Douglas H. "Butch" Pye, Jr.

Douglas H. "Butch" Pye, Jr.

How do you say goodbye when you are not there?

My brother Butch is nearing his time to leave his earthly body, and my mother and sister are by his side. They tell me not to worry, not to rush, that I need to remember the time I spent with him in July of this year, "You don't want to remember him like this." This 1000 miles is so far, yet my loved ones are never far. They are in my heart, with every beat of my heart and every breath in my lungs. The love of family transcends time and space and we can close our eyes and feel them close. When I arrive it will most likely be too late to kiss my brother's cheek, to hold his hand, to be there to hug my Mom when he breathes his last breath. This cancer that shortened his life, also gave him a gift to make his peace before leaving. We've struggled with this before, is it best to leave swiftly with a sudden heart failure or accident to spare oneself and their family from the pain of long goodbyes? Or is it better to know ahead of time, to have the opportunity to do your last things on earth, to make peace with the people you care for and love?

There are no answers, and certainly I am no expert. I'm the one that moved away, that made a life in another land and just comes home to visit. Circumstances beyond my control prohibited my move home, and then, it was the comfort level of knowing the people so well in my adopted home. To have two homes, two places with family and friends and familiar places opens your heart even wider, but it also allows you to experience the ache of missing your first home while you live in your second.

What Butch taught me in his life was to truly LIVE. He moved around, he traveled, he got into trouble and got out of it again. He lived a hard life, and he spent the last 20 years more settled than he'd ever been. He made a home in the Belfast area, and loved the islands and the beauty of that area. He still thought of Bath and Phippsburg as home, and certainly like the rest of our family felt that the Alliquippa Harbor was a sort of sanctuary that comes from being a Pye. Lobster-fishing was in our heritage, and although our siblings never did more than do it as amateurs, we all loved the spray of the salt water and the beauty that Small Point exudes.

Butch made his living these past years as a house painter. He even painted Kirstie Alley's house, and she brought him a glass of lemonade. He did some work on the Farnsworth Museum, and was especially proud of knowing certain techniques that rich "summer people" asked for him by name. He was meticulous, and never spilled a drop of paint. It was his craft, and he was truly an artist. He could always sketch well, but never got the accolades our brother Dwight got for his art and his watercolors. Butch was just Butch, and would just humbly shrug his shoulders and laugh.

His life was not always easy, and he inherited the taste for drinking from generations past. That, like is wanderlust to travel, was also tamed in later years. He knew that hard living had cost him relationships, jobs and sometimes his right to drive, and he vowed to not allow it to get out of control ever again. His lungs were weakened by the materials he used in his job, and the cigarette habit he had had since a teen. The last ten years he'd been very careful what he put into his body, and loved to tell you about the herbs he took for his headaches, and the natural remedies he used to keep up his health.

It was to no avail to the strong cancer cells. To have been diagnosed with cancer in mid July and be at the edge of his last hours now in October was hard for him to deal with. He told me in on my visit the end of July that, "if it's the last thing I 'll do, I'll go to the Alliquippa". We were afraid that may not happen, so the kids and I took the camera and took as many photos as we could to let him feel that he was there. It wasn't the same, but it was all we could do.

The family stories of his childhood are legendary to us; how Mom called him "Butchy Boy" when he was little since Douglas was too big a name for a baby- the time he was dressed in a sweet white suit and dribbled chocolate ice cream down his shirt and told a sweet old woman that inquired what is was, "it's shit!". The time Mom took him to school and marched him into his classroom, and by the time she got home he was sitting on the front porch. The time he was getting yelled at by the vice principal at the Bath Junior High School and took a swing with his small wiry self and landed the guy into the trash can. The time he ran off with Pam Hagerthy and got married when he was so young he had to have a paper signed to make it legal. That marriage only lasted 9 months, but I think he never stopped loving her.

The worst story of all was when he and Dwight got into a car with a drunk kid that sped around Webber Avenue and killed a dear couple. The boys were blamed and labeled as killers. Dwight had been thrown from the back seat through the windshield and suffered the first of two traumatic brain injuries- and Butch and the other guy got only a few scratches. That haunted Butch for the rest of his life, and he told me once that if he could change anything in his life it would be that moment that he looked at Dwight and said, "Lets get a ride home, hop in."

Butch's life wasn't perfect, but whose is? He is the blonde blue eyed big brother of my childhood, the one that moved around a lot and I never really got to know until I was older. He knew the constellations, knew each rock, and prayed in the forest. He understood how nature is God, and God is nature. He is in Maine right this moment with pain medication coursing through his veins; he may be in a limbo land where he knows Mom and Pammy are there, and if I am lucky, the tears on my cheeks and the pain in my heart and my fingers on the keyboard are with him now.

Painters paint, musicians make songs and writers write and all I can do when I cannot be there is to write to you. I am going to add the story of the day you, Dwight and Pammy took me clamming so that it will be safe on another site in case another computer loses it.

If you can know what I am saying to you, Butch, I am praying for you to know how much we love you and that you are free to go on to this adventure, this new world of where our souls go when we die. For you, I would imagine Heaven has a rocky harbor and sunshine and salt water and a boat you can call your own. Dad will be there waiting for you, and you can go fishing and laugh about old times. We will continue to share your stories with our kids and their kids and you will be missed. I love you, my brother.


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Published in The Times Record summer of 2008

Going Clammin’

By Jana E. Longfellow

It’s the 4th of July weekend, and I am nostalgic for home. I haven’t missed many Heritage Days celebrations in my hometown of Bath, Maine, but this year we won’t drive home until my youngest niece Maggie marries in August. I’m here in South Carolina for the Fourth, but my heart is in Maine. It seems like everything is making me think of home.

When I was a little girl, I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to go clamming…or as a true Mainiac would pronounce it, clammin’. It is back breaking work, and true clammers often walk with a stoop, and have scarred hands from broken clamshells and hamstrings that never really stretch out enough to walk with a long stride. My Uncle Warren, famous in nearby Phippsburg for his antics when drinking Canadian Mist Whiskey, was a good clammer. He knew what flats had the best clams, and never divulged his secrets.

My brothers and sister are all older than me by 13, 12 and 9 years respectively; they never wanted to take me with them. I was the baby, and always in the way. One day after leaving Head Beach with my mother, I begged enough that they brought me with them. I had on a brand new pair of red Keds, and my mother told them that I’d ruin them in the mud if they weren’t rinsed out quickly. They all had hip boots on that would protect their feet, a much more sensible choice of footwear for this activity. My brother Butch promised they’d take care of the Keds, and me, and off I went with my yellow plastic pail.

My siblings and I mirror our parents; my oldest brother Butch and I are blonde like our Mom, and my other brother Dwight and my sister have dark curly hair like our Dad did. Our temperaments, however, are the opposite, with Dwight and I being the quiet ones, and Butch and Pammy the more outspoken ones. With the age difference being so great, the older three had a strong bond that I never really fit into. Being with all of them at the same place at the same time was a rarity, so I suppose that is why I remember this day even more.

The sky in Maine seems to be bluer than anywhere else in the world, but it’s probably just because we appreciate it so much more. When you’ve been cooped inside for so many months of bad weather each winter, the summers are precious and no amount of daylight is wasted. As we walked to the flats that day, the world seemed to have no end and the sky seemed to have no limits. The faster they walked, the more my little legs had to run to keep up. Butch kept a close watch underfoot as he led his siblings, and finally found a good place to drop his clam hod start digging.

I’ve never really thought about how to spell a clam hod, it’s just what we’ve always called it. It’s a basket, actually, with wide slats on each side to rinse out the sand in the water without losing a clam. Some vacationers (we call them “summer people”) buy antique hods and plant flowers in them. My mother does this, too. They have a handle and are easy to carry, and every garage on the coast has a few.

Nowadays, there are not many clammers. The work is hard, and no one likes to work that hard anymore. Local people can get a peck or two without a license, but most people and vacationers need to purchase a clam license.

You choose your spot by looking for little holes peeping up from the mud flats just after the tide goes out. A hole denotes a clam below; the bigger the hole, the bigger the clam. Some people dig by hand, some with gloves. Most people prefer to use a short handled, bent tine rake called a clam hoe. You lean over and dig up a good section of mud and pick through to find your treasure- sometimes more than one. If you are careful, you won’t break the shell; kids usually are not that careful.

The clams have awful big brown heads that stick up and will squirt you. This is the best part of digging, especially for a four year old. Of course, I didn’t eat them. I never have. They looked gross then, and still look gross to me today. My children have been clamming, and love to eat them either steamed or fried; they just love them.

By the time I had a few of the ugly things in my pail, I realized that I had a problem.

My little feet were sinking in the mud, and sinking fast. While my siblings were steady in their hipboots and moving quickly from place to place, I had been planted steady in my little red Keds….which, currently, were buried.

Of course, they didn’t hear me the first, second, or third time I called their names. I doubt they remembered I was there at all! Finally, Dwight turned and realized my plight. My sister Pammy laughed, and said they should just leave me there so she’d get her own room again. The boys thought better, and lifted me up, one on each side of me until both feet were free. Only problem was that I was missing one Ked.

They dug, and dug, and dug, but no sneaker emerged. I thought that there must be some kind of underground clam monster that ate it. “It’s okay, Baby, we’ll tell Mom it wasn’t your fault,” Butch kept repeating.

The scolding I got for losing my new shoe was worth it; my brothers and sister had taken me with them, and I was the happiest little kid in Maine. We got cleaned up, and then went to the parade, carnival and fireworks display over the Kennebec River. I had a sunburn on my shoulders and had the faint smell of saltwater in my hair. July in Maine, ever in my memories and always in my heart.

The marketplaces in my town are full of diversity...and plenty of space for our four-legged friends.

Ducky

We got this little Yorkie-Poo this summer, and lemme tell you, she has been a joy and a royal pain in the a** ever since.

She can be really charming and sweet.... and then run and pee tremendous puddles after you've just had her outside. She shreds magazines when she can reach them, chases the cat 'round and 'round the house, and generally makes me ask, "Why do we have this dog?" at least thrice daily.

Her new thing, or actually, according to my daughter it's been going on a while, is to every once in a while look at the corner of the living room and bark furiously...at nothing.

It makes you think she is seeing something, anything, and it's more than a little creepy. Her hair literally stands on end, and she will even boldly jump atop the recliner to get closer to her barking corner.

Seriously creepy.

This house was built in 1979, and to my knowledge the only thing that has died here is a dog (Fonzie the chihuahua) and a few marriages, so, I am not thinking she is seeing a ghost.

But, if she is, I hope it "finds the light" soon so this dog will quit freaking me out when I am watching tv by myself!

e.e.cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
not fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and its you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide)
and this is the wonder thats keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Wait for the guy who kisses your forehead,

I read this the other day, and want to keep it so I can read it again. It's as close to what I am looking for that I can find:



He met her in a party. She was so outstanding that many guys chased after her. He on the other hand was just ordinary, nobody paid attention to him. At the end of the party, he invited her for a cup of coffee. She was reluctant, but due to being polite, she promised.

They sat in a nice coffee shop, he was too nervous to say anything while she felt uncomfortable. She thought, "please, let me go home." Suddenly he called a waiter and asked, "Could you please bring some salt? I'd like to put it in my coffee.'

Everybody stared at him, so strange! His face turned red, but still, he put the salt in his coffee and drank it.

She asked him curiously, "why do you have this hobby?"

"When I was a little boy, I lived near the sea. I liked playing in the sea, I could taste the sea [?] , just like the taste of this salty coffee. Now every time I have a salty coffee, I always think about my childhood and my hometown. I miss my hometown so much, I miss my parents who are still living there," he replied. She was deeply touched as he spoke with tears in his eyes.

That was how he truly felt, from the bottom of his heart.

A man who can speak of his homesickness must be a man who loves home, cares about home and takes responsibilities at home. Then she also started to speak about her faraway hometown, her childhood and her family.

It was a really nice talk, also a beautiful beginning of their story.

They continued to date. She found that he was actually the man who meets all her demand. He had tolerance, was kind hearted, warm and careful. He was such a good person and she almost missed him! But, all thanks to his salty coffee, their journey begun.

The story was just like every other beautiful romance, the princess got married to the prince. Then, they live a happy life. And every time she makes a cup of coffee for him, she puts some salt in the coffee as she knew that's the way he liked it.

After 40 years, he passed away leaving her with a letter that read - 'My dearest, please forgive me, forgive me for this lie. This was the only lie I said to you - the salty coffee. Remember the first time we dated? I was so nervous at that time that I asked for salt instead of sugar. It was hard for me to change the order so I just went ahead with it. I never thought that could be the start of our communication! I tried to tell you the truth many times in my life, but I was too afraid to do that, as I have promised not to lie to you for anything. Now that I'm dying, you should know the truth..I don't like the salty coffee, what a strange, bad taste. But I have had the salty coffee for my whole life! Since I first knew you, I've never felt sorry for anything I did apart from the lie. Having you with me in this journey of life is my happiness. If I could live for the second time, I would still want to know you and have you as my wife, even if it means I have to drink that salty coffee again." Her tears wet the letter.

One day, someone asked her - what's the taste of salty coffee? "It's sweet," she replied.

Love is -
Not to forget but to forgive,
Not to see but to understand,
Not to hear but to listen,
Not to let go but to HOLD ON !!!!

Don't ever leave the one you love for the one you like, because the one you like will leave you for the one they love.

Find a guy, who calls you beautiful instead of hot.
Someone who calls you back when you hang up on him.
Also, someone who will stay awake just to watch you sleep.

Wait for the guy who kisses your forehead,
Who wants to show you off to the world when you are in your sweats,
Who holds your hand in front of his friends.

Wait for the one who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares about you and how lucky he is to have you.

Wait for the one who turns to his friends and says, '...that's her.'

Ask a question....

"Okay, I've heard of like 6 almost going to divorce marriage woes in the last few days...
everyone is freaking me out about this marriage stuff!!!
How are commitment phobic people like me supposed to have faith in marriage again when everyone is just scaring me
more with their awful stories???

God.

Can you find a song that will restore my faith, Mr. DJ?"

the reply?

"I have access to a computer tonight..... I'll find you something if I have to sing and record it myself."

Trying Vegan

Okay, I am succumbing to the devotees of Oprah by trying her 21 day Cleanse diet. Why not...I'm not getting anywhere fast with trying to diet myself, this one sounds as good as any other.

It won't be that hard for me to do most of it, since I've never eaten red meat and only eaten chicken a few years here and there. I just quit eating chicken a few months ago, I had taken it back up again in 2002 and really found it increased my health problems. (probably all the hormones in it, I'm very chemically sensitive.)

I have had fish, dairy and eggs, however, so this will be new for me.

So far today, I've had blackberries picked from my front yard (YUM!)with some black coffee, and a side salad from Wendy's with and ice water. You are not supposed to have caffeine, but, I had to work and didn't think the caffeine withdrawal headache was a good start to VBS at church. :)

So far, I am a little hungry. I think I'll warm up a tofu "Smart Dog", maybe the jolt of protein will make me feel better.

They are having subs with all the fixin's at church tonight, so I should be able to find plenty of veggies to keep me feeling good.

My goal is to get to 130 by the time I get to Maggie's wedding. That's a lofty goal, but hey, why not think positive?

Here is Kathy Freston's directions that include avoiding

* Caffeine
* Sugar
* Alcohol
* Gluten
* Animal products

And Kathy's 8 Pillars of Wellness



which include:

* Meditation
* Conscious Eating
* Exercise
* Visualization
* Spiritual Practice
* Self Work
* Service - Wellness
* Fun - Spirit

This will be an online journal to keep me honest.

130, here I come!

the most beautiful song

Cat Stevens - How Can I Tell You

How can I tell you that I love you, I love you
But I cant think of right words to say
I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you
I'm always thinking of you, but my words
Just blow away, just blow away
It always ends up to one thing, honey
And I cant think of right words to say
Wherever I am girl, I'm always walking with you
I'm always walking with you, but I look and you're not there
Whoever I'm with, I'm always, always talking to you
I'm always talking to you, and I'm sad that
You cant hear, sad that you cant hear
It always ends up to one thing, honey,
When I look and you're not there
I need to know you, need to feel my arms around you
Feel my arms around you, like a sea around a shore
And -- each night and day I pray, in hope
That I might find you, in hope that I might
Find you, because hearts can do no more
It always ends up to one thing honey, still I kneel upon the floor
How can I tell you that I love you, I love you
But I cant think of right words to say
I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you
I'm always thinking of you....
It always ends up to one thing honey
And I cant think of right words to say

Secrets

Every Sunday morning, I log on to PostSecret. I just read the secrets on the postcards, then logged on to the Facebook page and read dozens that Facebook members left.

It's liberating to know that so many people feel just as vulnerable and sad as the rest of us are at times.

It's devastating to read how bereft so many young people are, though. So many of them suicidal, cutting, putting themselves in danger.

We are underestimating ourselves if we don't realize the importance of being kind to everyone we meet in a day, there is too much sadness in the world and we may be the only ray of hope for someone on any given day.

It just makes me want to cry.