Notes from Maine - 2022/06/19

For a lot of people reading this, it’s Father’s Day (US, Canada, UK). Australia celebrates on September 4 this year. Egypt will be on June 21. El Salvador and Guatemala were on June 17. This is my first Father’s Day without Dad. I don’t find that I miss him particularly today. Maybe I miss the version of Dad from ten years ago, but I’ve been missing him for a while. There was a slow decline that took away his mobility and his intellect. 

Twenty-five years ago, Dad and I had a Sunday tradition. We would travel to a different diner each week and have breakfast. There were plenty of places in Augusta (Maine) to try, and we visited them all. When we ran out, we worked our way through Winthrop, Manchester, Hallowell, Gardner, Farmington, Farmingdale—you name it. When he was adventurous, Dad would try out the Eggs Benedict. I would get an omelet. He never finished his toast, and I never drank coffee (back then). We would talk about nothing. Sometimes, Dad mused that he should write a book about all the breakfast places in Central Maine. I haven’t found any evidence that he attempted to do that.

When he first moved to Maine, about that time, Dad was fascinated with snowmobile deaths. Every winter, people tragically go through the ice, hit a tree, or get struck by a car while they’re trying to cross a road. I suppose the idea that they died while engaged in a recreational activity was what drew Dad’s attention? I’m not sure why, but he collected articles and wrote to his friends about his findings.

After living in the DC suburbs for most of his life, moving to Maine was somewhat of a shock for Dad. He would send letters to old friends about moose sightings and life at the edge of civilization. He quit smoking when he moved here. I got a phone call one day—Dad was about as panicked as I had ever heard him. On the way home from taking his mother on an errand, they had gone down a dirt road to look at a new development on the north end of the lake. His truck was stuck. I had an SUV. Before I left the house, I grabbed the nearly-empty pack of cigarettes that Dad had hidden in the shed. He would “crib” one now and then, usually before bed. When I found my father and grandmother at the end of the dirt road, I pulled out a strap to connect the vehicles and tossed Dad his cheater cigarettes. 

The look in his eyes as he caught those cigarettes—I know that he never loved me more than in that moment. His whole adult life, I suspect he had been on the fence about whether or not he regretted having kids, but when I showed up to rescue him AND I brought him a cigarette? Right then, his investment in fatherhood had paid off. While I pulled his truck out of the mud, my grandmother told me the whole story about how she had told him the road was too muddy, but he had insisted that he wanted to see the new lots. Meanwhile, Dad walked about fifty yards away so he could cheat without his mother knowing.

Dad got stuck in the winter one time too. He was driving his Olds back from the “Brunswick Butcher”—the dentist who was taking strips from the roof of his mouth in order to bolster his receding gums. The Olds broke down on the highway. With a mouthful of blood, Dad walked down the shoulder and across a snowy field to a farmhouse. That time he called AAA to get towed. Dad sent candy to the residents of that farmhouse as a thank you. 

Maybe that’s why the snowmobile deaths fascinated Dad. He was unaccustomed to living in a place where a little vehicle trouble can easily turn into a life threatening situation. Before cell phones, getting stuck was a real hassle.

I got to read some of Dad’s letters when he would print off proof copies and leave them lying around. He was a great storyteller. I only have a few examples of his correspondence now. I was always irritated that he couldn’t find the energy to seriously sit down and write. When I write, some part of me is talking to Dad while I do it—See? It’s not so hard.

Happy Father’s Day.