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.

I'm Actually Doing Okay

 

I’m actually doing okay.

When I walked into work this morning I received a text from my husband saying that one of his coworkers wanted some of my lasagna. A few months ago I had shared a meatloaf with him and he enjoyed it. It brought a huge smile to my face and I texted back I would make some on Sunday. It would be a nice warm meal with the temperatures slowly dropping in the evenings this September. I haven’t made it in a while and it would be nice to share because no family can go through an entire pan in one night…at least MY lasagna.

As I entered my office area I said hello to the women I work with and one of them asked me “How are you doing?” I stopped and thought about it for a second and responded “You know what? I am actually doing okay. The kids are good. Chad is good. I’m good. I’m doing okay.”

I was surprised by my answer.

Usually when the question is asked people say an automatic answer of “I’m doing fine.”

But are they REALLY?

Have you ever stopped for a second and thought about what your answer might be? Today I was able to. In the span of a instant I was able to think and realize that life IS good. So many things happen in our lives every day. Some are needed by the way of our job and family life. Kids have after school activities and you feel more like a chauffer than a parent.  Those things can keep us very busy! Some situations we create ourselves. Those things we create can diminish time we could otherwise be spending with our family. Finding a balance is not easy but can be done.

In a split second I was able to think that our bills were paid, there was food in the house, the kids were showered and clean, school was going well for them, they were happy, our jobs have been steady and secure and our relationships between the two of us and with the children were going smooth.

Things are GOOD.

It’s a scary thing!

When did it all happen? Has it been this way for a while and I just didn’t see it? The answer is YES.

If we take the time to stop and have moments in the day where we can reflect on our lives and relationships it can help us determine what we're doing right, what might need a little work or even see signs of a struggle of a loved one we’ve never noticed before.  It’s all about taking the time to slow down and breathe. I, personally, take the time to breathe by saying my daily prayers once in the morning and once before bed. For me it helps me face the day and give thanks for the one that I had. You never know when we may never get another one.

Take time to stop and breathe and realize all YOU have. It is more than you think. And you’re blessed to have it.

 

 

 

Keep Being The School Mom

I can’t help it. I’m one of those moms. You know the ones that are excited for school to begin?

That’s me.

I’m not excited because it means that gives me a break from them. Heck, if I could I’d be in their classrooms everyday making sure they are paying attention, their shoes are tied and they carry the three in the math problem.

Ok, not really, but sometimes I wish I could be.

What I’m looking forward to is their own excitement of returning to class. I know children SAY they don’t want to go back but (secretly) they kind of do.

The friends they don’t get to hang out with over the summer will be there. The fall activities such as sports, drama and marching band are things they enjoyed and look forward to. It gets them back to being creative, talkative and interested in something again besides their phones which, and I know you’d agree with me here, is something we all wish they would spend less time with.

My stepdaughter checked Infinite Campus (our school portal) for her new classes every day for about three weeks wondering when it would be updated so she could see what her schedule would be. It’s new and exciting for her because she is starting seventh grade and that means it will be her first year with more than one teacher. She called me yesterday to tell me all about her classes and which friends were in which class with her.

My son loved his schedule because he found out his science class was his first class of the day and it is his absolute favorite. His teacher, Mr. Rodrigue, he says, is the best and makes it so much fun for him to learn.

What mom wouldn’t get excited about hearing those words?

He also noticed he would be in Advanced Algebra and that, he stated, was the hardest math class there was. He was happy about it but looked a little worried. I told him he should take it as a compliment that his math teacher last year had enough confidence in him that he thought he could handle it. He should be proud. He was fine after hearing that.

My stepson, a junior this year, actually said his schedule was “cool”.  I’d call that winning!

I’m excited for them. I will take pics on their first day of school (again) because that’s what moms do. We get to take two pictures a year: the first and last day and post them for all the world to see. All the rest are candids (don’t tell the kids!). It won’t be much longer until that stops happening. Begrudgingly, they smile for the camera then turn and walk into the building where they will be spending so much time. While they’re there, you’ll wonder and worry if they’re learning, paying attention, doing their work and passing it in on time. You check the Infinite Campus each day to make sure they aren’t behind on their assignments or if they tell you they have no homework you ask them about the assignment it says is due tomorrow. So there really is homework? Well, what do you know!

I’m that parent.

I’m the one that will fuss about heavy backpacks, picture day and lunch money. I’ll sometimes hover around the table while they’re working to be there just in case they ask for help. I’ll make sure they have a way to transport their projects they work so hard on to make sure they don’t get ruined before their presentation.

I’m excited!

I’m worried, too.

I will ask them who they sat with at lunch to make sure they aren’t lonely. I’ll ask what they learned that day to see if anything sparked their interest or if they’re having trouble in a subject. I’ll ask how they did on their test last week and, if they didn’t do very well, ask them what they think they can do or what they need to do better. Or if they did do well, I will congratulate them and tell them to keep it up!

I’m here for them.

They haven’t gone through many things in their young lives yet but, between myself and my husband, we have seen it all before. What is, might be or could happen to them is not unique as teenagers have been, well, teenagers for a million years.  But they THINK it is only happening to them and has never been experienced by anyone ever. Hopefully, they feel comfortable enough to tell us about the things that bother them or the situations they might be in and we can give them a little guidance along the way.

Being a teenager is not easy.

Neither is being a parent.

Whatever you can do to keep the lines of communications open between you and them, the teachers, the guidance counselors, the friends…keep them open.

Be excited. Be worried. Be there.

Keep being the mom.

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.

Time...and the Little We Have Left

Growing up, you think nothing of time. Where it’s gone, when it’s coming or that exact moment: it doesn’t even cross your mind.

When you get older, it starts to take shape in the form of yesterday, today and tomorrow. Deadlines, alarm clocks and scheduling are ways we manage the time we have.

When you get to a certain age it takes the form of baby, present age and old age.

Today I am dealing with old age.

Not MY old age. Heck, I’m 41 and I still feel 20 and, in some cases, am still mistaken for it. Must be in the genes. My mother who will be 73 this year is Italian and has virtually no wrinkles. That’s a part of her I take after: good skin that ages and tans well. I guess you can say the height, too, as I am only 4’11”. My grandmothers would say I get that from them, too. She’s also pretty crafty and is good with a needle and thread. Me too. Just thinking about these things makes me realize all the sorts of things we do alike.

What I take after my dad in is my love of numbers, music and the ability to make things. I remember having math contests with him trying to solve math problems in our heads and see who got the right answer first. We still do that. Dad could build anything. I’m pretty good with a hammer and nail. I aced woodshop in school. Working with my hands has always been fun for me. Music, well, he excelled at that, too.  He once took my face in his hands and said I had something he didn’t have and that was ‘IT”. You know, the “IT” that it takes to make it one day. I’ll never forget that day. One of the three days in my life I’ve seen my father cry.

What I don’t take after from my parents is a habit they have. They smoke. At least my mom still does. My dad quit about a month ago. He’ll be 80 this year and he stopped a month ago.

My dad quit just before a hospital scare. He was having a hard time breathing. He couldn’t catch his breath and had to visit the VA hospital where he spent a week. He actually stopped smoking a few days before that because he was having a hard time breathing then. Now he is home and using oxygen every night. He has an oxygen monitor for his finger he uses everyday just to check his level. It comforts him to see anything above 90.

I am watching my parents slowly deteriorate. They’re not that old: almost 73 and 80. For residents of Maine, a person living into their 70s and 80s is not an uncommon thing. They grew up here, worked the land and I still see some in their 90s working out in their gardens, tilling up their lands for the summer crops and hay season.

My parents, however, were born in Connecticut in the city and moved here 33 years ago. It’s a funny story, actually. My parents decided to move to Maine because we had relatives here. The way they said they would remember how to get to their new home everyday was to live off the same number exit they lived off of on I-95 in Connecticut and that was Exit 35. So there we lived. They were always hard workers. My dad worked for McLean Trucking and my mom was a housekeeper. I can still fold a fitted sheet like she taught me.  When they finished working for the week, the weekends were always filled with projects. Mom always said “You’re father doesn’t know how to slow down.”

We enjoyed life. I grew up and graduated from Lawrence High School with honors. I have had very few different jobs but they have all lasted a long time. I am now a medical biller for the Maine Veterans' Homes in Augusta. I love what I do. See where that love of numbers comes in?

My father’s recent hospital stay scared us. I know parents won’t be around forever but now time has become sacred. Each and every phone call, house visit, request they make is met with an “I’ll be right over” or an “I’ll get that done and stop by tomorrow with it,” and an “I love you.”

Time.

The hourglass is running out.

I did a little research and asked some doctors I knew about end stage emphysema and COPD. It’s funny. I never really knew how to spell emphysema until recently. They said that since my dad stopped smoking just recently, he could have up to 4 years of life remaining. Had he not stopped, it was more likely 2.

2 years.

2 years of having a parent still with you.

Now, it could be more or less than 2 years. You never know what the body will do or when the good Lord will call to take a person home. Heck, he could live until he’s 100. He's pretty feisty that way and I wouldn't put it past him.

You just never know.

But 2 years?

What do you do?

Well, if you’re like me, you jump each time the telephone rings and you see it’s from your parents. You wonder if they’re calling to say hello or need anything or you wonder if they are in trouble and need help. You also jump each time you see the phone ring from your siblings during the day. My siblings don’t call me so to see the phone light up with their numbers jumps me. You never know if they are contacting you for a chat or a problem with your parent’s health.

If you’re like me, you pray a little more. And the things you pray about are different. I usually pray for my family, help with troubles and ask for forgiveness if I think I haven’t done all that I could that day. Now, even though I pray for family, I have been praying and asking God specifically to, if He has to take either of them, to make it gentle. To have them not suffer too much. Or at all.

If you’re like me, you prepare. Preparing is a weird thing to do. How do you prepare for something like death? They’ve prepared everything.  My parents have all of their affairs in order from the caskets, headstones, funeral home and will. They have put my brother as the executor. He’s a good man and always does for our parents. He’s the only son and the best son and brother all of us could ask for. There’s nothing really for me to do.

But prepare.

I know you can never prepare yourself for the death of a loved one but I have been able to be at peace with it. I know and believe that the last breath they breathe here on Earth will be the first breath they take in Heaven. Some don’t believe in that and that’s their choice. It gives me comfort though.

I guess the preparing I have to do is go on living. Each and everyday. Do I dread the day it happens? Oh, yes. Am I prepared for it? Kind of. Am I ready? Not really. Will I ever be?


No.

And that’s okay.

Talking with my husband yesterday, I told him my concerns. I cried. There was really nothing for him to say. But his being there and letting me tell him I was worried and scared was the best thing he could do. You need that person to talk to, to listen to you. And in the moments he’s not around, God is always there. I know He hears me, too.

So now we wait.

And prepare.

And continue our lives.

And use our time a little more wisely.