Mingled Mental Misfires

Miscellaneous contemplations while waiting for someone at my doctor’s office to answer the phone:

~Being pleasant to customers for eight consecutive hours is positively exhausting. My boss needs to start paying a good mood differential.  

~My new slogan for Jackman, Maine: “The 1970s with Spotty Cell Service.”

~Speaking of Jackman: I can’t drive there without finding myself stuck at the railroad crossing. Seriously; happens every time.

~Actual line from my forthcoming memoir: “We had guests coming for dinner, so mom hung a new fly tape.”

~A police officer yesterday asked why I always roll down my windows and turn up my stereo when I pass him. “So you won’t hear my studded snow tires,” I said. “And frankly, it appears to be working.”

~Text exchange between me and a woman I met through Match.com:

     Her: “How is it possible that your still single?”

     Me: “You’re.”

~Siri’s great, but she’s no grammarian.

~From a recent conversation with an old friend:

     Him: “My twelve-year old has been playing bagpipes for years. He’s a really good bagpiper.”

     Me: “How can you tell?

~Have you ever seen a car alarm serve its intended purpose? Me neither.

~By my way of thinking, if your truck weighs more while leaving the transfer station than it weighed when you arrived, the town owes you money.

~Apparently, pleated pants fell out of style several decades ago and no one told me. Little wonder I can’t get a date.

~Notice that you never read about non-essential oils? It’s like no one even cares.

~I apologize to anyone I may have woken the other night with my shotgun blast, but I don’t allow spiders in the house—dock spiders especially. On a related note: please reach out if you know someone who’s exceptionally handy with drywall repair.

~I start dancing at weddings and people ask if I played the gopher on Caddyshack.

~Public Service Announcement: every street in Portland has an equal and opposite street in South Portland. Double-check your GPS. You’re welcome.

~Yelling at your server because your food is late is like punching your mailman for not having your tax refund.

~Whenever one of my Applebee’s customers asked for a recommendation, I directed them to Olive Garden.

~Someone told me that smiling requires fewer muscles than frowning. “I know,” I said, “but I really need the exercise.”

~Is it just me, or does every Human Resources Director hold a Masters in creating goofy acronyms?

~My mother informed me that she wants to live to 100. “Not me, “ I replied, “I want to die while I still look good.”

     “Hate to break it to ya,” she said, “but that ship has sailed.”

~ I’ve never been a fan of online meetings, as I always find the video and sound quality seriously lacking. For the last three weeks, however, I’ve participated in an online creative writing group via Zoom. I've never met any of the other participants and likely wouldn’t recognize them if I ran them over with a golf cart. But when, at the beginning of Thursday night’s meeting, a twenty-something woman explained that she’d had a hard week because her dad’s health had suddenly deteriorated, my heart broke. She talked of the challenge of putting one foot in front of the other, of forcing herself to go to work every day, of her constant struggle to not break down in front of co-workers and customers. I had tears in my eyes just listening to her. Feeling the need to offer some sort of condolence, I said, “He’s surely proud of you and all that you’ve become.”

     In unison, each of the nine other people on my computer screen flashed a quizzical look, including Sarah, the grieving young woman. After a most awkward silence, she finally said, “Uh…thanks.”

     Sarah went on say that she and her family remain hopeful because they have an absolutely awesome veterinarian. That's when I realized that she'd been talking about her "cat" and not her "dad."

      Glad I didn’t ask if he’d signed a DNR.

Radio Daze

In a recent column, I mentioned having once worked as a radio personality. Several people have since approached me to inquire about my time in that particular field. It’s something I rarely talk about, and for good reason. If the pinnacle of YOUR radio career occurred in Skowhegan, Maine, you wouldn’t talk about it either.

    My interest in radio began in the fall of 1992 when, while slinging Bye-Bye Bambi Burgers at the Road Kill Café, I unknowingly waited on the general manager of WHMX-FM, a 50,000 watt station in Lincoln, Maine. With the presidential election just weeks away, I’d recently begun incorporating impressions of political figures like Bill Clinton, Ross Perot, and George Bush into my waitering schtick. My myna bird ability apparently impressed because a week or so later I received an unexpected call from Mike Dow, WHMX’s program director. Mike asked if I’d like to come to the studio and record some station promos using my various impersonations. I answered with an enthusiastic yes and we recorded the bits a few days later. Thrilled by my good fortune, I told everyone I knew to listen for me on the station. To my astonishment, some peoplerefused to believe that the voices they heard were mine, so accurate had been my mimicry. For the first time in my life, I began to believe that I might actually possess at least a modicum of talent.

    My little taste of broadcasting left me wanting more. WHMX had no job openings but they kindly invited me to intern with their evening DJ—an offer I eagerly accepted. The position paidnothing but allowed me to learn a few basics and ultimately produce a demo tape. The demo completed, I called WTOS in Skowhegan and talked my way into an interview for 10:00 o’clock the following morning.

    From an early age, I’d been taught to “dress for success,” so I arrived for my interview wearing a double breasted suit and leather wingtip shoes. I could not possibly have looked more out of place. T-shirts and jeans all around. I learned later that the entire staff had initially mistaken me for a consultant. This was not a compliment.

    A receptionist led me to a cramped, wood paneled office where Bill Schissler, AKA “Dino” greeted me. He looked like the actor Paul Giamatti, if Paul Giamatti wore concert shirts and had all but given up on personal grooming.

    “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a metal folding chair against the wall. Piles of CDs, some as tall as two feet, crowdedhis desk and the floor beside it. The desk--what I could see of it, anyway--looked like something from a goodwill store. You’d never find his chair in a goodwill store, though, because no goodwill store would have accepted the thing.

    Dino looked my outfit up and down. “How was church?”

    “I skipped it to come here.”

    “You’re quick; I like that.”

    “Thanks.”

    “You know rock and roll?”

    “Sure,” I said.

    “Name the four members of Led Zeppelin.”

    My heart sank. “I don’t know it that well.”

    “No problem,” he said. “That’s what liner notes are for.”

    Dino reached for the boom box at the back of his desk and popped open the cassette deck.

    “Got a tape?”

    “Ye sir.” I pulled it from the inside pocket of my suit jacket and handed it over.

    He popped the tape into the boom box and pressed play.

    My demo had a run time of about three minutes. Dino listened to roughly half of it and pressed stop. He pursed his lips and bobbed his head in contemplation.

    “This, uh…this is not very good.” Then he said, “When can you start?”

I worked weekend overnights. The job proved not nearly as glamorous as I’d imagined, but it nevertheless impressed people. Friends and family were forever saying, “Wow! You work at WTOS? That must be so awesome!”

    “Yes,” I’d deadpan. “You wanna know what it’s like? Go home tonight and lock yourself in your closet from midnight until five. Talk to yourself non-stop. Listen to a bunch of CDs you don’t like. And for an added little touch of reality, have a bunch of drunk rednecks from Bingham call you ever three minutes requesting The Charlie Daniels Band.”

    “Frankly,” I’d tell them, “I’d rather cut brush.”

    Chatting with people had always come easily for me, so I expected that I’d thoroughly enjoy talking to radio callers. Not so much. One caller in particular drove me nuts. Mike from Augusta was his name. Mike called me every night, religiously—I’m talking five, six, seven times a shift—always asking the same thing: “Hey dude, can you play some Vince Gill? Hey dude, can you play some Vince Gill? Hey dude, can you play some Vince Gill?”

    Finally, one night I snapped and dialed star 69 and said, “Hey dude, can you listen to a different radio station? This is The Mountain of Pure Rock, not The Hill of Gill.”

    I learned quickly that Maine radio differs tremendously from radio in larger, more metropolitan markets. One of the biggest differences is this: when a disc jockey gives away stuff on the radio in Maine, it’s stuff that nobody wants. If you live in a place like Boston, you might hear a DJ say, “Be caller number five right now and score two backstage passes to see the Rolling Stones live tonight at TD Garden.”

    I was on the radio in Skowhegan saying stuff like, “Be caller number five right now and win two complimentary passes for the fourteenth annual Skowhegan Black Fly Festival…and qualify to win a case of Deep Woods Off, compliments of Big Ed’s Woodsman Supply in Corinna.” Caller number five? Yeah right. I’d sit there all night and wouldn’t even get caller number one. Finally, I’d call Mike in Augusta again. “Hey dude, you just won a bunch of crap.”

Midway Madness?

Call George Caldwell a stickler for safety. In a recent interview, the 74 year-old Scarborough resident proudly stated--much to his wife’s chagrin--that he spends his summers rising at 3:00amjust to walk around his condo complex sweeping intersections with a push broom.

    Mrs. Caldwell leaned forward and jabbed a thumb in her husband’s direction. “He thinks he’s helping the bikers.”

    “I am helping them,” protested George. “Sand is a motorcyclist’s worst nightmare. No traction.”

    George’s wife of fifty years looked straight at me and rolledher eyes. “This is a senior housing development,” she said. “We have no motorcycles. Walkers, wheelchairs and the occasional handicap scooter perhaps, but no motorcycles.”

    George, defensive, turned to his missus. “What about Walt Schmitt’s grandson? He brought his bike here that time, remember?”

    “A Big Wheel is not a motorcycle, George.”

    “Well, it still needs traction.”

    Mrs. Caldwell dismissed her husband with a wave. “Oh, please.”

George’s wife isn’t the only person he annoys, especially lately.Indeed, a large portion of the state would like a word with him. You see, George’s passion for safety recently expanded to include Maine’s agricultural fairs—specifically, those featuring bumper car rides. For the last several weeks, he’s been circulating a petition he hopes will spur legislation requiring bumper car drivers to participate in a program he calls, “BCDE,” short for “Bumper Car Driver’s Ed.” Designed by Caldwell himself, this six-week course aims to promote defensive driving skills.

    If such a course seems hugely counterintuitive, well…join the proverbial club. I asked Mr. Caldwell why he’s taken up this particular cause.

    “Whaddaya mean why?” he barked. “Have you driven the interstate lately? Non-stop tailgating; flagrant speeding; peopletexting and driving and zigging and zagging every which way without signaling. It’s chaos out there.”

    “All true,” I said, “but what’s any of it have to do with bumper car rides?”

    Caldwell threw up his hands. “My God, man, where do you think they learn it?”

    You read that right. In Caldwell’s view, everything bad that ever happens on a road, street, or highway is rooted in behavior learned at a young age during bumper car rides.

    He explained. “Imagine a little kid, four or five years old, say, and his parents or grandparents take him to the fair and let him on the bumper cars. Now, you know as well as I do that it’s probably this kid’s first time behind the wheel. And what’s he learning? That it’s perfectly acceptable to cut people off and usehis car like a battering ram.”

    I asked the obvious question. “Won’t bumper car rides prove rather boring if you take away the bumping?”

    “Ha!” shouted Caldwell. “You have no vision, my boy! Allow me to show you my plan!”

    At this point in the interview, Mrs. Caldwell said, “I need a drink,” and left the room.

    Mr. Caldwell pulled an artist’s rendering from a cardboard tube. He unfurled it to reveal an overhead view of a bumper carride’s floor.

    “This is gonna revolutionize the whole industry!” he beamed.

    Caldwell proceeded to explain his plan with the excitement of a proud parent. Instead of bare metal, the floor of his “new and improved” bumper car ride will feature a hand-painted two-lane road in a figure-eight design replete with potholes, construction zones, and a four-way stop.

    “See here?” said Caldwell, pointing to a series of arrows.“Half the cars go in one direction and half go in the other. So, instead of driving willy-nilly all over the place, kids try to stayin their lane to avoid a head-on collision.”

    “What happens if they hit someone?” I asked.

    “Ride over.”

    “Well, that will certainly incentivize the kids to drive safely.”

    “Yep. Same thing if the kid speeds or texts or passes illegally—ride over.”

    “And kids need to show proof of having passed your course in order to enter the ride, right?”

    “Correct.”

    “How much is it?”

    “The Bumper Car Driver’s Ed. course is ninety-nine bucks. Or one twenty-nine for Massachusetts kids.”

    “Why the different prices?”

    Caldwell offered a wry smile. “Some drivers need a bit more work.”

(Not So) Deep Thoughts

Random thoughts while sitting here praying that my car passes inspection:

~Hope you enjoyed your summer, and by “summer,” I mean those two consecutive days of sun in early May.

~Ever wonder why they don’t schedule Thanksgiving to coincide with turkey hunting season? Me too.

~I’ve worked as a comedian, radio personality and writer, but nothing satisfies me like trapping fruit flies.

~Can someone please explain why so many people wait until the cashier finishes scanning all the items before reaching for their wallet? Do they honestly not anticipate the whole payment thing? And speaking of payment: ever notice that the same people who criticize “the younger generation” for their inability to count back change often struggle to use the debit card they’ve had for thirty years?

~Visited Moxie Falls for the very first time recently. Highly recommend, but if that’s the water they use to make the drink, I wouldn’t consume it.

~I’ve noticed that when folks start to feel ill, the first thing they do is consult with all their friends and co-workers just hoping to hear the words, “Something’s going ‘round.” Makes ‘em feel better instantly. Because secretly, all they care about is that otherpeople have the same ailment and haven’t croaked.

~Saw a truckload of outhouses and picnic tables heading for town yesterday and wondered if they were finally turning that crater in the road by Wiggin Stream into a state park.

~I still refer to Mayhew Manor by its former name. I find it a great way for we locals to speak in code. For example, you can say, “Traffic’s backed up to Jamo’s; better take Lakeview Manor,” and people from away haven’t a clue.

~Mr. Rogers failed to emotionally prepare me for some of the people in my neighborhood.

~Ever go on a dinner date with someone you recently met and the food is great, and the conversation’s great, and you find the person interesting, witty, and kind, and you’re having a simply marvelous time right up until he or she casually mentions having been the second shooter on the grassy knoll during a previous life? Or has this only happened to me?

~This summer marks S. S. Katahdin’s 111^th year plying the waters of Moosehead Lake. Thank you Liz McKeil and the crew at Moosehead Marine Museum for keeping Kate cruising.

~Heading over to my local attorney’s next week to have him revise my will. I’ve decided to add my former wife as a beneficiary. To her I shall leave my wooden boat collection, my 10,000 shares of Apple stock, my waterfront camp on Harford’s Point, and several more big ticket items that I’ve never actually owned.

~While visiting my dentist years ago, he voiced concern that I was severely grinding my teeth.

    “You under a lot of stress?” he asked.

    “I am,” I said. “So much so that I talk to my lawyer in my sleep.”

    “That’s terrible.”

    “Yep. And the worst part is, he’s billing me for it.”

 ~I almost never attend funerals and celebrations of life, but will make an exception next week when I head to Benton to honor longtime WTOS newsman Mike Estrada. I’m honored to have shared both stage and studio with “Mr. Mike,” and I can honestly say that I’ve never known a funnier and more congenial human being. He’s one of those people with whom you cross paths for a brief period of your life and you never stop remembering. Rest in peace, Friend.

We Learn What We Live

The assignment had been innocuous enough. Mr. St. Pierre had issued a prompt such as “A Day in Your Life,” or “Childhood Memories,” or some other generic kick starter. I remember arriving at class the following week with two double spaced pages, an unusually short piece for me. I also remember that writing those two pages had been almost effortless--also unusual for me and a sign, I suppose, of how well I knew the subject matter. More than anything, I remember the fear. As I climbed the stairwell late on that April afternoon, I was struck by the realization that I was about to share something I’d only ever shared with my wife, and even then, I’d held back. But I’d held nothing back from the short story I now carried in my backpack. Could I share it with a group of people I barely knew? Should I? At some point during the evening, Mr. St. Pierre would read my story to the class, and although he presented all work anonymously, deciphering who wrote what always proved easy and would prove especially easy for this piece, for in it I described myself as a little boy and I happened to be the lone male among eleven students.

     I’d been happy with the story until now, but until now I’d been focused on the writing more than the content. Now the time had come for me to own the content and I felt that familiar emptiness in my belly. It had come on suddenly, a weak, hollow feeling like that which hypoglycemia patients experience, only I wasn’t hypoglycemic, I was terrified--more terrified of sharing my story than anything I’d ever done. Neither my first time on-air as a radio DJ or my first time on stage as a comedian had panicked me like the thought of walking into that classroom and having my assignment read aloud. Not even my first kiss had matched this moment for pure anxiety. I suddenly wished that I’d never signed up for this class. Or returned to school, for that matter.

     I’d recently re-enrolled at Granite State College after having dropped out the previous summer when my marriage dissolved. Friends had tried to stop me from quitting. “Stay in school, Trav; it will keep you busy, take your mind off things.” But with two young daughters, legal bills, child support, two jobs, an estranged wife I still loved and an employer who gave me daily panic attacks, academic success didn’t seem likely. I did not return to school in the fall. Didn’t know if I ever would. Wasn’t sure that I cared. My attitude underwent a dramatic change, however, when my first student loan bill arrived a few months later. I read the amount due with tears in my eyes, for I could not pay even a portion of it. Knowing that a return to school would defer my loans, I decided to try once more for my degree. I’d have to go further into debt--much further into debt--but at least I wouldn’t have any monthly payments for a while. And so it happened that my inability to afford college kept me from quitting college—a strange and unfavorable situation, but one that would eventually propel me to a B.A.

     My motivation for continuing my education may have been less than virtuous, but I looked forward to getting back into the classroom, one of the few places where I’d always felt comfortable. As an adult I found that I liked the structure that coursework gave to my life, as it forced me to read, write and learn every day, or close to every day. Too, I enjoyed the challenge of tests and quizzes, and to have my thoughts and intelligence count for something was a type of satisfaction I never found in my work as a waiter, except when I had occasion to perform a bit of improvisational comedy for guests. Of the courses I’d taken at Granite State, I enjoyed writing and literature courses best, and so was very excited to see Creative Writing among the spring semester offerings, even more excited to discover that Jim St. Pierre would teach the class. I’d taken several of Jim’s English classes over the years and liked him very much. In addition to his work as a Granite State faculty member, this bespectacled, congenial thirty-something headed the English Department at nearby Fryeburg Academy. Jim was an exceptional teacher, a discovery I’d made during my very first course with him, one of those garden variety composition courses that’s mandatory for all students. We were a dozen adult learners of diverse ages, backgrounds, skills and interest, yet we all improved under Jim’s tutelage. He knew his subject well and forced us to work hard, and I appreciated his in-depth criticism of my writing, although hearing it often pained me. When Jim spent 20 minutes spewing the verbal equivalent of red ink at my first essay of the semester, I wrote careful notes on what he said while I silently seethed, something I did quite often during those first few classes. But I used my frustration to power my keyboard, and as the weeks passed I grew more and more encouraged as Jim’s reviews grew less and less critical. Finally, on the semester’s final day, Jim was reading my essay to the class when he paused halfway through page two, shook his head and looked across the table at me. “You could publish this,” he said, and I clenched my teeth to hold back tears of joy.

     While chipping away at my degree over the next several years, I took as many of Jim’s classes as I could. I gave him my very best work, always, and his growing enthusiasm for me as a writer gave me the courage to take risks that I otherwise would never have considered. But no risk I’d ever taken compared to the risk implicit in my two double-spaced pages.

     At the top of the stairwell, I stopped and pretended to read a bulletin board, gazing unfocused at old registrar’s notices and handwritten fliers while I contemplated turning around and going home. When I heard a young woman’s voice say, “Hi Travis.” I turned to see Beth, a classmate, cresting the top stair. I gave a small wave and forced a smile, then turned back to the bulletin board and listened to the click of Beth’s heels fade down the hall as a new wave of dread washed over me. Couldn’t sneak out now; I’d been seen. What to do? I decided to tell Jim that I didn’t feel well, then go home, but I talked myself out of this idea when I realized that he’d still ask for my assignment. Next, I contemplated telling him that I had nothing prepared. This seemed like the perfect solution. Oh sure, my grade might take a hit, but I could offer to write two pieces instead of the usual one for next week. Writing two short stories in a week would be easy. But I dismissed this idea too when I realized that I could never bring myself to lie. After a time, I became aware of silence and looked around to discover the stairs and halls had emptied. Classes had begun, and I walked on.

ENGLISH 640 began like always, with Jim saying hello, collecting our assignments and making small talk that soon morphed into a discussion of the book we'd been reading for class, Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. We talked about the latest chapter and concluded, as we always did, that Anne Lamott is a genius. The book is Lamott's attempt at a guide to writing, and it is engaging and thoughtful, filled with personal anecdotes and great suggestions. Bird by Bird flows so smoothly and is so entertaining that it makes writing seem the easiest thing in the world, even as the author herself is doing her damnedest to warn you that the opposite is true.  Our weekly canonization of Anne Lamott complete, Jim grabbed the small stack of stories from the corner of his desk and said, “Let's get started, shall we?”

     For an hour or so I enjoy a stay of execution and remain relatively calm as I listen to Jim read several of the other students' stories. Class discussion follows each piece. As usual, the student comments range from simplistic: “That was really good; I liked it a lot,” to insightful: “I had a hard time following the transition from the summer camp scene to the trip with the grandparents.” Jim facilitates the conversation with thoughtful questions. “What did you think of the author's use of smells and sounds?” “Did the opening paragraph capture your attention?” “Are the verbs strong?” He offers his professional insights on each piece, in addition to providing impromptu, as-needed lessons on grammar. “Adverbs are not our friends,” he reminds us, again.

     My story is the fifth of the night. Jim begins reading and I stare down at my notebook and try to control my breathing as my body surges with fear, shame, embarrassment and despair. Each emotion jerks me with its own gravitational pull and I worry that I might break down. I hear Jim reading aloud but I cannot listen for the confrontation taking place in my head.  What the hell was I thinking when I wrote this drivel? What exactly was I trying to prove? Why does any of this crap matter anymore, if it ever did? I move my hands to my lap and pick at my thumb nail, trying to tear it off, and when that doesn't work I drive one thumb nail deep beneath the other to feel the pain. Then I realize my elbows are tight against my sides and it occurs to me that I'm essentially hugging myself and I get angry because I'm a crybaby. I'm the drama queen my boss tells me I am.  I grab my pen and start doodling in my notebook as I jam my other hand under my thigh, then I hear Jim read “fuck” for the first time and I'm impressed that the word doesn't throw him.  He's got the matter-of-fact tone of a news reporter and his inflections are perfect and I think that he could probably make good money recording audio books. Another “fuck” and a “bastard” and Jim still hasn't flinched, but I hate hearing the words and get angry at myself again for such a gratuitous display in my writing. Or maybe I'm angry because people will think it's gratuitous, even though it's really not. It can't be gratuitous if it's true to life, can it? And it is true to life, every four-letter word of it. Still, I worry that people will think I'm just looking for attention. They're probably staring at me out the corners of their eyes, thinking, “Get over yourself, you're not the only one with problems.” I know this is what they're thinking and I want to run out the door and never come back but I'm frozen with fear. I continue to grip my pen but my hand has stopped moving and I'm completely still but for my chest which moves up and down beneath my blue sweatshirt. I remember again to focus on my breathing. It's a good distraction technique, but you must focus for it to work and look how quickly I forgot. Oh my God, it's so hard to do. Jim reads more expletives and they're horrible. It's sacrilege to have such vulgarities uttered in a classroom and I'm ashamed to have written them, ashamed that my classmates are being forced to hear them and ashamed that Jim is being forced to read them. I think of the irony that my stand-up routine contained no curse words. Then Jim reads the worst part of all. It's only a short paragraph but it seems to last forever, each word pounding me with the weight of its shame, beating me into my chair. I'm a child again, lying in my bed, flinching with every syllable. But there's no blanket for me to hide under, no pillow to muffle the sound. I clutch the soft fabric of my pant leg instead. “You son of a whore, you! You fuckin little bastard! Have a little snack last night, did ya? You're gonna weigh four hundred fuckin pounds before you're done. You'll be wearing a bra, your tits will be so fuckin big.” Jim reads the last line which reveals my identity. I lay down my pen and move both hands beneath the desk to hide their tremble.

     The classroom is silent.

     I feel a tear on my cheek and reach up to adjust my glasses to disguise wiping it away.

     No one speaks and I stare at the open notebook in front of me and I'm scared for what I've done. Please, somebody talk, I think, but the silence is so complete that I can hear my jagged breathing through my nose. I keep my head down and my shame rises inside of me until I think I might puke it onto my desk. The only professions I know much about are radio and comedy, two art forms where silence means death, and this silence feels much worse than death. The awful quiet lasts perhaps five seconds, maybe eight.  Maybe ten. An eternity of silence. Finally, I hear a woman sniffle. I sneak a sideways glance and see my classmates crying.

     This is how I learned that I'd been abused. I was thirty-eight years-old.

Hope or Something Like It (2018)

A string of sleigh bells tinkled as I stepped into the shop.  Tim was with a customer, so I busied myself by looking around.  The small jewelry store offered much to see.  Several antique tabletop cases displayed gemstones and precious metals, another contained a variety of rare collectible coins, and a large oak curio paid homage to the jeweler’s trade with its collection of vintage hand tools; wooden handled engravers, tiny hammers, a brass lathe and anvil.  Seeing these tools, all glistening like new, reminded me of why I’d liked this place so much on my first and only visit a few months earlier:  despite knowing nothing about jewelry or the jewelry business, a mere cursory glance at the items displayed had told me that Tim was a genuine craftsman, one who shared certain of my sensibilities.  At the time, this had meant very much to me.  It meant more to me now.  The ring I hoped to buy would be the first I’d worn since I removed my wedding band a decade earlier, and too important a piece to purchase from a chain store, or over the internet.  I’d come to the right place.  The Sinatra wafting through air confirmed it.  

     After three or four minutes of browsing, I heard Tim counting back change, then the sound of sleigh bells as his customer departed.  I headed for the counter where the jeweler, a gentle, studious type in wire-rimmed glasses, stood smiling.  He offered the same greeting as the first time I met him, the same beautiful phrase with which I’m sure he greets all his customers.     

     “And how can I make your day better?” he asked.  

     I smiled back at him.  “You just did, my friend.  You just did.”

Standing at the counter, I showed Tim a picture I’d found online of the type of ring I wanted, a medium-width stainless steel band with black satin finish and pipe-cut edges.  “I really like this style,” I said, and asked if he could order me something similar and engrave its inside.

     “I can certainly help you,” he said.  “But you should know that all of my engraving is done by hand.  The upside is that it’s deeper than you find with a laser.”  He tapped the picture with an index finger.  “The downside is that I can’t engrave stainless.  I mostly work with gold, silver, platinum, sometimes palladium.”

     “I see.”

     “Is this a wedding band?”

     “No,” I said, and felt the awkward silence that had fallen where he’d expected me to elaborate.  I couldn’t bring myself to tell him it was a mourning ring, for I worried that he’d offer condolences, at which point I’d need to explain the situation just to not feel like I was misleading the man.  Wishing to avoid that whole convoluted mess, I kept quiet.  The purpose of this ring was not to draw attention to my grief, but to quantify the unquantifiable, to give the grief form so that I might wear it instead of keeping it inside.  I was trying to heal, and I wanted privacy, hence my reason for placing the inscription on the inside of the ring instead of the outside.

     “Let’s take a look at my website and see what we can find,” said Tim, keeping the conversation moving.  He turned his laptop around to face me and with a few quick clicks, located several silver bands in my price range.  I pointed to one whose shape and width closely resembled those of the ring I’d found online.  “Is it possible to get that in black?”

     “What I’d do in this case is turn it black,” said Tim.  He went on to explain the chemical treatment he could perform on the ring to change its color.  “It works beautifully, but with one caveat:  the black will fade with time.  After a couple of years, you’ll need to have the ring re-treated.  Or you can stick it in a Ziploc bag for a day or two with a couple hardboiled eggs.  Accomplishes the same thing.”

     I laughed out loud.  “Really?”

     “Oh yeah, the silver absorbs the sulfur in the eggs.  Works like a charm.”

     Silently, I contemplated the beautiful symbolism of having my mourning ring fade with the passage of time.  Hope, or something like it, began to stir inside of me.  Maybe I would never need the color restored.  Maybe by the time it returned to its natural silver, I wouldn’t need the ring at all.  Maybe I could slide that silver ring from my finger and drop it in the ocean or heave it from a mountaintop and never think of it again.  Maybe, maybe, maybe…

     “Let me get your information,” I heard Tim say.  He reached for an order form and took my name and number.  “The ring should be here in a week or ten days, at which point I’ll call you and have you come in to double-check the size.  Then I’ll do the treatment and engraving.”   The jeweler slid a small sheet of paper across the counter and handed me a pen.  “And speaking of engraving,” he said, “would you please jot down what you’d like to have?”

     “Sure,” I said, and then slowly, deliberately, I wrote my children’s names. 

Tragedy at Chesuncook

While visiting Greenville Cemetery one day about forty-five years ago, I noticed two long rows of small headstones “side by each.” Curious, I strolled over for a closer look. To my surprise, some of the stones were marked “Unknown,” and most of the deceased had died the same day: November 18, 1920. I asked my dad about it. He’d been just five years old in 1920 but knew exactly what I was talking about.

    “The Chesuncook boat fire,” he said. “Killed sixteen woodsmen.”

    Dad went on to explain that the men--lumberjacks for Great Northern Paper Company--had been crossing the lake to a lumber camp when a backfiring engine ignited their boat. Of the sixteen who attempted to swim to shore, none survived. The remaining seventeen passengers clung to wreckage and were eventually rescued.

    In preparation for this column, I revisited this section of the cemetery and began to wonder about the several people who died on dates other than the aforementioned 11/18/1920. What did these men have in common with the Chesuncook victims? Suspecting that they, too, must have worked for Great Northern, I reached out to local historian (and accountant extraordinaire)Durward Ferland for more information. Durward confirmed my suspicion. In fact, he said, both Great Northern Paper and Hollingsworth & Whitney owned cemetery lots for workers who lost their lives on the job. Woodsmen from that period often hailed from places like Canada and Poland and, having no local family to claim their bodies, often went to their eternal rest in company-owned burial plots. Language barriers and lack of identifying documents meant burying many as “Unknown.” Still others were relegated to unmarked graves in the woods.

    Dangerous work, that logging.

    Below you’ll find lyrics to a song I wrote about the Chesuncook boat fire. Iinvoked some literary license but the tune’s spirit, I believe, hits its mark.

The Chesuncook Sixteen

(Spoken Word)

The old timers 'round here still remember

That gray afternoon from a long-ago November

They remember that locomotive coming down the tracks

The tears in the children's eyes, their mothers dressed in black

Aboard that train were sixteen men

And a fresh pine coffin for each of them

(The following is sung.)

They'd been steaming 'cross Chesuncook Lake for Cuxabexis Bay

Big burly logger men, headin' off to earn their pay

Into those winds and waves they’d happily set sail

They joked and laughed and spat as they stood along the rail

Tryin' to keep warm in that cold November gale

They'd been workin' for The Northern, cuttin' timber their whole lives

Spent their days swinging axes, eatin' beans and working drives

They were among the toughest the north woods has ever seen

Earned their pay with strong backs, spiked boots and two-horse teams

and the next stop was death for the Chesuncook Sixteen

It happened without a warning; that old engine began to flame

Brave men tried to save the boat, their efforts all in vain

They found themselves confronted with two dangers unforeseen

Hell's fire and ice water, they were caught in-between

and the Reaper was knockin' for the Chesuncook Sixteen

(Spoken Word)

I wonder what goes through a man's mind

When he is forced to choose which way he wants to die

Does he worry for his wife who'll have to carry on

Does he wonder who will feed his family when he's gone

Or who will be there to teach his children right from wrong

Does that grown man yearn for his mother's embrace

Does he clasp his hands together and pray for his god's grace

Or does he simply stand there, tears streaming down his face

(The following is sung.)

Those men went over the side into November waves

Each had made a desperate bet that his life might be saved

But those icy winter waters turned their strong bodies numb

And folks on shore could only watch as the men were overcome

Their cacophony of screams quickly fading one-by-one

After all these generations, men still work the woods

The methods have progressed, but the danger's understood

Like a widow maker lurking high atop a maple tree

There are many ways to die; always dangers unforeseen

And the loggers still remember The Chesuncook Sixteen

Maple Sugaring

On a January afternoon twenty-five years ago, my then-girlfriend Karen and I were slowly making our way through an old-timey country store when she stopped in front of a maple products display. My eyes wandered to a collection of Moxie memorabilia across the room while she browsed the assorted syrups and candies. After a moment, I heard her say, “Check this out, Trav,” and she handed me maple leaf shaped glass bottle of amber syrup.

    “We should do this,” she said.

    “Sure,” I replied. “Go ahead and buy it.” 

    “No, silly. I mean, we should make maple syrup.”

    I shrugged. “Okay. I don’t know anything about it, though.”

    “That’s all right, neither do I.”

    “As a matter of fact,” I added, “I’ve never even eaten the stuff.”

    My girlfriend assumed the disbelieving expression that’s usually reserved for parents of teens. “Excuse me?” she said.

    “True story.”

    “How’s that even possible?”

    I’d never thought about it until that moment. And, thinking about it, I had to admit that it seemed rather odd. After all, I’d been born and raised in the middle of the largest remaining temperate forest in North America. Maple trees all over the place. Heck, sugar maples had shaded the front lawn of my childhood home. My parents’ cupboard, though, only ever held“pancake syrup.”

    “What can I say?” I told her, “I’m the product of artificial flavor and high fructose corn syrup.”

Karen rolled her eyes. A city girl living rural life for the first time, she loved and appreciated the great outdoors and was forever in awe of how little I knew about it. That’s okay, though. We learned together.

In those days, a person could still drive to the library and flip through the card catalog in less time than it took to sign onto the internet. Karen and I borrowed two books on sugaring and, a day or two later, toured a local maple syrup operation. Next, we turned our attention to purchasing equipment. An old soul by nature, I forwent my cordless drill and bought a bit brace from the local hardware store. I still remember laughing when Iplucked it from the shelf and left behind its outline among a thick layer of dust. Apparently, nobody had needed a bit brace for quite some time. That same afternoon, Karen arrived home with two dozen buckets and spiles and the biggest stainless steel pot I’d ever seen. I don’t recall its exact diameter, but it hung well beyond the sides of our twenty-inch stovetop.

    “You don’t mess around, do you?” I said.

    “It’s gonna be great!”

    I asked if she’d bought a step ladder, too. Because that’s what we’d need to see into the thing.

    “Use a chair,” she said.

Our first attempt at sugaring started roughly. We’d planned to tap trees as a team when the days began to warm. But when the temperature unexpectedly shot past forty one noontime while I was at work, Karen decided to surprise me by completing the task herself. She marched through knee-deep snow to the woods behind our home and spent the afternoon working that hand crank drill, auguring tree after tree and setting the spiles. When I pulled into the driveway at sunset, Karen couldn’t wait to show me her work. She met me in the driveway, took me by the hand,and led me on a tour of all the aluminum buckets with little pitched roofs. She looked so happy and proud of herself. I didn’t want to ruin it. But someone had to tell her.

    “Um, sweetheart. These are oak trees.”

Karen and I learned much during our first sugaring season. We learned that squirrels love sap and will do most anything to drink from a bucket of the stuff. We learned what day after dayof heavy steam can do to wallpaper glue. We learned that the seat of our antique woven herringbone chair wasn’t designed to support a grown man’s weight. We learned that precious seconds separate boiling water from burning syrup. We learned the limits of S.O.S. pads. More than anything: we learned that the finished product—and the memories—are well worth the effort.

    Oh, and I haven’t touched a drop of “pancake syrup” since.

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--