Never speak ill of the dead, and a stroll through the Western Promenade

“Remember, remember always, that all of us, and you and I especially, are descended from immigrants and revolutionists.” 

― Franklin D. Roosevelt

A view from above of Hadlock Field and the city of Portland. 

A tour of majestic homes that surround the Western Prom. 

 

Above-ground crypts and tombstones of American veterans.

This where it all started for my son — Maine Medical Center. 

PORTLAND — Anyone with a fat wallet can travel around the globe to visit historic landmarks that fill the pages of history books, but if you look hard enough, there are hidden relics that determined the fate of a young nation right in your own backyard. 

When you talk about recorded history, spend an hour or two at a cemetery in your neighborhood — or seek out unkept graveyards sitting off dirt roads in the middle of nowhere. We don't find cemeteries creepy, and we don't' wander rows of 100-year-old tombstones seeking out lost souls who might haunt these final stops of the dead. I have no interest in the macabre, but all those old headstones reveal tiny pieces of history about people who helped shape this nation. I remain a firm skeptic of the paranormal.

If we come upon a cemetery and have the time, we get out our camera and visit those who have gone before us. We make it a point to visit Old Burying Point Cemetery in Salem, Mass., on Halloween, and reading the headstones never gets old for this family. We have visited Anderson Cemetery in Windham, Maine, my wife's hometown. There is a long gravel road that runs for about a quarter of mile before you find it. An unmarked Indian burial ground is nearby. Anderson features veterans from the American Revolution and an above-ground crypt built into the side of mound that might give you a chill up your spine.

After visiting a classmate of Anthony's at Maine Medical Center, we decided to walk the Western Promenade. Anthony entered this life 17 years ago at Maine Med., and here we were again. I look at the hospital and can't believe it has been 17 years since my precious son dropped in on us. We are pretty lucky, and Anthony reminds his mom and dad of our good fortune every day.

It was about a three-mile walk around promenade, and it was there we stumbled upon Western Cemetery. My wife and son thought it was creepy. I found it restful, serene and beautiful. It's in the heart of Portland and the perfect place to rest for all eternity.

This nearly 200-year-old graveyard is surrounded by grand houses that cost a fortune. You would have to own your own bank to build these stately homes and  maintain their well-kept gardens in today's market. The brick inlays, massive porches, and cupolas always makes me wonder who lives in such luxury.

Before we walked through those quiet, affluent neighborhoods, we strolled along the promenade's long paths and enjoyed wide-open views of Portland and Hadlock Field — home to the Portland Sea Dogs. We gazed up at a statue of Thomas Brackett Reed — statesman, Civil War veteran and a former Maine Attorney General.

Down the road was Western Cemetery, which is surrounded by rod-iron gates. There was nobody there as we walked among the dead against a threatening, gray sky. There are worn-out headstones and above-ground crypts that are slowly being reclaimed by the ravenous earth. Some of the tombstones marked the graves of War of 1812 veterans like William Pollies Jr., an ensign, Richard Hunnewell, Joseph Glazier, and Charles Taylor, who was a member of the Fifth Maine, which saw action in the Civil War.

All this history and greenery was right in the heart of Portland, and all we did was take a long winding path through a park to discover it all.

The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 5: The decorations

• • "Christmas is not as much about opening our presents as opening our hearts."
• • Janice Maeditere

AUBURN, Maine - We drag out nearly a dozen boxes  from our damp-and dark cellar every December.

We lug the boxes upstairs and begin sorting through bulbs and home-made decorations, each with its own precious history.

The tree has been stationed in the corner of the living room and its bare branches will soon be covered with cherished decorations and tinsel wraps.

Each bulb or ornament marks the passing of time and has its own story to tell. Decorating the tree is like taking a trip down memory lane each yuletide.

We remember Aunt Eddie's homemade angel ornament or my mother's funny gift of a Dunkin Donuts decoration. We go through all the ornaments as try to remember where they all came from.

There are so many ornaments the we have acquired over the last few decades. My wife, who is a full-time ed tech at a junior high, has received many ornaments from students and fellow teachers. There are decorations that my son handmade in elementary school and unique ornaments from her mother.

For instance, there is Anthony's green-painted ornament with a picture of him pasted on the front.

It is priceless.

"Our First Christmas Together" is always a sentimental favorite. 

We have so many ornaments that they can't fit on a 6-foot Christmas tree. So we bought a small fake tree at a yard sale last year to accommodate our decorations.

No ornament will be left in behind. That is our motto.

Some ornaments break and are reluctantly disposed of in the trash. It is like tossing away a memory.

It hurts.

And there are the dazzling ornaments that nobody knows where they came from. But we enjoy the mystery and still place them upon our tree - no questions asked.

Just when we are about to place a moratorium on purchasing another ornament to add to our vast collection, there is always one decoration that we can't with live without.

Anthony couldn't resist purchasing a glass-bulb ornament with "The Alamo" nestled inside this unique decoration.

Thinking about "The Alamo" made me feel warm and fuzzy all over.

But what is wrong with adding a new memory to our tree each year?

The poet in all of us

This was poem was written by a dedicated and intelligent seven-grader who just happens to be my son.

TheDoer

 

I am a doer

I wonder how to do new things

I hear the voices of people through history

I see pictures of the future

I want to do more always

 

I pretend to be someone

to see how it feels

I feel like an eagle, ready to dive

I touch something that is not there

I laugh at the bird,

as he does a little dance.

I worry for the things that cannot fend for themselves

 

I understand I cannot do everything

I say that people should not hate

I dream about things that happened before

I try to do more everyday

I hope that hate will be stopped

I am a doer 

September 1, 2009