Mayday
Dark usually signaled time to make the trip home. We had spent the day in Bar Harbor with family friends. The friendship between the families had evolved as both fathers were fishermen, so their day started early which meant late nights were rarities. This night was different though, dark came and we didn’t leave for the dock.
Greg and I had grown up on the boat; in fact it was named for us, the “Sally Greg.” Dad was a single parent and a self employed fisherman, either a tough road in the early 1970s, together a daunting undertaking. Babysitters had never been a part of our life, I’m not sure if it was due to his hours or his commitment to us. We knew our way around that boat, better than we knew our way around our house. Neither one of us could remember when the boat was launched, but he had showed us the movie numerous times. It was an old 8mm movie with the big reel projector and Greg and I could sit for hours watching that boat slide down the launch ramp, then rewind it and watch it come back up the ramp. We would giggle so hard as the champagne bottle put itself back together during rewind. She was as much a part of the family as any of us.
Dad finally gathered us and up and we headed for the boat. That night was exceptionally foggy, thick and wet; I remember I couldn’t find a single star in the sky. Dad put Greg and I down below in the engine room, he had make bunks for us with sleeping bags and pillows. At 5 and 6, we could navigate around a diesel engine better than most kids could play hopscotch. We weren’t just children of a lobsterman; we were children of that boat.
The engine fired up, and the boat chugged in reverse as we pulled away dock. The familiar feeling of going from reverse to forward and the rolling in our wake, started to lull Greg and I back to sleep. I can recall our nonsensical chatter and giggles were fading, as the boat lurched to a standstill, tossing Greg to the floor. Dad yelled for the two of us to come up above. At that moment I thought we were in trouble, not being old enough to recognize what I now know was panic in his voice. As we poked our heads out of the engine room door, Dad was frantically talking on his CB. We caught words like, “28 foot fishing vessel and off course”. We had no idea what was happening, but we were scared. Two little frightened kids standing in a wheelhouse of a boat, which we would soon find out was in the path of the Blue Nose, an enormous car-passenger ferry (compared to a 28 foot boat) returning from a trip to Canada.
The boat pitched in the waves and Dad continued to talk anxiously on the radio. We were old enough to know what Mayday meant and when we heard Dad say it, we started to cry. I’m sure that is exactly what he needed then; two howling kids to deal with at the same time as he was trying to avoid being hit by a much bigger boat. The “Sally Greg” was a sturdy boat but she was a wooden 28 foot boat in the time before modern electronics were the norm, in the direct path of a much larger metal vessel.
The events that happened next remain clear as a bell to me. He made us put life jackets on. In 2010 that may not seem extraordinary, but in 1970, that was a big deal. Greg and I had been able to swim since we could remember and we had always known where the life jackets where as well as what they were for, but this was our first actual encounter with them. After we were in them, as he was trying to maneuver the boat plus keep communications with the Coast Guard and the Blue Nose, he tied us to the life ring of the boat.
There we stood, two little kids in life jackets, tied to a life ring that ironically had their names on it, Dad at the wheel of the boat, trying to save what he most loved in his life; his children and his boat. The crying had stopped as we stood there like two statues watching this unfold. Over Dad talking on the radio, we could hear the repetitive fog horn of the Blue Nose getting closer, but unable to see anything through the fog.
The noise of the horn continued to get closer and Dad was still trying to get a bearing on their location in comparison to ours. The next thing I remember was hitting the floor of the boat as he threw the boat into reverse and the boat started to roll even worse, which we had enough experience to know it meant the Blue Nose was getting closer causing wake. Dad put the radio down after trying one last time to communicate directly with the Blue Nose to no avail and did two things I had rarely if ever seen him do. He told us he loved us and asked God to save us.
The radio crackled right after that and the Coast Guard was calling the “Sally Greg”. Dad answered the radio to be told by them the Blue Nose had contacted them and relayed they had passed us and we were out of danger. Dad then did a third thing I had never seen him do before that night, he cried. He picked us up; left us in the lifejackets and tied to the life ring, sat us on the steering ledge and kept us there for the rest of the trip.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Mayday
Mayday
I hadn’t thought about that day on the boat for years, until I read a story last night about a boy and his brother at a bus stop. I was about 6, which would have made my brother Greg 5. We had spent the day in Bar Harbor with Dad and were headed home.
We used to go to Bar Harbor to visit friends of Dad’s, Gary and Susan. They had 2 kids, Debbie and Donny, about the same age as Greg and I. The trip didn’t take long, as Sorrento to Bar Harbor by boat was only about 20 minutes. It wasn’t at all uncommon for Dad to round us up in the middle of the rare day off and head across the harbor for the isit.
Dark usually signaled time to make the trip home. The friendship between the families had evolved as both fathers were fishermen, so their day started early which meant late nights were rarities. This night was different though, dark came and we didn’t leave for the dock. The adults sat around the kitchen table, while we kids made tents on the floor and probably watched the “Waltons” or “Little House on the Prairie.” “Come on kids, it’s time to go” Dad finally yelled. He carried two sleepy kids out to Gary’s truck and Gary took the three us down to the dock.
Greg and I had grown up on the boat; in fact it was named for us, the “Sally Greg.” Dad was a single parent and a self employed fisherman, either a tough road in the early 1970s, together a daunting undertaking. Babysitters had never been a part of our life, I’m not sure if it was due to his hours or his commitment to us. We knew our way around that boat, better than we knew our way around our house. Neither one of us could remember when the boat was launched, but he had showed us the movie numerous times. It was an old 8mm movie with the big reel projector and Greg and I could sit for hours watching that boat slide down the launch ramp, then rewind it and watch it come back up the ramp. We would giggle so hard as the champagne bottle put itself back together during rewind. She was as much a part of the family as any of us.
That night was exceptionally foggy, thick and wet; I remember I couldn’t find a single star in the sky. Dad put Greg and I down below in the engine room, he had make bunks for us with sleeping bags and pillows. At 5 and 6, we could navigate around a diesel engine better than most kids could play hopscotch. We weren’t just children of a lobsterman; we were children of that boat.
The engine fired up, and the boat chugged in reverse as we pulled away dock. The familiar feeling of going from reverse to forward and the rolling in our wake, started to lull Greg and I back to sleep. I can recall our nonsensical chatter and giggles were fading, as the boat lurched to a standstill, tossing Greg to the floor. Dad yelled for the two of us to come up above. At that moment I thought we were in trouble, not being old enough to recognize what I now know was panic in his voice. As we poked our heads out of the engine room door, Dad was frantically talking on his CB. We caught words like, “28 foot fishing vessel and off course”. We had no idea what was happening, but we were scared. Two little frightened kids standing in a wheelhouse of a boat, which we would soon find out was in the path of the Blue Nose, an enormous car-passenger ferry (compared to a 28 foot boat) returning from a trip to Canada.
The boat pitched in the waves and Dad continued to talk anxiously on the radio. We were old enough to know what Mayday meant and when we heard Dad say it, we started to cry. I’m sure that is exactly what he needed then; two howling kids to deal with at the same time as he was trying to avoid being hit by a much bigger boat. The “Sally Greg” was a sturdy boat but she was a wooden 28 foot boat in the time before modern electronics were the norm, in the direct path of a much larger metal vessel.
The events that happened next remain clear as a bell to me. He made us put life jackets on. In 2010 that may not seem extraordinary, but in 1970, that was a big deal. Greg and I had been able to swim since we could remember and we had always known where the life jackets where as well as what they were for, but this was our first actual encounter with them. After we were in them, as he was trying to maneuver the boat plus keep communications with the Coast Guard and the Blue Nose, he tied us to the life ring of the boat.
There we stood, two little kids in life jackets, tied to a life ring that ironically had their names on it, Dad at the wheel of the boat, trying to save what he most loved in his life; his children and his boat. The crying had stopped as we stood there like two statues watching this unfold. Over Dad talking on the radio, we could hear the repetitive fog horn of the Blue Nose getting closer, but unable to see anything through the fog.
The noise of the horn continued to get closer and Dad was still trying to get a bearing on their location in comparison to ours. The next thing I remember was hitting the floor of the boat as he threw the boat into reverse and the boat started to roll even worse, which we had enough experience to know it meant the Blue Nose was getting closer causing wake. Dad put the radio down after trying one last time to communicate directly with the Blue Nose to no avail and did two things I had rarely if ever seen him do. He told us he loved us and asked God to save us.
The radio crackled right after that and the Coast Guard was calling the “Sally Greg”. Dad answered the radio to be told by them the Blue Nose had contacted them and relayed they had passed us and we were out of danger. Dad then did a third thing I had never seen him do before that night, he cried. He then picked us up. Left us in the lifejackets and tied to the life ring and sat us on the steering ledge and left us there for the rest of the trip.
When I think of that night, I can still remember how scared I was, and how Greg and I clutched each other. Mostly though, that night evokes memories of how a mortal man became a superhero in 2 little kids’ eyes.
I hadn’t thought about that day on the boat for years, until I read a story last night about a boy and his brother at a bus stop. I was about 6, which would have made my brother Greg 5. We had spent the day in Bar Harbor with Dad and were headed home.
We used to go to Bar Harbor to visit friends of Dad’s, Gary and Susan. They had 2 kids, Debbie and Donny, about the same age as Greg and I. The trip didn’t take long, as Sorrento to Bar Harbor by boat was only about 20 minutes. It wasn’t at all uncommon for Dad to round us up in the middle of the rare day off and head across the harbor for the isit.
Dark usually signaled time to make the trip home. The friendship between the families had evolved as both fathers were fishermen, so their day started early which meant late nights were rarities. This night was different though, dark came and we didn’t leave for the dock. The adults sat around the kitchen table, while we kids made tents on the floor and probably watched the “Waltons” or “Little House on the Prairie.” “Come on kids, it’s time to go” Dad finally yelled. He carried two sleepy kids out to Gary’s truck and Gary took the three us down to the dock.
Greg and I had grown up on the boat; in fact it was named for us, the “Sally Greg.” Dad was a single parent and a self employed fisherman, either a tough road in the early 1970s, together a daunting undertaking. Babysitters had never been a part of our life, I’m not sure if it was due to his hours or his commitment to us. We knew our way around that boat, better than we knew our way around our house. Neither one of us could remember when the boat was launched, but he had showed us the movie numerous times. It was an old 8mm movie with the big reel projector and Greg and I could sit for hours watching that boat slide down the launch ramp, then rewind it and watch it come back up the ramp. We would giggle so hard as the champagne bottle put itself back together during rewind. She was as much a part of the family as any of us.
That night was exceptionally foggy, thick and wet; I remember I couldn’t find a single star in the sky. Dad put Greg and I down below in the engine room, he had make bunks for us with sleeping bags and pillows. At 5 and 6, we could navigate around a diesel engine better than most kids could play hopscotch. We weren’t just children of a lobsterman; we were children of that boat.
The engine fired up, and the boat chugged in reverse as we pulled away dock. The familiar feeling of going from reverse to forward and the rolling in our wake, started to lull Greg and I back to sleep. I can recall our nonsensical chatter and giggles were fading, as the boat lurched to a standstill, tossing Greg to the floor. Dad yelled for the two of us to come up above. At that moment I thought we were in trouble, not being old enough to recognize what I now know was panic in his voice. As we poked our heads out of the engine room door, Dad was frantically talking on his CB. We caught words like, “28 foot fishing vessel and off course”. We had no idea what was happening, but we were scared. Two little frightened kids standing in a wheelhouse of a boat, which we would soon find out was in the path of the Blue Nose, an enormous car-passenger ferry (compared to a 28 foot boat) returning from a trip to Canada.
The boat pitched in the waves and Dad continued to talk anxiously on the radio. We were old enough to know what Mayday meant and when we heard Dad say it, we started to cry. I’m sure that is exactly what he needed then; two howling kids to deal with at the same time as he was trying to avoid being hit by a much bigger boat. The “Sally Greg” was a sturdy boat but she was a wooden 28 foot boat in the time before modern electronics were the norm, in the direct path of a much larger metal vessel.
The events that happened next remain clear as a bell to me. He made us put life jackets on. In 2010 that may not seem extraordinary, but in 1970, that was a big deal. Greg and I had been able to swim since we could remember and we had always known where the life jackets where as well as what they were for, but this was our first actual encounter with them. After we were in them, as he was trying to maneuver the boat plus keep communications with the Coast Guard and the Blue Nose, he tied us to the life ring of the boat.
There we stood, two little kids in life jackets, tied to a life ring that ironically had their names on it, Dad at the wheel of the boat, trying to save what he most loved in his life; his children and his boat. The crying had stopped as we stood there like two statues watching this unfold. Over Dad talking on the radio, we could hear the repetitive fog horn of the Blue Nose getting closer, but unable to see anything through the fog.
The noise of the horn continued to get closer and Dad was still trying to get a bearing on their location in comparison to ours. The next thing I remember was hitting the floor of the boat as he threw the boat into reverse and the boat started to roll even worse, which we had enough experience to know it meant the Blue Nose was getting closer causing wake. Dad put the radio down after trying one last time to communicate directly with the Blue Nose to no avail and did two things I had rarely if ever seen him do. He told us he loved us and asked God to save us.
The radio crackled right after that and the Coast Guard was calling the “Sally Greg”. Dad answered the radio to be told by them the Blue Nose had contacted them and relayed they had passed us and we were out of danger. Dad then did a third thing I had never seen him do before that night, he cried. He then picked us up. Left us in the lifejackets and tied to the life ring and sat us on the steering ledge and left us there for the rest of the trip.
When I think of that night, I can still remember how scared I was, and how Greg and I clutched each other. Mostly though, that night evokes memories of how a mortal man became a superhero in 2 little kids’ eyes.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
"How The Hell Did They Get Through Customs?"
The morning started early as our ship pulled into the harbor. We stood on our balcony quietly enjoying the scenery while watching another ship dock behind us. The ship was dark blue and contrasted beautifully with the sunrise. The morning was perfect, peace and tranquility; then we looked down. The deck of that ship was covered with children, Children scurrying everywhere like ants back to their hill. The look of horror on my face was reflected in Lois’s, “Are all those frigging kids going to be on this little island with us today?” she asked. “Not if they all want to live” I answered through gritted teeth.
Our plan for the day was snorkeling in Megan’s Bay. We had planned and saved for this cruise for years and this day excursion was part of the reason we had chosen this particular trip. Anticipation was high as we got ready and left the ship; tickets, beach bags, and brochures in hand.
The glaring sun greeted us as we stepped onto the dock as did the little bodies from the other ship. In the midst of them, it was worse than we imagined. They weren’t scurrying ants; they were vicious rodents running up and over anything in their way. Fluids that have never been identified were being secreted out of every orifice visible and sounds Hitchcock could have marketed were emanating from their mouths. “This is my vacation! Who to hell invited these parasites along?” I thought as I grabbed my seat on the bus, almost squashing a half dozen of them as I planted my fat ass. The look on Lois’s face told me she was thinking the same thing.
The bus ride to the bay should have been beautiful and relaxing. Out of the corner of my eye there were beautiful tropical flowers, palm trees swaying in the wind, and natives of the island in their tropical dress selling their goods. But could we enjoy it, God no, it was vacation after all. We had paid thousands of dollars to listen the hyena cries of children who shouldn’t have been allowed out of their house, let alone out of the United States. “How the hell do they get through Customs?” I asked Lois ignoring the glare of a father, who actually thought he was intimidating me.
We finally arrived at Megan’s Bay. There was a quaint little (emphasis on little) shack where snorkeling gear was available. We had absolutely no problem nudging (pushing) our way to the front of the line. There were advantages to being bigger than those little masses of tissue. They seemed to think pouting and crying would melt my heart. Not so much, it only strengthened my resolve that they were not going to ruin my day. I was old enough to enjoy and remember this; some of these kids weren’t even old enough to know that boogers are not one of the main food groups.
Equipment is on and the lesson is under way. The day was a little windy and I honestly was getting a little chuckle every time one of them opened their mouths and got a rather large salty drink of water. We had looked forward to this trip for a number of years with snorkeling high on the priority list, but never had we imagined one of the best parts of the day would be when those little heathens had the snorkel driven in their mouth so not a sound could come out.
Brochures had shown colorful tropical fish swimming in clear blue water and that is what we had paid a couple of hundred dollars to see. Unfortunately fat people float, so these little rodents could swim under us. So instead of the beautiful marine life promised, we saw the asses of children with the occasional yellow color of piss running out of their bathing suit.
The day was over; back to the ship we headed. The children who had screamed through the whole ride there, now whined about sunburns, hunger, and being tired the whole way back. Several times on the return ride to the ship Lois had to remind me that a tropical jail was probably not the ideal place to finish out my life. I, in turn, reminded her it could be no worse than the hell we were currently in.
Back on the ship, a few umbrella drinks under our belts, we assessed the day. It was as horrible in the rerun as the actual live version was. The conversation turned to tomorrow’s plans, and the thought of all those children on our horseback ride was enough to turn umbrella drinks into straight shots. Slightly tipsy, we went up on deck to watch the ship leave. As we were exiting the harbor, so was the ship with the mini demolishers of vacation. The best part of the day happened right then; their ship took a left as ours took a right leaving the harbor.
Our plan for the day was snorkeling in Megan’s Bay. We had planned and saved for this cruise for years and this day excursion was part of the reason we had chosen this particular trip. Anticipation was high as we got ready and left the ship; tickets, beach bags, and brochures in hand.
The glaring sun greeted us as we stepped onto the dock as did the little bodies from the other ship. In the midst of them, it was worse than we imagined. They weren’t scurrying ants; they were vicious rodents running up and over anything in their way. Fluids that have never been identified were being secreted out of every orifice visible and sounds Hitchcock could have marketed were emanating from their mouths. “This is my vacation! Who to hell invited these parasites along?” I thought as I grabbed my seat on the bus, almost squashing a half dozen of them as I planted my fat ass. The look on Lois’s face told me she was thinking the same thing.
The bus ride to the bay should have been beautiful and relaxing. Out of the corner of my eye there were beautiful tropical flowers, palm trees swaying in the wind, and natives of the island in their tropical dress selling their goods. But could we enjoy it, God no, it was vacation after all. We had paid thousands of dollars to listen the hyena cries of children who shouldn’t have been allowed out of their house, let alone out of the United States. “How the hell do they get through Customs?” I asked Lois ignoring the glare of a father, who actually thought he was intimidating me.
We finally arrived at Megan’s Bay. There was a quaint little (emphasis on little) shack where snorkeling gear was available. We had absolutely no problem nudging (pushing) our way to the front of the line. There were advantages to being bigger than those little masses of tissue. They seemed to think pouting and crying would melt my heart. Not so much, it only strengthened my resolve that they were not going to ruin my day. I was old enough to enjoy and remember this; some of these kids weren’t even old enough to know that boogers are not one of the main food groups.
Equipment is on and the lesson is under way. The day was a little windy and I honestly was getting a little chuckle every time one of them opened their mouths and got a rather large salty drink of water. We had looked forward to this trip for a number of years with snorkeling high on the priority list, but never had we imagined one of the best parts of the day would be when those little heathens had the snorkel driven in their mouth so not a sound could come out.
Brochures had shown colorful tropical fish swimming in clear blue water and that is what we had paid a couple of hundred dollars to see. Unfortunately fat people float, so these little rodents could swim under us. So instead of the beautiful marine life promised, we saw the asses of children with the occasional yellow color of piss running out of their bathing suit.
The day was over; back to the ship we headed. The children who had screamed through the whole ride there, now whined about sunburns, hunger, and being tired the whole way back. Several times on the return ride to the ship Lois had to remind me that a tropical jail was probably not the ideal place to finish out my life. I, in turn, reminded her it could be no worse than the hell we were currently in.
Back on the ship, a few umbrella drinks under our belts, we assessed the day. It was as horrible in the rerun as the actual live version was. The conversation turned to tomorrow’s plans, and the thought of all those children on our horseback ride was enough to turn umbrella drinks into straight shots. Slightly tipsy, we went up on deck to watch the ship leave. As we were exiting the harbor, so was the ship with the mini demolishers of vacation. The best part of the day happened right then; their ship took a left as ours took a right leaving the harbor.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The Blue Hill Fair-A Family Affair
“Seriously, is this the line,” screams through my head as I round the corner and almost rear end a truck. The Blue Hill Hair has come to Maine for another Labor Day weekend. Memories swamp me as I sit in the 3 mile line listening to my grandchildren in the backseat. As long as I can remember I have spent part of this weekend at the Fair and I can measure my life by the arrival of the fair.
At 7 I was the impatient child in the back of the truck making that last stretch almost unbearable for my father, as witnessed now by the incessant “Are we there yet?” from my grandchildren. I had asked that question, as had my daughter, and now her children. Looking in the rearview mirror, the faces became blurred as three generations of impatience became one.
As I turn into the entrance I see and hear all the familiar sights and sounds. The excitement from the backseat is palpable. I briefly remember that feeling, and then suddenly I watch my daughter become my father and I as she tells the boys to calm down and give us a minute to get organized. I chuckle a little as I remember being told the same thing and years later saying the same thing to her.
We make it through the front gate and 2 sets of hands are immediately stretched out for money. We both dig into our wallets for cash and I recollect Dad pulling his wallet from his back pocket and handing over seven new twenty dollars bills, one for each child. As those twenties from 1970’s become fifties in 2010, I wonder how he managed. Then as now, the first round of cash is never enough to last. Times were tough for a self-employed fisherman and the amount of money he spent at the fair came much harder than for the two career women standing there today.
We all head for the rides and I am slightly nauseated as I watch the spinning, flashing lights, and general chaos. The boys get in the line of the ride they want and I think back to a time when I eagerly awaited my turn to get tossed around inside one of those brightly painted boxes. My daughter climbs on the ride with her boys and I wonder how long it will be before she stands here where my father and I have stood and watches her legacies make the same climb.
“Can we have cotton candy; I want French fries Mimi; I have never had a deep-fried Oreo, pleeaassse?” The atrocities to the stomach are everywhere and they want one of each. My responsible adult mind screeches no, while memories of those delicious flavors won’t let me say no. As more money comes out of my wallet, I can hear my father saying “Don’t eat too much of that,” a message passed to my daughter and her children; a message none of us has heeded.
Night has fallen and two tired children and two exhausted adults exit the fair. As everyone climbs in the car, Dad smiles from home without even knowing why. The tradition of the Blue Hill Fair has been successfully passed to another generation.
At 7 I was the impatient child in the back of the truck making that last stretch almost unbearable for my father, as witnessed now by the incessant “Are we there yet?” from my grandchildren. I had asked that question, as had my daughter, and now her children. Looking in the rearview mirror, the faces became blurred as three generations of impatience became one.
As I turn into the entrance I see and hear all the familiar sights and sounds. The excitement from the backseat is palpable. I briefly remember that feeling, and then suddenly I watch my daughter become my father and I as she tells the boys to calm down and give us a minute to get organized. I chuckle a little as I remember being told the same thing and years later saying the same thing to her.
We make it through the front gate and 2 sets of hands are immediately stretched out for money. We both dig into our wallets for cash and I recollect Dad pulling his wallet from his back pocket and handing over seven new twenty dollars bills, one for each child. As those twenties from 1970’s become fifties in 2010, I wonder how he managed. Then as now, the first round of cash is never enough to last. Times were tough for a self-employed fisherman and the amount of money he spent at the fair came much harder than for the two career women standing there today.
We all head for the rides and I am slightly nauseated as I watch the spinning, flashing lights, and general chaos. The boys get in the line of the ride they want and I think back to a time when I eagerly awaited my turn to get tossed around inside one of those brightly painted boxes. My daughter climbs on the ride with her boys and I wonder how long it will be before she stands here where my father and I have stood and watches her legacies make the same climb.
“Can we have cotton candy; I want French fries Mimi; I have never had a deep-fried Oreo, pleeaassse?” The atrocities to the stomach are everywhere and they want one of each. My responsible adult mind screeches no, while memories of those delicious flavors won’t let me say no. As more money comes out of my wallet, I can hear my father saying “Don’t eat too much of that,” a message passed to my daughter and her children; a message none of us has heeded.
Night has fallen and two tired children and two exhausted adults exit the fair. As everyone climbs in the car, Dad smiles from home without even knowing why. The tradition of the Blue Hill Fair has been successfully passed to another generation.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Back to Nature
Back to Nature
The rain is pouring, no, the rain is lashing out at the earth. It is gray, forceful, and mean. Its’ only objective is to saturate all it contacts, it shows no mercy for anyone or anything. The wind it brings with it is equally mean and relentless. Yet the persistent blue jay will not be defeated.
The numerous bird feeders we have gyrate in the storm like dancers in an adult show. They spin and sway in the wind; not gracefully like a ballet, but bawdy like triple X performers in the act of stripping. Their performance goes on regardless of whether anyone is watching the show or not. The blue jay watches though from a front row seat.
He is an irritating bird. He is loud and obnoxious; the stud at every party that needs to be noticed. His attempts at making friends are pathetic; he is pushy and rude. The gentler, well mannered birds fly away from him and congregate in groups that are an obvious exclusion of him. Until today, I have been in agreement with the majority; he is not a bird I wanted around.
As the storm drives on, he will not be defeated. He sits on the condo feeder, seeking shelter from the sheets of rain driven by the wind. His normal chest of puffed up blue is a matted mess. He huddles under the roof not like the alpha male he pretends to be, but like a man without a home. Does he have no one or place to go to?
Is he not unlike the veterans of wars huddled in their card board boxes, men who deserve a home and respect they don’t get? Has he forged the way somehow, for those seemingly kinder gentler birds who now shun him? I now wonder if his pretentiousness is an act to cover the hurt of being rejected.
As I sit in my dry living room, I have a new respect for this bird. He is strong, willing to brave this miserable day, when the rest of his kind are hiding in safer places. I also have sympathy for him, alone and cold, when others have the warmth of a home and family. Today, Mr. Blue Jay, you have earned the right to be Cock of the Walk.
The rain is pouring, no, the rain is lashing out at the earth. It is gray, forceful, and mean. Its’ only objective is to saturate all it contacts, it shows no mercy for anyone or anything. The wind it brings with it is equally mean and relentless. Yet the persistent blue jay will not be defeated.
The numerous bird feeders we have gyrate in the storm like dancers in an adult show. They spin and sway in the wind; not gracefully like a ballet, but bawdy like triple X performers in the act of stripping. Their performance goes on regardless of whether anyone is watching the show or not. The blue jay watches though from a front row seat.
He is an irritating bird. He is loud and obnoxious; the stud at every party that needs to be noticed. His attempts at making friends are pathetic; he is pushy and rude. The gentler, well mannered birds fly away from him and congregate in groups that are an obvious exclusion of him. Until today, I have been in agreement with the majority; he is not a bird I wanted around.
As the storm drives on, he will not be defeated. He sits on the condo feeder, seeking shelter from the sheets of rain driven by the wind. His normal chest of puffed up blue is a matted mess. He huddles under the roof not like the alpha male he pretends to be, but like a man without a home. Does he have no one or place to go to?
Is he not unlike the veterans of wars huddled in their card board boxes, men who deserve a home and respect they don’t get? Has he forged the way somehow, for those seemingly kinder gentler birds who now shun him? I now wonder if his pretentiousness is an act to cover the hurt of being rejected.
As I sit in my dry living room, I have a new respect for this bird. He is strong, willing to brave this miserable day, when the rest of his kind are hiding in safer places. I also have sympathy for him, alone and cold, when others have the warmth of a home and family. Today, Mr. Blue Jay, you have earned the right to be Cock of the Walk.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
My Story
I grew up in Sorrento and graduated from Sumner High School in 1981. I married immediately out of high school and had my daughter shortly thereafter. At 38 I made a much needed career change and became an EMT-Basic. I fell in love with pre hospital emergency medicine, and decided to pursue paramedicine as my career. After completing my paramedic education I became employed at Capital Ambulance and Northeastern Maine EMS.
My job at Northeast EMS is education based; I teach both EMS licensure classes and continuing education classes for EMS providers. Both of those responsibilities made me see the need to expand my own knowledge base. EMCC offered an associate degree in Emergency Medical Services, so it was the perfect fit. They also offer a varied selection of online classes, that both met my educational needs and my scheduling requirements.
I graduated from the EMS program in May 2010, a member of Phi Theta Kappa and with High Honors. I am now pursuing my liberal degree at EMCC and in conjunction with that I am also working towards my bachelor’s degree in Adult Education and Training at St Joseph’s College.
My life is busy, crazy, and hectic, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Education is the road to success, a road I plan to travel for as long as I can.
My job at Northeast EMS is education based; I teach both EMS licensure classes and continuing education classes for EMS providers. Both of those responsibilities made me see the need to expand my own knowledge base. EMCC offered an associate degree in Emergency Medical Services, so it was the perfect fit. They also offer a varied selection of online classes, that both met my educational needs and my scheduling requirements.
I graduated from the EMS program in May 2010, a member of Phi Theta Kappa and with High Honors. I am now pursuing my liberal degree at EMCC and in conjunction with that I am also working towards my bachelor’s degree in Adult Education and Training at St Joseph’s College.
My life is busy, crazy, and hectic, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Education is the road to success, a road I plan to travel for as long as I can.
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