Journey With the Comet: Beautiful Dreamer

By Dana Wayne Haley

Leona Haley and Mark Twain—her favorite writer—have something in common. They were born under Halley's Comet, and amazingly Twain died under it too, just 5 days before Leona was born. Upon learning this, the young girl's dreams of performing on Broadway are now replaced by dreams of becoming a famous astronomer like Edmund Halley; hoping someday to discover a comet of her own and to live long enough to see Halley's Comet return from its 76 year journey. But that's not all, Leona's newfound knowledge triggers 'fantastic dreams' in which she rides through the heavens on a 'magical comet', allowing her to see places and things she has only read about; and helping her overcome obstacles in her life's journey—as does surreal earth-bound encounters with a giant American Bald Eagle.

Join Leona on Haley's Comet and experience the ups and downs of her fascinating life. Beginning in the bustling town of Bangor, Maine—known then as the Lumber Capital of the World and the birthplace of Paul Bunyan—Leona's journey takes her through childhood and into adulthood in the scenic rural town of Glenburn, where she interacts with a motley group of family and friends (and a few obnoxious adversaries) on Earth; including:

Her father Murdock, a skilled carpenter from Canada who is anything but humble, with a penchant for whistling Beautiful Dreamer and playing cribbage; her loving mother Margaret of Glenburn, Maine—"the best cook in the world" according to her daughter—who is related to the Plymouth Colony's first governor, John Carver, and to a beautiful Indian: Princess Falling Star; eldest sister Lillian, a procrastinator with a hysterical hyena-like laugh; older sister Arlene, a stubborn girl with a knack for writing humorous poems mocking her siblings; Wally, the annoying little brother who enjoys playing pranks on his siblings; Grandma Eunice, who often visits the Haleys for humorous storytelling sessions via what Leona refers to as 'Grandma's Path'; Crazy Charlie, an old hermit living in the woods who prefers his "animal friends" to humans; and Jill, Leona's best friend and the only one who believes her dreams are real and not some figment of her imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543931143

Book preview

1

The Arrival

It was a chilly April day in Bangor, Maine, a small, yet bustling American city that unabashedly claims legendary lumberjack Paul Bunyan as its own.

The year was 1910.

Snow from a surprise—and most definitely annoying—late season Nor’easter covered much of the state with a soft, silky-white blanket only a few days past the Ides of March. Although the unexpected blizzard deposited more than nineteen inches on top of the season’s meager remains, the last remnant of winter had been off the ground for almost three weeks now, thanks in no small part to the Sun’s intense springtime rays; and muddy season in this pristine region of the northeast United States, known by all as God’s Country, was thankfully nearing an end.

And I say thankfully because, despite the natural scenic beauty and almost divine serenity that residents of the Pine Tree State cherish during all four of its distinctively diverse seasons, the unofficial and rather obscure season known in these parts as the season of mud, although only two to three weeks in duration, is a time of the year that most Mainers—or Maniacs as they proudly, albeit sometimes sarcastically, always humorously, call themselves—dreaded the most. So much so that, when it was over, many of them might be heard saying, in their own unique vernacular, that they were "wicked happy to be rid of it."

Indeed, the coldest wintry weather during January-February, or the hated two-week period during summer when mosquitoes and black flies often made life a living hell, was more tolerable to many Mainers than was the loathsome substance that gave this dreaded season its name. And that was particularly true for the hardworking housewives, because it was they who—when not slaving over a hot stove preparing meals and doing everyday housework—had the unenviable task of cleaning Earth’s brown pudding from the floors of their homes; of sweeping the piles of dirt that it made after the unnoticed mud dried for upwards of an hour, if not longer, on those floors; or of washing the dirty mess off their family’s clothing, where it was almost destined to collect.

Or maybe I should say scrubbing it off, because in those days there were no electric washing machines, or, for that matter, no affordable electricity in much of this rural part of the country to power the modern inventions. No, only washtubs and corrugated metal scrubbing boards, with power being supplied by hardy women in the form of long periods of tedious work; in part, because it usually took two or three good scrubbings and a corresponding amount of clean water in the washtub to rid soiled clothes of the entrenched dirt; water that had to be carried in pails from the nearest well and heated on a properly stoked woodstove, with at least a half-dozen pails needed to fill the tub.

And after all that effort, the women still had to manually wring out the clothes to remove most of the water before they were hung on clotheslines to dry in the sun. Though, that process wasn’t too bad if the housewives could afford the luxury of a mechanical wringer: an ingenious two-roller device that conveniently attached to the tub, allowing a housewife to squeeze the water out of the clothing with relative ease by simply turning a crank. But most people, being dirt-poor in those days, instead had to use their hands: twisting the clothes with all their might until the water was sufficiently wrung out. So, as you can rightly imagine, removing mud from the family’s clothes was no small matter, typically taking the toiling housewives the better part of a day to accomplish. Indeed, those housewives undoubtedly had trouble deciding which they dreaded most: that, or toiling all day under the hot sun in the family’s vegetable garden. One thing they did know for sure—and frequently repeated to their husbands—was this simple and oft-cited poem: "Man may work from sun to sun, but woman’s work is never done."

Of course, the workers in Maine’s great outdoors had no love for the sloppy mess that permeated the spring ground either. From the early-to-rise farmers who drove their cattle into the muddy fields, after finishing their daily milking chores, long before the roosters crowed; to the early-morning milkmen who tiptoed to the front doors of their customers’ homes in order to avoid, often unsuccessfully, the gooey mess on the gravel walkways; to the hardy lumberjacks of Maine, who by days end were regularly plastered from head to toe with spots of the brown substance thrown from the hooves of their pulling horses; all hated this dreadful season with a passion.

And why?

Because it meant many wasted hours trying to navigate through, or avoid entirely, God’s yearly hazard; and even more wasted hours scraping the gooey and sometimes hardened mess off the soles and from the grooves of their boots. Even so, this year the season was almost over; and, for that, everyone could be thankful. Indeed, the one good thing about that most dreadful part of spring was that it was accompanied by the warm rays of the Earth’s brilliant Sun, and that its end, and not March 21st, signaled the unofficial start of spring. And, with the end of muddy season, everyone could look forward not only to the beautiful life-renewing days of spring that lay ahead, but to the beautiful bright-blue and semi cloud-filled Maine skies; and, of course, to the abundant sunny, and oft breezy, 70 degree days of summer, for which Maine is especially known and blessed. And this special April day in 1910—a day that you might say marks the real beginning of this story and one that you will learn much more about before too long—was typical of the most beautiful, or maybe, most inspiring spring weather that Maine has to offer.

Although the temperature was only in the low 60s when the morning Sun came from behind the clouds on this particular Tuesday morning in Bangor, the brilliant illumination of the yellowish-green grass and the warmth of the sun on ones face were further proof that spring had finally arrived. And although the arrival of spring in the cherished State of Maine was an event looked forward to with great anticipation every year, this year was uniquely different, for it was preceded by a more extraordinary event that happens only once every 76 years: the arrival of Halley’s Comet, a celestial comet appropriately named after its official discoverer.

Despite being seen numerous times by a multitude of people from a multitude of countries over the past few centuries, it wasn’t until 1682 that English astronomer Edmund Halley first realized, and, more significantly, recorded for posterity what it was those people had seen in the skies, since at least the year 240BC and likely before. Because of his amazing achievement, Halley was the first to truly discover ‘mankind’s comet’, as it has since been so aptly labeled.

Over the years Halley’s Comet had intrigued both astronomers and common folk the world around, and this part of the world at this particular moment of the Earth’s history was no different. Indeed, the comet had already captured the imagination of everyone who anticipated its arrival in the crisp winter skies of Bangor, and more so those who were fortunate to view it float visibly through the heavens from late January, on into April; and to a sickly Mark Twain, America’s literary treasure, beloved humorist, and renown world ambassador—who with fate’s blessing was fortunate to be born under the comet in 1835 and destined to die under it too—it held special significance. But to the Haleys of Bangor, the arrival of Earth’s most famous comet took second place to an event that held much more significance to them: The arrival of their third child.

Indeed, as the distant comet was about to head away from the Earth on its eternal journey into the far reaches of the Milky Way, passers-by outside a small yellow house on Palm Street could hear a distinct slap and then the sound of a baby’s wail through a half-open bedroom window on that blissful Tuesday morn, when, at 10:37, baby Leona first made her way into this mysterious and oft cruel world.

Granted, the 26th day of April in the year 1910 was not a day that the world will singularly remember, nonetheless, to Margaret and Murdock Haley it was a day that they would cherish for the rest of their lives. Though no one could know it then, little Leona Bessie Haley, as she was so named, would have a lasting impact on the lives of untold people who only by chance intercepted her journey through life.

Although many of the characters you will soon encounter have their own engaging stories to tell, this is Leona’s story, or, as I like to call it, her Journey with the Comet. And as you read her intriguing story you will learn much about her unique life: the wonderful and sometimes woeful experiences she has; the many fascinating people she meets along the way; and the twists and turns, and the ups and downs that fate has in store for her. But most intriguing of all, you will join Leona on her amazing journey through the heavens where she lives out her dreams on the mysterious and oftentimes magical comet that guides her through life.

Chapter 2

The Journey Begins

Shortly after noon, on the 17th of April 1899, Murdock Campbell Haley was standing on the top deck of the massive City of Bangor—one of three passenger ships belonging to the Bangor-based Eastern Steamship Company—as it slowly made its way up the Penobscot River to its host city. The young Canadian was leaning on the ship’s side rail, taking in the scenery and watching an American Bald Eagle flying high overhead, when he noticed an older man walking toward him, looking for-all-the-world as if he were lost.

Hi, young fella, the man said. "Beautiful day, isn’t it? Could be a little cooler I guess, but, all-in-all, I’ll take it."

You and me too, mister, Murdock responded. Although, when it comes right down to it, I kinda prefer the weather like this, especially where I’m from.

"Hmmm, the man said before continuing. I’ve been on this boat manys-a-time—in fact, more than I cared to—and I don’t recall seeing you before. Be that as it may, I couldn’t help but notice you eyeing that eagle circling above us. It sure is graceful lookin’."

Yeah, I’ve been watching it on-and-off since we left Bar Harbor, Murdock responded. "I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It must think we’re either a very large prey or an irresistible curiosity; given the diverse personalities of the passengers I’ve observed on this vessel, it’s probably the latter. As far as you seeing me before, it’s my first time on this ship—or any other for that matter."

"Is that right? the elder man exclaimed. Well then, let me be the first to welcome you aboard. You headed for business or pleasure?"

A little of both, Murdock replied. I’m on my way to Bangor to….

Oh, sorry, the man said, "gotta go; my boss is calling me. Nice meeting you."

Murdock turned and saw the man hurrying toward a woman with an angry look on her face. He laughed when he realized it was the man’s wife. The elder man had wakened him from his scenic daydream, and now he began thinking about the reason he was on this huge ship, wondering if he was making a huge mistake.

The adventurous Canadian was immigrating to the United States from Basswood Ridge—a small, rural village on the outskirts of St. Stephen, New Brunswick—eagerly anticipating the start of his new journey in the small, yet thriving, Maine city. The confident 19-year-old was on his way to Bangor in hopes of finding work as a carpenter—his main vocation since becoming an apprentice at the age of 16—and eventually realizing the American Dream. As fate would have it, the ambitious Canadian would have no choice but to take what he considered temporary work as a laborer at a local freight station until, hopefully, a carpenter’s job opened up.

The station where Murdock would eventually find employment, constructed ten years prior to the turn of the century and aptly named the Bangor Freight Station, was situated on the Penobscot River, just north of where the southward flowing river met the southeasterly flowing Kenduskeag Stream, one of its many small tributaries. The Kenduskeag not only dutifully fed the Penobscot, but served as the boundary separating what residents called the west side of Bangor from the east side, the east side being where the freight station was located. Why those early residents were not instead inclined to declare that the diagonally flowing Kenduskeag separated the north side of Bangor from the south side, few knew, or likely even cared. Of course, Murdock Haley knew none of those facts yet, not even that he would soon be working in a freight station for that matter. But he was about to find out.

—1—

As the City of Bangor was approaching the dock in Bangor on that hot, blustery day, Murdock leaned against the portside rail of its crowded top deck watching the persistent Bald Eagle circle high overhead. To his amazement the giant bird had followed the huge passenger ship from Bar Harbor all the way up the Penobscot. When the ship’s whistle blew and the Canadian’s gaze shifted downward, he marveled at the beehive of activity before him, both on the water and on the land below. Indeed, the harbor was so full of ships and boats and barges that it took nearly fifteen minutes for the City of Bangor to worm its way safely to dockside. And the ship itself was so crowded that it was another five minutes before Murdock was able to elbow his way through his fellow passengers to the ship’s ramp. When he finally did, he eagerly left the ship and proceeded to walk through a large dusty parking lot on his way to the nearby waterfront street. Halfway through the lot Murdock noticed a taxi driver climbing off a shiny black carriage, likely there looking for customers from the boat that had just docked.

"Taxi! Taxi here! Anyone need ah Taxi? the Canadian heard. And then there was more. I can git’ju anywhere in Bangah. Any takers? No? How’s about the bordering towns then? Anyone travelin’ to Veazie or Orono, or Old Town? Then, how’s about Hampden or Hermon? I’ll even go as far as Levant, Glenburn, or Kenduskeag. Maybe even Winterport if the price is right."

Murdock made his way to the cheerful, middle-aged taxi driver and said: "Excuse me, mistah, I’m new to this town. Could you help me with directions?"

"Well, if I can’t, then I don’t know who can, the cabby wisecracked. Where ya bound fer?"

I’m looking for the nearest employment office, Murdock answered. I’ve heard tell there’s plenty of jobs to be had here in Bangor.

"That there are, young fella, especially this time of year. The place you’re looking fer is on the east side of town. But it’s not far from here; less than ah mile I’d say. Give me ah chance to hitch my horse to this here rail and give her ah cool drink of water, then I’d be more than glad ta help ya out."

Where am I now? the young Canadian asked.

This here is Front Street, and the place ya wanna be is Exchange.

How might I get there?

"Well, ya might get there by hoppin’ in my cozy little carriage, after slappin’ ah shiny-new Abe Lincoln in the palm of my hand, of course."

I’d sure like to, cabby, but I’m afraid I’m a mite short on cash right about now. I’ve barely got enough to maybe take a baker’s dozen rides with you, so I’ve gotta be frugal and hope to find a cheap place to stay ‘til I find a job, or I’ll be up the creek without a paddle.

"Well, in that case, ya wanna take Front Street north—which is that direction—and follow the Penobscot. Just down the road ah piece—maybe 200 feet from here—Front will end and you’ll find yourself on Broad Street. Take Broad for, oh, I’d say about another 300 feet or so, ‘til ya come to Washington Street. Then turn right, and before ya know it you’ll be crossing ah narrow river that empties into the Penobscot on your right. Right after ya cross the river you’ll run smack into Exchange Street. Turn left onto Exchange and then go ah couple of blocks to the end, past Hancock and York. The place you’re looking fer is at the corner of State and Exchange. It’s on the right and it’s called the Exchange Building. Got it?"

"I think so, mistah. Much obliged."

"No need for thanks, young fella. Tain’t nothin’. Good luck finding ah job."

Murdock nodded and walked away.

—2—

The young Canadian followed Front and Broad Streets to Washington Street, and was even more amazed than before at the flurry of activity he saw. To him, it looked as if a hundred horse-drawn carriages and wagons were hurrying along the waterfront streets. There could have been more, or there could have been less, but regardless, they were all sending dust high into the air; and the wind was swirling something terrible, sometimes blowing it in his direction and sometimes not. He saw all kinds of buildings lining both Front and Broad Streets, more than he could count. There were small gift shops, a large grocery store, a livery stable, a blacksmiths shop, a gigantic grain store, a two-story hotel with balconies facing the river, a couple of saloons, and God only knows how many more stores there were that he couldn’t identify.

The Canadian thought for a moment that he was viewing a scene from right out of the Wild West, except none of the men wore guns on their hips, or wore leg chaps made of cowhide, or wore cowboy hats or boots; that’s not true he thought, some did, at least, some wore cowboy hats and boots. But there weren’t many dressed that way, and he suspected that those men were just trying to be noticed, undoubtedly thinking they looked manly. But truth be known: some did, some didn’t. Regardless, those were the only differences he saw that told him he was really well east of the Mississippi River.

What he really discovered was, in his mind, somewhat assuring: Most people here wore dress similar to that of his native Canada, and many of those wore work clothes. The most unusual of them being men who walked around wearing heavy woolen shirts that looked much like a red-and-black checkerboard that his parents gave to him one Christmas. Sometime later, Murdock would learn that the strange looking shirt was the dress of choice for Maine’s many hunters and rugged lumberjacks: ‘outdoorsmen’ they called themselves.

After turning right onto Washington—from the looks of it, a main street in Bangor, he figured—it wasn’t long before Murdock was crossing the narrow river that the cabby referred to earlier. A small wooden sign told him that it was called the Kenduskeag Stream. Being curious, he stopped midway on the bridge, leaned on the rail to his right, and watched the tiny river empty into the much larger Penobscot, where fifty or so boats were amassed. Diagonally across the busy river he saw a dozen men or more working on a large ship that sat in dry-dock. From his distance he couldn’t tell if it was a new boat under construction, or if it was just being repaired.

—3—

After lingering there for a couple of minutes, a strong breeze nearly blew Murdock’s cap off, so he continued on across the small bridge and in less than a minute came to Exchange Street. On the right, sitting next to the Penobscot River, was a large building with the sign Bangor Freight Station above its front entrance. He had no idea that he would soon be working there. His only thoughts were of turning left onto Exchange Street as instructed by the cabby. But instead of turning left, Murdock Haley continued along Washington Street when he noticed a fast moving wagon overturn, about 200 feet up ahead. Wooden crates went flying everywhere on the dirt road, and he saw people scrambling out of the way. After the dust settled, one man was lying in the street and Murdock rushed to see if he could be of help. When he reached the man, people were already helping him off the ground. As the injured man limped toward the far sidewalk, Murdock yelled:

Are you okay, mistah?

"Yup, I reckon so. Just got my leg banged up a little, that’s all. Though, I came mighty close to … to buying the farm. Was gonna say biting the dust, but I guess I kinda did that, didn’t I?"

What happened? the amused Canadian asked.

"Some nitwit in a buggy cut that freight wagon off, and when the driver swerved, it tipped clean over. It was just my luck to be crossing the street right then. Luckily, being quite nimble and all, I was able to sidestep the wagon, but wasn’t near as lucky with the crates. Well, I’d love to chat some more, stranger, but I bes’ be getting this leg checked to make sure nawthin’s broke."

"Right-oh. Need any help?" Murdock asked.

"Nope, I can manage okay. As I recall, the Doc’s office is no more than a block away. But thanks for the offer, friend."

Murdock nodded at the man and turned to head back to Exchange Street, thinking: I sure hope my day goes better than his.

Chapter 3

The Old Indian

Murdock had taken no more than three steps in the direction of Exchange Street when he caught something out the corner of his eye. He turned toward the river and saw sheets of white paper being blown like tumbleweeds across the grass toward Washington Street. An older man with long white hair was chasing after them, so the Canadian ran onto the grass to help. Murdock managed to gather up two of the sheets, while the old man corralled the other three before they were blown onto the busy street, only to be trampled by the hooves of passing horses and then, to add insult to injury, run over by dirty wagon wheels. Before handing the papers to the elderly man, Murdock glanced at them and saw that they contained colorful paintings of a river; he assumed the Penobscot. That was affirmed when he noticed one of the paintings clearly showing three tall pine trees grouped side-by-side on the far bank of the river.

Wind’s pretty strong today, he said while handing the drawings to the slender old man.

Sure is. It’s that time of year. Anyway, thanks much for the help.

Don’t mention it, Murdock said.

"You’re not from this area, are you, mister?" the seemingly frail old man asked.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah. Your accent tells me you’re from across the border—up north. Am I right?"

"Righter than rain," Murdock replied.

Thought so; we see hordes of Canadians every spring for the river drive. Been here long?

Just got here, not more than a half-hour ago.

Visiting?

No, I’ve come for work. Heard this is the place to be right now.

"Yeah, you heard right. You’ll have no trouble finding work here; that’s for sure."

Is it always this hot? Murdock asked.

"Nah. Just havin’ a little heat spell, that’s all. Should be back to normal tomorrow."

What’s normal?

"The sixties this time of year. Seventies in the summer. Now and again we see the eighties, and sometimes even the nineties, but not often. Even saw a hundred once, but that’s real unusual for these parts. No, the seventies mostly in the summer."

What about the winter? Murdock asked.

"You’ll see."

Well, gotta be better than where I’m from, the Canadian replied.

Murdock studied the unique features of the slim man’s weathered face and could tell that he wasn’t of European ancestry. Although his white hair could be easily explained by the passage of time—except for its being the whitest white Murdock had ever seen—his other characteristics could not. He had a long thin nose and his voice had a distinctive dialect that the Canadian had never come across before, and that prompted his next question.

Can I ask what nationality you are?

"Don’t see why not, young fella. I’m native Indian; the Penobscot tribe of the Wabanaki confederation."

"Oh, that explains it, Murdock said. By the way, I really like your paintings, especially this one with the eagle. Been doing it long?"

Nearly all my life.

"How long has that been? If you don’t mind my asking."

Started when I was eight. And when another two full moons come this way, my old eyes will have seen seventy-eight summers.

That’s hard to believe after seeing you chase down those papers. I sure hope I’m as nimble as you when I reach my seventies.

—1—

Right off the bat, the two men took a liking to each other and struck up a friendly conversation that would last over an hour. Murdock found that the old Indian was more than happy to tell him about Bangor and about the area’s glorious past, especially about the part his tribe played. The first thing Murdock learned was that the Penobscot was like so many rivers in Maine: named after native Indians of the Pine Tree State, or after words taken from their native language.

See that river over there? The white men call it the Kenduskeag Stream, the old Indian said. "Not long ago Bangor was called the Condeskeag Plantation. They took Condeskeag from my people’s word kadesquit. It means eel-weir place."

What’s a weir? Murdock asked. Seems like I heard my pa mention it before, but I never knew for sure what it was.

It’s nothing more than a small manmade dam made of netting that holds back fish, rather than water, the old man responded. My tribe uses them all the time to catch salmon and other fish. That’s the most common use for weirs.

With very little coaxing from Murdock the old man eagerly reminisced for another fifteen minutes or so about his tribe, especially how they enjoyed living off the land. Murdock also learned from him that it was near this scenic location, at the then quiet junction of the Penobscot and the Kenduskeag, its much smaller and arguably most important tributary, where in 1769 a British squatter named Jacob Buswell built a log cabin to become Bangor’s first settler.

"Buswell was by far the whitest man my tribal ancestors had ever seen, or so the story goes, the old Indian said. Of course, after six generations of storytelling it’s hard to know if that’s the truth. Regardless, I suspect it took a while for them to trust him, and for him to trust them. I’m guessing that we learned English from him, and in turn that we taught him our tongue."

So Buswell was the first resident of Bangor, was he? Murdock asked.

"Not exactly; the Plantation of Condeskeag maintained its identity until 1791 when it was incorporated and officially became known as Bangor. Oh, by the way, you know how Bangor got its name?" the old Indian asked Murdock, knowing full well the Canadian would have no idea.

No, Murdock answered. "How?"

It’s a real interesting story, The Indian said.

I’m listening, Murdock responded.

"Well, back then, Maine was actually part of Massachusetts; and legend has it that the city’s envoy—a Reverend Seth Noble—was singing the old English hymn Bangor when he misheard a Massachusetts Clerk of Courts, thinking he asked what he was singing, rather than what he really asked: ‘What do you want to name it, Reverend Noble?’ Instead of the intended name Sunbury, Noble answered ‘Bangor’; and it was recorded as the city’s official name."

"Hmmm. That is interesting, Murdock observed. And kinda humorous."

"So it is, young fella. Anyhow, if you take yourself a look around I’m sure you can see why Buswell and my ancestors were so fond of this area."

Without question, the Canadian responded.

My ancestors used this area as a camping ground, the old Indian continued, if not since our tribe first roamed the forests of Maine, at least, for as long as the elders can remember.

Indeed, both Jacob Buswell and the Penobscot Indians recognized the scenic beauty and utility of the Penobscot River, and of the unspoiled area now known as Bangor, and they were not hesitant to say so; and although anyone in any land might claim that their particular region is Heaven on Earth, so to speak, evidence of the area’s splendor was independently affirmed by none other than early-American writer and preeminent naturalist Henry David Thoreau when he explored the north woods of Maine while visiting relatives during the mid-1800s.

After viewing the river and the town that it flowed past, Thoreau wrote admirably of both. He described the Penobscot as "an inclined mirror between two evergreen forests and he said that Bangor appeared as a star on the edge of the night." And many other visitors during that time might also have been heard heaping similar praise on the city and on its beautiful, indeed, life-giving river. Surely, when Murdock Campbell Haley first laid eyes on it he had no doubt that he had made the right choice in immigrating to America.

Chapter 4

The River and Paul Bunyan

Murdock and the old Indian made their way to the nearby riverbank and found a comfortable spot to sit while they continued their conversation.

I could sit here all day just watching the river, Murdock said.

I’ve done that before, much to my wife’s chagrin, the Indian joked. Course I had a fishing pole in my hand at the time.

Murdock laughed and said, "I hope to follow in your footsteps, plus take advantage of all that this river has to offer. Although, this spot is so peaceful I think I could sit here all day just doing nothing. There’s something about this river that is mesmerizing."

"That there is, the old man said. In fact, I’ve felt that way about the Penobscot since I don’t know when."

The meandering Penobscot, Maine’s largest and most famous waterway—known mostly for bountiful schools of spawning Atlantic Salmon; for large black bears and enormous moose that frequent its banks; and for graceful American Bald Eagles that soar high above it—begins its journey more than two-hundred miles north of Bangor, and then, only twenty miles south of that city, empties peacefully into the thirty-mile-long Penobscot Bay, a tiny portion of the vast Atlantic which sports some of the most inspiring coastal scenes in America, or, as Mainers like to think, in any other part of the world.

Along the way, the Penobscot passes quietly through many towns, large and small, before making its way to Bangor. In Bangor the peaceful Penobscot momentarily digresses from its mostly southward journey to flow southwest along the edge of the city, separating Murdock’s new hometown from Brewer: its twin city on the east. Beyond Bangor the river continues its journey southward to the Penobscot Bay, which in those days was well known for having numerous commercial shipping ports and as being the home of tiny coastal shipbuilding towns like Belfast and Searsport.

In the mid-1800s to early-1900s the Penobscot River was often filled with ships and barges of all sizes used to carry mainly wood or wood-related products to the aforementioned ports; to numerous other New England ports for eventual shipment to the rest of the continental United States; and, indeed, even to foreign ports throughout the rest of the industrialized world. As fate would have it, Murdock Haley was destined to be one of the many men who labored on the banks of the Penobscot, loading products onto those ships and barges, and onto the many freight trains and wagons that also visited the station where he would soon work.

Many of those products were manufactured in the thriving city of Bangor: a city that at that time was known as ‘the Lumber Capital of the World’, and one that was thought to be well on its way to becoming as vital to the growth of the still young United States as any city within its borders, thanks in large part to the industrious lumberjacks who were seen as the vital first cog in the wood trade.

—1—

As a kid, Murdock had read fantastic stories of legendary lumberjack Paul Bunyan, and heard from Canadians returning from the yearly log drives that Bunyan was indeed as real as real could be and that he was born and raised in Bangor. Not knowing if they were being truthful or were just pulling his leg—he suspected the latter—Murdock quizzed the old Indian about that.

Tell me what you know about Paul Bunyan, he said. Was he real or just a figment of some writer’s imagination?

Oh, he was real all right, the Indian replied. The things they wrote about him may have been a mite exaggerated, but according to my father they didn’t need to be. He was an impressive man in his own right.

Your father knew him? Murdock queried.

"Oh yes, he told me manys-ah-story about ole Paul. He was a giant of a man who could do the work of three lumberjacks. My father said he never knew anyone who could put away the food that ole Paul could. He was over 250 pounds and stood six-foot-and-ah-half. My grandfather knew his parents, and they told him Paul was twelve pounds and over twenty inches at birth, with huge hands and feet. He headed out west when the lumberjack trade slowed down here—to Michigan and Minnesota, I believe.

"They say he didn’t want to leave Maine, but when push came to shove ole Paul had no choice if he wanted to keep making a living as a lumberjack."

Murdock couldn’t believe that Paul Bunyan was actually real.

What about his blue ox? he joked.

Well, he had an ox, but I doubt it was blue, the Indian quipped. "Unless he painted it. I’ve heard tell of blue grass in Kentucky, but a blue ox in Maine is a little more than even I can swallow."

Murdock and the old Indian laughed.

It’s hard to imagine a man like him, Murdock said.

Sure is, the Indian agreed. Even so, as strong and as skilled as Paul was, the other lumberjacks and rivermen in this area are no slouches either. As far as I know, they’re unrivaled anywhere.

—2—

Bangor’s illustrious reputation as ‘the Lumber Capital of the World’ was well-earned thanks to the many hard-working lumberjacks and daring rivermen who toiled along the Penobscot. For it was the former who, during the winter months, felled, trimmed and hauled large trees to the frozen river as logs; and, once there, it was the latter who drove and steered those logs downstream when the inevitable spring thaw permitted. Hence, their unique name: ‘river-drivers’. Though in reality the real log-driver was the Penobscot River, the fearless river-drivers were often required to give the mighty river just a little, albeit crucial assistance, especially during the first leg of the drive down the fast-moving river, when the giant logs were nothing but a massive free-floating mess that more often than not became jammed at its narrower parts, requiring the muscular river-drivers to skillfully break up the jam; although, skill often had to be thrown out the window in favor of brute force.

As a result of those jams, many courageous or some might even say foolhardy men died from accidental drowning, or from being crushed between massive logs when they fell into the water during the April-May drives, usually while trying to clear a jam, an everyday occurrence among the brave river-drivers. Consequently, their feats became legendary, and the locals often gave them names to reflect those feats. The best-of-the-best of those courageous rivermen were aptly called the "Bangor Tigers", partly to acknowledge their base of operation, but mainly because of their aggressive nature when it came to driving logs down the sometimes-unforgiving river.

Further downstream, on the next leg of the drive, the river-drivers had it much easier because the logs were of necessity separated according to an owner’s identification mark that was branded into each log—similar to the way cowboys of the Old West branded cattle—and then chained together as gigantic log rafts, to make it the rest of the way down to mills located a few miles upstream from Bangor: in towns like Old Town, Orono, and Veazie on the west side; or Milford, Bradley, and Eddington on the east side. After being processed at either pulp or saw mills, the wood products once again made their way to the Bangor Freight Station where they were loaded onto trains or ships, or occasionally onto a wagon, in the case of a short overland shipment.

—3—

In addition to the shipment of wood products, there were also shipments of complimentary items, such as saws, axes, splitters, woodstoves and furnaces; as well as other items like iceboxes and refrigerators, tin products, leather goods, bricks, and a multitude of other useful products. Given the vitality of the area, it was no wonder in those days that Bangor was a haven for daring entrepreneurs. There were businesses started almost daily to take advantage of the area’s ‘wood bonanza’; and Brewer, the rival city across the river from Bangor, had its share of good fortune too, with many companies—like shipbuilders and paper mills—likewise prospering. But wood wasn’t the only river related product that Bangor was known for, because ice that was chopped from the frozen parts of the Penobscot River and Kenduskeag Stream during the winter months, and then shipped to all parts of the globe, had the reputation of being the purist ice in the world, and thus was in high demand. And that reputation was likely one of the reasons the manufacture of iceboxes and refrigerators in the foundries of Bangor was also so lucrative.

With all the products to be shipped, at times the Penobscot was filled with so many ships that one could almost walk from Bangor to Brewer on their decks; and when the old Indian told that to Murdock, the Canadian had trouble believing it.

That seems like a stretch, he said.

Maybe a little, but not much, the Indian replied. "In fact, when I was a kid—maybe 11 or 12—I decided to test that theory, so I hopped on the ship closest to shore and made my way to the other side of it.

"One of the crew asked me what I thought I was doing, and I told him I heard you could get to Brewer by walking on the decks of visiting ships and that I planned to do it.

"Well, he laughed and yelled to the ships next to him that a young Indian lad wanted to walk across the ships in order to get to Brewer.

"‘I hope the lad has long legs,’ someone yelled back.

Anyway, everyone thought my idea was hilarious and they wanted to see if it could be done, so they decided to help me. Some of the ships were close enough that I could leap from one to the other, but many were not, so the crew jury-rigged swing ropes or boardwalks for me. It took about a half-hour, but I actually did it.

Weren’t most of the boats moving? Murdock asked.

"Oh yes, the Indian said, except the ones docked on the sides of the river; and the smaller ones temporarily docked to the docked boats. Even the ships that weren’t docked needed to navigate very slowly, so crossing them wasn’t that hard. Others agreed to slow up and some almost stopped to let me cross. Anyway, that’s why it took me a half-hour to cross over."

"Well, I’ll be, Murdock said. I was quite daring as a youngster, but nowhere near that daring."

—4—

As one might expect, because of the noted ‘wood bonanza’ there was no shortage of work in Bangor and surrounding areas; and there was no shortage of employment companies to help young men and women find that work. Many of them were located in the impressive three-story Exchange Building, which sat on the corner of State and Exchange. That was Murdock’s original destination on his first day in Bangor, but after spending over an hour talking to the amiable old Indian it was going on noon and he decided to get something to eat before heading there.

Can you tell me where I can get a bite to eat? he queried the old Indian. "Someplace within walking distance, and not too hard on the wallet."

"I hear tell Judy’s restaurant is about as good as it gets on this side of town."

Thanks, Murdock said. Where might that be?

Well, if I were a wise-acre, I could tell you that it might be anywhere. But since my ma didn’t raise me that way, it’s on the corner of State and Essex Street.

How might I get there? Murdock asked.

"Just cross Washington, take a right, and keep ah’goin’ until you run into Hancock. Turn left onto Hancock, and then take the first street on the right—that’s Essex Street. Take Essex past York, and you’ll come to State Street. Judy’s is this side of State, sitting to the left of Essex."

Sounds easy enough, Murdock said, and then he thanked the old Indian for his hospitality before heading to Judy’s.

Murdock was already on the other side of Washington when it occurred to him that he didn’t catch the old Indian’s name. He turned to go back, but the old gent was nowhere to be seen.

"Didn’t take him long to hightail it," he thought.

Just then he noticed an eagle flying up the river.

Must be the eagle that tailed us all the way from Bar Harbor, he speculated; and then he turned and headed to Judy’s once again, mindfully following the old man’s directions.

Within a few minutes the hungry Canadian was walking through the door of a small, nearly-full, family-style restaurant. After ordering a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk, he spent over a half-hour eating, occasionally joking with his congenial waitress. Before leaving, he asked her help.

Can you point me in the direction of Exchange Street, Sarah?

Sure thing, handsome. When you get outside just take a left and follow State Street past Pine ‘til you come to Oak and Broadway. Oak’s on the left and Broadway’s on the right. Exchange is at the bottom of a steep hill, just a block or two past those streets. Just what are you looking for, if I ain’t bein’ too nosy?

The Exchange Building, Murdock replied.

"Oh, no problem then; even Mayor Chapin could find it, she joked. It’s right at the corner of State and Exchange, on this side of State and on this side of Exchange."

Chapter 5

The American Dream

When Murdock reached the corner of State and Exchange Streets he saw the large three-story building known as the Exchange Building where he would be seeking employment. Not knowing what lay ahead for him on his first day in Bangor, he entered the building with some trepidation, but it wasn’t long before the excited immigrant walked out the door of that building into his new life; thus beginning his pursuit of the American Dream. He took a left on Exchange, walking briskly past York and Hancock Streets toward Washington, the busy street near the Penobscot River that the young Canadian was now intimately familiar with. After crossing Washington he walked a little further along Exchange and entered the Bangor Freight Station where he was met by the station manager and immediately put to work.

The thriving Bangor Freight Station was one of many lucrative businesses that came into being during the 1800s to take advantage of the area’s economic boom. Although the work at the station was hard, no one ever heard Murdock complain, mainly because the pay was so lucrative: $1.62 per day, a veritable fortune in that era, or as some might say: a laborer’s gold mine. In addition, the work was extremely satisfying; "… and indeed reasonably enjoyable, as far as work goes," he wrote home. And that was because the muscular Canadian preferred physical labor to sitting behind a desk. As with many rugged men of that era, working in the fresh air of the great Maine outdoors was the thing Murdock enjoyed most, even in the cold and occasionally frigid weather that sometimes made its way southward from his native land, and loading products onto trains, wagons, and cargo ships allowed him to do just that.

It wasn’t long after leaving his place of birth that the industrious Canadian earned a reputation in Bangor as an honest, hardworking man. He was also known for having a gregarious personality that quickly made him many friends, both at the freight station and throughout the city. In fact, it wasn’t long before he was affectionately called Murdy by his co-worker and closest friend Bobby Campbell, and that nickname stuck with the affable Canadian throughout his life. He met Bobby on his second day of work.

Murdock, this young whippersnapper is Bobby Campbell, his new foreman Ray said. He’s gonna show you the ropes. Well, I suppose I’ve gotta get back to work; the paperwork ain’t about to complete itself.

—1—

As the foreman walked away, Bobby spoke.

"Welcome to the Bangor Freight Station, Murdock. I think you’ll like it here. As you no doubt have already seen, Ray is real nice, and he’s particularly good to his workers. Moreover, you can trust what he says. He’s got more horse sense than anyone I know."

Good to hear that, Murdock said. "My pa always joked that horse sense beats ah Harvard education any day of the week; and he always said that a man with lots of horse sense would likely end up with lots of dollars and cents, when all was said and done. Anyway, thanks for reassuring me about this place. I’m sure I’ll like it here just fine. You been working here long, Bobby?"

Goin’ on three years now. Started when I was seventeen, he answered.

I see by the ring on your finger that you’re married. Got any kids?

Yup, a boy and a girl; the boy’s two and my little girl’s one, or will be in a month’s time.

You married young, Murdock stated. How old’s your wife?

"She’s nearly my age, Murdy. Twenty—come May. Don’t mind if I call you Murdy, do ya?"

Not at all.

Well, it’s getting time for lunch, Murdy. Want to join me on the riverbank?

"Sounds like a plan," he answered.

"Great. We can eat and shoot the bull too. If you didn’t bring a lunch you can buy something from the lunch-wagon that stops out back. I can recommend the egg-salad sandwich. Or you can try some of my wife’s fish chowder; I have plenty. It’s mighty tasty, if I do say so myself."

Thanks, Bobby, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your wife’s good cooking. I’ll get something from the wagon.

"Suit ya-self, Murdy."

After Murdock bought lunch, he joined Bobby on the banks of the Penobscot. They talked with each other as if they had been friends forever.

"Bobby, I was wondering if you know the name of an old white-haired Indian fella I met yesterday? He was painting river scenes, right over there by that big rock."

"Sorry, Murdy. Can’t say as I do. I’m out here nigh on’ta every day for lunch, and, of course, to help load cargo on the ships, and I can’t say as I recall seeing a white-haired Indian painting pictures—or, any other Indian for that matter."

Well, he must not come around here much; and hightail it before noon when he does.

I reckon so, Bobby said.

When Murdock mentioned that he was renting a place on Hancock Street, Bobby gave him some advice.

Be careful, Murdy, there’s lots of women on that street who are looking for love, but not the kind a decent man is looking for.

Thanks for the warning, Bobby, Murdock said. I’ll keep that in mind.

He talked with Bobby for close to an hour and his new friend filled him in on the goings-on and the ins-and-outs of the area. So between Bobby and the old Indian, Murdock was pretty much up to speed on things within two days of his arriving in Bangor. That made him feel more at ease in his new situation and it helped him adjust to his new city and job.

—2—

With work beginning at 5am and ending at 3pm each day, usually six days a week, sometimes seven, Murdock was easily able to accumulate substantial savings in the course of a year. And saving money was something that he did religiously, due to the fact that he had in mind to someday buy land in the country: fertile land upon which to build his home, grow a garden and, most important of all, raise his inevitable family. Yes, even at the tender age of nineteen Murdock dreamed of marrying a loving woman and together they would raise children in a rural setting where life would be as carefree as that in his birthplace of Basswood Ridge. In order to realize his dream he lived frugally, saving money by renting a small, inexpensive, second-floor room in an old Hancock Street boarding house that like his place of employment also sat overlooking the banks of the Penobscot, a half-mile north of where he now worked.

Murdock’s residence at the corner of Newbury Street, located in the seediest of neighborhoods, two blocks upriver from where Washington met Hancock, although nothing to brag about, had two advantages. The first was its location near the Penobscot where the view from his room was awe-inspiring. Every day he would sit on his small balcony, or alternatively on the scenic riverbank, watching eagles flying above the river, or drinking coffee while reading the newspaper. Even though he enjoyed reading all but a handful of news stories, the thing Murdock most enjoyed reading about was his favorite professional baseball team: the Boston Pilgrims. A second advantage of his room was that it was only a block from Pat’s Bar, his favorite watering hole. Although not one to drink much, he enjoyed having a beer or two with his friends,