Dean scuffed along the darkened path, finally catching a glimpse of the flashlight beams partially revealing the girls faces as they turned toward him. With the wine bottle tucked under his arm, he paused, reaching into the pocket of his sweatshirt, deftly shaking one of Phil’s cigarettes from the red and white box directly to his lips. Far from a stranger to the pleasures of smoking, Dean flicked one of the safety matches over the sandpaper strip on the pack, the flash briefly illuminating his face as he lit the cigarette. As he approached the girls he dramatically blew a smoke ring that drifted through his flashlight beam and into the still air of the night. The girls looked up, expectantly, stopping their conversation in mid-sentence.
Now fully awake with adrenaline flowing, Joanne quickly came to the realization that she’d screwed up. Erroneously assuming that all her charges were fast asleep, she had let her guard down. Pissed off that she couldn’t go to the party with the others, shed allowed herself the luxury of some cheap wine and a short nap, when she should have been on duty. Her mind raced as she scrambled for her flashlight. Her first thought was Dean, of course. He’d snuck in; stealing her wine while she was sleeping, taking off into the darkness to who knows where. She knew Dean all too well, having dealt with him the previous summer, falling victim to his devious charm, always regretting giving him a second or third chance. She could see it now, dragging Dean back to his cabin, puking drunk on her wine: then having to explain her lapse.
Slipping on her errant sandal, she bolted out the door, letting it slam, shattering the silence of the humid summer night, running to Dean’s cabin, just a few yards away. Quietly, she opened the screen door of the cabin, letting her flashlight beam travel over the bunks. All were occupied with sleeping campers except Dean’s. His empty sleeping bag lay on the floor, along with empty potato chip bags, empty candy wrappers and his dirty clothes.
Now panicked, Joanne turned on her heels and ran in the direction she had last seen the flashlight beam as Dean had fled. She ran to the path and the sign’s fluorescent letters came into view. The words “Fire Circle” glowed back at her as she paused briefly, gathering her thoughts.
Patty and Jenny greeted Dean like an old friend, which was funny because they usually regarded him like a slimy snake that had found its way into their sleeping bag. After a brief spout of bragging about how he’s scored the smokes and the wine, the three sat on the wooden benches together, savoring the secrecy of the meeting.
Dean could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of finally seeing what had been promised. The warm, turgid feeling in his loins made him dizzy. The blood supply normally dedicated to his adolescent brain had been diverted elsewhere.
Jenny was a bundle of mixed emotions. While she wanted to flee in embarrassment over the pending scene, she was so curious; she became frozen, virtually glued to the wooden log bench in anticipation.
Patty was oblivious to all of this, wanting it all to be over with so she could simply enjoy her smokes. The aspect of having some real alcohol in addition to the smokes was an added bonus.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
I took a long cool swallow of my 12 oz. Budweiser. I tossed the last shovel full of dirt from the fire pit I was digging near the shore of our lot at the lake. Char had covered the picnic tables with plastic tablecloths and arranged the paper plates, napkins and plastic silverware on the flat area of lawn near our little green bunkhouse. Our two coolers, filled with ice and beer sat at the foot of the picnic tables.
It was about 6:30 PM and the shadows of the tall oaks that populated our lot were beginning to lengthen but the mid-July evening promised to be pleasantly warm. The lake was flat calm and the fading daylight cast its glow on the west face of Megunticook Mountain as it towered from the opposite shore. The glassy surface of the lake carried the echoes of the voices of summer residents and distant radio music. The smell of charcoal barbeques and campfires mingled with the near-still evening air. A small motorboat with an older couple trolling eased past the dock, its small wake making a gentle thumping noise as it hit our float. Schools of white perch broke through the shimmering reflection of the mountain and tall pine pines along the far shore.
I had arranged some chunks of dried maple in a tee-pee formation over some kindling at the center of the fire pit. I then stacked some smooth, softball-sized rocks over the maple tee-pee. The day before, Char and I had gone to Lincolnville Beach, hiking the rocky shoreline, gathering mounds of seaweed into large plastic garbage bags that now sat next to the fire pit. I envisioned cooking clams, steamed corn on the cob and lobsters on the steaming seaweed, replete with baked potatoes deep in the heat of the rocks, covering the whole affair with a huge canvas tarp to hold the steam and heat.
I surveyed my work, wiping the sweat from my forehead, and took a deep breath, doubt creeping in. This whole pit fire deal was a big, calculated risk. Among the staff at Tanglewood, I was known as the woodsy, outdoor “camping guy” after all, and everyone expected me to know what I was doing. If I failed and the pit fire cooking went awry, I’d look pretty foolish. If it came off well, it would be pretty cool, the party a success and my reputation intact. Truth be told, this was the first time I’d ever attempted it but I pressed on anyways, hoping for some beginners luck. I took a deep breath and another long draw on my Budweiser.
I grabbed some of “Bacteria Bill’s” strike-anywhere matches and scraped one over a rock. The crackling min-explosion at the tip of the wooden match sent a tiny plume of burning sulfur smoke into the air. I tossed the flaming match in the spaces between the rocks and into the kindling beneath them. It stuck to the edge of a piece of dry birch bark that was wedged among the cedar kindling under the split maple chunks. Gray plumes of fragrant smoke rose and mingled with the light breeze, creating a pleasant aura to the descending dusk. It wasn’t long before the fire was hot and the interior surfaces of the rocks began to glow a deep crimson. So far, so good.
Char had been busy wrapping the washed Russets in aluminum foil, now handing them to me one by one as I set them at the base of the hot rocks. As I placed the last of about a dozen of the big spuds, I heard the unmistakable sound of cars parking at the top of the driveway;doors opening, then thumping shut. The Haddencroft staff were beginning to arrive. Cars lined up in the field at the top of our lot, the tall grass brushing their doors as people piled out, laughing and talking. Most of them gravitated to the fire, like people always seem to, popping beers open, wrestling with corks and pouring wine into plastic glasses. One by one they plopped down their ice-filled styrofoam coolers and canvas tote bags filled with bathing suits, flip-flops and towels. It promised to be a fun filled,happy, summer night.
It was about 6:30 PM and the shadows of the tall oaks that populated our lot were beginning to lengthen but the mid-July evening promised to be pleasantly warm. The lake was flat calm and the fading daylight cast its glow on the west face of Megunticook Mountain as it towered from the opposite shore. The glassy surface of the lake carried the echoes of the voices of summer residents and distant radio music. The smell of charcoal barbeques and campfires mingled with the near-still evening air. A small motorboat with an older couple trolling eased past the dock, its small wake making a gentle thumping noise as it hit our float. Schools of white perch broke through the shimmering reflection of the mountain and tall pine pines along the far shore.
I had arranged some chunks of dried maple in a tee-pee formation over some kindling at the center of the fire pit. I then stacked some smooth, softball-sized rocks over the maple tee-pee. The day before, Char and I had gone to Lincolnville Beach, hiking the rocky shoreline, gathering mounds of seaweed into large plastic garbage bags that now sat next to the fire pit. I envisioned cooking clams, steamed corn on the cob and lobsters on the steaming seaweed, replete with baked potatoes deep in the heat of the rocks, covering the whole affair with a huge canvas tarp to hold the steam and heat.
I surveyed my work, wiping the sweat from my forehead, and took a deep breath, doubt creeping in. This whole pit fire deal was a big, calculated risk. Among the staff at Tanglewood, I was known as the woodsy, outdoor “camping guy” after all, and everyone expected me to know what I was doing. If I failed and the pit fire cooking went awry, I’d look pretty foolish. If it came off well, it would be pretty cool, the party a success and my reputation intact. Truth be told, this was the first time I’d ever attempted it but I pressed on anyways, hoping for some beginners luck. I took a deep breath and another long draw on my Budweiser.
I grabbed some of “Bacteria Bill’s” strike-anywhere matches and scraped one over a rock. The crackling min-explosion at the tip of the wooden match sent a tiny plume of burning sulfur smoke into the air. I tossed the flaming match in the spaces between the rocks and into the kindling beneath them. It stuck to the edge of a piece of dry birch bark that was wedged among the cedar kindling under the split maple chunks. Gray plumes of fragrant smoke rose and mingled with the light breeze, creating a pleasant aura to the descending dusk. It wasn’t long before the fire was hot and the interior surfaces of the rocks began to glow a deep crimson. So far, so good.
Char had been busy wrapping the washed Russets in aluminum foil, now handing them to me one by one as I set them at the base of the hot rocks. As I placed the last of about a dozen of the big spuds, I heard the unmistakable sound of cars parking at the top of the driveway;doors opening, then thumping shut. The Haddencroft staff were beginning to arrive. Cars lined up in the field at the top of our lot, the tall grass brushing their doors as people piled out, laughing and talking. Most of them gravitated to the fire, like people always seem to, popping beers open, wrestling with corks and pouring wine into plastic glasses. One by one they plopped down their ice-filled styrofoam coolers and canvas tote bags filled with bathing suits, flip-flops and towels. It promised to be a fun filled,happy, summer night.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Haddencroft 10
Boone’s Farm now firmly in hand, Dean eased the screen door to the little cabin open and slipped out into the night, gently replacing the door in its frame without a sound. As he was about to make his way down the path to meet the girls, he turned to take one more glance at Joanne through the screen.
As he did, she shifted slightly, and the rhythm of her snoring broke suddenly into a few short grunts. Dean froze. She shifted again and as she did, she uncrossed her blue-jeaned legs, striking a splayed pose across the mattress. With one leg now dangling off the edge of the bunk, her leather sandal seemed to be poised to drop from its precarious perch at the end of her left big toe.
Dean thought about going back and adjusting the sandal, or perhaps even taking it off completely but her the risk of waking her would be too great. Quietly as he could, he darted down the path towards the fire circle. Not far down the path, he broke into a run. Mere seconds after Dean left the doorway, Joanne gasped, jolting upright, grabbing for air after a period of apnea, her sandal clattering to the floor. Fully awake now she glanced at the door. Through the corner of a blurry eye, the beam of Dean’s flashlight bounced irratically from the spruce trunks as he made his getaway. She sprung from the bunk to the door, confused but wary. “Hellooooo, who’s there?” The woods were silent, and dark.
Jenny and Patty had made their way to the abandoned fire circle, safe in the knowledge that Dean would soon arrive. Passing time, they started to talk as they often did at the end of the day in their bunks, trading stories from their past, comparing notes in the darkness.
Patty went on about the abuse she’s experienced at the hands of her father and uncle, though she didn’t discuss it in the way one might think of as abuse. Rather, the tone of her discourse was “matter of fact”, almost bragging about it as if it represented some sort of conquest.
“I used to catch dad watching me undress at night” Patty related. I’d get my pajamas on and he’d find some excuse to come to tuck me in. I knew he was watching, so sometimes I’d take extra time making sure he got a good look.”
Patty caught a glimpse of Jenny’s face in the beam of her flashlight. She could see the wide-eyed admiration she got from Jenny as she spun her tale. This only encouraged her to fill in the “details”. Even though exaggeration wasn’t really necessary, Patty couldn’t resist. This was delightful to Patty since it served to both embarrass and excite her friend even further. She went on to say that she had discovered she could manipulate her father and get whatever she wanted, eventually extending that influence to her uncle.
Clearly, Patty felt she was in control of all of this, despite the fact she was only about 10 years old when it all began.
Jenny’s experiences were similar in some ways but her reaction to them was totally passive. Her way of dealing with them was to close her eyes and imagine herself detached, pretending they weren’t actually happening to her. For this reason, the details were mercifully blocked from conscious memory but the unspeakable damage harbored itself in other quarters.
Patty was about to go on with her story when the sound of Dean’s footfalls and the wagging beam of his flashlight entered the clearing.
As he did, she shifted slightly, and the rhythm of her snoring broke suddenly into a few short grunts. Dean froze. She shifted again and as she did, she uncrossed her blue-jeaned legs, striking a splayed pose across the mattress. With one leg now dangling off the edge of the bunk, her leather sandal seemed to be poised to drop from its precarious perch at the end of her left big toe.
Dean thought about going back and adjusting the sandal, or perhaps even taking it off completely but her the risk of waking her would be too great. Quietly as he could, he darted down the path towards the fire circle. Not far down the path, he broke into a run. Mere seconds after Dean left the doorway, Joanne gasped, jolting upright, grabbing for air after a period of apnea, her sandal clattering to the floor. Fully awake now she glanced at the door. Through the corner of a blurry eye, the beam of Dean’s flashlight bounced irratically from the spruce trunks as he made his getaway. She sprung from the bunk to the door, confused but wary. “Hellooooo, who’s there?” The woods were silent, and dark.
Jenny and Patty had made their way to the abandoned fire circle, safe in the knowledge that Dean would soon arrive. Passing time, they started to talk as they often did at the end of the day in their bunks, trading stories from their past, comparing notes in the darkness.
Patty went on about the abuse she’s experienced at the hands of her father and uncle, though she didn’t discuss it in the way one might think of as abuse. Rather, the tone of her discourse was “matter of fact”, almost bragging about it as if it represented some sort of conquest.
“I used to catch dad watching me undress at night” Patty related. I’d get my pajamas on and he’d find some excuse to come to tuck me in. I knew he was watching, so sometimes I’d take extra time making sure he got a good look.”
Patty caught a glimpse of Jenny’s face in the beam of her flashlight. She could see the wide-eyed admiration she got from Jenny as she spun her tale. This only encouraged her to fill in the “details”. Even though exaggeration wasn’t really necessary, Patty couldn’t resist. This was delightful to Patty since it served to both embarrass and excite her friend even further. She went on to say that she had discovered she could manipulate her father and get whatever she wanted, eventually extending that influence to her uncle.
Clearly, Patty felt she was in control of all of this, despite the fact she was only about 10 years old when it all began.
Jenny’s experiences were similar in some ways but her reaction to them was totally passive. Her way of dealing with them was to close her eyes and imagine herself detached, pretending they weren’t actually happening to her. For this reason, the details were mercifully blocked from conscious memory but the unspeakable damage harbored itself in other quarters.
Patty was about to go on with her story when the sound of Dean’s footfalls and the wagging beam of his flashlight entered the clearing.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Haddencroft9
Char and I took off for the lake as soon as our respective shifts at Tanglewood were over. We needed to hustle to get ready for the party at my parents summer place on what is now known as “Dickens Road”. In those days it was just plain “Fire Road 63”.
We had given directions to our co-workers at Tanglewood: “It’s just a mile and a half down Hope Road from Petunia Pump”. Petunia Pump served for at least a century and a half as a public well with a cast iron pump covered with a cupola. This local landmark got it’s name because it was decorated in the summer with wooden boxes filled with petunias.
Along the way we stopped at the Center Store for wine, beer, chips and wooden matches for the pit fire I’d planned. The little convenience store, “kitty corner” from Petunia Pump is in the heart of what we jokingly referred to as “Downtown Lincolnville Center”. It had been purchased a few years back by a couple of older folks from “away”. Bill and Jessie Warrington had recently renovated the old two-and-a-half story Victorian that had been built in the era of President Lincoln. To most local folks it was still known as Knights Store.
Bill Warrington sat perched on his stool behind the glass topped counter smoking an endless chain of cigarettes and looking relaxed with his chosen retirement in the sleepy Maine village. His black cardigan sweater was pulled over a wrinkled blue shirt covering his bony frame. Even in the heat of the summer, he felt the cold, so the sweater was a permanent feature.
Regarding Char and I, he peered over his black-framed reading glasses perched at the tip of his pointed nose and flipped a strand of long black hair away from his forehead. “What can I get you kids?” his raspy, but friendly tone escaping in a half wheeze, punctuated with a smokers cough.
“Bacteria Bill” as he’d been nicknamed due to his lack of attendance to personal grooming and hygiene, had remarkably attained nearly instant acceptance in the little town with his easy manner and laid-back approach to absolutely everything.
The place was neat enough, but still had enough stray dust and randomness to qualify as an authentic country store. Its mainstays were beer, wine, bread milk and eggs, but an ever expanding array of exotic beer and wine choices brought folks from towns as far away as Belfast, Searsmont, Camden or Appleton for the selections. Low walk-in coolers lined the back walls next to pin-ball machines and blinking neon beer signs. Antiquated ice cream coolers with heavy white sliding doors served as partitions, separating the customers from the cigarette and candy shelves. The original white tin ceilings were mostly intact, though yellowed from years of neglect.
As an afterthought, Bill and Jessie had tacked on a small addition for serving take out ice cream in the summer. During the summer months, barefoot kids and adults alike made the trek from “Breezemere Park” at Norton’s Pond for the cold treats offered at the sliding glass window.
“Just the beer chips and wine for now, Bill”, Char announced, fishing her wallet from the depths of her handbag. “You got any wooden “strike anywhere” matches, Bill? I couldn’t find ‘em” I added. Bill pointed a bony finger at the shelf over the canned goods and I followed it, locating the matches. Chatting pleasantly as she always does, Char asked about Mary, Bill and Jessie’s ten-year-old daughter. “Oh, she’s around someplace, probably riding her bike” Bill responded as he lit another cigarette, well before the last one was finished. “Party at the lake, I bet!” Bill guessed knowingly. He’d seen my sisters and I take advantage of our summer place at the lake over the last few years, often hosting family get-togethers, parties with our friends and even a couple of wedding receptions.
We had given directions to our co-workers at Tanglewood: “It’s just a mile and a half down Hope Road from Petunia Pump”. Petunia Pump served for at least a century and a half as a public well with a cast iron pump covered with a cupola. This local landmark got it’s name because it was decorated in the summer with wooden boxes filled with petunias.
Along the way we stopped at the Center Store for wine, beer, chips and wooden matches for the pit fire I’d planned. The little convenience store, “kitty corner” from Petunia Pump is in the heart of what we jokingly referred to as “Downtown Lincolnville Center”. It had been purchased a few years back by a couple of older folks from “away”. Bill and Jessie Warrington had recently renovated the old two-and-a-half story Victorian that had been built in the era of President Lincoln. To most local folks it was still known as Knights Store.
Bill Warrington sat perched on his stool behind the glass topped counter smoking an endless chain of cigarettes and looking relaxed with his chosen retirement in the sleepy Maine village. His black cardigan sweater was pulled over a wrinkled blue shirt covering his bony frame. Even in the heat of the summer, he felt the cold, so the sweater was a permanent feature.
Regarding Char and I, he peered over his black-framed reading glasses perched at the tip of his pointed nose and flipped a strand of long black hair away from his forehead. “What can I get you kids?” his raspy, but friendly tone escaping in a half wheeze, punctuated with a smokers cough.
“Bacteria Bill” as he’d been nicknamed due to his lack of attendance to personal grooming and hygiene, had remarkably attained nearly instant acceptance in the little town with his easy manner and laid-back approach to absolutely everything.
The place was neat enough, but still had enough stray dust and randomness to qualify as an authentic country store. Its mainstays were beer, wine, bread milk and eggs, but an ever expanding array of exotic beer and wine choices brought folks from towns as far away as Belfast, Searsmont, Camden or Appleton for the selections. Low walk-in coolers lined the back walls next to pin-ball machines and blinking neon beer signs. Antiquated ice cream coolers with heavy white sliding doors served as partitions, separating the customers from the cigarette and candy shelves. The original white tin ceilings were mostly intact, though yellowed from years of neglect.
As an afterthought, Bill and Jessie had tacked on a small addition for serving take out ice cream in the summer. During the summer months, barefoot kids and adults alike made the trek from “Breezemere Park” at Norton’s Pond for the cold treats offered at the sliding glass window.
“Just the beer chips and wine for now, Bill”, Char announced, fishing her wallet from the depths of her handbag. “You got any wooden “strike anywhere” matches, Bill? I couldn’t find ‘em” I added. Bill pointed a bony finger at the shelf over the canned goods and I followed it, locating the matches. Chatting pleasantly as she always does, Char asked about Mary, Bill and Jessie’s ten-year-old daughter. “Oh, she’s around someplace, probably riding her bike” Bill responded as he lit another cigarette, well before the last one was finished. “Party at the lake, I bet!” Bill guessed knowingly. He’d seen my sisters and I take advantage of our summer place at the lake over the last few years, often hosting family get-togethers, parties with our friends and even a couple of wedding receptions.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Haddencroft 8
Phil’s yellow ‘70 Mustang convertible roared to life as he pulled out of the staff parking lot at Tanglewood, tires spinning, throwing gravel as he accelerated up the hill. Freshly showered, he’d sprayed himself with a liberal dose of “Old Spice” aftershave and combed his jet black hair back away from his high forehead. A gold chain hung from his neck, mingling into the thick mat of curly dark chest hair, exposed by his unbuttoned shirt.
Wanting to arrive after the Dickens party was well underway; he plotted his “moves” with the 20 year old lifeguard. As he negotiated the bumps and potholes of the Tanglewood Road, he patted the chest pocket of his bright yellow flowered Hawaii shirt groping for the Marlboros he was sure were there. Finding nothing, he swore, remembering the course of events with Dean, finally putting the pieces together.
”That little shit!” he muttered to himself smiling, admiring Dean’s ingenuity as he fished out a fresh pack from the glove compartment of the Mustang. With a flick of his wrist, he’d finished shifting into third, found his “Zippo” and lit the cigarette. Barely missing a beat, he hit the button and the 8-track fired up. Trumpets blaring, strains of Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park” echoed through the otherwise quiet woods. “Tonight is going to be a good night”, he mused, breaking out a fresh, cold Budweiser from the six-pack he’d set in its paper bag on the passenger side floor, savoring a deep swallow of the cold brew.
Dean flicked the flashlight on, making his way through the maze of trails that connected the cabins of Tanglewood’s now dark forest. “Tonight was going to be a good night” he mused to himself. He had dreamed of actually seeing a woman’s bare breasts in person for as long as he could remember. Before tonight, the closest he had ever come was looking down the open blouse of his residential counselor, Joanne, a dowdy, 35 year old.
She was middle-aged from his perspective, and not terribly attractive, but had large breasts that she rarely treated to a bra. Opportunistically, he would position himself for a look if she bent down for any reason, offering a shot of cleavage, and if the angle was just right, perhaps even a fleeting but heavenly glimpse of a nipple.
As he quietly made his way through the pathways, he had only one more cabin to get by on his way to the fire pit. It just so happened it was Joanne’s. The cabins were not terribly well lit, but in the dark, Dean could see inside clearly. The single bulb hanging from the rafters of the cabin had been left on. Initially it looked as if no one was inside. He couldn’t resist, and quietly made his way to the window, peering cautiously inside.
Apparently, Joanne did not go to the party. It was only 9 pm and she was sleeping soundly already. “Pathetic”, Dean thought to himself as he silently eased the screen door open. Joanne’s arms were folded over her ample chest as she reclined atop the down-filled sleeping bag spread on her bunk bed. On the bench beside her there was a paperback novel with a macramé bookmark splitting the pages. Next to that, there was a half empty-bottle of “Boone’s Farm” wine. Joanne was snoring. Tonight might just have gotten even better.
Wanting to arrive after the Dickens party was well underway; he plotted his “moves” with the 20 year old lifeguard. As he negotiated the bumps and potholes of the Tanglewood Road, he patted the chest pocket of his bright yellow flowered Hawaii shirt groping for the Marlboros he was sure were there. Finding nothing, he swore, remembering the course of events with Dean, finally putting the pieces together.
”That little shit!” he muttered to himself smiling, admiring Dean’s ingenuity as he fished out a fresh pack from the glove compartment of the Mustang. With a flick of his wrist, he’d finished shifting into third, found his “Zippo” and lit the cigarette. Barely missing a beat, he hit the button and the 8-track fired up. Trumpets blaring, strains of Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park” echoed through the otherwise quiet woods. “Tonight is going to be a good night”, he mused, breaking out a fresh, cold Budweiser from the six-pack he’d set in its paper bag on the passenger side floor, savoring a deep swallow of the cold brew.
Dean flicked the flashlight on, making his way through the maze of trails that connected the cabins of Tanglewood’s now dark forest. “Tonight was going to be a good night” he mused to himself. He had dreamed of actually seeing a woman’s bare breasts in person for as long as he could remember. Before tonight, the closest he had ever come was looking down the open blouse of his residential counselor, Joanne, a dowdy, 35 year old.
She was middle-aged from his perspective, and not terribly attractive, but had large breasts that she rarely treated to a bra. Opportunistically, he would position himself for a look if she bent down for any reason, offering a shot of cleavage, and if the angle was just right, perhaps even a fleeting but heavenly glimpse of a nipple.
As he quietly made his way through the pathways, he had only one more cabin to get by on his way to the fire pit. It just so happened it was Joanne’s. The cabins were not terribly well lit, but in the dark, Dean could see inside clearly. The single bulb hanging from the rafters of the cabin had been left on. Initially it looked as if no one was inside. He couldn’t resist, and quietly made his way to the window, peering cautiously inside.
Apparently, Joanne did not go to the party. It was only 9 pm and she was sleeping soundly already. “Pathetic”, Dean thought to himself as he silently eased the screen door open. Joanne’s arms were folded over her ample chest as she reclined atop the down-filled sleeping bag spread on her bunk bed. On the bench beside her there was a paperback novel with a macramé bookmark splitting the pages. Next to that, there was a half empty-bottle of “Boone’s Farm” wine. Joanne was snoring. Tonight might just have gotten even better.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Haddencroft 7
Jenny Solemn was a slightly overweight, 15 year old brunette with sad eyes. Most of her enthusiasm for life had been stolen, but you couldn't help wondering if there was a lot more to her than met the eye. She spoke in short monotone sentences in a quiet voice, just above a whisper. For Jenny, a commitment to any point of view was absent. She always chose loose-fitting, dark clothing that revealed a desire to blend into the background. She could rarely seem to get emotional about anything. It occurs to me that Jenny had a soul being held hostage to the abuse that had been inflicted on her. These aspects were the armor she wore.
Patty was her alter ego. She and Jenny were both in the throes of budding womanhood and had reacted differently to he events that infected their young lives. On one hand, Jenny had retreated into a comfortable shell of denial and shrouded herself with dark clothing, non-committal relationships with everyone, while Patty had unconsciously reverted to the role of "pleaser" and would stop at nothing to elicit the approval of any male that would give her the slightest nod. Jenny saw her as a role model, desperately dreaming to be like her, yet only being able to blindly follow her lead.
That night, on the way to meet Dean, Jenny followed Patty down the path to the fire circle. Inside her burned the desire to act out and be like Patty. All she could do was follow. "Are you really going through with it?" Jenny asked breathlessly as he tried to keep the pace with Patty on the dark trail. "Hell yeah, why not? He cant do anything about it anyways, he's only 12. He cant hardly even get a hard on yet, and he's only got a two-inch dick anyways." Jenny blushed, but it was too dark to see her embarrassment at Patty's coarse language. "You are actually going to show him your......?" she stammered. " You mean my boobs?" Patty blurted, making Jenny shudder at her bluntness. "Its no biggie they're only my tits and Im not going to give him much more than a quick flash and its over, that was the agreement. He gets to see these and we get our free cigarettes. After that we have our smokes and he probably goes back to his cabin and whacks it. Done deal!"
"Whacks it???" Jenny thought to herself, not sure what she meant but afraid to ask.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Haddencroft 6
Phil lit a cigarette. Standing on the stone walkway behind the mess hall, he had just finished the dinner shift and was enjoying a smoke as the light of another July day at Tanglewood began to dim. He sat down on the wooden bench taking a deep drag as he sat, enjoying the cool night air. Phil had worked many such gigs, managing kitchens for other summer camps. More recently he worked the kitchen for the commons at the University of Maine at Farmington for Slagher Catering. Slagher had won the contract to cook for Tanglewood and this was a great summer job. Phil, unmarried and in his late twenties, was considerably older than most of his counterparts at Tanglewood. He loved to party, so a summer camp full of young college coeds working with handicapped kids seemed an ideal place to spend the summer. He contemplated attending a party at the Dickens camp on Megunticook Lake later that evening. He had met Maureen at the staff orientation and couldn’t stop thinking about the camps swimming instructor and was hoping to hook up with the pretty blonde at the party.
His mind wandered as he envisioned her in her form-fitting Speedo. Dean Brown watched Phil through the screen door as the puffs of smoke rose in the cool evening air. He eyed the newly opened pack of Marlboros Phil had set down on the bench beside him. Sensing that Phil was distracted, he pushed the screen door open and joined Phil on the walkway. “Nice night, huh, Phil?” Dean began. Phil, startled out of his pleasant daydream of the swimming instructor, instantly recognized Dean. “Hey Dean, whatcha doin out this late?” Casually, Dean threw his sweatshirt over the cigarettes and sat down next to Phil. “I wish I was old enough to smoke” Dean offered. Phil laughed and said, “I wish I could quit. Don’t ever take it up” Almost as if on cue, the kitchen phone rang. “Get along back to your cabin, Dean” Phil admonished as he got up to get the phone, “We’ll see you tomorrow”. “’K, Phil”, Dean chirped as he picked up his sweatshirt….along with the Marlboros, and headed into the darkening woods.
“You ready Patty?” Jenny Solemn whispered. “Yeah, let me get my flashlight” Patty Harriman whispered back. The woods was dark now and all but a few counselors had gone to the party or were sitting in their own bunk houses relaxing, secure in the knowledge that their charges were in bed. The two 15yr olds had hatched a plan to meet Dean at the fire circle, some half a mile down the river to “score some smokes”. Earlier, Patty had snuck into the infirmary and called the kitchen, just as Dean had instructed, providing the needed distraction. When Phil answered, Patty just breathed into the phone and said nothing for a few seconds, giving Dean time to slip away, then hung up. Exasperated, Phil slammed the phone down and swore. “Damn kids, where are the counselors? Cant’ they keep track of these brats?”, he grumbled to himself. Forgetting his cigarettes, he grabbed his jacket and headed for his cabin, then the shower to get ready for the party. Patty Harriman and Jenny Solemn had been close friends for two years, having been accepted into the states program at about the same time. Both were “wards of the state” having been taken from their homes. Neither was intellectually challenged but both posed severe disciplinary and behavioral problems for teachers and caregivers. Adoption of children this age especially with these types of issues was highly unlikely. Both had been sexually abused from an early age by their fathers and uncles. Patty’s terminated pregnancy and resulting investigation had led to the incarceration of her father. Jen’s mother was addicted to heroin and alcohol. Her father had been jailed for dealing drugs, leaving the state no choice but to take custody. Patty and Jen had similar backgrounds but the resulting emotional scars were markedly different from each other.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Haddencroft 5
Any resemblance to any actual person, place or event is purely coincidental.
Jimmy Wheelis is one 12-year-old that I will never forget. To say the least, Jimmy wasn’t so lucky in the genetic lottery. Aside from being developmentally disabled and having the intellect of a five-year-old child, he also had Cerebral Palsy. This manifested itself in several ways including a spastic condition of his left hand and elbow, making it look like he was negotiating a permanent salute. He dragged an inflexible left leg as he walked and his thick glasses magnified his crossed blue eyes. The twisted muscles in his neck made his head tilt in a way that made him look like he was always pondering something and about to ask a question. (Ironically, he usually was about to ask a question). Lack of control of his salivary glands and swallowing reflex usually ensured that he would be drooling. Despite all of this, Jimmy had an enthusiastic love for life and wanted the same things most 12-year olds want; a good meal, friends, a warm place to sleep and to have some fun at summer camp. Amazingly, he could negotiate the rough terrain of the Tanglewood trails and was actually one of my more physically capable kids. His right side functioned in a reasonably normal fashion, and he had learned to cope. As long as the topic was within his reach, he loved the discussions about birds, animals, the forest and the river and could keep up on our longest hikes. I remember Jimmy as always saying “Hi miha Dickens, how yah doin?” when he’d see me, smiling and waving his crooked hand as he cheerfully bopped along.
Jimmy’s nemesis was Dean Rounds, another 12-year-old with a different set of challenges. Adept as he was at pushing buttons, Dean loved to tease Jimmy. Just like countless other groups of kids everywhere, the teasing and bullying took place here too. With all of Jimmy’s obvious issues, he was an easy target for Dean who had absolutely no intellectual or physical handicaps at all. In fact, Dean was a genius of sorts, a savant when it came to anything with locks and keys. He had a huge collection of keys he kept in a wooden box and could easily pick about any lock. This, along with being a serious sociopath with deep-seated emotional problems, the key and lock issue created a myriad of challenges for all of his caregivers and teachers. When Dean would steal, he did it for the thrill of getting away with it more than for any other reason. A handsome, red-haired, slightly pudgy kid, he was also adept at charming the socks off anyone, easily disarming them before eventually taking advantage. Watching Dean’s every move was a necessity but it was sort of like watching a slight-of-hand magician and trying to guess ahead of time which walnut shell the pea was under. Calling him a “con-man” didn’t even begin to cover it. I recall one instance where Dean stole the keys to one of the camp counselor’s cars, and conned another kid to take off with him on a joy-ride. The police eventually located them in Boston!
The most memorable of the many times Dean teased Jimmy was one day at the mess hall. One of Jimmy’s favorite meals was some sort of rice dish with chicken and vegetables. I remember clearly how Jimmy had just seated himself with a huge plate full of the meal and was about to dig into it when Dean leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Instantly Jimmy’s eyes flew open and he began to scream “MAGGOTS?!!! I DON’T LIKE MAGGOTS!!!!!!” He flew into a tearful rage jumping up and throwing his plate silverware and glasses across the room, continuing to scream as the food went everywhere. Dean just sat back in his seat and roared in derisive laughter as the whole mess hall full of kids erupted in mass confusion. All Jimmy could do was curl up in the fetal position and rock back and forth, crying and loudly repeating over and over, “I DON’T LIKE MAGGOTS!”Later it was determined that Dean had simply whispered the mere suggestion that the white things on his plate were not grains of cooked rice, but in actuality live maggots. I’m pretty sure it took most of the rest of the day to calm poor Jimmy down and explain that Dean was just kidding. Jimmy’s highly limited sense of humor was unfortunately incapable of grasping that concept and it was a full week before he could be convinced to eat at the mess hall again.
Jimmy Wheelis is one 12-year-old that I will never forget. To say the least, Jimmy wasn’t so lucky in the genetic lottery. Aside from being developmentally disabled and having the intellect of a five-year-old child, he also had Cerebral Palsy. This manifested itself in several ways including a spastic condition of his left hand and elbow, making it look like he was negotiating a permanent salute. He dragged an inflexible left leg as he walked and his thick glasses magnified his crossed blue eyes. The twisted muscles in his neck made his head tilt in a way that made him look like he was always pondering something and about to ask a question. (Ironically, he usually was about to ask a question). Lack of control of his salivary glands and swallowing reflex usually ensured that he would be drooling. Despite all of this, Jimmy had an enthusiastic love for life and wanted the same things most 12-year olds want; a good meal, friends, a warm place to sleep and to have some fun at summer camp. Amazingly, he could negotiate the rough terrain of the Tanglewood trails and was actually one of my more physically capable kids. His right side functioned in a reasonably normal fashion, and he had learned to cope. As long as the topic was within his reach, he loved the discussions about birds, animals, the forest and the river and could keep up on our longest hikes. I remember Jimmy as always saying “Hi miha Dickens, how yah doin?” when he’d see me, smiling and waving his crooked hand as he cheerfully bopped along.
Jimmy’s nemesis was Dean Rounds, another 12-year-old with a different set of challenges. Adept as he was at pushing buttons, Dean loved to tease Jimmy. Just like countless other groups of kids everywhere, the teasing and bullying took place here too. With all of Jimmy’s obvious issues, he was an easy target for Dean who had absolutely no intellectual or physical handicaps at all. In fact, Dean was a genius of sorts, a savant when it came to anything with locks and keys. He had a huge collection of keys he kept in a wooden box and could easily pick about any lock. This, along with being a serious sociopath with deep-seated emotional problems, the key and lock issue created a myriad of challenges for all of his caregivers and teachers. When Dean would steal, he did it for the thrill of getting away with it more than for any other reason. A handsome, red-haired, slightly pudgy kid, he was also adept at charming the socks off anyone, easily disarming them before eventually taking advantage. Watching Dean’s every move was a necessity but it was sort of like watching a slight-of-hand magician and trying to guess ahead of time which walnut shell the pea was under. Calling him a “con-man” didn’t even begin to cover it. I recall one instance where Dean stole the keys to one of the camp counselor’s cars, and conned another kid to take off with him on a joy-ride. The police eventually located them in Boston!
The most memorable of the many times Dean teased Jimmy was one day at the mess hall. One of Jimmy’s favorite meals was some sort of rice dish with chicken and vegetables. I remember clearly how Jimmy had just seated himself with a huge plate full of the meal and was about to dig into it when Dean leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Instantly Jimmy’s eyes flew open and he began to scream “MAGGOTS?!!! I DON’T LIKE MAGGOTS!!!!!!” He flew into a tearful rage jumping up and throwing his plate silverware and glasses across the room, continuing to scream as the food went everywhere. Dean just sat back in his seat and roared in derisive laughter as the whole mess hall full of kids erupted in mass confusion. All Jimmy could do was curl up in the fetal position and rock back and forth, crying and loudly repeating over and over, “I DON’T LIKE MAGGOTS!”Later it was determined that Dean had simply whispered the mere suggestion that the white things on his plate were not grains of cooked rice, but in actuality live maggots. I’m pretty sure it took most of the rest of the day to calm poor Jimmy down and explain that Dean was just kidding. Jimmy’s highly limited sense of humor was unfortunately incapable of grasping that concept and it was a full week before he could be convinced to eat at the mess hall again.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Hadencroft4
From the staff meeting in Haddencroft, Char and I drove up US Route One along the coast through Camden, Lincolnville Beach and then a left turn up the Beach Road. Soon we were on the two mile long dirt road entrance to Tanglewood. At that time, it was really a very rough narrow road with little if any signs of settlement. These were familiar surroundings to me but new to my 20 year-old bride. As we unpacked our belongings, we excitedly discussed our future, anxious to begin a new adventure. We backed my 68 Ponitac Tempest up the dirt trail to our small bunkhouse cabin that was at the top of the wooded knoll in the heart of nearly a thousand acres in Tanglewood Forest. Built originally for the Conservation Corps in the 1940s, it matched most of the other 20 or so bunkhouses scattered throughout. At the foot of the incline were bath houses with rudimentary shower stalls and bathrooms. All of the structures in the forest complex were interconnected with gravel pathways featuring exposed root systems at the foot of the towering fir and hardwood trees that formed the canopy above. The trail networks connect everything from the bunkhouses, utility sheds and the mess hall with its huge stone fireplace. Wooden signs with carved painted letters directed the reader to locations like: "ballfield", "water tower" or "chapel". The markers were drawn with luminous paint and glowed in the dark for evening navigation. At the far end of one trail there was a log shelter for overnight camping. It had a huge stone fire circle and hewn log benches. For decades and even now, campers of all stripes and origin have spun tales and sung their songs, falling asleep to the sound of the Ducktrap River as it winds through the cathedral that is Tanglewood.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Haddencroft 3
I forget now exactly what we were told as we stood in the sunny courtyard at Haddencroft. I vaguely recall it was some long dissertation about the kids we were about to work with and what a great summer was about to unfold. I know we were instructed to meet and greet the kids we would soon be joining at Tanglewood, then we would make the trek there ourselves to prepare for their arrival.
Just as you might have expected as if during a movie scene, the long, charter busses rolled in over the dusty driveway and parked in a line right on cue before us. I think there were about six with their tinted windows huge windshields, New Jersey “motor coach” license plates and signs at the top showing “Maine” as the appointed destination.
As the air brakes hissed and squealed and the busses lumbered to a halt there was a short silence before the doors simultaneously lurched open and the occupants began to emerge. The drivers got out first and opened the large doors that housed the luggage beneath the bus, efficiently stacking large mounds of suitcases and bags on the ground.
Most of the kids were reasonably able to move on their own, some had wheelchairs while others needed help with balance and direction. Their residential caregivers had arrived ahead of them, preparing their quarters and greeting them like long-lost parents. This was their much-anticipated summer home having spent a long winter in the confines of their New Jersey asylum.
To those in the more “aware” category, this was a joyful time, full of the promise of fresh air, fun and new experience. Except for the fear of the unknown and a drastic change in structure that upset many of them, this was no different from any scene across the country as kids arrived at summer camp.
While many appeared like most normal kids arriving at summer camp, others, overdue for medication, were agitated. Some were vacant-eyed and apparently oblivious to their surroundings.
Organized chaos ensued as groups broke up and were sheparded to meet the staff. One by one, the “newbies” like myself we were introduced to these kids for the first time, while the more experienced among us, renewed old relationships. Reality hit hard, as the magnitude of the handicaps faced by these young people were revealed to us. "Holy crap what was I thinking?" comes to mind, as I look back at that moment.
Earlier in the day before our outdoor staff briefing, the Haddencroft adults had arrived and were already settled into their routines. Many of them were severely disabled and so drugged; they hardly interacted with anyone except the caregivers. Aside from being wheeled around the grounds in wheelchairs, being spoon-fed meals, bathed and given meds, these folks were little more than shells of humanity. Most of the adult population would not make the trek to Lincolnville.
Just as you might have expected as if during a movie scene, the long, charter busses rolled in over the dusty driveway and parked in a line right on cue before us. I think there were about six with their tinted windows huge windshields, New Jersey “motor coach” license plates and signs at the top showing “Maine” as the appointed destination.
As the air brakes hissed and squealed and the busses lumbered to a halt there was a short silence before the doors simultaneously lurched open and the occupants began to emerge. The drivers got out first and opened the large doors that housed the luggage beneath the bus, efficiently stacking large mounds of suitcases and bags on the ground.
Most of the kids were reasonably able to move on their own, some had wheelchairs while others needed help with balance and direction. Their residential caregivers had arrived ahead of them, preparing their quarters and greeting them like long-lost parents. This was their much-anticipated summer home having spent a long winter in the confines of their New Jersey asylum.
To those in the more “aware” category, this was a joyful time, full of the promise of fresh air, fun and new experience. Except for the fear of the unknown and a drastic change in structure that upset many of them, this was no different from any scene across the country as kids arrived at summer camp.
While many appeared like most normal kids arriving at summer camp, others, overdue for medication, were agitated. Some were vacant-eyed and apparently oblivious to their surroundings.
Organized chaos ensued as groups broke up and were sheparded to meet the staff. One by one, the “newbies” like myself we were introduced to these kids for the first time, while the more experienced among us, renewed old relationships. Reality hit hard, as the magnitude of the handicaps faced by these young people were revealed to us. "Holy crap what was I thinking?" comes to mind, as I look back at that moment.
Earlier in the day before our outdoor staff briefing, the Haddencroft adults had arrived and were already settled into their routines. Many of them were severely disabled and so drugged; they hardly interacted with anyone except the caregivers. Aside from being wheeled around the grounds in wheelchairs, being spoon-fed meals, bathed and given meds, these folks were little more than shells of humanity. Most of the adult population would not make the trek to Lincolnville.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Haddencroft 2
As an idealistic college junior, I was anxious to spread my wings, gathering up all my life experiences, my new found college major and earnest intentions. Fresh off my epic Allagash experience, I had big plans to educate the emotionally disturbed, mentally retarded youngsters I was about to encounter. Turns out, I didn’t have a clue, not even a sniff of a clue at what I was about to be involved in. As with many endeavors we undertake, it’s probably a good thing we don’t know, otherwise we would wisely cower into a corner, or run scared, seeking some safer, less hazardous route to our chosen goals and aspirations. Standing in the courtyard of the previously sedate Haddencroft Summer retreat in Eagles Head, I was surrounded by other clueless, idealistic 20 somethings, waiting instructions and the ultimate assignment that would soon take my summers work to Tanglewood in Lincolnville, just a few miles north. The Haddencroft New Jersey elites had run a school in New Jersey and Maine since the time of Abraham Lincoln. The northeast branch of their glorified asylum had been designed so that these children and deeply handicapped adults would be well cared for in the summer months while their wealthy parents jetted off to the Riviera or some other paradise, secure in the knowledge that they were “given the best care possible”. Appearances are everything, don’t you see? Most of these folks rarely visited their own, preferring to blithely pretend they didn’t really exist. Standing in the Haddencroft courtyard in Eagles Head as I listened to our briefing, my eyes wandered the grounds. I scanned the hilltop as I looked up at a stately 100+ year old mansion, a granite surf-side tidal pool and several institutional looking buildings, designed to house the “inmates” and staff. Later, I learned, the daunting 5000+ square foot 30 room mansion was to house the Haddencroft administration offices, hold dinner parties and lodging for the families when they came north to write their endowment checks and sip fine wine. Except for the dour housing for the handicapped, this was truly a resort setting, with views and frontage second to none on the beautiful granite coast of Maine. Looking back on it now, we, the educated, young idealists, were indeed the “hired help” on this plantation. It was like the set of a movie and the film would turn out to be eerily similar to “Cuckoo’s Nest”. Surveying the crowd of other young idealists, I counted about 20 of us. Prepared in our various fields to train, entertain, nurse and educate, we were ready to greet our charges. Some of us were older, more experienced having spent two or more years in the trenches of Haddencroft, working in the newly formed “winter program”. Separate from the “adults” who only migrated up from New Jersey in the summer, this program was designed for school-aged Maine kids and was as a result of a deal struck between the New Jersey Haddencroft folks and the State of Maine. Designed to handle “end of the road” severely handicapped children, it was a marriage between the established ways of isolating the damaged, uneducable from the masses and the needs of the state, yet somehow assuaging our collective guilt along the way. The Maine kids, ranging in age from 7 to 18 years old, had a variety of disabilities. Some were mentally disturbed, some with terrible physical deformities and others were simply retarded, (a term no longer acceptably used today). Without exception, each and every one of them had issues that defied labels. Brochures were given to the parents and legislators, written by the do-gooders responsible for justifying the programs provided at Haddencroft. If you read them and believed them, you, as a taxpayer, could feel good about of the comprehensive nature of the training and remarkable progress sure to be made with these severely handicapped kids. Afterall, we were highly trained staff in a "state of the art" facility in an idyllic setting. As a young naïve, newly educated teacher to be, I think I bought into it too, at first.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Haddencroft
Much of this story will, for the most part, reflect the truth. To protect the identities of the poor souls I write about, some of the names and facts are changed and perhaps even exaggerated a little. As usual, however, truth can be far stranger than fiction and often more interesting.
Haddencroft, Part One
As a young man, in the late 1940’s my father worked that forest as part of his job with
The rest of this story will focus on this experience but my connection doesn’t stop there. In the last 15 years as the local land trust obtained easements to the lands surrounding the Ducktrap River Watershed, I was hired to appraise the land that would eventually be protected by forever wild easements.
For all these reasons, it is no wonder; I feel a real connection to Tanglewood.
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