My wife and I first began experiencing the people of Maine in the fall and winter of 1989-1990, when we built our home on an island in Casco Bay. We both had grown up in the South, lived in the Boston area for many years, and were gratified to find our new neighbors in Maine to be down-to-earth, hardworking, practical, and friendly but not overly familiar.
George, the Handel-humming builder
One of the first Mainers we met was a man named George Waterman, who helped build our house on the island. George and his wife, Greta, hail from South Freeport. George is huge and hulking like a bear, barrel-chested, enormously strong and enormously resourceful. He once studied to be an early music scholar before he was captured by the outdoors of Maine, and he will often compare ocean sunsets to Handel’s “Messiah,” or the sound of the wind through the trees to a Beethoven symphony.
For many years, George worked on the water. He built piers, ramps and floats, and a variety of other marine constructions. The more logistically difficult and challenging a project, the more he enjoyed it. All of his work has a wonderful blend of unquestionable practicality and aesthetics of design. The ramps of his floats are solidly anchored at both ends, yet arc gracefully into the air. His piers are sometimes octagonal.
In his working days, George always wore a dozen or more tools strapped around his waist on a leather harness. As he walked, taking his big, bearlike steps, the tools would clatter and clank. For some odd reason, however, whenever George came over to my house to build or fix something, he would never have the one tool he needed. He’d roll his eyes for a moment and then break out in a mischievous grin, signaling that he’d figured out how to make do with whatever equipment he had on hand. Sometimes I thought that he intentionally left behind a key tool or part just to prove he could live without it.
He once came over to build a door to the lattice skirting under my house. As it turned out, he’d forgotten the door handle and latch. Within 10 minutes, he constructed a perfectly fine handle and latch out of wood and a bent nail, which I still use to this day, three decades later. After much admiration of his handiwork on that project, we went down some steps (which he had built) to the water with a bottle of wine and watched the sun turn red and puffy, him humming one of Handel’s serenatas.
Many times, I have visited George in his own fisherman’s cottage in South Freeport. For years, every morning he would take a tray up the narrow staircase to Greta while she was still in bed, carrying a cup of coffee and a small vase of flowers. As Greta tells the story, the flowers were often not so fresh, but preserved and presented nonetheless. And George’s comment on the situation: “I only hope that when I am wilted myself, no one will throw me out.”
Bob, the humble canoeing champion
Another Maine man I met soon after moving there was Bob Waddle, the owner of the now-defunct Quahog Lobster at the end of Pinkham Point Road. Bob, who passed away in 2022, was a warm and modest guy, stocky and muscular with the build of a wrestler. As far as I know, he never actually wrestled, but he was extremely athletic. He ran a dozen marathons, hiked the Appalachian Trail, and skied cross-country and alpine. Added to that, Bob was a national champion in whitewater canoeing. A major factor in his wins was that he was very fast at portages, often a part of the canoe races.
But Bob never talked about these accomplishments. Instead, he would regale me about the history of Harpswell, discuss the local fishing conditions, and talk about running, a pastime of my own. In fact, whenever I saw Bob, he was usually dressed in running pants and running shoes. Weather never deterred him. He ran in rain, ice and snow. “I like all kinds of weather here,” he once said to me, a statement that could have applied to his full embrace of Maine as a whole.
Bob was keenly interested in the osprey family that made a home on my property. One summer, when the father osprey abandoned his mate and brood, Bob kindly gave me some fish to feed the starving family. After 10 tries of attempting to throw the fish up into the nest, 30 feet high, the mother rejected my offering, possibly because the fish in question was long dead by that time.
Bob was raised in his aunt’s farmhouse on Pinkham Point Road, near its intersection with Stevens Corner Road. According to his daughter Jane, the chickens loved him. He worked at the A&P grocery store on Maine Street in Brunswick and would walk there, a distance of about 11 miles.
Bob was an inspiration to me in his involvement with his local community. He was a selectman for the town of Harpswell for six years and chairman of the board for two years. In particular, he advocated for fishermen and harvesters in marine resource policy. For a number of years, he provided 1,200 lobsters for Bowdoin’s annual lobster bake, and an even larger number for Bowdoin’s Reunion Weekend.
When I think of Bob, I remember his unusual combination of toughness and gentleness. “You have to take life as it comes,” he often said to me.
Donnette, the cheerful recycling attendant
Everyone living in Harpswell knows Donnette Goodenow, who works at the Recycling Center. You can’t miss her, always wearing her trademark multicolored umbrella hat and smiling cheerfully at all who arrive with their trash. Donnette seems perpetually pleased with the world and her place in it. “What a lovely day to come in,” she often says to her customers.
In the warmer months, she often wears shorts and a faded lemon-colored T-shirt. But she prefers the colder days, when the trash doesn’t stink so much.
She remembered my name after I told it to her only once — an astonishing feat, considering that hundreds, maybe thousands, of people pass through the Recycling Center every week. Donnette knows almost all of them. She not only remembers her customers’ names; she remembers their families. “How’s that grandson of yours?” she said to one of her customers the last time I was at the center.
I asked her what she likes about her job. “All the happy people,” she said. “I like helping people. It’s good for my soul.” Donnette is happy and she makes other people happy. Then there is the occasional witty quip that slips from her mouth if you are listening: “I have 11 years of experience being 49,” she said recently.
Donnette grew up in Bowdoinham and Brunswick. She was named after her father, Donald, and mother, Pearlette. For 10 years, she worked for the community television station. Then, for three summers, she helped out at the nearby Recycling Center. She has worked there full time ever since.
Donnette Goodenow is a treasure. In these troubled days, she reminds us that we can find joy in simply smiling at other people, living in the moment and taking pleasure in the little tasks of life.
