The Sun Is Rising, And It’s Going To Be A Good Day
I don’t know when I started using the rise and shine greeting. I emit the slogan more for myself than the dog. The part she likes is the ear rub and the head scratch that accompanies my close talking and, possibly, a kiss on the deep crevasse that runs down the center of her boxer-like skull.
Ellie’s initial beckoning wake-up moans and groans only occur after she enters the bedroom around three o’clock in the morning. I’m usually in a semi-dream state, but I sense her staring at me. I don’t even need to open my eyes before saying, “Lie down; it’s not time to get up.”
I rise with the sun, hav
ing not used a clock in my bedroom for over fifteen years. I’m blessed with a gift that starts with a bedtime thought about what time I need to get up. And with that, I will wake up on time. I cannot explain it, but it works. I have so many things I cannot do. This one thing at which I am entirely successful makes me slightly elated.
The hour following my sermon about the fact that it’s not time to get up only includes fitful dozing. It’s not unlike a church service with a boring speaker. Some dozing is to be expected.
Ellie makes noises as she lies there, trying to remain silent. She’s no different from a criminal who recently heard their Miranda warning. They don’t want to talk, but silence is difficult for some people. And Ellie, of course.
I never get out of bed until she is completely silent for a few minutes. I don’t want her to believe that the last peep is the determining factor for my rising.
Once my feet hit the floor, and I stretch out the painful plantar fasciitis, I search for a bit of attire, don it in grand style, and then wander toward the bedroom door. The dog stands by the other side of the bed, waiting for me to pass.
I stop, bend down in the darkness until I see the faint glow of her gray chin and eyebrow hair, and I gently rub her ears and say, “The sun is rising, and it’s going to be a good day.” I mean it, but I know it’s not wholly accurate every single day. She doesn’t care. She says nothing.
It’s probably the only moment of the day when I know there will be no argument. I like that.
The sun is rising, and it’s going to be a good day.
From the jagged edge, we remain,
TC
&
Ellie
Thanks, everyone, for supporting the blog page; showing up to read my stuff makes writing worthwhile. Many have helped out with donations, but the page is here for all to read regardless. Thanks for buying the books and helping me call myself a writer. I appreciate all of you. Tim
Postage Paid
I didn’t take a photo, but I swear that I did it.
The postal worker advised me that I couldn’t get a tracking number on the envelope. He smoothly explained that when you use a postage pre-paid envelope, you must send it on its way as is; with no attachments.
I said, “Well, I want to make sure that the folks in Augusta get the envelope, and I would love some proof.”
There was a stream of folks over at the table where you prepare envelopes and attachments for sending. I had no desire to get back into a line.
Since I would have had to put the envelope inside another envelope and then pay the tab for that and the extra shipping, I said, “Okay, send it.”
My official retirement paperwork is in the mail. Letting go of the envelope gave me flashbacks to the other moments in my life that burned themselves into my memory like high-powered lasers etching steel plates.
Since I am a self-aggrandizing analog man, it was more like one of those electro-mechanical pencils vibrating your initials into the bottom chrome-moly tube on the frame of your favorite stingray bicycle. It would have helped in identifying it if ever stolen by miscreants. Fortunately, no one was stealing bikes when I was a kid. I never used a lock; I didn’t need to.
Maybe that’s why I thought being a cop would be the easiest thing I could do to make a living. Newsflash; I advise all other youth against it wholeheartedly. Even this year, I have turned down opportunities to tell groups of kids that this is the job for them. I want to be honest, and that speech would be full of lies.
My kid made a choice based on my early years in the trade. He’s good, but he was sold a bill of goods early on. Things were better then. People seemed better then. It probably was a good idea when he shipped his application off to the State Police. I suppose that’s been ground into the frame of his own bicycle. I pray he’ll be able to send his retirement paperwork to Augusta in a couple more decades.
I can—now—only assume that the letter will arrive with my kindly notarized documents. A wonderful co-worker at the BPD notarized my request to retire and asked nothing in return for her chrome-squeezed stamp of approval. I offered. She declined.
While not one of her official duties, she asked me if I was sure that I wanted to do this. People tend to act as if there is something that can be said to keep you around a place a little longer. Kind people say things they should, but they don’t mean it. That’s not an air strike on kind people; we need more of them.
However, I base my statements on long discussions over cold cups of coffee. I have confirmed that my closer associates and I know that people won’t miss us. We base that on the fact that we don’t miss the people who left before us. We still love them, remember them, and enjoyed our time with them, but work and life go just as easily without those folks being around. We do like catching up with them from time to time. They all tell us the same thing; you guys need to get out soon.
This steady and constant theme of conversation allows us to realize that we did some important work, but it’s time for others to do theirs without our advice and oversight.
Now come the faux requests for a gathering, a going-away party. I declined that too. I know that people go to those for free bagels and coffee. My celebration will be a constant flow of thoughts and memories without other participants. Sometimes, a crowd of participants is celebrated, but I’ll attend alone, with my own choice of music and backdrops.
For now, I am trusting my postal workers. Like cops, they are not perfect but pretty good at what they do. I kept a couple of hard copies just in case they misplaced the envelope.
TC
Thanks to all of you for joining me here at my Newslog (blog). I appreciate it so much. I’ve been busy this past week, so it’s been a bit of time since I wrote anything specific to this space. Thanks for buying the books, donating to keep the site up and running, and dropping me notes and comments. I read every single one. You are good folks.
From the jagged edge, I remain,
Tim Cotton
Midweek Confession
I called my friend on Wednesday. We’ve known each other since 1980 when I went to work with him at a Wendy’s Restaurant up on the Hogan Road in Bangor, Maine. We were attending different high schools, and both needed part-time jobs, but we became fast friends.
Russ is a thoughtful guy, much better at remembering things than me. We have reconnected a few times over the years, but we don’t hang around together; I’m more of a loner than I used to be. I don’t even feel bad about it; it works for me. Please don’t attempt to give me advice on how I should spend more time with people; it’s been tried before. I’m the type who likes to run into people, reconnect, and then, later, move along right after saying, “We’ve got to get together more!” We don’t, but we want to. I genuinely mean it when I say it.
I called him because while I was at church on Sunday, I didn’t see him or his wife across the auditorium like I used to. We’d wave and sometimes talk out in the parking lot after the service. I kind of lost track of him during the pandemic, back when no one was meeting in groups, not even the protestants.
Life got busy, and I missed a lot of church. Way more church than I should miss, actually. Going to church doesn’t make me a better person; it reminds me that I am not alone in striving to be one as I sit there with all the other people who think they are missing too much church. I’m still a literal pile of failure, decorated with a few successes, and I’m comfortable with that.
My S.O. is home for a while. I drove her to the cabin after the service. I needed to do some work at the neighbor’s camp. They are motoring north from the deep south this week to spend the summer in the woods. I needed to get their place in order before they arrived. I’m running late on almost all my chores. As I said, I am trying to do better.
During that ride, my sweetheart told me that Russ and his wife moved to Tennessee last year. She said that I should remember that they did. I couldn’t believe it. She then showed me the obituary of his mother. Far down in the standard surviving family announcements, I saw my friend is in Tennessee.
I called him today. I told him that I only called to apologize for missing his mom’s funeral. She was a genuine sweetheart of a lady. Always positive. She is just a wonderful woman, a champion for her two sons. I truly felt like a failure in not keeping up on things, but I needed to tell him how bad I felt about it. It was harder still to admit that I had clearly forgotten that he had moved away.
Russ told me that he called me last year on my birthday. I apparently said to him that I would call him back as I was moving my mate to her new digs in a new state, somewhere far north of Charleston, S.C. I remembered his call, but only right then. I’d never called him back.
I asked his forgiveness for all of it. He was quick to clear me of all my iniquities. We talked for an hour. I had only missed three significant life events, and he made me feel like I’d missed nothing at all.
Real friends are like that. So is forgiveness.
We are going to get together more.
Thanks for stopping by and reading the stuff.
Thanks to all of you who have supported the blog. I appreciate it.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
Tim Cotton
Road Trips, Pricey Coleslaw,and Lunch at Gramp’s Old Cabins(Pt.2)
This is the second installment of a two-part story. The first installment is nearby in the bank of Newslog entries. Thanks for reading- TC
There were no visible signs indicating that I wasn’t free to stretch my legs on the river’s edge and visit the old cabins. I was confident that if confronted by some angry owner, broker, or transient hobo who might have taken up residence, I’d be able to schmooze my way out of incarceration or serious bodily injury.
As a professional peacemaker, I’ve been gifted with the ability to calm folks down, wind them up, and then calm them down— again— in the same short conversation. My first police chief marveled at my ability to walk away from heated exchanges with my pockets filled with long-lasting friendships. He would say, “For a while there, I had no idea where you were going with that conversation, but it worked out.” I’d look at him like I had only followed a specific plan. Internally, though, I felt the same way he did.
I can’t explain it because I was often sure the colloquies would end up with the laying on of hands, and I don’t mean that in the spiritual sense. My confidence in handling head-on angry exchanges was never rooted in some deep desire to end up grappling on the ground covered in someone else’s sweat and spit. It was more so that I felt sure that I wouldn’t have to be doing all of that if my gibberish found an attentive ear.
I walked toward the row of cabins slowly, as if strolling in— tardy— to a Sunday morning church service. I paced myself to make the short jaunt drag on as long as possible. Gravel, strewn about by the legions of DOT plow trucks that paraded up and down this road through the winter months, was punctuated with fragments of broken tree branches and sun-dried leaves. The eerie underfoot crunch added a touch of dread to what was indeed a moment of delight.
While I was entirely positive that I wouldn’t run into my grandparents, an inner voice, hoarse from being silenced for so long, urged me to pay attention when I rounded the corner at cabin number one. Was there a chance my grandmother might ask me to hold the corner of a sheet or a bedspread so we could tidy up the sour-smelling and sad little cabin? No. I knew better.
The tea-colored water flowed slowly toward the rapids and waterfall some distance downstream. I looked down at the stones and fallen branches that blanket the rough bottom. I caught myself searching for one of the many red and white plastic bobbers that the Little Androscoggin took from me as a six or seven-year-old boy.
I don’t know why I was looking for things as if I had just left them there yesterday. But dream sequences are not always foggy. The clarity added by the May sunshine, soft breeze, and a healthy penchant to remember it all for a few moments whisked me back to a place I had thought of so many times.
My sister Kim caught a giant snapping turtle on her fishing line only fifteen feet from where I stood. I remember how big her eyes were when she told us the story at the pine slab of a dinner table, probably over at the parsonage in Casco. I suspect we were eating a casserole, or maybe it was during Sunday baked chicken dinner with mashed potatoes and a lump-free gravy that my mother whipped up after church.
I sat down on the uneven and drably-painted porch of cabin number three. The door was open, and while I wouldn’t step inside, I could see a toilet bowl sitting disconnected and placed outside of the tiny bathroom near a double bed that was still neatly made. Trespassing is a crime, and while I had no intention of committing the heinous offense, I didn’t want to explain to anyone why I was hanging around there, uninvited by the living.
Could it have been a residual chill running up my spine from one of a few ghost stories shared with us by my cousin Joy during a grandchildren’s sleepover at the house across the street? I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I felt uneasy going through the wide-open door, so I didn’t.
Even with years of training and experience, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to physically repel a long-remembered apparition lurking just inside the dark closets lining my memory bank.
The truth is, I know I could have explained to any sensible human why I was there. I was just a bit too scared to walk inside all by myself. Maybe, I was just six years old for those few moments; I hope so.
The shabby little villas on the river have been through the hands of so many owners since August 1969 that it was clear to me that any of my quit claim deeded excuses could not hold up in a court of law. I never could explain to my co-workers if the local gendarmes had found me inside, fighting ghosts, without permission from the current owners.
My smoked brisket sandwich with a dab of real butter and a healthy squirt of yellow mustard tasted like August, maybe September, of 1969. There were no fancy mustards in Gramp and Nana’s kitchen.
A couple of months back, I had run out of stone-ground Raye’s Downeast mustard. Since then, I’ve been working on the remaining half container of last year’s French’s camp mustard; waste not, want not. Raye’s wouldn’t have been a period-correct condiment for this situation as good as it is. This last-minute trip back in time had clearly been pre-planned by someone.
I chewed a little, and then I listened a bit. There was no rush, and I saved the little bag of Pepperidge Farm goldfish crackers to snack on during the drive toward home. I took a long cold swig of spring water before sauntering further down the crooked path. I looked further down the trail to see if I might catch up with my grandfather, but he was too far ahead. Fragrant balsams darkened the area where he was surely walking.
I walked to a spot where I recall our swimming hole might have been. It was crafted with sizeable round river stones by a man who focused on safety first. He had already pulled too many dead men from cold Maine waters, and he wasn’t willing to do it again. The rocks were both a visual reminder and a physical barrier to keep us from getting too far out to where the current could sweep us away. I didn’t find any recognizable remnants, but I’m not sure I walked far enough. Rivers constantly carve new paths. Even well-intentioned, man-made protuberances are no match for their relentless flow. Time and moving water share that as a common trait.
August of 1969 was the longest single period I spent with my grandparents together. He made baked beans in a deep hole in the ground and showed me quartz and tourmaline stones picked from the granite cliffs behind the main house. Gramp kept a red steel box stacked full with them just outside the snack bar door—for sale—for tourists who came to the area seeking such delightful nuggets.
Every few days, he would open the glass candy cabinet and let me take a ten-cent Mounds candy bar to snack on while fishing toward late afternoon.
I can still feel my tongue working out the stubborn bits of coconut stuck in my teeth as he stood far back away from my spastic casts with my black and white Zebco rod and reel. With his hands folded behind his back, he would tell me what type of bird was whistling, or that supper was to be served at five-thirty. Of course, I’d need to wash the worm residue from my hands before sitting down at the table.
I heaved myself back up into the truck and turned on the radio. While there are times that the right song comes on, on this day, it did not. I sat for a few more minutes taking in the changes and doing some simple math that would lead me to remember how many years had flown by since my grandparents passed away. They were about my age when they owned this place.
Driving through backroads for the one hundred plus miles to home gave me time to connect a lot of dangling threads. Long about Hebron, Maine, Van Morrison came through with a soundtrack that had been blocked by the subliminal snapping of sheets on the clothesline that is no longer strung across the backyard at Snow Falls Cabins.
We had a good day, and we had a good visit.
“I’m a dweller on the threshold
As I cross the burning ground
Let me go down to the water
Watch the great illusion drown
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
I’m gonna turn and face the music
The music of the spheres
Lift me up, consume my darkness
When the midnight disappears
I will walk out of the darkness
And I’ll walk into the light
And I’ll sing the song of ages
And the dawn will end the night”
“Dweller on the Threshold.”
Songwriters: Van Morrison / H. Murphy
Thanks for stopping by!
From the jagged edge, I remain,
Tim Cotton
Thanks for reading the stuff.
Road Trips, Pricey Coleslaw, and Lunch at Gramp’s Old Cabins
The last time that I ate lunch on the porch of the lilliputian cabin was in August of 1969. Back then, the shiplap siding was bright white with red trim slathered on the boards of the eaves and all vertical edges. My grandfather had a retired fireman’s affinity for the color red.
The fog that settles on those transitory fifty-three years allows my recollection to add and subtract details that might or might not be completely accurate. Sometimes digging through memories is like the adage of playing with horseshoes or tossing hand grenades; we have to settle for close enough.
The thing is, I would have never packed lunch for an in-state road trip if it were not for the surprising uptick in the cost of a tiny container of coleslaw a few days before. I won’t get into the details, but adding a small paper cup of coleslaw to a meal should not cost three dollars. I understand food costs, and I support business owners in trying to eke out a living in a challenging market. But I can make lunch far cheaper than I can buy one. I also know that a cup of old cabbage is still cheap; but so am I.
The coleslaw price gave me a wake-up call that drove me to the cupboard to make a couple of sandwiches and steal a single-serving bag of cheddar cheese Goldfish from the stash I keep for visits from my grandaughter. It’s more relevant to the trip because my grandfather would have always packed lunch rather than buying it roadside; He was thrifty for life. I’ve only been committed to the cause since the coleslaw incident.
I headed to West Paris, Maine, on a mission to find a small aluminum boat for the camp. The seller, a retired plumber, said he would be at home by ten a.m., and I was welcome to stop by to see the one he had for sale. I took the entire day off from work, planning to take only backroads to the destination.
A sunny drive on a cold spring day is something that I refer to as “blowing off the stink” of winter. It’s not a melodic phrase, but our catalog of terms is not meant to please others, only to convey a thought or a feeling simply and with as few words as possible. I cut through Sumner, Hartford, and many small places that I’ve not been to in years; lovely, all of it.
The boat was not exactly what I wanted, but there were more to be seen before June arrived. I asked the plumber if the old Snow Falls Cabins were still standing over on the Bethel Road. He said that I couldn’t miss them
. I told him that my grandfather bought the place when he retired from the fire services in 1968. I droned on about spending many summer days fishing on the riverbank of the Little Androscoggin with my dad and grandfather. He was as vaguely interested as any man might be on a sunny spring day.
I didn’t tell him that for two weeks in 1969, I was dropped off for an extended stay at the cabins while my mom struggled through the childbirth of my little sister. The sixties were different, and moms and dads didn’t share all the details of difficult situations with their kids.
I knew that something serious was going on because only dad stopped by mid-way through my visit. I remember hushed conversations in the kitchen while I tried to sleep in the hot attic bedroom. Whispering meant that it was not for me to hear, and, naturally, I struggled to hear everything. I didn’t. My sister was born, and I was advised that mom needed some time to rest.
I don’t know— for sure— where my older sisters were, but I think Kim was at Uncle Bob’s, and maybe Robin was there with me; I don’t remember. I was only six.
I watched my grandmother iron the sheets—every one of them—for the small rental cabins. After they were squeezed dry through the compression rollers in the four-legged Maytag, they were line-dried in a western Maine breeze that smelled like spray starch and sunshine. I can still hear them smacking and flapping with sharp cracks when the wind picked up. My grandmother must have used a pile of clothespins.
Crisp sheets were my grandmother’s calling. Her Salvation Army Officer College years followed her when she made the tight and perfect hospital corners on all beds at home or in the guest cabins. You slid in and out like a letter in an envelope. Comforting really.
I learned that it was naptime when “The Days of Our Lives” theme came on the little black and white television in the laundry room: “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.”
It wasn’t nearly as traumatic as it sounds because I knew gramps would take me fishing in the late afternoon, so the nap was the only roadblock to overcome before the bliss that followed.
I jumped in the Ford and drove over to the cabins, now painted a hideous shade of beige, for sale, and in a sad state of disrepair. I pulled off into the sandy spot that used to lead to a driveway in the back of the, formerly, little white buildings. I sat in the truck for a few minutes, the scene was blurred from a bit of dust in my eyes. With the windows down, I have to admit that I searched the air for any scent of Niagra spray starch or Woodman’s fly dope. I reached for the roast beef sandwich and a bottle of water for my low cost picnic lunch, but only if I wasn’t kicked out for trespassing.
More to come…
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
Tim Cotton
Part two of “Road trips, Pricey Coleslaw, and Lunch at Gramp’s Old Cabins” will be available next week. Please come back, consider joining in getting the Newslog sent to your email each week. Just sign up by hitting the banner, “Get Tim’s Newslog.” Easy Peasy.
Thanks for reading my stuff, buying the books, supporting my efforts.. I appreciate your support for the website through the BuyMeACoffee app. Remember, to be inducted into the Royal Order of Dooryard Visitors you can sign up for regular financial support on a monthly basis. One time support is also appreciate, but not necessary. Also remember that you need to do nothing, and pay nothing, to read the Blog posts at TimCottonWrites. We want to remain an open concept living area for folks who just want to read the stuff. I appreciate all of you. Time is precious, so the fact that you stop by here is a big deal to me.
Thanks,
Your friend,
TC
Keeping Our Boats Afloat.
The phone buzzed across the dusty surface of my nightstand last night. I’d generally avoid picking up a text at the witching hour, but my current agenda includes answering specific inquiries that I have made through the magic of electronic communication. I’ve been perusing Facebook Marketplace.
I was trying to buy another old aluminum boat. The craft I purchased last year —to replace the one I sold last year—is far too shallow in depth for the safekeeping of cargo that I take aboard. The freight is typically just an old black dog and me, but my granddaughter enjoys catching fish when she comes to the lake, so I’m more aware of safety now.
To add some clarity to my admission, most of my aluminum boats have leaked more than I liked. I don’t spend a lot on them, and it’s kind of a hobby of mine to be perpetually trading up to something that seems slightly better. Usually, they are just about the same, but you don’t lose much money selling and buying disheveled and dented aluminum boats.
I picked up, hoping that the fuzzy-faced, camo-clad character had accepted my offer on the larger modified-v hull. It sported a dull, dead grass green paint job that would blend in with my soon-to-be publicly displayed disappearing act. It wasn’t the same guy.
Him: “Is this Tim Cotton?”
I recognized the name on the account as someone I hadn’t seen in at least twenty-five years.
Me: “Yes, how are you?”
Him: “Hey, Brother, I’m doing pretty amazing. I seen a post with your name at the bottom of it, and I was like, man, I was so thankful for what a great guy you are. I still remember you used to bring me candy bars and s#*t. I come a long way from those days…I know you have kids now, and you know, it just struck a chord with me how you went above and beyond what most people would.”
We last talked when the man was nine or ten, and I clearly remembered him from many not-so-positive interactions. He is featured in my first book, “The Detective in the Dooryard,” in an essay called “The Kid From the Trailer Park.”
I answered the text, of course. You don’t ignore memories that vividly reveal themselves in bold words from a dimly lit screen. I think about many of the kids I’ve met over the years. Their stories haunt me on some days. I usually push it out of my mind by searching for cheap aluminum boats that I don’t need.
I clickity-clicked back to him—
Me: “I’m so glad that I made some impact. It means a lot that you noticed. I’m so happy that you are doing well. Where are you living now?”
Him: “I’m in Tennessee. Telecommunications engineer now. I mean, really, what I’ve come from gave me a lot of perspective that most wouldn’t have.”
Me: “That is so great! I think of you often. I always knew you had it in you. You came up with some tough circumstances. I’m proud of what you have become.”
Him: “For sure. But I’m proud of where I am. I still have my own struggles. It’s called life. LOL, it’s not all peaches. But I definitely look at things differently. I try to learn from my mistakes now. I’m human. But having a leader like you helped me through. I didn’t know it until later in life. But man, it is so good to hear from somebody such as yourself. Know that you had such a big impact on my life when I was much younger. I definitely gave you a run for your money, but luckily, that’s not the case anymore.”
Me: “I always knew you could pull it off. It sounds like you did. That’s pretty great to hear as I get close to retirement this summer. Makes me happy to hear from you. Thanks for reaching out. It means so much to me!”
Him: “Yes, Tim. You will enjoy that retirement, brother. Because I can assure you that you’ve earned it…and I know the type of impact you made on me. That’s the same interaction that you had with everybody you met. So, you left your mark on this world, Tim. I can assure you that everybody knows it. So, again, thank you very much!”
Me: “Thanks, If you get up to Maine, drop me a line. I’d love to buy you a coffee and hear the rest of the story. Be well, my friend.”
And with that, I plugged my phone back in and slid it back across the nightstand.
I slept well. I’ve not heard from the camo-clad man with the dull, dead grass green boat. My offer was probably a bit low.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
TC
Tim Cotton
April 30th, 2022
I hope you all have a wonderful weekend. Thanks for reading the stuff; thanks for all the unbelievable support from the BuyMeACoffee application. You keep the blog and website afloat with your generosity. It will always remain free for those who want to read because of the support of others.
Ode to Paul Davis (Cool Night)
I’ve always been a bit of a sap. Oh, not for all things, but a few things; good music is one.
No one in my pack listened to Paul Davis music in the late 70s. I like all kinds of music. That doctrine was a shield I could wield to fight off the pummelling of sharp ridicule that came from the back seat of the 1970
Gran Fury— by one of several friends— when I turned up Paul Davis instead of the Stones. It would be some time before I would have the means to install a tape deck into my car, so I was held at the mercy of the playlists forced upon the deejays on our local radio stations.
To lay it all out on the line, I would have immensely enjoyed a little of George Beverly Shea’s “His Eye Is on the Sparrow”— now and then— if it had been available on radio stations during those years. It wasn’t, but the homebound console, a Zenith record changer, had plenty of GBS available. The album stash also contained every one of the Tijuana Brass albums; I love Herb Alpert.
Begging for silence from a band of post-pubescent man-boys who were along for the ride was a futile crusade. It took a long time to learn all the lyrics of the songs that formed my eclectic taste in music.
Loud cajoling, artificially produced fart sounds, and wet willies stuck in both my left and right ear pan could have made lesser men punch the preset radio button that would lead us to Bangor’s 12Rock, also known as WGUY.
Still, I was a firm believer in melody, harmony, and the superior acoustics provided by a well-worn brown paisley cloth interior. I owned the metallic brown beauty, and it was always clear that the driver controlled the radio. “I Go Crazy” would continue to be played—loudly— whenever it came on.
His song, “Do Right,” was one of my favorites in 1980. I was heading into my senior year in high school. No one knew that I liked that one either. That summer, I was stuck in a small town in steaming Georgia near the border of South Carolina. A Maine boy in Georgia just doesn’t work out all that well.
I contracted Mononucleosis—not from kissing, which is unfortunate—and spent that summer— very tired— listening to music in my tiny bedroom in the town where I had no friends. My dad had taken a pastorship there. Paul Davis was a pastor’s kid from Mississippi. We had more in common than I knew.
Fortuitous for me, my parents saw that I was way out of my element. They sent me back to Maine that autumn to finish my senior year. I moved in with my buddy Robie T. and his family. I made it through twelfth grade without much fanfare or superior gradesmanship. I know it’s not a word, but I am not one to be held captive by the wants and needs of others.
Paul Davis released “Cool Night” in 1981. I liked that one; it was excellent date night music. While I was kissed more that year, I never was stricken with Mono again. It was good to be back in Maine.
Davis had stepped away from making music after being shot in the stomach during a robbery attempt in Nashville back in 1986. I was working as a radio deeJay by that time. I worked directly with the deejays I listened to on WGUY while I had been driving around in high school. We didn’t play any Paul Davis during those years.
Davis survived his gunshot wound, but he stepped away from performing. He made a little more music with some country stars, and he had started working on some new projects in a home studio. Most of that is not available for fans to hear.
Paul Davis died on this date, April 22, 2008. It wasn’t a widely-shared news story when he passed from a heart attack. I heard, probably a couple of days later, and it made me long for the time when he was making the music that most of my friends didn’t like at all.
Paul Davis might have made me a musical pariah with my friends, but he also got me through a long, hot, lonely summer in northwest Georgia and some ‘cool nights’ on the jagged edge. Preacher’s kids have got to stick together.
Paul Davis April 21, 1948—April 22, 2008
“His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.”
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
Tim Cotton
It’s a Good Friday
My Friday has been successfully closed out, and it’s only eleven a.m.
I am proud to say that my third book has been completed, but the final step was to pen an introduction. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been working on it, but to finish it up has taken me the better part of a week-and-a-half.
Yet to be released, the title is “Dawn in the Dooryard.” There is a subtitle, but I’ll withhold that for now. I’ve learned that things tend to change without much warning and usually without my consent. I flow with it. We can talk about all of that some other time.
My editor and I met for coffee about two weeks ago. He had sent me plenty of reminders to get the introductory piece to him. During the period when the coffee became stale and cold, he brought it up again.
“Did you get the introduction done?”
“No. But I will.”
I’ve worked on it—and I’ve deleted it—nightly from that point on. When someone makes you write things, they don’t come as quickly as the fertile mind can produce when daydreaming during an important meeting.
I’m excited to send it, but I’m equally happy to see the revisions that might come back to me for review in the next month. Some might revile the process, but I want to see what others find unacceptable. My editor is a very patient man. He must be to be able to work with someone like me.
He told me that he pulled something from my Facebook page as a last-minute addition to the next book while we were sipping our drinks at the last meeting. I liked the piece, but I thought it was a bit late to have anything added to “Dawn in the Dooryard.” Editors can do whatever they want, within reason. I appreciated his flexibility.
So, today, I will not write anything else. I will get some sunshine and meet one friend for a late snack and another for an early dinner.
It’s Good Friday, and I’ll keep that in mind too. It’s important to me, and maybe to you.
Be well,
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
TC
Today’s photo is from my friend Scott Bryson. It’s called “Seawall Sunrise.” He’s the guy that owns Bagel Central in downtown Bangor. It’s the spot where I always meet my editor, Michael. It’s been a lucky table for us. Say hello if you see us arguing. Thanks for your support through BMAC, it’s helped the process, and the website tremendously. Tim Cotton
No Need For a Gold Watch
I shouldn’t have mentioned it to D’wayne, that’s not his real name, but it’s what I call him. There’s and old Key & Peele sketch that I like very much, D’wayne has never seen it. He humors me by accepting the moniker.
“At least we’ve had a pretty decent dry spell. Your camp road is probably passable at this point.”
I looked out the window to subliminally will him to do the same. It was a sunny afternoon overlooking nothing in particular.
Fifteen years ago, before they tossed windows into the walls, the architectural staff did not discuss my office view with any concern about the future occupant. I watch some police cars, and fire trucks go by from time to time; the cars are silent, the fire trucks not so much.
“Possibly,” D’wayne said.
Of course, both of us knew that the weekend was going to bring the type of rain that makes camp roads impassible for a few days at a time.
D’wayne is the keeper of cleanliness on the third deck of the BPD. He is a man of few words, but he tells me good stories; I think he trusts me. Not all the way; Mainers rarely trust you all the way. I like that trait. Too much trust sometimes betrays a person.
I’m a Mainer, so I don’t pry. People will tell you as much as they want to tell you. There’s no need to dig. Digging can cause scrapes and scars, and those tend to bleed.
I only dig when something needs to be solved. It was my trade, and I think I made my mark. Your mark fades as other people make their own. They stamp over yours like a kid carving his initials into a Hemlock. If you look close, you’ll still find mine, but you are better off just walking by to find a tree of your own.
D’wayne is unsolvable. He’s a cold case.
He is retiring soon. Actually, he already retired once, but I think he got bored and came over to help us out. He’s not a janitor by trade; he did other cool things at a world-famous Maine canoe factory. Most of our conversations center around going to camp. Now and then he tells me a story from his days making canoes; we love canoe stories where I come from. He has a great spot in a beautiful place somewhere north of Bangor. He speaks about it with the same reverence I have for my place, further east from here.
He still calls his parents “Mumma and Daddy.” They built his cabin, but they don’t go any longer for obvious reasons. When someone respectfully speaks of their parents as Mumma and Daddy, the listener should do a mindful and silent count from one to three. No need to talk. It allows their spirit to visit for time without interruption.
I know that D’wayne’s second retirement will happen before I exit, but Mainers like to remain mysterious even if you know them well. We only talk about retirement when he brings it up. Sometimes he stands silently and smirks. We then talk about leaking roofs, getting water from a pump, and people from other places who pull in and try to buy your cottage just as soon as you crawl under it to fix a broken pipe.
Still, those visitors don’t always understand why it makes you a bit cranky. They’ve more than likely never had the opportunity to repair camp/cottage plumbing, so it stands to reason that—at that moment— they are happier than you are.
One of the things that should be pointed out to the rest of the world is this; most Mainers only have camps (cottages) because someone in their family built them between 1947 and 1985. I pick those years arbitrarily as sometime after WWII and the year I recall that lake-front property was becoming too expensive for many Mainers. Buying what once was cheap is no longer possible. Suddenly, a given becomes a dream, which makes many of us very sad.
Our place was first planted on cedar post footers in the early twenties. My Significant One’s family bought it from a fellow who landed there in the mid-1800s. His first name was Cyrus; it’s a name not all that popular in current baby books.
Maine has six-thousand lakes and great ponds. Thousands of miles of rivers and streams are available, but people from away often find it offputting that ‘everyone’ has a place on the water. They envision gorgeous homes and palatial oligarch-style housing options; nothing is further from the truth.
These camps we speak of were made from repurposed lumber, leftover metal roofing, and huge stones rolled out of the pathway—later— to be used for foundation material. They took their families to the lake or pond on hot summer Saturday nights to dip in frigid water. They patched the roof while kids played, and they axe split windfallen wood so they could warm the place up during ice fishing or ice collecting seasons.
This is why Mainers who are retiring speak of going to camp. Sure, some go to Florida, and we understand. But the resilient among us will just go more often to camp.
My conversation about the roads being dry was merely a precursor to a conversation about what this man will be doing in retirement. I already knew, so there was no reason to talk about the gift of a gold watch or sleeping in more regularly. That’s not happening.
He will just go to camp. Maybe he will have a quick visit with Mumma and Daddy. Gold watches can’t hold a candle to that.
Tim Cotton
March 2022
*Thanks so much for reading my scribblings here at the website. We are in the midst of a cleansing, and you will see new photos, styles, and other things in the coming month. Bear with us. Since it won’t be a long time before I “go to camp” I am trying to make this a more regular part of my writing regimen. Book three is in the bag, as I call it. I met with my editor yesterday. It looks like the new one will be out in early November. I plan on micro-touring a bit to do signings and readings, but also plan of going to some Maine and New England libraries this summer. My July retirement date has been confirmed. Thanks for all the support for the site in both time spent, and donations to the BMAC fund. It keeps us running, and allows me to avoid looking for full-time work in the coming year. I am gonna settle into finishing that fiction book that I’ve dreamed of completing. Be well.
TC
&
Ellie
The Quilt Lady; Don’t Let Her Fool You
My dealer is a diminutive lady who has an addiction of her own; she appears to be overrun with product. I’m merely the means to an end.
It’s not something that I am proud of either; men don’t admit habits like this one. I’m sure my T-levels are reasonable; I still look longingly at muscle cars, power tools, and pickup trucks built before plastic-wrapped bumpers were considered stylish upgrades.
Okay, I’ll admit that driving a Plymouth Valiant with a Slant-Six wouldn’t bother me a bit. The term ‘Valiant’ certainly doesn’t dredge up memories of big wins on straight stretches of road. But reasonable gas mileage and the constant ticking of the iron blocked Chrysler Corporation’s bread-and-butter powerplant makes me misty for the days when you had to borrow your aunt’s car for date night. Sure, it was a four-door, but double-dating could cut expenses in half.
I miss the sound of the parking pin clicking comfortably home—loudly— inside the sloppy transmission when you threw it into park just a bit before coming to a complete stop.
The thing is, I like quilts. There, I said it. I like quilts.
Just for the record, I like Clint Eastwood’s Spaghetti Westerns too. I think it’s essential that everyone knows that.
It all started at an early age, but the addiction took hold after taking ownership of the camp in the woods. Several old quilts came with the dilapidated cedar-shingled hovel. It’s been torn down and replaced, but the musty, frayed quilts were salvaged.
They were tattered and shabby from years of use. My lady-quilt dealer fixed one of them up the best she could. She usually downplays her work in a most self-deprecating way.
“I did what I could, but it’s not perfect. The material is so old that the thread just won’t hold. It’s usable if you are careful. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better.”
The thing is, it was better.
My dealer gifted me the most backwoods-chic handmade quilt at Christmas a few months later. It’s camouflage, and I think tiny whitetail deer prints are on the other side. I keep it at camp for naps. I use it to cover my feet late in the fall—before the woodstove fire amps up, and after tromping across the frigid floor to grab another mug of coffee.
She gave me a quilt that she felt wasn’t up to her standards the very next year. She cut it in half and restitched the edges so that two people could use the same quilt while sitting— or lying— in different locations. I think there is a wool army blanket used as stuffing between the patchwork. It’s marvelous.
I’m not sure if it’s an actual army blanket, but the term needed to be added for a touch of masculinity; this is hard for me.
Once they get you hooked, kind and timid quilt ladies sometimes call, late at night, to advise you that they have a quilt that you might like. This past summer, she lured me to her home and approved me for a quick rummage through a colossal basket mounded with her handiwork. She let me pick one out.
She priced it low, most likely to keep me coming back. That wool quilt came with a matching miniature quilt intended as a lap blanket. It’s warm, heavy, and a welcome comfort when I turn down the heat during late winter nights at Chez Timmay. She has me economizing for future quilt purchases; this is what dealers force you to do.
Things got pretty intense this past Wednesday night. She has reverted to social media for making contact. She has embraced technology to keep me interested; my Messenger app lit up. I turned the screen away from the Significant One, who is currently visiting. I don’t want her to catch on.
I’ve attached the screenshot, and you can see clearly that she is up to no good. I’ve turned into her best customer. The thing is, she is heavily discounting the quilts to keep me coming back.
She turned out her Kia’s lights the minute she pulled into the driveway; she was so coy. I didn’t hear her coming up the steps. I stowed the dog in the bathroom to keep her from barking. Silent visits from the quilt lady will surely get the neighbors talking.
This particular quilt is made from parcels of wool taken from multiple lady-type sports jackets that she has cut up since she retired last summer. She’s even left in some of the pockets; I remarked that those pockets are good places to hold screws, nails, or even cigarettes.
I should explain that I don’t smoke, but I blurted it out, hoping she wouldn’t judge me. I’ll use the pockets to store late-night snacks; she doesn’t need to know.
I’m sure I’ll need professional help at some point. I took TQL’s photo with my latest acquisition. I can at least leave it out on the counter for use by investigators when they see my bank account is empty before they stop by the house to see if I am okay.
They’ll probably find me wrapped in a quilt. I hope someone checks my pulse before rolling me out the door to take me to rehab; there’s a good chance that I’m only warmly napping.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
TC