Trashy Plans

For the past eight years, Gary Butterworth has served as Town Manager of Glen Falls, Maine. By his own admission, he’s never been a threat to win any popularity contests.

    “Last year alone, I received over a thousand pieces of hate mail,” says Butterworth. He laughs a hearty laugh. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty sure that’s a record.”

    This writer found the administrator personable, insightful, engaging, and self-effacing. He presents as a good ‘ol boy with a college education. So, why such contempt for the man?

    Butterworth turns up his hands. “Part of it is that I say what I think. Mostly, though, it’s the trash.”

    By “trash,” he means the town’s transfer station budget which, to the ire of residents, perennially ranks among the state’s highest per capita. The town’s remote location plays a role in this (“The farther the landfill, the greater the transportation cost,” explains Butterworth), as does ever-increasing tipping fees. During his time at the helm, the annual transfer station budget has more than doubled, from $420,000 in 2017 to over $900,000 for the current fiscal year. Big numbers for a town of 1900.

    “What folks fail to understand is that those costs--transportation and tipping fees, I mean--are out of the town’s control. The best way to reduce the transfer station budget is to reduce the amount of waste we produce. Unfortunately, most people would rather complain about the problem than actually solve it.”

    I ask Butterworth to elaborate.

    “On average, we barely recycle ten percent of our waste. The rest gets trucked to the landfill. Here’s the thing, though: recycling doesn’t cost the town a dime. So, turn that ten percent into, say, thirty percent, and we’d save a couple hundred thousand bucks a year. And frankly, we could recycle more than that with a little effort. The locals, though, have never wanted to play ball.”

    “They oppose recycling?”

    “Historically, yes,” says Butterworth. “We asked them to separate glass and aluminum and they lost their ever-lovin’ minds. They acted like I was perpetrating some sort of government tyranny. In reality, all I’ve ever done is try and save them money.”  

    “You’re unusually blunt for a public official.”

    The Town Manager shrugs. “I’m six months from retirement. Like I care.”

    Containing costs through recycling isn’t the only solution the town has attempted on Butterworth’s watch.

    “We tried privatization. We tried pay-to-throw. We even tried to build our own landfill. It’s been failure after failure after failure. Meanwhile, the transfer station budget has gone up and up and up.”

    “Hence the hate mail.”

    Butterworth nods. “Hence the hate mail.”

    Hate, though, has quickly turned to love thanks to Butterworth’s latest idea, which he unveiled at Tuesday night’s Select meeting. Locals say it will provide a much-needed something to do at night. Butterworth says it will restore a Maine tradition while promoting recycling in a powerful and brand new way​`.

    If approved by voters, Glen Falls will play home to Maine’s first-ever combination transfer station and wildlife park.

    The town manager pumps his fist. “We’re bringing back the bears!”

    In Butterworth’s view, the ongoing replacement of old-fashioned landfills with transfer stations is destroying one of Maine’s favorite pastimes, namely, bear watching.  

    “You’ll see the occasional bear at the transfer station, but it’s nothing like the old days. You can’t throw your trash in acompactor and expect to attract bears. You’ve got to spread it out, let the aroma waft. That’s what brings ‘em.”

    Phase one of Butterworth’s plan calls for construction of a below-ground concrete pen (picture a walkout basement) where residents can toss food waste. Bears may come and go as they please while spectators enjoy them from a safe distance. (Note: household trash will be strictly forbidden in the pen to keep the bears from littering.)

    Phase two of the plan (slated for 2026) involves construction of bleacher-style seating, public restrooms, and parking for up to five food trucks. Oh, and a ticket booth for the viewing area.

    “Charging admission is the key,” says Butterworth. “That’s how we incentivize people to embrace recycling.”

    The town manager continues. “Picture this: five or ten bucks per adult, a dollar or two for kids under twelve. Bring recyclables to the transfer station, though, and earn so many points per pound toward free admission.” Butterworth leans back in his chair and clasps his hands behind his head. “Add the various new revenue streams to the reduction in waste and we’ll cut the transfer station tax burden by half.”

    But will the bears show up?

    Butterworth doesn't hesitate. “Build it,” he says, “and they will come.”

Snow Days

Night surrendered to the dawn and I looked up from my work to see a few scattered white flake floating down--nothing serious. By noontime though, I heard a plow truck rumble past, its iron blade hard against the pavement, and I lifted my gaze again to behold the world through a slanted haze of white tracers. The flakes were bigger now, and aligned, and I watched for a moment as they drove down against the background of the telephone pole across the street. The contrast of the brown pole and the white flakes made the snowfall look even more intense, and I felt a wave of contentment, a deep appreciation for my small, warm room. Snow settled into the crooks of the oak treeon the corner, and the boughs of firs and pines bent beneath the weight of snow, and smoke rose from the chimneys of the clapboard homes along the smooth, white lane. All houses look like homes during a blizzard, I thought, and I poured the last of the morning's coffee into my mug.

    My thoughts turned to boyhood, when snow still seemed nature’s greatest gift. I remembered how, on the eve of each major snowstorm, I would turn on the porch light and make my bed beside the sliding glass door, fighting sleep for hours just to glimpse those first few flakes floating out of the night. The next morning, I opened my eyes to see snow walled against the bottom of the glass. I kicked off my sleeping bag and scurried to my feet, slid open the door and leaned my face into the cold. I breathed the crisp, clean air deep into my lungs and looked out at the snow-covered lawn that sloped toward the lake. A bit of white powder tumbled inside and onto the tops of my bare feet. “Can I go out and play?” I asked, and then I negotiated postponement of breakfast, put on my snowsuit and heavy felt-lined boots, and headed for adventure.

    My orange plastic sled in tow, I waded through the knee-deep snow to the top of the lawn. I pointed the sled downhill and sat inside it to break trail, pushing myself along a few inches at a time while keeping my arms stretched wide so as to not damage the smooth hardpack I was trying to build. The work proved grueling, for gravity offered little advantage against the deep powder and I struggled to plow through it. When I finally reached the bottom edge of the lawn, I stood and surveyed the steep embankment that descended to the frozen lake. The winds often swept the snow from this area, exposing the larger rocks ofthe riprap shoreline and making my sledding expeditions more than a little dangerous. Everything looked good, though, and I trudged back to the top of the hill.

    I placed my sled in its newly-formed track and climbed aboard. Lying on my belly, I inched myself to the edge of the hill and gazed down the long, deep channel I'd made in the snow. I tucked the tow rope inside the sled and tugged my hat down over my ears. I imagined myself as a luge racer. An Olympian. A hero. I gave myself a push.

    The world blurred as I gained speed, and I squinted hard against the cold and the powder that blew into my eyes. I heard only the wind in my ears and the long, continuous swish of my sled passing over the packed snow. The horizon tilted as I neared the row of apple trees where the ground slopes sideways. I fought hard to hang on, clutching the sled's handles and shifting my weight, and no sooner had the sled righted itself than the long, continuous swish was gone and the trail beneath me with it. I was flying now, plunging down the embankment toward the ice-covered lake. Sometimes I tumbled down that white bluff, but this time I had good luck, landing with all my momentum and coasting far from shore, all the way out to where the ledge slips beneath the ice.

    The sled stopped and I turned to see how far I'd traveled. Happy with myself, I stood and took the sled rope in a mittened hand and started back to do it all again, and as I crested the embankment I looked toward the house and saw my father standing behind the glass. He opened the door and hollered down. “You look like Evil Knievel!”

    “Did you see me?”

    “I sure did.” he said, and I asked him to watch me again. He said that he would, and I tried to go faster and farther than ever before because I knew that he was there.

Reconsidering the Draft

My Mother and I were eating breakfast when she suddenly folded up her Bangor Daily and tossed it aside with disgust.

     “Ain’t that (expletive) awful,” she said.

     “What’s the matter?”

     “The usual.”

     “The weather?”

     “No, the news.”

     “Oh, that,” I said. “Yeah.”

     “You mark my words: this country’s gonna find itself in a war at the rate we’re going.”

     “Perhaps.”

     “No ‘perhaps’ about it.”

     Before I could change the subject, she spoke again.

     “I say it’s ‘bout time we reinstate the draft.”

     I looked up from my pancakes and squinted skeptically. “Excuse me?”

     “You heard me.”

     “Oh, I heard you. You can’t be serious, though.”

     “Why can’t I be serious?”

     “Well, for starters,” I said, “I hear the draft wasn’t exactly popular.”

     “Not the last time around, maybe.”

     “And it’s really not the best way to recruit people.”

     “Why not?”

     I paused for a second, thinking how to explain. “Imagine hitting all the Megabucks numbers, but instead of winning a few million dollars, you win a trip to a war zone.”

     “Yeah?” She sounded unfazed, like she saw no downside.

     “I just think it’s kinda barbaric,” I explained. “Besides, it’s better to have troops choose the military than the other way around. A lot of young people don’t like taking orders. I know I didn’t.”  

     “Well, that’s just the thing,” said my mother. “I’m not talking about young people. I’m talking about people my age.”

     I laughed out loud. “You want to draft eighty-seven year olds?”

     “Seventies and eighties, sure.”

     I pictured my mother yelling “Charge!” from behind her rolling walker. “You feeling all right?” I asked.

     “I feel fine.”

     I pointed at her coffee cup. “You sure that’s Maxwell House you’re drinking?”

     “Hey,” she said, “there’s absolutely no reason a senior citizen can’t fight for his country.”

     “Oh yeah, how about physical fitness? No offense, but I haven’t seen you jog to the post office lately. Or ever, for that matter.”

     “Well, a lot of us wouldn’t survive basic training, that’s true. But think of all the Social Security money we’ll save.”

     “Mom, that’s horrible!”

     “Well, it makes sense, don’t it?”

     “It doesn’t matter whether it—”

     “And look at all the technology we have today.”

     “Your point?”

     “My point is that you don’t need be able to run or do pushups to fly a drone.”

     I begrudgingly conceded this.  

     She went on. “Drones…mine sniffing robots…remote-controlled weapon stations. A lot of military stuff is like a video game now. Let’s face it: if you can operate a joystick, you can drive a tank.”

     I chuckled to myself. Couldn’t help it.

     “What’s so funny?”

     “I’m picturing you with your head poking out of a tank.”

     “You’re not comparing me to Mike Dukakis, are you?”

     “Of course not.”

     “You’d better not be.”

     I posed the obvious question. “Why the sudden urge to don the uniform again?” My mother served in the U.S. Army during the ‘50s, but had never expressed interest in re-enlisting, never mind marching off to battle. I mean, sure, the woman wore a camo wedding dress, but she’s no warmonger.

     My mother pushed her plate aside, folded her hands on the table, and looked straight at me. “I’ll tell you why,” she said. “Too many Americans have forgotten what our flag stands for.”

     Intrigued, I asked her to go on.

     “Them stars and stripes mean a lot to a lot of people all around the world.”

     I considered this for a long moment. “Let me ask you something,” I said, finally. “Let’s say you were drafted tomorrow. Would you want to go to, say, Ukraine?”

     “Absolutely.”

     “Really? You don’t think our involvement over there has been a waste of money?”

     She peered at me over her glasses. “You know the old saying, ‘Pay now or pay more later?’”

     “Of course.”

     “Well, standing up to a dictator is always worth the investment.”

     I sat back in my chair and eyed her with surprise and a new type of respect. “That’s one of the most eloquent things I’ve ever heard,” I said. “It’s wise, too.”

     “Money now or lives later, Trav. It ain’t hard to figure.”

Smelt Fishermen Reach Their Limit

A recent proposal to raise catch size limits for Maine lobster drew outrage from lobstermen during a January 9th meeting with marine resources officials. Tempers flared and expletives flew. At times, it seemed violence might erupt. Then yesterday, a hearing on proposed catch size restrictions for an entirely different species made that clash look like a veritable love fest.

     I’m talking about smelts.

     That’s right. A non-profit organization titled “Northern Environmental Resources Defense Society” (N.E.R.D.S.) is leading the charge to impose the first-ever size restriction on the popular Maine fish. David Doolittle, spokesperson for the N.E.R.D.S., explains:

     “Historically, Maine fishermen have been able to harvest smelts with absolutely no regard for size. But with freshwater smelt populations on the decline, something needs to be done, and done now.”

     Doolittle’s group proposes the implementation of a 4 inch minimum length. The smelt fishermen who attended yesterday’s hearing in Augusta were, in a word, unimpressed. I interviewed five of them for this article and heard profanities you can’t even find on the internet, never mind print in a newspaper. Artie Briggs, a longtime dip-netter from Eustis, explained the fishermen’s opposition:

     “These environmental do-gooders wanna take all the fun out of the sport. You tell me how we’re supposed to measure these tiny little fish in the dark while standin’ in knee-deep water drinkin’ beer. Heck, half the guys here can’t read a ruler when they’re sober.”

    But a size restriction is just one aspect of the proposed management plan. N.E.R.D.S. is pushing for other changes as well, including revisions to the bag limit, presently set at two quarts per day. The group is requesting state officials replace this volume measurement with what Doolittle calls, “a quantitative data system.”

     “That,” says Briggs, “is just a fancy-schmancy way of sayin’ they want us to count ‘em.”

     Doolittle defends the request. “We’re simply trying to improve the accuracy of data so marine biologists can better do their jobs. The better their information on the smelt population, the better it is for everyone—smelts, especially.” He argues that measuring smelts by the quart has never made sense. “A quart is a measurement of liquid. Smelts are not liquid. I mean, have you ever seen a hunter tag a 50-gallon bear?”

     I admitted that I hadn’t.

     “Well, there you go,” he said. “We count salmon, trout, and togue. Why not smelts?”

     I posed this question to Briggs.

     “I’ll tell ya why,” he grumbled. “The bag limit for salmon is two; the bag limit for trout is two; the bag limit for togue is—you wanna take a guess?”

     I thought about it for a second. “Um, two?”

    “Bingo! You’re pretty smart for a newspaper fella. Anyway, a lot of fishermen I know—I dare say most of ‘em—have no problem countin’ to two. But there ain’t no fisherman anywhere who’s gonna be able to keep track of how many smelts he’s got—especially if he’s catching them with a net.

     Oh, by the way: the proposed new bag limit for smelts is 73.

     Doolittle accuses Briggs and his fellow fishermen of overreacting. “This isn’t hard,” he said. “Dip your net, count your fish, mark it down. Repeat as necessary until you reach the limit. What’s the problem?”

     I suggested perhaps fishermen could use their phone’s calculator app to keep a running tally.

     “No need,” he said. “That’s what the form is for.”

     “The form?”

     “You know, the  S.T.S.”

     I’d not heard of this “S.T.S.” form, so Doolittle enlightened me. “S.T.S.” stands for “Smelt Tabulation Sheet.” Similar to Maine lobstermen, the state would require smelt fishermen to log the date, time, and location of each fishing expedition, in addition to quantity caught.

     Artie Briggs calls this smelt paperwork “the second dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

     “Second to what? I asked.

     “They (the N.E.R.D.S.) wanna pass a law requiring all smelt nets to have a two-inch diameter hole in ‘em. You know, to give the poor little smelts a fighting chance.”

     “Like those fly swatters I’ve seen.”

     “Zactly.”

     Doolittle offers a different take on the net regulation. “The hole adds a degree of difficulty to the sport, makes it more challenging, more exciting. What’s wrong with that?”

     Briggs: “I think fishing by headlamp in ice cold water with a net in one hand and a beer in the other is plenty challenging enough. Justy sayin’.”

    As I wrapped up the interview, Briggs had a question for me.

“Say,” he said, “What’s the bag limit on nerds?”

(Strange) Reader Feedback

I should’ve seen it coming. Work as a columnist and you’re bound to irritate some of the people some of the time. Still, nothing had prepared me for the vitriol pouring through my phone. At first, I couldn’t follow what the man was saying. Too much shouting. All I knew for sure is that he cared very little for my last column.

     “How DARE you print a story about the Auto Road without talking to me!”

     You may recall that, back on January 9, I published a story about the proposed conversion of Mt. Washington Auto Road into a snowtubing park. I thought it lighthearted and fun, something meant to bring a chuckle. The guy on the line, though, wasn’t chuckling. After he’d spoken his mind and calmed down a bit, I asked how he found my number.

     “The internet,” he said.

     “My phone number isn’t listed anywhere on the internet.” I make sure of this.  

     “Your phone number isn’t listed on the internet, but your ex-wife is. And so is her number.”

     “You called my ex-wife?”

     “Yep. Told her I was a disgruntled reader with an ax to grind. She couldn’t wait to help me.”

     “I’m sure.”

     “Even told me where you live.”

     “That’s just great,” I said. “Now can you please explain all this to me again? From the beginning?”

The caller’s name was Barry Barker, from Westbrook. Barry installs swimming pools for a living and, for the last seven years, has served as President of S.H.A.M., aka Smoking Hikers Alliance of Maine. The group--now fifteen hundred strong, Barry wanted me to know--promotes hiking among cigarette smokers from Kittery to Caribou. Barry even hosts a weekly podcast titled, Tobacco Trails, in which he and a guest review various low-impact hikes from all around New England. According to Barry, it’s the third most popular podcast in Maine—right behind The Joe Rogan Experience and Tales from the Transfer Station.

     “That’s all fine,” I said. “But what’s any of this have to do with my Mt. Washington article?”

     The voice on the line grew deadly serious. “Mr. Wallace,” he said. “For smoking hikers, Mt. Washington represents the pinnacle of achievement.”

     As a former pack-a-day smoker who often struggled to scale a stepstool, I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “You guys actually climb up Mt. Washington?”  

     I had to pull the phone away for the sound of Barry guffawing. “Heck no!” he boomed. “We don’t climb UP Mt. Washington, Mr. Wallace! We only climb DOWN.”

     That’s right: when members of S.H.A.M. hike New England’s highest peak, it’s strictly a one-way endeavor. Instead of climbing to the top, they ride the shuttle or SnowCoach and descend the mountain on foot.     

     “So naturally, we vehemently oppose this snowtubing park,” explained Barry. “That Auto Road needs to stay open. We smokers depend on it.”

     “This can’t be real,” I said. “You’re putting me on.”

     “I most certainly am not.”

     “Prove it.”

     “Fine. You near a computer?”

     “Yep.”

     “Okay, go to Amazon and I’ll show you the book I just wrote.”

      He told me the title and I typed it in. Boom, there it was: Smoker’s Guide to Hiking in New England.

     “What…in the world…is this?” I asked.

     “That, my friend,” said Barry, “is the best-selling non-fiction book in the country right now.”

     The book consists of 101 reviews of smoker-friendly hiking trails, each ranked using a cigarette pack system, from 1 pack for easiest all the way up to 5 packs for hardest.

     An excerpt from Barry’s review of Artist’s Bluff Trail in Franconia, New Hampshire:

     1.5 miles to the top, and steep at times. Thankfully, you don’t need go all the way to get the view! Visit on a clear day and the photos will make it look like you worked harder than you did. Expert Tip: get there early to ensure a parking space near the trailhead.

     It’s official, I thought. I’ve finally seen everything.

     I asked Barry if he’s ever been to Moosehead.

     “Was there last foliage season,” he said. “Matter of fact, I’m featuring Greenville in my next book, Smoker’s Guide to Hiking, Volume II. It’s a list of scenic rest areas.”

     “You like our rest area?”

     “It’s top notch!” exclaimed Barry. “And that fire tower’s wicked cool.”

     “Great view from up there, too.”

     “It sure is!” he said. “And I didn’t even need to climb Squaw!”

Repurposing the Mt. Washington Auto Road

Zack Ziobro (pronounced Zee-O-Bro), wants to do for snow tubing what Hannes Schneider did for skiing. The successful American entrepreneur and winter sports enthusiast recently unveiled plans for his next business venture: Converting the Mount Washington Auto Road into the world's longest snow tubing park.

    Go ahead, mock him; ridicule him; call him loony. Just don't bet against him, for Zack's combination of brilliance, imagination, and child-like enthusiasm--and yes, his craziness--has already made him a great deal of money in the winter recreation industry. In fact, the seeds of his latest concept have been germinating since 2000, when, while living in Aspen, he undertook his very first business venture by becoming Colorado's finest (and only) snow tubing instructor. Friends thought he’d lost his mind.

    “I made four grand the first week,” laughs Zack.

    Now, a quarter-century later, Zack’s company employees hundreds of “Certified Snow Tubing Instructors” from the Colorado Rockies to the Swiss Alps, and has designed and patented several high-performance inflatable tubes in various shapes and sizes. Zack’s even politicking the International Olympic committee with the aim of replacing the luge with snow tubing for the 2026 Winter Games. The motto of his campaign? “There are two types of Olympians: Winners and Lugers. What do YOU wanna be?”

    Zack's idea for developing New England's highest peak is still in the planning stages, and he'll admit that, before he sells his first ticket, he'll first have to win over folks at The Auto Road, in addition to acquiring a veritable avalanche (pun intended) of government permits. He's undaunted by the challenge. “This will alter the landscape of winter sports in the northeast,” he says, “It's a win for all of New England.”

    A little history of this eccentric entrepreneur: A 1989 graduate of Scarborough High, Zachary Andrew Ziobro won a full scholarship to Harvard University only to spend most of his freshman year snowboarding. When Harvard—in a most polite, Ivy-League manner—told Zack to leave, he packed his snowboard into his Hyundai and headed for the Colorado Rockies. Zack spent the 1990s toiling in obscurity, teaching snowboarding to the children of Hollywood stars by day and drinking macro quantities of microbrews by night. Then, one fateful afternoon, Zack experienced the epiphany that launchedhis snow tubing career. “It happened at Aspen Highlands; I'll never forget it.” he told me. “I was standing on a trail beside a line of ten students, giving a group lesson, when all of a sudden I hear a man screaming. I look upslope and here comes Michael Moore on an inflatable tube, hurtling down the mountainside, totally out of control and heading right for my class.”

    They never stood a chance.

    “He flattened ‘em, man.”

    This is the moment—with his injured students lying strewn across the trail--that Zack decided to become a snow tube instructor. He wasted no time getting started. “I was at Staples ordering business cards before the first Life Flight arrived,” he says proudly.

    Now a young-looking 53, Zack sports a twinkle in his eye and mischievous grin to go along with an unruly mop of thick blond hair. To critics, he's a millionaire in a jester hat; a man-child who found a formula for making a living without needing to grow up. A middle-aged Ferris Bueller, if you will. Some consider his plan for the Mount Washington Auto Road as little more than a 6,288-foot publicity stunt, but it's actually founded on his wealth of experience and market research, as well as—believe it or not—the science of global warming. “Interest in snow tubing has been on the rise for twenty years,” explains Zack, “and as this market has expanded, New England ski resorts have responded by adding tubing parks; they're trying hard to capture this growing revenue stream so they can remain viable. But here's the problem: With climate change, you can't count on Mother Nature for snowfall anymore. Mount Washington is the only one place in all New England where you're still pretty much guaranteed large quantities of snow each winter. My plan is a no-brainer, as they say.”

    During a recent visit to his Old Port offices, Zack showed off an elaborate, incredibly detailed, three-foot-tall scale model of Mount Washington. “This is the Auto Road,” he said, pointing to a zig-zagged channel carved into its side, “from beginning to end, it's 12.2 kilometers.”

    “In English. Tell me in English.”

    “About seven and a half miles.”

    I asked how he intends to transport people up the mountain.

    “That's one of the beautiful things about this whole plan--the lift has been in place for a hundred-fifty years!” With a flick of his palm, he spun the model around and pointed to a miniature Cog Railway. “We’ll have the Fisher Plow company fabricate snowplows for each locomotive,” he explained. This actually seemed sensible.

    Zack handed me a piece of plastic which resembled a cross-section of U-shaped PVC pipe. “This shows the track's design. Our snow engineer--”

    “Snow engineer?”

    “That's right. Our snow engineer has designed plans for a track with concave, eight-foot walls made from snow so as to prevent tubers from leaving the course. Picture an oversized water slide if you will.”

    “How fast will these kids be traveling?”

    “First of all,” he corrected me, “This park won't serve just kids. Snow tubing is a multi-generational sport. But to answer your question, we estimate our clientele will reach speeds in excess of a hundred miles per hour. Pretty cool, huh?”

    I could hardly believe it. “Did you say…a hundred?”

    “At least.”

    “Aren't you worried about injuries?”

    “Nah. Besides, Tube Patrol will be on duty at all times.”

    “Okay, but what if somebody goes flying off the track?”

    “Highly unlikely. The concave shape of the walls should keep people in. And if, by chance, a customer exits the course, there's always the local search and rescue squad.”

    “Zack, if somebody goes careening off the side of Mount Washington at a hundred miles an hour, there may be a search, but I assure you, they'll be no rescue.”

    “Eh,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “Life is fraught with risk.”

    Quite true. And if you're into risks, Zack Ziobro is looking for investors.

With Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all the folks from the Ville

Were jamming the aisles up at Indian Hill

Baskets and shopping carts were loaded with eats

As the locals prepared for their holiday feasts

They bought turkeys and hams, eggnog and wine

All the while thinking “Gosh, look at the time!

Get out of here fast—hurry, be quick!

Gotta get home to welcome Saint Nick”

When from the frozen food aisle there arose such a clatter

People stopped in their tracks and wondered what was the matter

A great tumbling crash could be heard all around

Not even the Muzak could drown out the sound

There, in the stark glow of fluorescent light

Four children, heads down, stood looking affright

As their mother, displeased, and eyes open wide

Stared at their cart, which lay on its side

The little kids, playing, had toppled the thing

Sending their food through the air with a fling

“Well, this is unfortunate,” the mother opined

As a voice overhead said, “Cleanup, aisle 9”

Apples and onions rolled this way and that

Two dozen eggs hit the floor with a splat

A jar of molasses had turned to a puddle

Their holiday meal, just a pile of rubble

An employee arrived with a broom and a mop

“You’ll need a shovel,” said the mother, “to clean up this slop”

“Not to worry,” replied the clerk, “it’s totally fine”

“This sort of thing happens all of the time”

“Grab another cart,” offered the clerk with a smile

“It’s only five-thirty; we’ll be open a while”

So, the woman and her children restarted their shopping

They zigged and they zagged; the store was still hopping

Into their new cart they tossed turnips and peas

Garlic, taters, and extra sharp cheese

Butter, a turkey, two pies and some bread

The white was sold out, they grabbed whole wheat instead

They snagged pickles and carrots, lettuce and chives

Roasted red peppers and a bag of endives

Candy canes, chocolates, and hot cocoa, too

The cart looked like a mountain by the time they were through

“Well hello everybody,” exclaimed the cashier

She wore a bright elfish hat and was full of good cheer

“Visiting for the holiday? Never seen you around”

“We’re new here,” said the mother. “We just moved to town”

Upon hearing the grand total, the mom said, “Sounds good”

But her debit card failed to work as it should

“That’s very odd,” she said, with a disheartened groan

“I know there’s money in there,” and she took out her phone

She scrolled and pressed buttons and eyed her account

And what she saw on the screen made her cry out

“Oh my gosh, no,” she lamented, eyes filling with tears

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” asked the children with fear

The single mother of four had been saving since May

To give her two boys and two girls a good Christmas day

“Something happened,” she told them, her mind filling with dread

Where there should have been money, there were zeroes instead

They all stepped aside, and the mom placed a call

To a bank rep who offered no good news at all

“I’m sorry,” said the rep, “it appears you’ve been hacked

Both checking and savings, it seems, were attacked”

The mother was crushed, the children all sad

They’d had tough holidays before, but never this bad

“Well kids,” said the mom, grabbing one of their sacks

“Let’s return to the aisles and put this stuff back”

Behind her, a large group of shoppers stood waiting in line

Not one of them, though, still cared about the time

With heavy, heavy hearts, they’d watched the sad scene unfold

And together, they wrote this story that deserves to be told:

From that long line of customers stepped a wiry old man

Who placed a fifty-dollar bill in that young woman’s hand

Then a second person came forward and gave the same to the mother

Then a third, and a fourth, and another, and another…

All of those customers, the store clerks, and the manager, too

Kept that young family’s Christmas from turning out blue

“I don’t understand,” said the mom, and she started to bawl

“We’re new here,” she cried, “none of you knows us at all”

The manager stepped forward. Like Saint Nick he was dressed

He spoke not just for himself, but for all of the rest

“When you live in this town,” he said, smiling, “You’re never alone

Merry Christmas to you all. And to you all, welcome home”

Tiny Homes Spur Big Ideas

Innkeepers Find Inspiration--and a Much-needed Solution--in Bangor’s New “Tiny Home Park”

When Drew Butterworth and his young family moved to Maine from New Jersey four years ago, they saw no trouble in their financial future. “Our accountant loved the idea,” said Drew in a recent interview. “It looked great on paper.”

     “The idea” to which he’s referring is his family’s purchase of Denmark’s Pebble Pond Inn, which Drew claims they bought “for less than the price of some Taylor Swift tickets.” Built in 1912, the sprawling country inn boasts 22 guest rooms, tavern, full-service dining room, and separate innkeeper’s cottage. Butterworth discovered the property during a 2021 vacation to the area with his wife. “We’ve always loved Maine, and here was a chance to get away from the rat race and be our own boss for a change.” A review of the inn’s tax returns sealed the deal. “Save for the pandemic, the place showed perennial growth,” said the owner. “Seemed a no brainer.”

     Sadly, the Butterworth Family’s “no brainer” turned nightmare when they found themselves confronted with a problem Maine business owners know all too well.

     “Not enough workers,” said Drew.

     During peak seasons—May through October and January through March—Pebble Pond Inn requires upwards of two dozen employees. “Our first three years in business, we had to make do with less than half that,” explained Drew’s wife, Darla. Desperate to attract more staff, the Butterworths began offering health insurance in addition to some of the region’s highest wages. It made no difference.

     “We couldn’t give prospective employees what they want and need most,” said Drew, “and what they want and need most is a place to live.” The innkeeper turned up his hands. “There’s no affordable housing around here--none. Everything’s a vacation rental or Airbnb. You almost never see anything for lease. And if you do, it’s a one bedroom for $1,800 or $2,000 a month. Utilities not included, of course. Show me a breakfast cook or housekeeper who can afford that.”

     Desperate for a solution, the couple converted six of their guest rooms into employee housing prior to the start of this year’s summer season. “It was our first time running this place with enough crew,” said Drew.

     Darla laughed. “Felt like a vacation!”

    Unfortunately for the couple, the season felt like a vacation in more ways than one.

     “We made no money,” admitted Darla.

     “Not a dime,” added Drew. “Losing those six rooms killed us.”

     Believing they would forever face a choice between not enough workers and not enough income, the couple began talking seriously of closing for the winter and putting the property up for sale.  Days later, though, Drew stumbled upon a newspaper article about Bangor’s new tiny home park--30 freestanding, 320-square-foot homes, each available for a reasonable monthly rent.

     Drew explained what happened next: “I showed the article to Darla and said we should develop something similar for our staff. On a smaller scale, of course.”

     Darla smiled. “I told him we didn’t own enough acreage for a building permit.”

     “I said who needs a building permit?”

     “Next thing I knew,” said Darla, “we were in the truck and headin’ to Lowe’s!”

     That afternoon, the couple purchased a dozen 10’x12’ sheds, each with a single window and household door. In the three weeks since, Drew (with some serious help from YouTube, Darla wants you to know) has insulated, plumbed, and electrified the buildings, in addition to fitting each of them with a small wood stove. Next up: appliances, generators, holding tanks (for wastewater), and, of course, furniture. “Once that’s all done,” said Drew, “we just sit back and wait for the ice to freeze.”

     In case you’re wondering: yes, he means exactly what you think he means: the Butterworths plan to locate their “tiny home” development in the middle of Pebble Pond.

      “Some people flat-out think we’re crazy, but it’s already made a huge difference to our recruiting,” said Darla. “I’ve received more job applications in the past few days than in the last three years combined. People really appreciate the availability of employee housing. And I think they’re attracted to the sense of adventure.

     “That’s fine for the winter,” I said, “but what about your summer help?”

     “One step ahead of ya,” said Drew. He tossed me a houseboat brochure.

Hunting Season at “The Branch”

As a kid, hunting season proved my favorite time of the year because that’s when The Long Branch was busiest. It was exciting to have the hotel full, to encounter groups of people on the stairs and in the halls. In the late afternoon, men loitered in hallways and leaned in open doorways, joking and laughing, sharing stories and comparing notes about their day’s hunt, their good-natured banter warming the drafty old hotel far better than its steam radiators. After showering and changing, these men made their way downstairs to the barroom, already busy with the happy hour crowd. The Rock-Ola blasted “Take This Job and Shove It,” and Kenny Rogers’ “Lucille,” a wood fire roared in the red-brick fireplace; a blue haze of cigarette smoke hung close to the ceiling; two-quarter stacks lined the rails of both pool tables; the cigarette machine clang-clunked with each pull of the lever; the front door opened and closed, open and closed with a squeak…whoosh, squeak…whoosh; people shouted, laughter boomed, bottles clanked, the telephone rang; boots clomped; billiard balls thwacked; air hockey pucks clacked; the foosball knocked and rolled; ice cubes crashed into the stainless-steel bin; chairs and barstools squeaked and scraped against the plywood floor, and I took it all in from the blue plastic seat of my Big Wheel.

     November brought deer hunters to the hotel from all over the northeast, places like Boston, New Bedford, Tiverton and Philly. These men--iron workers and firefighters, meat cutters and contractors--arrived in groups of two to more than a half-dozen. Most were hunting season regulars at the hotel, returning year after year and staying for a week at a time. Before sunrise each morning, they made their way to the second-floor dining room for a breakfast of bacon or ham, eggs or omelets, home fries and toast. They poured coffee from the large stainless-steel urn and orange juice from the glass half-gallon bottle. They took their meals at long rectangular tables that looked north toward the railroad trestle and the lake. They sopped egg from their plates with bits of toast and drained their coffee cups, gazing out at the dark water that stretched toward the horizon like an inland sea.

     After breakfast, many hunters filled their thermoses with coffee from the urn. Some men began their day feeling very tired, either from their barroom adventures or from the trains that passed in the night. The trains always proved popular breakfast conversation at Moosehead Lake Hotel. Few guests ever forgot the sensation of bolting waking to the rumble of diesel locomotives, their whistles blaring urgently, light from their headlamps blazing on the wall.

Before departing for the day, the hunters stopped by the kitchen to grab one of the boxed lunches my mother had prepared the night before, an Italian or deli meat sandwich on a bulky roll with a bag of chips and a can of Fanta soda. From the kitchen, they either exited the back door or returned through the dining room to the hallway and descended the weathered wooden stairs. Frost glistened on the handrails. The men’s exhalations shone like tiny bursts of fog in the early morning air, and their boots crunched against the frozen gravel as they crossed the parking lot for their pickups. Remote car starters were still uncommon then, and most hunters spent cold minutes waiting for windshields to defrost before departing for the Great North Woods in search of “Bambi,” as they liked to call their prey. The hunters usually returned to the hotel between four and six o’clock. They entered through the front door dressed in wool pants, black and red checkered coats and blaze orange hats and vests. They waved through the open barroom door to my dad. “How’d you make out?” he’d call to them, and they’d stop to report before heading upstairs. Those lucky enough to tag a deer had already dropped by our house and hung it in the garage. We often had to park both our F-100 and the Kharmann Ghia outdoors for all the bucks and does hanging from the rafters.

     Around 7:00 pm, the hunters, bottles of beer or drinks in hand, made their way upstairs to the dining room for a homecooked meal that varied depending on the night of the week and my mother’s mood. Each November 13th, though, she made spaghetti (my favorite meal), in honor of my birthday. A school friend would come for dinner, Aunt Isabel would bake a cake, and with my family and all the hunters singing “Happy Birthday,” it seemed like the entire world had come together to celebrate my special day.

Hap Gerrish

The dental chair reclines and I nuzzle my head against the headrest as the paper bib scuffs my chin, its metallic ball chain still cold around my neck. The only sounds: Paul Harvey sharing “the rest of the story” from somewhere in the ceiling, water swirling in the porcelain bowl beside me, and Dr. Gerrish humming his little tunes--each of them merry as the man himself. I’ve known Harold T. “Hap” Gerrish, D.M.D., since age 2 and have only ever seen joy in his eyes. For a dentist, he’s remarkably easy to like. Too, he inspires (in me, anyway) an unusually high level of trust. Some people fear dentists for the pain they cause. Suffer enough of it, though, and you learn to trust. Deeply. 

    Hap greets me with a handshake and makes small talk, asking about my parents, my schooling, the skiing at Squaw. Then he turns to his workstation and, apropos of nothing, reels off a limerick.

On the chest of a barmaid at Yale

Were tattooed the prices of ale

And on her behind, for the sake of the blind

Was the same information in braille

I chuckle and look around the room. Straight ahead: the fireplace of what had once been the foyer of this old farmhouse. To its left: three plastic horses standing in a row upon the windowsill. They’ve stood there for as long as I can remember, just as the framed 1957 Saturday Evening Post Cover has hung on the wall for as long as I can remember. The print shows a young boy sitting in his dentist's chair, looking extremely apprehensive. Compared to me, this young man has little to worry about; I can almost guarantee it.  

     Dr. Gerrish reaches above his head to aim the lamp at my face. I squint against the brightness.

     “Open,” he says.

     I open.

    He pokes around my mouth with his dental pic and a mirror for a few seconds, then twirls the pick in his fingers and taps a molar with its end. He reaches for his spray gun and shoots air at the tooth.  “That hurt?”

    “Hurt” is an understatement, but I won’t admit it. “You got my attention,” I tell him. 

    Dr. Gerrish resumes humming and reaches for my chart. He lifts a corner of my x-ray and reviews the handwritten notes beneath it. “Okay, young fella. Let's do number thirty and thirty-one today, the molars right here,” he says, touching his fingers to his lower right jaw. “They're both critical...”  He tosses the chart onto his workstation and looks me in the eye.  “...and they're probably gonna hurt like hell. But they've got to be done.”

    “You're the boss.”

    The old dentist grins and I see his teeth, off-white from age and nicotine but perfect in every other way. “You're tough,” he assures me, “you can take it.”  He knows, as I do, that I have little choice in the matter.  

     For most people, having a cavity filled is a trying experience under the best of circumstances. I, though, have never enjoyed the best of circumstances. In fact, I’m likely one of the most unfortunate patients—perhaps the most unfortunate patient—in Hap Gerrish's decades-long career. Years earlier, my mother had told the dentist (wrongly, I will someday learn) that I’m allergic to the “caine” family of anesthetics. The result: Dr. Gerrish fills my cavities “au naturale.” Most dentists would refuse the work for fear of a lawsuit or making a mistake on a writhing patient. Not Hap.

    The dentist sets up his tray table while I seek a spot on the ceiling on which to focus while he drills. Fixing my eyes on a singular point will help keep my body still. It’s a skill I taught myself and have had ample opportunity to hone. You see, Dr. Gerrish has been working on my teeth for months.

     The previous fall, my orthodontist removed my braces to discover more than three dozen cavities. Poor oral hygiene and a steady diet of candy, Coca-Cola, and sugar-ladened cereal, had taken their toll. Still just thirteen years of age, my teeth were literally rotting in their sockets. I’ve been sitting in this chair once a week ever since.

     The dentist lifts his drill from its holder, gives it a couple of quick revs, and turns to me.

    “Ready?”

    “As ready as I'm gonna get.”

    “Hang on tight,” he says, still smiling.  “Open.”

    I open and he leans in, his face fading into the shadow of the dental lamp above his head. Bright light reflects off the corner his gold rim glasses. The drill begins its haunting whir, and I clutch the armrests so hard that my hands hurt, but it helps distract me from the pain I know is coming.

    The drill bit, sharp and pointed, pushes against my rotted tooth and bits of enamel spray against my cheek and tongue. The radius bones of my arms push against my skin as I tighten my grip on the chair, steeling myself against the hurt, which I know will only get worse. Suddenly, I smell the smoke—from burning enamel and dentin—as it rises from my mouth and into my nostrils. Dr. Gerrish's drill provides water to reduce the frictional heat between tooth and drill bit, but it’s not enough to prevent the smoke and its horrifying smell. It’s like smelling my own cremation. I feel the pointed pressure of the drill against my molar as Hap grinds part of it away. The pain spikes and begins to consume me, and my neck muscles tighten like piano strings as I try to stay still.

      The drill stops.  “Rinse,” says Hap.  I pick up the small plastic cup with trembling fingers and take a sip. The dentist, drill in hand and still smiling, stands at the ready. “Swish it around,” he says. I swish, then spit into the white ceramic bowl and watch my tooth fragments, in shades of white and brown, catch the flow of water and circle toward the drain. I lift the bib to my face and wipe my mouth, and as I sit back, my hands instinctively grip the chair again. Hard.

    “This one is almost finished,” he says. 

    “Easy for you to say,” I tell him, trying for levity.

    Hap's smile turns sympathetic.  “I'm going as fast as I can for you, I promise.”  Then he says, “Open,” and the drill resumes its whir.

    I shut my eyes and the afterimage of Dr. Gerrish's lamp burns in my private darkness. The dentist bores deep into the dentin above the root and nerve. The pain is immediate and jarring. There's more of that awful smell, more debris splattering inside my mouth, and the hurt is so great that I worry about whether the chair's headrest can withstand my pushing against it. At least I'm staying still. That's the important part. I open my eyes and see tiny drops of water spraying out of my mouth and onto the lenses of the doctor’s glasses. The drill bit draws closer to a nerve and the pain crosses a new threshold. I wonder if this moment will ever end. The roots, nerves and blood vessels of my molar are nearly exposed to atmosphere, nearly exposed to Dr. Gerrish's tungsten carbide drill bit. Please let him be almost finished, I think. Worse than the smoke or the pain: I feel vulnerable. I’m naked in the cold, stumbling on lake ice with bare feet, trying to find my way home. I'm scared.

    “Go ahead and rinse.”

    I drink the pale green minty water and spit bits of tooth and blood. Then I lay my head back in dentist’s chair. 

     “Alright, Trav,” he says, still smiling, “One more and we'll be done for today.”   

A Visit to the DMV

Zipped down to Bangor yesterday. Actually, that’s not true. By definition, living in Greenville prohibits “zipping” to anywhere, save perhaps Shirley. You can “shoot” up to Rockwood or down to Monson, but for destinations beyond a ten-mile radius, there is no “zipping.”

     Where was I heading with this?

     Oh yeah.

     The drive from Greenville to Bangor is a mind-numbingly dull, 90-minute slog, and what precious little joy I feel upon arrival fades before I hit my first red light. Safe to say I’m not a fan of Maine’s Queen City. In fact, whenever I’m there, I try to accomplish as much as possible with the singular goal of not needing to return anytime soon. I plan the trip carefully, and if I still have time after checking everything off my “Must Do” list, I try to squeeze at least one non-urgent errand into the day. Yesterday’s non-urgent errand: a visit to the DMV.

     If you noticed me driving around town last summer with studded snow tires, it will surely come as no surprise that I’ve also been driving with an out-of-state license. It’s a New Hampshire license, and I’ve held it for a very long time—long enough to have lived in three states not named New Hampshire. Yeah, I know this is illegal, but I’m about as fond of the DMV as I am of Bangor. Unfortunately, my license was set to expire next month, so I had little choice but to make an appearance.

     I arrived at the Department of Motor Vehicles, stepped inside, and took a number from the machine. I pulled number 107, and the monitor on the wall showed that number 89 was already being helped. This seemed pretty good, and I took a seat. That’s when the scam that is the DMV numbering system began to reveal itself. You see, I mistakenly thought there existed only 18 numbers between 89 and 107.  Not at the DMV.  Nope, the Maine Department of Motor Vehicles has its own version of numerical order. It goes something like this: 90, 91, BA-47, BA-723, 92, BA-468, BA-218, BA-290, 93, and so on and so forth…

     Suddenly realizing that I might be there a while, I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and eavesdropped on the DMV customers at the various service windows. I learned much, not the least of which is that there’s no such thing as a quick and easy transaction at the DMV. Perhaps most amazing: the utter lack of preparation on the part of customers. Seemingly not a single soul brought his or her necessary paperwork, and I heard countless tales of woe--grown adults offering up one “the dog ate my homework” story after another. In fact, customer incompetence ran so high that I actually felt sorry for the employees.

     I don’t know how much they pay you people, I thought, but it ain’t enough.  

     After waiting 90-odd minutes, a computer-generated voice from somewhere in the ceiling said, “Now serving number 107 at window 5.”

     I approached window 5 where a 20-something lady named Trish greeted me with a “How may I help you?” and a professional, if slightly gratuitous, smile.

     “I’m here to trade in my New Hampshire license for a Maine REAL ID license.”

     “Okay, great!” said Trish, and I laid my supporting documents on the counter: my driver’s license, my birth certificate, a utility bill, my car registration. Trish took each one and read it over. Then, she broke my heart. Turns out my utility bill lists my town as “Greenville Junction,” whereas my car registration shows me living in “Cove Point Township.” This discrepancy meant Trish couldn’t give me my REAL ID. She could, however, issue me a traditional Maine license.

     “I’ll take it,” I said, adding, “I’ll come back for my REAL ID as soon as I have the town office change my car registration.”

     “Oh, you don’t need to go through all that,” assured Trish. “Just bring your new Maine license when it comes in the mail.”

     I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. “You mean I can use the license you’re about to issue me to get my REAL ID license?”

    “Sure can!” she beamed.

     I looked at her and waited for…I don’t know…a smirk, an eyeroll—something, anything—to acknowledge the obvious irony in what she’d just told me. Trish, though, offered no hint of understanding, and all the sympathy I’d felt for her and her co-workers turned to scorn in less time than you can say, “Now serving one-zero-eight.” And then, she made it worse.

     “Soon as it arrives in the mail,” she said, still smiling, “you just zip right on back down here!”

Transfer Station Contemplations

Random thoughts while waiting for the transfer station to open:

~Was chatting with a local yesterday when he confided a grave concern. “The town’s changing,” he groaned. “Went shopping this morning and didn’t know a single person in the store.” The man was clearly bummed, so I offered my condolences. Didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d just described one of my lifelong fantasies. I’m not kidding. Outside of, say, hosting The Price Is Right or dating Lady Gaga, nothing would delight me more than experiencing my hometown minus the familiar faces, even if just for a day. Indeed, I often drive to places like Belfast and Bar Harbor for no other reason than to enjoy a few hours among strangers. Because small town familiarity can be pleasant, but it’s often a pain. Be honest: who among us hasn’t, at one time or another, pulled a U-turn in the middle of Shop & Save to avoid an ex, or a creditor, or that neighbor we just can’t stand? Heck, I can’t count the times I’ve abandoned my cart in the middle of an aisle and hidden in the restroom ‘til the coast was clear. Ever buy ice cream that’s obviously thawed at some point and been refrozen? Now you know why.

~Speaking of neighbors: When I was a kid, my mother often said, “The problem with living in the city is you don’t know your neighbors.” I never took her seriously, for two reasons: a.) she’d never lived in a city, and b.) we had no neighbors. It was like having someone tell you, “Sasquatches smell like wet dog.” Sure, you could choose to believe it, but why would you?

~Couldn’t help but chuckle at my buddy who’s planning to escape town over the holiday weekend. He lives in a trailer at the end of a dead-end dirt road about a quarter mile from the nearest power line. Come Friday afternoon, though, he’s “headin’ upta camp.”

~Ever notice that many of the same people who lose their minds during a power outage will gladly fork over fifty bucks to sleep on the ground and poop in a hole?

~I recently used “skedaddle” in a sentence and people looked at me like I belong in a home.

~Bought Stephen King’s recent book, “Holly,” not realizing the cover glows in the dark. I don’t need those kind of surprises in my life.

~Why is there no air freshener that smells like coffee?

~I’m not pointing fingers, but have you noticed that the worst road around here leads to the Public Works Department?

~Think it’s mere coincidence that organ music shows up almost exclusively in churches and horror movies?

~Given the many regulations and recommendations around food safety, I’ve always thought it hysterical that we all buy fish from the back of a van.

~My bank recently froze my account for suspicious activity. Someone apparently tried to make a deposit.

~Ever have one of those days where everyone you meet reminds you of Jim from Taxi?

~I have OCD and ADD. Everything must be perfect, but only for a few seconds.

~Business idea: point a video camera at the public boat ramp and start a YouTube channel. You’re welcome.

~Can’t wait for the new mini golf course to open. I’m available to caddy.

~In forty years of golfing, the only improvement in my game occurred when the course-side condos removed their swimming pool.

~Guess I was overtired. Recently poured my corn flakes into the coffee maker basket. Worse: the basket was IN the coffee maker at the time.

~A California friend asked if Moosehead Lake is cold. “Let me put it this way,” I said. “The annual 4th of July festivities include a polar plunge.”

~I’ve always found it interesting that most pilots, upon meeting you for the first time, will, in the first ninety seconds of conversation, tell you that they’re pilots.

~Was offering a brand new pre-hung door online for $50. Received this message: “Give you $20 CASH.” Like I’m supposed to be impressed. How the hell else would he pay me? Certified check? Bitcoin? Beaver pelts?

~Ever struggle with those toilet paper dispensers in public restrooms? Specifically, the ones with the single roll of toilet paper that’s the size of a truck tire? Those rolls weigh so much that spinning them is impossible. You pull and pull and pull, a little harder, and a little harder, and a little harder, until finally the TP rips and leaves you with a postage stamp-sized piece between your fingers. I’ve heard the term, “designed to fail,” but these were designed to never work in the first place. It’s like they want you to just give up.

~Riddle me this: why is it that, when I see a bicyclist in the city, I think, “Good for him! I wish I had that kind of ambition!” Yet, when I see a bicyclist in rural Maine, I think, “Poor bastard must’ve lost his license.”

~Why is no one ever combobulated?

Enjoy the day--

Celebrating Everyman on Labor Day

Thirty-three or thirty-four years ago—1990 or ’91, I can’t remember which—I was hanging out at the local Citgo station (where Big Apple now stands), waiting for my friend Dewey to finish his shift. It was a Sunday evening in mid-May, clear and bright and cool, and Dewey had just finished “sticking the tanks”—measuring the fuel levels of the in-ground tanks with a giant wooden ruler—when in rolled a Chevy pickup. My friend and I watched through the window as a thirty-something man in a t-shirt and jeans climbed down from the cab and thanked the driver with a pat on the door and an appreciative wave. The truck pulled away while the fellow we now took for a hitchhiker began running toward the station entrance. Dewey flicked the ash from his Marlboro and said, “Well, this ought to be interesting.”

     The station’s old wooden door flew open fast enough to rattle its pane. “Thank God you’re here,” exclaimed the stranger to my friend behind the counter. “I need a tow truck.” His voice contained a notably high level of desperation.  

     Dewey asked what happened.

     The man’s reply, in a nutshell: road washed out, passenger van, front end sunk into the mud, wife and children still with the vehicle.

     “Whereabouts?” asked Dewey.

     “Back side of Big Spencer Mountain.”

     At that, I let out an audible, “Oh boy.”

     The region in question was well over an hour’s drive from town--most of it on gravel roads.

     Dewey looked over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. It read five minutes to six. He turned back around, butted his cigarette in the ashtray, and broke the news as gently as he could.

      “This ain’t your lucky day,” he said, and nodded toward the window. “See that tow truck across the street? It’s the only one in town. And the guy who drives it is on vacation.”

     “Oh my God,” said the man, bringing a hand to his mouth.

     “It’s gonna be okay,” assured Dewey. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m out of here in five minutes. I’ll get you unstuck. And if I can’t, I’ll at least get your wife and kiddos back to town.”

     My friend looked over at me. “Road trip?”

     “Wouldn’t miss it.”

     The stranger spoke. “I sure hope one of you guys has a four-wheel drive.”

     “Nope,” said Dewey. He broke into a grin and jerked a thumb in my direction. “Dumbass here doesn’t have a car, and I drive a Ford Escort.”

     The man’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

     I tried my best to console the poor guy. “Not to worry,” I said. “It’s top of the line. Even has a pin stripe.”

We arrived at dusk. The man reunited with his wife and two young children while Dewey and I surveyed the scene: a vintage Volkswagen van, front wheels submerged halfway up their hub caps. Dewey asked the man’s wife to drive in reverse while we three men pushed. The VW budged not an inch. For perhaps the next quarter hour, we batted around bad idea after bad idea. Then someone noticed that the van sat far over to the right side of the road. Might we have enough road on the van’s left side to swing its front end clear of the washout? I turned to the man’s wife. “You folks have a jack?”

     We worked in the glow of headlights, mud and icy water halfway up our shins. Again and again, we jacked the front of the van as high in the air as possible and pushed it from the side. Sometimes we managed to nudge it a foot, sometimes just three or four inches. Together, though, we eventually rotated that van far enough to land her wheels back on solid ground.

     I don’t recall exactly how much money my friend earned in those days. But I remember well that I took a job several years later for $4.25 per hour. If Dewey cleared one hundred-fifty dollars per week pumping gas at that station, I’d be very surprised. And yet, when the van owner reached out with a wad of bills, Dewey told him to put it away.

     “C’mon man, you just saved our vacation.”

     “Don’t worry about it.”

     “Take it, please.”

     Dewey waved him off. “Nah,” he said, “Just buy your gas from us next time you’re in town.”    

Happy Labor Day, and thank you for all you do.

Minnie, Monty, and a Lady Named Cora

My great aunt Wilhelmina (“Minnie,” for short) was born in 1894 and in her 98 years saw the arrival of many life-changing inventions, everything from radio and television to the electric toaster and Polaroid cameras. Aunt Minnie, though, shunned all these newfangled contraptions and most others that came along, she having spent much life with a near obsessive aversion to technology—a phobia rooted in the untimely death of her husband Freemont (“Monty”). 

     By all accounts, Monty was a kind and hardworking man, if a bit lacking in the commonsense department. A cobbler by trade, he specialized in making and repairing spiked boots for the men who worked river drives, and was highly regarded from Bangor to the Canadian border for his craftsmanship and reasonable prices. In fact, Monty’s business proved so lucrative that, in just three years of running his own shop, he managed to save enough money to buy a Model T Ford.

     The shiny new automobile arrived by train in the spring of 1915 and, for the next several days, Monty and his young bride reveled in cruising around town, making endless loops back-and-forth between the Junction Wharf and the scenic lookout on Blair Hill. Monty and Minnie, the story goes, might well have been the first Greenville couple to ever go “parking.” As owners of one of only three “horseless carriages” in the region, they were having the time of their lives. Then, on June 3, 1915, tragedy struck when Monty lit a cigarette while driving to the post office.

     Model T gas tanks were located directly beneath the seats.

     Widowed and traumatized, my aunt blamed the car, and from that day forward shunned all new inventions, preserving like a time capsule her home and manner of living for the next 68 years. Finally, in 1983, Minnie--age 88, her mind and body slowing--moved to Beaver Cove to live with her younger sister.

     Aunt Minnie adapted reasonably well to her new, infinitely more modern, surroundings. One thing, though, continued to intimidate her: her sister’s telephone. You see, in Minnie Belmont’s 88 years on earth, she’d never once used a phone. Ever. And she flatly refused to call anyone with her sister’s phone for fear that the rotary dial might sever the tip of her finger or, worse, break a nail. Months’ worth of encouragement from family and friends, however, eventually provided Aunt Minnie with enough gumption to begin taking calls, and she seemed to enjoy the conversations despite a constant fear of eavesdroppers. You see, in 1983, Beaver Cove remained one the last places in America with party lines.

     I was thirteen that year and, having watched Minnie talk on the phone, I can attest that it was quite a production. The woman was scared to death of the thing. She’d pick up the handset with the timidity of someone attempting to diffuse a bomb, and she always spoke into the mouthpiece as if taking the call in the middle of a Sunday service. In person, Minnie presented as gregarious and pleasantly boisterous. On the telephone, though, she whispered—no doubt in effort to protect herself from nosy neighbors. I called one day. When she answered--on something like the 72nd ring--I heard a voice soft as that of a church mouse.

     “Hellooooo?”

     Even four decades later, I’m not proud to admit this, but I decided right then and there to play a little joke on my elderly aunt. I said—with my best little old lady voice—“Hello, is this Minnie?”

     My aunt whispered, “Yes, who’s this?”

     To keep up my little charade, I made up a name. A completely fictitious name. I said, “Minnie, this is Cora Fielding.”

    “Who?”

     “Cora Fielding!” I shouted. “Minnie, I haven’t seen you since 1930!”

     For a long moment, I heard only silence on the line, and I visualized my aunt standing there, eyes narrowed, the wheels of her mind slowly turning. Suddenly, she burst out.

    “Holly MacIntosh!  Cora, how you doin’?”

     Continuing with my little-old-lady impression, we had a nice chat for two or three minutes. Then, no longer able to keep from laughing, I reverted to my normal voice and said, “Auntie, what are you doing!”

     “Travis,” she said, “get off the line—I’m talking to Cora Fielding!”

Maine State House News

In 2021, Athol, Massachusetts named him “Businessman of the Month.”  He hosts an investment advice program on a 50 watt AM radio station.  His motivational speaking engagements fill medium-size banquet rooms from Danvers to Dorchester.  His name is Zack Zorkerschmel.  (“Pronounced just like it’s spelled,” he wants you to know.)  He’s a Massachusetts developer.  And he wants Maine to lease him a few million acres at a dollar per year. 

     Zorkerschmel’s name might ring familiar.  As a businessman, he’s enjoyed—critics might say endured—a long and colorful history in New England.  As owner and operator of Mainely Moose Tours, he earned a small fortune during the 1990s through his knack for marketing and some well-placed salt licks.  A years-long investigation by the Maine Warden Service led to removal of the licks and a reportedly six-figure fine.  The business soon dissolved.  Zorkerschmel, though, retained enough cash to launch his next venture:  OOB Boutique, which he describes as “a combination Speedo Shop/Skee-Ball Center/Burner Phone Emporium.”  It lasted one season.  Other of his less-than-successful ventures include a coffee brandy flavored energy drink, squirrel jerky, and--most famously--turning the Mount Washington Auto Road into the world’s largest snow tubing park.  “I’m still bitter about that one,” he laments.  “The entire infrastructure already existed, right down to what would have been the world’s coolest passenger lift:  the Cog Railway.”  Zorkerchmel gazes into the middle distance and shakes his head.  “New Hampshire politicians, man.  They have no vision.”

     Zorkerschmel hopes Maine lawmakers possess the type of vision their Granite State counterparts lack.  He’s in Augusta this week aiming to convince them to place an estimated 3.2 million acres of undeveloped forestland under his control.  His plan:  the world’s largest theme park, one based entirely on the history of logging in Maine. 

     In a recent interview, Zorkerschmel produced a poster-size map of the land in question and spent ninety minutes presenting his idea, which he called “part working forest, part tourist attraction.”  The park will contain numerous “towns,” each designed and constructed to honor a particular period in Maine’s logging history.  “Visitors will be able to experience Maine life as it was, all the way back to 1830,” Zorkerschmel explained.  Among the planned attractions:  hotels, restaurants, museums, exhibitions, midways, log flumes, roller coasters, woodsman exhibitions, lumberjack competitions, logging camp tours, and river drive re-enactments.  His proposed name for the park:  Bunyan World.  As in Paul.

     I asked Zorkerschmel if he worried that Mainers might find his vision more akin to Disney than Acadia.  The developer rolled his eyes. 

     “Acadia.  Hike a mountain at three in the morning so you can see the sunrise at six.  Yeah, that’s a good time.”

     He emphasized the importance of Bunyan World’s working forest, which he claims will guarantee thousands of woods-related jobs and the restoration of Maine’s title as “Lumber Capital of the World.”

     “The reason Maine’s logging industry has suffered,” said Zorkerschmel, “is because it hasn’t adapted to the times.  These days, when a person buys a stick of lumber, he envisions the tree from which it came.  He wants to know where that tree grew.  He wants to know that it lived free of pesticides and chemical fertilizers.  And, of course, he wants to know that it was harvested humanely.”

     “Harvested humanely?” I asked.   

     Zorkerschmel arched his eyebrows in inquiry.  “What?”

     “Trees don’t have nervous systems.  They don’t…you know, feel.”

     He dismissed me with a wave.  “They’re living things, and they deserve our respect.  And ending their lives with those loud, unsightly, diesel smoke-spewing tree harvesters is anything but respectful.”

     I asked if he had an alternative in mind.  The businessman smiled.

     “Crosscut saws and axes.  The way nature intended.”

     “Impossible,” I said.  “You’d need to pay each crew member a thousand bucks a day to work that hard.”

     “Wages will run high, that’s true.  But Bunyan World ticket sales will more than offset them.”

     Zorkerschmel heads to Bangor tomorrow for a meeting with city councilors.  Bunyan World will need a mascot, and he’s hoping to buy a certain statue…

A Real (Thanksgiving) Turkey

Thursday night, I was fretting over what to write for this column when my phone rang.   

     “Happy Thanksgiving,” I answered.

     A burly voice boomed in my ear.  “GOT YA DEER YET?”

     “Hi Tom,” I said, and closed my eyes against the headache already forming.  

     The inquisitor on the other end of the line was none other than Thomas R. Smith, AKA Cousin Tommy.  He’s one of those family members you talk to about once every five years whether you want to or not.  We speak so infrequently that his name and number weren’t even in my phone, which explains why I answered.  Mind you, Tommy’s not a bad guy.  But he has a long-standing reputation as one of those people who reaches out only when he needs something.  I was therefore naturally leery when he kicked off the call with a job offer.

     “I wanna open a store somewheres in Greenville and have you run it.  Yessah!” 

     “Oh wow!” I said.  

     Oh God, I thought.

     For the next twenty-odd minutes, Tommy regaled me with his sales pitch.  I turned him down for a variety of good reasons, not the least of which is that I know him.  Still, listening to the man gave me an idea.

     “Say,” I said, “while I have you on the phone…mind if I profile you and your business for the local paper?”

     “SHOR!”

     My headache began receding ever-so-slightly.  

For the last decade or so, Cousin Tommy has owned and operated Tommy’s Taxidermy on Belgrade Road in Pingree.  If you’re one of the dozen or so humans who still listens to terrestrial radio, you’ve doubtless heard his ads.  Tommy’s Taxidermy:  We’ll make your animal appear so life-like, you’ll be tempted to shoot it again.

    Yes, he’s THAT guy.  

    I make fun of Tommy--mostly because it’s easy--but I give him great credit, too.  My cousin is quite literally the modern-day embodiment of the American Dream, the rare man who made something of himself despite starting with nothing.  In Tommy’s case, “nothing” includes brains, looks, and good taste.  His 10,000 square foot combination taxidermy showroom/sporting goods store, though, is proof-positive of the man’s savant-like genius for marketing.  Once, upon hearing a customer bemoan that he hadn’t caught a legal fish all spring, Tommy nailed a high-tension bungee cord to each end of a hardwood plank and dubbed it, “The Fenwick Fish Stretcher.”  Guaranteed to add as much as two inches to any freshwater fish or the next one’s half price!  They flew out the door at $49.95.  When he noticed a spike in business each year around Valentine’s Day, he created a line of blaze orange lingerie.  “Took off like a California wildfire,” Tommy told me, proudly.  Spurred by the success of that little venture, he hired a ghostwriter to pen a Maine-based romance novel titled, Fifty Shades of Camo.  It’s in its fourth printing; there’s even talk of a movie.  Tommy also dabbles in real estate (sort of).  For as little as $149.00 per night, you can rent one of his hunting blinds through Airbnb.  Despite these and other big sellers, his primary money maker remains something you’ve probably seen a hundred times and never noticed.

Tommy had been in business for about two years when, while driving home one November night, he spied a deer hanging in his neighbor’s yard.  

     “This fella was one of the worst hunters you ever laid your eyes to,” explained Tommy.  “Couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun and a scope.  Hell, he hadn’t shot a deer in twenty years that I know of.  Then one day he bags this little spikehorn and he’s so damn proud of himself that he hangs it in his front yard for all the world to see.  Problem was, there weren’t no trees in his front yard.  His back yard’s a forty-acre woodlot, but he’s got to show off, ya know?  So get this:  he strings the deer from his dog run!”  Tommy snorted at the memory.  “Damndest thing you ever saw.  Looked like Rudolph on a zip line.” 

     As Tommy tells it, he went home and started disparaging the neighbor to his wife.  He was initially shocked when she defended the man.  “Cut the poor guy some slack,” she scolded.  “He’s waited a long time to have a deer to show off.’  

     “That,” explained Tommy, “is when it hit me.”  He paused as if reliving the magic moment.  “Every hunter wants a deer hanging in his yard.  Well, I decided right then and there that every hunter should have one.”

     Capitalizing on modern society’s “everyone gets a trophy” culture, Tommy launched an entirely new industry.  Instead of mounting deer in the life-like, upright poses he’d always done, he began mounting some to look, as his website says, “Fresh off the roof of your car!”

     Tommy priced his first “field-dressed, ready-to-hoist” white tailed deer at $3,995.  It sold in an hour.  He sold two hundred in the first year.  Three hundred the next.  This year, he’s already doubled that.  “And we’re still getting Christmas orders!”  he chimed.  

      I asked Tommy where he’s finding all these deer.

     “We’re doing more and more custom jobs all the time,” he said.  “Most are still road kills, though.”

     “So, you recycle.”

     He roared with laughter.  “Zackly.  For a taxidermy shop, the environmentalists love us.”  

     Each ultra-realistic, fully weatherproof mount comes with ten feet of rope, a roll of cheese cloth, and--ironically enough--a “lifetime” warranty, guaranteeing that the hunter can get skunked year after year and the neighbors will never know.  

     “That’s actually brilliant,” I admitted to my cousin.

     “Ooh!” he said, “I almost forgot to tell you about the special I’m runnin’!”

     Order your ready-to-hang white tail by December 1st and receive a replica deer tag absolutely free.  

     “What do wardens think of all this?” I wondered aloud.

     Tommy ended the call there.  Muttered something about a headache.

Family Portrait

The rising sun sparking on the watery plain, pine walls awash in golden light, windows open to the sounds of early morning; chickadees and blue jays singing in maple trees, crows crowing in the spruces and firs; a small outboard putting in the distance; dew on the lawn, air and water perfectly still; our aluminum skiff at the dock, floating in wait; the German shepherd curled up beside the sliding glass door. 

     My father began his day at dawn, while my mother and I still slept.  He dressed in the slacks and button-down shirt hanging from the bedpost, then stepped into his Moccasins and headed for the kitchen, humming a merry tune and playfully rapping the fingernails of his right hand along the hallway wall.  He plucked his fishing hat from atop the pool table and perched it on his bald head as he stepped out the door.  He drove the Ford pickup into town.

     Two or three minutes later, Dad pulled up in front of a not-yet-open Breton's Store where a stack of Bangor Daily newspapers stood guard at the entrance.  He slid a newspaper from the bundle and tossed down his 35 cents, then looked across the road toward the Junction Wharf.  If he spotted any early morning fishermen, he might drive over and ask how they're biting, or simply sit for a few moments and watch them cast. 

     Upon returning home, Dad reached beneath the kitchen counter for the half gallon of Popov, and into a tall glass sans ice poured enough of the vodka for two or three regular-size cocktails.  He added orange juice--more or less for color, I think--and stirred the concoction with whatever proved handy; spoon, fork, knife, Bic pen—didn't matter.  Satisfied, he tapped his stirrer on the rim of the glass and sucked it dry.  Then, cocktail in one hand and newspaper in the other, he ambled over to the dining room table and took his seat beside the picture window.  He lit a Chesterfield with a match, slipped on his reading glasses and commenced with working the crossword puzzle with a pen.  Dad completed the crossword puzzle every morning of his life, and always in ink, pausing occasionally to sip his “vodka and orange juice” and gaze out at the lake.   

     My mother awoke at about 6:30. Dad greeted her with “Good morning, dear,” as she came down the hall.  She answered in accordance with her mood as she turned the corner for the kitchen.  Sometimes, she replied with a loving “Good morning” in her sweet voice, and sometimes she offered a gruff and guttural “Mornin'.”  Listening from my bedroom, I knew from her tone how the next few minutes would unfold.

     If my mother answered in her sweet voice, she’d turn on the radio to Q106.5, the only country station we received in Greenville.  She’d fill a saucepan with water and place it on the stove.  While waiting for the water to boil, she’d open cans of dog and cat food with the electric blender, both animals charging into the kitchen at the sound.  My mother would look down at the cat nuzzling at her legs.  “Good morning,” she’d say.  “You're so pretty, yes you is.”  She’d feed the dog first, bending down to spoon Alpo into its bowl.  “There you go, old boy.”  Then she’d tip the can of cat food upside down and shake it until its contents slid out with a slurp.  The cat always took her meals on the kitchen table as a quasi-defense against the German Shepherd stealing its food.  But the dog, having finished its meal in a series of quick chomps, now stared longingly at the cat’s breakfast as if eying its dessert.  “You leave that kitty alone if you know what's good for ya,” my mother would warn. She then spooned her instant Maxwell House into a cup, added hot water from the pan, topped the mixture with a splash of milk from the gallon jug and took her seat at the kitchen counter.  There she’d spend the next hour or so sipping coffee, smoking Pall Malls, listening to the radio, making small talk with my father and reading borrowed sections of The Bangor Daily News. 

     If she answered in her gruff voice, I’d pull the blanket over my head. 

     Anything could set her off.  A hungry cat (“Get!  Get before I fuckin’ shoot you.”); a low supply of milk (“Ain't that fuckin’ sweet, huh?  Another fuckin’ gallon of milk, gone!”); a dog that won't come in from outside (“Fine!  Stay out you fuckin’ bitch!”).  And nothing raised her ire like my dirty dishes in the sink.  “You son of a whore, you!  You rotten little bastard! You ain't nothing but a fuckin’ pig.  You’ll be wearing a fuckin’ bra pretty soon, your tits will be so fuckin’ big.  I'll put a chain around that God damn refrigerator if I got to.”  On and on she raged.

     I hid beneath the covers, afraid to leave my room.

     Dad lifted his eyes from the crossword, looked toward the lake, and sipped his vodka and orange juice.

     My mother's rages shook my very sense of self.  They felt like earthquakes, complete devastation without warning or means of prevention and no way of limiting the destruction.  Now entering preadolescence and no longer possessing the cuteness of a toddler or the innocence of a young child, I transitioned from merely witnessing my mother's tirades to almost always being the target of them.  Dad encouraged me to turn the other cheek.  “Your mother likes to blow off steam,” he'd say, “It's best just to ignore her; she doesn't mean what she says.”  But I couldn't ignore her because I couldn't distinguish between "meaning it" and "not meaning it,” and the reason I couldn't distinguish the difference is because there is no difference. 

     My mother grew increasingly hostile toward me as I grew older, and as I grew older, I began to talk back.  This had the unfortunate side effect of intensifying her fury, and what had always been her tirades now became our wars.  By the time I left for college at age eighteen, my mother and I likely fought hundreds, perhaps thousands of times.  We fought more often than most people take out the trash, or buy milk, or do laundry.  I'm not talking about petty, run-of-the-mill squabbles; my mother and I were incapable of mild disagreement.  Our fights escalated into full-fledged nuclear confrontations—all of them.  Yet, within minutes of an argument, no matter how traumatic or intense, I could never remember how a fight began.  Our conflicts were so commonplace that I lived without awareness of their origins, like a person lives without awareness of his heartbeat.  The only thing I knew for certain is that the fights were my fault.  This I never doubted, not even for a second.  To make sense of my life, I had a choice to make:  View myself as bad or my mother as bad, and no child wants to view their parent as bad. 

     Fights between my mother and me always followed the same trajectory.  She'd complain about something I'd done, or didn't do, or wanted to do, or asked to do.  Unable to bear her anger, I'd talk back, and we were on our way to Armageddon, volleying verbal bombs at each other, both of us getting louder and louder until she threatened me with physical harm (“I oughtta fuckin’ cold-cock you, you son-of-a-bitch”) or the loss of a privilege (That's it!  No minibike for you!”).  At this point, the emptiness swallowed me up and all my anger turned to fear and shame.  Crying and wailing, I begged forgiveness.  I needed her to let me start over.  “I'm sorry, Mommy!”  I needed her to stop being angry with me.  “Please, Mommy!  I'm sorry!”  I needed to know she still loved me.  “Please!  Mommy!  I'm so sorry, Mommy!  I'll be good!  Please!”  But it was always the same response:  I didn't know how to be good, and it was too fuckin’ late for sorry.  Hysterical with panic, I continued to sob and plead until she completed my rejection with “Get out of my fuckin’ sight if you know what's good for ya,” or “If I was you, I'd go to my fuckin’ room and stay there.”  Wailing with pain and fury, I ran down the hall to my room and jumped onto my bed, kicking and punching the mattress, screaming and crying until I fell asleep.

     My dad refilled his glass. 

Trying

My mother stands on the end of our dock with her Minolta in hand.  She eyes the dials, a quizzical look on her face.  Trying to figure something out.    

     I call across the water.  “Ready?”

     She shakes her head at the confusing piece of electronics.  Dad bought her the camera three years earlier as an anniversary present, but despite the owner’s manual, a photography book, and Anne Rojas’ expert coaching, she’s never really learned how to use it.  I’m not worried, though.  Her outdoor shots are usually pretty good.  She lowers the camera to her side and peers in my direction.  She looks uncomfortable but determined.  She’s trying. 

     “Ready as I’m gonna be, I s’pose.”

     I’m thirty feet away, standing in a suit and tie atop a gently sloping ledge where it dips beneath the surface of the lake.  I look down as a small wave laps the toe of my shoe.  I dry the wingtip with a flick of my foot and readjust my stance.  Hands in pants pockets, I look out over the lake.  “Okay,” I yell. “Go for it.”

     “Ain’t you gonna face the camera?”

     I turn only my head.  “It’s a profile shot, ma.”

     “All right,” she says, “if you say so.”  Then, in her baby voice:  “Say cheeeeeeese!”

     I turn back to the lake and roll my eyes toward the overcast sky.  “Cheese.”

     My mother’s shooting pictures for my senior portrait.  It’s one of our good days. 

There had always been good days.  Rare as Seattle sunshine, perhaps, but forever recurring.  This knowledge—that homelife was sometimes good—instilled in me a perennial hope that it could be good again.  Hope kept me coming back each time I ran away.  That, and she was my mother.  That, and he was my father.  That, and this was my home.

     I often wonder how my life might differ had I possessed the courage to leave and stay gone.  It’s an unanswerable question, of course.  In simplest terms, each of us is a product of biology and environment, and even that seemingly straightforward combination offers infinite possible outcomes.  Had I left home at sixteen and, say, been adopted, I might have grown into a confident, emotionally steady, intellectual type—a college professor, perhaps, or a journalist or librarian.  Or an ax murderer.  You just never know. 

     What I do know, and often remind myself, is that I was an extremely lucky kid.  People made a difference.  Dad blessed me with his intellect, amiability, and gregariousness, and instilled in me a moral compass.  My teachers consistently emphasized the importance of education.  Uncle Jack and my brothers inspired me to dream of a world beyond Greenville, Maine.  Families like the Hubbards, Owenses, and Wallingfords, gave me a chance, a few hours at a time, to experience a loving home.  Charles Carter and Anne Rojas quietly stepped in to parent me when I needed it most.  And then there was Jan.

     I first met my friend Sam’s mom during the spring of my sophomore year when, while playing Nintendo at her house one Saturday night, the cowboy boot-clad brunette strutted through her front door, grabbed a can of beer from the fridge, approached the couch where her son and I were camped and remarked, in her sassy, central Maine twang, “You must be Travis.”  We struck up a conversation, and I soon abandoned my friend to join his mother at the dining room table.  Sam would need to save Zelda on his own. 

     My friend’s mom and I talked for hours.  She was bright, laughed freely, and avoided all the cliched topics on which parents usually rely when talking with their kid's friends.  To my delight, she even shared memories of The Long Branch.  I instantly liked her.

     Jan, Sam, and Sam’s young sister, Jessie, lived in a gabled ranch overlooking an open field in the woods about six miles south of Greenville.  A recent divorcee, Jan’s lack of money was visible all around.  The field grew wild.  The horse barn and four rail fence remained unpainted.  The house, with its bare plywood floors and untrimmed windows and doors, remained unfinished.  Furniture was secondhand and sparse.  Kitchen cabinets held mismatched plates and Cool Whip containers that served as bowls.  Yet, despite its starkness, I would soon think of this place as my sanctuary. 

     It's often said that men think and women feel, but Janice B. Ryder thought more than she felt.  She possessed the honesty to speak her mind and the confidence to pull it off without appearing arrogant or angry.  The woman exuded credibility.  And so, I paid attention when, mere minutes into our friendship, she became the first person to ever tell me, “Esther Wallace is a difficult woman.”

My mother doesn’t understand why we’re doing this again, especially in such dreary weather.  She devoted an entire roll of film to this project just a week ago, on a day bright and warm.  I’d posed on the lawn that afternoon: me in my shirt and tie, me in my blazer, me with my blazer slung over my shoulder, me wearing my gold rimmed glasses, me not wearing them, me talking with my hands to an imaginary person off camera.  Many of those pictures turned out well, my face well-centered and in-focus, colors so bold you could almost smell the fresh cut grass.  Any number of those pics would’ve proved perfectly suitable for the yearbook, but then I conjured this idea. 

     My mother snaps two quick photos and I ask her to hang on a sec. 

     “Are you getting the lake?” I shout.

     My photographer smiles.  “Of course I’m getting the lake.  It’s behind you, ain’t it?”

     “I mean—”  I try to think of the word.  I know even less about cameras than her.  “Like, don’t zoom in on me.”

     “All right,” she sighs.  “Have it your way, I guess.”

     I pause for a moment.  I want to tell her to keep me near the left side of the frame, but I’m not sure if that will mess with her ability to focus the lens. 

     My mother grows impatient.  “You want me to keep goin’ or what?”

     To heck with it, I decide.  The yearbook staff can crop it.  “Yes,” I answer.  Again, I position myself sideways to the camera.  Straight-backed, I twist my torso slightly and look to the islands.  “Ready.”

Despite her knowledge of my mother, Jan--for a time, anyway--held out hope that my situation would improve.  At one point, she even suggested my mother and I see a therapist.  She knew a good one, she said.  In Skowhegan.  “I went to him when I was going through my divorce,” she said.  “He’s a great guy.  Wicked down-to-earth.” 

     I shook my head morosely.

     “There’s no shame in asking for help,” Jan said.

     “Oh, I know that.  And you know that.  But…”

     “You don’t think Esther will do it.”

     “Not a chance.”

     My friend’s mom shrugged.  “Well, go by yourself then.”

     “Yeah right,” I muttered.  “She’s not going to let me drive to Skowhegan.”  A sixty-five-mile, ninety minute, one-way trip. 

     “Take my car,” offered Jan.  She lit a cigarette, tilted her head back, and blew a smoke cloud at the ceiling.  “Jesum Criminy, I’ll even pay him if you need me to.”

     I knew nothing about mental health therapists or therapy.  In fact, Jan was the first person I ever knew who’d sought such help.  Or, perhaps more accurately:  she was the first person to admit it.  The idea of sharing my troubles with a stranger intimidated me, but I was desperate enough to try anything, and Jan’s offer to pay made me think there might just be some value to it.  Still, I wanted to avoid indebting myself to a person I barely knew.  I would ask my mother.  It took me three days to work up the gumption.  She responded exactly as I’d feared.

     “I don't fuckin’ think so.” 

     I burst into tears.  “But Mom!”

     “Hey, they ain't a goddamn thing wrong with you,” she said.  “Except you're an asshole, maybe.” 

To my mother’s credit, she eventually agreed to my therapy.  Also to her credit:  she drove me to the appointment and paid for it.  She sat in the waiting room while I met with the therapist, a mild-mannered, sixty-something man named John.  John asked a series of general questions from an intake form, and then I gave him a verbal synopsis of my life, focusing on my troubles since dad’s stroke.  When, toward the end of our hour, John suggested that I grieved the person my father had been, I cried because someone had finally said what I’d been feeling for months.  Interestingly, I told him little of my mother, except to say that we fought a lot.  She most certainly was a difficult woman, yet I continued to believe that the power to make her happy rested with me, that I needed to do better, that I needed to change.  Not her.  It was never her. 

     John’s statement about my grief became my personal narrative, the story I told myself and others, the way I made sense of my life.  It’s a story I’d believe for years to come, and for good reason:  it seemed to explain my troubles perfectly.  I never realized that my struggles predated dad’s stroke, or that my mother may have contributed to them.  Perhaps John would have discerned these things in time.  I like to believe he might have convinced my mother to participate in family therapy, or individual therapy.  He might have taught me that not everything was my fault, might have begun to disassemble the shame machine my mother had built in my brain.  Sadly, he never had the chance to form such goals, never mind achieve them.  Two days after my therapy session, my mother and I fought again.

     “Ain’t this sweet,” she snarled.  “Haul your ass to Skowhegan for couns-lin and for what?  Sixty bucks—fuckin’ gone!”

     I never saw John again and wouldn’t see another therapist for a dozen years. 

Of the twenty-four photos my mother shot a week earlier, more than a dozen would make perfectly suitable senior portraits, but I’m hesitant to choose any of them because they just don’t feel right.  In every picture, I look like a kid basking in the afterglow of a glorious, happy-go-lucky four years.  This is not how I view my high school career.  Yes, I enjoyed some good times, and yes, I’d made some good friends.  But my happiest moments and greatest successes seem distant memories, and I’ve come to think of high school as a long, painful trial I’d somehow endured.  I want my senior picture to reflect this.  A few hours spent brainstorming and the idea comes to me fully formed.  All I need is a dark, cloudy afternoon.  When such an afternoon finally arrives, I ask my mother if she’ll snap a few more photos. 

     “Now, why would you want your pitcha taken in the friggin’ rain?”

     “It’s not raining yet.”

     “Well, it’s gonna, just as sure as hell.  That sky’s coal black.”

     “Please?” I whine.

     She shakes her head as a small, mystified smile forms on her lips.  I know what that smile means:  she doesn’t understand me.  “Suit yourself, I guess,” she says, finally.  “Let me finish my smoke and I’ll find my camera.”

I’d known Jan but a few months when I arrived on her doorstep one afternoon after an especially ugly fight with my mother.  We talked for a long time.  Eventually, I mustered the courage to ask to spend the night. 

     “Of course,” she said, scoffing at the question with a wave of her hand.  “Any time.  You don’t need to ask.”  I thanked her, and then she brought me to tears. 

     “I’ve actually been thinking of asking if you want to move in.”

     I’ll never forget the talk that ensued.  Jan called me “a good kid,” and “wicked smart.”  She told me how, during his eighth grade year, Sam would come home from school and “whine about  you kicking his ass in Algebra.”

     She lit a Parliament.  I dried my face with a sleeve of my sweatshirt.

     “Travis,” she continued.  “You need to listen to me.  I know you love her, but your mother’s toxic, and there’s not a friggin’ thing you can do about that.  She’s never gonna change.  It’s not gonna happen.  And you know what?  Bill Wallace would tell you the same thing.”

     I asked about Sam and Jessie, how they’d feel about me living there.

     “Jessie’s too young to care,” explained Jan.  “And I’ve already talked to Sam.  It’s not a problem.  He understands.  He gets it.”

     Jan emphasized that there was no pressure.  I could move in if I wanted, whenever I wanted.  Like her son, I would need to help with the horses, fill the wood furnace, pick up after myself, and go to school every day.  “And no smokin’ pot,” she added.  “Those are my only rules.”

     I wanted to take Jan up on her offer and, eventually, I tried.  But although I liked the situation very much, I returned home in less than a week.  Shame helped fuel my return; shame for thinking I’d abandoned my father, shame for thinking I’d hurt my mother.  More than anything, though, I returned home because I missed the familiar.  My normal may have been ugly, but it’s all that was truly mine. 

     Even though I never lived there, Jan and her family allowed me to come and go as I pleased.  But despite spending hundreds and possibly thousands of hours at their house, I almost never stayed overnight.  Not even the most vicious fights with my mother could keep me from returning home.  Time and again, I ran away to Jan’s only to phone my mother at some ungodly hour and beg her to come get me.  And no matter how much anger she harbored, or how late or early the hour, she always answered the same way.

     “Yep.  Be there shortly.”

     My mother could stay mad at me no better than I could stay mad at her.  She too, I think, found hope in our good days.   

For the remainder of high school and beyond, I dropped by Jan’s nearly every day, often multiple times per day.  If I arrived when no one was home, I might ball my varsity jacket into a pillow and curl up on the sofa just to listen to the silence.  Sometimes, I’d place Jan’s rocking chair between the two tall stereo speakers and blast her old Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel albums and let my imagination soar.  In summer months, I would open the never-used back door and sit on the threshold with my legs hanging where the yet-to-be-built steps belonged, and with the quiet of the house at my back and the open field before me, I’d smoke cigarettes and watch butterflies dance in the shimmering heat, and The Emptiness seemed a mere bad dream and not something that ruined your life.  

After our photo shoot, my mother asks why I want my picture taken on such a dreary day.  I shrug and say, “It’s just something different, that’s all.”  I hate to hide the truth, but I don’t know how to explain it in a way she’ll understand. 

     “It just don’t make no sense to me a-tall,” she remarks.  “Whatever floats your boat, I guess.”

     What divides us feels wide as the lake.  Still, it’s one of our good days. 

One picture turns out exactly as I’d hoped—toes to the camera, chest and face to the lake, shoulders sloping gracefully against a backdrop of mist.  The wind catches the wave of my hair.  My suit looks tailored. 

     Clothes make the man.  I close my eyes and can almost hear my Dad say the words. 

     The camera captures me in full color, the world upon which I gaze, in shades of iron and ash.  I’m ready to leave behind all this darkness and stride into my future.  It’s no accident that I pose with my childhood home at my back. 

     I think I can start anew.  I think I can escape.  I do not yet know that The Emptiness lives inside me.

The Long Branch

Previously published by Discover Maine, 2015

The hotel remained from the days when vacationers came to town by passenger train.  It towered near the railroad trestle in the Junction and could be seen in the distance from any direction, four stories tall and rambling, with classic, stately lines, mansard roof and a white-painted 2nd floor balcony porch that hung in the air near the street.  From this porch you could look out over the street and down onto Wiggin Stream and the row of small, working-class homes along the opposite bank.  High on the ridge beyond these homes stood the lumber mill that gave the Junction its sound—a far-off din of screeching saws and diesel engines and warning beeps that settled over the valley every day from morning until night and nobody ever complained about the noise because it meant that men were working.  

    The people who stayed at the old hotel were blue-collar sportsmen who traveled to northwestern Maine for the woods and the water and the remoteness.  They didn’t come in search of luxury and they certainly didn’t find it.  Never known for elegance, the hotel had, by the 1970s, grown dated and tired.  Guest rooms still opened with skeleton keys and hallway floors squeaked beneath your feet, and the long balcony porch, now weathered and warped, stretched along the building's front like a wrinkle on an old woman's brow.  Few rooms had private baths, fewer still had TVs.  None offered air conditioning.  But guests appreciated the clean rooms and modest rates with hearty meals and boxed lunches included in the price.  They also enjoyed the staff's genuine, small-town hospitality.  And of course, they loved the barroom.  Everybody loved the barroom.

    With its old tin ceiling and the long bar of dark wood and the small tables with their wooden slat seat chairs, Moosehead Lake Hotel's street-level cocktail lounge looked as though it belonged in a western, so much so that the locals took to calling it The Long Branch, after the saloon in the 1960s TV series, Gunsmoke.  The real Long Branch may have been better known than its television namesake, at least in this part of Maine. In the history of drinking, there has perhaps never been a honky-tonk better destined for success.  It operated during the 1960s and 70s, an era when the logging industry still thrived, jobs remained plentiful, and laws against public drunkenness were viewed as mere suggestions among residents of this little village in the woods.  Moreover, as this little village in the woods boasted only two cops and one cruiser, most residents ignored such rumors.  Add live music, 25 cent drafts and a fun-loving proprietor with a Devil-May-Care attitude, and it's easy to see how The Long Branch became the epicenter of debauchery for an entire region of Maine.  Indeed, the place could be as rough as its barn board walls.  Sometimes it was funny and sometimes it was scary, but even when it was scary, nobody ever wanted to leave.  Such is the allure of 25 cent drafts.

    There are still many people living in Maine's north country who drank at “The Branch.” Each will tell you in his own way that there's never been another place like it, and then you'll hear the stories. All the stories are good, and some are truly wonderful. If you're lucky, you might hear about the day Dave Holmbom married wife number four while standing behind the bar in front of the Budweiser tap, the Protestant minister presiding, or the night that Charlie Barriault, irritated at having been shut off by the bartender, fetched a chainsaw from his truck and attempted to cut down the cedar posts that held up the ceiling and the three floors above it. You might hear about an otherwise quiet afternoon when Rollie Lizotte found himself being thrown out of the bar through the front door only to be thrown back in a minute later—this time through a window. If you're very lucky, as I have been, you may encounter a man—a senior citizen now--who will tell you about his very first visit to The Long Branch.

    The man and his friend had spent the morning fishing for trout at a small pond north of Greenville and decided to have a drink at The Long Branch as they passed through town on their way home. Neither had ever been to the place and wanted to give it a try, but they found The Long Branch empty, not a customer or employee in sight, and they hesitated inside the entrance, wondering if perhaps the barroom hadn't yet opened for the day. They decided to stay, though, when they heard the smacking sound of billiard balls emanating from somewhere out back.  The men sat down at the bar and waited, and the bartender appeared a moment later, a man is in his 60s with a horseshoe of white hair and a pool cue in his hand. “Hello there! What can I get for you, fellas?”

    “Whiskey and ginger,” said the first man.  The other raised a finger and gave a nod. “I'll take the same.”

    “Sounds like a winner,” said the bartender, who leaned his pool cue against the bar rail and began scooping ice into glasses. He placed two ice-filled high-ball glasses on the bar, then peeled the pop-tops from two cans of Fanta Gingerale and placed those on the bar.  Finally, he placed a full bottle of Canadian Club on the bar. “Holler if you need anything,” he said, and the two men stared at each other, dumbfounded, as their bartender grabbed his pool cue and walked away.

    I heard this story many years ago. The man who told it to me chuckled hard at the memory as he slapped my shoulder with the back of his hand.  I smiled at him and felt the sting around my eyes because he'd been talking about my Dad.

    I often went to work with my father in the years before I started school and afterward on weekends and summer breaks. The bar opened at 1:00 o'clock each afternoon and so we arrived in late morning.  Dad parked the pickup truck out in front, and I slid across the seat and he set me down.  I heard the lumber mill in the distance and felt the summer heat radiating up from the asphalt.  We stepped into the shade beneath the porch and Dad unlocked the hotel's wide wooden front door.  The door opened with a long creak and I followed Dad into the barroom.  The heavy door closed behind us with a rhythmic whoosh and satisfying clank, and then the only sounds were the hum of beer coolers and our footsteps along the plywood floor.  Two small rectangular windows high on the wall on either side of the fireplace cast narrow beams of sunlight diagonally downward to the floor. We walked amid a strange daytime darkness through a maze of tables and chairs and bar stools, and the air felt cool and smelled of cigarette smoke and stale beer.

    Dad stepped behind the bar and opened the circuit breaker box on the wall, and The Long Branch revealed itself section by section as he snapped the switches one by one. On came the florescent light over the air hockey table, then the light over the pool table, the foosball table, the other pool table, then the wall lights on each side of the fireplace, the entryway lights and finally, the bar lights themselves.  He flipped one more switch to turn on the jukebox and it flickered to life in silence. Sometimes the jukebox would turn on in mid-song at extremely loud volume, filling the room with the twang of whatever 1970s country record had been playing at closing time the previous night. Whenever this happened, Dad would walk over and reach behind the jukebox to lower its volume. He enjoyed music, only not so loud so early.

    While Dad swept the floor with the push broom, I retrieved my Big Wheel from the dance floor and went for a cruise.  I rode giant loops around the building's first-floor, pedaling down the middle of the two-sided bar and continuing down the hall.  I took a sharp right after the liquor closet and drove through the hotel lobby, past the ladies' room and the men's room and the staircase and back into the bar through the main entrance. Dad moved tables and chairs as he swept, providing me with a brand-new obstacle course each time I came barreling through the door. I zigged and zagged as fast as I could peddle, and so long as I didn't drive through any dirt piles, he never seemed to mind.

    When he'd finished sweeping, Dad took the change drawer out of the safe and placed it in the cash register. I climbed onto a stool and watched him count the money. “Daddy?”

    “...eight, nine, ten, yes, dear?”

    “Can I have a Shirley Temple?”

    “...thirteen, fourteen, fifteen--what do you say?”

    “Please?”

    “...seventeen--sure, give me just a minute, Trav, and I'll make you one. Eighteen, nineteen...”

    He finished counting and filled the ice bin, then made my Shirley Temple, spooning cherries from a gallon jar. He tossed a cardboard coaster in front of me and set down my drink. “That'll be fifty cents.”

    “Daddy, you know I don't have any money.”

    “Well, that's alright,” he said with a wink, “your credit is good.”

    I drank my Shirley Temple and stabbed the cherries at the bottom of my glass while Dad restocked the bar. He filled the reach-in cooler with fresh bottles of Budweiser and Miller and lifted each liquor bottle from the rack and held it up to the light to check its level. If one appeared low, he jotted it on a piece of paper. Next, he placed red hot dogs and fresh hot dog buns in the steamer and filled the chip rack and wiped down the bar with a wet towel. Hot, soapy water helped erase rings of congealed beer. Finally, he fetched the string mop and metal mop bucket from the closet. He filled the mop bucket with hot water and poured in a splash of Lestoil, and as he waved the mop back-and-forth across the gray painted floor, the strong chemical pine smell filled the room and signaled a brand-new day.

    This had not always been my father's life, laboring in a barroom.  He’d been born in Greenville Junction, directly across Wiggin stream from the hotel, in a little apartment above his parent's restaurant, in the spring of 1915. The only of Jack and Annie Wallace's five children to graduate high school, Bill Wallace earned two college degrees during the depths of The Great Depression before marrying his first wife, Maxine, in the spring of 1937. The couple settled on Long Island and raised two boys, my half-brothers Bill and Maury.  By the time their sons had graduated college, my father and Maxine--still in their mid-40s—had a nice life but longed for a simpler one, and so returned to the hometown they loved. In doing so, my father had--nearly a decade before my birth—already lived his own version of the American dream.  From him I heard of life in New York during America's golden age.  He told me of The Rockettes and Rockerfeller Center, of watching baseball players named DiMaggio and Berra and Snider.  He told me of living Long Island and travel by train, of the views from atop The Empire State Building and The Statue of Liberty.  And he often told me of his favorite dessert, New York Cheesecake, which he said, “is about this thick,” while holding his thumb and index finger about 3” apart so I'd get the idea.  Smiling, he clicked his cheek and—as if recalling an intimate ecstasy—lowered his eyelids and said, “Oh boy, you talk about good!”  Through these tiny windows into my father's past, I gazed with fascination upon a world far beyond Greenville Junction, Maine.

    Dad finished mopping, pushed the mop bucket down the hall and out the back door.  He emptied the dirty water in the gravel parking lot and leaned the wooden handled string mop against the side of the building to dry in the sun.  Back inside, he pulled the metal chain on the neon OPEN sign, then walked behind the bar and called me over.  I stood next to him as the cash register opened with a loud “ca-ching.”  Dad took two quarters from the drawer and dropped them into my waiting palm.

    “Rack 'em up!” he said.  

    Time to play pool.

Game Time

Previously published by Mainely Agriculture, Spring 2022

I can still see my father with a pool cue in his hand.  He holds it upright at his side, its rubber bumper pressed to the floor.  A Chesterfield smolders between the fingers of his other hand.  He’s waiting for his turn to shoot.  More than that:  he’s watching me play, watching me learn.  The game of billiards is probably the thing we shared most often during our time together.  I grew up with a pool table in our living room.  But it’s those quiet afternoons at The Long Branch I remember best.  

Dad taught me to play pool before I could see over the table.  I learned while standing on an empty Budweiser case turned upside-down.  He provided helpful hints, telling me which ball to shoot first, how hard or soft to strike the cue ball, and where to strike the object ball to cut it at the proper angle.  He taught me bank shots by placing his index finger on the rail and saying, “hit her right about here.”  He referred to billiard balls as “she,” and “her,” the way people refer to boats.  Dad possessed his own unique billiards vernacular.  He called striped balls “the big ones,” and the solid balls, “the little ones.”  Leaving yourself without a follow-up shot meant that you had “stitched yourself,” and his announcement of “game time” meant you were about to lose.  Sometimes, he said things I did not understand, such as the idea that shooting pool was all geometry.  Geometry, he said, was about angles, and I would learn about it in school.  He told me that when he studied geometry, he once solved a problem for the class by sketching a theoretical bank shot on the chalkboard.  

Dad played pool very well, having honed his skills as a youth while hanging out at the local pool hall during the 1920s.  He played with finesse and was a master of the bank shot.  Most impressive, though, is that he played for position—that is, he knew just how to make each shot so the cue ball would line up perfectly for his next shot.  The game offered competition and camaraderie, two things he greatly enjoyed, and I suspect he viewed playing opportunities as a major benefit of owning a bar.  On slow afternoons, he often played against customers, and if his opponent wished to wager some cash, even better.  During the early 1960s, he and his friend Teddy, a local forester, regularly bet fifty dollars per game.  That was a lot of money for the time.  It’s still a lot of money for Greenville.

When Dad and I played, he allowed himself to take only one shot at a time—a voluntary handicap meant to give me a fighting chance.  This ended abruptly one day when, at age six, I beat him with a bank shot on the eight ball.  I’d driven the cue ball the entire length of the table where it ricocheted at a steep angle and rolled back seven feet to gently nudge the eight along the last foot of rail and into the pocket.  Mind you, this was no accident.  I’d called the shot.  Dad knew I’d made it as soon as he saw the cue ball’s trajectory.  “Well I’ll be go to hell!” he exclaimed.  The eight was still rolling to its resting spot inside the table when he looked at me with one eyebrow raised in mock incredulity.  Then a big grin spread across his face and he chuckled.  “I guess it’s time to end that ‘one shot’ rule.”

In my mind’s eye, he moves around the table, calling his shots with a point of his cue, then gazing down the cue’s shaft with concentration and determination deep as the blue of his eyes.  He always tried his best, but was never a sore loser, even when playing for money.  He sometimes muttered an “aww, shit,” upon missing a shot, but never anything more.  Winning meant nothing to him compared to the thrill of competition.  He just loved to play, and he never beat himself up or put himself down when he lost.  This is surely what he wished for me when I struggled with my own failures.  When I shot too quickly, he would say, “Take your time, dear.”  When I grumbled at a missed shot, he would gently tell me to be patient with myself.  Only when I struck the cue ball out of anger would he speak sternly.  “You didn’t hit it hard enough,” he’d say.  He never had to explain what he meant.  And yet, I kept getting angry.  At myself, always.  Not every game.  Maybe not even one in three, or one in five.  But often enough that I can still close my eyes and hear him say, “You didn’t hit it hard enough.”

What I remember most is his left hand, the way he curled his index finger around the cue, with his thumb and other fingers fanning out across the felt.  Whenever he shot, I always watched that hand.  As a boy, I could not articulate it, but in that hand I saw strength, and elegance, and supreme confidence.  My dad looked as in-charge with a pool cue as Ted Williams looked with a bat.  To this day, whenever I encounter someone playing pool, I watch the person’s lead hand.  It tells me all I need to know about their knowledge of the game, their comfort, their confidence.  Or their lack of all three.  I have always held a pool cue in my father’s fashion.  But for too many years of my life, I would stare down my cue’s length to my own hand and know that I was faking everything it meant.