Gaffett's Town

Whenever we visit Dad at the nursing home, I come away discouraged. Oh don't get me wrong, the Veteran's Home is a nice facility and the staff are as nice as possible. We think Dad is getting excellent care there. But when all is said and done its still a nursing home and after a number of visits the place seems rather bleak to me. As we walk the halls and skirt the various vets in their wheelchairs and scurry past the open doors to the rooms that hold bed ridden elderly, I can't put out of my mind the elephant in the room. That elephant we all know is there lurking, but no one acknowledges its presence. That elephant that hangs over all the activities and daily routine. That unspoken elephant that says almost everyone has come there to die. For most, not all, but most of these folks this facility is their last stop before they die and move on. Even Dad remarks how almost every week they wheel someone out and then the next day a new person comes to occupy that room. Sort of like a train station where people wait, often not all that patiently, for their train. When the train stops they present their ticket and get on board and their seat at the station is taken by another traveler. I began to think along these lines and I remembered Captain Littlepage's sea story in Country of the Pointed Firs written by Sarah Jewett. In the book Capt. Littlepage spins his yarn about being shipwrecked on the coast of Greenland. While the survivors waited for rescue, Capt. Littlepage befriended another lost mariner and its from him the captain got his story called The Waiting Place. The man Gaffett told about his ship and crew being lost in the Artic, further north then any ship had ever sailed before and how they came upon this town. Gaffett went on to explain how the sailors were amazed to find an occupied town so far north and yet the people they saw on shore were - insubstantial. They were ghostly and flitted about. When a sailor would try to approach one of these souls they would vanish. Gaffett went on at great length about how they saw groups of these wraith-like people and individuals but were never able to speak to any of them. In the end they decided these creatures were neither living or dead. Gaffett told Captain Littlepage the strange town they had stumbled upon was a sort of waiting place between this world and the next. Capt. Littlepage was not at all sure about the weird town so high in the latitudes but as he grew older he wondered more and now in the book he repeated Gaffett's story, as if it might have been true. Who could say? I know the story's true. Gaffett town and the people in it are not far away in the Artic, they're just up the road in the "B" wing of the Veteran's Home.

Striking a chord

You never know when you might strike a chord that reverberates with many others. Its something many writers hope to achieve, but then we never really know because there's little feedback. Some of us might get an occasional email saying I read your piece and I liked it. That's always encouraging, even if there's only one. Or then we may bump into a friend in the grocery checkout and she'll say hey I read your book. I never knew you were so talented. And we mutter Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it. So bit by bit, with drips and drabs we suck up little hints that insinuate what we have written is not trash and that once in a while someone really enjoys our stuff. For amateurs like myself we live for these little morsels of encouragement and praise. But I was not expecting the wave of feedback I got from a little piece I wrote about my dad. Dad is now living at the Maine Veterans' Home where he is getting the care that he needs, but at the time I wrote the essay Dad has just lost his driver's license. He had been flirting with loosing the license for a couple of years. Dad's dementia had progressed to a point where the neurologist reported him to the state as a driving risk. Dad received notice he was to appear for a road test and don't you know, the wily old fox charmed the examiner and passed. As the months went by though he did drive less and less and we did not encourage it. Then he passed out in his home and we called the ambulance and he went to the hospital. His license was automatically suspended. I remember the day I slipped the dirty plastic license out from the pocket of his wallet and put it in an envelope and sent it back to the state. I knew that was the end of driving for Dad and that's what prompted me to write the essay. I called it "A Man Without His Horse" and it appeared soon after in the Wolf Moon Journal. Here's the link: http://www.wolfmoonjournal.com/2010/02/a-man-without-his-horse/ Writing the piece had been helpful for me in that it let me get out some of the angst and pent up emotion I felt at having to be a party to my Dad's driving suspension. Little did I realize how many other folks would read the essay and be affected by it. I did after all strike a chord. People sent me notes and caught me on the street and either told me similar stories about their parents, or about how they themselves feared facing this reality when they became elderly. The idea of loosing your drivers license seemed to strike at the very heart of people's self image and brought to light many other issues related to aging and independence. I even had one request to re-print the article for a local 55 Plus newsletter. You can read the essay yourself and see what ideas or feelings it might engender. What pleases me the most though is how it has sparked stories and thoughts from so many others. I suppose its not unlike a minister who delivers an exceptionally insightful sermon and hears about it as parishioners file out of the sanctuary. I didn't intend it that way, but it is gratifying when you write something and every once in a while strike that chord that reverberates with readers and gives them pause and causes them the think and to reflect. In many ways I think that's part of what being a good story teller is all about.

Sleeping with your dog.

Did you sleep with your dog? It seems to me one of my most cherished childhood memories is having my dog sleep on my bed with me. I wonder how many kids enjoy that experience today? Not many I'd guess. Today we know too much and are too wary of all the bad things that might happen if a child were to share the bed with his dog. But we lived on an old run down farm and our farm collie was just part of the family. I don't recall we every thought too much about "Digger". He was just always there. When we kids went outside to play, Digger was always there with us. And when we were in school Digger patrolled the worn out farm fields and encroaching woods. Somehow he knew when the rural school bus was due to stop at the end of our dirt road and drop off my sister and me and the neighbor kids and Digger would be there waiting. We'd all come trooping down the road toward our homes with Digger somewhere beside us. We never knew anything different. In the evening when Mom called us to come eat supper, Digger would position himself under the kitchen table. My sister and I could rest our feet on his furry back while we ate Mom's clam casserole. And when we went to sleep, Digger would jump up and lay across the foot of my bed. I could feel the weight of his body pressing against my feet. And that's just how it was. Our parents didn't think it was strange that the dog should sleep with us, or think it was dangerous. . That is until we moved. Life on the old farm changed and Mom and Dad bought my uncle's house in town and we moved. Mother was delighted to begin housekeeping in a nice house with some conveniences. And she intended to keep it nice and clean and respectable. As soon as we moved in she declared that dogs slept in the basement not in bedrooms. Digger was banned to the cellar. My sister and I made our way upstairs to our new bedrooms and the dog was ushered downstairs to the basement and Mom closed the door. Digger had a way of moaning and sounding a little bit like a lonesome loon. We could hear him whimpering down there in the dark. This went on for a couple of nights. But then one evening after supper when we were all in the livingroom watching Milton Beryl on the old Emerson TV, Ruthie and I saw Digger get up and every so quietly nuzzle the door open and slip upstairs. We didn't say a thing. When I went up to bed and into my room there was Digger lying under the bed. You're not supposed to be here, I told the dog. But that was all. I climbed in under the covers and Digger jumped up on the foot of the bed. Just like old times. When Mom made her rounds and opened our bedroom doors to say good night, she discovered the dog curled up with me, and she did nothing. I think maybe she knew there were some things she couldn't change even when living in a new house. Or maybe she thought the change in life style was hard on my sister and me and that some things however small should remain the same. At least Digger was allowed to sleep with us from then on. I remember all that now and wonder at how intelligent or clever that collie dog was. We have a little niece who for some strange reason has a fear of dogs. She cowers and retreats and begins to cry whenever she is near a dog. She's only nine. When I see her act this way I think of my own childhood and how our dog slept with us. I hope other kids have the same experience although I'm not so sure. Today we seem so overprotective and paranoid about things that might happen, even though they seldom do. Sleeping with my dog just seemed natural and correct. I know its one of my fondest childhood memories and makes me miss that old farm collie.

Deer Camp

Deer camp is over for another year. This time we only had three days, but we crammed a lot into those few days. Of course the object isn't so much to shoot a deer as it is to hang out together at the cabin and revert to pioneer life and mountain man ways. If we had a drum, we'd have beat on it, but instead JT brought his guitar. We had some strangers though. When you broadcast an open invitation to your buddies to come join us at the camp, you don't always know who's going to show up. This time one friend brought along two of his friends. They were welcome of course. Always glad to have a few more hunters stay at the old cabin, but within a few hours it became clear they had come to actually hunt. We didn't have the heart to tell them there were no deer in the neighborhood, but by the end of the day Saturday they'd come to that conclusion on their own. The three of them came driving down the driveway in the monster four wheel drive Chevy with the dual exhaust, and piled out of the truck and declared in no uncertain terms, "there ain't no f....g deer within twenty miles of this camp!" Well I knew that, but I asked them if they'd had a good day? Had they seen some nice country? Had they enjoyed being out in the woods? My questions fell on deaf ears. Without pausing too long they announced they were going back home where they might at least "see a deer." It took less then an hour for them to pack up and shove off into the dark. We heard the dual exhausts rubble into the distance as they drove out the camp road. Inside the cabin the gas lights gave off a friendly glow and the old woodstove radiated heat. Too much heat really. Thousands of hibernating house flies had been tricked into thinking it was June and they had invaded the cabin. Flies were everywhere buzzing against the windows and the screens. Falling into our hair. One fell into the bowl of popcorn. Soon it was all out war. We sprayed and sprayed and the flies were dropping like....well...flies. It took two hours to kill, sweep and discard the plague of flies. As the evening drew on we four enjoyed playing cards and knocking back a few brews and stirring up noble hearty meals on the stove. We sang a few songs and read a few stories and later in the evening we began to recall other "deer camps" and days gone by, and past hunts and past meals and history making cribbage hands. By midnight we were all snugged into sleeping bags watching the woodfire flicker through the grate of the stove. Ben yawned and said in a loud voice, too bad those fellers took off. Yeah, we said, they missed the best part of deer camp.

Buried treasure

We introduced our friends to geocaching and they loved it. It was our annual autumn get away in the western Maine mountains with dear dear friends. Before going I download
the coordinates for several geocaches in the Sugarloaf area. In case you don't know (and our friends did not know either) geocaching is a game played by people around the world. Geocachers hide things in likely outdoor places and then publish the latitude and longtitude coordinates for the site on the geocaching.com website. Other geocachers look at these caches and attempt to find them by using their handheld GPS. Often going after a geocache is just an excuse for a hike or a road trip, but seeking the treasure is a lot fun...as our friends found out. We began with three caches that were supposed to be hidden along the trails of the Maine Huts and Trails association. The friends did not know what to expect. The gps will usually get you within ten feet of the cache but then you must scouer the ground and the trees and rocks searching for the elusive hiding place. Some caches are very cleverly hidden. The first one was hidden in a stump and when we pulled it out everyone laughed and smiled. That only whetted their appetite and enthusiasm. where's the next one? they all wanted to know? This time the box was hidden under a rock. We prowled around the brookside turning over logs and bending down to peer under boulders. Here it is! one of the friends shouted. I found it! I found it! Usually a geocache contains trinkets and small items for trading as well as a small log book for recording your "find". The idea is to take an item and replace it with something you brought And so the game goes on. The ones I had downloaded into my handheld were not high on the difficulty scale. But it didn't matter. Hiking together along the trails and then scattering around in the woods to find the cache was huge fun. The last one was near the road and hidden inside the guard rail. We walked right past it but the gps pointed us back to the location. When we returned to the cabin all the talk was about the morning hunting geocaches, and how this one was obvious and this one was hard to find, and this one was hidden so well and on and on. Who'd have thought six adults would have had so much fun chasing after hidden treasures? But after all its not the cache itself that creates the fun but the searching, and puzzle solving and the sweet feeling of success when you reach under a root and feel the tupperware box. Plus it was a group effort. Working together to unravel clues and then sharing insights on where the "cacher" might have hidden their
stash only added to the fun and feeling of accomplishment. I wasnt' sure they'd even be interested in the sport but now their asking about which devices to buy so they can take their grandkids out in the woods and search for more buried treasure. But as we all found out, the treasure is not in what we found, but in the journey we all took to get to the cache. Happy geocaching. the public site that controls caching around the world is geocaching.com.

MIlestones

In olden days the distances along the old Boston Post Road were marked at every mile by a stone post. These were usually chipped out of granite and stood upright in a post hole to mark the progress along the road. They were called "Milestones."It seems I've
been thinking about various milestones in my life of late. For one the editor for my book is hosting a signing and meet 'n greet next month, but I won't be there. Unfortunately her open house conflicts with "deer camp" so I was forced to make a tough choice. Whether to spend the time in the woods with my sons or join a few other authors for a couple of hours when we might meet two or three patrons of the bookshop. I had participated in a similar affair two years ago when the editor had a booth at the local craft trade show. That was fun. But again the traffic on my afternoon was rather thin. Besides "deer camp" is a family tradition and I don't plan to miss out as long as I'm able and healthy enough. Fact is there'll be a day not all that far in the future when I may not be able to go. So this is kind of a milestone, much as I'd like to publicize the book, I'm choosing another route. We passed a milestone too with our 18 month old grandson when he had his first haircut. We were a little surprised we had grown so fond of his longish hair and curls. But his mom was under pressure because people were mistaken him for a baby girl, so off to the barbershop they went. Another milestone of sorts. Its amazing to me how we reach and then pass these significant and not-so-significant events in our lives. In his case its things like taking the first steps (he's a very good walker these days), sleeping through the night, drinking from a cup, his first words, his first haircut, boarding that big yellow school bus for the first time. Oh the immensity of it all! Its a wonder we ever make it to adulthood and beyond. But we hurtle along life's path passing first one milestone then another and before we know it we pass the "last" milestone and disappear around a bend in the road and those left behind us cannot see beyond. I guess what intrigues me the most about all this is the inevitability of it. No matter what we may do, most of these events are going to transpire in our lives. We are going to change and things are going to happen and then we're going to move on to something else. All of which reminds me that the joy is in the journey and so we should enjoy the trip and savor each milestone we reach. Even a first haircut.

FLATTERY IS ALWAYS APPRECIATED

Good things come to those who wait...or so they say. Well in this case the results were well worth waiting for. Back in the middle of this rainy wet summer, Carol Standish from Points East magazine paid me a call and we spent part of the morning together discussing the book and life in general. We had a great time thoroughly enjoying each other's company. From that interview Carol wrote a review of the book as well as a description of who I am, and both are published in the September 2009 issue of Points East. You know it is always a thrill for a writer to see his or her name in print, so I'm grateful to Carol for having been so generous and sincere in her remarks. Points East is a local boating and cruising magazine. Usually people on summer cruises have a bookshelf in the cabin of their boat stocked with a variety of books. Some to wyle away a summer afternoon while anchored in some remote picturesque island cove, or to help maintain sanity when becalmed with day after gloomy day of fog. Carol advises that my book might be a surprising addition to any boat library. Actually its been a slow summer for the book. We've been preoccupied with so many other things it seems that selling and promoting the book has taken a back seat. We did enlist the aid of a computer literate friend to help prepare the text for eventual uploading to Amazon's Kindle. This is still a work in progress which we hope we will have to complete this fall. Also the writing goes on and the volume of stories continues to grow. We have the material for a second book, but now we need to find a publisher. Having been turned down by a few here in Maine it might be time to cast our net further afield and see what might come up. I hate to do that as my stories are so closely associated with Maine and our life here, but the impulse to be published again may overcome any allegence to publishers here in the state. So we'll see. But in the meantime go find a copy of the September issue of Points East and read what Carol had to say about the book and about me. It's pretty good reading.