A Home-Town Boy Goes Home

A friend departed, today.


David Turner of Shirley passed away and his death was a sobering blow. Dave was only sixty-four. By all accounts, this man was too young to die.

It was just last summer when I met Dave for the first time. The date was July 1, 2010, to be exact. My friend Larry Gilles, who lives on Russell Island in Brisbane Harbor off Australia’s eastern shore, traveled to Maine for a month-long vacation and he stayed at my parents’ camp in Elliotsville Township.

Larry also grew up in Shirley—a tiny village a few miles from Elliotsville between Monson and Greenville—and he’d known Dave since they were young shavers attending Shirley’s community school. In addition to growing up together, the men had something else in common. They were both veterans of the Vietnam War. I was stunned to realize how many young men from that tiny village went to fight in Southeast Asia. Larry. Dave. Bill. Neal. And many others…

Dave seemed a little bit shy, during our first meeting. Every time I pulled out my camera, he showed me his back or grinned self-consciously and held up his hands.  I had to be contented with rear and side shots.

The three of us sat down by the pond—Larry and Dave enjoying coffee brandy and milk while I got a caffeine buzz from my Diet Mt. Dew. That day, Larry cooked for me for the first of many times; grilling sausages and peppers and onions for us. I’d worked that morning and then drove the 70 miles to camp to mow the lawn. That was part of the deal… if Mum and Dad let my friend stay in their camp for a month then it was my responsibility to keep the place mowed while Larry was there. So… knowing I had a job to do, I chatted with the men for an hour or so and then went up to camp to change into my ‘grubs’… what I call the ratty old clothes I work in.

When I came out of the camp, Larry and Dave were standing at the back of my truck, tailgate down--looking for all the world like they thought they could be helpful. Prior to the opening of the bottle of coffee brandy, that might have been a possibility. But there they were—two old friends who hadn’t seen each other for five years--and they were partying. I smirked as I watched them try to figure out how to unfold the tractor ramps…and then shooed them back down to the picnic area to enjoy their reunion.

Two hours later, I was finished; the rider and the push mower were loaded back into my pick-up; and the Shirley boys were feeling no pain. I envied them and wondered at the special bond they had—one which would allow them to connect so comfortably after such long absences. Listening to them, it was like they’d never been apart. We’re not all so lucky as to have that strong and wonderful bond.

I had the opportunity to visit with Dave a couple more times before Larry winged his way back Down Under. I also met Dave’s brother Dan, and my heart goes out to him. Over the course of that month, I met most of Larry’s and Dave’s friends and family: Phoebe and Queenie and Linda and Peggy and their kids and spouses and pals. I may never see these folks again, but they left an indelible impression on me…one of family and simplicity and caring and…home.

The little hamlet of Shirley was Dave’s home, and I know that those who live there—and those who often stop by—will miss David Turner.

A friend.

A home-town boy.

An American soldier.

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Setting moon, Elliotsville Township
Shirley Mills schoolhouse
Larry at the Bar-bee and Dave fixing them a drink
Lawnmowers...
Some of the crew from Shirley...
Larry in Shirley Mills, Maine

The High Price of Bragging

I should have known this would happen.

I was taking a road trip with my friend Larry, who is visiting from Australia. As we drove up Route 15, headed to Shirley Mills and then to Greenville and Rockwood, I noticed that Larry kept glancing down at the speedometer. Assuming that he was having a hard time converting ‘miles per hour’ to kilometers, I asked him what was what.

“Well…” he drawled. “I can’t be gettin’ a ticket here. America and Australia have reciprocal laws, and they’d add points to me license at home if I did that!”

I pooh-poohed his concerns, and then thought I’d do a little bragging.

“Hmmmph! Well, in 30 years of driving, I’ve never gotten a ticket! Not even a PARKING TICKET!”

Larry glanced at me in amazement.

“Geez! You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

I smiled smugly. Yep, that’s me. A ‘good’ girl.

You’d think I would know better than to make such a foolhardy statement.

But really… who knew you were supposed to put money in those foolish things posted along city sidewalks which look like observation binoculars, anyway?

Yeah. You guessed it. Not three days after bragging about my impeccable driving record, I had to go to Portland to meet with Congresswoman Chellie Pingree. Her office is, of all places, at the Portland Fish Pier. Suffice it to say that by the time I’d driven up and down Commercial Street, in and out of full parking lots and back and forth in front of the waterfront, I was getting flustered. The downtown area was packed with people, flooded with vehicles, and oozing heat and humidity. The air conditioner was not working in my truck, either. I was hot, and I was bothered, and I was lost… so when I saw that twelve foot long parking slot open up, I pulled my twenty-one foot Dodge into it and thanked my lucky stars for the opportunity. I gathered my belongings, locked the truck, and started hoofing it, determined to find Pingree’s office on foot.

Seriously… who knew you were supposed to put money in those things, anyway? I never guessed. It wasn't until I returned home that I realized I'd received the ticket... at first, I thought some civic minded person had given this country gal a map to the city of Portland, politely tucked under the wiper blade of my pick-up. It took the eagle eye of my teenaged daughter Josie to discern that there was an ominous message on the other side of the map...

I think it’s only fair that I blame Larry, my quasi Aussie, for the blight on my record. After all, I never would have bragged about my perfect driving record and jinxed myself if I hadn’t been so intent on impressing my friend with my perfection…

Aw, heck. Okay, so the fellow from Down Under is blameless. I’ll concede that it was my own boneheadedness which resulted in the ticket. And to show my maturity and my ability to take responsibility for my own actions, I’ll try to look upon the positive aspects of the day.

I got to meet a U.S. Congresswoman. As I roamed the Portland Fish Pier looking for her office, I learned how to fillet a tuna. And a pollock and a hake, as well. I made friends with seven urbanites who tried to guide me to my destination using hand-held computers which were no bigger than decks of cards. And I discovered what eating ‘al fresco’ meant. According to Larry, it means ‘sitting in the middle of the bloody sidewalk’. So, the day wasn’t a total wash.

Besides, all is not lost. I’m going to fight the ticket. I mean, that was just plain rude! Charging a woman who is lost and sweaty and red-faced and tense a whopping $15.00 because she didn’t know she had to pay for parking ‘al fresco’ is inhospitable, to say the least.

And after all… I’m a ‘good girl’! You see… I’ve never—not once in my 30 years of driving—ever gotten a ticket for speeding!

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Affectionate labeling of photo in this blog posting is courtesy of my good friend, Tom Olds, of Jackson, Maine.

No Worries

Well, I’ve had him for two weeks, now. My Aussie. Larry.

My first task involving his visit was to pick him up at Bangor International Airport. In spite of the fact that I can get lost trying to find my own birthmark, I amazed myself by driving straight to BIA--in the middle of a torrential downpour, no less! I arrived early. His plane arrived earlier. Naturally. Of course it did! And so… even though I was ahead of schedule, I was late. And soaked to the skin. Since I’d hoped to make a good first impression, what else could I expect?

I learned the plane had touched down a few minutes before I arrived, and since there was no one hanging about the lobby looking like they were lost or waiting to be picked up, I had the airline employee page him for me. I looked around the airport and within seconds, I spotted him. Big, burly, blond-white curly hair and beard, with a big duffel bag thrown over one shoulder, he came walking across the floor, straight at me.

I’ve got to tell you-- that man gives the best hugs you can imagine! Big, all enveloping, arms-wrapped-around squeezes. Larry actually picked me up off the floor.

I thought I’d killed him. Before a single word passed between us, I was convinced I’d done him in. Laid him low. I was already trying to figure out how to ship him home in the most economical fashion; in a casket, or an urn?

Most of you know me, right? I’m no stranger to these parts… you’ve seen me around the neighborhood since 1967; in the store, the post office, the bank, the restaurant. You can attest to the fact that I’m no string bean. I’m more like one of those zucchinis which was overlooked in the garden until it was of ample size to feed a starving village. The kind of zucchini you have to transport in the back of your pickup when you smuggle it under cover of darkness to your neighbor’s porch, knowing they’d never accept such horrendous bounty by light of day. That’s right… I’m an over-grown, over ripe zucchini.

I wondered briefly if the man was blind. Seriously… who would take one look at me and say “There’s a gal I’d like to heft!”? But he’s not blind, and he’s extremely intelligent, too. I just can’t figure it out.

Good Lord, I thought I’d killed him.

We picked up a rental car for him and I made my first confession. I didn’t know how to get from the airport to my parents’ camp in Elliotsville, which is where Larry’s been staying since he arrived on June 20th. But he took the worry away by making a simple offer. He’d lead the way. You can’t see my embarrassed grin, but it’s a big one. He drove straight to Guilford, a town which is familiar territory to me, and then he followed me from there to the Hill Place. Larry didn’t make one wrong turn, nor hesitate at a stop light. He even used his blinkers well in advance of each turn so that I’d have time to quell my panic and move into the proper lane.

Yeah, I’m still grinning. And let's not forget: The man drives on the wrong side of the road and sits in the wrong side of the car when he's Down Under!

The man is as laid back as they come. Nothing seems to rile him, or worry him, or make him tense. We even got lost once--up by the airport in Greenville--but my mate stayed calm and unruffled. He didn’t get irritated as I laughed at him in a “welcome to MY life” kind of way when he stopped the car to ask for directions. He uttered not a single "Bloody hell".

“No worries,” he said.

Ahhhhhh.

You see, I DID worry--and you know I did, for I shared those fears with you, my friends and followers. I was sure Larry would take one look at me and want nothing more to do with me. I was afraid that my actual presence wouldn’t measure up to my long-distance persona. Perhaps it doesn’t, but I’ll never hear that from my friend Larry. He is the perfect guest, and a wonderful pal. Calm, unhurried, slow to excite; he exudes a peace that is contagious. When he hugged me and lifted me in the airport, I could very well have given the man a myocardial infarction. But he wouldn’t have blamed me, I don’t think. As his heart stuttered to a stop, Larry would have said, “No worries.”

Ahhhhhhh.

(You heard me, right? The man stopped to ask for directions. Heh… I’ll take an Aussie off your hands, any day!)