October 22, 2016
I would have loved to have met Joe Delaney.
Finding Joe’s place was dumb luck, really. Most of my attention had been given to the spectacularly rocky coastline of western Nova Scotia. I spotted the hand-lettered sign on the landward side of the road. It bore a cartoonlike head and the legend “Masque Acadie,” and saw what looked like a hundred or so scarecrows staging a demonstration in a field.
These are the sorts of things one should not resist.
“Back in 1984, my father tried raising a garden here, but the animals, the deer and the rabbits, ate everything up,” said his daughter, Ethel, who had opened a take-out diner and souvenir shop in a converted mobile home at the site of her father’s creation. “So, some neighbors said to my father, why do not you build some scarecrows and keep them away? So, he had some junk sitting around, so he made three, each about six feet tall.”
Joe used old clothes, Halloween masks, strips of bright plastic, and a lot of imagination.
The morning after the scarecrows went up, two tour buses and several cars stopped while Joe was tending his garden. Some people came out, told him they really liked the scarecrows, and took pictures.
“By the end of the summer, he had a dozen scarecrows,” said Ethel.
I poked around the little gift shop, and bought a tiny cup of coffee from her. She handed me the change. Ethel said she and Paul opened the little business two years after the tourists started showing up.
She wore a lot of makeup, with her eyebrows outlined carefully, the heavy black lines of the pencil leaving an oblong hollow. Ethel was an expressive speaker, and her eyebrows moved a lot. It was hard not to stare.
A couple of cars stopped. The people got out, took a few snapshots, dropped a few coins in the collection box that had a little sign saying the money was for the upkeep of Joe’s scarecrows, and drove away. I thought about buying some scarecrow postcards, but changed my mind. I am very cheap.
“The year after, he had 30 scarecrows, and the tourists kept coming,” said Ethel, her eyebrows sending semaphore signals of their own. “He had a little workshop out in the back, in the old bus, where he kept making more.”
Joe had died of lung cancer about two years earlier, Ethel said.
“He was doing real good right up until the end,” said Ethel, in accented English that told me she was more accustomed to French. “Then he got sick and we took him to the ‘ospital, and in just a little while ‘e was gone.”
In front of Ethel’s little take-out was one of those bright-colored windmill things, a propeller to catch breeze attached to a mechanism that made a little wooden silhouette of a woodsman make chopping motions with an ax. The blade kept hitting against the novelty’s frame. A stiff breeze blew in from the shore on the other side of the road. The little lumberjack chopped in a frenzy, a little toy maniac in the wind.
The same year that Ethel’s take-out went in; a vandal struck one night, destroying all but one of Joe’s scarecrows, whom Joe had named Rory. Ethel, her eyebrows rigid with indignation, said she knows who did it, but has no proof.
“It was a man who lives down the road, he left a bar that night after he got drunk and got in a fight. He comes in here sometimes, and I just look at him,” she said.
Joe wrote an account of the vandalism as though written by Rory as an eyewitness. The piece was published in one of the area newspapers. After it ran, a lot of people gave Joe money and old clothes so he could recreate his scarecrows. Today, there are about 100.
“We put’em away in the winter and bring’em back out in the spring,” Ethel and her eyebrows said. “We try to keep’em looking nice for people.”
The collection of U.S. president scarecrows looked a little tattered, but then, so does the office. There were scarecrows sawing logs, scarecrows playing fiddles. Most of them, however, stood in the traditional scarecrow pose, legs spread slightly, arms straight out at the sides, heads staring straight ahead or, sometimes tilted back, staring at the heavens. These latter looked as though they were either praying intensely, or asking God, “Why me?”
There were no scarecrows created to look like God providing answers, though there were a couple that looked like they could be televangelists.
Somewhere along the way, Ethel said, Joe forgot about the garden. He wasn’t around to ask why he simply kept making scarecrows, even to the exclusion of the garden they were designed to protect. Ethel, her eyebrows arching with pride, said her father’s scarecrows draw 20,000 to 30,000 tourists a year.
That’s a lot of coffee, meat pies, muffins, and postcards.
But I am not certain. Sure, that’s what keeps Paul and Ethel solvent, but I do not think money was Joe’s first consideration. I looked at the little photo Ethel kept of him, standing out by his workshop. There was a definite impishness in those eyes. I think Joe just kept building scarecrows and putting them out, just to see how many tourists he could lure in. I have a funny feeling he went to his grave bemused at the public’s apparently endless appetite for cute.
I finished my coffee, and threw the thimble-sized styrene cup into the trash. Ethel thanked me. Her eyebrows seemed to have dozed off.
“Come back and see us again,” she said.
I climbed into my van. The crazed lumberjack was taking a breather. A woman over among the scarecrows excitedly asked her husband, he of the white patent leather shoes and matching belt, to take a picture of her standing next to Ronald Reagan. I started the engine and left. A guy can only take so much culture in one dose.
October 19, 2016
It was not a very large cemetery, tucked away between the back end of a large brick church and a row of some houses that had seen better days.
There were no grand mausoleums, no pigeon-anointed angels atop granite columns, waving their swords and managing to look at the same time fierce and slightly distracted, as though they had just wondered where they had put their car keys.
This was a narrow rectangle of graves, 30 or 40 of them, of men, women and children buried during the years between the American Revolution and two decades before the American Civil War.
The church of which these sheep had been the flock had long ago moved to larger and more grandiose quarters a few blocks away. It has since changed its name. The old building is gone. All that remains are the stones, and the whispers of the names they bore.
I was there, as usual, because there was bad news. A number of the headstones seem to have been broken, cast down shattered on the grass the night before my visit by person or persons unknown.
Probably the latter. Thugs like that rarely act alone, as they need one another to crank their courage up.
Plainly, this was not the first time it had happened. While many of the broken surfaces shone white and new, as many more were old, weathered. It seems that these dead have been an affront to someone for a very long time.
It is hard to imagine why. The victims were all, by now, a thin stratum of darker soil in the surrounding clay and shale. On the stones, most of their names had been eroded by time and weather into vague ciphers. On some, the names were plain, but the dates, those points on the continuum between which the stories of their lives unfolded, were obliterated.
On those that are legible, the dates gave a much more careful accounting of that time than we are used to in the late 20th century. Joseph Heagy, we learn, for example, died in 1844, having lived exactly 63 years, seven months, and 17 days.
Another stone gives a hint of what may have been a wrenching story. Mary, wife of Ludnik, died on Sept. 14 of 1804. Ludnik, still at her side, died two days later.
These are people, I thought as I walked in the perfect autumn day, who lived in the tumult between the birth of the nation and the times that nearly tore it apart. It was a time of high passion, but they and their passions were by now dust and whispers. So why the anger? Why the fractured markers?
I stopped and looked again over the field of fallen stones, amused at myself. This had nothing to do with the vanished remains, or the people who had once worn the names etched in the marble and shale. Here, I had assumed the culprits had a reason. I had assumed that the spate of vandalism had been the result of something reasoned through, a solution to a problem.
This was, I reminded myself, a simple skirmish between order and chaos.
It was a fight between life and the vast, endless darkness on either side of it.
I suppose there is no better reminder of that final blackness than a tombstone, standing there solid, part of which bore the inscription “The Last Brick Wall you will ever hit.” Maybe that is where the anger comes from, a sudden despair that your brief moments above ground will mean nothing and your end even less.
I tucked my notebook in my hip pocket and stowed my pen, walking back toward my car. My anger at the vandalism had not abated, but alongside had grown a little understanding, and perhaps a little sympathy. The idea that you do not matter and will not be missed when you go is a painful one, I know.
If kicking over memorials to the forgotten dead is the best idea you can come up with as a stance against that great, crushing anonymity, you had better get used to being a nobody.
October 12, 2016
Of Angels in the Stone
Adapted from a column published in the Gettysburg Times on Dec. 2, 1989.
The man was not old, but weathered, like a well-used hoe.
He had come into the office of the concrete plant where I worked to buy sand for a project “back to the house.”
He dug the money for his purchase out of a ragged leather wallet that he must have bought when Ike was still in office. I think some of the money had been in there that long, too.
“How much?” he asked.
I put down the book I had been reading. I have forgotten the title, but it was about human evolution. The volume lay open on the computer console in front of me.
On the page, a row of skulls stared vacantly outward, with the cranium belonging to the oldest member of the human family discovered to that point on one side, and modern man’s vaulted white dome on the other, with assorted way stops lined up between.
It was one of those rainy days, late in the Georgia summer, when business was slow, and there was time to talk, to do things at an idle pace. We weren’t busy anyway; several days of rain had turned the Georgia clay into something like pudding. I had sent most of the drivers home.
I looked up the price of that particular grade of sand, added the tax and gave him the total. He counted out the exact amount, digging in his bib overalls for the change. He leaned against the door-frame and lit up a cigarette.
“Wet,” he noted.
“Yeah,” I replied, “not much going on.”
He was as dry as beef jerky, impervious to the rain. The daylight pouring in through the office window wrapped around him in the same way that lamplight embraces wood that has been carved into shape and oiled.
His eyes drifted to the book, the skulls looking back from the page like the portraits of family members in an old home.
“That there about evolution?” he asked, giving the first letter the sound of a long “e.”
“Uh oh,” I thought, nodding in assent.
“You believe in that there?”
“Yessir, I do,” I answered. “Do you?”
“Surely do not,” he said, new steel rising in his voice. “I believe unto the Lord, and unto His Word.”
I was a little more than halfway through my university study, and a little bit more than half arrogant. I knew things. I believed in things that I could see and feel and smell.
“Look here,” I said. “You see those pictures there. Those are skulls, real ones. A long time ago there was meat on those skulls, and brains in them. Something or someone lived in there. Do you believe that?”
“Yessir, I believe that. They’re real, all right.”
I stood and picked up the book, excited. Perhaps I was going to make a convert. Perhaps, having stepped into the swampy world of Religion Vs. Science, I may have managed to win an argument.
I pointed out to him what little I thought I knew for certain regarding the evolution of human and pre-human anatomy. I talked about progressively larger brain cavities, different jaw structures, flatter faces, flipping pages in the book as I spoke. I felt flushed with power.
“So, can’t you see that there seems to be a definite progression in these, from the oldest to the modern?”
He agreed that it seemed to be so.
“Do not you agree, then, that these creatures were real, and that they may possibly have been our ancestors?”
“No sir, I can’t accept that,” he said, the gray light from outside enhancing the lines and angles of his craggy face. “They are not ours.”
He took a long drag off his cigarette. The smoke hung around his head, something else obscuring the air between us.
“Well, if they are not our forebears,” I said, a little exasperated, “who are they? What are these bones?”
“They are the bones of fallen angels,” he said.
The air rushed out of my lungs, the way it does when one unexpectedly steps waist-deep into frigid water.
I think about that man now and then, with his measuring eyes and his hard hands. Sometimes I see him in my mind as clearly as I saw him in that doorway all those years ago.
I think about him sometimes when I am plodding my way through court records, preparing to cover the trial of accused rapists, child molesters, murderers and drug dealers.
We are influenced by thousands of unseen forces, my more-or-less educated mind tells me. We are the products of our environment, of our heritage, social and genetic. We create our own Hells.
The man in the doorway stares through smoke. “I believe unto The Lord, and unto His Word,” he says.
Like anyone else, I want the world to make sense. Things can be explained, dissected, explored, named. Give me a thing I can name and the name will make most of the fear disappear like smoke.
I say this sometimes with the assurance of the man in the doorway, a man worn by toil and as set in his convictions as a post is set in the ground.
And sometimes I say it with the shrill bravado of a small boy whistling his way through a dark graveyard.
Usually, reason wins. But now and then I find myself in an interview across a table from someone who seems made of wood, shaped from something no longer living, dead in some sense that goes beyond sensibility.
In times like those, I sometimes see him again, drawing fire to his mouth, speaking through smoke, in the doorway to a world where angels could fall bereft of God to crash into the cold stones of the world, and I wonder which one of us has found the best answer.
October 10, 2016
I knew right away I was going to like Nate Nicholls when I saw his yard.
I was sightseeing in 2005 on some of the back roads in the area of Maine where I like to vacation, and there it was, inhabited by guys leaning on shovels, giant chickadees, giraffes, assorted frogs, cactus, oversized flowers, and the odd dragon or two.
Everything was made out of junk, scrap metal, propane tanks, rakes, shovels, railroad spikes, nuts, bolts, lengths of rebar, this and that.
I whipped the car onto the shoulder and walked around some, taking photos, hoping the owner would show, but he wasn’t home.
But there was a big, hand-lettered sign. The sign said that the township is telling him that no business in the township can have items for sale unless they are screened from view. So, his sign says, nothing you can see there is for sale. Unless, that is, you look at it through a screen. He provides the screen, of course, a square of framed wire mesh that he made himself.
“Ok,” I said to myself. “I GOTTA meet this guy.”
The next day, I did.
Nate Nicholls was no trained artist. He was a high school dropout, then 43, who eked out a living harvesting and processing wild Maine blueberries, doing odd jobs, and from the occasional sale of a piece of his art.
Turns out, he was born only about 50 miles from where I live, in Lancaster, Pa. He was married and lived with his family in a white wood frame house adjacent to his workshop and his, well, it’s hard to say what it is. Display area, museum, and storage lot. Prop lot for some very strange stage production. Something like that.
Nate, who had collected mostly metal junk for his hobby for years, got serious about welding and bolting odds and ends of stuff together after his mother died about three years before I met him.
“She was artistic. After she passed, I just felt like I had to do something, and this is where it went,” he said.
He also said he got a little ticked off with the local government because they told him he couldn’t keep all that junk in his yard.
“So, I started welding stuff together, and called it art. I said, ‘now it’s art, what are you going to do now?’ “
He said the township didn’t like him very much.
Nate’s prices were arbitrary. He had a steel sheep he made and set the price at $6,000, because he’d seen one made by a famous sculptor priced at that figure.
“And my sheep looks more realistic,” he said with obvious pride.
The sheep, I had to admit, looked pretty darned real. OK, it looked like a sheep in chain mail, but this is art, right? The convention/menagerie in Nicholl’s yard includes people of all shapes and sizes, an elephant, giraffe, one whole red and orange dragon perhaps 10 feet tall hatching babies out of propane tank ‘eggs,’ parts of several other dragons, a self-portrait of the artist, one squid, one octopus, a pair of tiny dogs made from car springs that I would swear were modeled after a pair of miniature poodles I know, any number of birds, lizards…all made from old gears, snowmobile mufflers (great for peacocks and pelican bodies, as it happens,) nuts, bolts, pitchforks, shovels, picks, shears, screwdrivers and chain-link fence.
Nate said he spent a lot of time in scrap yards, and sometimes people just bring stuff for him. One fellow, I believe, provided a couple of tons of railroad spikes, which have evolved into hundreds of tiny figures romping, dancing and marching around Nate’s five-acre property.
Sadly, Nate is not making any more fanciful creatures.
One July day he was welding a small metal frog when his heart failed. He was rushed to the hospital in Damariscotta, but nothing could be done to bring him back. His kids had him cremated and buried his cremains in his sculpture garden, and covered his grave with bouquets of flowers made from gaily-painted flowers fashioned from outdoor spigot handles.
I make a point to stop at Nate’s on every visit to Maine. Sometimes I chat with his son Josh, who lives in the big old house, and sometimes chat with his daughter, Alissa, on Facebook.
Like many artist’s Nate’s life stared back at us from his work. He once had a run-in with the state highway department. They said his stuff was too close to the road. He countered by listing a number of more usual businesses on the same highway who keep their products as close or closer. In honor of the dispute, Nate built a highway department guy leaning on his shovel, a stumpy cigar stuck between his teeth and a woman giving him hell about something.
To celebrate his warm relationship with his township, Nate has a figure carrying a skull around on a platter. He said the head represents a figure from the local government who is sometimes a pain in the butt.
The biggest problem Nate had, aside from his hassles with the local and state government, is that he gets attached to each piece, knows the story behind every part of it, who brought him this spring, that doohickie, and what inspired him to make it. It’s sweet, but it doesn’t help his cash flow.
“I can’t mass produce these things, but if I have only one of a piece, I can’t sell it. And of my very favorite pieces, I can hardly bring myself to sell them at all,” he said.
He did sell stuff, though. He picked up a turtle made of railroad spikes, its shell made from old steel nuts welded together. It was about eight inches across. He said he makes them pretty often, because people walk onto his property and offer him a hundred bucks for one.
He said he figures he could get $10,000 for the 10-foot-tall red-and-orange dragon, babies and eggs included.
At his memorial service Alissa read from a poem Nate left behind:
There really isn’t much difference
between this old man
and a chunk of rusty mooring chain.
I grow weak
from both the weathering of time
and the brine of existence.
Since Nate’s death, his kids have moved some of the sculptures around. Some of the pieces have been stolen, but they are doing the best they can on a limited budget. They want to maintain Nate’s Recycleart Garden Gallery and the garden for as long as they can. The garden is free and open to the public, and they want to keep it that way.
Recycleart sculpture garden and studio
November 26, 2015
I know that when somebody is in a position of power, other folks are always trying to pull them off to the side to give them advice. I do not normally do this, myself, but the more I watch this mess in Kosovo, I want to pull Bill Clinton over and tell him about my old tomcat.
Tom could have been the poster-child for stray cats, which is what he was when he found himself adopted into my little family back in Mississippi.
After he settled in, he cleaned himself up pretty well, working at his armor-plating of mats until his long fur looked fairly presentable. He was chunky, and looked a little like a mohair cork.
Tom was a lot to contend with, about 20 pounds of bad attitude with claws. He as a warlike old cuss who would actually take off across the yard toward any dog he saw coming into his territory.
As far as I know, the only thing on this earth he was afraid of was Minsky.
Minsky was our little female cat. She was tiny, about half Tom’s size, and excessively cute, with long brindled black and orange fur, and a little three-inch stub of a tail, the result of a close call with a large neighborhood dog.
That stub is an important player in our story. It was sharp, and Minsky was in the habit of holding it straight up in the air when she was happy or in heat, which for Minsky usually meant one and the same thing.
In an effort to be delicate, let me just say that Minsky suffered from an excess of, er, romance when it came to cats of the opposite sex. In fact, when she went into heat, which seemed to happen every 20 minutes, she became so flirtatious she even embarrassed me.
In fact, it was Minsky’s affectionate nature that was Tom’s downfall.
One rainy winter night, my wife and I sat reading in bed, enjoying the heat and glow of the industrial-sized open gas heater, which stood against the wall opposite the foot of our brass bed. Minsky, the hussy, was lolling around all over the floor, making odd little cooing noises, and casting steamy glances across the room at Tom.
Tom, poor boy, was totally smitten. A passionate creature by nature, he approached matters of the heart with the same verve he used in attacking dogs and small children. Used much of the same technique, too, as I recall.
Tensely, he watched Minsky from where he curled on the new bedspread. I watched them both. Minsky was giving an Oscar-grade performance. She lolled. She mewed. She made suggestive remarks.
Tom grew more and more…interested.
Finally, he dropped to the floor, and crouched into a coiled stance, like a coiled spring ready to let go.
A few seconds later, after Minsky uttered one more invitation, that spring exploded into life. Tom launched himself across the little room, to land with all his weight and speed right on top of…that cruel, sharp, rigid little spike of a tail.
It was not the sensation he had been expecting.
Giving something between a grunt and a yowl, he catapulted himself backwards through the air, performing a lovely parabola from point A, (that would be Minsky,) to point B, (which would be the big gas heater,) which promptly set him on fire.
Now a ball of flaming fur, Tom launched himself in the other direction, landing on top of the bed, burning merrily.
My wife screamed. I screamed. None of us screamed as much as Tom.
Thinking I ought to do something immediately, even if it was wrong, I threw the new bedspread over Tom and wrapped him tight, extinguishing the flames. Tom, not happy with being smothered, proceeded to yowl and shred his way out of the bedspread.
My wife, not happy with what was happening to her new bedspread, started to yowl and beat on me with her Bible. Yowling a little myself, I took the whole sorry bundle out the back door and dumped Tom on the ground. He took off, still smoking, into the garden.
Minsky, meanwhile, was still looking for companionship. I picked her up and, resisting the urge to drop-kick her, set her down on the ground. She took off after Tom, whose smoke trail was easy to follow, even in the rain.
After a few days, things were back to what passed for normal in our household. There was yet another new bedspread on the brass bed. Minsky was calm and, we learned later, pregnant, papa unknown. Tom, however, was a changed cat.
Even after his fur grew back out, his lion-like bearing fell away whenever he came into the house. If Minsky came anywhere near him, he slinked around the edges of the room and went to go hide under the couch.
This is the cautionary tale I would tell Bill Clinton if I were to advise him about the situation in Kosovo No matter how small and tempting your target, remember there may be sharp and unpleasant surprises lurking in what looked like an easy victory.
Now, if he wanted to apply that advice to any other aspect of his life, that is his business.
November 8, 2015
It had been an unusually bitter argument.
I don’t remember the topic, it was so long ago. We had been drifting apart for years, and we were almost to the end of that process.
We were polar opposites, and not in the way that made us more interesting to one another. I was a blue-collar hippy, she was a military officer’s kid. I took any kind of job I could get, she always managed to avoid working anywhere. She had become deeply religious suspiciously quickly after we got together, I wavered between the occult, agnosticism, and downright atheism. She wanted kids. I did not.
Post argument, I was lying on my belly on the brass double bed, fuming and staring at the chipped plaster wall.
She sat upright, pillows piled behind her, reading her Bible.
As I lay there mired in that acidic anger, she suddenly gasped out loud.
I switched immediately to protective mode. It just works that way.
“What is it, what’s wrong?” I asked.
It’s him, she said.
“Him who?” I asked, honestly puzzled.
“Jesus,” she said, in an ecstatic voice.
I lay silent for a while. Then:
He is standing at the foot of the bed, she explained.
By now, I am studying the pale blue walls with great attention. As I saw it, there were only two possible options.
One: There was nothing at the foot of the bed but air, and my significant other was nuts.
Two: Jesus was standing at the foot of my brass bed and I was in deep doo-doo.
It was quite the quandary.
I didn’t want to know the answer, to be honest.
Understand, that when I am nervous I have a tendency to say the first wisecrack that comes to mind. My knee-jerk reaction is to defuse the situation and get everybody to relax.
It really never works, but I do it anyway.
Being an atheist who has just been told that the Son of God is standing at the foot of the bed is probably the very definition of a nervous situation.
So, I said what could have been the worst possible thing ever.
DO YOU TWO WANT TO BE ALONE?
I have to remark that her command of the saltier parts of the English vocabulary was stellar for a churchy girl.
She excoriated me with little grace but a whole lot of enthusiasm. I mean back seven generations and all the way out to my 3rd cousins, whoever they are.
And, for the record, Jesus was not standing at the foot of the bed. But I slept on the couch that night anyway.
October 23, 2015
I try my best to be rational, despite a lot of guff I get from less liberal friends.
I went through religious phases, even tinkered around in the occult for a while, until I got tired of trying to believe ridiculous things. So, I have self-identified as an atheist and a non-believer in magic for decades now, but I have to make an exception for particular dogs and cats.
I remembered that when I met Max.
I had a wonderful dog when I was a kid, a Heinz 57 of very democratic ancestry named Gramps. His previous owners called him that because his bark sounded like the griping of a querulous old man.
Gramps and I were as inseparable as a boy and his dog could be. We explored the woods and fields in the area where I grew up and were often out till after dark. I had a BB gun and Gramps, and was relatively fearless, except for that time with the Peacock, but that’s ‘whole ‘nother’ story.
When I was in Junior High, a brat down the street yanked on Gramps’ tail where it had been slammed in a door before we got him. Gramps yelped, turned and bit the little turd on the face.
Without hesitation, Dad took Gramps to the vet and had him put down. He said if he had not, the family of the little monster would have sued us.
I was heartbroken. I suggested that we put the kid down too, but that idea gained no traction.
I didn’t speak to my dad for a couple of weeks. I think he was really hurt.
Four years later I worked as a helper on a beer truck. I was loading the hand-dolly back on the truck in a town 40 miles from home when I turned around and there was Gramps.
Of course, that was silly. He was a young dog, and Gramps was pretty old when he died. But he was identical; same short glossy black fur, same white blaze on his chest, same quizzical tilt to his head when I talked to him.
I laughed at myself and climbed up in to the passenger seat of the cab.
Gramps II took a running leap and sat in my lap.
We talked for a long time. Wes the Driver, being a notorious motor-mouth and unable to keep a schedule, stayed in the package store for a long time.
I told him how much I missed him and stuff like that. He wagged and licked my face and looked into my eyes. When Wes came out from the package store, Gramps II licked my face again and jumped out of the cap and trotted away.
Wes, who had not seen the dog, saw my face and asked what was wrong. Nothing, I said, smiling. Everything’s fine.
And it was.
During my recent vacation, several of us were out exploring South Bristol, a little fishing village on the Maine coast. The town has a rare swing bridge spanning the gut between a sheltered harbor and Muscongus Bay.
A swing bridge serves the same purpose as a draw bridge, but instead of lifting up, it rotates to the side to let boats pass.
I am told there are only a few of these in existence, and the one in South Bristol will be gone by the spring of 2016, replaced by a more traditional drawbridge.
We had been watching the bridge working and taking photos of it. I finally sat on the steel curb on the span’s walkway to rest.
A slender, well-dressed woman with white hair approached with an older white Labrador retriever on a leash.
From about 20 feet away, the Lab, 12 years old and named Max, spotted me and nearly tugged his leash out of the woman’s hand. He plowed through my standing friends and threw himself at me.
He butted his head against mine. He licked my face and beard, wriggling like a puppy. I rubbed his ears and scratched his chest. He made small vocalizations. We were long-lost friends…who had never seen one another before.
“My god, he never does that,” said the woman. “He is normally kind of shy. He never approaches people.”
The group of us chatted with the woman for a while. She lived somewhere on the Maryland coast. I don’t remember much of the conversation; I was all about Max.
I talked the way I would to any other friend. Max mostly spoke through his eyes and body language. I said I would be happy to take him home, and I meant it. Whatever it was between the two of us, between two members of separate species, it was powerful.
Finally, it was time for the woman to leave; he husband was picking her up and two days later they would leave for Boston to visit some family, then home to Maryland.
She tugged the leash. Max looked at me, licked my face. He turned and walked away slowly. My throat tightened. If I had been a child I would have made a scene.
I do not know how to explain what happened between Max and me. I am not sure that I really want some cut-and-dried psychological explanation. I had felt a spark of something that bridged a gap that some would say cannot be bridged.
Max and I know better.
August 11, 2015
Rosie and the Killer Turkey
Revised from the original, which appeared in The Gettysburg Times in 1989.
We called him Rosie because of the girl my best friend was dating. We were all in high school, and she was in her early 20s. Now, Georgia was probably one of one of the sexiest things breathing. You take that and couple it with the fact that teenage boys are biologically very little more than hormones in sneakers, and you have a potential for real heartbreak.
Nat and I used to double date, only mine often didn’t show up. I would drive. They would sit in the back. Later, I’d tell them what the movie was about, and think of some clever reason why the steering wheel had gotten tied in a knot.
Anyway, all of us were madly in love with Georgia. I wrote little poems about her. Wise beyond my years, I kept them to myself. I no longer have them; I think that they self-combusted.
Wally, (not his real name) however, forgoing his usual indirection, bought Georgia a dozen Roses. From then on, Georgia would fix him with those big, brown eyes when Wally walked into a room, and say, Well, hey, there’s Rosie.”
The name stuck for a long time, though Georgia didn’t.
So, anyway, one November day, Rosie came across the street to my house and asks me, “Hey, you like turkey?”
Sure, I replied, sensing a trap. Rosie was one of those guys who, when he walked up to you smiling, you wanted to check the location of both your wallet and your girlfriend. I think he works in Washington now.
“A farmer daddy knows just gave him some turkeys. Would you help me get’em ready?”
“Getting ‘em ready” was more involved than I’d hoped. When we got to Rosie’s back yard, there stood two very large turkeys, beady of eye, sharp of beak, and very much alive and unready.
Rosie volunteered to hold the turkeys, one by one, while I took the firewood axe and ushered them out of this vale of tears and into their manifest destiny of stuffing, cranberry sauce, and endless leftovers.
Rosie was not the most steady of individuals.
He held onto the frantically struggling body of the first turkey. I held its head, and applied the axe somewhere in between.
Rosie, never one for long goodbyes, let go of the turkey.
I am not real good with an axe.
The future turkey dinner rose into the air, gravely wounded and furious.
Every one of its feathers stood on end; it looked as big as a Volkswagen. It landed on me, locking its claws into my sweatshirt, gobbling furiously as it tried to peck at my eyes.
Rosie started to laugh.
I hurled the turkey at him. Rosie stopped laughing.
Somewhere in the next few minutes, the turkey expired, probably of natural causes. I walked home. My poor mother almost had a heart attack, as I walked into the house, carrying the axe and covered with blood.
I never learned what the Rosie family did with the other turkey. I never got any thanks for my help, not so much as a plateful of leftovers.
Rosie, who was also famous for his short memory, probably never figured out why I chased him out of my yard a few weeks later. All he did, I’m sure he told his other friends, was walk up to me and ask: “Hey, you like pork?”
April 1, 2015
By T.W. Burger
It’s going to be all right, after all.
I heard peepers.
I mean spring peepers, if you’re from some dull place that doesn’t have them. Whatever the weather might be doing at the moment you hear them, it means that spring has actually arrived and is busy setting up housekeeping
It’s been a long, grueling winter. Many records for cold and snowfall were set on the eastern side of the U.S., giving those who don’t know the difference between weather and climate the chance to pop off like a bunch of spring peepers and say there is no such thing as climate change. They always ignore all the places in the world that are hotter and drier than ever before.
Sorry. I don’t know how that soapbox wound up right in my path.
Anyway, some ofus had begun to worry that winter would go on and on, perhaps rubbing right up against summer. The peepers took a collective deep breath and reassured us.
They are not much to look at; only an inch long or a little more. They hang out in gangs in boggy spots and what you hear is a lot of high-pitched calls. Imagine a thousand rusty porch swings squeaking in chorus but not necessarily in sync and you’ve about got it.
There are two subspecies, by the way, the northern and the southern. There aren’t a lot of differences, except the southern variety peeps with a distinct drawl.
I made that last part up.
By the way, the chorus is all sung by males. They stand around during mating season, each trying to make more noise than the next guy, in order to attract a mate. So, they are not so very different from humans. It’s a good thing Harley-Davidson doesn’t make a model for peepers.
March 30, 2015
Despite my joshing, I never really did much in the way of booze or drugs in my youth. I have my dad to thank for that.
When I was 17, he got me a job at a local funeral home. I grew up in the Deep South, and most funeral homes ran their own ambulance services. We were NOT EMTs (I don’t think the term had been invented then.) Our ambulances were retired or semi-retired hearses with no equipment to speak of, and almost none of us had any training.
If you were alive when you got to the ER it was because God wasn’t ready for you yet, not because of any skill of ours. Dad got me the job just as my cohorts were starting to experiment with alcohol, drugs, and fast cars. I’d pull dead people I knew out of crashed cars and thought “Yeah, THAT looks like fun.” I was in my 30s before it struck me that was my father’s intent. Foxy devil. He would have known that mere lectures and threats weren’t going to cut it for me. It had to be show and tell. Thanks, Dad.