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.

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.

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.

Christmas 1944

My family gathered together this Christmas for my father, now 90 years old, to read the Christmas stories he has been reading for 62 years now. Every year we get out the 1947 Giant Golden Book with the beautiful illustrations by Corrine Malvern and his once strong voice falters over the words to “The Cobbler and His Sons”, “The Peterkins’ Christmas” “The Harper”, and finally “The Night Before Christmas.” In recent years we have discussed having one of us younger people read the stories, but his is the voice of them, and sadly will be extinguished sometime in the future.
When St. Nicholas had finally wished everyone a happy Christmas as he drove out of sight, my father raised his hand for silence and said, “We have to remember one of us is not here, but in Korea, and we must think of her tonight. (My youngest daughter, a captain in the Air Force Intelligence is currently on active duty at Osan AFB in South Korea.)
He then continued, “We all have Christmases that stand out above all others. Mine was the Christmas of 1944.”
In the dark of December 14, 1944, the 104th Infantry Division, of which he was a platoon leader, was lying on the ground outside of the German village of Merken, on its drive into Aachen. The village, currently held by the Wehrmacht, was to fall victim to a Time On Target, an artillery operation in which every available gun, from small mortars to the largest howitzer is fired in such an order that the entirety of the fire falls at once. The effect, not only on the buildings, but the people in them is devastating. In the aftermath of the TOT, the 104th scrambled forward into the rubble to clear out any remaining resistance. Coming upon an anti-tank gun in a bombed out house, my father ordered his platoon to cover him while he and another man rushed in, releasing a salvo of semi-automatic fire into the basement where the enemy had taken cover, killing one and wounding another. The remainder of the stunned Germans stumbled out, blood flowing from their noses and ears, to surrender. In the course of the night, he doesn’t know exactly, as shock can deaden pain, he was hit in the knees by shrapnel, probably from a hand grenade and given first aid by a German medic, a veteran of the Russian front, happy to be a prisoner of the Americans, and then evacuated to a MASH for surgery.
“I was in Paris on December 25 and put on a plane with other wounded and flown to England,” he said. “I’ll never forget when we arrived: they were singing Christmas carols. They were singing about peace on earth, and yet we were out in the mud doing just the opposite.” His voice choked for as second and continued. “At that time the Germans we were fighting were often 12 and 14 year old kids. We captured this one young soldier and brought him back to our orderly room. He broke down crying. All he wanted to do was to go home for Christmas to be with his mother.” He paused. “I wonder if he is still alive.” And then he wept.

The Christmas Pageant

In those days a decree went out for children third grade and above, who wished to participate in the annual church pageant, should gather at the church vestry at the appointed afternoon in early December. I do not remember which afternoon, but it was probably a Saturday. Gangs of us showed up, as the prospect of being a shepherd, wise man or angel was as much of a part of getting to Christmas as opening another window of an advent calendar, which, at the time, we did not have.
The annual director was Mrs. Leighton, a woman short in stature, but a giant in spirit and patience. The younger boys were automatically assigned roles as shepherds, the girls as angels. For the latter, the only other option fell to one anointed older girl, that being the part of Mary. For the older boys there was the opportunity to be a wise man or Joseph, but the former was the role to which I aspired because of the cool costumes available.
Along the north wall of the vestry was a bench, which unknown to those of us participating for the first time, opened to reveal a wonderment of costumes made from old curtains and bathrobes, pie tin halos, and interesting things like a brass lamp that appeared to have escaped from Aladdin, a brass incense burner, small jewelry box, two crowns and a fez, probably from antique lodge paraphernalia.
Once a week, we trekked down to the church, each rehearsal a step closer to the great day.
The final product was extremely simple: there were no speaking parts for us. The church, a unique wooden structure from the late 1840’s built in the self-supporting Gothic style, was lined with fir garlands and behind the pulpit a large tree with white decorations. Candles were placed in holders at the end of each pew and lit by the ushers. Then, the Dean of Bowdoin College would climb into the pulpit and the voice of Christmas would resonate throughout the church as he read from the King James bible, with the “lo’s” “Fear not’s,” and “swaddling clothes,” now eliminated from the modern, “relevant” story.
He would begin with the decree from Caesar Augustus, at which point, Mary and Joseph would take places in the front while the congregation sang “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.” When he came to the shepherds and the visitation of the angels, we would all take our places in the front along with singing of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.”
During the latter, we shepherds would scurry down the side aisles to the back of the church only to troop back up the center aisle to adore the Baby, with the singing of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”
Then it was the turn of the three older boys who played the kings. Each would solemnly pace down the aisle, one to each of the verses. When all the players were in place, the other children in church were invited to bring their gifts down front to place in front of the manger. In my early days, these were still gifts of items like warm socks and small toys which were sent to the recovering countries of Europe. (That’s how old I am.)
The lights would then be dimmed, the church illuminated only by candle light, and we would finish with “Silent Night.” As the last verses fell away, we would put on our coats and head for home, for whatever traditions our families had, darkness would take its deep winter hold, and we would sleep, awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.