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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Tanglewood Forest, located in Lincolnville Maine is an idyllic spot. Home to the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) after world war two, then later the 4H camps in the 50’s and 60’s it has cathedral forests and the Ducktrap River Running though it. Sprinkled with log cabin bunkhouses, a water tower, ball fields, a mess hall, several utility buildings and a myriad of woods roads and trails, this spot is a true woodland paradise. Alewives and trout run in the rapids of the Ducktrap, eagles nest in its high trees and it boasts the only remaining natural Atlantic salmon fishery in the world. Today, most of its shores and watershed are protected lands with some of the most beautiful forest in Maine. I’m proud to say, much of my life has had some connection to it.

As a young man, in the late 1940’s my father worked that forest as part of his job with Camden Hills State Park. This was the start of his long career as a ranger for the parks in Maine. As a 16 yr old, I helped cut many of the hiking trails still in use there today. My sisters and cousins attended 4H camp there and later on as a college student, I would work there as a camp counselor for Haddencroft School as a wilderness instructor to handicapped kids with my wife to be.

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.