Phil Crossman - Away Happens
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A unique glimpse of real life on an island off the coast of Maine
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Phil Crossman
University Press of New England
Hanover and London
Published by University Press of New England,
One Court Street, Lebanon, NH 03766
www.upne.com
2005 by Phil Crossman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Members of educational institutions and organizations wishing to photocopy any of the work for classroom use, or authors and publishers who would like to obtain permission for any of the material in the work, should contact Permissions, University Press of New England, One Court Street, Lebanon, NH 03766.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-58465-445-2
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61168-670-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Crossman, Phil.
Away happens / Phil Crossman.
p. cm.
1. Vinalhaven (Me.)Social life and customs. 2. Vinalhaven (Me.)Biography. 3. Crossman, Phil. 4. HotelkeepersMaineVinalhavenBiography. 5. Community lifeMaineVinalhaven. I. Title.
F29.V7C76 2005
974.153dc22 2004024949
The fullness of life on a remote Maine island is found in the nearly unavoidable interactions we who live here have with one another. It comparessometimes favorably, sometimes unfavorablywith life elsewhere, but it is certainly a complete experience.
Vinalhaven is an island village in Maine, about fifteen miles from the mainland and accessible only by boat, state-run ferry, or air taxi. Its 1,276 people are sufficiently removed from the rest of the world as to occupy an insular environment in which we all work, play, love, and hate. Some of us travel extensively; others never leave the island. Still, when push comes to shove, as it often does, we live here with, and respond to, one another. We share and continually contribute to a mercurial body of common knowledge that is our community baggage, and therein we find our strengths and our shortcomings, our accomplishments and our misdeeds. We are compelled to endlessly consider ourselves in the context of others, and it is the time spent in such contemplation that gives our lives a wholeness (not to be confused with wholesomeness). More than anything else, though, we find a communal circuitry and involvement with one another whether we like it or not. Some of us clearly dont. Nonetheless, were all players on this stage of forty or so square miles, and nothing in our lives is more present than familiarity.
Several years ago it was revealed to me that creative nonfiction was a legitimate literary genre. It was the most liberating experience of my life. All these years I thought Id been simply lying. Most of these essays are examples of creative nonfiction. The shorter of these were published as columns in The Wind, Vinalhavens weekly news and events paper. Love, etc. was commissioned and published by The Maine Times. Nearly all the rest were published by the Working Waterfront, a monthly publication of the Island Institute in Rockland, Maine, for whom I write a bimonthly column, and one of those, Away Happens, was also published by Yankee magazine. The essays describe or address events and circumstances occurring in or around my own life on Vinalhaven during a typical year, beginning in the fall.
My wife and I are innkeepers. We own the Tidewater Motel. Elaine is an artist and runs the New Era Gallery right across the street. Im also a builder.
When an islander dies, whether a year-round or seasonal resident, a basket containing a scrap of paper with the name of the deceased is placed on the counter at Carlenes Paper Store. The exhibit, even if the deceased was well heeled, cues patrons to make contributions of cash, each signing the slip of paper, until quite a sum has accumulated. When a baby is born to an islander, an announcement appears on the window of Bobs hardware store and a flag is flown announcing the birth and the gender. The presence of the basket or the flag is how most of us keep abreast of comings and goings.
The ferry is often referred to as the boat; the 7:00 A.M. boat as the first or early boat; the late afternoon ferry as the last or late boat.
It is important that you know these things.
September 2004 | P.C. |
Bait Bag: A small nylon net into which is stuffed bait, usually herring. The bag is then suspended in a trap to attract lobsters.
Davit: A hydraulic device for hauling traps.
Gear: Lobster traps, rope, buoys, and related equipment.
Gurry: Unappealing fish parts, guts.
Out to Haul: Aboard a lobster fishing boat and about the business of harvesting lobsters, hauling traps.
Phil n the Blanks: An acappella singing group comprised of four men, one of whom is me.
Pot Heads: Cone-shaped nets installed at the entrance to and within traps to keep captured lobsters confined.
Pot Warp: Rope used in lobstering, usually the one that connects the trap on the ocean bottom with the buoy on the surface.
Quarry: A deep hole, sometimes several acres wide, where granite had once been mined, now filled with cool spring water and often used for swimming in the summer and skating in the winter.
Roller: A wooden rectangular container built of lathes spaced apart and used for collecting harvested clams.
Seinin (Seining): Fishing with a large net, floating on the top, weighted on the bottom.
Skidder: A large powerful tractor used to haul logs from the woods.
Washboard: A reenforced portion of the gunwale where lobster traps and gear are hauled aboard
T his is a lobster-fishing community, so the process of our familiarity with one another begins before daybreak on any given daya day in November, for example, after an early snowstorm.
Ralph walks by the house with his dog and glances in, expecting to see me at the table. He knows Im having oatmealreal oatmealbrown bread (left over from Saturdays traditional baked bean supper), coffee, and grapefruit. Ralphs been walking by for so many years that he has witnessed all the stages of my breakfast; he knows the menu, knows the sequence of preparation, and knows Im listening to National Public Radio because during warmer months my window is open. He knows I have an obsessive-compulsive disorder. He knows I know Im different, but he thinks I dont quite know to what extent. He scuffs his feet a little on the pavement knowing the sound will cue my dog, whom the morning fire is just beginning to thaw out, to come alive with a challenge. He knows his own dog, Rumsfeld, will respond and that the canine exchange will cause me to look up. Mine is the first face he will see today, and his is the first I will encounter, although, absent a little moonlight, I cant see him; I only know hes there. He waves at me and I wave at the blackness and this island day begins.
Ralph walks on. I remember the time his ninety-year-old grandmother stood up at town meeting and encouraged him to persevere in a heated argument over an appropriation to widen the ditch down at Frog Hollow. Thats it; you tell em Ralphie deah. You folks should listen to Ralphie, she admonished those assembled. Anyone else would have been embarrassed, but not Ralphie. He belongs to a family of long island standing, and the capacity for embarrassment has been bred out.
A Dodge Ram goes slowly by; its Hummer, and although hes only scraped a little patch of frost off his windshield, enough to get him to town if he scootches down and peers over the top of the steering wheel, he toots his horn at my illuminated window not really knowing whether Im there. Giving Ralphie and Rumsfeld a wide berth down by the fountain, Hummer waves out the side window, gets one in return, and resumes a course roughly in the center of the street, a course he maintains until he sees other headlights, whereupon, at a timely juncture, he shifts a little, keeping just to the right of the oncoming lights, assuming that the other driver has cleared his own windshield more thoroughly and can see where hes going. The pattern of headlights becomes clear, and the six ambers on top of the cab, with the second from the right burning like phosphorous through its broken lens, tells Hummer its Sonny in his Bronco. No need to waste a wave. Cant see one another with the headlights on anyway. Besides, Hummers reminded that Sonny once falsely accused Hummers father of having botched a roofing job as a means of securing work for himself. Well, that was a long time ago; still, Hummer gloats a little because, since then, not much has gone right for Sonny, what with booze, diabetes, and his two boys in constant trouble.
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