Furious and desperate, after his loss, Bull gathered about him a small force determined to attack the French and gain compensation. There is no record of any success, nor was there probably any, as Bull soon looked for other means of regaining what he felt was his due.
In late summer or early fall, accompanied by a crew of 16 or more men “from the eastern settlements,” he sailed into Pemaquid Harbor in some stolen boats and attacked the fort. This fort, or rather a stockade, had been built in 1630 or ‘31 as a protection from the French as the Indians at that time had not presented a problem to the English there. As opposed to the swarming horde of my childhood imagination, they would not have sailed into the harbor with cannons blazing. Known to the people there as fellow traders, they would have rowed to shore uneventfully. The 16 men occupied themselves with rifling through the stores and the furs, taking anything of value. As they were weighing anchor to leave, one of the traders at the fort got off a lucky shot and killed one of Bull’s men, dropping him to the deck. As far as can be determined, that was the only casualty.
On November 21 1632, Governor Winthrop in Boston received a letter recounting the piracy.
Leaders of the coastal settlement jumped into action to apprehend the man who was now considered a pirate. The men of Portsmouth readied a fleet of four boats and took off in pursuit. Back in Massachusetts, Winthrop agreed, after meeting with his council on December 5, to send off a boat with 20 armed men to accompany the Portsmouth crew. Contrary winds, probably bitter northeasterlies, allowed the company to proceed only as far as Cape Ann from where they returned to Boston on January 2, 1633.
Meanwhile news arrived that the vessels from Portsmouth had made it as far as Pemaquid, where they were harbor bound for three weeks, by high, contrary winds as well.
With winter closing in, there was little enthusiasm to pursue the gang of pirates in the small, relatively open boats of the time, and there appeared to be no more activity on the part of the buccaneers either. That did not, however, prevent the spread of fear and rumor up and down the coast.
In January, the Portsmouth men stopped at Richmond’s Island off Cape Elizabeth on their return journey, long enough to apprehend three deserters from Bull’s crew and to hang an Indian named “Black Will” for the murder of Walter Bagnell, an unscrupulous trader, whose dishonesty had finally caught up with him.
In the spring, a half-hearted attempt was made to locate the pirate, Dixie Bull. But then the governor received a letter purported to be from him and his crew, which read, in part, “ We next proceed south; never shall we hurt any more of your countrymen-rather be sunk than taken.” It was signed “Fortune de Garde.” Not wishing to force a bloody confrontation, the search for Dixie Bull was called off.
Dixie Bull and his band were said to have sailed off to the east and were lost to history.
But where did they go, and did they bury a treasure trove on either Damariscove Island or Cushing Island, as local legends have said.
The answer to the second, is “probably not.” Both islands were inhabited at the time, so it would have been extremely risky to even stop there. Damariscove already had a year round fishing settlement when the Pilgrims arrived. In fact, in the spring of 1622, the Pilgrims sent a party there to procure food for the starving Plymouth colony, and were given a boatload of cod. Without this fish, the Pilgrims might not have survived. Additionally, the plunder from Pemaquid would have consisted mainly of staples and furs, not something one would leave behind.
Stories abound about the fate of the pirates as well. Did they sail to the south? Did they sail to the eastward and join up with the French? There is no evidence any of that happened. A popular poem of the 1600’s has Bull dying in a sword fight, and another that he was hanged in London. There are no records of any of that happening.
There is a record, however, that in 1648, Dixie Bull, of London, was released from his obligations of his apprenticeship to his brother. It would appear, then, that the frightful pirate, Dixie Bull, went on to lead a rather mundane life and probably died an obscure death.
For more information, the author recommends A Brief Account of the Wicked Doings of Dixie Bull by Jim McLain.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Dixie Bull: New England's First Pirate
By Bill Millarrrrgh.
Rocky and windswept, Damariscove Island sits like a sentinel in the ocean guarding the approaches into Boothbay Harbor. Rugged, like most of its kind, it possesses a fair harbor and long history. It is here, that the pirate, Dixie Bull, was said to have buried his treasure.
As a child, our family would pack the cooler, fill the thermos bottle and load into the old Chevy for an annual trip up the coast to Pemaquid, where, having our fill of the beach, we would make the short drive over to Ft. William Henry and climb around the stone walls and tower. Visitor signs and artifacts in the museum told how, in 1632, the pirate, Dixie Bull, had sailed into the harbor and laid waste to the place. In my young imagination, I pictured a fleet of tall vessels, their cannon belching smoke and flame, disgorging a horde of black, bearded ruffians, who took plunder and no prisoners. And, I often wondered who this Dixie Bull, known as New England’s first pirate and the reason for the first large man hunt in the area, really was.
The early 17th century brought an end to the period of exploration along the east coast and ushered in the age of settlements. Both the English and the French began settling and building trading posts along the shore of New England, in some cases in competing areas. This was the New England into which Dixie Bull arrived.
Born in Huntingdonshire in England, sometime in the early 1600’s, he was apprenticed to his older brother, Seth, a skinner and tanner in London. Skinners, at that time, ranked among the wealthiest trade guilds in that they regulated the fur trade. Bull became a “trader for bever,” and, in fact may have used his apprenticeship as a form of indenture to finance his passage to America.
His name first appears in New England along with his elder brother and nephew in a patent for land from Sir Fernando Gorges “east of the Aquamentiquos River (Now the York River)” Since Bull’s name does not carry with it the title of “gentlemen” or “esquire,” he was probably not considered wealthy. There is also no indication that he settled the land granted to him.
Setting himself up as a trader, he purchased a shallop, the pick-up truck of early colonial shipping. Small, open, sometimes half decked, these boats were fitted with sails, oars, or both, and were designed for operating in shallow waters. Sailing up and down the Maine coast, Bull traded for beaver pelts, a staple in the economy of the time.
While beginning a life he hoped would be prosperous, international events overtook Dixie Bull. By the Treaty of St. Germain en Laye in March of 1632, the English had returned to France, Quebec and Acadia. Interpreting the treaty to include those lands in what is now eastern Maine, French Lt. Governor Isaac de Razilly warned the English not to expand east of Pemaquid and sent an expedition to the trading post at the Penobscot Plantation. A French vessel, piloted by a “treacherous Scotsman,” robbed the trading post there, taking away everything of value, taunting the English as they left. In this one instance, Bull lost everything, including his boat. The up and coming businessman was left destitute.
To be continued
Rocky and windswept, Damariscove Island sits like a sentinel in the ocean guarding the approaches into Boothbay Harbor. Rugged, like most of its kind, it possesses a fair harbor and long history. It is here, that the pirate, Dixie Bull, was said to have buried his treasure.
As a child, our family would pack the cooler, fill the thermos bottle and load into the old Chevy for an annual trip up the coast to Pemaquid, where, having our fill of the beach, we would make the short drive over to Ft. William Henry and climb around the stone walls and tower. Visitor signs and artifacts in the museum told how, in 1632, the pirate, Dixie Bull, had sailed into the harbor and laid waste to the place. In my young imagination, I pictured a fleet of tall vessels, their cannon belching smoke and flame, disgorging a horde of black, bearded ruffians, who took plunder and no prisoners. And, I often wondered who this Dixie Bull, known as New England’s first pirate and the reason for the first large man hunt in the area, really was.
The early 17th century brought an end to the period of exploration along the east coast and ushered in the age of settlements. Both the English and the French began settling and building trading posts along the shore of New England, in some cases in competing areas. This was the New England into which Dixie Bull arrived.
Born in Huntingdonshire in England, sometime in the early 1600’s, he was apprenticed to his older brother, Seth, a skinner and tanner in London. Skinners, at that time, ranked among the wealthiest trade guilds in that they regulated the fur trade. Bull became a “trader for bever,” and, in fact may have used his apprenticeship as a form of indenture to finance his passage to America.
His name first appears in New England along with his elder brother and nephew in a patent for land from Sir Fernando Gorges “east of the Aquamentiquos River (Now the York River)” Since Bull’s name does not carry with it the title of “gentlemen” or “esquire,” he was probably not considered wealthy. There is also no indication that he settled the land granted to him.
Setting himself up as a trader, he purchased a shallop, the pick-up truck of early colonial shipping. Small, open, sometimes half decked, these boats were fitted with sails, oars, or both, and were designed for operating in shallow waters. Sailing up and down the Maine coast, Bull traded for beaver pelts, a staple in the economy of the time.
While beginning a life he hoped would be prosperous, international events overtook Dixie Bull. By the Treaty of St. Germain en Laye in March of 1632, the English had returned to France, Quebec and Acadia. Interpreting the treaty to include those lands in what is now eastern Maine, French Lt. Governor Isaac de Razilly warned the English not to expand east of Pemaquid and sent an expedition to the trading post at the Penobscot Plantation. A French vessel, piloted by a “treacherous Scotsman,” robbed the trading post there, taking away everything of value, taunting the English as they left. In this one instance, Bull lost everything, including his boat. The up and coming businessman was left destitute.
To be continued
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The Enemy On Our Shore: The Occupation Ends
The British now set to work establishing their intended province of New Ireland. After a raiding party captured the fort at Buck’s Harbor on September 12, the coastline was secure. On Sept. 21 a proclamation was issued establishing the province and designating Castine as a port of entry.
All towns from the Penobscot to New Brunswick were granted the same commercial rights as any other British province. Vessel owners who swore an oath of allegiance were granted license to operate freely without English interference.
On November 7, Harpswell held a second special town meeting, and appointed the Selectmen as the committee responsible for the arms and equipment which were being sent from the state arsenal in Boston. They were authorized to issue out the arms, one for each person, and required each recipient to provide security that they would be returned when called for. Powder kegs, possibly from this shipment, are on display in the Harpswell Museum on Rt. 123 in Harpswell Center.
East of the Penobscot, daily life as citizens of the British Empire began to settle in. The officers of the garrison at Castine formed a theater, the actors coming from their own number. Feminine roles might be played by a young lieutenant of the infantry for lack of female players.
It was reported that, almost daily, shipments of desirable English goods entered through the port. The imports were of sufficient quantity that the US government established a customs office in Hampden, which collected approximately $150,000 in duties.
When winter brought the freezing of the river, intrepid Mainers could be found crossing the ice in sleighs loaded with contraband to avoid taxes.
One has to wonder to what extent the pillars of the community were profiting from this illegal trade. One night a customs agent apprehended a smuggler with a sleigh full of illegal goods. With Yankee gall, the miscreant charged the agent with highway robbery. Examined by the same magistrates who had appointed him, the unfortunate official was shipped off to prison in Augusta!
The Treaty of Ghent, which ended the War of 1812, also terminated the Province of New Ireland. On April 25, 1815, the British quietly evacuated all territory held in Maine and the US government retained control. Historian William Williamson, in 1832, recounted that the local inhabitants rejoiced, but given the commerce enjoyed during that time, how deep was that sentiment? One is left to wonder what might have been the consequences, what the State of Maine might be like today, had the negotiations left the territory east of the Penobscot as British territory.
For further reading, the author recommends The History of the State of Maine by William Williamson. Published in 1832, it is available online. Penobscot: Downeast Paradise by Gorham Munson (1958) also gives many interesting accounts of the area and its history and is a good read.
All towns from the Penobscot to New Brunswick were granted the same commercial rights as any other British province. Vessel owners who swore an oath of allegiance were granted license to operate freely without English interference.
On November 7, Harpswell held a second special town meeting, and appointed the Selectmen as the committee responsible for the arms and equipment which were being sent from the state arsenal in Boston. They were authorized to issue out the arms, one for each person, and required each recipient to provide security that they would be returned when called for. Powder kegs, possibly from this shipment, are on display in the Harpswell Museum on Rt. 123 in Harpswell Center.
East of the Penobscot, daily life as citizens of the British Empire began to settle in. The officers of the garrison at Castine formed a theater, the actors coming from their own number. Feminine roles might be played by a young lieutenant of the infantry for lack of female players.
It was reported that, almost daily, shipments of desirable English goods entered through the port. The imports were of sufficient quantity that the US government established a customs office in Hampden, which collected approximately $150,000 in duties.
When winter brought the freezing of the river, intrepid Mainers could be found crossing the ice in sleighs loaded with contraband to avoid taxes.
One has to wonder to what extent the pillars of the community were profiting from this illegal trade. One night a customs agent apprehended a smuggler with a sleigh full of illegal goods. With Yankee gall, the miscreant charged the agent with highway robbery. Examined by the same magistrates who had appointed him, the unfortunate official was shipped off to prison in Augusta!
The Treaty of Ghent, which ended the War of 1812, also terminated the Province of New Ireland. On April 25, 1815, the British quietly evacuated all territory held in Maine and the US government retained control. Historian William Williamson, in 1832, recounted that the local inhabitants rejoiced, but given the commerce enjoyed during that time, how deep was that sentiment? One is left to wonder what might have been the consequences, what the State of Maine might be like today, had the negotiations left the territory east of the Penobscot as British territory.
For further reading, the author recommends The History of the State of Maine by William Williamson. Published in 1832, it is available online. Penobscot: Downeast Paradise by Gorham Munson (1958) also gives many interesting accounts of the area and its history and is a good read.
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Enemy At the Gates: The British Invasion of Maine Part 3
The Battle of Hampden
Recognizing the need to eliminate the potential threat of a refitted Adams, a part of the fleet, led by Dragon and accompanied by a transport with 500 light infantry and artillery, was dispatched up the river to destroy it and capture merchant vessels anchored at Hampden, one of which had recently arrived from Rochelle, France with a rich cargo of silk, wine and brandy.
Aware of the British advance, Morris ordered the guns removed from Adams and constructed shore batteries to cover the approach up the river. As the militia trickled in during the day on September 2, he supplied any, who were unarmed, with muskets and ammunition from the ship’s stores.
Lewis and Little, meanwhile, were leading their men up the road along the west bank of the river. The latter, observing a detachment of Royal Riflemen landing to be in position to intercept them, turned his men into the woods and never reached the battle.
In the afternoon, Morris went into town to attend a council of war with General Blake, the commander of the militia and several prominent townspeople at the Hampden Academy Building. Blake had established a rough line with the right anchored on a church, extending in front of the Academy to the river. To the south was the burial ground, Sowadabscook Stream and Pitcher’s Brook. Pickets were placed overlooking Bald Hill Cove approximately three miles down the river.
Morris was dismayed to find total confusion. Blake had developed no clear plan for the 500 men, who were arriving, no positions had been prepared, and the townspeople were advocating no resistance relying instead on British magnanimity.
At sunset, Barrie’s troops aboard the transport landed on the shores of Bald Hill Cove. These were light infantry riflemen, with weapons more accurate and of longer range than the standard smoothbore musket. Elite troops, they had served with Wellington.
Blake’s pickets withdrew.
Throughout the long, rainy night the throng of citizen soldiers stood to arms. To untrained farmers and tradesmen, most of whom had never heard a shot fired in anger, the night was long indeed. Rumors would have flown up and down the line. The stress would have rendered many inconveniently ill.
The morning of September 3 came with a thick fog and movement of the British troops.
Through faulty intelligence, they believed they were facing 1400 militia, thus moved cautiously up the road towards Hampden with a local guide pressed into service. A line of skirmishers was thrown across the front followed by a company of the 60th Regiment, a green-coated regiment formed in great part from German and Dutch prisoners of war unhappy at being forced to support Napoleon. The flanks were guarded by detachments of marines from the ships. Behind it in support followed a second company of the 29th Regiment trailed by a battery of light artillery.
Around 8 AM, marching in quickstep, they broke out of the fog almost upon the startled Mainers, who fired a ragged volley at them. Immediately the center of the militia line collapsed, and without orders began a swift retreat. Morris, his men firing downriver at the British ships and landing barges, saw the collapse and ordered his guns to be spiked and the Adams set ablaze.
Within an hour, the British were in possession of Hampden. The battle, which turned out to be the last in the northern theater of the war, was nearly bloodless. One notable casualty was the unfortunate pressed into service by the British as a guide.
The citizens, who had counted on British magnanimity were sorely disappointed as their cattle were killed and houses sacked. Pleading to CPT Barrie for humanity, he responded, “I have none for you. I will spare your lives, though I mean to burn your houses.” Many were taken to the ships to be detained and a bond of $12,000 was levied on the town.
Two thirds of Barrie’s troops pressed upriver to Bangor. There was no stomach for fighting in Bangor where the citizens determined to rely on Barrie’s good will, and under a flag of truce, surrendered the town unconditionally. Some of them must have felt that resistance might have been the better course as public buildings were commandeered, foodstuffs confiscated and the troops set free to loot. After receiving a pledge of a $30,000 bond, Barrie called off his men.
They then bedded down for what must have been an uneasy night in Bangor. When the next day dawned, the occupiers busied themselves with burning a few more vessels anchored in or on the stocks in the river, and withdrew to Hampden.
Barrie’s men then began boarding the transports to return to Castine, stopping along the way in Frankfort to relieve the townspeople there of a large number of oxen, sheep and geese. On September 7 the victorious force dropped anchor in Castine. The Penobscot River campaign had ended.
To be continued
Recognizing the need to eliminate the potential threat of a refitted Adams, a part of the fleet, led by Dragon and accompanied by a transport with 500 light infantry and artillery, was dispatched up the river to destroy it and capture merchant vessels anchored at Hampden, one of which had recently arrived from Rochelle, France with a rich cargo of silk, wine and brandy.
Aware of the British advance, Morris ordered the guns removed from Adams and constructed shore batteries to cover the approach up the river. As the militia trickled in during the day on September 2, he supplied any, who were unarmed, with muskets and ammunition from the ship’s stores.
Lewis and Little, meanwhile, were leading their men up the road along the west bank of the river. The latter, observing a detachment of Royal Riflemen landing to be in position to intercept them, turned his men into the woods and never reached the battle.
In the afternoon, Morris went into town to attend a council of war with General Blake, the commander of the militia and several prominent townspeople at the Hampden Academy Building. Blake had established a rough line with the right anchored on a church, extending in front of the Academy to the river. To the south was the burial ground, Sowadabscook Stream and Pitcher’s Brook. Pickets were placed overlooking Bald Hill Cove approximately three miles down the river.
Morris was dismayed to find total confusion. Blake had developed no clear plan for the 500 men, who were arriving, no positions had been prepared, and the townspeople were advocating no resistance relying instead on British magnanimity.
At sunset, Barrie’s troops aboard the transport landed on the shores of Bald Hill Cove. These were light infantry riflemen, with weapons more accurate and of longer range than the standard smoothbore musket. Elite troops, they had served with Wellington.
Blake’s pickets withdrew.
Throughout the long, rainy night the throng of citizen soldiers stood to arms. To untrained farmers and tradesmen, most of whom had never heard a shot fired in anger, the night was long indeed. Rumors would have flown up and down the line. The stress would have rendered many inconveniently ill.
The morning of September 3 came with a thick fog and movement of the British troops.
Through faulty intelligence, they believed they were facing 1400 militia, thus moved cautiously up the road towards Hampden with a local guide pressed into service. A line of skirmishers was thrown across the front followed by a company of the 60th Regiment, a green-coated regiment formed in great part from German and Dutch prisoners of war unhappy at being forced to support Napoleon. The flanks were guarded by detachments of marines from the ships. Behind it in support followed a second company of the 29th Regiment trailed by a battery of light artillery.
Around 8 AM, marching in quickstep, they broke out of the fog almost upon the startled Mainers, who fired a ragged volley at them. Immediately the center of the militia line collapsed, and without orders began a swift retreat. Morris, his men firing downriver at the British ships and landing barges, saw the collapse and ordered his guns to be spiked and the Adams set ablaze.
Within an hour, the British were in possession of Hampden. The battle, which turned out to be the last in the northern theater of the war, was nearly bloodless. One notable casualty was the unfortunate pressed into service by the British as a guide.
The citizens, who had counted on British magnanimity were sorely disappointed as their cattle were killed and houses sacked. Pleading to CPT Barrie for humanity, he responded, “I have none for you. I will spare your lives, though I mean to burn your houses.” Many were taken to the ships to be detained and a bond of $12,000 was levied on the town.
Two thirds of Barrie’s troops pressed upriver to Bangor. There was no stomach for fighting in Bangor where the citizens determined to rely on Barrie’s good will, and under a flag of truce, surrendered the town unconditionally. Some of them must have felt that resistance might have been the better course as public buildings were commandeered, foodstuffs confiscated and the troops set free to loot. After receiving a pledge of a $30,000 bond, Barrie called off his men.
They then bedded down for what must have been an uneasy night in Bangor. When the next day dawned, the occupiers busied themselves with burning a few more vessels anchored in or on the stocks in the river, and withdrew to Hampden.
Barrie’s men then began boarding the transports to return to Castine, stopping along the way in Frankfort to relieve the townspeople there of a large number of oxen, sheep and geese. On September 7 the victorious force dropped anchor in Castine. The Penobscot River campaign had ended.
To be continued
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Enemy At the Gates: The British Invasion of Maine Part 2
The Arrival of the Adams
Concern spread quickly along the coast as militia units stood to arms. The militia in Bangor was ordered to reinforce the regular troops in Castine. In Machias, the citizens prepared to evacuate ahead of what was sure to come.
On July 25, Harpswell held a special town meeting electing Stephen Purinton to go to Boston as the town’s agent to collect Harpswell’s quota of the state arms and ammunition, providing he could procure them at state expense with no cost to the town.
At the same time, CPT Robert Barrie, commanding the 74 gun HMS Dragon arrived in Halifax with a convoy of supply ships in tow. Using Dragon as the lead, a powerful task force consisting of three 74’s, two frigates recently transferred from the Mediterranean, several smaller ships and transports with approximately 3,000 men and families from the 60th, 62nd, and 98th regiments was readied for action in the Machias and Penobscot Bay areas.
On September 1, this powerful fleet dropped anchor in the harbor of Castine. The two detachments for American troops, 28 regulars under the command of LT Lewis and 98 militia led by LT Little, sensing the precariousness of their position, blew up the fort before being called upon to surrender and fled up the bay to Bucksport with Lewis’ men dragging along two three pound field pieces.
The invaders began ferrying ashore, where they commandeered the largest buildings as barracks and the finest homes as officers’ quarters. Foraging parties were sent out to the surrounding farms over the next few days to bring in fresh food. A messenger, flying the Union Jack, was sent across the bay to Belfast bearing a warning to the citizens there that no harm would come to them if they did not interfere in British operations.
The US troops withdrawing to Bucksport accomplished a successful river crossing during the night, leaving the field pieces behind. Their pursuers recovered them after threatening to put the town to the torch.
Several weeks prior to the invasion, the 24 gun corvette USS Adams, under the command of Charles Morris, a former lieutenant on the USS Constitution had been preying on British shipping, but in severe weather, had barely survived grounding on a ledge off Isle au Haut.
Limping the stricken ship into Camden, Morris discharged his prisoners, but ascertained that port to be too vulnerable to accomplish needed repairs. So, he slipped up the Penobscot River to the mouth of Sowadabscook Stream at the southern end of the town of Hampden where repairs could be made in relative safety.
The enlisted prisoners, meanwhile, were marched off from Camden to internment at Ft. Edgecomb near Wiscassett, while, as was customary, the officers were released on parole. This group had no intention of honoring the terms of their release, however, and bribed a local resident to sail them to Eastport and the British garrison there.
In an event, which could only be described as comical, as they began to make their getaway, they discovered there was no liquor on board the boat, so one of their number went back on shore where he was promptly arrested in a store while trying to make the purchase. The rest fled, pursued by faster American boats, which overtook them and turned back towards Camden. So jubilant and overconfident were these Mainers at their capture of their former prisoners, that the escapees were able to turn the tables on their captors, take over the boats and sail safely to the shelter of the British lines.
To be continued
Concern spread quickly along the coast as militia units stood to arms. The militia in Bangor was ordered to reinforce the regular troops in Castine. In Machias, the citizens prepared to evacuate ahead of what was sure to come.
On July 25, Harpswell held a special town meeting electing Stephen Purinton to go to Boston as the town’s agent to collect Harpswell’s quota of the state arms and ammunition, providing he could procure them at state expense with no cost to the town.
At the same time, CPT Robert Barrie, commanding the 74 gun HMS Dragon arrived in Halifax with a convoy of supply ships in tow. Using Dragon as the lead, a powerful task force consisting of three 74’s, two frigates recently transferred from the Mediterranean, several smaller ships and transports with approximately 3,000 men and families from the 60th, 62nd, and 98th regiments was readied for action in the Machias and Penobscot Bay areas.
On September 1, this powerful fleet dropped anchor in the harbor of Castine. The two detachments for American troops, 28 regulars under the command of LT Lewis and 98 militia led by LT Little, sensing the precariousness of their position, blew up the fort before being called upon to surrender and fled up the bay to Bucksport with Lewis’ men dragging along two three pound field pieces.
The invaders began ferrying ashore, where they commandeered the largest buildings as barracks and the finest homes as officers’ quarters. Foraging parties were sent out to the surrounding farms over the next few days to bring in fresh food. A messenger, flying the Union Jack, was sent across the bay to Belfast bearing a warning to the citizens there that no harm would come to them if they did not interfere in British operations.
The US troops withdrawing to Bucksport accomplished a successful river crossing during the night, leaving the field pieces behind. Their pursuers recovered them after threatening to put the town to the torch.
Several weeks prior to the invasion, the 24 gun corvette USS Adams, under the command of Charles Morris, a former lieutenant on the USS Constitution had been preying on British shipping, but in severe weather, had barely survived grounding on a ledge off Isle au Haut.
Limping the stricken ship into Camden, Morris discharged his prisoners, but ascertained that port to be too vulnerable to accomplish needed repairs. So, he slipped up the Penobscot River to the mouth of Sowadabscook Stream at the southern end of the town of Hampden where repairs could be made in relative safety.
The enlisted prisoners, meanwhile, were marched off from Camden to internment at Ft. Edgecomb near Wiscassett, while, as was customary, the officers were released on parole. This group had no intention of honoring the terms of their release, however, and bribed a local resident to sail them to Eastport and the British garrison there.
In an event, which could only be described as comical, as they began to make their getaway, they discovered there was no liquor on board the boat, so one of their number went back on shore where he was promptly arrested in a store while trying to make the purchase. The rest fled, pursued by faster American boats, which overtook them and turned back towards Camden. So jubilant and overconfident were these Mainers at their capture of their former prisoners, that the escapees were able to turn the tables on their captors, take over the boats and sail safely to the shelter of the British lines.
To be continued
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Enemy At the Gates: The British Invasion of Maine
In September 1814 the War of 1812, which had for the most part passed Maine by, came to its shores in earnest. A little known part of American history, it had the potential to radically change not only this state, but the entire nation as well.
The march towards open conflict with England had begun since the early days of the United States’ independence, finally coming to a head over England’s attempts at restricting American trade, particularly with Napoleon’s Europe and the Royal Navy’s practice of impressing American sailors into its service on the high seas.
With its long, well-harbored coastline and seafaring tradition, it was, perhaps, inevitable that Maine, then part of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, would be drawn deeply into the war.
President Jefferson’s Embargo Act of 1807, which had prohibited the exportation of any merchandise from the U.S. had caused an economic depression in Maine. Up and down the coast, goods rotted in warehouses, ships lay idle at wharves and seamen were unemployed. Although the act was repealed in 1809, its memory created a strong anti-war sentiment along the Eastern Seaboard.
At a special Harpswell town meeting held on August 24, 1812, for example, Stephen Purinton and John Curtis were elected delegates to a county convention “to take measures to alleviate the miseries of war and bring about a speedy and lasting peace.”
With the declaration of war in 1812, the British, were aware the sentiment for war was centered mainly in the south and west, and realizing profit could be gained from continued trade, decided to leave New England be. It was said in Maine at the time, a young man wanting action should sign aboard a privateer and not join the militia.
Even when the president called for militia units to be placed under federal control, Governor Strong disregarded the order, stating it would leave the Commonwealth undefended in violation of the Massachusetts constitution. George Ulmer was given a presidential commission of colonel and placed in command of the regular troops at Ft. Sullivan in Eastport, ME. “It was Ulmer’s design and duty,” wrote one Maine historian, “To prevent, if possible, all smuggling and intercourse with the enemy, in the faithful discharge of which, he gave to the inhabitants some affront.” Ulmer’s reward for attempting to eliminate commerce in contraband was to be relieved of command.
The brief, sharp engagement between the USS Enterprise and HMS Boxer off Monhegan Island in September 1813 was a brief reminder to Maine that there was a war going on.
To reinforce the defense of Eastport, two additional forts were established at Robbinston, garrisoned with 30 men, and a 70 man force stationed on Moose Island.
In the summer of 1814, war finally arrived, when on July 11, an expedition launched secretly from Halifax, NS, led by the 74 gun HMS Ramilies anchored off Eastport. Commodore Sir Thomas Hardy demanded an immediate surrender. The new American commander, Maj. Putnam, demurred, but through pressure from the local inhabitants, struck his colors without resistance. Hardy ordered 1000 soldiers from the 102nd regiment put ashore along with a number of their wives and children. All public property was immediately confiscated, and the surrendering Americans were placed aboard a prison ship.
$9,000 in unsigned Treasury Notes was seized, which the customs collector refused to sign even under threat of death. Hardy did not carry out the threat and issued a proclamation declaring US laws would remain in effect but ordering all inhabitants to swear an oath of allegiance to the Crown. Eventually about 2/3 of the population did so. To secure his conquests, he left inn place a garrison of 800 men and a Royal Customs collector.
Almost instantly resourceful locals began a brisk smuggling operation of cattle and local goods into the British lines.
To further secure the area, a party was dispatched to drive out the garrison at Robbinston. The lieutenant in charge, realizing opposition to the highly trained, motivated British troops was futile, ordered the destruction of everything that could not be taken and withdrew to Machias. An additional British raiding party was put ashore to spike the guns at the fort below Thomaston, rendering them useless.
To be continued
The march towards open conflict with England had begun since the early days of the United States’ independence, finally coming to a head over England’s attempts at restricting American trade, particularly with Napoleon’s Europe and the Royal Navy’s practice of impressing American sailors into its service on the high seas.
With its long, well-harbored coastline and seafaring tradition, it was, perhaps, inevitable that Maine, then part of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, would be drawn deeply into the war.
President Jefferson’s Embargo Act of 1807, which had prohibited the exportation of any merchandise from the U.S. had caused an economic depression in Maine. Up and down the coast, goods rotted in warehouses, ships lay idle at wharves and seamen were unemployed. Although the act was repealed in 1809, its memory created a strong anti-war sentiment along the Eastern Seaboard.
At a special Harpswell town meeting held on August 24, 1812, for example, Stephen Purinton and John Curtis were elected delegates to a county convention “to take measures to alleviate the miseries of war and bring about a speedy and lasting peace.”
With the declaration of war in 1812, the British, were aware the sentiment for war was centered mainly in the south and west, and realizing profit could be gained from continued trade, decided to leave New England be. It was said in Maine at the time, a young man wanting action should sign aboard a privateer and not join the militia.
Even when the president called for militia units to be placed under federal control, Governor Strong disregarded the order, stating it would leave the Commonwealth undefended in violation of the Massachusetts constitution. George Ulmer was given a presidential commission of colonel and placed in command of the regular troops at Ft. Sullivan in Eastport, ME. “It was Ulmer’s design and duty,” wrote one Maine historian, “To prevent, if possible, all smuggling and intercourse with the enemy, in the faithful discharge of which, he gave to the inhabitants some affront.” Ulmer’s reward for attempting to eliminate commerce in contraband was to be relieved of command.
The brief, sharp engagement between the USS Enterprise and HMS Boxer off Monhegan Island in September 1813 was a brief reminder to Maine that there was a war going on.
To reinforce the defense of Eastport, two additional forts were established at Robbinston, garrisoned with 30 men, and a 70 man force stationed on Moose Island.
In the summer of 1814, war finally arrived, when on July 11, an expedition launched secretly from Halifax, NS, led by the 74 gun HMS Ramilies anchored off Eastport. Commodore Sir Thomas Hardy demanded an immediate surrender. The new American commander, Maj. Putnam, demurred, but through pressure from the local inhabitants, struck his colors without resistance. Hardy ordered 1000 soldiers from the 102nd regiment put ashore along with a number of their wives and children. All public property was immediately confiscated, and the surrendering Americans were placed aboard a prison ship.
$9,000 in unsigned Treasury Notes was seized, which the customs collector refused to sign even under threat of death. Hardy did not carry out the threat and issued a proclamation declaring US laws would remain in effect but ordering all inhabitants to swear an oath of allegiance to the Crown. Eventually about 2/3 of the population did so. To secure his conquests, he left inn place a garrison of 800 men and a Royal Customs collector.
Almost instantly resourceful locals began a brisk smuggling operation of cattle and local goods into the British lines.
To further secure the area, a party was dispatched to drive out the garrison at Robbinston. The lieutenant in charge, realizing opposition to the highly trained, motivated British troops was futile, ordered the destruction of everything that could not be taken and withdrew to Machias. An additional British raiding party was put ashore to spike the guns at the fort below Thomaston, rendering them useless.
To be continued
Saturday, June 12, 2010
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Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Rusty Rails
I like to watch railroad tracks, or, more specifically, abandoned or little used rails. They are a link to what was, the way we traveled, the way we got things, the way we even celebrated holidays.
Train time was an event. When my brother was born, my grandmother came over from New Hampshire on the train to take care of my sister and me while my mother was in the hospital. We drove downtown to the stately granite, oak and polished brass station to await her arrival. A few people waited in the darkening evening. There were folks waiting for arrivals such as we were, others leaving for parts unknown, one or two sailors departing for leave from the naval air station. Now and again we would go out onto the cold platform, even though we knew what time the train would arrive. And arrive it did. The rails had been converted to diesel by then, but we could hear the lonesome horn to the west, echoing as the engine passed through Deep Cut on the old Maine Central Line. The train stopped with a squeal of steel on steel, and my grandmother stepped down from the shiny car. It was all so thrilling.
Children’s books told us of how the good things we ate and everything else arrived in box cars behind the hard working engines. New cars were unloaded for the local dealerships, coal and oil were brought onto the siding at Brunswick Coal and Lumber to heat up our homes. Long trains filled with cement, potatoes, and wood products rumbled through town on their way to bigger places like Boston, New York and beyond.
The box cars were lessons in geography to us: The Louisville & Nashville, New York, Hartford & New Haven; Delaware & Hudson; and the Canadian National and Grand Trunk railroads.
But best of all was after Thanksgiving in early December, when the railway express cars would be shunted to the Railway Express depot, disgorging brown paper wrapped packages from distant relatives or large boxes from catalog stores. Christmas fever was boosted to a higher pitch, when the olive drab delivery trucks started up and down the street, stopping next door or even at your own place because every kid knew what that meant: presents were starting to arrive.
But all that is gone now. The few trains that come through are sorry affairs; one or two unmarked, unremarkable, rusting storage sheds on wheels pulled by equally drab mono-colored engines. No more do kids count them and try to find out where they have come from.
Most of the track is abandoned. Leaning telegraph poles and old ties still lie scattered along them, as if someone walked away and forgot what to do with them. Those are the tracks I like to stand beside. I like the grass covered rails leading off around the next corner into the fields or woods to disappear with their stories.
Train time was an event. When my brother was born, my grandmother came over from New Hampshire on the train to take care of my sister and me while my mother was in the hospital. We drove downtown to the stately granite, oak and polished brass station to await her arrival. A few people waited in the darkening evening. There were folks waiting for arrivals such as we were, others leaving for parts unknown, one or two sailors departing for leave from the naval air station. Now and again we would go out onto the cold platform, even though we knew what time the train would arrive. And arrive it did. The rails had been converted to diesel by then, but we could hear the lonesome horn to the west, echoing as the engine passed through Deep Cut on the old Maine Central Line. The train stopped with a squeal of steel on steel, and my grandmother stepped down from the shiny car. It was all so thrilling.
Children’s books told us of how the good things we ate and everything else arrived in box cars behind the hard working engines. New cars were unloaded for the local dealerships, coal and oil were brought onto the siding at Brunswick Coal and Lumber to heat up our homes. Long trains filled with cement, potatoes, and wood products rumbled through town on their way to bigger places like Boston, New York and beyond.
The box cars were lessons in geography to us: The Louisville & Nashville, New York, Hartford & New Haven; Delaware & Hudson; and the Canadian National and Grand Trunk railroads.
But best of all was after Thanksgiving in early December, when the railway express cars would be shunted to the Railway Express depot, disgorging brown paper wrapped packages from distant relatives or large boxes from catalog stores. Christmas fever was boosted to a higher pitch, when the olive drab delivery trucks started up and down the street, stopping next door or even at your own place because every kid knew what that meant: presents were starting to arrive.
But all that is gone now. The few trains that come through are sorry affairs; one or two unmarked, unremarkable, rusting storage sheds on wheels pulled by equally drab mono-colored engines. No more do kids count them and try to find out where they have come from.
Most of the track is abandoned. Leaning telegraph poles and old ties still lie scattered along them, as if someone walked away and forgot what to do with them. Those are the tracks I like to stand beside. I like the grass covered rails leading off around the next corner into the fields or woods to disappear with their stories.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Give Me A Break, PETA
At one time the humble sardine provided Mainers with thousands of jobs along the coast, particularly Downeast, where paid work today is a vanishing commodity. Seiners went out with their nets and returned with holds loaded with little, silver fish, which were headed, gutted and packed away in often times colorful, flat cans to be shipped all over the world.
During the Vietnam War they could be purchased in the PX tent along with crackers and consumed as a snack along with a favorite beverage when off duty.
But like the shoe and textile industries, the forest product industry and farming, the sardine industry is about to become a thing of the past, with the last cannery in the entire US in Prospect Harbor, ME closing.
For those of you who don’t know it, Prospect Harbor is not one of the economic boom areas of the country. Maine has turned its back on its old industries. Despite all the promises of a legion of political candidates, Maine has turned its back on any industry to become a haven for wealthy retirees and yuppies with enough in the trust fund to open trendy shops for tourists. Bring forward a proposal for a business, even an environmentally friendly one like wind or tidal power generation, and a “Friends of” group will spring up, in their LL Beans finery, decrying how the proposal will destroy “their corner of heaven,” or even life as we know it. Forget the facts, just don’t mess with my view.
But, I digress. A possible buyer has been found to purchase the Prospect Harbor factory and process lobster, allowing more of our largest marine catch to be turned into a value added product right here instead of being shipped to Canada. The state government hasn’t, in the recent past been overly friendly towards the lobster industry in spite of its impact on the economy, but nonetheless, here is an opportunity to help it.
In one of the stupidest moves (I’m not going to euphemize it, it is bone headed stupid) I have ever seen any group do, PETA has written a letter to the governor protesting the sale. According to the Portland Press Herald: “PETA official Tracy Reiman says ‘lobsters and fish are smart, sensitive and unique individuals who should be respected, not killed and canned.”
Got news for you, Tracy. Lobsters are bugs, genetically related to grasshoppers. They are neither smart nor are they nice. They are cannibals. In fact, if left alone in a trap, they will attack and eat each other. I’ve also never really noticed anything particularly intelligent about fish either, although our 14 year old gold fish could recognize me through the glass and beg for food. Oh yeah, lobster is low fat, fish high in omega 3, so where are we going to get that? Birch bark? Nature made the food chain, and we, fortunately, sit fairly near the top. It’s all part of the circle of life.
I’m sure Ms. Reiman is adequately paid as an official of PETA, but the former sardine workers are now just receiving unemployment compensation. Isn’t it time we think of them?
By the way, I have no problem boiling a lobster.
During the Vietnam War they could be purchased in the PX tent along with crackers and consumed as a snack along with a favorite beverage when off duty.
But like the shoe and textile industries, the forest product industry and farming, the sardine industry is about to become a thing of the past, with the last cannery in the entire US in Prospect Harbor, ME closing.
For those of you who don’t know it, Prospect Harbor is not one of the economic boom areas of the country. Maine has turned its back on its old industries. Despite all the promises of a legion of political candidates, Maine has turned its back on any industry to become a haven for wealthy retirees and yuppies with enough in the trust fund to open trendy shops for tourists. Bring forward a proposal for a business, even an environmentally friendly one like wind or tidal power generation, and a “Friends of” group will spring up, in their LL Beans finery, decrying how the proposal will destroy “their corner of heaven,” or even life as we know it. Forget the facts, just don’t mess with my view.
But, I digress. A possible buyer has been found to purchase the Prospect Harbor factory and process lobster, allowing more of our largest marine catch to be turned into a value added product right here instead of being shipped to Canada. The state government hasn’t, in the recent past been overly friendly towards the lobster industry in spite of its impact on the economy, but nonetheless, here is an opportunity to help it.
In one of the stupidest moves (I’m not going to euphemize it, it is bone headed stupid) I have ever seen any group do, PETA has written a letter to the governor protesting the sale. According to the Portland Press Herald: “PETA official Tracy Reiman says ‘lobsters and fish are smart, sensitive and unique individuals who should be respected, not killed and canned.”
Got news for you, Tracy. Lobsters are bugs, genetically related to grasshoppers. They are neither smart nor are they nice. They are cannibals. In fact, if left alone in a trap, they will attack and eat each other. I’ve also never really noticed anything particularly intelligent about fish either, although our 14 year old gold fish could recognize me through the glass and beg for food. Oh yeah, lobster is low fat, fish high in omega 3, so where are we going to get that? Birch bark? Nature made the food chain, and we, fortunately, sit fairly near the top. It’s all part of the circle of life.
I’m sure Ms. Reiman is adequately paid as an official of PETA, but the former sardine workers are now just receiving unemployment compensation. Isn’t it time we think of them?
By the way, I have no problem boiling a lobster.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Hit Man
There once was a hit man named Artie, who specialized in strangling his victims. One day he performed a hit on a friend's ex-wife as a favor, but being a professional, he said he had to charge, but only asked for one dollar, to protect his image. The hit was to take place in the parking lot of the local Shop 'n Save. As the woman drove into the parking lot, Artie noticed that she had a boyfriend with her, which meant he had to be dealt with. Artie jumped him first, strangled him and then turned on the ex wife, strangling her. The manager of the store, alerted to the scuffle going on outside, ran to the scene and was strangled himself before the police arrived and secured Artie.
The headline in the paper the next day read, "Artie Chokes Three For A Dollar At Shop 'n Save."
The headline in the paper the next day read, "Artie Chokes Three For A Dollar At Shop 'n Save."
Saturday, March 6, 2010
The School Hot Lunch Program
Once I became a first grader, one of the big kids, who had to be at school during the morning and the afternoon, I became aware of the hot lunch program at school. Many of us lived within walking distance of the school and were excused at noon to walk home to a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup or a peanut butter sandwich. That’s right, I did not say peanut butter and jelly as my mother had not mastered that concept yet, and I was forced to choke down, on sandwich day, two slices of Holsum bread with an arid layer of Peter Pan peanut butter between them.
The bus kids, and those whose mothers worked during the day marched down to the room which, at Longfellow School, served as the gymnasium, assembly room and cafeteria. At one end was the stage for presentations and plays, the other end held the kitchen, serving window and highly varnished picnic tables. For $.25 a kid could buy a ticket for a hot meal and a ½ pint bottle of milk or for $.03, a ticket which scored him just a milk, if mom sent him to school with his Roy Rogers lunch box with a sandwich. My Hopalong Cassidy lunch box, contained a thermos bottle, and so I would be relieved of the necessity of even that expense.
The hot lunch program was funded, not by the Department of Education, as one might think, but by the Department of Defense. Its purpose was not to keep us healthy learners as the concept of “a hungry child can’t learn,” wasn’t in vogue. It was borne out of the need to insure that our generation could provide enough healthy cannon fodder when the time came, and that the girls would become brood stock for another generation of soldiers. The Great Depression had created so many malnourished youngsters, you see, that the government was alarmed at the number of young men rejected medically for military service during World War II.
Lunches at home were pretty mundane. In addition to what I’ve described above, there was Franco American spaghetti, a plate of elbow macaroni with orange shake cheese or good old, healthy baloney. We didn’t expect any more than that, and we knew what it was, even though no one had ever seen a healthy balone, from which the baloney came, grazing in a pasture.
One nearly forgotten rainy day in the first grade, I did not want to walk home in my heavy, oil skin raincoat with hat that didn’t turn when my head did, giving me a limited field of vision, so I conned a quarter out of my mother to eat a hot lunch. At noon, I watched the walkers leave, lined up and filed to the cafeteria with those, who were already veterans of the lunch room. As we neared the first floor, my nose was assaulted by a warm, damp smell. I stood in line, received from one of the hair-netted lunch ladies a thick, white plate with a green band, which I could barely hold, and shuffled down the line as the food was ladled onto the plate. At the end of the line I was given a ½ pint glass bottle of milk. I found a seat with some of my friends, some of whom started to eat, and looked at the plate. There was a distinguishable glop of what looked like mashed potatoes, unlumpy like my mothers. Over this was spread a mass of brown. Yup, brown it was. I suppose it was meat and gravy, but to a finicky first grader, any thing unrecognizable was nauseating. I picked at it, drank the milk, developed a roaring headache and was scolded by some female authority figure as I emptied an almost full plate into the trash when the bell rang.
At home that night, I still felt sick, and my father, like most of his generation to whom the three squares a day of army food were a welcome relief from the poverty of their childhoods, was not sympathetic. “When you get into the army,” he warned, “You’ll eat it or starve.” I heaved at that.
From then on, I avoided staying in for lunch until junior high, when a 20 minute lunch period and a two mile round trip walk forced me to bring a lunch and watch others try to put the meals down. We were now eating out of bilious green sectional trays and the milk bottles had become cartons. The meal I remember the most, not only because of its frequency, but because to this day I’ve never seen anything as revolting served to free citizens. It was called, “Canadian bacon.” It was, in reality, fried baloney, and so help me the edges of it were gray-green.
The food in the Army, by the way, with the exception of the C-ration of ham and lima beans, was pretty good. One of my first extra duties as a lieutenant was mess officer, and later in the reserves, I served as director of instruction at the Army’s food service school at Ft. Lee, VA. But… Anything after those school hot lunches would have been good.
The bus kids, and those whose mothers worked during the day marched down to the room which, at Longfellow School, served as the gymnasium, assembly room and cafeteria. At one end was the stage for presentations and plays, the other end held the kitchen, serving window and highly varnished picnic tables. For $.25 a kid could buy a ticket for a hot meal and a ½ pint bottle of milk or for $.03, a ticket which scored him just a milk, if mom sent him to school with his Roy Rogers lunch box with a sandwich. My Hopalong Cassidy lunch box, contained a thermos bottle, and so I would be relieved of the necessity of even that expense.
The hot lunch program was funded, not by the Department of Education, as one might think, but by the Department of Defense. Its purpose was not to keep us healthy learners as the concept of “a hungry child can’t learn,” wasn’t in vogue. It was borne out of the need to insure that our generation could provide enough healthy cannon fodder when the time came, and that the girls would become brood stock for another generation of soldiers. The Great Depression had created so many malnourished youngsters, you see, that the government was alarmed at the number of young men rejected medically for military service during World War II.
Lunches at home were pretty mundane. In addition to what I’ve described above, there was Franco American spaghetti, a plate of elbow macaroni with orange shake cheese or good old, healthy baloney. We didn’t expect any more than that, and we knew what it was, even though no one had ever seen a healthy balone, from which the baloney came, grazing in a pasture.
One nearly forgotten rainy day in the first grade, I did not want to walk home in my heavy, oil skin raincoat with hat that didn’t turn when my head did, giving me a limited field of vision, so I conned a quarter out of my mother to eat a hot lunch. At noon, I watched the walkers leave, lined up and filed to the cafeteria with those, who were already veterans of the lunch room. As we neared the first floor, my nose was assaulted by a warm, damp smell. I stood in line, received from one of the hair-netted lunch ladies a thick, white plate with a green band, which I could barely hold, and shuffled down the line as the food was ladled onto the plate. At the end of the line I was given a ½ pint glass bottle of milk. I found a seat with some of my friends, some of whom started to eat, and looked at the plate. There was a distinguishable glop of what looked like mashed potatoes, unlumpy like my mothers. Over this was spread a mass of brown. Yup, brown it was. I suppose it was meat and gravy, but to a finicky first grader, any thing unrecognizable was nauseating. I picked at it, drank the milk, developed a roaring headache and was scolded by some female authority figure as I emptied an almost full plate into the trash when the bell rang.
At home that night, I still felt sick, and my father, like most of his generation to whom the three squares a day of army food were a welcome relief from the poverty of their childhoods, was not sympathetic. “When you get into the army,” he warned, “You’ll eat it or starve.” I heaved at that.
From then on, I avoided staying in for lunch until junior high, when a 20 minute lunch period and a two mile round trip walk forced me to bring a lunch and watch others try to put the meals down. We were now eating out of bilious green sectional trays and the milk bottles had become cartons. The meal I remember the most, not only because of its frequency, but because to this day I’ve never seen anything as revolting served to free citizens. It was called, “Canadian bacon.” It was, in reality, fried baloney, and so help me the edges of it were gray-green.
The food in the Army, by the way, with the exception of the C-ration of ham and lima beans, was pretty good. One of my first extra duties as a lieutenant was mess officer, and later in the reserves, I served as director of instruction at the Army’s food service school at Ft. Lee, VA. But… Anything after those school hot lunches would have been good.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
A Tribute To Poopy
They laid Poopy to rest today.
Actually, his name was Wayne and only two years older than I. I had always thought him to be much older, but as a four year old, the six year olds, already in school, seemed much older, and the kids in Harpswell grew up faster than we soft kids uptown.
Nicknames often come from some indiscretion or something done by accident during early childhood, and he was no exception to that. The story goes that when he first started school, he had an accident, which left him with full pants. The old family farm was just down the road from the one room school house, so the teacher sent him home for clean clothes. Being no slouch, he realized he had stumbled on, as we used to say in the Army, “a good sham,” and so several days later, he unloaded his problems, and took the short walk home. After several leaves of absence, his mother sent a letter to the teacher, instructing her that if Wayne were to do this again, “Let him sit in it.” The next event was the last, but the effect it had on his fellow students gave him the name “Poopy,” which never left him.
His obituary said he was an avid hunter. Well, that was an understatement, as the terms “poaching” and “jacking” were often associated with his name, and as late as this past fall, he was allegedly pinched by game wardens for taking a shot at an entrapment decoy placed near the side of the road. It also said he loved entertaining people with “anecdotes.” This was quite true, and the majority either stared or ended with “Gawd, boy.” Or “Gawd, boy, did you ever…”
But I’m not writing this to make fun of an early childhood incident or to put him in the role of rural buffoon. Wayne was a salt of the earth type of guy, who was a friend to everyone, and those who knew him all had stories about him. The fact is, with Wayne’s passing, a bit of what made Harpswell an interesting place, has disappeared and we are becoming less a community and spiraling deeper into the bland retirement community for people from away that we are rapidly becoming.
Rest in peace, Poopy. We’ll miss you.
Actually, his name was Wayne and only two years older than I. I had always thought him to be much older, but as a four year old, the six year olds, already in school, seemed much older, and the kids in Harpswell grew up faster than we soft kids uptown.
Nicknames often come from some indiscretion or something done by accident during early childhood, and he was no exception to that. The story goes that when he first started school, he had an accident, which left him with full pants. The old family farm was just down the road from the one room school house, so the teacher sent him home for clean clothes. Being no slouch, he realized he had stumbled on, as we used to say in the Army, “a good sham,” and so several days later, he unloaded his problems, and took the short walk home. After several leaves of absence, his mother sent a letter to the teacher, instructing her that if Wayne were to do this again, “Let him sit in it.” The next event was the last, but the effect it had on his fellow students gave him the name “Poopy,” which never left him.
His obituary said he was an avid hunter. Well, that was an understatement, as the terms “poaching” and “jacking” were often associated with his name, and as late as this past fall, he was allegedly pinched by game wardens for taking a shot at an entrapment decoy placed near the side of the road. It also said he loved entertaining people with “anecdotes.” This was quite true, and the majority either stared or ended with “Gawd, boy.” Or “Gawd, boy, did you ever…”
But I’m not writing this to make fun of an early childhood incident or to put him in the role of rural buffoon. Wayne was a salt of the earth type of guy, who was a friend to everyone, and those who knew him all had stories about him. The fact is, with Wayne’s passing, a bit of what made Harpswell an interesting place, has disappeared and we are becoming less a community and spiraling deeper into the bland retirement community for people from away that we are rapidly becoming.
Rest in peace, Poopy. We’ll miss you.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
A Short Review
Your book is by far the most realistic one on soldiering in ‘Nam I have read to date. It is very obvious (even to those who might not personally know you) that you were there and lived this. It is also really “close to home” for those of us who shared that experience. You really captured it – the good, bad and ugly – and poignant. It truly is a masterpiece and I thank you for writing it and for getting me a copy.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Porkasaurus On The Plane
As I came around the corner into the gate for the flight to Boston, I would hear a cigarette, raspy voice whining on a cell phone about something or other. The owner of said voice was a rotund woman with spandex pants and black nail polish. As the only seats available were next to her, we sat down to await our turn to be called into the steerage class Delta Airlines calls “zone four.”
“If there is a God,” I thought, “She will not sit near me.” And the odds were she wouldn’t. As I was trundling my bag down the aisle looking for Row 14, I would see ahead of me, this same personage splayed out across three seats in one aisle, close, I determined to row 14.
I almost screamed when I saw, that it was indeed Row 14. Her body and possessions occupied not only her assigned seats, but Susan’s and mine as well. She turned around and asked if I was sitting there, and not wishing to appear friendly, I curtly replied, “Yes.”
So she squeezed herself into her seat and half of mine and retrieved her Sudoku book and a “what’s happening in Hollywood” magazine. Her 40lb love handles spread across the seat arm and down into my space. For all I knew she could have had 40lbs of C-4 strapped to her arms. I sat down and wiggled myself into place. I thought, “My God, she makes Jabba the Hut look svelte.” With Susan in place on the other side I had the choice of having my arms crushed so tightly against my ribs that I would need a CPAP to get enough air to last the trip or spend the time leaned over at a 45 degree angle. I know on the afternoon, “you are all beautiful, empowered victims” talk shows we learn that fat people have rights, but what about mine?” I didn’t Twinkie myself into invading someone else’s personal space.
Anyway. The plane took off using a whole lot of runway. The personage next to me fell asleep, and immediately began to exude odors most foul. Susan looked at me, but she could tell from years of marriage that had it been me, she would have detected a look of either triumph, ecstasy, or a smirk. She saw neither, and I meanwhile was drifting back to the captain’s discussion of how the cruise ship we had returned from dealt with black water, cleansing it, and pumping it overboard where it would be sucked up, desalinated and become our drinking water.
For two hours, we sat, thigh pressed to thigh, but it was not like any of my teenage fantasies, I can tell you. When the stewardesses brought around pretzels and peanuts, I wondered if rubbing the salt on this slug person would cause her to shrivel and give me Lebensraum. She snarfed down a bag of pretzels.
Eventually we landed safely in Boston, caught the Concord bus and arrived back to find the house had maintained a 49 degree temperature, so the pipes weren’t frozen and the electricity was on. That made it a good trip.
“If there is a God,” I thought, “She will not sit near me.” And the odds were she wouldn’t. As I was trundling my bag down the aisle looking for Row 14, I would see ahead of me, this same personage splayed out across three seats in one aisle, close, I determined to row 14.
I almost screamed when I saw, that it was indeed Row 14. Her body and possessions occupied not only her assigned seats, but Susan’s and mine as well. She turned around and asked if I was sitting there, and not wishing to appear friendly, I curtly replied, “Yes.”
So she squeezed herself into her seat and half of mine and retrieved her Sudoku book and a “what’s happening in Hollywood” magazine. Her 40lb love handles spread across the seat arm and down into my space. For all I knew she could have had 40lbs of C-4 strapped to her arms. I sat down and wiggled myself into place. I thought, “My God, she makes Jabba the Hut look svelte.” With Susan in place on the other side I had the choice of having my arms crushed so tightly against my ribs that I would need a CPAP to get enough air to last the trip or spend the time leaned over at a 45 degree angle. I know on the afternoon, “you are all beautiful, empowered victims” talk shows we learn that fat people have rights, but what about mine?” I didn’t Twinkie myself into invading someone else’s personal space.
Anyway. The plane took off using a whole lot of runway. The personage next to me fell asleep, and immediately began to exude odors most foul. Susan looked at me, but she could tell from years of marriage that had it been me, she would have detected a look of either triumph, ecstasy, or a smirk. She saw neither, and I meanwhile was drifting back to the captain’s discussion of how the cruise ship we had returned from dealt with black water, cleansing it, and pumping it overboard where it would be sucked up, desalinated and become our drinking water.
For two hours, we sat, thigh pressed to thigh, but it was not like any of my teenage fantasies, I can tell you. When the stewardesses brought around pretzels and peanuts, I wondered if rubbing the salt on this slug person would cause her to shrivel and give me Lebensraum. She snarfed down a bag of pretzels.
Eventually we landed safely in Boston, caught the Concord bus and arrived back to find the house had maintained a 49 degree temperature, so the pipes weren’t frozen and the electricity was on. That made it a good trip.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Winter Late Afternoon
On the shore a soft northerly breeze barely ripples the charcoal gray water at half tide. The air is heavy with the coming snow. Behind the ledge that is Martha’s Island I can hear the honk of a Canada goose. Somewhere in the growing dark small sea ducks squeak as they skitter across the surface of the water, but I cannot see them. Then a pair of black ducks flies by the outer ledge. Most of the houses along the shore are dark. Just above the black horizon are the blinking red lights of communications towers scattered around the area.
When my girls were very small, we would go down to the shore on Christmas Eve to determine if one of those beacons might not, in fact, be Rudolph’s red nose. The lights from the naval air station to the north no longer flash across the night sky, a reminder that the planes that came and went for many years, will come no more.
Coming up the hill, I can see the lights from my aunt’s house next door through the trees. It has been rented now, and it is good to see them again.
Then I come into the light and the warmth of the wood stove.
When my girls were very small, we would go down to the shore on Christmas Eve to determine if one of those beacons might not, in fact, be Rudolph’s red nose. The lights from the naval air station to the north no longer flash across the night sky, a reminder that the planes that came and went for many years, will come no more.
Coming up the hill, I can see the lights from my aunt’s house next door through the trees. It has been rented now, and it is good to see them again.
Then I come into the light and the warmth of the wood stove.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
That Awful English Spelling or, I Live In A Ghotiing Community
Most of us remember the joys of spelling class, and how we succeeded or failed at learning to cope with the oddities of the English language. My oldest daughter was a whiz in the first grade but by her second year we realized she was dyslexic and couldn’t spell. Her early success: The teacher always stood over her holding the list, and she could see the words through the backlit paper, and could write the letters in appropriate order even though she was seeing them backwards.
If you look at our spelling, it’s a wonder any of us learn it well enough to pass. Take the word ghoti. It’s a simple word we use almost daily: “Fish.” Take the GH from “cough,” the O from “women,” and the TI from “nation” and there you have it: Fish.
How about Ghoughpteighbteau. Another common word. Take the GH from “hiccough” the OUGH from “through,” the PT from “ptomaine,” the EIGH from “neigh,” the BT from “debt,” and the EAU from “bureau,” you have….. POTATO.
So you see, back in those distant school days, it really wasn’t your fault.
If you look at our spelling, it’s a wonder any of us learn it well enough to pass. Take the word ghoti. It’s a simple word we use almost daily: “Fish.” Take the GH from “cough,” the O from “women,” and the TI from “nation” and there you have it: Fish.
How about Ghoughpteighbteau. Another common word. Take the GH from “hiccough” the OUGH from “through,” the PT from “ptomaine,” the EIGH from “neigh,” the BT from “debt,” and the EAU from “bureau,” you have….. POTATO.
So you see, back in those distant school days, it really wasn’t your fault.
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