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.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
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.
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