A Whiff of Smoke

by Dennis Damon

Driving around today with other Board members and staff of the Maine Seacoast Mission, helping people in Milbridge, Harrington and Beal’s Island get ready for winter, a ‘whiff of smoke’ came to me. A ‘whiff of smoke’ is anything that comes into my consciousness, usually a date, seemingly from nowhere, that reminds me of an event or a person. Today’s smoke wasn’t the realization that fall is nigh and winter not far behind. It was the date.

If you have read any of my previous columns you will realize how much Dad influenced me. He grounded me early on in what it meant to be a fisherman. How you take from the sea and also your responsibility to protect its bounties.

I haven’t been as generous with the memories I have of Mum and how she influenced me. Of course, if you’re a regular reader you will remember I did mention her reaction to Dad’s attempt to de-egg raw shrimp by putting them through the rinse/spin cycle in her new washing machine!

Fishermen’s wives have long been the unsung heroines of fishing families. Not only have they been in charge of the household labors, they have often been in charge of the business details too. Making the deposits, writing the checks, balancing the books, making sure all the business paperwork is in order; seeing that tax payments and insurance payments are made, that fishing permits and licenses and truck registrations are renewed are only a few examples of the fishing wife/partner shore-side business responsibilities.

Then there’s the worry. It’s not a duty but it’s always there nonetheless.

Is there going to be enough money this week for groceries? Is there going to be enough this month to pay the mortgage? And the biggest one of all: Is he going to make it back home tonight?

Mum, Dorothy, Dot, Grammy Dot, or however she was addressed, was a big presence. Physically large, vocally commanding, supportive – and as it turns out, inspirational. She was always there and ready with a firm hand or a warm hug depending on which was needed. She was always “taking in strays” – people who were down on their luck and needed a good meal or a place to stay for a while.

She bore the worry without fanfare. I know now she made the sometimes too often repeated meals of fish and potatoes seem more interesting than they really were through her extraordinary culinary skills. I realize how terrifying it must have been for her when she learned that two of her sons; Bob and Snick, and a third crewman had to abandon their dragger Petrel, deck-loaded with whiting, which sank as they tried desperately to steam into Winter Harbor before a sou’west gale. Or the time Dad was overcome by carbon monoxide gas leaking from a faulty exhaust on his boat. Then there was the night Dad crushed his ribs while seining and ended up in the hospital, and the day her oldest son and her grandson just made it off the Rosemarie V when she went down on the winter solstice outside of Halfway Rock. And of course the night she learned yours truly escaped his end by the saving grace of Leon’s finger. Through all she was always there … until all of a sudden she wasn’t.

When I realized what date today was I stopped short. It was forty-one years ago today. With that faint whiff of smoke I was transported back to that day.

The stair landing between the third and fourth floors of Gannett Hall dormitory exploded and immediately turned white. I’d been summonsed from the evening movie in the dorm basement. It was September 9, 1970. I was in my third and final week of pre-season football practice at the University of Maine.

I was called from the middle of my row by a team captain saying, “Dennis, you’ve got a phone call.” Everyone started complaining as I rose and made my way to the aisle “Hey down in front!”

When I got to him, John said, “It’s in the phone booth on the fourth floor.”

Even though I had been married over a year by then, I hadn’t received an incoming phone call during pre-season. It was frowned on if not actually prohibited. Something about keeping focused and being committed to the season I think. So needless to say, I was excited about receiving this call. My football legs and youthful athleticism combined with my excitement and carried me in bounding leaps to each floor and in between to each landing.
Finally, arriving at the fourth floor, I tore open the phone booth door and without being out of breath, I said eagerly, “Hello!” The answering voice was my wife’s. She simply and quietly said, “I’m sorry to have to call you, but …” there was a pause, “your mother has died.”

The rest of the conversation is beyond my recall. When I opened the phone booth door John was standing there. Somehow he knew. “I’ve got to go home.” I told him. “Can you tell Coach Abbott?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it” he said. “Can I give you a ride?”

“No. Thanks anyway. I’ve got to be alone.”

As I started down the stairs to my motorcycle, the full cardboard milk carton I’d carried from the movie flew from my hand with all the rage I could release and when it struck the wall in the corner of the fourth floor landing in Gannett Hall, for an instant, the world was only white.

My life changed forever then … yet her efforts continue to guide me and I still catch whiffs of her smoke.