The Suit

Hanging on the wall of my parents home is a picture of my father, Raymond. My guess of his age in the photo is eighteen to nineteen years old. In our first home in Milford, Connecticut, the picture hung above a photograph of my parents dancing at a wedding. When we moved to Maine, it was placed in the same arrangement...just a different wall. The same as when my parents moved to Florida for a year then came back to Fairfield, Maine. Their last home is their current home. They’re number thirteen on a dead end street across from a cemetery. Some might find that a little creepy. I think it’s pretty funny, myself.

On Tuesday, my mother had a doctor’s appointment so I volunteered to stay with my father while my sister took mom to see her physician. It was routine stuff. It wouldn’t take long, they said. The roads had been cleared of the snow that had fallen overnight. Dad was always worried about all of us when the weather wasn’t sunny and 75. Come to think of it, he worries about us when it’s that nice out, too.

Dad and I made small talk about the stimulus package the government was looking to pass, the weather for the weekend and how my son, Anderson, was doing in school. I sat in my mom's chair and looked up at the wall of photographs. The one of my father was hanging below a sketch drawing of the church they were married in. He had mentioned to me about six months before that he wanted me to find a tie just like the one in the photo so he could give it to Anderson to wear to church. I looked all over. I scoured the internet, called department stores in Connecticut, to no avail. 

I asked my father “Dad, where did you get that tie?”

And the story began.

“I bought that tie. I bought the suit, too, with my own money.”

He went to tell me exactly how.

My father was thirteen years old in 1949. The family was very poor. There were five sons at that time before the two little sisters came along. The house on Madison Avenue in Bridgeport they grew up in is now a parking lot next to an ice cream shop. His father was a box nailer at the Bridgeport Brass Company. That company, years before my father and his father were born, is credited for spinning the copper wire that made the first long distance telephone line from New York City to Boston possible. His mother, with five boys, worked hard at being a mom. From the stories they have told me...she had her hands full.

On a late winter day his mother, Grace, brought home new clothes. They had saved enough to buy each of the rambunctious boys pants and shirts. They were growing like weeds and hand me downs only lasted so long. She presented my father, who was tall and very lean, a pair of knickers. In the 1940s, it was common for teenage boys to wear “short pants” or knickers. They came just below the knee and sometimes they fastened with a buckle. My father took one look and asked her to return them because he was NOT going to wear them. She wasn’t very happy about the response. They had spent their hard earned money on new clothes for their eldest son only to have them refused by him. His excuse? He wanted to wear pants. Long pants. 

She told him “If you want pants, buy them yourself.” Grace took him and the pants back to the store she had already come from and told the manager her son didn’t want them. The manager asked him “What do you want?” My father perused the clothing and his eyes landed on a suit.

The Suit.

“I want this.” His mother knew she couldn’t afford it and, once again, told him he would have to buy it himself. Raymond walked right up to the suit and looked at the manager and asked him “Will you please hold this suit for me? It may take me awhile to get the money but I will be back for it.” He picked up a tie and asked him to hold it as well. They left the store with no pants and no suit. However, he did leave with a determination and an idea.

Before it became cheaper to buy at grocery stores, milk was delivered in glass containers by the milkman. A man in a white suit and cap would travel by truck with hundreds of bottles of milk to deliver around the city. He would arrive in the early hours of the morning, go to the stoop of a home and pick up the empty containers. He would then leave fresh full bottles in their place. With five growing boys, the family went through a lot of milk. 

Raymond, being the go-getter he was, woke up early the next morning and greeted the milkman. He asked him if he could work for him to earn a few dollars a week. The milkman thought a moment and told him “Well, I would finish earlier every day. Why not?” So they made plans for the next morning for Ray to start delivering milk.

After a month it had turned to Spring and the earning was slow. It was getting closer to Easter and Ray wanted to be able to wear the suit to church on Easter Sunday. The grass had sprouted up so he took the family lawnmower and went around to the houses in their neighborhood and sometimes beyond. On the weekends he went door to door asking to mow lawns. The money started adding up but it still wasn’t enough. He didn’t think he would be able to purchase the suit in time. What could he do?

Go to his favorite uncle, of course.

Howard Holt was born Halvor Fostvet in Eydehamn, Norway. He came through Ellis Island on the ship Stravangerfjord in 1923. A master craftsman who built cabinets, tables, chairs, and even boats, Uncle Howie, as he was lovingly referred to, was a kind man. He and his wife, Dorothy, doted on children. They couldn’t have any of their own so they spoiled all of their nieces and nephews. I can say I was lucky enough to be spoiled by them as well. He was my godfather and I was his only godchild. Never a holiday went by without them sending me a card with a little something stuffed inside whether it be a two dollar bill or a bunch of stickers. When they would visit, a bag of candy was brought with them just for me. Their hugs were the biggest, the warmest and the longest.

After school, Ray went to visit Uncle Howie who was building another project in his workshop. He wasn’t at all surprised at his nephew’s unannounced visit. They lived less than four miles away. Ray would often take the half hour walk to see him and help him with whatever he was working on. It was with him my dad learned to make the cabinets in our home in Milford, put upstairs bathrooms in our homes in Fairfield. He even built a garage. We were always so amazed that he could do all these different things. When we asked where he learned how to do it all he would always answer “Uncle Howie”.

That day Ray started helping like he usually did and tried, as casually as a thirteen year old boy could, to slide into conversation that he was saving money for something special. Uncle Howie, who could read between the lines, mentioned that he could use an extra hand around the workshop. “Some jobs are just too big to handle alone.” Right away Ray asked if he could have the job. How could he say no to his favorite nephew?

In a matter of two months a young man went from having no job to having three all at once. Each day was closer to Easter and he wanted that suit in time. In the mornings he would deliver milk. After school he would mow lawns. In the evenings he would help his uncle.

The Saturday before Easter, Ray counted all his money and headed straight for the store. The tinkling of the bell went off and it announced to the manager the arrival of the young man with whom he made a deal with a few months prior.

“So, I suppose you’re here to pick up your suit.” said the manager.

“And tie.” Ray quipped.

“Hmmph,” was the manager’s response. He went out back and a few minutes later a large cardboard box tied with string was in the man’s hands. Ray counted out the bills and coins to the exact amount. When the manager was satisfied he rushed home to his room. There he untied the string and lifted the cover. It was just like he remembered: Navy blue with a matching tie with an embroidered cross. He resisted the urge to put it on right then and there. He didn’t want to risk a single wrinkle. He hung it in his closet to await the next morning. 

And what a morning it was. Easter Sunday was as big a deal then as it is now. Families getting ready to head to church would see a flurry of activity in order to get there on time. Can you imagine what my grandmother went through to have five boys clean, fed and in their Sunday best before it was time to leave? 

Things came to a standstill when my father walked into the room. There he was in his new suit and tie standing before his mother, father and four brothers. “Raymond! Where did you get that?” 

“You told me to buy it myself so I did.” He told them of everything he did and how much he had saved in order to wear the new suit special for Easter. His parents were so proud of what he had accomplished. His brothers, well, they’d rather wear the knickers.

St John’s Episcopal Church on Fairfield Avenue in Bridgeport was full that day. Each person sitting in the pews had a full view of the choir raising their voices to the Lord in song. In that choir was a tall, young man in a snappy new suit and a big smile on his face. Though no one’s smile could be bigger than the ones of the parents watching their son who had worked for months just to wear a new suit to Easter Sunday service.

Where is the suit now? My parents like to be prepared for everything and that includes the time they pass on. The suit is now in a box and is ready for when my father passes on. The suit he bought as a thirteen year old boy will be the suit he is buried in. 

And tie. Never forget the tie.

Queenie - The Dog Who Would Be Queen

 My mother, Mary, is one of eight children. For a family of ten all under one roof life on Prospect Street in Stamford, Connecticut, wasn’t easy. When I inquired where it was located she told me “the wrong side of the tracks”. I decided to take a look and, well, she was right: it wasn’t in the best part of town. My mother always said they didn’t have much but what they had was enough.

Still, life was good. My grandmother, Fanny, was a stay at home mom while my grandfather, Daniel, worked as a brakeman for the railroad. He assisted the conductor, switched tracks when necessary and applied the brakes to the train when needed. His job was especially important because he worked overnight. My grandparent’s lifestyle bled into my mother’s own adult life when she married my father. He was a night worker who drove trucks. 

When residing in the “bad part of town”, being a woman with eight children and not having your husband home at night in the 1940s was a potentially dangerous situation. Luckily, one day they brought home a new member of the family of the four-legged kind that would provide a little security to the household. 

Queenie was a female, smooth-haired, Whippett-Terrier mix. She was white with a black saddle and very lean. She quickly became the family’s best friend. My mother once said she bit Queenie and the dog bit her back. That’s what she got for biting a dog, she said. Grandmother Fanny felt much safer with a dog in the home. This way the dog could alert them to anything or anyone who shouldn’t be hanging around. She slept better at night because of it.

When my mother was about eight years old she remembers Fanny giving Daniel a kiss goodbye and closing the door as he went off to work with his lunchbox. That night everything was normal. Doors were locked, kids were in bed sleeping and Queenie was snoozing in the living room.

Around midnight a man who had a bit too much to drink (or as my mother said “he was loaded”) mistook their house as someone else’s he knew. Could have been his own. No one really knows for sure. He was pounding on the door. Queenie started barking. Fanny told the man to go away but he persisted. He was yelling for the door to be opened and pounding the door even harder. As you can imagine all nine residents were very frightened. So Fanny did what she thought best.

She opened the door and shouted “Get ‘em, Queenie!” and the dog went after the man!

She could see the man run away as fast as he could but Queenie chased him across the street then across the ball field (which is now the interstate). Fanny lost sight of her in the dark. She anxiously waited for the dog to return. The kids were worried she would never come back.

But come back she did.

With the seat of the man’s pants in her mouth!

That dog was heralded in the house that night as the true “queen” she was! “Good dog!” and “Yay Queenie!” were heard over and over as they petted her in gratitude for the tremendous deed she had done. She wasn’t sure what all the attention was about but she was certainly happy with all the love she was receiving. 

While my mother was at school the next day, Daniel returned from the night shift. Fanny told him what had happened. He couldn’t believe it! Who would have thought the little dog would be such a big protector. The man never returned and no one ever bothered their house again.

When Daddy Sang

 

I sat there and tried not to let the tears flow. I really did try…but in the end I lost the battle…again.

Bing Crosby put me over the edge.

On a Sunday afternoon while home with my husband and son, I had the urge to watch a movie from my childhood. I wasn’t born until the mid 1970s but I grew up on black and white musicals from the 1940s and 1950s that television would broadcast on Saturday and Sunday afternoons much to my parents liking. That, for us, was family time. Stars such as Jane Powell, Fred Astaire and Mario Lanza would come thru the speaker of our 1960s Sears floor model television while I lay on my stomach watching intently.

Was this what people did in real life? Walk around and burst into song? They did it so, naturally, I followed suit. The hallways of school, the grocery store, dancing down the street: there wasn’t a place I could hide my excitement for life.  I was like a human version of Linda on Bob’s Burgers. At least, that’s what my family says.

It’s true.

I can remember Debbie Reynolds telling (or singing) to Gene Kelly “Here we are: Sunset and Camden!” during Singin’ in the Rain. Now, being 46, I arrive at a destination to drop someone off I will sing the same thing. There’s not a lamppost I haven’t hung off of or a park bench I haven’t tapped my feet under as I sit. It was all so REAL growing up, I have made it part of my life…part of me.

Sometimes it embarrasses my husband or my son. They have become pretty used to it and have ignored my theatrics for the most part. There are those times though. There are things they just don’t understand. Once I am able to tell them why I do the things I do, they are able to see me in a totally different way and I think I come off as not so crazy once they do.

While sitting on the couch watching “Going My Way” starring Bing Crosby I knew the part was coming up. I certainly tried to hold myself together but the dam burst and there I was wiping away the tears on my shirt sleeve.

Elder Father Fitzgibbon (Barry Fitzgerald) had come in out of the rain late one night and was put straight to bed by house keeper Mrs. Carmody (EIly Malyon) and Father Chuck O’Malley (Bing Crosby). The subject came up where Father Fitzgibbon had not been home to Ireland in 45 years. He missed his 90 year old mother. He always said he would go home if the church’s problems were solved and there was someone there to take care of things while he went for a visit. To fight off a bit of chill, Father Fitzgibbon mentioned that hidden in the bookcase was a music box that held a decanter of whisky and two shot glasses. When the case was opened the old Irish tune of “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra” began to play and made Father Fitzgibbons think of home. After a quick drink, Father O’ Malley sings the elderly priest (almost) to sleep while singing along with the music box.

It’s at this point of the movie my husband and son look at me like I’m completely nuts. What on earth could possibly make me bawl? It wasn’t like we were all watching Marley and Me all over again.

When the movie was over and I could breathe through my nose again, I said to them there was a reason I was crying. I explained the vivid memories of when I was a little girl.

There wasn’t a song my father couldn’t sing or whistle for that matter. Hearing my father’s voice boom throughout the house with a song from Bing Crosby or Perry Como was a normal thing on a weekend. My mother would play the records while she cleaned and my father would sing along. His voice was truly amazing. He sounded just like the records and the men in the movies I had watched over and over. Sometimes he would sweep my mother off her feet and dance her around whatever room they were in and sing at the top of his lungs. It was like watching “The King & I” on a Broadway stage right in our very own living room.

Back in 1974, the year I was born, Hoffman Distillery bottled their whisky in decanters shaped like leprechauns. The alcohol would come out of their hats and they had a music box attached to the bottom. My parents owned two of them. One of the played “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” and the other “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra”. Being little and loving music, I would ask for them to play the music box of the latter. My father would sing along to that music box and, to this day, I can still hear his voice: Strong, deep and gentle. Bing Crosby had nothing on my dad.

Emphysema and COPD has silenced that beautiful singing voice. 65 years of smoking can do that to a person. He stopped smoking cold turkey six years ago after a heart attack scare. Doctors say he is with us now because he let go of that nasty vice. My mother followed suit a few years later. Each year, each DAY for that matter, that passes is another moment with them. I am so grateful.

My husband and son now know another little piece of why I am the way I am and do the things I do. If you see me in the grocery store dancing with my shopping cart or if I suddenly start singing my answers to your questions, you’ll now understand why.

It’s just me being me and thinking about my dad when he sang.

True Tales of a Talker #8: The Repeat Offender

Sometimes it’s fate. Sometimes it’s pure luck. But for whatever reason I get to speak to a certain representative at an insurance company that sure is a pleasure to talk to.

I started working at Maine Veterans’ Homes in January of 2015. I got off to a slow start; even thought I wanted to quit after the first three days until my husband told me to suck it up. No, really, he did. I came home crying thinking I couldn’t do this job and he asked me “Do you like what you do?” I told him yes. He said “Then don’t cry about it. Ask for help. Figure it out.” So, I pulled up my big girl undies and went to work with a new attitude the next day and have never looked back.

Over the first few months I got the hang of it and, you can ask my supervisor, I started cleaning up accounts like wildfire! I was doing my job and enjoying myself. I was calling insurance companies, demanding my claims process and the payments were coming in. I was even cleaning up the accounts of our other homes besides the one I was assigned to. The part of the job that took the most work and most of my time was Mainecare. There were plenty of accounts that had balances because of not having cost of care letters in the system. I would have to lug these giant binders out of a cupboard and go through them one by one to find them. If we didn’t have the correct ones, I would call or email the DHHS workers and ask for them. The claims that needed to be reprocessed or the questions I had on them would have to be called on.

That’s when I met HER.

When Theetra answers a call, she is happy and always willing to help. The first few phone calls I made to Mainecare she would answer. She was always so helpful and she knew who to ask or was able to decipher what either we or the system was doing wrong.  As we worked on the claims together we got to know each other too. In fact, I would go home from work and my stepdaughter, Jayden, would ask “Did you talk to Theetra today?” And I would say yes. When I told Theetra this it really made her day. Even now, she asks about Jayden and I ask about her daughter, Ella. Having little girls in our lives in another thing we get to share.

With the communication system they now have at Mainecare, they are able to see which workers are online and email them directly to find a quick answer. Often times if she can’t find the problem her coworker Bruce can. (I call him Mr. Bruce. He just sounds like a Mr. Bruce.) She gets the answer right away and I fix the claims and get them paid.

At the end of every phone call she expresses that it was wonderful to talk to me and I tell her the same. When you have a rapport with a person it shows and things get done.

So now, when I call Mainecare, and I hear the standard greeting ‘This is Theetra. How may I help you?” I respond “THEETRA!!!” And she says “Sharon! I was HOPING it was you! How are you, girl?”

And the call begins.

True Tales of a Talker #7: The Car Payment Collector

I never did have much luck with cars.

My husband and I leased a vehicle knowing I would most likely be over the mileage by the time the lease was up. We were going to buy it outright so I tried not to go very far over the limit. Unfortunately, family life had its way for helping me rack up the miles. We didn't want to but sometimes it would be me making the trips back and forth to Auburn more than once a week. Those miles can really add up quickly but there was no other choice at the time. It was such a great vehicle and I enjoyed driving it. I was hoping to have it for a long time.

Until the engine blew up over just over 2,000 past the warranty and two days shy of the lease being up.

Fast forward through the arguing with the dealership, finding proof of the engine known for being faulty, negotiating with the dealership and then calling the head office of the maker of the vehicle and I was fortunate to be put in a used vehicle that I had to buy outright with the $7,000 for the new engine of my old car factored in. 

In other words, I got screwed.

While paying for the "new" used car, I got a phone call six months later on a Thursday asking me for the money to pay for the overage of miles. I had forgotten that was even a thing. Since it went back to the dealership (and they auctioned it off for the bargain price of $4,000), it was completely out of my mind. You can imagine the shock of thinking there is another bill to pay on my already stretched income. They wanted $18,000!

At four o'clock in the afternoon the repayment center shuffled me around from representative to representative until a woman came on the line by the name of Audrey M. She listened to my story, the sniffling and the down right ugly crying. Do you know what the first thing she said to me was?

"Miss Sharon, I am going to make something happen for you."

And I believed her.

After forty-five minutes of sitting in my car talking to her and relaying the story of what had happened with the vehicle and the true situation of our finances, we connected with her supervisor, Carol. 

Little did I know how incredible that "something" would be. 

Miss Audrey had me retell the story to Carol. Then they said they were going to place me on hold. After being on hold for another twenty minutes (but being updated every five minutes that they were still working on things), Miss Audrey came back on the line. She said in a hushed voice "Now, I know I shouldn't tell you this, Miss Sharon, but your story touched me. I know what it's like to be in tough situations but I can tell you have an honest heart. I can tell you're not one of those people who would lie into getting a better deal. I can feel that from you. So I talked with Carol. Carol's last day at her position before taking the next step in the company is tomorrow. I asked her to do the impossible for you. And she did."

What did she do?

I was informed that she would cut the bill by eighty-five percent IF I could pay twenty payments of a negotiated amount of just over one hundred dollars a month.

That was it? 

What about the rest of it?

The rest would be forgiven. 

While still on the phone, Miss Audrey sent me the paperwork to sign. I signed it and sent it back by email right away. She then sent it to Carol who signed off on it as well. They sent me a copy.

Carol then came back on the line with us and said "This was my final act as supervisor. I think I made the good choice by making this deal. Everyone needs a break sometimes and, after talking with you, I can tell this was the right thing to do." She wished us well and hung up.

It was like a miracle!

Every month for the next twenty months I called Miss Audrey directly. She gave me her extension and I made the monthly payment with her. With each phone call, she would ask how my family was, how my band was doing and if my work was going well. In the thousands of phone call she received each month, she never forgot me.

And I'll never forget her.

True Tales of a Talker #6: The Birthday Girl

 

When people ask me what my favorite holiday is I always answer the same: my birthday. Mine is October 6^th and I love celebrating it! I guess for one day a year it makes me feel special. In my family it marks the beginning of Christmas. Yes, the holiday is still over two months away from that date but I am the only one in my family with a birthday after July if you don’t count my dad’s which is in August. I get to signal the start of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas and all the decorating it brings.

On this particular day, I was calling Medicare for information on how to fix an MSP claim. That’s when another insurance is primary over Medicare. Things have to be just right in order for it to pay.

Gina, the representative, was very nice. It sounded like she was having a good day already. And, being me, I wanted to find out why.

I asked her flat out “Just what has you in such a great mood today?”

She answered back “It’s my birthday!”

I immediately sang the ‘Happy Birthday’ song to her. I refrained from the “Are you 1? Are you 2?” and so on.

She let out a little squeal and thanked me. I could tell she wasn't working from home as so many employees are doing at call centers during the pandemic. She was using her inside voice.

I inquired as to how she was going to celebrate. She was eager to say she celebrates for an entire week. Last week her family took her out for dinner. Another day, her husband spent the entire day with her going to their favorite places. A few nights before the kids had made her favorite for the family dinner. Just last night she went out for drinks with her coworkers.

I was amazed. "You've had quite the week! What do you plan on tonight?"

She took a deep breath and let it out. "To tell you the truth, I hope we just stay home. It's been a wonderful week but I'm kind of tired. A night in with my family relaxing would be the best thing right now."

Totally get you, girl.

She went on to help me with my claim and when we were finished I, again, wished her a very happy birthday.

I have worked on my birthday before. In fact, I remember a long time ago on my 20th birthday I was working at Ames Department Store and, much like I do now, if work needed me I never said no. Well, I can't say NEVER because I am getting better at saying no for the sake of my family and my own sanity. Back then, though, I didn't miss an opportunity to work because we had no money when my first husband and I got married. Minimum wage in 1995 was $4.25 an hour. We needed to make every penny we could.

On my birthday that year, I remember my manager, Mr. Scott Finnemore, calling me and asking me to work. I knew we had a band practice that night (or so I thought). We needed the money more than I needed to practice. I said yes and I told my husband at the time that I was going in. The person covering the front desk called out sick and they had no one.

While I jumped in the shower to get ready, my husband quietly called my workplace and explained the situation. When I came out of the bathroom I got another phone call saying they didn't need me and that the other person was coming in anyway. I thought nothing of it. I asked if they were sure because I would cover for anyone. I didn't mind. He laughed and said "Enjoy your night off." 

We went to a band member's house and it looked like no one was home. We walked into the house and the lights came on. It was a surprise party! I literally had no idea. My husband said "I had to call Ames and tell them you couldn't work tonight. We all had this planned for you." 

The next day when I walked in Mr. Finnemore wished me a belated happy birthday. I thanked him and asked how he knew. He told me that my husband had called in a panic last night and explained everything. "That's why I called you back and said we were covered." He then said "Sharon, what would ever make you think to work on your birthday?" 

I told him what my father always told me.

When you work hard and give 150% every day you WILL be rewarded. Your boss will recognize this and see the dedication you have to your work. Never slack off. You'll be better off for it.

He just looked at me, nodded and said "Okay...but next year you are not working your birthday."

I have used my father's advice every day of my life. It HAS paid off. I think every supervisor I have ever had has realized the good work ethic my parents installed in me from a young age. From working 4 jobs at once to put my first husband through nursing school to still working 4 jobs...somethings never change. Granted 3 of the jobs I have now are per diem: the radio station Cruisin' Country 93.5, the tv station WABI-TV and my band, Sharon Hood & Dixon Road. I have the best full time job in the entire world here at Maine Veterans' Homes. 

And I now take my birthdays off.

 

 

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.