Tales from Rural Maine: The way life should be…

I was delayed getting to my uncle Ricky's memorial gathering on Sunday. First, because I was so incredibly sad, I couldn't put my clothes on. Second, because a goat climbed into my car. And third, because on my way there, I came upon an accident involving my other uncle—Ricky’s younger brother--who was trying to find the memorial in his rental car and got sideswiped by a speeding SUV (with out-of-state plates, I might add).

The goat in question is named Dixie and she belongs to Dave and Angel, fellow members of the Orland Fire Department. Pete and I swung by their place on our way to the memorial to drop off Pete’s Jeep at Dave’s garage, and as soon as I pulled up, Dixie made a bee-line for me.

I’ve only met Dixie once before and usually she lives with the other pet goats in a backyard pen equipped with lots of things to climb on. I suspected she wasn’t meant to be free ranging since the other goats were in the pen and Dave and Angel seemed not to be home. Two little girls were playing in the yard, though, and they said it was okay for Dixie to be out, so I took their word for it. I gave Dixie some pets and scratches, and then headed back to the car with Pete. Dixie followed.

She was utterly and sweetly fixated on coming with me. I would lure her away from the car and then dash back and she would gallop on her little hooves to catch up with me. The girls tried calling her to them, but she could not be dissuaded from this notion that she and I should be together.

Pete opened the passenger-side door to get in, but Dixie climbed in ahead of him. She is a small, brown goat, and she wanted to come with me. To be honest, I sort of wanted her to come with me, too. There was something so endearing and healing about her warm interest in my being. The week had been so hard. Some of my relatives are tough to be around. I listened to and experienced way too much judgment and criticism for my own comfort. It left me feeling ragged and alone. But in Dixie’s unabashed desire to be with me, I felt fully appreciated. This guileless little being, her affection, her warm and willing eyes, they soothed the hot sense of disapproval I had felt radiating at me all through the week.

Dave, our 1st Lieutenant, and sweet Dixie

I’m not sure how discerning Dixie is. It may be that every human who enters that yard has to remove a friendly goat from their passenger seat, but for me, in that moment, it helped me to feel more like me. For the first time that day, I laughed. I giggled. I talked to Dixie. I loved her. And with that love, with that laughter, I began to feel a bit more like myself, a bit less traumatized, a bit less lost and alone in a wilderness of thorns. It was like I had wandered off the internal path I follow, the quiet and lovely path that keeps me grounded, happy, and whole, and Dixie turned up to show me the way back. Eventually, we were able to separate ourselves and I left Dixie in the care of the neighbor children, and drove off, a bit late, for the memorial gathering.

The memorial gathering was a casual affair. A time for friends and family simply to gather. No speeches or eulogies, just food and drink and a couple of hundred people who knew my uncle, gathering in the sanctuary-like yard of some dear friends who live on Cedar Swamp in East Orland. Don’t let the word “swamp” fool you. It’s truly beautiful there, back in the woods. It’s all trees and birds and flowers; deer and happy chickens and raised beds full of green and growing things. There is a constant and gentle trickling of water from the artesian well, and a sequestered sort of openness that allows one to feel both safely ensconced and utterly free all at the same time.

After leaving Dixie, Peter and I drove directly toward the memorial. But just before the last turn, we came upon an accident. We were in Orland, so of course I stopped to offer assistance. There were no emergency vehicles on site, just a large group of dazed and miserable looking people—about half of whom I was related to--and two SUVs looking worse-for-wear on the side of the road. I soon discovered that one of the smashed vehicles had been driven by Uncle David and that several of my younger cousins and my 11-year-old niece were passengers. The girls were very shaken up and had already been picked up and driven back to the memorial by other family members, as everyone else involved waited for help. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured; but both cars were now undrivable, and my uncle, my cousin, and my aunt’s husband were in limbo, standing in the heat next to a smashed up rental car, looking for all the world exactly like what they were—tired, sad, shocked, stranded travelers.

Orland was never dispatched to the scene—I’m not sure why--but nevertheless, in this moment of crisis, two of my firefighters materialized anyway and gave assistance with grace, calm, and the deep and generous kindness I truly love them for.

First-on-scene was Dustin Bowden, a young man who lives nearby and heard about the accident from his grandmother. This is how we roll in rural Maine. Your grandmother drives past an accident and gives you a call and you are a volunteer firefighter, so you go out looking for it. Dustin and I secured the scene, called for an ambulance, and made sure the sheriff was notified.

Soon, our second captain, Casey Soper arrived. I was so happy to see him. He’s tall and deeply tan from long days of lobster fishing, and he scooped me into a bear hug. Serving with Casey is like having a big—very big—younger brother who knows when to crack a joke, when to play wrestle, and when to take command of a scene. The second time I met him, we were in a fire truck—he was driving—and he told me he would trust me with his life, and that there are not a lot of people he feels that way about. I have endeavored ever since to be worthy of this trust.

Between the three of us, we were able to expedite the tow truck for both cars and get my family on their way with a blessed efficiency. Just to provide some perspective: The last time we (the OFD) were at an accident scene with an out-of-state driver in a rental car with no AAA (just like my Uncle David), it took four hours to clear the scene and the chief wound up driving the family to Trenton to get another car. But this time, using my AAA card and Casey's inside knowledge (one of his many talents is tow-truck driving), we were able get this wrecker call taken care of in a fraction of the time it would have taken, had Casey and I not been there. I was overjoyed at our useful and helpful connections to one another, and within our community, and that whatever fortuitous forces were at play that day had brought the exact right people to that scene to be of service to my family.

I emerged from the incident grateful, as ever, for the members of the OFD, for my friends and family here in this small town, and for the very quick response and congenial nature of the deputy sheriff on scene.

Even though I was an hour and a half late to the memorial, and a lot of people had left by the time I got there, the silver lining in that particular terrible cloud is that--as it turns out--the perfect combination of things to draw me out of weak-kneed, weepy inconsolability is a very friendly goat, followed by first-response. The accident—particularly since it involved my family—meant that I switched from upset-and-grieving into calm-competent-firefighter. Nothing in the world existed in those moments except the roadside problem at hand and the tools I had at my disposal to fix it. When everything depends on my presence of mind, nothing is present in my mind except my compassion, my instincts, and my training.

When people say, “Maine, the way life should be,” I don’t think about mountains or rocky coasts or lobster that is cheaper by the pound than hot dogs, I think about Dustin Bowden, jumping in his car to come and help because his grandmother saw an accident near the blueberry factory; I think about Casey showing up and giving me a hug after a long, hard day of working on a lobster boat and taking out his battered phone and saying, “Yes,” when I asked if he could help me get a AAA tow truck there quickly; I think about the scraggly wrecker drivers who didn’t know me, but when I climbed up to the cab and explained I was a friend of Dave’s—and Dixie’s—they smiled (they know them both well) and said yes, they’d tow my uncle’s vehicle first, so that he could get to the memorial; I think about those hundreds of people who came to East Orland to say goodbye to my uncle, people who had known him when they were children, having adventures with the Gangs of Bucksport; I think about how those were the days; and I think about the heavy, black pager I wear on my hip at all times, even when dressed for a funeral, and the kindness and competency it always summons when people need it most.

Once the drivers and passengers had all refused medical transport; once the sheriff had released the scene; once my uncle David’s rented Expedition was on the way to Dave’s, I thanked Dustin and Casey, and I climbed back into my little Ford Focus, stuffed with yoga supplies, and firefighting gear, and two bouquets of flowers from my garden for the memorial.

"There's no crying in first response," I joked to Peter, once we were both safely back in the car.

"This car smells like goat," he said.

And we were on our way. 

Me and Dustin taking a break at a long, sweltering structure fire in Surry.

Tales from rural Maine: Sometimes a girl just needs to dig in the dirt

A few years ago, I lost a baby. It gave tangible meaning to the word "heartwrenching." There was nothing I could do, nothing anyone could do, to save her, and my heart felt wrenched, physically, from my body. I bled. I suffered. And for several weeks, my doctor warned me every day that I was at risk of dying, too. I curled up in a ball, speechless, and did not leave my house for a month, except for daily visits to the lab for more hideous blood draws, to be sure that she was fully and truly gone. It took forever.

There was nothing anyone could do to help me. I had to breathe the swirling tumultuous tsunami water of grief until I either drowned or swam up to the surface. Peter was stalwart and loving. My sister-in-law held my hand. And then one day, a package came in the mail. My friend Michelle ("The Mickster") who had been with me when the bleeding started while I was on a trip to Massachusetts, sent me a care package. It contained a beautiful bounty of heirloom seed packets with vintage designs and a note that said, "Sometimes a girl just needs to dig in the dirt."

In that moment, I felt understood, beloved, and I glimpsed a future where flowers bloomed and my heart resumed its beating.

Yesterday, I got a call telling me that my favorite uncle (Rick Chase) had died suddenly from a heart attack while jogging with his beloved wife. My chest cleaved. My brain could not keep up. My face broke open and I wept. 

"What?" I kept saying. "He what??" My mind could not grasp the sudden, terrible finality of this crazy truth. The world was question marks and ambulances; blood and faces and a voice on the phone telling me something impossible. 

And then she asked, "Would you tell the family?"

How could I possibly? What could I say? A deep breath in, and out. Of course I will.

"Yes. Yes, I'll go now," I said.

I stopped crying. I stood up. I had forgotten I had legs. Peter held me. I breathed. I pulled myself together. I did one thing at a time. Find keys. Get in car. Should I bring tissues? Make choices. Where do I go first? Words? What words do I say? I wasn't even really dressed, I realized as I was leaving, but I couldn't remember how people put on clothes. This will have to do, I thought. This is what I will look like when they remember this moment, but there is no right thing to wear.

And then I drove to tell his parents in person the worst news anyone could ever possibly tell them. I told his father first. And then I went to see his mother. Her reaction was the worst thing I have ever seen in my entire life.

It was a bad, hard, long, heartwrenching day. It gave tangible meaning to the word "terrible." I lost someone so dear to me, someone healthy and kind and vibrant and quiet. And worse than that, a wife lost her lifemate, parents lost their son; siblings lost their brother; four children lost their dad.

How do we sleep now? How do we eat? How can there be a world without Uncle Ricky in it? The sturdiest dam let loose somehow and we are tumbling through debris, trying to grab hold, to know up from down, to breathe and not drown. How can this be?

Last night, I was supposed to be attending water rescue training. But instead, I was trying to keep myself, my family, afloat during a different sort of drowning. I was doing all that I could to keep my aunt Kim's head above water. I told my fire chief I couldn't come to training, after all, and why.

Today, he sent me a text and told me he would be around if I wanted some "truck therapy." In that moment, I felt understood, beloved, and I glimpsed a future where trucks gleamed, where strong, generous volunteers show up to help, and I began to imagine that I could breathe again. It will be a good long while before any of this feels okay. But after lunch today, I am going to the fire department with Bobby because sometimes a girl just needs to dig in the dirt. And sometimes a girl just needs to get her hands on the wheel of a fire truck.

In times of grief and loss, in times when we are drowning in despair, in times when anguish thrusts us off our center and leaves us wondering how we can breathe; when doubt unhinges us, what really and truly matters--at least to me--is kindness. These simple grounding acts of lovingkindness that come from the people who know us best.

Those seed packets saved my heart. I dug in the dirt. I admired each beautiful packet. I planted a memorial garden. I was able to feel connected again, to my full self, to the cycles of life, all of them. The water receded and I stood again on firm ground. I faced my future, I remembered my baby, and I knelt down and planted flowers in her name.

I am grateful that I am loved in this way. That in the midst of a nightmare, someone knows that the one thing I need are seeds, beautiful heirloom vintage seeds, and lots of them. And fire trucks. Giant, hulking, shiny red fire trucks.

Our loss steals our breath, compresses our hearts, explodes the comforts of our reality. But there is room, even in a grieving heart, for the magnificence of gratitude, when kindness comes. And I am grateful for it.

Om mani padme hum. And thank you.