Edward Myers

Tom's father, Edward Myers, examines a mussel.

Edward Myers is an original – I’ve been hearing it nearly all my life, and certainly during this past week, and perhaps for a while yet. He will be remembered as a free-thinker, and he was certainly capable of thinking outside of any box you tried to put him in. But he was also a remarkably consistent man. As a true conservative, he could not follow his fellow Republicans bleating about how what was good for General Motors was good for the country. He maintained the idea that what was worth conserving was God’s own magnificent creation, not some temporary political system, be it of the right or of the left.

And he loved all things marine – the intricacy and restless motion of the sea fit his restless soul and his inquiring mind. This one small spot in the Damariscotta River on the coast of little Maine was his window on the world. The depredations on the river were a reflection of the larger world, and preservation – not a blind freezing in the past but an active, forward-looking sustainable preservation – of the river was, in his mind, a model for the larger environmental questions. He was proud of having created a place where the traditional fisherman, the working aquaculturist, and the yachtsmen who simply celebrated the play of wind and water could all find a harmonious home at his wharf.

I will remember him for his passion, a passion hidden sometimes beneath the New England politeness, correct usage, and classical manner. His loyalty to his family was fierce – let any of them be threatened and you would be in no doubt where Edward’s emotions lay. None but a passionate man could have so many diverse interests – passionate and patient, too – like water trickling into the rock of the prison system, the government, the entrenched interests everywhere.

And of course we all admired his mind – what a lot was stored in that hard drive. His knowledge was bewildering in its breadth and breathtaking in its depth. A dozen times this week some question has come up, where I automatically respond, “Well, I’ll just ask Edward…” Now we have to ask ourselves.

I remember, I remember-
Not well enough- What if all we're left with
is our memories? Mine are only faint exhaust
Of the "here"s that fuel my thrust to there.
What if "there" isn't?
But I remember
That broad back bent over the pump
Crisp clinking of wrench on spark plug
Grunting mild imprecations
In time to the yanks
On the starter rope

Behind, in the smell of creosote
and mildewed life jackets,
my knees scrape forward, wanting to help
Or, feeling lazy and ill-used,
I let the light waver while I kick at the chains.
He wanted my help, but he's doing it all himself.
Then I'm hanging in the seafront door to the plant
Shrieking over the pour in the tanks
"Go up and say when it's working" he said,
He knows already, of course,
When the motor 'tung'ed, hiccuped, growled
And the water titched in the empty pipes
There was no where else for it to go.
But I'm yelling and waving my donation
Now we can go back to bed
False hope! He always did it right
Returning the tools, attention to the engine,
Pausing to make some point on a map.

Or rowing in November dawns,
Swaddled in woolens
Hip-heavy with 20 guage shells
Why can I never find the branches he does?
I bring twigs too small to break the boat's lines
And then sitting in that rock blind
Losing my toes and legs to the cold
What duck in his right mind would come here?
If one does, release of movement and milky tea
If the eel grass and that Bean quacker doesn't bring 'em
If the sky remains empty as it fills with light
Tight lips go "Waaill" and we row back
Toward day at the office

A couple of quick stills:
Stepping off the edge of Non-Succotash
Bobbing up in my life preserver
Whinnying fear
The photograph: In T-shirt and khakis
Wallet and keys on the cabin
Hands prepared for a dive
But checking first
In the event I was hauled aboard
And felt bad about the bucket

Getting past Hazel Tenney and Miss Small
To perch on a black sofa
Under Mother's portrait
Surrounded by bits of gear
Tottering reams of paper
The smell of smoke, dust and salt.
Does his neck move?
Then there's no headache
And I can ask a favor.

Or the bearish back again
Wrestling a bale of wire into the barn
For he is a bear, you know
It's more than the Milnish whimsy of Edward Bear,
Careful and grumpy
Gentle paws, an amenity for hugs
The low, protective growl
The throwaway line

God, and this place,
this place you all see so often
I remember the linoleum the Kelsey's left
And the remnants of tar from the old drive past the hedge,
The forge, the woodshed, the buggy
And the five-car garage that went with the wind
And the trees in the view of the shore
Gradually succumbing.

"If only I'd...."
It's a game I play myself
Buying Rounds's house
And Frost's headland
This place and,
Inseparable from my childhood, that sound
The roar of Thurlow's sprayer
Through the ivy and the screen.
'Yesterday's flannel shirt and corduroys
Waiting on the chair
Up in that attic room
Before I discovered Wins's old copies of Miller
But after the hot-breathed Cyclops had vanished from the crawl-space
I discovered Granny's silver
My parents were burglars! They snuck out after we fell asleep
And stashed their loot up here.
Shocked but amazed, I walked
To the school at the top of the hill.

And on up this ladder, rung by rung
Would a published book be worth Brigadoon?
We count our days as logarithms-
Today is one ten-thousandth of my life
And it feels it.
I'm back less these last few years
Never long enough,
And with my "When he was thirty-four..."s
Have you all kept his letters?
In later years I have.
They live in packets from London to Little Rock.
Nobody says "Oh, yeah, my dad used to get lobsters from them..." any more
The bank managers in London don't say, "Oh well, since Ed's your father..."
I love him

Tom Myers