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.

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.

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.