Notes from Maine - 2022/05/15

The funeral service for my father is this afternoon. It was easy making decisions about the service. We all know that he would be offended by spending extra money for things like a fancy urn or flowers. He didn’t particularly enjoy his time in the Navy, but he had veteran license plates on his vehicle, so we’re engaging the military for honors at the burial. 

After he graduated from college, my father enlisted in the Navy. He started in Officer Training, but quickly decided that he would rather turn down the commission and get out in two years. A few years ago, asked my father to tell me his stories again and I wrote them down. Here’s his story about the start of his time in the Navy:  

When I dropped out [of officer training] they sent me to boot camp in the Great Lakes. Waukegan was the training camp. I was stationed on a base, but the base was located outside of Waukegan. Boot camp was just regular bullshit. I had no problem shutting up and doing what I was told. 

I worked at boot camp as a typist. They just assigned me that job. I was a basic typist. They had a problem with me because if you wanted to get promoted you had to take an exam. If you took the exam, you got the afternoon off, so I used to do that all the time. I got promoted out of the typist job so they said you can’t do that work anymore. That’s why they sent me to the carrier. I was a petty officer. So I did the rest of the time on the carrier, but they had to let me out a little early because the carrier was destined to go to the Mediterranean. It would have cost me too much to send me back when my enlistment was up.

Frank Duggan was from Brooklyn and was stationed in the same office I was in. Duggan and I were causing too much trouble—that was another reason they moved me out to the carrier. Another buddy was named Jim Jeter. He was the same level as Duggan and I except he was a lawyer who had passed the bar. He was from Charleston, West Virginia. There was a trough urinal, and one guy was getting annoyed that people were throwing trash in there. He put up a hand-painted sign telling people not to throw trash in there. I threw the whole sign in there. Four foot sign. “Do not throw trash in this urinal.”

Anyone sitting next to Duggan was going to get in trouble. One guy had a girlfriend in Texas and Duggan would say, “Who is the Navy to split you up from your true love. Don’t worry about it. If you love her, go to her.” He went AWOL and spent six months in the brig.

For the summer, we lived in a barn that was attached to an estate in Lake Forest.

Come fall, Duggan got transferred to Chicago and I lived in Mundelein Illinois. I stayed in the same office. I was with two or three other guys in a house on a lake, but it was winter time. That was just for a few months. Then I got transferred. We could have lived in the barracks the whole time, but we never did. We dated a lot of Lake Forest college girls. That went on for about a year. We knew a lot of people. There were a lot of parties—every weekend practically. When Jimmy started drinking, God knows what would happen. He would wake up in somebody’s house.

* * *

My father was friends with Frank Duggan until Frank’s death. They both became lawyers, but my father went to night school while Frank chose to apprentice and then take the bar exam without a degree. To rub in the distinction, when my father called Duggan’s office, he would leave a message saying, “Just tell him Doctor Hamill called.”

I’m continuing this letter to you on Sunday morning—the service was yesterday. My brother delivered an excellent eulogy. It was weird to hear the story of my father’s life told from a different perspective. My brother pointed out that dad fought against authority and regulations, but enjoyed a very orderly, patterned existence. In his own words (above), Dad said that he didn’t have any trouble shutting up and doing what he was told. On the other hand, he said, “I learned in the Navy that if you didn’t want to do something, you better damn well make sure you don’t do it right.”

After the burial, some friends came to my father’s camp to enjoy the sunny afternoon. Dad would sit for hours there, in the shade, looking at nothing. He was like his own father in that way. My grandmother would always bring a book when she went to sit at the shore, but my father and grandfather would just sit. I don’t have that capability. I get antsy. I can sit down and watch a movie, or park in a chair and write for hours without looking up, but looking at the lake for too long makes me queue up too many thoughts. I’ll make lists of things I have to do, or come up with ideas that I want to write down. 

My father’s oldest friend (Nick) came from Florida for the funeral. At ten years old, my father babysat Nick and his brother Gary (who were 3 and 1) in Greenland. In recent years, the three of them would talk on the phone almost every day. Gary died a few months ago. Dad used to say, “I’m the oldest person I know.” I wanted to contradict him, but he was right. Nick is staying at my father’s camp right now—probably waking up to a colder and grayer day than yesterday. It’s a shame that my father didn’t have the camp remodeled ten or fifteen years ago. There was nothing stopping him except inertia, I suppose. Before, the camp was a single room. It had power but no running water. Now, with a kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, it’s a delightful place to spend a weekend, as long as it’s not too chilly. Dad loved it, but lamented that he waited too long to have it done. 

My brother is the reason that the camp was remodeled. He made friends with the Cabin Masters people and then got me to create an audition video. My brother got the building permits and came up with the specifications. The camp will stay in the family. My sister and I will split it and hold onto it for her son. She loves to go boating (perhaps as much as our father did), although I think she usually has a book in her hand when she’s sitting by the water’s edge.

The camp is not an extravagance that I would seek out for myself at this point in my life, but we will find a way to keep it in the family. We’ve built memories and traditions there. 

Maybe one day I will learn how to just sit there and look at the water. It doesn’t seem likely.