12/19/97 ... Local forms.

Nancy is all excited about Christmas. I bumped into her in the Health Food Store yesterday. She pursed her lips and blew out a derisive noise, then ran over to hug me. She had a new mug.. with Santa on it.. she wanted to show me. Then I asked her to buy me a soda. It's all part of our ritual.

Nancy is a Spindleworker. One of the weavers at a handicapped workshop in town. Yes, I know it's not PC to say handicapped, but correct euphemisms are as changeable as December weather, and "developmentally challenged" doesn't roll off the tongue. Besides which, Nancy is Nancy.

I started hanging out at Spindleworks maybe 8 years ago. Gary .. our resident poet laureate, small press publisher, and bookstore co-owner.. was doing a poetry writing workshop in the smelly old Spindleworks up over the Oriental Restaurant, and asked me to help out. Gary and the staff were writing down the "poems" that Spindleworkers chose to have recorded. Then every Wednesday Gary would sit down with the whole crew and read them aloud, along with his own poems, and the staff's.

The first time I went into Spindleworks my neckhairs stood up straight. Here were all these deformed and mentally disabled people eyeballing me, and when my anxiety vibed them, some started acting out. Minton moaned wildly. David jumped up and down. I was spooked. But Gary spoke calmly and directly to each of us, and we were soon gathered around a big table sharing words.

I think it was Earl who clued me into the transcendent nature of this ad hoc "poetry." Earl is a good old boy on a tricycle. He has trouble walking, even with his crutches, and his speech is slurred and halting, but he has big hard hands, and smokes like a chimney.. outside. Will take a drink or two, if he can get it, and lives independently with his wife, Dianne, whom he met at Spindleworks. When Gary has him recite his poems it's like watching ice melt. Each stuttered word is squeezed out with tremendous effort.

"My tricycle is a good friend."

At first this process of elevating commonplace statements to the lofty realm of POETRY seemed absurd. What could I possibly learn from the babbling of idiots? Then, listening one day to Earl eke out a simple statement, I was riveted. The intensity with which he struggled out each word made every syllable a victory over silence. It didn't matter what he said. The act of his recitation was profoundly moving. On top of which, the glimpse into his bounded world made this verbal tour de force even more affective. Suddenly simple words had the impact of artillery. I was hooked. I started going every week. When Gary got funded to do a different workshop, I took over at Spindleworks. Got to know Nancy.

Nancy is a woman in her late 40's who lived with her mother in a trailer, up a dirt track not far from us.. until Momma died this year. Now one of her brothers has moved in, and cares for her. Weekday mornings, when the road is open, the Coastal Trans van picks Nancy up, and takes her to town. She weaves glorious multicolored fabrics at Spindleworks, helps sort secondhand clothes at Goodwill, and is a highroller on her bowling team. She collects mugs, and jigsaw puzzles. She is also one of the ugliest women you ever want to see. Partially bearded, gap and twisted toothed, lowering black brows, with a crippled stumbling walk. One hand is twisted like a hook, and it periodically freezes in a grip of steel. Nancy is prone to Grand Mal. She's also the nicest person I've ever met. Bar none.

Nancy is never negative. When she's recovering from a spell, she may sound a little subdued, but most of the time she is bubbling with good spirits. She calls us every night, to recount her bowling score, tell us what new mug she's been given, ask about "Sef." She, too, has difficulty articulating, and her subjects of conversation are unvaried. Usually she's watching reruns when she calls, and can tell you exactly what's happening in Mayberry, or what tomorrow's weather will be. We used to be irritated by this daily interruption. Now I worry that something has happened to her when the phone doesn't ring around 5 o'clock. In a funny way she's family.

When I see her in town, she likes to go buy me a soda. Even though I don't drink soda any more, I still go through the moves. Our ritual is for me to give her $2, and when she comes back with whichever gruesome drink she chooses, I give her the change. When we talk on the phone she always giggles and says seductively, "You know what I want to do?" And I do. She wants to "buy" me a soda.

Like most Spindleworkers, Nancy loves to hug you. It makes walking the street in Brunswick a very special excursion for me. Nowhere else do people cry out with delight and rush up to hug me. Now that I don't have a personal vehicle, I'm rarely in town during Spindleworking hours, and sometimes I could use the hugging.

I was in town for a funeral yesterday. They were saying a few words over Bernard. I Hitched in with the Shoreys. The night before, when Brent had asked if I wanted to go, I'd demurred. I'm running scared that I'll not get my Christmas promises filled, and begrudged the time.

(So what am I doing rattling on at this, you ask.. I'm toggling between this and Photoshop, as I'm running off Christmas print orders in the Art Factory.)

I was never fond of Bernard. I know he referred to me as "that asshole with the dogs." He was a crusty old reprobate. But yesterday morning I realized Bernard was also one of the landmarks of this neighborhood. He ran the smelt camps downriver and owned much of the backcountry I ramble in. He was the old man in the local men's network I'm plugged into. I believe you should show solidarity with the men you run with, no matter what they call you. If you don't help bury the local fossils, you can't say "this is my town."

My definition of a native is someone who has buried kin in a place. That's how we become part of the landscape. I feel obliged to honor the place I live by standing witness to the native rituals. Town meeting. 4th of July parade. Bernard's funeral. In another place and time we might put up a pole with a smelt carved at the top. And pour beer over it.

The Rev. Dan told the eulogy. About how he'd worked for Bernard when he ran a big farm. Making hay. Shoveling manure. Eyeballing the girls. It was all first person testimony, but you could read between the lines. Rev. Dan recounted his years as a drunk, before he saw the light, and how he'd seen a stumbling drunkard fall through the ice one winter. How he'd had to dance around the stove in one of Bernard's camps until his clothes were dry and his blood running. It didn't make much sense as a eulogy.. unless you knew Bernard. And Dan.

He closed by saying that Jesus gave us hope, come to him early or late. And that Bernard had embraced the church at the very end. Well... funerals are for the living, not the dead, and Esther, they say, was in church when Bernard died. One wag said that was like Bernard. Doing HIS thing while Esther talked to God.

A cross-section of the river gang was there. Phil, Bruce, Brent, the Shoreys, Delano and Sandy.. and Bernard's sons, Bert and Andy, of course. Some were suited and slicked down. Others of us had brushed off the sawdust and put on a clean coat. We bowed and muttered, pressed flesh, and made the necessary noises. I was born an outsider by nature, but being part of a bunch of misfits giving another one a sendoff makes it a bit easier. Bernard wasn't a Mason or a Knight of Pythias, so his poker game cronies had to stand witness. In a small town, it's what you can do.

The Rev. Dan's younger brother is another Spindleworker, Johnny. Forty going on five. The Coastal Trans van used to drop Johnny off at the Bowdoinham Post Office after his day at Spindleworks. He'd hang there for an hour or so, chatting up the postmaster and anyone else who came by. It was a big part of his day. He had a role as the village idiot. Now the USPS has seen fit to move our post office out by the interstate, away from the pedestrian town, and Johnny has nowhere to hang out. If Bert and Andy don't put out the Riverbend Camps this winter, the rest of us idiots will have one less place to hang, too.

Nancy called in the evening. "I saw you," she chortled melodically. She said the weather is going to be nice all weekend.

"You know what next week is?" she asked.

"Christmas!" I answered.

"Yes." She giggled.