Gold, jewels, power, hate, and sex.
Why nations fight wars
People decided to die rather than live
Stupid reasons
I had a friend in Maine.
Chaney and I promised never to swim alone.
My family moved from Falmouth Foresides in June of 1960
A week later Chaney drowned in Sebago Lake
He was eight.
In 1974 I left my hometown for good.
I left behind another friend
Carl married his high school sweetheart.
She was seven months pregnant.
I never saw the baby.
I had a friend in college
Neil and I are still friends.
He is studying medicine in the Philipines
Dagupan City
Neil was born on Staten island
We will meet again
I am not in love with money or gold or God
I'm in love with the modern world
And everything else.
Thanks for your support. In order to avoid ads, please donate to blogger.com.mangozeen through Venmo. Any amount will help us. I do have a large family. My Venmo account is @Peter.Smith.18
When six
My best friend Chaney and I walked
To the end of the McKinley Road on Falmouth Foresides
Portland lay across the harbor
The color of the water a Maine blue
Seagulls skated through the cloudless sky__
Chaney pulled out darts taken from his father's den
He gave me one
I threw it without aim
The dart struck a seagull in the neck
Its wings quivered and the bird fluttered down to the mud flat
Blood seeped from the wound
Chaney and I watched the bird die
A wave lapped over the gull
Another washed the corpse into the harbor__
Chaney put away the darts
We walked back home
Neither of us said anything to anyone
Not even to Cathy Burns
We both loved her__
Chaney drowned in Sebago Lake in 1960
Age eight
Always will be eight
I will never forget him
Or the seagull__
My best friends as a child were my older brother and Chaney
We lived in Falmouth Foresides, Maine.
We did everything together.
School, hockey, eating stolen strawberries from the nearby farm, hang at the docks at the end of our street, and swim at Sebago Lake.
My family moved to the South Shore of Boston in June of 1960.
This excerpt from GAYBOY relates the last time we saw each other.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chaney stood on edge of the lawn. My father had mowed it this morning.
“I guess I’m going.”
“Have a good summer.” Chaney kicked a clump of cut grass with his sneaker. His jeans were torn at the knee. This summer was supposed to have belonged to us. A snorkel and diving mask hung in his hand. They were a gift from his Czech grandmother.
“My father says we’ll return in July for vacation.” The week on Watchic Pond couldn’t come soon enough.
“Don’t go swimming without me.” Chaney lowered his head. Boys weren't supposed to cry in public.
“I won’t.”
I eyed his mask, wishing I had one.
I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my Pete Runnel’s baseball card. The infielder was our favorite Red Sox player. I offered it to him.
“Here.”
“No, you keep it, but if you go to a game at Fenway Park, have him autograph it for me.” Chaney smiled with the prospective of having the .300 hitter’s signature as well as not having to hand over his mask in trade.
“Everyone in the car,” shouted my father.
“See you.” I slipped the playing card back into my shirt pocket.
“Not if I see you first.”
I never saw him again__
Thanks for your support. In order to avoid ads, please donate to blogger.com.mangozeen through Venmo. Any amount will help us. I do have a large family. My Venmo account is @Peter.Smith.18
From the Kezar Pond to Saco Bay
Old Orchard Beach to Bailey's Island
Cumberland County, Maine a land of tall pines
The land of my youth___
The summer camp on Watchic Pond
Built by my grandfather
An orphan became a frontline surgeon in WWI France
A retreat from the horrors to Maine
With a nurse, my grandmother.
A noble woman from a 9th generation Maine family__
Gorham was their refuge
The two had a family
Three children
One my father
Later they moved to a huge farmhouse
To Westbrook
By the Presumpscot Rier
Near the shadow of the SD Warren papermill__
As a young boy
My best friend Chaney
On Falmouth Foresides
McKinley Road
His house close to mine__
We palyed hockey in my backyard
Fought the bully
Skeeter Kresgee
Lover Kathy Burns
And more__
One day he found a basket of dead puppies
Didnt say where
We walked to the pier
Beneath the bluff
At the end of Mckinley Road
Climbed down the steep stairs
To the fishing dock
We threw the still puppies
Into Portland Harbor
br/>They bobbed
The tide took them to sea
br/>I thought nothing of it__
In the summer of 1960
br/>Chaney drowned in Sebago Lake
He was only eight.
I have never seen his gravestone___
Four years later
big-breasted girl working at a drugstore counter asked,
"Will you walk me home?"
At 12 a walk was a walk
I stuffed my comic in my jean's back pocket
And drained my glass of vanilla soda
I accompanied the girl along the Presumpscot River
br/>Into the woods
Past the paper mill
No houses
No voices
Only the grinding of the wood saws across the river
And the murmur of cars along Main Street__
We stopped in the woods
br/>No one in sight
br/>I felt so alone
She lifted her dress over her head
Her breasts rose tipped puff pillows___
I fled
Ran fast chased by laughter
Ran to my grandmother's house
Upstairs to a bedroom with sea murals
br/>Painted to remind my grandparents
br/>Of the French countryside
br/>Not the war__
I lay in bed
br/>My aunt's bed
Another innocence gone__
In 1975 my grandmother passed away
The camp was sold
The house on Main Street too
Chaney's family had moved north
From Falmouth Foresides
I went south
First with my family
To the South Shore of Boston
Then alone
To New York.
A city of too few pines to soothe old ghosts
Of an exile from Cumberland County
They, Chaney, the girl, my grandmother Edith are with with always__
Two weekends ago I had a great trip up to a wedding south of Boston. Brigette and I thought about renting a car, but resisted the corporate brainwashing instructing the masses that they can't live without a car. We took the 8am bus to South Station, wandered about the Fort Channel, and headed down to the South Shore, the land of my youth after my family left Maine.
1960
My sister-in-law got us a hotel near the wedding site at a golf course atop a hill under which were buried the Quincy quarries. We napped and missed the shuttle bus, I thought we could walk, but it was too far. I suggested we hitchhike. Brigette put out her thumb and the first car stopped in the middle of the road.
The driver was a shy Chinese man who barely spoke English and had been worried that something bad might happen to us. Kwang Cho had migrated from his homeland and worked for a biotech firm. He spoke about nothing no one. we invited him to the wedding. My family liked strays. He smiled shyly and nodded okay. His name was Chan. Heparked the car and joined us with great shyness and I as well as Brigette thought he had very little contact with people as does everyone in the world as you can attest in exile from humanity in Incline, Nevada.
He drove all the way to Granite Links GC and we thanked Kwang Cho profusely. Both of us were shocked that we had gotten a ride so swiftly. Fuck Uber.
The setting was a surprise for I had tramped across the Blue Hills throughout my life. The elevation was higher than some of the nearest hills. While the view to the north was the city of Boston, its harbor, and beyond the Hull Peninsula the boreal blue Atlantic, the vista to the left was unfamiliar in height and angle.
The Blue Hills stretched off to the west six miles to Big Blue at six hundred plus feet, the highest elevation on the Eastern Seaboard from Key West northward until Mount Megunticook in Maine. The scenery had been inedibly tattooed in my memories.
Not for skiing down the short slope back in the last of the Ice Age or a fight with Hyde Park punks who threw a pineapple can from the top of weather observatory tower, striking my older brother's head. His scar faded within weeks, but not mine from my mother having sitting me in the family station wagon and saying that my best friend in Maine had drowned in Sebago Lake.
It was June 1960. I had four siblings. I sat in the Ford alone. My mother walked away. The sun was over the whale humped hill. I prayed to God to resurrect Chaney. I failed and realized I had only failed, because I believed in God. There was no God. Chaney was no more. Forever in the past eternity.
My atheism has never been shaken. I stood on the edge of the putting green, admiring the beauty of the day. My old house on Harborview Road was invisible under the sylvan slopes. Big Blue wasn't the same as the Big Blue of 1960. I wasn't the same either nor my memories of Chaney. They were few. His kissing Kathy, our throwing darts at seagulls, sledding down the gully, swimming in Sebago Lake. I have one photo. I look. At it once and a while.
Brigette touches my shoulder. They ask if I am alright. I nod and tell her why I stood alone. They nodded and their fingers pressed into my skin. Brigette could have said anything, but simply said, "Let's go dance."
I turned my back on Big Blue and joined the soon to be newlyweds, their families, and friends. As always I brought Chaney with me. He and I danced and dined without introductions to others. It was a day of celebration and we both were happy to be together.
It was a good day for friends, family, strays, Chaney and me. We are always together.
In 1959 my family lived on Falmouth Foresides. Mckinley Road ended at the bluff overlooking the mudflats of Portland Harbor. I was lucky enough to have two; my older brother Frunk and a neighbor.
Chaney and I attended the same kindergarten class at Pinewood Elementary in Falmouth Maine and we did everything together boys were supposed to do that far north.
In the winter we played hockey in the small backyard rink my father built from 2 by 10s or else sledded down a gully to a tidal ice pool. During the summer we swam in the shallow waters beyond the marsh grass and bicycled to the forbidden bridge crossing the salt flats to Macklowe Island.
That August in 1959 the two of us crawled under the fence into a neighbor's strawberry patch and ate ripening fruit on our backs. Mr. Stivelleta caught us and my father paid him for four quarts. They were worth his angry words and ten whacks of the wooden spoon from my mother.
Partners in crime, but Chaney and I were in love with the same girl, although Kathy Burns only had eyes for Chaney. He played the accordion. I had no musical skills, even though my mother was famed for a voice capable of silencing the Portland Cathedral choir.
Chaney was a protege on the squeezebox. He mastered SINK THE BISMARCK and DAVY CROCKETT as well as standards from his music teacher; YELLOW BIRD and MACK THE KNIFE. I envied his virtuosity as well as Kathy's admiration of his talent.
That autumn our brunette schoolmate held a birthday party to which I was not invited. Chaney brought me a piece of chocolate cake. After hearing about how he had kissed Cathy in her basement, the cake tasted like chalk, but I congratulated Chaney's success and ate the cake. It was good.
What was a girl between best friends?
The next summer my family moved south from Maine to a suburb south of Boston. Chaney and I vowed never to go swimming, unless we were together. His parents had a place on Lake Sebago and my grandmother's cabin was on nearby Watchic Pond.
"Wait for me."
"You and me only swimming together."
"And take care of Kathy Burns."
"I will, because one day I'm going to marry her."
I bid him good-bye and my father drove us south in our Ford station wagon. It had wood paneling and he liked to go fast.
That summer was warm in New England and my parents took us to Nantasket Beach for Memorial Weekend. My mother considered the wide strand of sand to be the best beach in the world and she had flown to Bermuda for her honeymoon. My brothers and sisters ran in the eddies of the surf. My father swam past the waves. i sat on the blanket and my mother asked, "Why aren't you in the water?"
"Because I told Chaney I wouldn't go swimming without him.
"We won't be in Maine for another two weeks."
"I can wait."
"Seems a waste." She reached out her hand. "Come with me."
I was a good boy and obeyed my mother.
The Atlantic was cold, but not to the young.
Upon our return to our suburban development in the Blue Hills my father hosed off the sand and salt off his boys outside, while my mother showered my two younger sisters inside. We dried off in the warm summer sun.
The phone rang in the living room. My mother answered it and came out a minute later with wet hair.
"Go sit in the car."
"What I do wrong?"
"Nothing. Just do as I say." She was on the verge of tears.
"Yes, ma'am." I went to the station wagon and sat in the front.
To the West the setting sun shadowed the silhouette of Great Blue Hill.
Several minutes passed before my mother came to the car. She leaned on the open window with a pained weariness and said, "Chaney drowned this afternoon."
"Drowned how?"I already knew how.
"In Sebago Lake. Everyone had gone waterskiing and left him with his grandmother. He swam out too deep and struggled in the water. The grandmother couldn't swim and he drowned. Say a prayer for him."
"What time?"
"I don't know. This afternoon."
My mother walked back into our house.
I sat in the car and looked at the sky seeing only the sky.
Chaney had broken our vow, as had I at Nantasket Beach.
One of us paid the price.
Chaney.
Not me.
Two weeks later my family headed north for a vacation on Watchic Pond.
My father drove first at Falmouth Foresides. New people lived in our old house. We stopped at the Noyes. I hung out with his brothers. None of us spoke of Chaney. As we prepared to leave, I saw Cathy Burns across the street. I walked up to her and she said, "I know what you did and so did Chaney."
"I swam."
"You were wrong."
"I was. I miss him."
"Me too. Chaney could play accordion."
Yes, he could."
"And he kissed good too."
An hour later I was swimming in the tannin-tainted waters of Watchic Pond. It was wide enough, but short by a mile to make a lake.
That night my parents sat around the campfire and my mother sang 'YELLOW BIRD'
I wished Chaney was there to play accordion and since that sad day every time I see an accordion I think of Chaney and any time I see a street accordionist I ask them to play SINK THE BISMARCK. None of them know the Johnny Horton tune and I request IN-A-GADDA-DA-VITA. None of the accordion players can play that 60s hit either, however I'm sure that Chaney would have liked Iron Butterfly.
My best friends as a child were my older brother and Chaney
We lived in Falmouth Foresides, Maine.
We did everything together.
School, hockey, eating stolen strawberries from the nearby farm, hang at the docks at the end of our street, and swim at Sebago Lake.
My family moved to the South Shore of Boston in June of 1960.
This excerpt from GAYBOY relates the last time we saw each other.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chaney stood on edge of the lawn. My father had mowed it this morning.
“I guess I’m going.”
“Have a good summer.” Chaney kicked a clump of cut grass with his sneaker. His jeans were torn at the knee. This summer was supposed to have belonged to us. A snorkel and diving mask hung in his hand. They were a gift from his Czech grandmother.
“My father says we’ll return in July for vacation.” The week on Watchic Pond couldn’t come soon enough.
“Don’t go swimming without me.” Chaney lowered his head. Boys weren't supposed to cry in public.
“I won’t.”
I eyed his mask, wishing I had one.
I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my Pete Runnel’s baseball card. The infielder was our favorite Red Sox player. I offered it to him.
“Here.”
“No, you keep it, but if you go to a game at Fenway Park, have him autograph it for me.” Chaney smiled with the prospective of having the .300 hitter’s signature as well as not having to hand over his mask in trade.
“Everyone in the car,” shouted my father.
“See you.” I slipped the playing card back into my shirt pocket.
In 1959 I was lucky enough to have two; my older brother Frunk and a neighbor.
Chaney and I attended the same kindergarten class at Pinewood Elementary in Falmouth Maine and we did almost everything together boys were supposed to do that far north.
In the winter we played hockey in the small backyard rink my father built from 2 by 10s and also sledded down a gully to a tidal ice pool. During the summer we swam in the shallow waters beyond the marsh grass and bicycled to the forbidden bridge crossing the salt flats to Macklowe Island.
That August in 1959 the two of us crawled under the fence into a strawberry field and ate ripening fruit on our backs. The farmer caught us and my father paid him for four quarts. They were worth his angry words and ten whacks of the wooden spoon from my mother.
Partners in crime, but Cheney and I were in love with the same girl. Kathy Burns was sweet on Chaney. He played the accordion. I had no musical skills, even though my mother was famed for a voice capable of silencing the Portland Cathedral choir.
Chaney was a protege on the squeezebox. He mastered SINK THE BISMARCK and DAVY CROCKETT as well as the standard songs learned from his music teacher; YELLOW BIRD and MACK THE KNIFE. I envied his virtuosity as well as Kathy's admiration of his talent.
That autumn our brunette schoolmate held a birthday party to which I was not invited. Chaney brought me a piece of chocolate cake and told me how he had kissed Cathy in her basement. The cake tasted like chalk, but I congratulated Chaney's success. We were best friends.
Thw next summer my family moved south from Maine to a suburb south of Boston. Chaney and I vowed never to go swimming, unless we were together. His parents had a place on Lake Sebago and my grandmother's cabin was on nearby Watchic Pond.
"Wait for me."
"You and me only swimming together."
"And take care of Kathy Burns."
"I will, because one day I'm going to marry her."
I bid him good-bye and my father drove us south in our Ford station wagon. It had wood paneling and he liked to go fast.
That summer was warm in New England and my parents took us to Nantasket Beach for Memorial Weekend. My mother considered the wide strand of sand to be the best beach in the world and she had been to Bermuda for her honeymoon. My brothers and sisters ran in the eddies of the surf. My father swam past the waves. i sat on the blanket and my mother asked, "Why aren't you in the water?"
"Because I told Chaney I wouldn't go swimming without him.
"We won't be in Maine for another two weeks."
"I can wait."
"Seems a waste." She reached out her hand. "Come with me."
I was a good boy and obeyed my mother.
The Atlantic was cold, but not to the young.
Upon our return to our suburban development my father hosed off the sand and salt off his boys outside, while my mother showered my two younger sisters inside. We dried off in the warm summer sun.
The phone rang in the living room. My mother answered it and came out a minute later with wet hair.
"Go sit in the car."
"What I do wrong?"
"Nothing. Just do as I say." She was on the verge of tears.
"Yes, ma'am." I went to the station wagon and sat in the front.
To the West the setting sun shadowed the silhouette of Great Blue Hill.
Several minutes passed before my mother came to the car. She leaned on the open window with a pained weariness and said, "Chaney drowned this afternoon."
"Drowned how?"I already knew how.
"In Sebago Lake. Everyone had gone waterskiing and left him with his grandmother. He swam out too deep and struggled in the water. The grandmother couldn't swim and he drowned. Say a prayer for him."
"What time?"
"I don't know. This afternoon."
My mother walked back into our house.
I sat in the car and looked at the sky seeing only the sky.
Chaney had broken our vow, as had I at Nantasket Beach.
One of us paid the price.
Chaney.
Not me.
Two weeks later my family headed north for a vacation on Watchic Pond.
My father drove first at Falmouth Foresides. New people were living in our old house. We stopped at the Noyes. I hung out with his brothers. None of us spoke of Chaney. As we prepared to leave, I saw Cathy Burns across the street. i walked up to her and she said, "I know what you did and so did Chaney."
"I swan."
"You were wrong."
"I was. I miss him."
"Me too. Chaney could play accordion."
Yes, he could."
My father hour later I was swimming in the tannin-tainted waters of Watchic Pond. It was wide enough, but short by a mile to make a lake.
That night my parents sat around the campfire and my mother sang 'YELLOW BIRD'
I wished Cheny was there to play accordion.and since that sad day every time I see an accordion I think of Chaney and any time I see a street accordionist I ask them to play SINK THE BISMARCK. None of them know the Johnny Horton tune and I request IN-A-GADDA-DA-VITA.
None of the accordion players can play that 60s hit either, however I'm sure that Chaney would have liked Iron Butterfly.
Cathy Burns too.
After all we were all best friends.
To hear Rene Sevieri's cover of IN A GADDA DA VIDA, please go to the following URL
