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The State of Maine

The State of Maine

by | Oct 31, 2019 | Essays, The Crafted Word Blog

I wrote this short story about twenty years ago after hearing an old folk tale retold by Jerry Bell. I took the gist of the story and remade it as a story set in a prison in Maine to retell myself as a story. Eerily similar to The Shawshank Redemption—though Hollywood is not knocking down my door. At any rate, I like it as a good story for Halloween. If you like understated creepiness, this is for you.

Happy Halloween…

“Your Honor:

    It was down mid coast Maine where this all occurred.  A long way still from Boston where I am telling you this story.  I was there in Stonington, in the state prison serving five years for the thieving and scuttling of a pair of dory’s belonging to the Bainbridge brothers—a no good pair who’d been hauling and stealing lobster from my own traps…and many another I suspect.  I’m a decent, honest man.  I owned up to everything I done.  I didn’t want a lawyer so I didn’t even take me a lawyer.  I thought they would see right for right, but it didn’t work out that way.  Hit my family hard to lose me for so long…but that has stories of it’s own and nothing to do with the queer thing I was privy to as the cellmate of a certain Enoch Jones, sentenced to life in that hard place for the alleged murder of his entire family…his wife, his wife’s parents and five young children.  Enoch always denied anything to do with that horrible and sensational crime…and we believed him…not that it is much solace to a lifer.  I’d hear him some nights writhing and a turning in his bunk:  “No,no,no…my babies…my babies.”  Other times he’d sit and stare, tears just streaming down his face.  Not the angry tears a lot of us shed just for being holed up in that hell of a prison.  No, he was touched in a special way that even the meanest john doe in there couldn’t take to him unkindly.  All the injustice in the world was wrapped up in that poor man…so much so that I know I wasn’t the only one who would very gladly trade places with him if it meant he could get out of that prison and lay some flowers on the grave of his family, and maybe, with God’s grace, find a little peace in his tortured world.


True fact is that a lot of people die in prison.  Some that been incarcerated for so long, and out of touch with their kin for so long, that their death goes pretty much unnoticed. Those poor souls get buried in a field just north of the prison, carted out the west gate in Homer’s horse drawn wagon.  Homer runs the carpentry shop. We prisoners all build things and they sell them in the Prison store right there on Route One.  Mostly white pine furniture…some ship models too.  Warden says it buys us turkey dinners on thanksgiving and clove ham on Christmas…cigarettes and stuff.  Mostly it’s a way for us to kill some time, time being the biggest enemy of any prisoner.  They say Homer had been there for fifty years or more, and that he didn’t have no other place to go.  At least the State of Maine give him a roof, meals and a little something to do.  At any rate, when one of them inmates died, they’d toll the prison bell in a slow mournful way for a good ten minutes or so.  About the only tribute most of them ever got in their lives.  That would be the signal for Homer to get a coffin built.  He’d never have one ready beforehand—saying that it gives the dead man a little dignity to have his final resting place be custom made. Them coffins were nothing fancy but they were solid built out of the clearest pine we had in stock.  Homer and Enoch had a real bond.  They were an odd couple: the rich white businessman from Portland town and old Homer, growed up he said somewhere down south, but now so Maine he looked forward to the brutal winters, the smell of woodsmoke mixing in the stench from the processing plant.  Everyone felt for Enoch, even so far as the guards and the warden himself.   No one gave it much thought how much time Enoch spent in Homer’s shop.  Doubt anybody would figure that Homer would be behind the first prison break in Stonington since the last war.


It wasn’t like there was a lot of dying going on in that Stonington prison, but in early November of 1972 Joshua Corkin come down with a truly severe pneumonia.  Enoch spent a lot of time caring for Joshua, reading to him long poems and even longer praying with him from an old hymnal of Homer’s.  One night Enoch sat on my bunk and very forthright told me the plan that he and Homer and Joshua had worked out.  He said he owed me the truth for all the years I stood by him.  And now that Joshua Corkin was so near to dying, it was time to make his escape from that hell in Stonington Maine.  It was only then that I realized how desperate Enoch was to get out of prison.  He said a wrong still had to be made right. That there was a man out there who had brutally slaughtered his family and that justice needed to be served.  He said that Joshua laughed to think that they would be bunkmates for a while. 


They all conspired to seal their fates on the evening that Joshua died.  It worked like this: When Joshua died old Homer would retire to the shop and build for Joshua that custom coffin he so deserved but, maybe, given the circumstances, slightly larger. Enoch had the run of the place more than any man before or since, so it wouldn’t seem too peculiar for Enoch to give his friend Homer a hand in building the coffin.  Before Joshua’s body was to be hauled away  Enoch would sneak into the shop, climb into that coffin and find a space sidled up next to poor dead Joshua.  Homer had rigged up a latch so that Enoch could lock the lid from the inside also. Homer would then haul the coffin up to the graveyard to be buried.  After a few terse comments from the local parish priest Homer would fill in the grave and return to the prison like he done so many times before. The warden would never bat an eye when Homer asked to go out a few hours later and set a stone on the grave: Homer would carve it out of a foot square of granite: just a name and number—and the day that Joshua was born and died.  It was then that Homer would dig Enoch free and set him on his way, with not a soul (aside from Homer and myself) knowing how he made his escape.


Well, that very next evening, just before dinner the mournful bells began their tolling and all of us in that prison in Stonington Maine bowed our heads in personal prayer for the soul of Joshua Corkin. Only a man in prison, deserted by family, and never at peace with God, knows the true horror of  lonely, senseless death.  I felt bad for Joshua but I also felt that he was dying a hero of some sort.  I saw Enoch talking to the chief guard… then he winked at me.  Last time I saw Enoch he was heading across the yard towards Homer’s carpentry shop.  Best I can figure, and it haunts me some to think about it, is that everything happened this way:  Must have been when Enoch got to the shop the coffin was already set to go.  He must have heard the priest, the warden and Homer coming across the yard towards the shop.  Enoch must have climbed into that coffin pretty quickly.  It wasn’t as big, I imagine, as he hoped it would be.  Air would be scarce during the next few hours and a little extra space would buy a little extra time. It wasn’t long before the horses snuffed and stammered and pulled out of the prison gate and made  their way to the graveyard.  The priest would never say much before the shoveling in would begin.  I reckon Enoch was happy that the service was as short as it was.


It must have been a God awful quiet down there. I’m sure the dead don’t make for pleasant company.  Time just crawling by and the stench of a corpse beginning to decay.  I suppose at some point Enoch risked losing a little air for a look at his pocket watch.  I try not to think of Enoch in that dark chamber, in the last flickering and dying light of his matchstick, gasping uncertainly for what little air was left, staring with a certain horror into the face of his old friend and would be savior, Homer.


I didn’t discover anything until mid the following day when I saw Louis, the stone mason, wrestling a block of granite into the Wagon.  Simply said: “Homer, a friend to many.”  I put it all together from there.


The State of Maine spent a long time trying to find Enoch.  The warden said he felt betrayed and took it out a bit on us.  Joshua died the very next day.  I went and said a prayer with him just before he passed. I told him to hold on, that Enoch and Homer were on their way over.
Memories are long and truth, I guess, should always be told.  I’m a good and decent man and so got my parole at my first hearing. On the first dark and moonless night I dug up Enoch and took him and buried him alongside his wife and children; I cut the turf so neat clean and replaced it so tight that no one ever knew. Then I scattered the prettiest flowers the world has ever seen.  I also took care of Enoch’s business for him. I was his cellmate for over three years.  I knew where to find the bastard. It is strange how you can take a life and not feel a thing. Enoch’s nightmares were always a torture to me. 

But no more.”

The Power of Simplicity

The Power of Simplicity

by | Oct 14, 2019 | Essays, The Crafted Word Blog, Workshops

Years ago I wrote in my journal that my goal in life was to be small, be simple, be wise, be happy, and above all be ready. I cannot honestly say that I have achieved all of these goals, but these are still the “ideals” I strive to live in my life. These are my necessities—and as necessities they are by nature, finite, as opposed to my “wants,” which are seemingly endless…. Our essential question for the year is “What are the necessities of a fruitful and rewarding life?”

My necessities surely are not the same as yours. Perhaps you have never stopped to consider what you consider the necessities of your own life. But you should, and it is my earnest hope that you will. The great writer and philosopher James Henry once wrote that “thoughts are only made real when put into words.” My goal for the year is to help you make real what is in your head and heart. In essence: to begin to discover your true and most perfect self, and to build a foundation under your dreams upon which you can build a good and lasting life. I cannot tell you what this will look like, but I can point you in the right direction–or at least, a direction. The rest is up to you. Your summer reading books,

Your summer reading books, Into the Wild, and The Outermost House describe the attempts by Chris McCandless and Henry Beston to seek profoundly rewarding lives by removing themselves from “society” and attempting to live simply and wisely and as close to nature as possible. Chris, of course, met a calamitous end in the wilds of the Yukon. Beston thrived in a less harsh (though in many ways no less wild) year spent in a small cabin on the outer beaches of a Cape Cod that at the time was a pretty much untamed and scarcely visited stretch of lonely sand and surf. McCandless’s story was told for him by another writer, Jonathan Krakauer, who found Mccandless’s adventure to be newsworthy and worth telling. Beston told his own story in descriptive prose that is widely considered some of the best writing in the English language—though I am sure some of you will disagree with that assertion! For many of you, The Outermost House might have seemed like the most boring book you were ever forced to read. No harm intended. I get that, and I get why you might feel that way. Nothing much really happens: he walks on the beach, describes birds and waves and winds and storms with excruciating detail, but there is no obvious crisis, no looming antagonist to put him in peril. Putting the two books side by side is almost unfair. In

In Into the Wild at least there is true adventure—an adventure which killed Chris in a slow, lonely and cruel way. The Outermost House, on the other hand, reads more like an intellectual and overly detailed diary shared with kind and forgiving friends. So why is it that I am perfectly satisfied to read Into the Wild once and be done with it, yet I can pick up The Outermost House year after year and reread it with ineffable joy and satisfaction? Perhaps it is because Beston’s words grow with me as I grow (and yes, I am still growing!). Perhaps it is because Beston loved and studied the wild loneliness he experienced, while McCandless seemed to continually fight with an unforgiving and harsh nature (and his own harsh nature) in every step of his fateful journey. Perhaps I remember a side of me that was once like Chris McCandless—a darker side of my life best forgotten. More than likely, I return to Beston because he continually gives back to me. I feel wiser and more complete and more human every time I read his words. His words make me want to bring my life back to the wheel and polish it to a more perfect edge, an edge that can cleave apart the tangle of weeds I might be lost in. His words affirm my own desire to live simply and deeply. Mr. Farely and I did not assign these books in an inconsiderate way. In fact, the decision was quite considered. Our hope is that we can start a new conversation with all of you and each of you, and that you can start a conversation with yourself–a conversation that will fill our coming year together. So ask yourself: Why do you want what you want? What do you really need? Maybe there is power in simplicity….

More than likely, I return to Beston because he continually gives back to me. I feel wiser and more complete and more human every time I read his words. His words make me want to bring my life back to the wheel and polish it to a more perfect edge, an edge that can cleave apart the tangle of weeds I might be lost in. His words affirm my own desire to live simply and deeply. Mr. Farely and I did not assign these books in an inconsiderate way. In fact, the decision was quite considered. Our hope is that we can start a new conversation with all of you and each of you, and that you can start a conversation with yourself–a conversation that will fill our coming year together. So ask yourself: Why do you want what you want? What do you really need? Maybe there is power in simplicity….

Perhaps it is because Beston loved and studied the wild loneliness he experienced, while McCandless seemed to continually fight with an unforgiving and harsh nature (and his own harsh nature) in every step of his fateful journey. Perhaps I remember a side of me that was once like Chris McCandless—a darker side of my life best forgotten. More than likely, I return to Beston because he continually gives back to me. I feel wiser and more complete and more human every time I read his words. His words make me want to bring my life back to the wheel and polish it to a more perfect edge, an edge that can cleave apart the tangle of weeds I might be lost in. His words affirm my own desire to live simply and deeply. Mr. Farely and I did not assign these books in an inconsiderate way. In fact, the decision was quite considered. Our hope is that we can start a new conversation with all of you and each of you, and that you can start a conversation with yourself–a conversation that will fill our coming year together.

So ask yourself: Why do you want what you want? What do you really need? Maybe there is power in simplicity….

Appophobia

Appophobia

by | Oct 3, 2019 | Collaborate, Create, Essays, The Crafted Word Blog, Workshops

Appophobia:
A lingering fear and distrust of apps

Always do what you are afraid to do.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

We have evolved into what we are because we have somehow learned to balance mistrust and wariness of danger with a counterbalancing willingness to explore and exploit the rewards of equally dangerous undertakings and adventures. The stories of our histories would be tepid and soon forgotten if not faced with struggle and perseverance that somehow revealed a greater truth and wisdom and courage to live in a higher state of existence. If we do not accept and embrace this, then we may as well just relegate ourselves to a more diminished and ignorant self. Mighty high sounding talk, I know, to lead into a discussion of apps on an iPad.

But, it is what it is…

Every folder on my iPad is essentially a toolbox where I keep useful tools. I never let any one toolbox contain more tools that can fit on the cover screen of any folder—usually something like 12 apps, most of which I seldom use, but some that are essential to my daily workflow. It is no different than the toolboxes I used when teaching shop or managing the various projects I undertake at home.

I have a toolbox for plumbing supplies and tools. I have a toolbox for painting supplies. I have a toolbox for woodcarving. I have a toolbox for working on my car and bus and boat. All of these are kept in my workshop and in my shed along with benches, shelves, vices and hooks and hangers.

No one has ever said to me: “Fitz, you have too many tools in too many boxes in too many places.” I simply have what I need and what has evolved to serve the purposes and tasks of my everyday life. And still I sometimes have to go to Tom Cummings shop or a friend’s garage or another friend’s shed to “borrow” what I need, but don’t have.

So why the incessant hubbub I hear about too many apps on a student’s iPad? If they are useful to him or her—or me as their teacher—it is a useful app, regardless of how often a specific app is used. My shop students routinely come to a shop filled with all manner of tools—most of which those same students have little idea how to use properly.

And the funny thing is that it never seems to bother them or their parents or the school because everyone intuitively trusts that what is there is a useful and, ultimately, a necessary part of a dynamic and well-equipped shop.

And many of those tools in the shop are extremely dangerous tools! Way more dangerous than GarageBand, Book Creator, iTunes U and iMovie. This “appophobia” is as senseless as it is crippling, and the clarion call to forbid these apps is being led by people who have no clue themselves how to use and exploit these tools for academic benefit.

The usual fallback for declaring an app to be useless is to lament that learning new apps is confusing and distracting and the sign of an out-of-touch teacher. With that logic we should throw out quadratic equations, the krebb’s cycle, the causes of The Civil War, and the proper use of conjunctive adverbs. We should ban backpacks with more than three textbooks, any loose sheaves of paper and calculators with any kind of trigonometry functions. We shouldn’t give a lecture that is more than five minutes long or occasionally ask kids to just remember the assignment—as in just remember the conversation we had at the end of class.

Imagine the horror of so many when the first pencils with built in erasers tumbled off the assembly line. Mistakes could now be hidden with a simple flick of the wrist. How could teachers even begin to know what students did and did not know? Imagine a school allowing students to use textbooks to supplant the power of a teacher’s oration on any given subject matter?

Education is like a shark: if it does not continue to move forward, it dies. If education does not move in the direction of its prey, it, too, ultimately weakens and dies. If we put myopic restraints on a teacher thing to put new and dynamic power into the hands of his or her students and forge a new and better way of learning, then education dies. No fish can ever be caught without stirring the waters, so we should embrace the messiness of learning as the tailings of a miner’s labor.

Which brings me back to this iPad of mine tapping away in the stillness of a late September night. It is my poet’s hoe, my pick-axe, chisel and plane. It is doing what I need it to do at this  or any other given point in time. In a few minutes (I hope) it will be the final chapter in a good book. Tomorrow it may record my songs, film my video, craft my essay, fill my journal, create my quiz, model my discussion, post my assignment, paint my canvas, grade my homework—and when I don’t want it or need it, or feel if is useful, it simply disappears.

Back into my shed, my toolbox, or some dusty shelf…

The iPad is not a tool or a device or a thing. It is an enabler of possibility. Apps are not a panoply of evil undertakings; they are merely shovels and spades that let us dig deeper and faster and cut our corners as clean and square as Mike Mulligan and Mary Anne.

And I do not have a problem with that.