is All That Is. It (not he or she; It is not made in our image or we in It's) does not hate, is not jealous, does not reward or punish, does not judge, doesn't care if I eat meat on Friday or recite the Apostles Creed. My God is Love, Compassion, Tolerance, Understanding, Acceptance, Forgiving, The Cosmic Consciousness, The Non-Random Force of the Universe. My God is not religious dogma, intolerance, controlling, political or Republican. My God does not take sides, establish right over wrong, protect the innocent from disaster or punish the guilty. My God is more than words, can not be understood. My God is seen and heard and felt in everything and in nothing.

My God is Life. My God is non-life. It flows through everything. It exists in the space between neutrinos and the Higgs-Boson particles and between the billions and billions of galaxies and among the infinite Universes and beyond that. It  lives in ETs, DNA, UFOs and in me.

My God is bigger than your God.

Warriors

Timing is everything. 

We are the sons and daughters of warriors.  Fosses have blood on our hands and souls. We only know the “recent” history.  John Fosse fought the Dutch in naval battles in the 1600's and the Indians in King Philip’s War in the Colonies, as did his sons, Samuel and Ichabod. Isaiah Foss fought the British in the Revolutionary War at Saratoga and perhaps at Bunker Hill. 

William H Foss fought in the Civil War at Bull Run and Fredericksburg. Elfin J Foss, 1^st cousin of William,  died on Little Round Top at Gettysburg. Andrew Foss, brother of Hiram, was a merchant marine, on a ship torpedoed during WWII and survived by swimming under burning pools of oil. Uncle Bob Foss served in the Army during Korea.

But Frank was too young for WWII by a scant couple years. And Glen drew a high lottery number in the draft of 1970 for the Vietnam War and did not serve. Ryan and Eric grew up during a relatively calm period of history and missed the Mid-East Conflicts, Kuwait and Iraq and Afghanistan.

On my mother’s side, our family fought in the Spanish American War and WWI. Uncle Stan was in the Coast Guard off Africa in WWII. Uncle Dick was a Marine in the 50s.

On Connie's side, Joe Murphy served in WWII in England and Germany and later in Korea. So did his three brothers and three brothers-in-law and one brother-in-law, Edward Barrows, the son of the Maine Governor, died in France.  Joey Murphy and later, his brother, Noah Murphy served in the Air National Guard.

We have violence in our DNA. We have war in our veins. Those of us who “missed” the opportunity to fight somehow feel guilty that we did not serve our country...other than pay our taxes.

 And now the focus is on our potential future warriors, Davis, age 6 and Isaac, age 4 (assuming Maya chooses not to serve...) and all the nieces and nephews. The world is so different now. War is so different. Technology has advanced exponentially at the same time humanity continues to demonstrate it's disgusting inhumanity. I know their world will not be peaceful.

 I just hope their timing is good. 

Close Calls

 

We can all recall those adrenalin pumping close calls in our lives. A narrowly avoided car accident. A slip on a rocky precipice. A close lightning strike. Sliding off an icy ski slope at a high rate of speed into the woods. The list goes on. There have been more than a few for me, but one especially comes to mind.

My best man, Gordie, was back in Maine one chilly October week and we decided to go duck hunting in the marshes on the north end of East Pond in Smithfield. Gordie lived in Fairbanks Alaska where winter had already arrived, but Maine weather was comparitively mild and the waters were still cool, but not freezing.

We loaded up my 12 foot alumicraft duck boat complete with a new 12 hp Evinrude outboard at the south end boat ramp. Guns and ammo boxes, decoys, paddles, materials to construct a blind. We were anxious to head out in the early morning mist and I wanted to try out my new motor. Perhaps that is why I neglected to attach the motor kill strap to my wrist.

We were half way up the lake and the motor was performing well. We were flying. The bailing bucket was rolling around on the bottom of the boat and I let go of the tiller to secure it. As I discovered later, the motor tiller tensioning screw had not been tightened. The motor turned sharply to the right.

I was thrown out of the boat. When I fought my way to the surface I was shocked to find the boat racing around me at full speed (no kill switch) with Gordie clinging to the gunnells, half in the water as the boat swamped and filled with water. I'll never forget the look on Gordie's face. In Alaska in October this mishap would have been a hypothermic fatality. 

The motor was still wide open but the boat's wild circles had slowed being half filled with water. On the third cycle I was able to lunge into the boat and pull the kill switch at which point the motor went under water and all our gear started floating on the surface. We were about 100 yards off shore, but it seemed like a mile.

The styrofoam floats under the seats kept the boat from sinking completely. We quickly made a plan. Gordie stayed in the water at the bow preventing the boat from flipping over. I grabbed our guns and ammo boxes floating in their cases and stuffed them under the seats, grabbed a paddle and stood in the boat with water to my waist. I paddled like hell for the shore.

Twenty minutes later we beached the boat. Gordie was blue and shaking. Hypothermia was setting in. I knew we had to act fast. There were unoccupied camps along the lake at that time of year. We would have to break into a camp, get out of our wet clothes and warm up...quickly.

I scanned the camps and fortunately identified one that looked familiar, my buddy Kenny's place. We were about to break the glass in the door when I thought maybe Kenny had a hidden key. Sure enough, it was hanging on a nail under the deck. When we opened the door we knew we were saved. The wood stove was loaded and we quickly started a roaring fire. We stripped off our wet clothes and wrapped ourselves in blankets. And in the middle of the kitchen table was an unopened handle of Scorsby's scotch.

By 9:00 am we were toasty and toasted. By noon time, we had bailed the boat, stowed the gear and were trailering back to the house. We stopped for lunch in Oakland at our frat brother, Art's, greasy spoon where I called Kenny. No answer, so on his answering machine I left a criptic message.

"Kenny, just wanted to thank you for saving our asses. I owe you a bottle of scotch. Talk soon, my friend."

Gordie has never gone duck hunting with me since...

The Man

 

Is it so, as time goes by, that I admire and miss you more? I do.

Love you Dad.

Walking Wounded

Life ain't for sissies.

As much as we want to believe the "happily ever after" view of life, it does not exist. Life is trauma differing only in degree. No one is spared; not the rich or the religious, not the successful or the privileged, not the young and certainly not the aged.

The ancient sages recognized this. Some offered philosophies, the Stoics. Some offered heavenly reward and eternal bliss. Some hedonism or nihilism. But, in the end, we exist as walking wounded. Only joy provides solace and comfort. Only love sooths the pain and blunts the devastating losses. Only courage gets us through the dark night of the soul.

Realize this and gain compassion for humanity and for ourselves.

One of the Great Ones

 

David Blackshear. Georgia boy, WWII vet (navigator on a B24 in the Pacific Theather), musician extraordinare, CEO, husband, brother, father, grandfather, friend. One of the great ones. So blessed to have known him.

There is no course on how to age well. You can get plenty of input on what foods to eat, medicines to take, investments to make. But in order to truly wrap your head and your heart around the whole "living life fully" thing, you have to find a mentor. Someone who has walked the walk, who teaches by example.

On Saint Simons Island, my sensi, my gurus, were Russ, Perry and David. Each was unique. Each was extraordinary. All that was required to matriculate into their Master Class was to show up, pay attention and ask questions. The "Old Dogs" were not shy. They would tell you what they thought.

The only downside to having "chronologically challenged" teachers is that they keep dying off. But that event is precisely the lesson to be learned. It is the final exam.

Dying well, managing the indignities of a failing body, a slower mind, meeting these insults with grace and humor and compasion. Suffering Life's losses stoicly, without self pity or recrimination.

The lessons: This is not a dress rehersal. Give it your best. Take nothing personally. Enjoy that which can be enjoyed (and that's most of it). Endure that which must be endured. No whining. Laugh. Smile. Say hello and make new friends. Say goodbye.

Goodbye David. I'll miss you and remember you. Much peace, old friend.

Storage Units

 It seems everywhere you look there are clusters of white metal storage unit complexes. They are ubiquitous. We never had need for one until we sold our house and didn't know what to do with all the stuff we thought we or our family might need or want in the future. Plus the boxes and boxes of old photos, videos, family heirlooms that we just couldn't throw away. That was in 2007.

Over the past 14 years we culled and threw, gifted and repurposed. The pile has been whittled down but is still formidable. The antiques are all gone and most of the furniture was given away. We have made some space and some progress. Though every year we commit to clearing it out, we never quite do.

Next week we will attempt to clean out another storage unit; Ryan's. I rented it for him almost 3 years ago. We will cull and throw, gift and repurpose, save what might be meaningful to Davis or anyone else until such time as they are ready for it. And we will move the saved items to our bigger storage unit in Fairfield. It will be an arduous and painful process. But it must be done.

I will also take my dad's little red truck out of the storage unit to make room for my niece to store her belongings as she and her 3 kids move back to China. Lockable, secure Space. It's the gift that keeps on giving. 

But it seems to me there is a deeper, more personal metaphore going on here. We have used this place for all of our worldly goods. When mom and then dad passed away we cleaned our Ole Ironside and locked those boxes and those memories in the unit. And likewise with those items from Joe and Tina when they downsized from Harry Street. And now Ryan's stuff. 

The storage unit has become a poignant repository of memories; good and bad, joyful and painful, of deep love and anger, unresolved questions and regrets. It is a lockable, secure place to keep our innermost feelings and emotions. When we turn the key and roll open the overhead door, those feeling flood back. And always will.

It's our lives in a 10 x 30.

What we remember, lives.

 

Minivans

 Is there anything as "uncool" as a senior citizen driving a minivan? I mean, in this day and age of EVs, SUVs, and jacked up pickup trucks, how lame is it that we choose a Chrysler Town and Country? Answer: we are trendsetters.

Our first minivan was a Dodge Voyager way back in the 80s. Three kids, running the roads to school, athletic events, grocery shopping we were among the first "Soccer Mom" practitioners. As the kids got their licenses we evolved into the multi vehicle class; VW Jetta's and Jeeps. For a long time our driveway looked like a used car lot.

And then in 2007 we decided to sell the house and drive around the country. Didn't know our journey would continue to this day. We explored RV's. Too expensive and too burdensome. Really limited flexibility as to where you could go, where you could park, who you could visit, unless, of course, you were towing a car behind you. Not to mention fuel, RV park rental and maintenance costs.

We decided on a Chrysler Town and Country Touring Van. We put a Thule on top in which we packed our tent, sleeping bags and camping gear. And then, for our first trip out and about, we put down the rear seats and packed it full of everything we thought we needed or couldn't live without. Organization was key.

Connie loved being up higher and the reclining, heated seats.  Great road visibility. The dogs settled into the space between the two front seats... on fluffy pillows, of course. I mastered the speed control. It was the perfect Spartan vehicle for our cross country travels. And , since then, it is perfect for schlepping everything from moving the kids to building supplies. And now, grandkids.

I remember sheltering in place in the van in a concrete car wash as a tornado swept through Mobile, Alabama. And sleeping in the back in a truck stop in Katy, Texas. It was the perfect platform for camping in the National Parks, which we did a lot. Diving the PCH from San Diego to Portland, Oregon would have been a nightmare in an RV.

When we returned to Maine for the summer, we thoughtfully reconsidered our "stuff". We offloaded a lot of clothes and extraneous things that no longer seemed necessary and created enough space to upload two additional items. Connie chose her massage table. I packed my guitar. And the driving adventure continues. Six times coast to coast, exploring this amazing country, visiting friends and family.

Three years ago we sold "Big Blue" and purchased... wait for it... another silver Town and Country, a model from the last year they were to be manufactured. Our family laughed at us. But now sweet vindication. Our niece with her young active family loves her new van. Our daughter-in-law's sister bought one after the birth of her second and third children, twins. My sister and her daughter and son all got vans for their growing tribes. My daughter and son-in-law routinely borrow the van to haul cribs, trash, bicycles. Recently he suggested I give the van to our grandson when he is of driving age...in 12 years. 

So now we are cool. Visionaries. Trendsetters. Practicality over style. Versatility over popularity. Minivans and Senior Citizens get a bad rap. Just sayin'.

“Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process, a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognized can the blown-in-the glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”
― John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America

Spinoza

 Baruch de Spinoza was a Dutch philosopher considered one of the great rationalists of 17th century philosophy, along with Descartes.

(Spinoza) : God would say:

Stop praying.

What I want you to do is go out into the world and enjoy your life. I want you to sing, have fun and enjoy everything I've made for you.

Stop going into those dark, cold temples that you built yourself and saying they are my house. My house is in the mountains, in the woods, rivers, lakes, beaches. That's where I live and there I express my love for you.

Stop blaming me for your miserable life; I never told you there was anything wrong with you or that you were a sinner, or that your sexuality was a bad thing. Sex is a gift I have given you and with which you can express your love, your ecstasy, your joy. So don't blame me for everything they made you believe.

Stop reading alleged sacred scriptures that have nothing to do with me. If you can't read me in a sunrise, in a landscape, in the look of your friends, in your son's eyes... ➤ you will find me in no book!

Stop asking me "will you tell me how to do my job?" Stop being so scared of me. I do not judge you or criticize you, nor get angry, or bothered. I am pure love.

Stop asking for forgiveness, there's nothing to forgive. If I made you... I filled you with passions, limitations, pleasures, feelings, needs, inconsistencies... free will. How can I blame you if you respond to something I put in you? How can I punish you for being the way you are, if I'm the one who made you? Do you think I could create a place to burn all my children who behave badly for the rest of eternity? What kind of god would do that?

Respect your peers and don't do what you don't want for yourself. All I ask is that you pay attention in your life, that alertness is your guide.

My beloved, this life is not a test, not a step on the way, not a rehearsal, nor a prelude to paradise. This life is the only thing here and now and it is all you need.

I have set you absolutely free, no prizes or punishments, no sins or virtues, no one carries a marker, no one keeps a record.

You are absolutely free to create in your life. Heaven or hell.

➤ I can't tell you if there's anything after this life but I can give you a tip. Live as if there is not. As if this is your only chance to enjoy, to love, to exist.

So, if there's nothing after, then you will have enjoyed the opportunity I gave you. And if there is, rest assured that I won't ask if you behaved right or wrong, I'll ask. Did you like it? Did you have fun? What did you enjoy the most? What did you learn?...

Stop believing in me; believing is assuming, guessing, imagining. I don't want you to believe in me, I want you to believe in you. I want you to feel me in you when you kiss your beloved, when you tuck in your little girl, when you caress your dog, when you bathe in the sea.

Stop praising me, what kind of egomaniac God do you think I am?

I'm bored being praised. I'm tired of being thanked. Feeling grateful? Prove it by taking care of yourself, your health, your relationships, the world. Express your joy! That's the way to praise me.

Stop complicating things and repeating as a parakeet what you've been taught about me.

What do you need more miracles for? So many explanations?

The only thing for sure is that you are here, that you are alive, that this world is full of wonders.

- Spinoza

The Trans-Alaska Oil Pipeline

 

In 1974 I bagged my dream job as an Environmental Tech I in the Water Bureau of the Maine Department of Environmental Protection in Augusta, Maine. Protecting the Maine environment was my passion, but I never suspected that would involve inspecting sewer treatment plants. Still, somebody had to do it. I traveled the state for a year and learned the "science of shit" and pollution control technology. It was experience that has served me well through the years,

With a steady income and good health benefits, an apartment and a used car I thought I was ready to settle down and start a family. But the girl who I proposed to had second thoughts and I was left heartbroken and unhappy. It was then that I began to read up on the Trans-Alaskan Oil Pipeline which was, in the wake of the OPEC oil embargo, fast tracking through Congress. It became my obsession to work on this project.

These were the days before the internet and I was unable to network into a pipeline job from Maine. I needed to be boots on the ground to make it happen, but didn’t want to end up without a job when I got there. So, with the help of a South Portland neighbor, Ray Ballum, I connected with a salmon fishing cannery in Cordova Alaska and received a letter offering me the job of environmental protection tech at the facility. Treating fish guts is not a far cry from treating sewage I accepted and gave my notice at the DEP.

The people at DEP thought I was crazy to leave the security of a state job. I suffered the verbal abuse quietly, but it royally pissed me off.

The week before my departure for the frozen North I met Connie and we attended a New Years Eve party together. We had a great time but I had to go. See ya, honey. I’m headed to Alaska.

I packed my stuff into a U-Haul and offloaded into my parents garage, had my wisdom teeth yanked and 2 days later hitched a ride to Montreal Canada to catch the Trans Canadian National rail. I stayed in the YMCA for the night. My teeth extractions were killing me so I killed the pain with Molson beer. Just barely made the train the next morning. Walking to the train station in the dark in sub-zero, snowy January weather is a vivid memory.

Needing to conserve my meager funds I opted for coach travel for the 4-day trip. By the second night, with my dry sockets, I needed a nights sleep and took an overhead berth for a night. We got delayed in Saskatchewan because of avalanches in the Canadian Rockies, but eventually arrived in rainy Prince Rupert British Columbia. I stayed in my first flea infested cheap boarding house. The drunk Indians at the pool table downstairs kept me up all night.

Two days later I boarded a ferry up the Inland Waterway to Juneau. We stopped at the fishing villages of Ketchican, Sitka and Petersburg. Stranger in a strange land. When we arrived in Juneau, the state capitol, I checked into another boarding house.

The next day, resume in hand, I walked into four state agencies including the Alaska Department of Environmental Conservation. Due to the departure of so many employees to work on the pipeline, I was offered four positions on the spot. I accepted them all and agreed to begin work in two weeks.

That night I checked out of the boarding house and used the last of my funds to buy an airline ticket to Anchorage. I slept on the floor at the terminal.

So now I had five jobs waiting for me, including the salmon cannery, but I wanted to take my shot to get out on the line. As luck would have it, I sat next to a nice young woman on the plane. I told her my story and she invited me to stay at her house in Anchorage. It was nothing more than that. She was just a good soul.

The next day I went hiking in the Tlingit National Park. The weather was severe and I relished the experience of getting “into the wild”. I soon discovered that my Maine winter gear was insufficient for Alaska.

I began exploring for work and unsuccessfully interviewed for a maintenance job with the University of Alaska. I went to the union labor halls and signed up with them. It was my first experience with unions and lacking a connection or the money to buy a job, I ended up 6,000 on the list.

I did get hired working at a gym teaching weightlifting and cleaning the equipment for a week. But it was near the library so I spent hours in the stacks researching the Pipeline consortium, Alyeska, a collection of some of the globes biggest engineering and construction companies. The president of Alyeska was a man named Ed Patton.

My father worked for a pipeline consortium in Portland Maine, the Portland Pipeline. So I called my dad with the information I had. The next day when I called him back he told me he worked with a man, Joe Bahonick, who had worked with Ed Patton earlier in his career. It was the only connection I had.

The next day I hitchhiked the 360 miles to Fairbanks in a blizzard. First stop was the union hall. Again 5000 on the list. Someone offered me a floor to sleep on at the University of Fairbanks and the next morning when I walked outside into the dark, -25 degree morning I was beginning to despair.

My half-baked plan was to somehow get onto the Fort Wainwright Army Base where Alyeska had  set up their executive offices and speak with Mr. Patton. But there were armed guards at the gate…so I went to the nearest strip joint. It was early in the morning but the place was packed. After nursing a morning beer and explaining to the girls that I didn’t have any money, I went to the bathroom and noticed the many hard hats hung on the wall and a plot was hatched. I grabbed a Green Construction Company hat, stepped out onto the base access road and stuck out my thumb. The first Green Construction Co. truck picked me up, we cleared the gate and he dropped me off at the executive offices. I did not know at the time that I had committed a felony by unauthorized entry onto a Military Base. My heart was pounding as I climbed to the third floor and entered the Executive Offices.

There were four secretaries typing away and a room full of waiting suits.

The receptionist said “May I help you?”

“I’m here to speak with Mr. Patton”, I stammered.

“Do you have an appointment?” she queried.

“No. I’ll just wait.” I smiled and moved to the corner of the waiting room.

For whatever reason, she did not have me thrown out and went back to answering the phone and typing.

Several hours later the wooden doors to the office swung open and a gaggle of suited men streamed out heading to lunch. I stood up and called in a loud voice “Mr. Patton!”

One man turned around and viewed me warily.

I said “Mr. Patton, my name is Glen Foss. I’m an environmental guy from Maine and my friend Joe Bahonick said I should look you up.”

He smiled and said “I haven’t heard from Joe in ten years.”

“He sends you his regards. I played football with his son. He works with my father on the Portland Pipeline.” I blurted…only half of it true.

“What are you doing in Anchorage”, he asked, knowing full well what I wanted.

“Here is my resume. I’m trying to get out on the line. I’ve worked in wastewater and pollution control.”

He quickly perused my resume, looked me up and down and said “I’m going to lunch, Want to take a walk?”

We climbed down 4 flights of stairs into the catacombs and connecting tunnels between the Army buildings. I don’t remember any conversation. But when we came to a sign on the wall that said Bechtel Environmental Engineering he veered into the open door with me close behind.

The office was a buzzing hive of a dozen young people shuffling papers, taking phone calls and talking in loud voices. Suddenly they became aware that we were standing there and that one of us was the President of Alyeska. It went dead silent. The Filipino secretary bolted from her desk and into the Managers office. The sign on the door said Jean Marx. Hushed urgent sounds emitted and suddenly Jean rushed out the door.

“Mr. Patton! Thank you so much for visiting us! How can I help you?” she gushed.

Mr. Patton replied, “Jean, so good to see you. I just wanted to stop by and say what a marvelous job you and your team are doing here. Keep up the good work. Oh, and would you take a look at this young man’s credentials. I think he might be useful.”

He spun to the door, grasped my hand, winked and was gone.

I stood there uncomfortably under the gaze of a dozen people, elated to have made it to this point and to not be in the Federal penitentiary.

Jean invited me into her office and we spent a lovely 20 minutes talking about tertiary sewage treatment, sludge management, secondary clarifiers and biologically activated flock. I could talk the talk and she was listening.

I was hired and spent the afternoon in cold weather survival training. Next they issued me my survival gear; Arctic hooded parka, white Army issue  severe cold boots (aka Mickey Mouse boots), insulated pants, first aid and frost bite kit. They billeted me in base housing and the next morning I boarded a twin engine De Havilland Otter with Jean Marx and flew to Five Mile Camp just North of the Yukon River.

The camp’s primary wastewater system was under designed and overwhelmed by the surge of new workers. The skid mounted tertiary system was still under construction and the effluent was basically flowing straight through the existing plant into a fast filling storage pond. I spent the night drawing up an interim emergency system and presented it to Jean the next morning. We met with the Camp Superintendent and Jean presented the plan as her own. They were impressed and when she squeezed my shoulder I knew I was in.

The offer was for me to remain at the camp and sign on as an Operating Engineer. I accepted and Jean flew away with my profuse thanks.

I was assigned a room and a roommate in the dozens of attached Atco trailer units all connected by enclosed walkways. My roommate was a welder from Oklahoma who worked nights. I was assigned a Mexican laborer named Felipe Roderiquez and we worked days. Twelve hours a day, seven days a week. He showed me the mess hall, the recreation hall and the union hall. And the next day I reported to the wastewater plant.

Felipe struggled with English, was from Bakersfield, CA and had escaped to Alaska after selling heroin to a narc. He became my friend and protector. And I did need protection from the Okies and Texans who resented a Northern boy walking into their turf.

The work was interesting especially the new technology installation. The Neptune Microflow Tertiary Treatment unit and integrated Schmidt Sludge incinerator were expensive and untested especially in the Arctic environment. These were the days before computers and micro-processors so all the controls were actuated by a timer cogwheel which occasionally malfunctioned resulting in sewage overflowing the unit and spreading across the building floor.

On one occasion the incinerator was over heating and the sludge feed line was plugged. But the pipers helper was on lunch break and the pipers wouldn’t work without them and so they sat on a bench and waited. Union rules. The situation was critical as the oven refractory was superheating and would soon melt down destroying the unit. I grabbed a pipe wrench, scaled the unit and cracked a fitting. Sludge sprayed all over the pipers, but the line was cleared and the incinerator was saved. They were so angry with me that they filed a grievance which management denied. But I was now on the radar screen with the Union.

The highlight of each day was the meals. They were spectacular. Breakfast was made to order, anything you wanted. Lunch was usually on the fly. Bag lunch. Great sandwiches. But dinner was incredible. Prime rib, porterhouse steaks, shrimp, caviar, salmon, potatoes au gratin, corn on the cob, okra with every meal. And grits of course They fed us like Southern Royalty.

Alcohol and drugs were strictly forbidden but there was plenty to be had. The truckers would smuggle it up the tote road inside their spare tires. The pipers also set up a still under an Atco unit. High test moonshine. And Felipe somehow had an endless supply of potent weed.

After dinner, the pipeline workers would strut the main hallway in groups sporting their gold nugget watches and huge bedazzled belt buckles. And of course, pointy toed cowboy boots and 10 gallon hats They talked and laughed loudly. It was something to see. And to steer clear of.

Some of them would retire to the game room to play cards. Gambling was also prohibited but money and gold watches were passed beneath the table. On payday, I watched 6 of them throw their checks in the pot and play one hand of poker, winner take all. And the checks were huge.

When I got my first weekly check for $1600 I photocopied it and mailed the copy to my former colleagues at the Maine DEP. A buddy reported back to me that the mood in the office was sour for a week. Vengeance is best served cold…

In a camp of 500 manly men there were a few dozen women. One of the office girls took a shine to me. I discovered this one night when after showering I slid into bed and was covered is the small white paper dots that used to be generated on track fed printers…from her office. The next day she invited me to her room after dinner. Things were going well and I had my shirt off, and hers, when a knock came at the door. She pulled on her shirt and opened the door. “Oh, Pete, great to see you. I’m running to the bathroom. Be right back”. Pete walked into the room and looked me over.

“Hi Pete, I’m Glen. Where are you working?” I asked.

“Up on the North Slope. I’m a roughneck. Just passing through.” he replied.

“How you know Celest?” I asked.

“She’s my wife” he growled.

The blood drained from my face and for the first time I noticed the buck knife strapped on his belt.

“Oh Man! I had no idea… I’m just going to get out of here. Sorry man.” I groveled.

I grabbed my shirt and dressed as I walked down the hall.

That was that.

The next week, the night shift operator, Cecil, a real snake who Felipe had threatened when he had once caused us trouble, approached me. “There’s a union meeting tomorrow night” he drawled.

I replied,“I’m not in the union.”

Boom! The cat was out of the bag. The Union leadership stormed into the Super’s office and threatened to shut down the camp if the scab wasn’t terminated.

The next day I was on a plane to Fairbanks.

My first lesson in Union hardball. Unfortunately, not my last.

When I got back to Jean Marx’s office she immediately hired me as an Environmental Engineer for the worlds largest engineering firm, Bechtel. For the next 3 months I traveled the line from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez and all the 15 construction camps and pump stations in between. I saw incredible scenery in the Brooks Range, the caribou migrating across the North Slope, amazing Northern Lights, the pristine Prince William Sound. I watched the sun never set one night in the Arctic, panned for gold with my hard hat, faced off with a bear and listened to the wolves howl in the pipeyard. And met so many interesting people.

Five months of seven days a week, twelve hours a day. By June, I was toast and told the boss I needed a break. She said “There will be a job for you here when you get back”. I flew through the night and arrived at my parent’s home late in the afternoon just in time for their 25^th wedding anniversary celebration. I called Connie and asked if she would like to attend and she drove down the next day. She was as vivacious and adorable as I remembered and totally charmed my family.

After a couple weeks of much needed R&R I was preparing to return to Alaska. I explained to Connie that the money was just too good, that I had to go. She grabbed my hands, looked into my eyes and said,“If you stay here, I’ll make you happy.” It was the best offer I ever received and I didn’t think twice.

I took an apartment in Bangor with my future best man, Gordie, and got a job driving a beer truck for Tabenkin Distributors in Veazie. In the interview they asked, “What was your salary in your former job?” I answered honestly; $1600 a week. They were shocked. “We’ll pay you $2.35 and hour and not a penny more.” I laughed and accepted the offer. The work schedule allowed me to reenroll at UMO for a teachers certificate and do my student teaching concurrently.

We were married the following April and moved into our condo in Bar Harbor where I had taken a position... as the Superintendent of the wastewater treatment facilities.

As the saying goes, "Shit happens"...and, to be honest, shit has been ‘berry, berry’ good to me.

 That's the story and I'm sticking to it.

---

 [GF1]

More on Work

 Like many, I worked during college. Not just during summer vacations, but throughout the school year. Had not thought about those jobs for awhile.

As a freshman my Aunt, Personal Asst. to the Dean of Agriculture, hooked me with a gig surveying the old Department of Agriculture building and producing mechanical drawings. I never completed the project. Probably disappointed my Aunt, but I had more pressing concerns; joining a fraternity, not flunking out and competing on the UMO wrestling team.

Sophomore year I lived in the frat and took whatever odd jobs I could find in the community, primarily yard work.

Junior year I was offered a job in the Biochemistry Department tending and cleaning a room full of caged rats. Most of the rats were docile and I watered, cleaned and fed them regularly. But there was one batch of rodents that were aggressive. After being bit and attacked several times, I devised a method of opening the cage and plunking them on the nose with a ladle when the stuck their heads out. It worked fine until the Lab Assistance tried to gather the rats for class work. I was called to the Professors office and interrogated as to why that batch of lab animals was so fierce. I never divulge my methods.

In my senior year I was transferred to washing Biochemistry lab glassware. Twice a week I donned goggles, apron and gloves and juggled the slippery wet beakers and exotic vessels trying not to smash or crack them, occasionally unsuccessfully. 

I wish I could say the money was good, but it wasn't. They called it work/study, but it wasn't. It was menial labor. I never listed my experience on my resume. And I spent the money on cheap Peels Big Mouth beer and my girlfriend. Still, it was honest work and work of any kind is noble.

Just still feel bad about those rats. They had to euthanize the lot.

On Death

 Just reviewed the blog. Looked back a couple years. The majority of posts have been about death; of friends, of family. I've given that some thought.

I'm approaching 70. Someone said "As you approach 70 you become less of a participant and more of a spectator. Things that once mattered a lot to you now don't matter as much." I find that to be true. My passions have shifted. Away from politics, social media and public perception. I'm still very interested in learning something new every day typically concerning science, technology, spirituality. And my focus on family has increased. Grandkids will do that to you.

If you are fortunate enough to outlive family and friends (sometimes doesn't feel like a blessing) you will experience that sense of profound loss; of the person, of the friendship, but also of the shared memories. 

I can no longer call my mom and dad to ask questions about our shared history. Or my sons. Or childhood friends and more recent friends. Now my memories, right or wrong, are all that is left. And the value of those still here increases exponentially.

As we become more solitary, our memories become more important to us. I begin to more fully understand the tragedy of dementia and Alzheimer disease; a stripping away of that which is most fundamental and most critical to who we have been.

As we age, the past becomes more dominant, the present more precious, the future less of a focus. And the reality of death more real. Not that I'm obsessed with death, though my more recent blogs might suggest that. It's more an attempt to collect the memories. Those memories have such value for me if no one else.

I think at this stage of life that reconnecting with family and friends still here gains new importance and urgency. To harvest the shared memories. To remember Life's joy and the laughter. To remember the love.

Remembering Russ

I wrote this blog 3 days after he died though I did not learn of his passing for yet another week. It's been 3 years. But I remember...

http://gdfoss.blogspot.com/2018/05/my-friend-russ.html

Old Friends

 I think everyone remembers their first childhood friends. For me it was the boys from Barton Vermont. I was 5 years old, in first grade at Barton Academy. Peter Kambour and Glen Randall. Peter lived up the street on Lincoln Avenue. Glen lived across town on a hilltop farm which I could see in the distance from our front yard.

Peter had 3 younger brothers; Jimmy, Tommy and Teddy. Glen had 3 younger sisters; Sue, Leena and Gail. And I had 2 younger sisters; Gail and Wendy. We were all the older brothers with all that came with that.

There are lots of memories of hiking in the woods, playing in the stream, eating choke cherries and digging holes in the ground. We threw rocks at porcupines and hornets nests and learned the hard way not to do it again. We poked Glen's pigs with sticks and sniffed gas from the lawn mower. We put tabasco sauce on the dogs food and laughed as they ran for water. We roamed the Barton Fair without adult supervision. We tapped the maple trees and sugared off in the spring and sledded in the winter. We swam in the icy cold waters at Crystal Lake. We did all the things that young boys did and were not supposed to do. We were a band of brothers. And one day when I was 9, we moved back to Maine.

I remember grieving the loss of my friends and the life I knew in Vermont. Living just off the Rte. 1 truck route in South Portland I often saw St. Johnsbury tractor trailers and used to put my hand over my heart to honor that lost time. Pete visited for a week one summer in 8th grade and I hitchhiked back during my college years and enjoyed staying with Pete at his camp on Shadow Pond. I never did reconnect with Glen though I stopped by the farm in 2012 and visited with Sue and her father, Earle. 

I tracked down Pete in 2017. He was living in Chelsea Massachusetts and I was in Natick and we spent an afternoon together. He was struggling with a lost marriage, a lost job and a lost license from his alcoholism. And he was grieving the loss of his younger brother Teddy from suicide. His fiancé was also undergoing cancer treatment. But he was hopeful that he could overcome these losses and rebuild his life.

I tried calling him over the following years, but the calls never went through. This week I searched for him online and found his obituary. And in searching his Facebook friends I found Gail Randall and Glen's obituary. They died within months of each other in 2018, both just 66 years old. Peter died suddenly of unspecified reasons. Glen died of cancer.

It has left me with a hollow feeling. Regrets that they are gone and that we had not spent time together before they left. Sadness because I knew them once when life was simple and friendships meant so much. 

So, goodbye old friends. You will always be my first friends. You will always live in my memories and in my heart.

Glen

Peter