PHOTO ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND WORK OF PEAKS ISLAND ARTIST AND WRITER KAT FARRIN

Kat Farrin lives and works in her Peaks Island studio. In these photos I try to capture a glimpse of the artist's life and work space. Kat eats, sleeps, meditates, writes, paints in her studio apartment. Surrounded by her art, the walls themselves pulsate creativity.

Kat Farrin is from mid-coast Maine and has worked for years as a lobsterwoman. At one time, after spending many hours on the ocean, she became obsessed with painting portraits of lobsters. This detail captures the integrity of Kat's philosophy as an artist--she lives her art and her art lives inside of her. In the flow of her everyday routine, work and art merge into one indistinguishable entity. For Kat it is important that that inner source of her creative work, whether in painting or writing, be a place of honesty and integrity--with oneself, with one's family, and with community.  Kat says that creating her paintings is a meditational process, and indeed, the paintings themselves exude a calming energy. As an artist and a writer, she draws inspiration from wandering the beaches and forests of Peaks Island, picking up random bits of sea glass, observing sunsets, and even the occasional sunrise.

These days Kat divides her days between writing her memoir and painting pointillist paintings on found objects that make their way onto the shores of Peaks Island. She has raised four children, is a grandmother, and has a thing about islands, having lived for many years on Cliff Island, now Peaks Island.

Laima Vince

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home and Whoopie Pies

Being at home is like being the soft, creamy white filling of a whoopie pie, shielded by

thick soft chocolate layers that envelope you, layers that can’t exist or have an identity without you. You hold the walls together and give them meaning, a reason to be. You are so connected to home that it becomes an extension of you – only identifiable as a home if you are there, just as a whoopie pie cannot exist without its filling. The sweetness of home is all engulfing and overwhelming. Walking in the door of home with its familiar smells is like taking the first delicious bite of its chocolate and savoring it. And we can choose to share it with others, only increasing our pleasure.

Home sticks to us and we don’t want to give it up for the lesser pleasure of an oreo cookie home, for example. Those hard little circles with stamped designs may be neater and prettier and also in need of a cream filling, but they just don’t have the softness and comfort of a cakey, plump bun. You can sink your teeth into the whoopie pie but you need to break off the pieces of an oreo with your teeth, or soak it in milk to make it palatable - sort of like a standard motel room- lovely and useful for a night or two, but you sleep better there if you bring your own pillow and toothbrush. Home requires no such adjustments or modifications. It is perfect just like it is; it is what you know, where you belong.

1. "Take The A Train"

This is the first piece of a work in progress that is not yet titled.
Each segment is identified by the sequence number and the name of a tune that plays some significance in the segment.
______________________________________________________________________

            Zach Rivers’ piano playing embraced a menu of music from everywhere he had been. Although he chose Billy Strayhorn’s “Take The A Train” as his final piece tonight, Rivers was determined to take his audience not straight to Harlem, but on a fifteen minute sonic excursion through the many ethnic neighborhoods along the way. With the direction “we’re taking them to Harlem, the long way” given to his bass player and drummer, he introduced the piece with a grumble of subterranean minor tone clusters picking up speed as Omar Foucault laid down a fat round bass grumble, joined by Tyrus Dupree’s steady chachugga chachugga with his brushes, emulating the sounds of iron wheels clinking on the seams where the rails joined. This tune has always been played as a train song for Riverrun. After a couple of minutes click clack and thrumming, Rivers pulled a switch and shifted into the celebrated run that announces the song, changing the atmosphere in the club to a more familiar line. The band played the bridge jazz-straight before Rivers took his first solo – transporting his audiences with a salsa beat through little Puerto Rico, Juju harmonies through the West African neighborhood, a wisp of Klezmer melody to honor the Jewish residents long gone, and finally ending with the elegantly phrased chords of the Duke, opening the door for Omar Foucault to engineer the train through his own rich historical tendencies.

            Toward the end of his bass solo Dupree joined him, accelerating the pace to where Foucault had exit at the next station. He said his goodbyes and left the drummer to travel alone. Dupree tended to take his solos in chunks of 32 measures. His limbs were not connected to anything other than his gut, and he laid out polyrhythms from all the places he’d been: tribal West Africa, Bali, Motown, New Orleans, the rice patties of Viet Nam, the bath houses of Hell’s Kitchen, and Rikers Island. Rivers loved playing with him because his sense of rhythm came from the rawness of the street, the jungle, and doing time, yet they were never brash or crude. Dupree made statements from places unfamiliar to citizens, but they carried weight, never burdened or preached, and always supported the music.

            The crowd was typical for Riverrun’s regular Thursday night gig. The band had its followers, mostly students from the local university, a handful of jazz fans who expected splendid music who were never disappointed. Then there was Foucault’s student entourage, tourists looking for something different from home. Like Kingston Mines in Chicago, Ryles in Cambridge, and Tipitina’s in New Orleans, Tibor’s’s could be found in every tourist guide, and had a well-deserved reputation for presenting the best local talent across genres in the area. Tibor Meszaros owned the joint ever since he emigrated from Hungry where he was a Freedom Fighter during the revolution in ’56. A miserable son-of-a-bitch who owned a dozen or so slum apartment buildings in the city, he had a wart on his cheek that resembled a dead spider, wore outdated pin stripe suits he bought at the local Salvation Army, had an awful comb over that looked like a squid laid down and died. Yet he took pride in his club, and had an uncanny sense in finding musicians who had something new to offer. Rivers got a solo gig after he fixed some problem for Meszaros, and expanded to a trio in order to explore new musical terrain and to increase his musical possibilities.

            As if there were some powerful sonic magnet, the trio pulled to play the head, fairly inside, one more time. They stopped on a dime, bowed, and Rivers mumbled “Omar Foucault on bass, Tyrus Dupree on drums. Thank you for coming,” and left the stage. After receiving the envelope from Rivers with his share of the door, Foucault headed for the bar where his buddies from college were waiting for him with a pitcher of beer. Dupree broke down his drum kit. Rivers handed him his envelope and two fingers of  Wild Turkey neat. “Good gig. Thanks. See you next Thursday.”

            By 2:30 the fog outside had turned into a drizzle, which distorted the lights from the other businesses along the waterfront. This was a favorite time for Rivers, who measured his life by chunks of favorite times, a strategy that served him well when he worked for the CIA, and for now, as he lived alone in a world of his choosing. The combination of fatigue and satisfaction heightened his senses, and as he walked the half mile in the moist salty night he thought of how his unencumbered life, simple, with a great deal of time, without obligations or responsibilities, was a good life. His old life as an agent got too complicated. Too many situations were beyond his control; too many jackasses giving orders; too many dirt bags having their asses saved; too much duplicity, treachery, cruelty. His adult life had been as chaotic as his childhood when he was living with parents who were drunks. Now things were good. He had no close friends, but that was his choice. Lost trust in others, and he was good with that. Yet he continued to help people in jams. It added interest to his quiet life, and those favors were reciprocal, and he collected many unspoken markers for later use. There were no special woman in his life and he was good with that. Being a piano player he had no trouble finding a willing companion for a night or a weekend when the desire arose. Longer than that and they began to ask questions that he didn’t want to answer. Being his age the desire arouse as often as a full moon, and he was good with that too.

As he walked to the entrance to his condo on the marina, he breathed in the cool sea air and thought, “as long as I continue to keep a low profile and stay uninvolved, I could live the rest of my life like this.”

            From the beam of the streetlight he saw what looked like a pile of rags bunched against his door. Moving closer he realized that it was a body. The long blond hair was matted and disheveled, a dark raincoat over a white dress that was drenched with blood. He bent down on one knee, placing his right ear near her nose. He heard a faint girlish moan. She was breathing. She was still alive. He got up and scanned the perimeter of his complex, seeing nothing suspicious. He looked down at the crumpled figure at his feet, and whispered, “fuck.”

Back to 1984: Survival in a Soviet Bunker

        

       “You obviously have got to play the dissident,” Amanda said, gazing out the Honda Civic’s front passenger window at the seemingly endless kilometers of tall pines flashing past in a blur of forest green.

       “Why me?” I asked, throwing up my hands up in frustration, letting go of the steering wheel for just a moment, causing the car to swerve unsteadily towards the sandy shoulder before bringing it back onto the two-lane road.

       “The Soviets considered all you Lithuanian-Americans dissidents,” Amanda said, nonplused, “and so they will view you as a dissident whether you take on the role or not.”

        “How about you?” I asked.

        “I will play an American who has come to the Soviet Union because I am enamored with the Soviet system: No unemployment; a flat for everyone; a chicken in every pot, and so on.

         I laughed.

        “Hey, I don’t want any trouble,” Amanda said. “I’ve heard they push you, shove you, scream in your face, lock you up in a bona fide Soviet prison cell if they feel like it.”

         “It would be too easy to turn this whole thing into a joke.”
         “That would be a waste of our money, wouldn’t it?"

          I was thinking of the 100 litas ($37) I’d paid for the pleasure of putting myself in the role of a Soviet army recruit for three hours. Amanda and I were about to put ourselves twenty-five years back in time to the Orwellian year of 1984 as participants in a Lithuanian-style reality-show theater performance in which viewers actively participated by living the experience of being bullied by Soviet guards and psychologically manipulated by KGB agents to inform on friends and family and sell their souls to the Soviet utopian state.

         The “reality show” was designed as an “educational experience” for young Lithuanians who are too young to have experienced life under Soviet occupation first hand. The actors who play guards, KGB officers, or medical personnel have lived the Soviet experience for real. Before committing to buying a ticket, I did some research online. In one article, the show’s director, Ruta Vanagaite, is quoted as saying:  "Sometimes the actors get stuck in that time and forget they are actors. We had to fire some of them because they were a little too hard on people. It’s very easy to break people’s will – once you are down there, six meters underground, you feel like you can’t get out.”  

           The show takes place in an actual Soviet bunker located about an hour’s drive outside of Vilnius.  Six meters underground, comprising 3,000 square meters of tunnels and cave-like rooms, the bunker was built in 1984 as an emergency base for Lithuanian state television transmissions, in case Vilnius came under attack from NATO. The bunker is equipped with stand-alone heating and sewerage facilities, communication lines to Moscow, and a roof designed to withstand the impact of a nuclear bomb. Needless to say, it was never used as shelter from a nuclear attack, but was used by members of pro-independence groups in the early nineties to disseminate information when Lithuanian radio and television was under siege and occupied by Soviet forces at the zenith of the independence movement.

          We drove along the two-lane road through the forest and I began to get nervous that we’d never find the place. I was surprised to see a metal sign alongside the road, indicating that we had arrived at our destination. One carry-over from Soviet paranoia, even over twenty years into independence, was a distinct lack of signage.

          I pulled up and parked outside of the all too familiar depressing decrepit Soviet brick building that served as the project’s headquarters, our first step into the netherworld of a bleak and terrifying Soviet reality.  As instructed on the project’s web page, we placed our cameras, cell phones, GPS, and hand bags into the trunk of the Honda and headed inside the building. A woman dressed in a grungy gray Soviet-era quilt jacket and baggy gray pants ordered us in Russian to take off our jackets, hang them on the hooks provided, and put on one of the identical gray Soviet-era quilt jackets hanging on the coat rack. Dressed in our new clothes, Amanda and I were indistinguishable from each other, as well as from the other participants, who had arrived before us and who were now standing around, giggling nervously or staring pensively at nothing in particular. With the exception of two Italian university students, the other participants were mostly Lithuanians, too young to remember or have lived the Soviet occupation. There were few older people. The banter among the groups of young people made it clear to me that they were here to have a good time, to laugh off the experience. But what were the older folks doing here? Was it quality control of the experience or a need to return into the past? Or… Perhaps nostalgia?

         A tough-looking woman gruffly shoved a clipboard at each of us and demanded we sign. I read the disclaimer in English and in Lithuanian. We were asked to sign that we would not hold the theater company responsible for any psychological or physical trauma experienced as a result of participating in the 1984 Soviet Bunker reality performance. The document clearly stated that “in case of disobedience participants may receive psychological or physical punishments.” I recalled reading an article about how when the program first began an indignant French tourist broke away from the group and ran out of the bunker. He retrieved his cell phone and called the local police to come and close down the show. The local police arrived and the show was shut down temporarily. I’d also heard from some local teachers that a school group of teenagers had been traumatized after participating in the program and that the show’s director was warned to tone it down. After these incidents, allegedly the actors were delivering a slightly “less authentic” experience. I signed. The woman snatched back the clipboards and deposited them on a rickety Soviet-era metal desk.

        A heavy-set young man dressed in a Soviet guard’s uniform swaggered his way in and barked at us to follow him without making eye contact with any of us. He was followed by another guard, yanking back a snarling German shepherd held at bay on a short chain. This guard told us he would not hesitate letting the dog off its leash if we were to disobey orders. All of us fell into immediate and total submission. We swiftly grouped ourselves into a line and marched outdoors behind the stout guard.

        When he stopped, we stopped. He ordered us to stand in a row in a clearing in the forest. Naturally, friends grouped themselves together. I made sure that I ended up standing beside Amanda.   

        The entire performance is conducted in Russian with no exceptions. Either you understand or you don’t. Sink or swim. The idea is to replicate what it would have been like to live as an occupied people. We were expected to know the occupier’s language—he was not going to bother to address you in yours. I could understand about eighty percent of the guard’s orders. Amanda understood mostly everything, but had difficulty with speaking. The older generation spoke Russian fluently: the State language in their day. The younger Lithuanian students had some trouble understanding, but caught the gist from a general passive knowledge of Russian common to most living in Vilnius, which is heavily populated with Russian speakers.  

        The Italians asked for clarification in English. As soon as they did, our guard lifted his meaty fist threateningly and let loose a string of expletives, “No talking, blat! Kurva!”

       The Italians shut up immediately.

       Our guard demanded that we count off by twos in Russian: odin, dva, and so on.

       “Odin, dva,” we counted off.

        “I can‘t hear you!” the guard barked. “Louder!”

        “Odin, dva,” we counted off, now with greater enthusiasm.

        “Now, all of you who said odin step forward!” the officer shouted.

          I stepped forward.

         “Form a line!” he demanded.

          I was separated from Amanda. I glanced back at her longingly. This was an old Soviet trick—to separate friends and family and regroup people in such a way as they did not know who to trust.

         “No looking behind you! March!” the guard shouted in a near hysterical frenzy.

          Then he began to run in a trot. All of us odins trotted behind him. He demanded we chant, odin, dva as we ran, and like a pack of fools, we did. We instantly lost our individuality. The dissident in me was not so much as putting up a fight. Would I really have been crushed that easily under the Soviet system?

         We trotted behind our guard through a patch of forest and then descended into a cavernous opening into what appeared to be a man-made concrete cave. I descended the tunnels and was amazed to see that long corridors extended in all directions in a web-like fashion. Rows of doors led inside individual rooms. We were ordered to jog behind our guard through the corridors. Panting to keep up as the group ran ahead of me, I was struck with a sobering thought. What if I could not keep up with the group and lagged behind and got lost in this underground concrete labyrinth? They were not responsible for me. I had signed the disclaimer. Would anyone look for me? The low concrete ceilings began to weigh in on me. I glanced up and noticed that not just hairline, but rather large, cracks ran across the length of the concrete ceilings. This bunker had been built decades ago, during the Brezhnev years, by Soviet workmen who were renowned for never losing an opportunity to drink both on the job and off the job. Would those ceilings hold? But there was no time for reflection now. The officer commanded that we move swiftly inside a small room, crowding together so that the entire group could fit—group think had begun.

          A primitive Soviet-era projector stood in the center of the room. A screen hung on the far wall. The guard demonstrated how we must wait for the dvas to arrive. He dropped down on one knee and tilted his chin upwards in servile anticipation towards the blank screen. He indicated that we must all do the same, adding a few succulent curses to get us in the right mood. We all obeyed, dropping to our knees immediately and striking the ridiculous pose, tilting our chins up expectantly like a pack of school children waiting for a visit by Santa Claus. Our guard grunted his approval and snickered at our idiocy at the same time. Soon the bewildered dvas were herded into the room by the guard with the German shepherd. They were ordered to stand close behind us. I glanced around, looking for Amanda, but only caught a glimpse of half of her face at the back of the crowd. Because we were down on our knees before the screen, the others were able to move in closer and crowd behind us. In this way the small room could hold double the amount of the people than its normal capacity and everyone could see the screen, an example of Soviet architectural ingenuity.

         The ancient projector hummed to life and the year 1984 flashed onto the screen. Scenes of happy Soviets pouring out of concrete apartment complexes walking swiftly and stern-faced to their work at the oil refinery floated across the scene. A narration in Russian described a happy utopian life in the Soviet Union in which every citizen was provided for: Amanda’s scenario. Scene after scene of utopian harmony and happy Soviet citizens enjoying lives lived in an orderly society flickered before our eyes. As I watched the film, I began to feel oddly comforted. I caught myself day-dreaming: What if such a happy world could actually exist? A world in which a responsible government, like a good parent, took care of everything for you and all you had to do was fulfill your daily quota and be happy the rest of the time? The images on the screen promised a world without the worry of putting a roof over your children’s head and food in their bellies. As the newsreel churned on, I forgot myself and became lost in the dream of the propaganda. I struggled to match the happy scenes on the screen with the Soviet reality I remembered seeing during my student visits to Soviet-occupied Lithuania in 1983, 1984 and during the academic year I’d studied here in 1988-1989 but could not reconcile the two experiences. I forgot my current surroundings, my reality. I no longer cared that my knee was aching and trembling, supporting all my weight against the cold concrete floor and that the man crowded behind me was breathing hotly down my neck. I felt sad when the newsreel ground to a halt. I snapped back into the present.

          “Everybody up!” the guard commanded.

           We leaped to our feet obediently. We were ordered to jog through the dark tunnels. I ended up at the end of the line and often found myself just barely able to keep up with the gray-clad back retreating in front of me. The tunnel was not lit and I worried about tripping over something or making a wrong turn where the tunnel opened up and divided into two, sometimes three directions. Claustrophobic fears gnawed at the back of my neck as I ran: keep up, keep up, keep up with the crowd.

           I was so focused on keeping up that when we arrived in the gas mask chamber, I realized that I had not paid attention to how we had gotten there and had no idea how to get out of the labyrinth if I needed to. There were burlap bags laid out on the table. We were ordered to wait for the order to open the bags, and then listened to a drawn-out explanation of the rules and protocol regarding gas mask usage. When the order was finally given, we each opened our bags and removed an authentic Soviet-era rubber gas mask. Our guard delivered yet another long-winded explanation on how to disinfect our gas masks using a cotton pad dabbed in rubbing alcohol. He belabored every detail, emphasizing each point, as though he were addressing a pack of idiots, which to him, obviously, we were. Then, we were ordered to clean the gas masks ourselves. He paced the room as we rubbed our cotton swabs inside the gas masks, pausing only to shout at someone, humiliate them, or insult them on their stupidity. Once we were finished with this task, we were ordered to put on our gas masks. With the gas masks pressed firmly to our faces, we endured another long speech on how the enemy, the evil capitalist West, intends to invade the great Soviet Union with gas attacks and how we had to be prepared.

         Wearing the gas masks, we were ordered to run, again, through the dark tunnels of the concrete bunker. After about fifteen minutes of running, with our gas masks fogged over, gagging for breath, we returned to the room for more “training.”

        “You!” the guard barked at a young man standing in the line-up. The young man raised his finger and tapped his chest as if to say, “Who me?”

         “Yes, you!” the guard screamed, his face growing red and hot with rage. The young man stood at attention. “Step forward!”

          The young man took a hesitant step forward.

         “How dare you conduct so serious an operation with a hard-on!"

          The man gave the guard a look as though to say, “Are you kidding me?

          Everyone in the room burst out laughing at the expense of the young man, who stood there looking perplexed and furious all at the same time.

         “Get the hell out of here!” the guard screamed, his voice reverberating against the concrete walls of the close chamber. “You’re a disgrace!”

          The guard with the German shepherd grabbed the young man by the elbow and shoved him out of the room. That was the last we saw of him until the reality show was over.

          “Now, I’m going to show you what to do in case of a gas attack from the Americans,” our guard explained, shifting his voice into an almost pleasant, friendly, tone. “I need a volunteer.” He scanned our crowd of gas-mask clad quilt-jacketed fools and broke into a seedy grin. With a leering, flirtatious, smile, he gently coaxed a stocky young woman out of the crowd. He handed her a white cotton sheet. She took it hesitantly.

         “Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to go to bed with me,” he grunted. “Open up the sheet and lay it on the floor.”

          The girl began to giggle, looking over at her girlfriend, who snickered.
          The girl’s giggle broke my concentration. Up until that point I had maintained the seriousness of the reality show. These girls were not at all trying to stay in character. They were having a good time, a good laugh. They were not fazed by the guard at all. Amanda had been right; it was too easy not to take this seriously. The guard smiled coquettishly, but at the same time prudishly, like a prim old lady. “Davai, davai,” he said gently, motioning for the girl to spread the sheet down on the concrete floor and to lie down on it. Still giggling, the girl lay the sheet on the floor.
         “Now grab the left top corner with your right hand and roll yourself up in the sheet,” he instructed.
           Because of her stoutness, the girl had some difficulty, but eventually she rolled herself up in the sheet.
          “Everyone shout three times, urah!” the guard called out jovially, motioning for us to cheer.      
           And we did cheer.
          “That is how you survive a gas attack,” the guard announced triumphantly.
           Somehow I had a hard time believing that an old bed sheet could protect anyone from a gas attack, but I was not about to argue. The girl unrolled herself, stood, folded the sheet, handed it back to the beaming officer, and returned to her place in the line-up.
           After a brief tutorial on how to remove our gas masks and replace them into the burlap bags, we were again ordered to jog the corridors of the concrete labyrinth. Without hesitation we fell in step, jogging behind our commander, and soon found ourselves outside the Political Education Chamber—The Red Chamber. With a hushed reverence, our guard led us inside. He ordered us to stand at attention against both walls. Inside this small cell the walls were decorated with propaganda posters celebrating May 9, 1945. The collected works of Marx and Lenin were tidily arranged in a bookcase. A large desk dominated the room. Behind the desk stood a sly-looking, well-groomed, middle aged man in a more formal Soviet uniform, that of a higher level officer. He was the intellectual of the operation, I gathered, the brains behind the machinery. He was the KGB officer. I had heard that the show’s director had recruited unemployed ex-KGB officers to play these roles—for the sake of authenticity.
          After a pregnant pause, the KGB officer emerged majestically from behind his desk and paced around the room, looking each of us menacingly in the eye. He took a small book from his desk and began to read out loud to us, as though we were a gaggle of school children. The gist of the text was that one was either for or against the Party. If you were against the Party, then you must be terminated. If you were for the Party, the Party would take care of you. The KGB officer then spoke of Siberia, of concentration camps, of a variety of possible punishments for those who disobeyed. He stepped behind his desk and pulled a sheet of white paper from his drawer.
          “You!” he demanded, pointing at a young man, “come here.”
           The young man did not seem to understand Russian, so the person standing beside him pushed him forwards.
          “You don’t understand Russian?” the KGB officer sneered.
           The young man shook his head, no.
          “A disgrace!” the KGB officer bellowed, “An illiterate! We have an illiterate among us!” He shoved the blank sheet of paper at the young man. “Sign here!” he shouted, tapping the bottom of the page with his index finger, and then thrusting a pen at him. The young man dutifully signed on the bottom of the blank page. The KGB officer snatched the paper and held it aloft triumphantly. “Now I have a signed document!” he said, pacing around the room, shoving the paper in our faces. “I can write anything I like on the top of the page and it is a legal document. It contains his signature.” Then he turned to the young man, “Perhaps I should write that you agree that your family are traitors and ought to be sent to Siberia? Ah? Or do you agree to come and see me every Thursday and tell me about your friends? I don’t need to know a lot, just the moods of your friends, what they are talking about, what concerns them."
          The KGB officer stopped in his tracks and gazed at each of us through narrow brown eyes.     “All of you have families, right? And you want your families to be safe, don’t you? You want them to be safe to study, to work and live in peace. Then, you ought to have no trouble agreeing to help us out.”
         The officer stepped from person to person and posed the question directly to each one of us: “Do you agree to collaborate with the KGB?”
          Person after person in the room calmly gazed back into the KGB officer’s eyes and answered, “Da,” yes, I will collaborate. Just like that. No one resisted. Not one person in the room so much as hesitated before answering. They were all Lithuanians. All of them agreed to inform on their associates. Didn’t they know their own history? Or, was their history a different history than mine? The thought hit me with a chill. Of course, this was only a reality show, but still? I was the second to last person left standing along the opposite wall from where the officer had begun asking his question. Because everyone had agreed to collaborate and not one person had resisted, the KGB officer moved through the room rather quickly. He soon ended up in front of me. He looked deep into my eyes and calmly asked, “Will you collaborate with the KGB?”
          The answer that rose up from deep within me was “Nyet.” No, I would not agree to collaborate or inform.
          I hadn’t planned it. I hadn’t rehearsed it. The word simply came spontaneously to my lips and once it was there it seemed absolutely right.
         “Perhaps you misunderstood my question,” the KGB officer cooed. “I will rephrase it.”
           He repeated his question.
           Again, I answered, “Nyet.”
          In that moment, I was convinced that I would prefer death to buckling in to the KGB officer by saying, “Yes, I will collaborate.” The moment I said no a second time, I knew my defiance was not about bravery, not about patriotism, not even about principle. It was about ego. I would not allow myself to be broken and that was final.
          I’d always had this nagging feeling inside when interviewing prisoners of conscience that their resistance was somehow about them. Editor and typist of the human rights journal, The Chronicle of the Catholic Church of Lithuania, Nijolė Sadūnaitė, used to play mind games with her interrogators. She wore them down. Even now she lights up when she talks about “the good old days” and all the excitement of being locked up in solitary, arguing with her interrogators, getting exiled to Siberia, and taking it all in stride. “It was like a tourist trip, she likes to say glibly. “They take you to the wilderness for free and provide you with armed guards to protect her from the local wildlife.”
          It took not only strength of character to be a prisoner of conscience, but a healthy ego. In the dull gray monotonous world of the Soviet Union the only fun around was to challenge the all-powerful KGB to a good fight. I experienced that same thrill the moment I said, “Nyet.”
         The group gazed at me in disbelief. The KGB officer ordered me to step forward. He told me to raise my arms. He told one of the women who’d agreed to collaborate to search my pockets and she did. This woman pulled out a plastic baggy with white powder inside of it and handed it dutifully to the KGB officer.
        “Drugs,” the officer said in mock surprise. “Just as I suspected. We have a drug addict among us.”
         He held the plastic baggy containing white powder up high for all to see. “Guard, bring her to the Med Punkt!”
        The guard with the German shepherd wordlessly led me to the closed door of the Med Punkt, the medical center. I was told to wait in the hallway. I recognized one of the Italians from the line-up when we’d first arrived. He too had been brought to the Med Punkt and was ordered to wait along with me. I whispered to him in English, “What did you do?” Before he could answer, the guard grunted at me to be quiet.
           After a few minutes, the guard opened the door to the Med Punkt and shoved us inside. There were the dvas, lined up against the wall, looking aghast. In the corner stood a primitive Soviet dentist chair connected to a drill powered by foot pedal. The instruments laid out beside the chair looked rough, primitive, brutal. A terrified young man sat in the chair with his mouth hanging open, waiting for his “dental exam.” Meanwhile, the dentist, who doubled as doctor, a Soviet bottle red head with a cynical sneer, was busy behind a screen giving a frightened young woman a “gynecological exam.”
         The doctor emerged from behind the screen and launched into her own propagandistic tirade about how the Soviet citizen’s body belonged to the Communist State and therefore should be well maintained to serve the Communist State. To abuse the body was to cheat the State. There was nothing soft or conciliatory about her. She barked propaganda and waved her primitive sharp implements dangerously, flaunting her power over her victim’s bodies. She interjected two endearing words of praise, “pravilna” and “atlichna,” every few sentences to soften her harshness. She was an expert at playing mind games. She was terrifying in her cold precision, but showed that she was capable of petting you and being good to you if only you submitted to her will. She was the most dangerous type, the good cop and bad cop wrapped up in one. And she played her role exceedingly well. You can still occasionally meet her type on the trolleybuses—old women, now powerless, but once almighty during the Soviet era. They are the type who will give you a sharp elbow in the back, curse at you, and when you lose your own dignity and say something rude back, they accept you into their sordid fraternity with a commiserating smile.
        The doctor launched into a speech about the evils of people like me who used drugs and undermined the Utopia of the Soviet Union. She demanded to know who gave me the drugs. I answered simply and defiantly, “Your KGB officer.” The doctor slammed her fist down on the desk, frightening the dvas lined up against the wall. She broke into a rant, spitting out her fury in a stream of superlatives. I had done the unthinkable. I had accused the KGB to her face. She finished her speech by demanding that I be placed in solitary confinement.
          The guard with the German shepherd led me into a bare windowless cell painted that ghastly Soviet pale green one sees only in prison cells and in Stalin-era apartments inhabited by senior citizens who’ve not been able to renovate. Inside the cell there was an iron bed with a badly stained mattress. A bucket stood in the corner for defecation. I glanced at that bucket and was revolted.  But the most frightening part for me was that the door had no handle on the inside. That detail brought me out of the present for just a moment. There is nothing more terrifying to me than being trapped in a closed space. As a child I had a panicked fear of elevators. I began to imagine wild scenarios in which the reality show ended and the actors had forgotten to come back and unlock the door and release me. I assessed the bed frame. Could I lift it and knock out the door if necessary?
         Stop it! I commanded out loud. I knew from the prisoners of conscience and participants of the resistance that I had spoken to over the past few years that the only power the political prisoner had was the power of the mind. I had to hold onto my will and I had to focus my thoughts and think positively. Locked up alone in this cell with no door handles, I could tumble into madness very quickly. There was nothing left for me but to control myself and to think about how I would proceed from here. I thought of what a real prisoner of conscience would have had to face in this moment: beatings, torture, interrogation. Leonora Grigalavičiūtė-Rubine had been beaten so severely in one of these cells by her interrogator that even now, fifty years later, her back still aches. In the late eighties Nijolė Sadūnaitė had been kept locked in one of these cells as her strength slowly drained away and her hair fell out. When she returned to her cell in 1991, just days after the KGB evacuated headquarters after the failed putsch in Moscow, she found two large x-ray machines set up against the outside wall of her cell. She had been subjected to regular daily doses of radiation through the wall. Juozas Lukša wrote in his memoir, Forest Brothers, about how during the postwar period so many people would be crammed into one cell at a time they could not lie down, but only stand upright, their bodies pressed together. When someone was brought back after torture and interrogation, the other prisoners shifted their bodies in such a way as to make room on the floor for that person to lie down. Being alone in a cell was pure luxury.
        Eventually the guard with the German shepherd did return to fetch me. I was passed on  to a woman. She led me through the corridors and whispered to me in Lithuanian, “You can get yourself out of this mess. When you go see the interrogator, all you have to do is sign a paper explaining that this was all a misunderstanding and that you agree to work for the KGB. Everything will be forgiven.”
         This tactic was familiar. There were informers planted in the prisons who posed as fellow prisoners and who acted compassionately towards the prisoner who did not reveal information under torture. Their job was to gain that prisoner’s trust and to wheedle information out of them nicely. They proved to be more effective than the interrogators who administered brutal beatings.
          I was led back to the Red Chamber. As I walked through the corridors I thought to myself: How far do I want to push this game? What will they do if I continue to resist? What other punishments have they devised for resistors like me? How far are they willing to go? I remembered the release I’d signed.
          Just as I was brought back into the Red Chamber, a group was being led out and marched to the work camp. I fell in step and marched along with them. Nobody stopped me. I simply slipped away from the KGB officer. This was another absurdity of the Soviet system: Inconsistency. You could be an enemy of the state, but if the show must go on, you get overlooked.
         In the work room we were given shredded canvas gloves and were instructed to haul scrap metal from one table to the next, our work quota. Our guard played with us by making us go faster, then slower, as though we were dancing some absurdist polka at the mercy of a mad fiddler.
         When our work quota was complete, our group was herded into another room to view the electric chair. The guard explained to us that if we disobeyed orders, this was where we’d be brought to meet our end. Was this where I would have been brought—theoretically—had I continued to resist? Would my rebellious ego have been silently turned into smoke? Gazing at that chair I was knocked out of the state of mind of the game and stood facing reality. The chair was not part of a set. It was real. And it showed signs of use. What terrified me more than the chair itself, was the stove pipe leading out of the back of the chair. The ashes and smoke had to be funneled out from underground somehow, of course. This stove pipe was just like all the other common stove pipes one saw connected to wood stoves and masonry heaters all over the world—something practical and familiar.
        The guard took in the frightened looks on our faces and let out a long hearty chuckle. That was the signal that the show was over. We were invited to visit the Beryozhka—the special shop for foreigners filled with Soviet “luxury” items. Our guard metamorphosed from a shouting tyrant into a great big puppy dog, laughing, telling jokes, entertaining us with his wit, slapping us on the back in a friendly manner. Even the German shepherd stopped barking and began wagging its tail and nudging his muzzle towards me to be pet.
         Amanda and I were reunited when both our groups were herded together into the Beryozhka. Our now cheerful guard launched into playful descriptions of all the items for sale. He had the most fun with Soviet factory-issue women’s undergarments. He held up the biggest and ugliest bra I’d ever seen in my life, pressed it against his chest, and launched into a mock-propaganda speech on how, naturally, Soviet women have the biggest boobs in the whole world. We laughed heartily, partly because it was funny, partly to relieve pent-up tension. He then invited us to select a gift for ourselves from the shop’s shelves. I took a tin the size of a coin of Vietnamese Star head ache ointment.
         Afterwards, we were led down the hall to the canteen for dinner, Soviet style. We sat in  comradely fashion on benches pushed up against long tables covered in red table cloths. Amanda and I compared notes. She had immediately admitted to being an American early in the show and in the Red Chamber had gleefully written a statement saying how she wanted to immigrate into the Soviet Union because life was so good there and because people were so well provided for. As we were talking, our KGB officer sauntered up to me and said gently in Lithuanian, “I was a little hard on you back there. Please forgive me.”
          “It’s fine,” I said.
         “Have a drink of vodka,” he said and poured me a shot.
         We had a drink together and the KGB officer moved on to pour for another set of guests. I asked an older Lithuanian man seated beside Amanda why he had come. He said it was his son’s birthday, and pointed to a young man who looked to be about twenty. He said his wife bought the tickets as a birthday gift for their son, so that he could understand what life had been like for him and for his son’s grandparents who had been deported to Siberia after World War II. The man explained that he had been born in a prison camp. He had lived through the Soviet years with a constant nagging feeling of fear and this experience had brought it all back to him.
          The 1984 Soviet Bunker was a reality show and I always knew in the back of my mind that my tormentors were actors. My defiance tonight had been all about me, about my ego, about my refusal to allow myself to be bossed around. These emotions had nothing to do with nationalism, patriotism, principles, or even human rights. It was an aspect of character, for better or for worse, of personality, a suicidal cheekiness that is part of my psychological make-up. My experience did not reflect and could not reflect the principled bravery of the prisoners of conscience I had interviewed, like Jonas Kadzionis or Nijolė Sadūnaitė or Leonora Grigalavičiūtė-Rubine, or like so many people who had fought for independence and human rights whom I had spoken to while conducting my research.
         I wondered whether I was really so brave the year I lived in Soviet-occupied Lithuania and interpreted for the independence movement? As an American citizen for me the Soviet Union was one big reality show and I could always get out if I had to. But the people who lived in that system could never get out. I remembered a man who told me that when he visited the West for the first time after independence his instinct was to “escape” by running across an open field—until it dawned on him that Lithuania was free and that he could stop running now.

The List

I moved to Peaks Island, Maine from New York City in 1997 with my three young children and husband, now ex-husband. The idea at the time was to raise the kids close to nature on an island, unconnected by bridge to the mainland, where it would be impossible to build a Walmart or a MacDonalds.

According to the 2000 census, there are 843 year-round residents on Peaks. In the summer the population swells to 6,000. There are only 14 unbridged islands left in Maine that claim year round residency and Peaks Island is one of them. Located three miles by sea from downtown Portland, Peaks Island is the most commutable island in Casco Bay. Ferry service is provided by Casco Bay Lines, one of the oldest ferry companies in the United States. The ferry (loving called “The Boat” by islanders) makes its first run at 5:45 am and 14 runs a day. The last ferry departs from Portland at 10:30 pm. The very last boat, and last chance to get off the island and travel “uptown” to Portland, departs Peaks at 10:55 pm. Uless you have your own private vessel, there is no way to reach the mainland until dawn.

Casco Bay Lines has transported residents and visitors to Peaks Island for 150 years, most notably in the early twentieth century when Peaks Island was known as the “Coney Island of the North” for its famous Gem Theater and other entertainment venues. In the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century the island had a stable population of interrelated families, which dwindled during the Great Depression, and then dwindled even more when the island was taken over by the U.S. Army by eminent domain during World War II. After the war, the city of Portland began a policy of sending families with histories of substance abuse and a dependency on public assistance to live year round on Peaks Island. During this time the island became a sort of floating welfare state. In the early nineties the island underwent a renaissance when young families and professionals gentrified the island by renovating the old historic homes and creating local businesses. Real Estate values still hold today.

Islanders pride themselves on resourcefulness and the ability of making due with very little. When reliable Internet became available on the island, residents put together their own local version of Craig’s List. I am a subscriber. As a writer, I became interested in how individual voice plays a role even in the most innocuous posts. Narratives emerge, issues are brought forth, debated, resolved or dismissed in these posts. Here I have assembled a selection of individual posts: They represent a cross section of island concerns and preoccupations, and some of the challenges of everyday life on the island. I have not altered a word or omitted anything from any of the posts. They appear here as they once did, in their relevant moment, in cyber space. To protect people’s privacy, I have altered real names to pseudonyms.

* * *

Welcome to the　Peaks　Island　List.　 With many hundreds of subscribers, the list is an effective means of island-wide communication, and I enjoy doing it.　 It’s an information exchange, not a soapbox. 　　Post information islanders can use.　 I will not publish position papers, screeds, open letters to the community, and the like.

P. T. Sterling

September 1, 2012

Re: Lost Chicken

Greetings All,

We seem to have misplaced a chicken. She's a lovely Golden Comet (small and orange) who answers to the name Gertrude.

　

On the off chance that she's been kidnapped—we will trade three dozen eggs for her safe return.... or four....or five! Whatever you want....　

If you see our chicken would you give us a call? Thank you.

Jane Brackett

September 5, 2012

Re: Happy foraging!

I'm new to Peaks and will be here at least through the winter. I am currently looking for work and have recently finished an apprenticeship in sustainable living. I am enjoying fall foraging around the island and am currently harvesting sumac and rose hips for wine making.

On the job front I am most interested in elder care, but will take suggestions for temp agencies as well. Also, I am looking for an island cart if anyone knows of a spare one available. I look forward to meeting everyone!

Sunshine

September 6, 2012

Re: Need firewood!

Hello　Island　Friends,

　

I am looking for someone to share in a firewood delivery by the firewood man. He will deliver 3+ cords per trip, but I really only need 1, maybe 2. Cost for seasoned firewood is $250/cord, plus freight. Delivery will be in October after freight rates go down.

　

If anyone is interested in a cord or two of wood, please contact me and we'll set something up.

Tim Browne

September 7, 2012

Re: Loaf and Ladle Dinner

We are beginning another season of Loaf and Ladle Dinners for Peaks Island Tax and Energy Assistance. All funds raised at our dinners are used for energy assistance only. Energy Assistance applications will be on the Library Bulletin Board. 　The money we raise is used to help　Island　applicants with their energy bills. 　

　

There will be a small brochure available on Saturday night which tells more about us and the work we do. 　All applications are submitted to clergy members who make the final determination on eligibility. 　Heating season has started.

Pastor Beatrice Watts

September 8, 2012

Re: In dire need of warm clothing

A boy we know just moved to Maine from Florida and is in dire need of warm, 8 yr old size 10 clothes. Unfortunately, all our boys clothes that size are still on the boy. If anyone has anything lying around, I'll come pick it up.

Marty Jones

September 9, 2012

Fearless Hunter Needed

Hello,

Does anyone have any extra mice traps that I could use? Or, would you be open to lending your fearless hunterly cat to me for a few days?

Any other info on how to rid myself of mice without using poisons?

Thanks.

Our Chicken, Gertrude, has been found.

Jane Brackett

September 10, 2012

Re: Lost bike

For the last two days there has been a boy's green-and-white Kawasaki bike parked alongside Brackett/Whaleback Road, down by Battery Steele.

A.J.

September 11, 2012

Re: Missing vegetables

I'm missing a box of vegetables that came over on the 15:15 boat today (Wednesday).　 They were in a cart with some flowers, when we went to pick them up at 1630...they were gone.

If found, drop me a line please!

Petunia Mills

September 16, 2012

Re: Stolen bike!

Our red Schwinn bike was stolen today by the ferry dock. I've been sharing the bike with my daughter, Maisy, since her bike was stolen last month. She has been using a lock, but today could not find the key. If anyone sees　this bike, please let us know. Or if you took the bike please, please return. Not only is it the best bike in the world—it has sentimental value.

Christy

　

September 18, 2012

Re: Energy Assistance Fund

Dear Friends,

　

Over the last week of so we have heard many predictions about the energy needs of our friends and neighbors this winter. 　The price MAY go up and this can be quite worrisome for those who are on fixed incomes or who have other financial problems or needs. 　How do you budget when you really do not know the costs. 　 On　Peaks　Island　we have the means to offer assistance with food and energy. 　Our food pantry is located in the　Brackett Memorial　Church　and the　Peaks　Island　Baptist　Church　delivers Sunday dinner to folks who cannot go out.

Peaks　Island　Tax and Energy Assistance is prepared to assist those whose energy or property tax assistance applications are approved by our Clergy. We can also deliver dinners when we have our Saturday evening Loaf and Ladle Dinners. 　At any time that a neighbor or friend needs assistance Islanders come together to help. 　We are a community that cares.

Pastor Beatrice Watts

September 19, 2012

Re: Stolen bike found!

The red Schwinn bike has been found.

Christy

　

September 19, 2012

Re: Free stuff!

We are in the final stages of cleaning out for our move and will yet again be putting free stuff out on the lawn. Kitchen stuff, lamps, picture frames, candles, baskets and who knows what else. We are packing all weekend and will be adding more stuff as I go.

　

And yes, lots more copies of Cormac McCarthy's play, The Stone Mason. (Perfect for all those people you don't really know on your holiday gift list).

　

Everything is free for the taking, but we will have a box for donations to the Peaks Island Energy and Tax Assistance--if you feel so inclined.

　

I also have a couple of desks and desk chairs that will be available in another week. Knock on the door if you'd like to see them.

Rachel Rosenbloom

September 20, 2012

Re: More free stuff!

Almost forgot. We have an artificial Christmas tree and lots of ornaments.　

Rachel Rosenbloom

September 21, 2012

Re: Donation box robbery

Ron and I were very disappointed that someone took the box with the donations for the Peaks Island Energy and Tax Assistance donations from in front of our house today. (165 Island Ave.)

　

It disappeared between 3 and 4:15 pm today while we were sitting in the front room. It was a white box about the size of a ream of 8.5 x 11 typing paper.　

　

We did see a couple of boys playing near the box right before it disappeared. They were both blond and were wrestling with each other—I think lower school age. A third boy with darker hair on a bike joined them too.

　

If the box and donations return, no questions will be asked.

Rachel Rosenbloom

September 22, 2012

Re: Transformer needed

Note to whoever took the red desk lamp with three legs on wheels from my front yard on Saturday: you forgot the transformer that goes with it and enables you to plug it into the wall. I still have the transformer. Email me and I'll get it to you.

Rachel Rosenbloom

September 23, 2012

Re: Help! Lost earring!

I lost the mate to the earring in the attached photo yesterday. 　I might have dropped it on the 915pm Machigonne run. 　If you found it, please let me know. 　I just got these as a gift from a dear friend, so it would mean a lot to find it.

Christy

September 25, 2012

Re: Help stop noise pollution on Peaks

Here is the link to the last PWM Jetport Noise Advisory Meeting.　 They will be approved at this evening's meeting.　 The meeting tonight will be held at 5:30 PM this evening at the Jetport in conference room A.　 All are welcome.

Matt Trefethen

September 27, 2012

Re: Tar Sands

　

Canadian oil giant Enbridge Corporation may soon propose the pumping of dirty tar　sands oil from Canada through Maine, past Lake Sebago and on into　Portland, where it would be loaded onto tankers for shipment to refineries.

　

Tar sands oil is fundamentally different from the crude now being pumped from　Portland　to Montreal.　　A tar sands oil spill would have　catastrophic economic and environmental impacts on Casco Bay　communities like　Peaks Island. 　There are many other reasons for concern about the extraction, shipment and consumption of this toxic product.

　

Come and learn about the realities and risks of tar sands oil at a community forum co-sponsored by　Peaks Environmental Action Team and Sierra Club　Maine.　　Sierra Club　Maine’s Chapter Director Glen Brand will present.

Matt Trefethen

September 28, 2012

Re: Yes! The Umbrella Cover Museum has made it into the Guinness Book of World Records!

I got the news - YES! The　Umbrella　Cover　Museum　is the world's largest collection of umbrella covers OFFICIALLY!!! I got the certificate in the mail today—730 covers to establish a new World Record. Thanks again to everyone for your support, encouragement, and old umbrella covers! I love　Peaks　Island!

Nancy 3. DeLano

September 30, 2012

Re: Roommate needed

My five year old son and I are looking for a roommate to share our home on Peaks for the winter (possibly longer). We love kids, yoga, organics, bikes, and everything about this island.　

Martha Smith

October 1, 2012

Re: No Happy Chickens this weekend

Due to a scheduling conflict, there will be no fresh, happy chickens available on the island this weekend.　

Linda McGregor

October 3, 2012

Re: Loving this autumn wind!

Two things: first, I am loving this beautiful autumn wind and would LOVE to crew for anyone going out in the bay that needs an extra pair of hands.　

Second, I am looking for dance studio recommendations for ballet and belly dance.　

　

Thanks and be well!

Sunshine

October 3, 2012

Re: Presidential debate anyone?

I do not have a TV.　 If you are planning to watch the debate wed night, can I watch with you?　　 I am happy to bring munchies of the healthy or guilty pleasure kind.　 Probably be nice if we were rooting　for the same team but in the interest of keeping this listserv non-political, we can chat off line.

Sunshine

October 4, 2012

Re: Searching for a mystery good Samaritan

Someone gave my son and two of his friends a ride to my house on back shore yesterday. They were out on their own without permission (they slipped out from the friend's yard without the parents seeing), walking all around the island in the rain near dusk, and this mystery person helped them out. If you are that good Samaritan, please give me a call so I can find out more details of the misadventure and thank you myself in person?　

Mike Peterson

October 5, 2012

Re: Septic pump

We have a Blow Brothers truck coming to the island on the morning of October 11^th.　 So far, I have three households signed up to share the costs of the ferry ticket (estimated at a total of $365) BUT the truck can handle 4 septics of 1000 gallons or less.　 If you are interested in joining the group, please contact me via email or phone.

Jill Hannigan

October 7, 2012

Re: I love my black rubber camping pad

On Friday, 10/5 after 1pm,　 I absentmindedly drove away from my house on Upper A with a black rubber camping pad (1.25" thick, 2' wide and about 8' long) unsecured on my roof... I think it fell off somewhere in that vicinity of the Old Trott Burying Ground (and somehow I failed to notice), either on　Ernest St　near the Children's Workshop, on Upper or Lower A or possibly on Daniel St.

　

Please call me or email, if you found it. I would really like to get it back. I had been using it to protect the roof of my car while I moved a ladder, but I got it years ago in　Alaska　and it has sentimental value.

Rufus Browne

October 7, 2012

Re: Anyone have old cookie sheets?

Seeking a few old cookie sheets for a project… Well used　is totally fine.

Sunshine

October 9, 2012

Re: Halloween conundrum

It's almost time to think about Halloween!　 Scott and Nancy are busy at work, Hannigan's has a table of candy out and pumpkins are everywhere.　 The past few years we've noticed a lot of houses left dark on the big night while families go out with their children to trick-or-treat and take in the sights on what could arguably be the island's favorite holiday.
The dilemma we face each year is who gets to stay home to pass out candy and who gets to go out with the kids.　 Doing it in shifts is tough.　 So I'm wondering this year if we could try something out to keep houses down front open for trick-or-treaters and make sure people get out and enjoy the fun.　 I propose we match up people who live off the beaten path with those of us in the thick of things so we can get out and still keep the front porch lights on.
In the next few days I'll see how many people respond looking to "porch-sit" for those of us in the Halloween hub and how many people are interested in getting a "porch-sitter".
Feel free to email me or even pester me in the wheelhouse!

Jill Hannigan

October 10, 2012

Re: Halloween thoughts

I would like to add to the community consideration of how to make Peaks’ awesome Halloween even better, and thanks to Jill for trying to be the wrangler of input…

One frustration I and many others have noted on Halloween is the tension between trick or treating and attending the Lions Club.　 Everyone wants to go to the Lions and enjoy the great haunted house and carnival and the costume contest…and everyone wants to trick or treat.　 Lots of people try to time attending the Lions to catch the costume contest, but the time is never set or publicized.　 Some years we have gone too early and missed most of the time for door-to-door trick or treating while waiting for the contest, other years we have gone too late and missed the contest.　 Perhaps the Lions would consider announcing the time of the contest?　 Or perhaps it would be fun to have all kids who want to gather at an appointed time (6pm?) at the Gull and have a costume parade down to the Lions Club, where the contest would be held at the start of the evening, while costumes are fresh, followed by the carnival/haunted house and door-to-door trick or treating?

Linda McGregor

October 11, 2012

Re: Home is where the heat is

Dear islanders,

You are invited to participate in a new cooperative, "Home is where the HEAT is". This is for people who are at home during the day, who cannot afford to turn the heat up every day, but who would like to have a warm place to be. There is no cost except keeping your house warm one day per week and sharing your house with 4 or fewer other people on that day. In return, you can spend the other days of the week (if you want) in the warm homes of the other members of the cooperative.　

Please pass the word on to people who you think might be interested, especially those who don't use email. Our goal is to recruit at least 4 members/homes by Friday, Oct 26th and to begin sharing our homes on Monday, Nov 5th.　

Pastor Beatrice Watts

October 15, 2012

Re: Looking for a stump grinder

Does anyone knows of a stump grinding operation on the island? I know I missed one septic pump-out, darn, but is there another planned by any chance? Thanks!

Jill Hannigan

October 21, 2012

Re: An appeal from an incontinent dog

Do not miss this valuable opportunity to de-clutter a part of your life.

Our incontinent elderly animals are going deaf and blind. Consequently, they are hiding in the closet and my bike messenger bag because they think they might be eaten by a saber toothed tiger.

Use this feel good opportunity to help provide peace of mind to loyal trash browsers and table beggars as the approach their sunset years.

Ideally....we are asking the universe for a large dog sized crate container. This way they can hang some posters or Christmas tree lights inside. As outlined earlier, because of the incontinence issue, no wire cages or containment devices made of sticks and leaves will be accepted.

Because I will be sailing in the Caribbean for two weeks (like how I worked that in for no reason at all). I will be unable to respond to any questions. I'm asking that you just drop the carrier off on Christie's porch, 90 Brackett. If you see a carrier on her porch, this will be your sign that you have missed your opportunity.

Note: the carrier may be leaving Peaks Island at some point. 　If that poses a moral problem of some sort for you then please move on.

Please help me feel safe.

Rufus Browne

October 21, 2012

Re: Possibly lost cat

Possibly on her often epic hunt--record attempt this time (2 weeks!)...　 small, spayed, 2 1/2 yr old female--light tiger markings, no collar, skittish, loves tuna　　　　 last seen: Luther/Sterlingish.　　 Thanks.

Jill Hannigan

　

October 21, 2012

Re: Flipper the cat from Luther Street

Hello again,

Before I moved off the island, Flipper took off one week before, and did not return by the time I moved.　 He is very independent and has taken off for weeks at a time before, being an outdoor island cat.　 Trying to find him has been rather futile.

But winter is coming, and I am sure by now he is very confused about the dogs living at his house and his people gone.　 I would like to bring him to town or arrange an adoption if someone has fallen for the big guy (he is about 25 pounds of pure affection).

I would like to come out this week and track him down, if you have seen him please send me a note.　 I think he roams from the school and over to Central, but maybe he has gone further this time.

Yes I will stop by Marie's to see if he his hanging out.

Thank you for your help.

Jenny James

October 21, 2012

Re: Halloween porch sitting

Good day,
I have received a lot of good feedback and I have several volunteers still to match up with porches!　 If you haven't had a chance to get back to me and have young children or are involved in the Halloween festivities, consider having a porch-sitting friend!　 A bowl of candy sitting alone is emptied far faster than the bowl that is supervised ;-)　　

Jill Hannigan

October 21, 2012

Re: Report on today’s meeting at the American Legion Post 142

 

To All Islanders,

A dozen members and guests attended today’s American Legion Post 142 meeting, where members elected the following slate of officers based upon the Nominating Committee’s recommendations: Commander: Jamie Semon;　1st Vice Steve Pedersen, Adjutant: Jimal Thundershield;　 Sergeant at Arms: Ryan Clapp; and Historian Suzanne Wellborn Clark.　

It was announced that, in honor of Veterans’ Day on Sunday November 11th, the American Legion District 2 Commander would visit our Post off the 12:15 Ferry. We have decided to host a light lunch in his honor. We will also have a short “GI Party” at noon on Saturday, November 10th in anticipation of this visit. Members of the Post, Auxiliary and Sons of the Legion are invited to attend.

Our surveys of islanders who are veterans led to responses from 42 individuals, and there certainly are more. Only 13 survey responders are currently members of American Legion Post 142.　 Although our Legion roster actually includes a total of 48 members, we need more members to protect the viability of our Peaks Island American Legion Post.

We respectfully request all other veterans to join today. Dues are $30 per year and include a subscription to the monthly American Legion Magazine as well as support for countless programs that assist veterans and the community, both locally and nationally. Details are available at　http://www.legion.org/join　or from any local member.

Captain P. Smithers Jr.

October 23, 2012

Re: Swamp bicycle

Pulled a man’s bike out of the swamp opposite the skateboarding ramp over the weekend. Obviously, not its usual parking place. It doesn’t look like it was there too long, but it’s definitely used. If you’re missing one, let me know.

Rufus Browne

November 1, 2012

Re: No donation is too large or too small

Hello　Peaks　Island!!

　

As you open the hatches to look through you winter gear, please consider passing some along to folks newly settled to　Portland.　 Many of these families have lived at the equator and have never experienced winter in New England.　 Let's bundle them up to keep them warm and healthy! All winter clothing and outerwear for children and adults needed.　 Boots, jackets, sweaters, heavy trousers, hats and gloves etc!　 No donation is too large or too small

　

Please drop by gear at my house under the cover of the porch at　72 Elizabeth Street.　 I can always come by for a pick up as well.　 I plan to drop off gear early next week.

　

Thank you in advance for your generosity!

Pastor Beatrice Watts

November 18, 2012

Re: Deer culling

Good Day to All,

　

Beginning the week of November 26th, the annual culling of deer will take place on　Peaks Island. In an effort to try and keep as many people notified as to the dates the culling will take place, I will be sending out an e-mail notification as soon as I am notified. Also, the "Deer Hunting Tonight" signs will be placed on　Welch Street　on the days culling takes place as an additional reminder. Additionally, deer removal will not take place during school vacation weeks.

　

Finally, if there are any persons interested in obtaining one of the deer, please contact me with your name and telephone/cell phone number, and your name will be placed on a waiting list. Persons　on the waiting list who are contacted　will be responsible for the butchering of the animal.

Bill Trefethen

November 20, 2012

Re: Will cut and gut for meat

 

I'm happy to help gut, skin, cut or wrap in exchange for some soup bones and a few pounds of meat.

Sunshine

November 21, 2012

Re: Man looking for work

 

Hello Islanders,

I took a recent plane ride next to a 30-year-old from Louisiana who is relocating to Maine to be with his 3-year-old daughter who has had some extensive back surgery. 　In speaking with him, he has taken a huge leap of faith leaving his extended family and everything he has known behind to be with his child, including a job.

To help him get on his feet, I have been having him help me on my food trucks doing some renovation. 　However, I will only have spotty work in the upcoming weeks.

Ideally, I'd love to help find him full time employment but at this point anything to help him will do.

He is looking for $10 an hour. 　I'd ask that you pay the $4.10 for the ferry ticket to help as well. He lives in the Woodford area and would ride his bike to the terminal in the morning. 　He could work anywhere commutable by bike in town as well because he gave his car to his grandparents when he left Louisiana.

He works great if you are working with him or can write out what you need done. 　He is handy and knows how to use tools. 　He is very positive and willing to do almost anything.

I am willing to personally vouch for his character.
Thanks for thinking of him and contact me directly if you are interested and I'll put you in touch.

Jill Hannigan

November 29, 2012

Re: Deer hunting

 Deer hunting/reduction will take place Thursday evening, 11/29 on　Peaks　Island. This notice is being sent in an effort to inform residents that they may hear occasional gunshots during the evening hours.

Bill Trefethen

November 29, 2012

Re: On the look-out for deer meat

 

Does anyone know where/how I can procure some deer meat from the deer culling?　

Sunshine

December 4, 2012

Re: Alert: Winter moth invasion!

 

 

We have winter moth on Peaks Island! It's a problem invasive species which is in mature (moth) form now, but there is an easy way to help! PLEASE at night consider leaving on a porch light, the winter moth will cluster on the dry porch wall by the light. In the morning while the moths are still cold and sleeping, vacuum them up off the wall. This can help prevent an explosion of winter moth problems next summer. More information on winter moth here:http://bangordailynews.com/2012/06/04/outdoors/infestation-of-winter-moths-found-for-first-time-in-maine/

Thanks for your help! Winter moths ruin blueberry crops and have only recently been discovered in Maine.

Jill Hannigan

December 6, 2012

Re: Invitation to join the Moth Militia

Hey everyone.

　

I just confirmed with the state entomologist what I already was saying, that yeah, this is definitely the invasive species of winter moth that we are seeing here on　Peaks　Island. That's the bad news. But the GOOD news is that I trapped a female! And I did it by leaving my porch light on. The males AND females are attracted to the light on the wall of our porch, and then I vacuum them up in the morning. Look Ma, no pesticides!! Winter moths become big leaf chewers in the spring, sorta like browntail moth without the itch (yay!), but chewing of oak, maples could be a pretty big pain in the neck in the spring, and they destroy blueberry crops, maybe other crops too, but if we trap the moths now, we will hopefully reduce the impact that we will contend with in the spring.　

　

NOTE: the moths like our DRY porch wall. They don't cluster on the wall where it is exposed to the elements, but they cluster on the sheltered porch by the light. You can vacuum them up at night before you go to bed, or in the morning, or BOTH! 　This is a pesticide-free way of combating this pest.　

　

Will you join this informal "Moth militia?" 　If yes, please send me a note when you vacuum up a batch, and i will count up the vacuuming sessions so that we can evaluate the effectiveness. I would like to know how many people are vacuuming up the moths, and how many days and about how many moths you'd guess you're managing to trap/bag each night, so that we have some sense of if it's just me vacuuming or if it is lots of people, and then we can send that information to the state entomologist and in the spring we might be able to evaluate if the wintertime trapping approach is worth the effort.　

Jill Hannigan

December 13, 2012

Re: Weekly fresh fish deliveries

Good day,

A local family fishing fleet now delivers fresh fish weekly to Peaks!　 Salt & Sea is a community share of fish from the Odlin family fleet of boats here in　Portland.　 Every Wednesday you will receive your share on the 16:30 (4:30 PM) boat.　 The fish is delivered to Peaks for a 5:00 PM pick-up and will change weekly.　 This keeps the fish and profits in the local economy and you only need to make a two month commitment to see if it's the right fit for you.　 Justine includes recipes to make it easy.　 She also plans to add seaweed and smoked fish in the future.

Do check out their website for more info at　http://www.saltandsea.me/

Single Share
A Single Share lasts for　two months, and includes weekly deliveries of at least　one　pound of fresh-cut fillets of locally caught, wild fish. This share is ideal for one weekly meal for a family of two.　$96
Double Share
A Double Share lasts for　two months, and includes weekly deliveries of at least　two　pounds of fresh-cut fillets of locally caught, wild fish. This share is ideal for two weekly meals for a family of two, or one weekly meal for a family of four.　$160

Thanks!

Linda McGrego

December 13, 2012

Re: Stump grinder

Hi everyone,

I seek a stump grinder! I have quite a lot of stumps! If you know one, or if you need one, or if you ARE one, send me a note and maybe we can collaborate! Thanks!

Jill Hannigan

December 14

Happy Birthday Jesus! Party

Join us for either or both of these fun, family oriented events:

　

Saturday, December 15 from 5-8pm: Happy　Birthday, Jesus! Party

Come for a　potluck meal, games, crafts, fun videos, and (of course) birthday cake!

　

Sunday, December 16 at 4pm: Advent Spiral

A time of quiet song,　candlelight, and evergreen.　 Our children will lead us and show us the way to let our light shine in the darkness just as the Christ-child taught us.

Hope to see you there!

Pastor Beatrice Watts

December 15, 2012

Re: Free oak and Community Swimming Pool question

Hi there, we have a big huge piece of oak log, yours free if you want to chop it up and take it.

Thing two: Who wants a community swimming pool? Please send me a note, and I will put you on an email list devoted ONLY to exploring that topic.

Jill Hannigan

December 16, 2012

RE: case of the missing leggings/mail at tix window!!?

 

Hi all,

　

So a couple of weeks ago I had some mail with me from stopping at the post office, stuck it all behind the green fencing in town at CBL　as I was on my way to do errands. Went to pick it up later, and it was gone...I don't usually have trouble leaving things back there…

　

Someone stuck my paper mail in a plastic bag and turned it into the tix office, but, there was also a package in the mail-3 pairs of long underwear which I would really, really, really like right about now!! They were unmistakeably bright yellow, and 2 other bright colors-purple, and pink maybe?

Did you take them by mistake?? Think they were free? Toss them in the goodwill box?

　

I'd love to get them back if at all　possible.

Sunshine

December 16, 2012

RE: Calling all bakers!

The PITEA Cookie Swap will take place on Sunday, from 2-5 p.m. at the Peaks Island Baptist Church Hall. 　Bakers will get together to share these wonderful cookies, Please bring about 6 doz. cookies to swap and one dozen to share. 　We will have cocoa, tea, and coffee.

To participate, please bring 7 dozen cookies - 1doz. 　for sharing and 6 doz. for swapping. 　Recipes can be shared as well. This will be a chance for us to share our favorite holiday cookie recipes which you bake for the holiday you celebrate.

This has been a very difficult time for all of us. 　This tragedy in Ct. has created different emotions and feelings in each person. 　Tomorrow we will have a chance to be together in a small group setting to share cookies, hot drinks and conversation. 　It will be a short respite from all the news but also a time to be with folks we call our friends.

Pastor Beatrice Watts

December 16, 2012

RE: looking for tape for linoleum- Rhino-Grip tape?

Hello all,

Please, does anyone have some Rhino-grip tape for vinyl that I could buy?

　

I ran out mid-way thru my floor. (the guy at the store assured me it should be plenty...)

Rufus Browne

December 17, 2012

RE: need Hank Greenberg/Detroit Tigers costume components to borrow

My eight-year-old son has to dress as baseball legend Hank Greenberg, who played for the Detroit Tigers in the 40’s, for an oral report at school.　 It doesn’t have to be super accurate, but if anyone has anything Tigers or baseball-uniformish generally (we have a glove and cleats), we would love to borrow it.　 Ideally, we’d like to gather the costume this weekend and return around Dec. 20. If you can help, please let me know, and we will come by at your convenience.　 Thanks!

Marty Jones

December 17, 2012

RE: Naked Barbies and such

Couldn't resist the honest attention grabber. 　In cleaning out our younger lives I came across a box of Barbies, no clothes or stuff, just the barely used dolls and even a Ken I think. I thought perhaps someone might get some use out of? 　Also, a bag of Halloween decorations (blinking pumpkin lights and such) and many stuffed animals. 　Before I take to town if anyone can use any of this please let me know.

Jill Hannigan

December 20, 2012

Free Red Velvet Couches!

Ok, so there is a catch, but they really are free!!We have two beautiful red couches that need a home for at least 3 months, possibly up to 6 months or more/maybe negotiable, while the owner of the couches is moving into　a new　apartment off island.

　

So　the trade is,　please help　me make good use of/enjoy using these beautiful pieces, while at　same time　doing me the favor of storing　these high quality pieces that don't deserve to rot in a basement!!

　

There are two couches-one is the loveseat pictured, the other is a regular size couch.

　

The attached　picture does not quite do these lovely couches justice-they are a true red/maroon, brighter than pictured. Real velvet. SUPER comfortable. Great for guests to sleep on, I often sleep on them myself!!

Stay tuned for other free, great quality furniture to "borrow" that I will also post to the list.

Sunshine