Returning to Maine: The way life should be?

This was not an original topic, but for those of you who pine for the Pine Tree State, it isn't like the tourists see it in summer.
We left a balmy, sunny Miami on Sunday morning headed back to Maine. Landing in Charlotte, NC, the temperature had dropped to 45 degrees, but it was sunny and pleasant, a day we would welcome here. Back in New England it was quite another story. Boston was foggy and raw with a light rain. We boarded a bus north to Portland, and the further we went, the heavier the rain, the deeper the snow by the roads and the drearier the landscape. In Portland, we retrieved the car to complete the 30 mile drive to Harpswell, in what was now heavy rain, with the drops beginning to splat on the window. It was snowing and dark by the time we reached our driveway, covered with the ice of a storm that had occurred while we were gone.
"So welcome back to Maine," I thought. Tomorrow I will strap the snow blower to my loins and blow a great white stream of snow across the yard. But waking up in the middle of the night, I realized I had neglected to think of another wonderful aspect of life in Maine: the power had gone out. That means, no lights, no furnace, and in the case of rural areas, no water.
But we plan for such things, they are frustratingly frequent. Monday was occupied with clearing away cement heavy snow, and standing by the wood stove to melt enough snow so that we could flush the toilets. The yellow snow by the garage could be blamed on the dog..... if I had one.
Day two found me up at 6 cranking up my third world wind-up radio to listen to the sound track of a local TV station, and the first words to come out of it, so help me God, was the punch-line of a Central Maine Power commercial, "Flip a switch and we're there." The irony was grotesque.
But the day was occupied with my job. CMP (Cut My Power, to most of us) had restored power to the main road, so the office of the Harpswell Anchor Newspaper, had lights and running water. After restoring the main line so the kids could return to school the line crews disappeared, leaving most of us still in the dark.
The nice thing about having parents in assisted living is that those places have huge generators, so off we went to spend the evening with them, to use their shower.
Day three, today, my wife got up for work, left unkempt. She could be mistaken for a hospital patient, not the nursing instructor she is. I get up feeling like I used to after a fraternity party. Why one can't sleep when the power is off,and why brushing your teeth out of a glass instead of a tap leaves them feeling like they're wearing sweaters, I don't know.
At 1:30 I call home. The answering machine picks up... the power is back on. I race home bring in all the food where it has been freezing on the porch and put it back in the fridge. Flush all toilets, run all faucets to see if the pipes have frozen. So far, so good, but there's another storm on the horizon for Sunday.
So it is with life in Maine, the way life should be.

The Civil War Comes To Harpswell, Maine

In late June 1863, the Civil War was approaching two climaxes, which would ultimately lead to the Union victory. In the west, the forces of General US Grant were beginning their final push to capture Vicksburg opening the entire Mississippi River to the Union, while in the east, the Army of the Potomac was engaged in a grueling foot race with Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia as it moved north through Maryland and Pennsylvania in an attempt to attack Washington DC. At the same time, a lesser known event occurred which directly involved Harpswell.
In May 1863, Lt. Charles Reed was serving aboard the CSS Florida off the coast of Brazil when it captured the brigantine Clarence. Reed, a 23 year old native of Mississippi had graduated at the bottom of his class in 1860 from the US Naval Academy at Annapolis. The young lieutenant prevailed upon the commander of the Florida to allow him to take 20 men and head north to disrupt shipping off the east coast to try to draw away resources from the Union blockade. He was provided with a 12 pound howitzer, small arms, and the Clarence was commissioned as Florida No 2.
The intrepid Reed and his crew sailed northward along the eastern seaboard of the United States, capturing or burning several ships, and on June 12, within sight of Cape Henry, they came upon the ship Tacony. Raising an inverted American flag, a sign of distress, as a feint, Reed approached the unwary ship, sent over a boarding party and captured it. Figuring this new ship was better and faster, he transferred his men and weapons to it, and set the Clarence aflame.
The Confederate raiders had captured 6 vessels and 50 prisoners in a week. The US Navy was ordered to send any vessel available to hunt down and either destroy or capture what was now becoming a threat to Northern shipping. Even the yacht America from Reeds alma mater, the Naval Academy was sent out in pursuit. The Tacony continued to elude the hunters and between June 12 and 14, captured 15 more vessels!
June 23 found the Tacony becalmed off Portland (ME)Harbor where she was hailed by a federal gunboat. Reed bluffed them off, replying that he was a different vessel bound for Portland. As the gunboat departed, they shouted a message over the water for them to be on the lookout for rebel marauders.
Realizing that the Tacony was going to be recognized, the crew captured and took possession of the schooner Archer on June 24 near Southport and enjoyed a fine chowder dinner prepared by the Archer’s crew. The fate of the Tacony was now to be that of the Clarence, and she was set afire.
The next day, the Archer was off Damaraiscove (some accounts say Haskell’s) Island where they encountered two Harpswell fishermen, Albert Bibber and Eldridge Titcomb tending their fishing gear. The accounts also vary as to exactly what happened next. One states that the crew of the schooner represented themselves as a party of fishermen needing guidance into Portland. The other relates that the two were hailed, and asked to come aboard, and when they demurred, and armed party was put over in a small boat to persuade them to do so. Since it is unlikely that any Maine fisherman would give up a good day’s hauling to ride into Portland with a party from away, the latter is more likely the actual.
Once on board, Reed interrogated the two and learned that the steamer Chesapeake was in Portland Harbor as well as the revenue cutter Caleb Cushing.

At about 7:30 PM the unobtrusive Archer, slipped passed the forts guarding the mouth of Portland Harbor and dropped anchor. Reed ordered most of his men and his two captives below, but kept several on deck to allay any suspicions from those passing by. The rest of the crew was put to work manufacturing fire bombs from oakum and turpentine. The plan at this point was to capture the Chesapeake and steam her out of port. The chief engineer, however, determined he would not be able to get enough steam up in the boilers by himself in time to be underway before daylight. That left the Cushing as the next target of opportunity.
Most of the crew of the Caleb Cushing was ashore for the funeral of the captain, who had died quite suddenly, and there was a dance party in progress on Peak’s Island. After midnight, when all had quieted down, and the returning crew was bedded down for the night, Reed and his raiders rowed across the harbor and took possession of the cutter, securing the crew below decks. Things started going awry for the Confederates as they slipped the anchor and found themselves aground. Launching two small boats they began towing the Cushing down the harbor hoping for a morning breeze to pick up. As they drew abreast of the Archer, Titcomb and Bibber were brought on board and forced to assist in piloting. Around 4 AM, the outgoing rebels were passed by the steamer Forest City inbound from Boston. Ironically one of the passengers was Lt. James Merryman, newly assigned to take command of the revenue cutter.
To avoid risking fire from the forts at the mouth of the harbor, Reed directed the cutter up past Peaks and Hog Islands and into the gap between the latter and Cow Island, making out into Hussey Sound. Although Bibber warned the Confederates that is was a risky passage, he testified later that he was neither asked nor gave any directions as to the course. Realizing that pursuit was inevitable, be begged the rebel captain to release him and Titcomb before they got to Green Island. Reed denied his request.
In the meantime, the Portland waterfront was alive with activity. Mayor Jacob McClellan chartered four vessels to pursue the rebels and sent messages to the two army commands in the area, the 17th ME at Ft. Preble and the 7th ME at Ft. Abraham Lincoln up the Fore River. The troops from Ft. Preble, 35 men and two small field pieces were hurried aboard the Forest City, while 27 men from the 7th ME with similar weapons, were piled aboard the Chesapeake, along with 50 armed civilian volunteers. The Forest City, with its steam already up, set out in pursuit with the Chesapeake following in short order.
Meanwhile, aboard the Caleb Cushing, Bibber was still pushing his plea to be released. Finally, out by Cod Ledges, with two steamers visibly loaded with soldiers coming after them, Bibber, begged again, and was given permission to take one of the small rowboats tied along beside and go. This he did with such alacrity, that he left his fellow, Titcomb, behind with the rebels.
Reed ordered the crew to fire several shots at the approaching Forest City with the Cushing’s 32-pounder and the former pulled back out of range to protect its exposed paddle wheels. The Chesapeake bore up fast, and after a hurried, across the water conference, the two vessel captain’s agreed the Chesapeake would take the lead and run down the Cushing. Realizing the gravity of the situation, Captain Leighton called on all hands to determine what should be done. It was unanimously agreed to run the cutter down and strike her amidships. Colonel Mason commanding the army troops on board admonished his men to stand fast and stay cool.
Aboard the cutter, the situation was becoming grim for the Confederate crew. They had fired all the ammunition they had found, and knew that side arms and cutlasses would not be much of a defense against the well armed pursuers. Reed had his captives brought up on deck, still in handcuffs and loaded aboard two small boats. Someone remembered to throw them a ring of keys as they shoved off, but in their haste to escape did not remove the restraints. Reed’s crew began to set fire to the vessel, before jumping into the remaining small boats and rowed away as well.
Two citizens, one a milliner, the other the port shipping master had been jockeying for command of the volunteers and began issuing conflicting orders. As the boats carrying the released captives approached, one issued an order to fire, whereupon Colonel Mason finally took control and shouted that he would run through with his sword the first person to fire. Realizing the danger they were in, one of the former captives, Lt. Davenport from the cutter began waving his white shirt. They were brought aboard unceremoniously as if they were pirates themselves and placed under guard. Meanwhile the Forest City rounded up Reed’s crew, who had thrown their weapons overboard and fashioned a crude flag of surrender.
Volunteers came forward to board the cutter and dowse the flames, but fortunately for them Cpt. Willard, one of the Portland Harbor Pilots knew there was a great deal of powder still hidden aboard the cutter of which the Confederates were unaware. After standing back to watch it burn, the Caleb Cushing suddenly erupted in a sheet of flame and sank to the bottom.
The Rebel prisoners were brought back to shore, imprisoned at Ft. Preble and moved to Ft. Warren in Boston.
The exploits of Lt. Charles Reed and his intrepid crew are but a sidelight of the great Civil War. Their exploits were soon overshadowed by the cataclysmic events at Vicksburg and Gettysburg.

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My First Review

Last night I received my first review from Skip Shirks, a rifleman in my platoon, and character in Where Is Crusader Rabbit, Now That We Really Need Him? What makes this special is Skip was there with me. He was very typical of the kind of young man the US Army sent to Vietnam, smart, caring about his fellows and tough. If Skip had your back, you knew things were OK. At his own peril he rescued a fellow platoon member, who was being swept away by a flooded stream, and for that received the Soldier's Medal, the highest award given for non-combat bravery. I had lost my grip on the man, and to this day, I thank Skip, as had he drowned that day, I would have felt the guilt to this day and beyond.
If I had to do it all over again, I hope that I would have people like Skip Shirks around.
The book is written for all the young men who served honorably and bravely as he did.
Hi Bill
I just finished reading your book. Great job.I think you told the story of the grunt better than I have ever read before. I had forgotten a lot of things that you brought back to mermory, I knew just about everybody you had in the book. plus you filled in a lot of blanks i had about as to where we were and what we were doing. you nailed it good
skip

CR Accepted for Amazon.com distribution

I was just notified that Where Is Crusader Rabbit, Now That We Really Need Him? has been accepted for distribution by Amazon.com. We are currently working on distribution through Amazon.com.uk, Barnes & Noble and Igraham. We'll post that when it is available. Should be soon.

The Visit of the Snow Snake

It is February, still bitter cold in a month that should have winter’s hands easing their icy grip around our necks. It is the month, when the sun has the strength to melt back the snow from any dark surface even when the temperatures are fairly low. The ground hog may or may not see his shadow, but here in Maine, that really doesn’t matter. An early spring is actually sometime in April.
There are days, however, when the sun gives promise of spring, and I am reminded of a family mystery of many years gone by: the visit of the snow snake.
My grandfather had shoveled a February snow all the way back to the road, which by that time, had been touched with the civilizing effect of blacktop. There on the warm tar was a snake, wriggling like a sluggish drunkard. Although he was fascinated by them, my grandfather was loathe to touch them. In fact, the only time he moved them was with a stick or an axe handle. With the corner of his shovel, the old man lifted the snake and flipped it into the snow, where it promptly stiffened out. He then scraped it back onto the warm tar where it re-commenced its writhing. This scenario was played back and forth until the two neighbors, Leland Williams and “Snipe” Purington came by to see what the commotion was. After a chorus of “by the Jesuses;” “Never did see the likes;” and “Now, ain’t that somethin’s,” the poor reptile was thrown up on the snow bank to become a chewy treat for a mid-winter starved fox.
Where that snake came from, no one would even speculate. It remains to this day in the category of events we Mainers would label, “Now, ain’t that odd.”

The Polio Clinic

In the early ‘50’s, one of the most evil demons to be feared was polio. My mother was terrified when my father was recalled to active duty and sent to what she considered the disease ridden South, and greatly relieved when we were transferred out in the winter, before the season of pestilence began. Still polio was to be feared and struck, on occasion, even up here in Maine, even on the street where we lived, although the young girl who contracted it, survived unscathed.
Movie theaters were off limits in the summer as well as fairs or any other large gathering, and getting your feet wet in a summer rain puddle was a sure ticket to a wheelchair. The Topsham Fair was declared safe, for it was held in the fall after the danger of infection had passed. Even here, however, we were not immune, for annually the March of Dimes hauled in a trailer in which lay for all to see, a victim in an iron lung, a giant tube from which only the head appeared. Bellows at the bottom sighed rhythmically. We filed by in lurid fascination, fearful and hoping it would never be us.
The advent of the Salk vaccine lifted that fear. Parents were relieved, and so were we kids, philosophically speaking. That was until the little, white slips began appearing for us to take home for parental permission to be the recipient of not just one but three injections. Brows creased, panic filled small bladders and bodies tingled as if sitting in a bathtub full of ginger ale. Dolores’ sunny, blond countenance took on a strained look of pain. Larry blanched. Nausea rose in my stomach, and in frenzy I turned my paper over hoping it would be blank.
My mother believed in the French judicial system whereby the condemned was never told of his execution date, so when the big day came, my mother had not told me of its arrival. At school the classroom was deathly still and all faces were pale. Only Miss Ridley was calm. Larry sniffed in his sleeve. The atmosphere was oppressive.
Outside in the hall began the shuffle of feet as the classes began their march to the office of Mrs. Higgins, the school nurse. The door closed behind the last unfortunate in Mrs. Russell’s room. We were next.
The black box on the wall buzzed. We struggled to our feet and shuffled out the door. The entire school was stretched out in a long snake down the corridor to the stairs, down to the first floor and around the gym to the nurse’s office.
At first all was quiet. The teachers kept us herded tightly against the wall to prevent escape. As we reached the first floor we were greeted by a constant murmur, like wind through leaves, punctuated now and then by a scream or loud crying. Still the teachers paced our line, keeping us docile.
Mrs. Higgins stood about eight feet tall, and her muscles strained the sleeves of her uniform. She ascribed to the medical theory of the time that what didn’t hurt or taste bad, wasn’t good for you. The doctors giving the shots were impassive. All veterans of the big war, they had seen it all, and we were nothing more than another line of draftees in the war against disease.
Larry began to howl as we drew near. Mrs. Higgins grabbed his skinny arm and dragged him in, holding him in a bear hug until the deed was done, and he was led sobbing back to the room.
Every nerve in my body screamed, “Run for it!” but I was more afraid of Mrs. Higgins than the needle, so I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes so tight, my hairline descended to my nose.
Back in the classroom, a sense of normalcy gradually returned. We felt good in the knowledge that some other poor slob was now on the receiving end of the syringe.
All this was training for life. The worst of basic training, we had been told, was the day you were inoculated against all diseases, foreign and domestic. But what the Army could dish up paled in comparison to the sheer animal terror of that polio clinic

For Don Murray

In 1977 I had finished the draft of Where is Crusader Rabbitt, Now That We Really Need Him? typed out on the backs of old quizzes I had scrounged from the waste bins at York High School in York, ME. From the time I had started it in 1973, I had gone from being poor, single and living in the slum of Portsmouth, NH (Those of you familiar with Portsmouth might remember Seacrest Village) to being married to a wonderful lady who was a nursing instructor on the faculty of the University of New Hampshire.
One of her extra duties was to represent her department on the Faculty Senate. Among her fellow “senators” was Don Murray, perhaps one of the most popular faculty members who ever walked the halls of UNH.
Don had dropped out of high school to work in a logging camp, and at the outset of WWII had enlisted as a paratrooper and served throughout the war with the 82nd Airborne Division. Upon being discharged, he returned to school on the GI Bill, received a BA and MA, and also won the Pulitzer Prize.
At one meeting, Susan told him about my project, and he replied that he would like to see it. So at the next meeting, she presented him a ratty assortment of various colored paper bound up in four term paper folders. Not long afterward I received a call, asking if I could come over to his office some afternoon after I was done teaching, an invitation I accepted with some trepidation, considering the stature of a man like Don Murray.
We spent a pleasant afternoon, during which he waved off a stream of visitors, sharing stories about living in the mud and eating out of tin cans. Then he cut to the chase and asked what I planned on doing with the manuscript. My response was that I was happy I had written something that long, when no one else I knew had. And besides, trying to get something published was shooting in the dark.
He leaned forward, looked me square in the eye and asked, “Tell me, do you like sex, or do you like to masturbate?” I responded that after years of being single, the former was my preference, or words to that effect. “Well,” he said, “If you don’t try to publish this, you’re just masturbating.”
Well, I’m slow, but it’s finally been done. I only wish he were still around to see it. I quit when I needed glasses.

There has been a lot of hope for the new administration, and I, for one, hope it succeeds. We all need it to succeed.
However, we have a new Secretary of the Treasurer, the man who oversees the IRS, who failed to pay taxes until caught, and former Senator Daschle, nominee for Secretary of Human Services, who also failed to pay large amounts of taxes until caught at it. I don't fault the Obama administration for these failures, but the disturbing thing about it is, every time the administration changes, the issue of high ranking officials failing to pay taxes comes up. I fear that had John McCain been the victor, we would have been seeing the same thing.
Could it be true that Leona Helmsley was right when she said, "Taxes are for the little people?"