Maynard

I'll always see him in that big ass green truck of his
hauling gravel for road construction on the Strip
looking down at me in my Subaru
laughing because he scared the shit out of me when
he blasted his torn, and then, only then, I found the
good sense to look up to see not only was there a real live
person driving that big ass gree monster dump truck, but
he was my neighbor, Maynard.

My friend from up Camp Road always came in on a
Friday night for the weekend and sometimes other days
when he had an hour or two to unwind. He came in his
green pick up truck. What was with that green truck thing
anyway? His only passenger was his yellow tiget cat Tiger
who was stretched across the back of his seat, draped across
my neighbor's broad shoulders. I knew in a short time,
Carolee would arrive in her gold SUV with her 95 year
old mother as copilot.

He'd been married to Carolee for 40 years, so he'd been my
neighbor for the same. He tore down the old family cabin
and built anew, then did it again when a monster limb from a
100 year old pine speared straight through the roof. And I
believe he built Carolee's aunt's cabin directly behind theirs
to share the water and leech field, and more importantly,
family. He vigilantly watched over all of our cabins
along the road when no one was around.

A busy guy, he was building, always building, a big
family, a home, a retreat, a business, a sense of
community wherever he was. The last thing that I know
he physically built at his camp was the back screened in
porch, not time for a building permit, so he could sit
and enjoy the outside inside, away from the sun and
New Hampshire's state bird, the black fly, as he
battled his way through one chemo-treatment after another.

Through the years we talked about the necessity of
drilled wells, and about animals like coyotes who
one night kept the whole road awake yipping and whining
and running their new offspring on a first hunt after
some imaginary prey. Or how the bears knew we were the visitors,
not them and we needed to respect that. And how a little bear
cub provided a comical moment when he decided to climb
the flagpole. Sometimes we talked about fishing for native trout,
not stocked, and we never did divulge our own secret fishing holes
in the Swift River. And we talked about how he and Carolee
loved this place like I did, and how there was no place on earth
we'd rather be.

We were pitted against each other once in a civil case as expert
witness for opposing sides. But when all was said and done,
it was just that, done. In recent years we shared our individual
battles with cancer and the toxins used to fight it. We both subscribed
to the philosophy of putting our head down and keep on going
despite adversity. We encouraged each other and listened,
understanding each other's struggles as insiders. It was a
bond that Carolee acknowledged and shared, one that reinforced our
struggle to say, I'm still here and I'm not going anywhere
and neither are you because we are both from tough stock,
you from Maine and me from New Hampshire and both of us
from this particular road and community surrounded by the
White Mountain National Forest. It is our healing place for the soul.

When Carolee stopped by recently, you were riding with
her this time with no cat, no energy, and no smile.
I was hauling chunks of just cut maple out of the woods
to my wheelbarrow, and you shook your head and said,
"I don't know how you keep it up. You've got to be careful
and not get too tired or it will get you. I know because I think
I pushed it too hard and now I have no energy at all." And I
smiled and made excuses that I only had less than two weeks
before I returned to the city and the dreaded treatment routine.
You said you understood because less than a month ago you
drove your big ass green dump truck at work, before you told
your doctors to make the treatments as strong as need to
get things taken care of once and for all. And I wished you
luck and I'd see you soon.

But I didn't.

I heard
Carolee brought you back from the hospital
to your healing place,
a place you wanted to see one last time and
where your spirit will always remain,
a place that will never be the same.