Flannels in August

The girl -

She was 15, tall and thin, growing up too fast. It was a cool morning in Maine. August, but still cool in the morning. She picked out a red and black checkered flannel shirt from the closet in the Soldier room. It had been her grandfather's and had been in the closet all winter. It was damp from the basement below the closet but not moldy. She sniffed the arm and tried to remember her grandfather's smell. It had been too long and she couldn't smell him but she tried to believe she could. Everyone else in the old house was still asleep so she quietly slipped out the back door, closing it gently so it wouldn't slam. She was barefoot and the grass was wet and heavy with dew. Some bird on the bay made a strange lonely, singular cry. That's a Loon, she thought. Her grandfather and her father had told her that years ago.

The daughter -

The small, black and white checkered flannel shirt was too thick and too warm for August but she always wore it in the garden because that was where her father wore it when he was alive and still able to work outside. She remembered the years when he seemed possessed by the garden and the yard, working late into the evening until her mother called him in for dinner. Whacking the weeds to keep them back, out of the yard, cutting and hacking everything as if to gain some control and restore order. She saw the signs of dementia early but it took 10 years to take him completely. She fought along side him for all those years but they both lost. Now, she had his flannel shirt and it still smelled like him, she believed.

The son  -

As soon as the August sun reddened the sky over Islesboro, Jake would open his eyes, with some effort as he was still tired and a little rough after last nights late dinner and drinks by the fire pit, roasting marshmallows for the kids and drinking another ice cold beer. The sun warmed his face and was the best alarm clock on the Maine coast. He got up and walked to the closet for a shirt. Nelle had stocked up on warm flannel shirts at the Goodwill in Rockland and kept them in the closet in the Yellow House for summer family and guests. He picked out a faded brown and purple one, soft as a chamois, and put it on as he walked to the kitchen. After he made coffee, he grabbed his rod and headed for the dock. The tide was wrong but it didn't matter. He might still catch and release a few mackerel before breakfast.

Big Red - husband, father, grandfather,

He was cold again. August in Maine but to him it was always cold, everywhere. He was wearing his long johns and opened his eyes but only saw the ceiling. White, empty. He reached out his left hand as he did every morning for the past 60 years to find Martha. She was there. Asleep and snoring gently even though the rising sun was bright on her face. He got up slowly, put his feet on the cold, hard, wooden floor and shivered. The rug was not there so he walked to the dresser and got out a pair of socks. The closet door was open but there was no light and he did not want to turn one on so he reached in and felt around for a shirt. A warm shirt, like flannel, but a thick one to keep him warm. There. He had one and walked slowly to the bathroom, closed the door, pulled down on the string to light the room and looked at the shirt as if he had never seen it before. Black and white checked, thick flannel and warm. He put it on and walked into the living room and sat on the old, red couch, scratching the left arm of the couch as he waited for Martha to get up and fix his breakfast.

Tom Crowley

August 11, 2016

Lincolnville Beach, Maine

Preservation on The Rocks_Chapter 1_04262002

DIARY OF A RESTORATION PROJECT

or

“Preservation On The Rocks”

April 26, 2002 –

Closed on the house today. At the closing the current, soon to be former owners seemed a little jumpy. They kept looking at their watches, and hopping around in their seats. They were dressed up to go somewhere and were anxious to get there. Later, I realized that they were probably leaving the country, or at least the state. Then they started telling us about the ghost of The Countess that had been seen in the house at times. Not by THEM of course, but by others, also long dead. Thanks for sharing that detail NOW! We signed the papers anyway and everyone ran away from the lawyer’s office as fast as possible. I think I heard laughter in the parking lot.

We drove over to the house, which is located in the Rocks Village Historic (or Historical) District is located in a town called HAVERHILL. When we got to the house, we practiced pronouncing “Haverhill” for a few hours, while we were drinking the champagne left by the grateful (and relieved) former owners. Then, we decided that we REALLY lived in “ South” Merrimac because it was easier to pronounce after you had been drinking.

Exercise: say Haverhill three times real fast, correctly.

Restoration work: None

April 27-30 –

Long weekend, didn’t do much at the house but look for frogs in the basement. We also determined that the basement is ideal for storing wine. White wine goes in a deep hole in the basement floor that looks like an old well. The water also shows you where the water table is, all the time. Handy. What’s a water table?

The red wine goes in a brick lined cave where the old furnace was. We didn’t check the temperature but we are sure that the wine will be OK. Especially since we only buy three bottles at a time. Then we drink them over the next 2 days. There seems to be plenty of room for more bottles when we have money again. Like never

I was so concerned about all the work we had to do and the fact that I had sweet-talked my lovely, wonderful, gullible, arthritic wife into still ANOTHER restoration disaster that I had to go fishing with my brother in law, Mike. Mike has been married about a year, I have been married for over 30 years, ergo I had much wisdom to impart. Besides, Mike had some beer.

May, 2002 -

May 4^th –

Our furniture, which had been stored in Columbia, South Carolina for about 3 years after we moved from Chester, Connecticut (another diary, another restoration, for another time!) The movers from South Carolina called from the wrong side of the “Rocks Bridge”. This old green historic span connects West Newbury with Rocks Village. Their van was too heavy so they had to find a way to get to us via I-95 & I-495. We explained this by cell phone and they left. They arrived about an hour later and started to unload as the sky darkened and the rains came.

As we tried to do a running (literally) inventory check we noticed that they only had about half our furniture, and half of that was broken or water-stained and moldy. Naturally, the water stains and mold were on carefully preserved photographs and framed paintings. If they had been on our old, moldy furniture we wouldn’t have noticed, for a while anyway. I think the furniture would have been safer on the ORIGINAL “Mayflower”. I know the “crew” would have worked harder.

The worse news? They lost my best fishing rod! This means WAR! The war of Northern Aggression is about to start over. Don’t be messin’ with a mans fishin’ pole!

May 5^th - (Cinco de Mayo!) Paralyzed with fear & apprehension, we opened more boxes and still more wine. The fear was that we would run out of wine before we ran out of boxes. We had plenty of both so we went to bed. “Cinco de my - - -!”

May 6-11, 2002

Writing by the week is better for a diary. That way it seems like you really got something accomplished. This week we opened more boxes, scraped some paint off one wall, found a hardware store, a lumberyard, and a package store nearby. We now know we can buy milk, bread and eggs within 2 miles, guns, liquor and ammo within 6 miles, and four different ice cream stands within 4 miles in any direction. I can also walk to the river to fish. Good week. Oh, I forgot, we haven’t seen any ghosts yet. A very good week!

May 12-18, 2002 –

Met some of the neighbors. Nice to know many of them drink. Not that this is a pre-occupation with people who restore old houses. It’s just that after sucking down or sniffing in plaster dust, attic insulation, or basement dirt all day, you really need to open a bottle of wine and pretend that the “workers” just left (the imaginary ones, because you couldn’t afford to hire any) and walk around to critique their work.

This week we worked in the yard and started to do some real work inside. Since it was both Mothers Day and my daughter’s birthday, I got Nelle a new putty knife and promised to work like a slave for her all day. The kids tried to help too. However, Elizabeth had a prior commitment and got her hair and nails done, and Tommy got a speck of dirt under his contact lens so we had to go to Home Depot (20 miles away) to get him some protective eye gear and gloves. Then, after stopping at a Farm Stand for pie and doughnuts, Starbucks for coffee (another 10 miles) it was kind of late when we got back to help Nelle with the ceiling. She had an ice bag strapped on her shoulder, a putty knife in one hand and a scraper in the other. No eye gear, no gloves. But we helped her down from the ladder and got her some ADVIL so she could make us lunch

Without hurting her shoulder or arm too much. After all it was Mothers Day.

After lunch, Tommy had a great idea; we really should buy that new lawnmower so he could mow the lawn for us. So he and I jumped in the SUV and went out in search of a mower. As we left, I think I heard Nelle shouting out something about hyperactivity and staying on task or not listening to her or something like that. Since we had the cell phone with us, we knew she would call if it were important.

By the time we got back with a new mower, (I don’t remember now how Tom talked me into a $3,500 John Deere Riding machine when we had a yard the size of a Half basketball court) Elizabeth was home with new hair and great nails. She really wasn’t in the mood to scrape old calcimine paint off the ceiling and besides I had gotten them tickets to Incubus on the Internet for her birthday and she had to get ready. That’s when we remembered that we forgot to buy gas for the mower. We called up to Nelle that we would be right back and did she need anything? She mumbled something from the top of the ladder. It was either “have a good time, I know I will” or “I need primer and more ADVIL” We couldn’t really hear her, but we still had the cell phone. I think Tom and I were bonding pretty well on these little trips. He was getting to learn a lot about “period restoration” and I was hearing a lot about his life. Perhaps a little too much. He had just gotten laid off and I was afraid he was going to hit me up for some cash so I just kept talking and changing the subject. I didn’t want to hurt his self-respect or deny him the chance of experiencing true, character-building poverty by giving him money. He would just resent us later and besides I had my eye on a new fly rod and the stripers were coming up the river soon. Is that wrong?

This time, when we got back, it was time for Tom to take a shower and get ready to go to the concert with Elizabeth. I got mad and told him he had to mow the lawn first. He did this in about 5 minutes with the new ride and only clipped half of Mom’s new flowerbed.

I checked on Nelle. Whoops, she really did want primer and more ADVIL. I felt pretty bad so I got up on the ladder and started scraping away.....Hmmmm, what the hell is this stuff on the ceiling? The layers from first or oldest to last included:

Wood lath - These were actually hand-split 7/8 inch boards with horsehair plaster on top of that, finished with a nice veneer plaster, then 2-3 layers of “calcimine” paint, the worst stuff to try to remove in the world because new paint won’t stick to it, but then they had painted it and then wallpapered over the paint, painted it again, and then, to cover up the cracks, gaps & holes, they had smeared a concrete-like swirl finish for the final layer. Great. This concrete crust had been slopped on to the side walls and also used to fill some fist sized holes in the wall. I scraped like mad for about 5 minutes and then told Nelle, she really looked like she could use a glass of wine. I hate it when she drinks alone so I stopped to open a nice bottle of Zinfandel.

After we had a few glasses, sitting outside in our old Adirondack chairs (thanks to Pam & Tony) we went back inside to stare at the ceiling.

I think May ended about here. June, 2002 diary entries to come later. Probably in November, 2002.

STOP - end of Part I – submitted to Port Planet – published in early Nov, 2002 issue

I Thought I Was Irish!

I thought I was IRISH!
so I drank too much
I wrote bad poetry
and wore green and such.

Then grandfather retired
and tried to collect
They asked for his birth certificate
Just a routine check.

He found out he was adopted
by an Irish family from Cork
He was descended from Germans
who couldn't find work.

All those years had been wasted!
Drinking, riding, and worse.
He thought he was Irish
and relished the curse.

Now its my turn to worry
about my roots and the TREE
If I was really German
What harm could there be?

I guess I could work more
and cut out bad rhyme.
How boring to be
cut down in my prime!

Oh well as they say
on St. Patricks Day
EVERYONES Irish
at least for a day!

Frederick Thomas Crowley, Jr.
aka
Freidrich Von Diesel

The Wahoo's Tale or Why Nelson Bit The Wahoo

He didn't mean to do it,

The Wahoo didn't care.

He flopped at Nelson's feet

Saying “BITE ME IF YOU DARE!”

Nelson thought; “Why Me?”

I have no fight with you

The Wahoo flipped its tail

as if to say “I DARE YOU!”

Nelson grabbed the Wahoo quickly,

took two bites from its tail,

and released it just as quickly

Wahoo tail is stale.

They had met on the field of honor;

Loblolly Beach, Anegada, high noon

Nelson was ready, expectant

But the Wahoo bit his toe too soon!

The next time that they met

Bozo was at the wheel.

Bo, Jake and Tom were ready

Jake's leader; stainless steel.

The Wahoo hit the lure

with power that was raw, intense

Jake set hook, regardless

for the fish there was no defense.

The Wahoo broke the lure in half.

Its teeth broken yet pride intact,

But Nelson gaffed it smoothly

dragging fish inboard, a sack.

It beat the deck all bloody

Refusing to submit

Nelson laughed with derision

It was the Wahoo's time to quit.

We ate the pompous Wahoo

on February Nine,

2016 – Anegada

Victory tasted fine!

Dedicated To Bozo & Nelson on Princess I from:

Tom Crowley (Tom, Jake & Bo)

catamaran “SUNDOWNER”

2/19/16 - Anegada

Sitting On The Dock - Part One 1968

(I wish my first command had looked this good!)

It was November, 1968 and I was in St. Thomas USVI and after a few weeks sleeping on the deck of the Tontine II, a 76 foot John Alden schooner, drinking cheap Heinekens at Fearless Freds while my laundry rolled along behind the bar, I was ready for a change of scenery. This big Australian sitting next to me was telling me his plans to sail to South America with his wife and hinting that I should join them. Sounded good to me and better than staying on land for even one more day.

We drained our beers, checked the laundry, and then walked over to his boat to meet his wife and check it out. Hmmmmm. Not much of a boat. 26 foot long and it looks homemade. I took a few pictures later but now I can't find them. Too bad. She was ugly but she was going to be my first “command”.

I met the wife. What can I say? Honestly, she was a beast. Short, fat, curly black hair, frumpy in an irritating aunt-type way. Bad teeth, poorly capped and a suspicious, probing and disapproving look. However, she liked me and we sat down in the cramped cockpit to discuss their plans and how I might fit in. Our knees touched and despite my homeless/boatless status, I was embarassed to even be aboard this thing.

The Australian (I have forgotten his name now but he called me “Kid”) pulled out some lukewarm beers and we started the negotiations. They wanted me to be the Captain and teach them to sail as we cruised down the islands to South America. No problem there. How much were they going to pay me?

“Well, actually Kid, we sort of thought you could kick in $5 bucks a day for food and we could see how things go from there..” .(this attractive offer was delivered in a strangely familiar, Cary Grant type accent that cracks me up even today)

“What??!!” No way. I need money more than I need a job so forget it!”

“Now wait a minute Kid, me and the missus need your help just to get started and you're stuck here in Yacht Haven and told me you wanted to get on down island. Right?...So this way you can join us, help us out, get some sea-time and jump off at any island down the chain like Tortola, Anguilla, St. Marten or even wait until we reach Antigua. What do you say?”

What COULD I say? It WAS 1968, I had just flunked out of Penn State and lost my 2-S deferment status and would soon be re-classed “1-A” and have to go back to the states to serve somewhere. Probably the Navy but that was somewhere out there in future-land. This was NOW.

“OK. Lets do it. When do you want to get going?”

“Thats the way, Kid! Lets drink to a new adventure!”

I had no idea, nor could ever imagine, that just a few weeks from that day, after being stranded on the customs dock in Road Town (Sitting on The Dock – Part 2) , I would be trying to sail a 12 foot dinghy, with all my gear stuffed under a green canvas tent, from Road Town, Tortola back to Charlotte Amalie, St Thomas to find another boat!

To be continued….stopped here at 6:38 am on Sunday, January 17, 2016. Almost 48 years later. Bummer, I am so freaking old that I can't believe it! By February 5^th I will be back in Tortola, with my faithful. Long-suffering, still beautiful wife, Nelle, and her brother Jake, his wife Valerie, and their two amazing kids; Mae & Bo. We will bareboat a 47 foot Leopard catamaran and, once again, sail the BVI. The adventures continue!

Tom Crowley, Man of Action!

Growing Up Widener

Frederick Aloysius Crowley, professional jockey, 1912 - 1959
Frederick Thomas Crowley, Sr.,1924-1978
Frederick Thomas Crowley, Jr., 1948- (writer)

On many late summer, Saturday mornings we would ride our bikes to the end of my street, West Mill Road in Flourtown, Pennsylvania, stop at Stenton Avenue, look right to the bridge over Wissahickon Creek and beyond to the huge barns where the hay was stored, then left to the horse barns where jockeys were exercising their horses inside on the indoor track, then, straight ahead to the sweeping lawns, majestic trees, and long, curving driveway to the Widener estate. Ahhhhh, what shall we do today? Fish in the creek? Sneak into the hay barns and jump on the hay? Drive over to see the horses and see how close we can get before the head trainer comes out and chases us away? No. today we will try to sneak into the Widener's guest house! We knew that this meant hiding our bikes and hiking through the woods in a long sweep around the main house and come up to the guest house from the other side so as not to be seen by the many gardeners and caretakers working on the estate grounds.

Not a bad way to start the day in 1958. I had no idea then that my life, past, present and future would link me to or draw me back to the Widener's farm and property. I did not know then that my grandfather, Frederick Aloysius Crowley had been a jockey and rode for Mr. Widener when he was only 15 years old. I did not know that in May, 1964, at the age of 15, I would deliberately crash a Cadillac into a tree on the Widener estate, totaling it, and then walk the 1.5 miles home down West Mill Road to climb a tree and sneak back into my bedroom.

Despite my stray from normalcy at such a young age, I loved the Widener estate for many reasons; Hope, inspiration, dreams, love of the outdoors and most of all, the freedom it gave me to roam vast acres of land, undetected by day or night, to escape what was going on at my house where I had three sisters, a tired, worn-out, and overwhelmed mother, and an alcoholic abusive father.

As I would build my life through the 1960's through 2005, I would always keep the image of the Widener estate in my mind as a safe, wonderful, comfortable image of success that I would try to emulate. In the most important ways, I have succeeded. I have a wife who has stood by me for over 40 years, two wonderful children, who are married with children, my five grandchildren, and am retired in Maine where I have been headed since 1958 when we would come to Camden for a summer visit as tourists and later, with my father, as a sailor.

Notes for reference:

I have researched the Widener who owned the property while I was trespassing there. He was George Dunton Widener, Jr. His father, GDW, Sr. was lost on the Titanic. GDW, Jr. died in 1971, the same year I got out of the US Navy and married Nelle Carta Garofalo.

The Widener properties are now called “Erdenheim Farm” and have been restired to host weddings and other functions. The horse barn is even bigger than I remembered and they now raise, among other animals, horses and cattle: Belted Galloways, a breed I see every day in Camden, Maine.

http://whitemarshfoundation.org/about/sample-page/

http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=96352177

http://erdenheimfarm.com/about-us/