True Tales of a Talker #5: The Connecticut Fisherman

 

Maine in summer is my favorite time of year. I love the amount of daylight, the rain and the hot, sunny days spent outside. 

Chad and I love to fish! At the beginning of this year he taught me how. It is something he has done since he was child and now he has passed it along to me. And as far as I know I'm not half bad.

We fish in a few different spots. We have gone to Lovejoy Pond in Albion, Douglas Pond in Pittsfield and frequent the Sebasticook River.

That's where we met him.

We were on our way back to the boat launch near the bridge off Peltoma Avenue when Chad had almost hooked a big bass. Our luck had not been very good that morning. Neither of us had caught anything in about 4 hours of fishing. When the bass had unexpectedly come off the hook, a frustrated Chad shouted a very colorful word. VERY colorful. So loud and so colorful it made me cringe. He was extremely mad. He then looked over to his left and said to me sheepishly "Great. And there was someone here to hear that." I looked to my left and saw him.

The Connecticut Fisherman.

He was an older gentleman in a blue single person kayak decked out with rod holder and a few other thingamabobs that Chad had probably seen in an ad from Karl's Bait and Tackle. He was a bit portly and having the life jacket around his neck made him look more so. A hat protected his head from the sun beating down on it and sunglasses protected his eyes from the reflection of it on the water. 

The thing I noticed was his smile. He was probably thinking he had been in Chad's situation a time or two before. 

As we traveled past him I waved my arm to say hi because I can't resist greeting another person. He said hello and asked how the fishing was. I answered that it wasn't so good. I had a few bass hooked but nothing I could pull into the boat and my husband's day was even worse than mine if that was possible. He said:

"That's the fun of it, isn't it? At least you're outside enjoying this beautiful day!"

How right he was. 

After two straight weeks of temperatures in the upper eighties and terrible hair-wrecking humidity (am I right, girls?), it WAS a beautiful day! It had started out overcast with nine mile an hour winds. After three hours the clouds had disappeared to leave us with sun and warmth...and no humidity. It truly had turned into a beautiful day.

When I heard his voice I knew the accent. It was definitely southern.

How could he be a Connecticut Fisherman with a southern accent?

That's where the talking comes in.

I told him "With that accent you can't be from Maine."

He laughed. He said he was from Connecticut. I told him I was too! When he asked what part I told him Milford. He said he knew where that was and asked if I had ever heard of Wauregan. I had but I couldn't tell where it was. Wauregan was close to the border of Rhode Island. He mentioned Bridgeport where my mom is from and Hartford. I told him I had relatives in those areas. The Fisherman had moved to Wauregan in 1966 from South Carolina. Wait. What?

"You have lived there for that long and still haven't lost your southern accent?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's something I've always had and will never lose. Have a great day and I hope you catch something!" He tipped his boonie hat and paddled away. I would bet my Gary Carter baseball card collection that if he hadn't had sunglasses on, we would have seen him wink at us.

Not more than five minutes later, Chad hooked a pickerel. It wasn't the bass he had wanted but it was something! When we fish we always go out hoping to catch "The Big Bass'. Instead, that day we learned a big lesson from a southern Yankee: 

There is always something to be thankful for each and every day.

True Tales of a Talker: Tale #1

In my field, being the senior medical biller for Maine Veterans' Homes, I am on the phone each and every day talking to representatives from different insurance companies from all around the world about claims. I absolutely love it! If you ask my parents and siblings, talking is probably what I do best. I do a lot of it. 

A lot.

Ask anyone who knows me and I can talk to anyone about anything. I start conversations with people in the grocery checkout line, waiting at the dentist's office or getting my oil changed. I'll strike up a chat with the elderly, middle-aged and children. My friend Craig Stutzman said I should have been a teacher because of the way I engage kids. Kids are easy to talk to. All they want is to be heard. I think that's what everyone wants: to be heard. 

The best part of talking to someone is what you learn about them. When I call insurance companies I always write down their name and make sure I say it two or three times in the first few minutes. Do you know how it makes people feel to hear their name said it a nice way? It feels incredible. 

Think about it.

How many times in a day do you hear your ACTUAL name? Not 'Mama', not 'Ma'am', not 'Doctor'. YOUR name. It's very few and far between. And when you hear it, you want to hear it in a good way. It's nice to have someone call you by your name. Ask David Allen Coe. He would appreciate it, too.

The person I am on the phone with wants that same thing. You will never know who they just spoke to or if that person was polite to deal with. They could have just been chewed out by an angry biller or a policy holder. YOU are the next opportunity they have to help someone. It's not their fault your claim processed wrong. It's not right to be upset with them. It's the situation you're upset with. Do what you can to diffuse their preconceived notion about you because, if you've been in the business of answering ANY kind of phone for an extended period of time, you gravitate toward that mentality.

The person I spoke with today was "Janet". She started out pleasant and in her voice I could tell she was younger than I am. Being forty-five now, it's not hard to be. I do have a very young sounding voice myself and am mistaken for a twenty-something on the phone all the time. I don't mind it. When the opportunity arose I decided to do what I do best: talk with her.

Why not?

"Janet" works for Medicare and she was doing her best to help me with a claim. Oftentimes there is silence on the line when making these calls. And I know it's because the representative is concentrating on the task at hand.  Being who I am, I pick a topic out of thin air. For example, last night I watched a video of Scott Hamilton at the Olympics. I pipe up and say "I know this sounds weird but" and I start most of my conversations that way "you sound younger than I am. I was wondering, do you remember the 1984 Winter Olympics in Sarajevo with all the ice skating and stuff?" 

She giggled. "That's not possible. I was born in 1997 so I wasn't even around then." 

I started talking about how my family and I would watch the Olympics together and our favorite was the ice skating competition with Scott Hamilton, Katrina Witt and Torvill and Dean. I had a huge crush on Kurt Browning later on in life. She went on to tell me her Aunt actually participated in the Olympics in Track and Field during her childhood years so the Olympics are a huge deal in their home. She confided in me that she didn't like running at all; that she would rather play softball. She went on to explain she used to play year round because in Texas you can do that. 

She was from Texas! I heard no trace of a drawl so that was unexpected. I love surprises!

We then went on to talk about how we are both dealing with the "pandemic". She said when she attended high school the "swine flu" was going around and they just sent the kids to school anyway. She was a bit jealous that her brother and sister were getting the option of either returning to the classroom or virtual learning. She was even amazed how her sister was able to have her senior pictures taken. They didn't think it would be possible with all the social distancing being done. I told her that I would be talking with my son's father about the new school year and what we want to do. With this new school year and being a freshman, he won't have the normal first day jitters of experiencing the even more crowded hallways and the few minutes dash to the next classroom while trying to find your locker and your friends. She admitted things are definitely different in this day and age. "This day and age" for her was about five years from when she graduated high school herself. 

Yes, things have changed. 

As we concluded our phone call with the claim information I needed, she said it was a pleasure talking to me and that it was a nice change from the regular calls she received day in and day out. It was definitely a highlight of my day. The phone call was a quick fifteen minute conversation between two people who will never meet but I can guarantee that the next time I call and she answers, she'll remember me. 

And I'll remember "Janet".

The Old Mainer

The temperatures in Maine in the month of January are frigid. That’s the best way to describe bone-chilling cold that seeps through the layers that we throw on to keep it away from our bodies. Winter in Maine is not for the faint of heart but it is for the Old Mainer.

I met him at the Irving rest stop in Augusta on my way to work when I stopped to fill my tank. It was three below zero and the wind was whipping at a good fifteen miles an hour. I had on my knitted hat, my LL Bean mittens and winter boots because it had snowed almost two feet the night before. Under my heavy fleece jacket were the layers of long sleeve shirt and bulky sweater. I was warm but it was one of those mornings where the wind pushed through everything and you just felt cold.

He pulled up a few pumps away in an older white Mercury sedan about the same time. I watched him get out. My guess was he was at least eighty years old. His skin sunk in a little around his cheeks and was wrinkled. He wore a clean pair of Levi’s, LL Bean duck boots, a white t-shirt and a buttoned blue flannel shirt. He had on his weathered brown Carhartt jacket and a baseball cap covered what little white hair remained on his head. He walked into the store at a leisurely gait with cash in his hand to prepay for his gas.

When I started to fill my car, a newer, black Ford F-150 pulled in a few pumps away on the other side. The man in his thirties jumped down from the lifted truck, pulled out his debit card and started pumping gas. He looked at me and said “Man, it’s cold this morning.” I replied that was pretty chilly. He left the truck and the pump running, did a big shiver, pulled his knit cap a little lower over his ears, shoved his gloved hands into the pocket of his puffy coat and hurried to the store.

The old Mainer was on his way out and held the door open for the young man as he rushed over the threshold.  He walked to his car and proceeded to fill his tank. While it was going, he used the squeegee brush to clean his windshield and his headlights. I notice his hands had no gloves. There was no protection from the wind on his ears.  

The younger man rushed back to his truck, took care of the nozzle and drove away.

The wind picked up and I started to shiver as the handled clicked and told me my tank was full. As I got into my car and prepared to leave, I decided to sit and watch him. He saw me and he gave me a small wave and I waved back and smiled. He finished with the gas cap, got in his car and proceeded to drive away. His license plate was in support of agriculture.

The cold didn’t faze him. He wasn’t in a hurry. He was like many of his generation that adapted to the unpredictable weather in Maine. Two feet of snow? It’s just a dusting. Three below zero? It’s a bit chilly. Here was one of the last of a dying breed of men and women who went about their business, minded their own and complained not of the temperature but adapted to the situation around them and carried on. Here was a man who was helpful to the next generation and polite to those around him. All good lessons you can learn from an Old Mainer.

Mysterious Truck Driver

In early 2000, I was a 26 year old contestant in a karaoke contest at a Skowhegan, Maine bowling alley/restaurant and lounge. If you made it to the finals you had the chance of winning $1000. I was excited because I loved to sing and we could really use the money. Back then, I was working three jobs and helping my, now former, husband get through nursing school. He would be graduating in just over a month and starting what would be his lifelong career. Myself, I was a medical biller for a mental health facility making just over $9/hour. I was also working for a temp agency and sang in a band almost every weekend until the wee hours of the morning.

 

The few trips we had made out of the state included Virginia, Florida, Tennessee and Washington, DC. This time, however, I would have to be making a trip alone. Washington D.C. in the dead of night was going to be quite the challenge.

 

The evening that I won my preliminary round of the contest I was told the date of the finals. My jaw dropped. It was the only weekend that I would not even be in Maine. The people who ran the contest looked at me incredulously. They told me I HAD to be there because I had a really good shot at winning. I needed to make a decision.

 

The reason I would not be able to participate was because we had promised my sister, who had never driven anywhere by herself, that we would travel to DC with her for the weekend. She was a huge fan of the television show, Emergency!, and her favorite actor, Randolph Mantooth, was going to be there that same weekend of the contest. He was the guest of honor at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. There was going to be a display of memorabilia from the show and he would be there to introduce it. She really wanted to meet him.

 

I couldn’t be in two places at once.

 

When I told my husband he asked what we were going to do. We talked with my sister and hatched the plan to have him drive down with her in her car and spend the one night in the hostel we had all found in a travel book. I would drive down as soon at the contest was over and meet them at the Washington Monument the next morning at 8am.

 

At 5 am the day of the contest I wished my husband a safe trip and he left to meet my sister to travel the nearly 600 miles to their destination. I tried to go back to sleep. I took the day off specifically for that purpose but to no avail. I had always been a morning person and that day was no different.

 

I packed a light bag for the trip because I knew, win or lose, we were staying overnight and traveling back the next day. As luck would have it, I won the contest and the $1000 prize!. It was 10 o’clock at night and after changing my clothes I climbed into my 1993 Mercury Tracer and headed for the highway.

 

In 2000, I had an actual map. That’s it. No GPS. No cell phone. No English woman’s voice on an app to help guide me. It was me and the Rand McNally Road Atlas of the United States. I would travel I-95 South the entire way down.

 

As soon as I hit the Massachusetts border I noticed something peculiar. There were no cars. The only vehicles on the road were tractor trailers. When you’re under five feet tall in a compact car and there are semis in front, behind and to each side of you, you start to feel a bit nervous. I kept wondering if they could even see me at all. I found an opportunity to get to the right travel lane. I put my blinker on and it just so happened the truck in front of me put its blinker on. I moved over and so did they. When he would change lanes I did as well. This went on for a little while.

 

I finally had to pull over. Being awake for almost 20 hours was starting to take its toll on me. It was nearly 2 am and, though I had packed an overnight bag, I had failed to pack snacks. I saw the sign for the next rest stop and realized the truck was also going to rest as well. I parked my car and went to the McDonald’s to order food and a drink with caffeine. I never drank caffeinated drinks but I needed to stay awake for the rest of the drive. I looked at around at the people coming inside the building wondering if the truck driver who had been my guide was one of the patrons filing in.

 

I finished my late night snack, used the facilities and headed out. I filled the car with gas and started back on my way. I pulled back onto the highway with another six hour drive ahead of me.

 

About ten minutes down the road a truck pulled up alongside me and I saw a light go on in the cab. I saw a manly hand wave at me but that was all I could see. I turned my light on and waved back. Our lights went out and I heard his air horn blare. He sped up and pulled in front of me.

 

My truck driver was back!

 

Sure enough, the license plate was the same. It’s hard to forget when you were staring at the back end of the same truck for hours. Together until we reached DC the semi and I changed lanes. The driver would always wait for an opportunity to make certain I had enough space to change lanes with him.

 

The sun was starting to come up and the miles melted away. I started to see signs for the DC area. I knew I had to start following them. My hand reached for the signal but I didn’t really want to. I had followed the same truck for nearly 400 miles. I considered it and its driver my guardian angels. I flicked the blinker on to take the exit and I could see his hand wave out his window. I rolled down mine and waved back. He blew his horn and I exited the highway to find the Monument and my waiting family.

 

I’ll never know who he was or what triggered him to stay with me for so long or remember the name of the company he drove for. All I will remember is that this driver was a friend. He made my trip more enjoyable, less stressful and definitely more interesting. 10-3. If you're a trucker, you'll know what that means.

Just Me and My Dad

It's not often a forty-two year old woman gets to sit at the foot of her father and read to him.

But today I did.

I visited my mother and father after work this evening and brought them some information I thought he might like to hear. My sister, Audrey, was finishing up their few dishes in the sink when I arrived.

My dad is a proud veteran of the US Navy having served during the time of the Korean War. He was aboard the USS Newport News from 1956 until 1957. In their home hangs a beautiful picture of the ship he was on. They had nicknamed it 'The Grey Ghost from the East Coast'. When I was little I would ask him questions about the 'boat' as I called it and he would point out where he manned the five inch guns.

He never talked about being in the armed forces much. Every now and then I bring it up and a story might happen to make its way out to be told. My dad is a few months shy of eighty-one so it's understandable not remembering too much of things that happen sixty years ago.

But remember he does.

I sat on the floor next to his recliner and started to read aloud the article of his ship. It was interesting to find out it was the very first fully-air conditioned ship in the US Navy. When I said a certain Admiral's name, my mother started to laugh and said "that's the one he punched". She didn't elaborate any further. My dad didn't expand on it either. I guess that's a story for another time.

It mentioned many different cities the ship had visited: Barcelona, New Orleans, Balboa, Guantanamo Bay. The most fascinating place to me was the Panama Canal. I had not read the entire piece before I arrived so I was amazed when I read it. I looked up at him and asked "YOU went through the Panama Canal?"

Not missing a beat he replied "Well, you had to. If you didn't, you'd have to go all the way around to get where we were going."

That's when a story came to light. He remembered when one of his shipmates was down in the boiler room. He radioed up he wanted a cigarette. One of the crewmen brought it down and when the soldier lit it up, the room exploded. Two men died and another two were injured. Ten minutes later, he said, he was radioed again saying he had a phone call from his mother. Thinking something had happened to her, he ran to pick it up. He asked if she was alright and she said she was fine. Then she asked if he was. Confused he said he was and wondered why she was calling. Somehow it made the news that there was an explosion aboard his ship! The Grey Ghost's phone lines were 'blowing up' with calls from worried moms and dads making sure their sailors were unharmed.

Then, he gave me a request.

My husband, Chad, and I are taking our blended family on its first family vacation. We had told my parents a few months ago were were headed to Washington, D.C. to take in all the monuments and museums.

My father said at the Korean Memorial it has a computer program inside its building where you can search for a soldier's name and the time they served. My father has asked me to go and search for him. I hope I find him. I'll do more research on what he's talking about but if his name is anywhere in Washington, D.C. I want to find it and show him.

I wonder how many more stories I'll hear from him. The unusual thing about my father is he hardly ever tells the same story twice. They're always new. At least to me they are. When we get back from our trip, I look forward to sitting with him and showing him all the amazing ways our country has remembered its soldiers. Most of all, I just look forward to spending time with him.

Baseball Is Still America's Game

I like football. The Super Bowl is happening tomorrow and America is pretty excited. Even my son wants to have a party. I love to watch it but nothing makes me happier or more nostalgic than an old-fashioned baseball game.

I was scrolling through Facebook and read the post on how the supermarkets are packed with shoppers stocking up on chicken wings, premade cheese and cracker trays, mini-wrapped hot dogs and ingredients for the best tasting chili that should have won at the last cook-off challenge.

Then one post stopped me.

A picture of a high school friend with his girlfriend and one of their friends smiling for the camera at Tropicana Field during a game.

Baseball.

I've always had a love for baseball. Growing up in Connecticut, my family followed the NY Mets. My father even took my brother to a game at Shea Stadium. I didn't hear about that until I was older and, let me tell you, I was some jealous.

We moved to Maine when I was 8 and we kept our love for the Mets quiet in the beginning. It's hard to make friends when you ask the first kid you see if they like the Mets.

It wasn't long before we transitioned to the Red Sox. It was just a natural progression to make. Hearing my mom years later tell me the lineup for the night's game as if she was Terry Francona opened my eyes on what big fans my parents really were. I think the most significant moment was the retiring of David Ortiz. I can still quote my mom as her eyes started to water: "Now THAT was a nice man."

What is it about baseball that digs so deep into me, into us all that, if you could, you would be Jimmy Fallon in 'Fever Pitch'?

Maybe it's from hearing my father tell stories of how growing up, dozens of children would flock to the ball fields after school. Teams would be made of 20 kids or more there were so many. Parents would know where their children were every second of the day because if you would ask them "Where's Raymond?" they would answer nonchalantly "Oh, he's at the field with the kids playing baseball. He'll be home at dark."

And he was...and so were all the other kids.

Maybe it's because we watched it on television as a family when I was young. The excitement that filled our living room from my parents as they followed every pitch was passed down to us.

Maybe it's all the movies about baseball like Angels in the Outfield, The Bad New Bears, The Rookie, Field of Dreams, Pride of the Yankees, The Sandlot, A League of Their Own...there was always a happy ending whether the main character's team won or lost. Who am I kidding? They always won.

Maybe it's because I watch the Little League World Series each year and see the hard work, sacrifice and dedication these kids make to make it that far. It breaks my heart when the other team loses but that's another lesson children learn with playing baseball: you WILL lose at something sometime in your life. Get up, brush yourself off and try again.

Maybe it's from watching my husband's family home movies of him playing ball and hearing them talk to each other like the camera was never rolling. Some words were not sufficient for children's ears and they have banned smoking in the stands since then. It was a family outing where aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, grammie and grampies all gathered to watch the local kids on a hot summer afternoon.

Maybe it's from watching my stepson grow into a teenager and seeing the changes that come with moving up a level from Little League to the bigger league of junior high school. Faster pitches, faster runners, farther hits, better players.

Maybe it's from watching my own son try so hard and finally get his very first hit and hearing the cheering of the people in the stands from our team AND the away team because another little boy got his first hit.

And so many more will after him.

Baseball has always been the same. Very few things have changed since its inception. Equipment has improved, the science of hitting and pitching has been studied and implemented.

But nothing has changed the way your heart pounds when you hear the crack of the bat and you watch in anticipation on whether it's foul or fair, a single or a home run, if it sneaks past the player's glove or it's snagged and a double play dowses the chances of an advanced runner to tie the game.

Baseball. America's game. My game.

8 days until pitchers report to Florida.

But who's counting?