You basically have to read these1 reading in the pdf and answer these questions for each reading. The answers for these readings shouldn’t be that long but please support them with the examples or the references mentioned below.
How do these writers connect the
body
to
landscape
, specifically
illness
to
environmental destruction
. As exercises in literary journalism, what kinds of research do they do and how do they bring that research into conversation with their personal stories? How might this connection between body and landscape manifest in your own work?
-
Answering the question posed in the reading response question. You will be graded on the quality of literary insights
- How well did you answer the reading response question?
- Did you provide examples from the text?
- Asking the class open-ended questions based on difficult passages in the reading. As a group, you will identify portions of the readings that puzzled you or that members of your group had opposite interpretations of. You will be graded on the quality of questions for class and ability to engage classmates in discussion
-
Learning writing techniques from the pieces. You will be graded on the quality of reflection on your own writing practice
- Did the writer use writing techniques that you found unexpected or inspiring?
- Did the writer choose a topic or a perspective on a topic that gave you ideas?
- Did the writer make an intellectual or emotional turn you admired?
- What ideas did you get for your own writing practice?
L I T R A R Y
H U
VIA FRMAN’
Growing Up in Maine’ “Cancer
Valle”
Kerri Arenault Living in the hadow of a moke-pouting Paper Mill
By Kerri Arsenault
April 12, 2017
i ea originall appear in Freeman’: Home.
Mexico, Maine it in a valle or “River Valle” a we call the area, ecaue I uppoe
ou can’t have one without the other.
e hill are low and worn and carved the
water urrounding them, and tree line the river, which con ne the town. It’ a paper
mill town where moketack poke hole in the mog the create.
at’ mone coming
out of thoe moketack, m father ued to a aout the rotten-melling upriver draft
that urfaced when the weather hifted.
at mell loitered amid the high chool
oftall game I plaed eneath thoe tack and lingered on m father’ hirtleeve
when he came home from work, allowing me to forgive the rank odor for what it
provided.
From the porch tep of the houe where I grew up, to the right, ou’ll ee a treet of
clapoarded home, the quiet interrupted ever now and then a raking logging
truck. A mile or two out of town, the road narrow and mall creek knit through
pature hadowed hill, a working farm or two, a long traight road, and mell of
cut ha, mudd cow path, rotting leave, or lack ice, depending on the time of ear.
e eaon, the calendared our live.
To the left of the porch, ou’ll ee the end of the road.
ere, the pavement dip down
to reveal the town’ onl tra c light, a ga tation, and the roof of the Famil Dollar
tore. ehind the tore lie the wide, low-moving Androcoggin River. Jut eond
the Androcoggin, on an iland in the neighoring town of Rumford, the paper mill’
larget moketack emerge like a giant concrete nger. From anwhere in town ou
can orient ourelf to thi tack or the ever-preent ca-chink ca-chink ca-chink of the
mill’ conveor elt and nd our wa home, even from a pitch-lack walk in the
wood. When mill hutdown occur for holida or lao , the mokele tack
reemle the dieaed irch tree ding throughout New ngland.
ARTICLE CONTINUES AFTER ADVERTISEMENT
Where tack meet k, the river pivot and head outheat, under ridge and over
rapid, puhing through fall and dam, around iland and along inlet, through Ja,
Lewiton, Topham, runwick, and other mall town, until it meet and mingle
with ve other river at Merrmeeting a, whereupon it nall and quietl lip into
the Atlantic Ocean.
*
April 2009 and I am home for m grandfather’ funeral.
M parent’ houe igh with winter’ leftover letharg. pring ha arrived in Maine
with drivewa full of mud and culled up now-plow deri; alt tain, hredded
earth, and derelict mitten lie in the wake of it emracing path. A few dirt uttree
of now linger like pocked monolith, meting out the new eaon’ arrival.
e wollen
Androcoggin puhe otam downriver in the commotion of pring’ thaw, and inect
hatche will oon egin urting along it urface until ummer open like an oven. M
mother come out on the porch where I’m tanding. Want to go for a walk? he ak, her
face pinched with the harpne of her father’ death.
We head up Highland Terrace and top to peek in the window of an aandoned
houe, one I alwa liked, with it wraparound porch, turreted roof, and uttercupellow paint.
e owner i ick ut refue to ell the houe, m mother a a we walk
acro the attered porch. o it it there, thi once elegant home, hedding it
rightne, ellow ecking the half-frozen ground. pra-painted in the road near the
drivewa: “Fuck ou, itch.”
e fug of the mill wallow u.
ARTICLE CONTINUES AFTER ADVERTISEMENT
Ahead, we reach the top of the hill, and there, m old high chool. To the eat,
nowmoile trail and autting them, the mill’ decommiioned land ll. To the wet,
the footall eld lice the horizon and eond that, laz nger of moke lick the k.
We walk inide the chool, and m mother top in the o ce to chat with the
principal.
e lo mell of and-Aid, warm mahed potatoe, and damp ock.
eing there remind me of Greg, m high chool on-again, o -again lumerjackih
ofriend who lived near the town incinerator. I loved him like I would a orr tu ed
animal, one who had lot an ee or whoe fur wa rued raw. Kell, a girl who wore
her lack, perfectl feathered hair like a weapon, wa in love with him too. When he
and I fought—uuall ecaue of her—I’d liten to ad ong on m caette plaer over
and over until he’d call and I’d forgive him in a pattern of everlating redemption. I
onl aw Greg once ince I graduated. He came to m parent’ one Chritma reak
when I wa home from college. He and m mother caught up while I leaned againt
the kitchen countertop acro the room. Peckerhead, m father aid when he entered the
room. He called all o I dated “Peckerhead” ut onl if he liked them. If he didn’t,
m father would it at our kitchen tale like a oulder while the o dgeted the
kitchen door in lank-faced ilence. Greg eventuall married Kell and got a jo at the
mill, alongide hi iter Janet, who pitched for m high chool tate championhip
oftall team.
After m mother and I leave, we follow the dirt path ehind the footall eld, pat
Mero lementar where I got into a t ght with Lia lodgett. Lia and I took
turn winging horizontall at each other’ head until a teacher intruded on the rawl.
Lia’ trength wa tremendou for a ixth grader, her grit haped eing one of the
ounget girl in a famil of 14 kid, mot of them o. When I looked in the mirror
that night at home, I wa ure I looked di erent, the wa ou think ou do when ou
loe our virginit. It wa m rt and lat are-knuckled ght, except for a few
unconvincing wipe at good old Kell one night at a dance. M et friend, Maureen,
who towered over oth of u, protected me from Kell’ harp, red ngernail.
Down Granite treet, an untied dog egin following u, growling. Jut ignore him, m
mother a. ut I hear hi narl over the thrum of the mill. A I turn to look at him
the dog ni m heel, hi tail down. I walk fater. M mother continue talking.
e
dog give a nal ark and it down in the middle of the road. I look over m houlder
until we are out of hi ight and he i out of our. Down the hill, pat the Green
Church, the town hall, the lirar, the re tation, the pot o ce, we walk through the
overized parking lot at the Famil Dollar tore. omeone it inide the onl vehicle
parked there eating a andwich with the window rolled up and the engine running.
Near, the vacant lot where the owl-O-Drome ued to e and ehind it, t.
erea’, our huttered Catholic church where Father Cr gave me m rt
communion, con rmed me, and litened to m rt confeion. I’m orr I lied to m
parent, I aid to him, though that itelf wa a lie.
“Our mill’ primar product ha ecome a
precariou a the livelihood of the men and women
who make it.”
On the corner at the tra c light, a gardening tore, a newih hop, to me anwa.
Lawn decoration, perennial, tu ed animal, and miniature tchotchke for terrarium
train the overtocked metal helve of the tore. Mot mom-and-pop hop have
cloed in town, ut for a few. In their place, dicount tore like Marden’ urplu &
alvage, Wardwell’ Ued Furniture, the What Not hop
rift tore, and other uch
econd-hand outlet and pawn hop appeared over the ear, a if the people who live
here onl deerve leftover. Walmart with it linking uorecent light and the faint
mell of formaldehde, hijacked the ret of the commerce.
I am inpecting a now gloe when I hear m mother hout, Kerri, gue who’ here? Do
ou know who thi i? Inevital, he pla thi rememering game, uuall in the
grocer tore, where he will tand next to omeone, gra hi or her arm a if he were a
koala, and ak me, do ou rememer o-and-o? I will tand there frozen, in the frozen
food, taring at m mother and the peron he ha graed, their ee like dinner
plate, waiting for m anwer. ure, e, I rememer ou! I had aid earlier that ame da
to Mr. Martineau, the man who live acro the treet from m grandfather. After Mr.
Martineau left the tore m mother told me he ha Alzheimer’. He doen’t rememer
ou, he aid.
Kerri, come ee who’ here! he hout again. I walk around the aile like Gulliver, jiggling
the doll-ized platic oral arrangement, pitching the teen ower to and fro. M
mother raie her arm upward like a magician. DO YOU KNOW WHO THI I?
Hi. Long time no ee, the woman a. Yeah, what i it, aout twent ear? I a. Her dr
ellow ang lump over overized round glae that hide pink powdered cheek. On
her ulk weathirt, omething plaid. Where do ou live now? he ak, leaning on the
counter, arm croed like a fortre. California, I a, feeling ad, not knowing wh.
an Francico! I clarif. Oh, I went there once. Didn’t like it.
And I never found anthing good to eat, he a.
e people are not ver nice.
I look around the tore for m mother, for the exit. It eem quiet around here nowada.
Much le going on than when we were kid, I a. No, not reall, he a. Reall? I a,
wondering if he mean there i omething going on or there in’t. I went the
Recreation Park eterda. It’ jut o . . . o di erent, I a, hopeful. I glance at her around
the peripher of her glae, our converation. he tare at me over the top of her rim,
a patient a a road, look at me without linking: m leather jacket, m Prada
eeglae, m tted jean. Nope, ou’re the one that’ di erent, he a.
We leave the tore and m mother tell me the mill plan to hut down Numer 10
paper machine, and other are on a tranitional chedule, meaning the too ma lumer
to a low hiing halt. In the pat few decade, with technolog diplacing people and
digital media overtaking print, the production of coated magazine paper—our mill’
primar product—ha ecome a precariou a the livelihood of the men and women
who make it. We want to ell the houe, ut nood want to live here anmore, m mother
a, panning her hand from one ide of the treet to the other. Home ag with ruined
lawn—and the familie who live in them haven’t fared much etter. Around the lock,
we pa Kimall chool where I attended K–4.
Weed root in the tar plaground and a platic ag twirl in the damp reeze. A rut
chain-link fence girdle the propert. Dr. dward Martin gutted the chool ear ago
and tranformed it into a medical o ce, ut after he died, the uilding cloed up
permanentl. roken gla reache the milkweed that urround the maple tree we had
ought hade under during rece. Down the treet, m grandfather’ houe, uttoned
up, the furnace long expired. Remnant of cragra and ogg leave atten hi once
thriving garden. Mr. Martineau, who m mother and I aw at the grocer tore earlier,
emerge from the houe acro the treet. He wave. We wave ack.
M mother and I walk home in ilence. Halfwa there, I run m hand along the cool
green iron railing that parallel the idewalk and nag m weater on it.
e ruted,
dimemered rail i cattered in it at the ottom of the anking. On m wa from
chool, I’d roll on m ide down that anking, again and again. With gra tain on m
clothe, I’d run home, a if m head wa made of that ame iron rail and m houe wa
magnetic north.
I ee the porch of our houe from everal lock awa, and it look a it’ alwa looked,
onl maller a thing often appear when ou are older. M mother and I tomp our
feet on the front porch to dilodge road grime from our oot. I can’t imagine what will
happen if the mill cloe, m mother a, a he open the door. o man people are out of
work alread, he clari e. It will e a ghot town. I take o m coat while m mother
dig out the local newpaper, her fore nger thumping a new article aout the mill. We
have to ell the houe, he a. ut he ha een aing thi for ear.
*
e next da, I go for a run through trathgla Park, a collection of two-famil home
the mill’ founder, Hugh J. Chiholm.
rick--rick— ve million to e exact—Chiholm aemled the houe with longlating material for what he hoped would e a long-lating indutr: late roof,
granite foundation, handmade header and alutrade, concrete tep, plater wall.
He even wallpapered the living room. Now, roken nowmoile and other lifele
remnant litter front lawn, and liting, half-aked addition or porche ca the once
pritine houe. heet hroud leaded gla window, their ottom knotted to let in
light or keep room dark. Garage lie in heap alongide cattered woodpile and
aandoned right platic to are half-covered in now and dog hit. Wind chime
tinkle aove the din of a owling mutt.
ic path ahead.
e road i a glacier. I mince m wa along the
Wandering around in thi forlorn landcape, I think later that night, it i a ghot town,
a place all ut vanihed ut for it dull egg odor. It complied with m memor of it,
et it alo did not, a lend of notalgia and omething ele a unrecognizale a the
ack of m own head. It’ not where we grew up, a childhood friend aid to me ear
ago. What, then, wa it? It wa home, that much I knew, and home i the heart of
human identit, a lurr ackdrop like that fake platic tree I leaned on during m high
chool enior photograph.
*
When I wa a kid, m mother taed home while m father worked: her making pot
roat, him making moketack mone. We explored the world through textook,
Matchox car, and made claroom diorama of what we thought a Maan village or a
Midwetern dair farm looked like.
e ret of the world eemed to e New
Hamphire or Canada. Familie didn’t go on overea vacation,or hardl even
intertate. Our live were focued inward . . . Red ox core, union trike, and long
ga tation line in the 70, though nood ever connected the high price of fuel to
what wa happening in other countrie. For u, it wa jut inconvenient.
Monumental change were happening in America. However, there were no movement
in Mexico and Rumford ut for the men walking acro the footridge to work. luecollar familie like mine were more likel to dr ra on a clotheline than urn them.
We lived in a hrink-Dink world where everthing wa there, jut maller. We were
luck in thi, felt afe with our door unlocked at night and ameliorated mot of our
in within the latched door of t.
erea’ confeional. At nighttime footall game
we watched our high chool re-twirling majorette to their aton kward in a
pinning, lazing fan.
e caught them dead center ever time.
oaked aton in the duk of autumn, the melled of permanence.
oe keroene-
One ear lended into the next with onl light di erence in tar athlete or town
leader and ometime one turned into the other. Famil uinee occupied Main
treet, anchored the Chicken Coop. “Good atin’
at’ Our Greetin’!” their tagline
declared in at, red paint. On Wedneda the owl-O-Drome hoted m gum-
chewing junior high league, and on Frida it murmured with the port jeting of m
father’ league. I ought penn cand from the variet tore next to the owling alle, a
did m mother, a did her. Up and down the treet, uinee opened and cloed their
door with the eaon, the econom, and the un: Lazarou’ car dealerhip, the Dair
Queen, Radiohack, Dick’ Retaurant, and our radio tation, WRUM.
to the mill pan the Androcoggin where Main treet taper o .
e footridge
ree generation of
m famil and exponential relative worked there, a did mot people who pread
creton on their toat efore clocking in. We were tamped out like Chritma cookie,
a good French Catholic were. We got up, ate, worked, and went to ed, deriving
mall pleaure etween the routine and ometime ecaue of it.
In the drow ummertime, when the un dipped low over the foothill and the
humidit of the da invaded kitchen and edroom, people in our town ocked to
their porche.
ere, the chatted while duk knit itelf into a tight lanket.
e ound
of clinking dihe, faint muic, vehicle purring, and light-a-vapor laughter cented
the air. Night fell like a ruie. During thoe chool-le da, I often at on the dut
cur in front of our houe and counted the out-of-tate licene plate a the ped
on their wa to omewhere ele. When I could nall drive melf I’d cruie around
Rumford and Mexico with all the other teenager, pivoting our ued Monte Carlo in
the Tourit Information ooth parking lot efore another revolution through town. M
parent thought the Information ooth wa where all the “druggie” hung out, and
ometime the pot moker did, ut reall, it wa a harmle venue in a mall town with
nothing ele to do ut drive around in aimle circle.
M parent haped their own well-worn path. While m father walked ack and forth
acro the ridge to work, m mother lugged laundr up and down the cellar tair, da
after da, one kinn arm cradling the laundr aket, her free hand gripping a Vicero.
With a creech and a whack, the creen door would lam hut after he elowed it
open. he would dump clean laundr on the kitchen tale, nap each article of clothing
three time, fold them harpl into tight wedge of faric, and tack them like the
ream of white paper m father rought home from the mill. When the creen door
wore out, m mother replaced it with a new one that came with a queak pring. he
left it defective, announcing herelf into in nit with onl m father to hear. Hi
hearing, long dulled the hum of paper machine, wa the perfect match to her
perpetual clamor. he’d let her Vicero expire efore nihing it and end me to fetch
her a new pack from the corner tore. I’ll time ou, he’d a. Now GO! And o I went.
Go? he didn’t need to tell me twice.
In Mexico and Rumford, what we needed, we had. verone knew everone and we
liked it that wa—for what other wa wa there? It wa quite the place, m mother a.
ere wa never an reaon to leave.
ing taed in thi alance, with minor
adjutment ever now and then until mall working-cla town tarted to e
alongide the indutrie that nourihed them.
*
I till gag ever time I drink a gla of water, a re ex that emerged in m outh when I
lived within a footall eld’ reach of the mill and the Androcoggin. At the time, I
weetened the mephitic water with Tang or Zarex or drank no water at all. ut a an
adult, the memor of our drinking water’ rackih and weetih chemical mell/tate,
comined with the our air aove it, precipitate what feel like mothering when I put
gla to lip.
1970, when I wa three, the river’ diolved oxgen level wa exactl zero.
Newweek named the Androcoggin one of the ten lthiet river in the United tate.
verthing in the river died. Don’t eat the h, we were alwa told, ut we couldn’t have
anwa ecaue we never aw an to catch.
ere alo were no wimmer, hermen, or
oater in the river William . Lapham, in hi 1890 ook, Hitor of Rumford, called it
“eautiful,” noting “the cener ordering upon it i pictureque and often grand.” If
ou quint, the Androcoggin till t Lapham’ decription. ut if ou open our ee,
ou’ll ee what wa inviile to me m whole life: the mill’ pollutant hovering low
over the naturall formed glacial owl of our valle and in the toxic ludge congregating
in land ll and the rivered. What I did ee when I wa oung, however, wa the
rainow-colored foam edding on the river’ edge, which wa a enchanting a the gra
“mill now” that oated oftl up from the moketack and down upon an urface in
town.
What did we all do? We plugged our noe and placed our drinking glae upide
down in the cupoard o ah wouldn’t get in our milk.
e pollution wa a trapped a
we were. Dioxin, cadmium, enzene, lead, naphthalene, nitrou oxide, ulfur dioxide,
arenic, furan, trichloroenzene, chloroform, mercur, phthalate: thee are ome of
the product of modern-da papermaking. Non-Hodgkin’ lmphoma, lung cancer,
protate cancer, aplatic anemia, eophageal cancer, aetoi, wing’ arcoma,
emphema, cancer of the rain, cancer of the heart: thee are ome of the illnee
appearing in Rumford and Mexico. Occaionall in upiciou-looking cluter,
ometime in generation of familie, often in high percentage. When anone tried to
connect the dot etween the mill’ pollution with thee illnee, logic wa met with
juti cation, peronal experience with excue, torie with tatitic, dieae with lame.
etween 1980 and 1988, 74 cae of aplatic anemia, a rare and eriou lood diorder,
are recorded in the River Valle. It i the highet rate in the tate. A tud i ordered to
nd the caue. Reearcher examine potential environmental and occupational ource,
uch a enzene, a chemical ued in papermaking and a known caue of cancer in
human. ach aplatic anemia cae get pared: ome are eliminated from the tud
ecaue the are referral from other hopital; ome are eliminated ecaue the tated
diagnoi didn’t t into the trict cienti c criteria; ome are eliminated ecaue certain
cancer treatment themelve caue aplatic anemia. In the nal report, nood can
determine the exact caue. It i a if nood ever had the dieae at all.
“Non-Hodgkin’ lmphoma, lung cancer, protate
cancer, aplatic anemia, eophageal cancer,
aetoi, wing’ arcoma, emphema, cancer of
the rain, cancer of the heart: thee are ome of the
illnee appearing in Rumford and Mexico.”
1984-1986. Hopital dicharge indicate nine leukemia cae in the Rumford and
Mexico area.
1989.
e Rumford mill dicharge 1.2 million pound of toxic chemical into the
environment.
1991. In rapid ucceion, ve people in Rumford and Mexico are diagnoed with nonHodgkin’ lmphoma, a rare form of lood cancer aociated with expoure to dioxin, a
toxic chemical formed in the paper-leaching proce. WCV, a oton TV tation
invetigate the urr of diagnoe in their new erie Chronicle and call the epiode,
“Cancer Valle.” During thi time, the Dana-Farer Cancer Intitute in oton ak
our town phician, “What the hell’ going on in Rumford? We’re getting all thee kid
with cancer coming in from our area.”
e Lo Angele Time talk to our tate repreentative, Ida Luther: “We have a ver,
ver high cancer rate, ut we alwa have lived with that. Nood can prove anthing,
ut I jut can’t ee how ton and ton of air pollutant going into the air can do ou an
good. At the ame time, I don’t want to make [the paper mill] out to e a villain.
e’re here to make paper and—there’ no quetion aout it—thi valle depend
upon that paper mill.”
e mill repond claiming there’ “no clear link etween mill
wate and cancer or other dieae.”
2001.WCV lm “Return to Cancer Valle” in Rumford and Mexico.
2002. Cancer i the leading caue of death in Maine.
2003. Maine’ age-adjuted cancer incidence rate i the econd highet in the nation
and Maine’ death rate from cancer urpae the national average.
2004. Cancer remain the leading caue of death in Maine. 2010. Toxic environmental
expoure aociated with childhood illnee cot Maine aout $380 million ever ear,
according to the 2010 conomic Aement of Children’ Health and the
nvironment in Maine.
2012. A headline from Maine’ Kenneec Journal: “ome Lael Toxin pike a Poitive;
pulp and paper indutr a increae i a good ign, tate o cial not alarmed.” What
doen’t alarm tate o cial and the Maine Pulp and Paper Aociation are the “9.6
million pound of chemical [that] were releaed 84 Maine mill etween 2009 and
2010, an increae of 1.14 million pound over the previou ear” ecaue the increae in
pollution how an increae in papermaking. Our mill i ngered a the numer one
pollution producer, releaing over three million pound of toxic chemical into the
environment for thoe ame ear.
2012. Cancer i the leading caue of death in Maine. Dr. Moll chwenn, director of
the Maine Cancer Regitr, tender an explanation. he a contriuting to Maine’
high cancer rate are “lower level of education, high rate of povert, unemploment,
and lack of health inurance.”
2013.
e Cancer urveillance Report the Maine Center for Dieae Control
con rm cancer i till the leading caue of death in Maine.
ere’ a lag etween expoure and diagnoi, expert declared. People could e expoed from
other ource, cientit explained.
ere are uncertaintie, decried the nvironmental
Protection Agenc. Continued follow-up i needed, aid the mill. While organization
deated who to lame, people in Rumford and Mexico quit jo or chool to care for
ick famil memer; loe health inurance ecaue the loe their jo; and put
caniter on pizza hop countertop to pa for medical ill.
*
It wa often di cult to tell where the mill ended and where Rumford and Mexico
egan.
e mill’ emploee, in the 1920, pulihed
e League, a compendium of
work and communit related activitie. In it, ou’d learn “Charlie Gordon wa erioul
ill
urda A.M” or in the “Rewinder Goip” column, ou’d nd out “Joe Provencher
i in hi econd ohood for he i wearing hort pant again.”
e newletter alo
reported rt-aid room tatitic, townwide event, movie time, attendance at mill re
drill, or change in the ulphate mill, the leach plant, and the nihing room. It
changed to the Oxford Log in 1952 where omeone wrote a tor on Laor Da eaut
parade “Cutter” girl “dreed in daring ankle-length dree” and whoe “lue onnet
and ahe were made of ne Oxford paper.” In that ame newletter, ou could alo
read aout Johnn Norri, who worked on the upercalendar machine, who, while on
vacation in New York Cit, found it “hot and confuing.” Or Holli wett of the
“Iland Diviion” who got caught in a lightening torm while hing at Weld Pond.
Oxford Log pulihed pro le of high chool aketall tar who were on of
e
millworker. Or of Nick DiConzo, a paper teter, who prepared the ki jump for the
lack Mountain’ Winter Carnival. You’d ee vintage photo of the worker adding
leach to vat of pulp, or working in the Kraft mill—glovele, arefoot, miling a if
there wa no end to the properit. And it looked to e true; 1930, our mill wa the
larget paper mill under one roof and Hugh J. Chiholm, eventuall comined 20 paper
companie to etalih International Paper, then and toda, the igget paper compan
in the world.
*
I am home viiting. M parent and I ort through paper, organizing thing after their
move to a new, one-tor houe in Rumford.
e till haven’t old their old houe. It’ een on the market for a few ear. If the
ank take our old houe, who care? m mother a. he ip through a newletter from
1970. It’ thick, printed in color, and feature m mother ecaue he helped plan that
ear’ Winter Carnival all at lack Mountain on account of her “ rt-hand
knowledge” of the queen’ dutie; he won the title and a tiara in 1962 when he
worked in the mill’ peronnel department. he wa a oung mother at the time,
wearing a pixie cut and poleter minikirt that howed o her good leg. In her
victor photo, m iter Kell and Am it in front of her wearing matching lue
velvet dree with white Peter Pan collar, ti a Communion wafer.
In 1942 when m mother wa orn, legendar 20-foot wall of urine-colored foam
emerged from canal 40 mile downtream in the Androcoggin. then, almot
50 ear of otam and e uent had choked the h. Aeration of the river dimmed.
Water temperature roe. Manufacturing and it concomitant pollution reached a tink
zenith.
e mell emanating from the river wa o appalling people ed town or
huttered themelve in. Coin in men’ pocket tarnihed. tore cloed. Houe and
car paint peeled like urnt kin. Reident vomited. Laundr hung on clotheline,
lackened with ah.
I wa 16, m mother a, when the National Geographic ociet entered into a 15ear contract with our mill.
e windfall, while providing tead work, alo rought
with it a windfall of pollution that exacerated the toxic load the Androcoggin Rivermater wa alread tring to manage. National Geographic demanded white, coated,
glo paper and our mill made it. Making it, however, required uing even more
chemical.
e town’ econom ourihed. A the mill modernized and expanded, each
ear that newletter, like the town’ future, got whiter and righter. And each ear the
Androcoggin River and the kie aove, eemed dimmer and dimmer. M parent
were caught etween a tink pat and a hopeful future.
M father, in etween the overtime hour or doule hift, along with other
millworker, uilt lack Mountain on land leaed to them the paper compan.
men felled tree, carved up the rock lope, and jammed iron ki lift pole in
e
unmpathetic oil o the could have a place to ki. ver winter of m childhood, on
weekend, m father piloted our tation wagon along the frot-heaved road winding
through the outkirt of town, pat the moketack, pat the wift River where he
learned to wim, pat the cemeter where hi father wa uried, where I lugged m
teel equipment uphill through the ic parking lot, collaped on the now, and
thwacked down the metal uckle on m leather oot pinching m nger.
I wa mall, the runt in a pack of kid who were alread mall, and tried to keep up
with them and m father, who wa proal one of the et kier on the hill. A I
followed them, m leather oot and leather glove ecame oaked with weat and
uequentl frozen, in an endle circle of dicomfort. We kied until the T-ar
topped clinking and growling, lolling to ret like an iron dinoaur and the lat light of
duk would lam hut over the mudged hill. We’d return the following week jut a
the T-ar purred awake.
A video: I am four. M father crouche over me on ki and I tand in front of him on
ki too, etween hi leg, facing forward, gaining peed a we race down the mountain.
He warn me to watch what’ in front of me, ut to alo look far enough downhill to
ee what la ahead. I think I’m kiing on m own volition. Uneknownt to me at the
time, I couldn’t have tood for two econd without hi arm there to carr me.
*
I ak m mother, What aout the pollution when ou were a kid?
What do ou mean? he a.
Didn’t it other ou?
e pollution? I a.
It wa the mell of mone, he a. Plu, we jut had a lot of pride.
Pride.
I heard thi word a lot a a child. You were “proud” to e from Rumford and Mexico.
You took “pride” in the mill. “Pride” in the paper we made. “Pinto pride” we crawled
on pep rall poter in honor of our macot. Mill manager intilled a “pride” in their
worker. What did it mean, thi pride?
I learned from an earl age, to e conpicuou wa to e coare. You didn’t peak too
loudl or too much, lend in.
i amene, it turn out, wa partiall the ource of our
pride—we were all in it together, no matter what “it” wa. We were a communit and
like mot communitie, were proud of what we did, even if it wa omething we didn’t
necearil like. It wa part of the ame inviile ocial rule that alo felt
clautrophoic, o it wa di cult to di erentiate the two. It wa a utle force, like
airplane cain preure—maive ut inviile. In thi togetherne our loaltie to each
other and our town were erce, even if the intimation to conform wa enevolent.
i aolute loalt didn’t top at the edge of town; it extended to hopele caue like
the oton Red ox and the New ngland Patriot who for decade diappointed u
with their fruitle compan. ut we tuck with them ecaue that’ what we did
depite their unwillingne to love u ack.
i mix of amene and loalt and pride
and tuornne made u tight. We created thi helter for ourelve ut it alo meant
outider remained outide. People “from awa” weren’t allowed into the anctit of our
trie. And we certainl didn’t want to e part of their. olidarit wa a matter of afet
and comfort, ut it wa alo a matter of hardheadedne that didn’t alwa erve u well.
e mill, the main ource of thi pride and connectedne, provided u with what
eemed like limitle opportunit, the tentacle of it fortune reaching into the count,
the region, the tate of Maine, America. Our reliance on the mill wa like our
Catholicim. We were given omething to elieve in while ignoring our own u ering,
all the while waiting for the ig afterlife part in the k. We depended on the mill, a
did logger, whoe lopping of the tree wa eemingl anathema to the ver thing relied
upon to earn an income.
renda Nickeron walk into the kitchen where m parent and I are till looking
through old mill newletter. M mother and renda have een friend ince childhood
and I went to chool with her daughter who were named after Louia Ma Alcott’
Little Women. M mother a to me, to renda, It wa like ‘Happ Da.’ You know the
how?
at’ what we lived. We lived like ‘Happ Da.’ renda agree. I ak m mother if
thi wa true for when I wa a kid. Ye, prett much . . . ut I don’t know what happened
after that. It’ when our kid had kid that everthing changed.
You mean like me? I ak. It changed in m generation?
Ye, he a. We had our parent’ and grandparent’ value.
Your generation ha di erent value.
renda a, Your generation had too man choice.
*
When m father retired from the mill after 43 ear, he received a toolox (that he
ued), a ulova watch (that he never wore), and aetoi of the lung.
e toolox
decamped to our dut arn and I found the watch ear later, in perfect hape, in the
garage on a helf the cat litter. ince retiring, aeto manufacturer, whoe
product he came into contact with a a pipe tter, compenated him for hi carred
lung tiue; ometime he received three dollar, ometime a few hundred. ventuall,
the monie petered out a did hi lung. He wa tough, ometime to a fault, and I
never heard him complain even on the night he died. He told me a tor once aout
how when he wa a kid he walked around all da with a harp pele in hi hoe, o
that when he took it out, the relief wa even greater than if it were never there at all. In
the ummer of 2013, he collaped on the ninth hole of the golf coure, face up, in the
middle of hi dail game. After month of tet, he wa diagnoed with eophageal
cancer and then a few month later, lung cancer, which can develop from aetoi;
with that trifecta, the man impl couldn’t reathe.
M father aked u not to peak to him aout hi prognoi and our famil complied in
mute alliance. Week of chemotherap and radiation, a lood clot in hi lung, a
catheter, a feeding tue, an oxgen tank, the gloom of hopice, m father hrank to half
hi ize. No tate, he aid a he tuled with a piece of pata a if it were ared wire. He
lot more weight and lot interet, too. M mother tried to get him to do hi phical
therap, eat a popicle. He jut tared out the living room window while we whipered
ehind hi ack.
I went home almot ever week that winter. When I did, I drove into Maine from New
Hamphire acro the Picataqua River ridge. One of the rt thing I’d ee wa the
tate-funded welcome ign: “Maine.
e Wa Life hould e.” Wa there ever uch a
Maine a thi? I wondered a I ped up the Maine Turnpike.
jut never added up.
e promie of that phrae
e ilver creek, iron gra lake, red loter, rock eache, the
deluge of tree—the ummoned a repreentation diconnected from m Maine
experience. It eemed we had lived on the edge of povert, anxiet, and illne rather
than on the edge of a primeval foret. Practicall everone in our town called the area
“Cancer Valle” in a joke wa, et nood ever took the nickname erioul, even to
thi da. It mell like fart! kid from other high chool would a aout our town
ecaue of the foul odor dicharged the mill. And o it did.
“It eemed we had lived on the edge of povert,
anxiet, and illne rather than on the edge of a
primeval foret.”
Maine’ tor omehow ecame o appended over the ear, that the tor ecame the
tor itelf. It wa like that game ou plaed a a kid where ou at in a circle and one
peron would whiper a phrae in their neighor’ ear, and that child would whiper it
to the next one, and o on. At the end of the circle, the lat child would repeat the
phrae aloud. Inevital the murmured telling and retelling ditorted the word o the
original phrae wa no longer recognizale.
I wa riding the Metro-North train from New York Cit to Connecticut one night that
ame winter, exhauted from m viit home. When I told m eatmate I wa from
Maine, he aid, I love all that freh air and wood! Maine i God’ countr! I wanted to tell
him that ehind the photo of irch-lined tream and the loter logo-ed gift on the
Maine Tourim ureau weite, there i a tate perihing under the weight of it own
advertiement and where “God” i noticeal aent. Intead I aid, It’ a terri c place to
grow up, which wa largel true.
ut the real contradiction were thee: we clear-cut our foret while tourit exalted
them; pollution ankrupted the freh air we advertied; we poured dioxin into our
environment, which ended up in loter that tourit ate; Henr David
oreau
lauded the “Pine Tree tate” ut hi voice wa drowned out the growl of chainaw;
and what gave our town life could alo e what’ killing it. A the folk Maine aing
goe, ou can’t get the-ahh from heeahh. In other word, the wa life hould e, the
idealized tate of
oreau and tourit, ma have never actuall exited except in the
landcape of our mind.
lowl, m father egan to eat. All he wanted wa pitachio, o I ought ag of them.
oe are too expenive for me, he’d a, a he goled them up. We talked aout aeall
and ook o I ought him
e Art of Fielding, which I read from at hi funeral. We
watched movie. He made puzzle. pring, he wa ale to roll hi wheelchair outide
to it in hi drivewa in the awning un.
Alwa a great athlete, he loathed jut itting around. You’re throwing like a goddamn
GIRL! he’d ell at m throw from third to rt if the weren’t fat enough, even if I
wa onl ten. He plaed third ae too, the “hot corner” he called it. He wa an
intitution in that poition, never relinquihing it to ounger gu a he aged. I watched
him ummer after ummer elding tinging line drive down third ae line a he crept
in to take awa the unt. He wa quick, e cient. I never aw him make an error. Now,
he truggled to lift a knee.
*
Late ummer, 2014. I ki m father hello and after a few minute, he turn to the TV.
M mother hout omething from the kitchen over the clamorou rattle of Pawn tar.
I lump in the overtu ed chair.
Over the next couple of da, I learn the new routine of their live: m mother emptie
hi catheter ag, change hi cannula, wahe dihe, make co ee, turn the heat up,
turn the heat down, help him to ed, tuck him in. One da the “oxgen man,” a
nure, And (their handman), on the next a parade of tranger and friend ama
then dipere, like a dandelion gone to eed in a quick wind. In the morning, m
mother walk m father to the kitchen, her arm wrapped around hi wait. I hear them
in the hallwa.
I lept liked hit, he a. I jut couldn’t leep. I don’t know.
What’ the matter!? m mother a.
It ain’t much of a life, he a.
M mother procure a voice-activated phone, a walker, the et hearing aid, a hopital
ed, athtu rail, hopice aide, ice cream, Net ix.
e da drift. Dinner come earl.
e late afternoon winter light heitate, then crahe, darkening the curtained room.
We fold ourelve into the furniture and ip channel.
“Do ou or doe anone ou know u er from lung cancer? Give u a call at . . . ”
lawer on the TV eckon.
Mae I’ll call, m mother ugget.
What the hell are ou talking aout? m father a.
e
Your lung cancer. Mae I’ll call them aout our lung cancer, he a.
I don’t have lung cancer, he a. M mother never ring it up again.
M mother track hi oxgen level, like volunteer do on the Androcoggin River,
judging impairment percentage, keeping the lower numer at a turning up
the O2.
e river’ oxgen percentage lie omewhere etween impaired and
threatened, a do m father’. In 1966 the Androcroggin Rivermater tried to recreate
the river’ natural aeration intalling “uler” in the Androcoggin, which injected
air into the water to increae oxgen level. M father’ od, like the Androcoggin,
eem to e reccling the toxin dicharged the mill. ut he, unlike the river, would
never reathe again without a machine to help him.
When I get etter . . . he a a he hunche over, hi oxgen tank hiing awa in the
other room, it platic line leahing him to hi chair . . . I’ll viit our new houe. A he
keep tring to live he keep ding. He i ding at the ame exponential rate a the
town . . . an unuilding of a od that had previoul uilt a mountain. Hi chet
working overtime like he often did in the mill.
*
“Vacationland,” our tate motto, appear on ke chain, tee hirt, co ee mug, and our
licene plate ut the holidaof m outh were never a eaide fete. A a teenager, m
iter and I would ometime drive to Old Orchard each, two hour outh, where we’d
u frie on the pier and watch French Canadian men in kimp athing trunk cavort
in the water. Rather than wim, I’d mother melf with iodine and a oil and lie on
the hot and, getting the tan that proved I had een omewhere.
We alo made earl viit to m father’ mother “Nana” and m tep-grandfather
“Pop” in Kenneunk, Maine. Depite it acroanct location, the lived cloer to the
town dump than to the each. For hour, we’d ift through other people’ trah with
Pop, or pla on the road front lawn with their dog ijoux, a cra poiled
Chihuahua. When Pop entered a room, hi egg-haped ald head irted with the
ceiling. Hi voice wa ooming and fearome, et he wa a ectionate in hi toothle
mile, the wa an octopu wa, emracing hi grandchildren with a manic repulive
grip. M grandmother kept her emotion a tightl ound a her arm, which were
alwa croed over her chet, and he onl allowed mall giggle through her thin
hand, which roe to cover her mouth when he laughed.
*
e room in their houe melled of cigarette moke and age, a our, untid odor I
evaded leeping in their camping trailer parked in the drivewa. Pop, we learned
after he died, moleted a few of m female couin. A for the each, we would
ometime go, ut I would rather have een pawing though the trah or the animal-
haped candle in the tourit hop than face a marauding jell h lohing in the laz
wave or meeting up with Pop in an unkempt, uptair hallwa.
*
. . White wrote dipatche for the New Yorker from hi altwater farm in rooklin,
Maine. When he drove there from New York, he too croed the Picataqua River. In
hi ea “Home-Coming” he wrote that ever time he drove over the river, he “had the
enation of having received a gift from a true love.” While he and I ma diagree on
how we feel travering the tate line or our reaon for doing o, we agree on the reaon
we are pulled there. “Familiarit i the thing—the ene of elonging,” he wrote. “It
grant exemption from all evil, all haine.” I’m tethered to Maine thi ene of
elonging ut alo a ometime paralzing amiguit I wretle to undertand—an
inexplicale love for Maine and what it repreent, even if ome of thoe thing are
fale. I don’t think it wa ever reall a paradie, except mae for the Aenaki Native
American who hed the Androcoggin until their live and the almon the ate were
choked out dieae and ettler.
When we leave home, we leave ehind our pat and encounter a verion of home when
we return, uilt of legend true and fale. For me, thoe legend are o ig—Hugh J.
Chiholm, dmund Mukie, Cancer Valle, Henr David
oreau, Paul unan, lack
Mountain, m parent, and tree, endle tree—that it i hard to ee eond their
hadow. o when I drive ack over the Picataqua River ridge with Mexico in m
rearview mirror, I ma not ee “true love,” ut I know leaving home can e a
complicated a living there and a inecapale a our own DNA.
*
e night I watched m father die he kept tring to peak, ut onl a thin awful wail
emerged a he thrahed hi od againt the teel edrail and wretled with hi heet.
It wa the onl time I ever aw him make a fu aout anthing. What he wa tring to
a, I’ll never know, ut I do know I no longer have to keep ecret from him or for
him. What ou don’t know won’t hurt ou, m mother alwa aid o handedl. he wa
dead wrong.
I aw in that outline of hi od, a lifetime of 7–3 hift at the mill, where the hot
racket of the paper machine would have made me turn into a lifele cotton all, a
weeping remnant of a human eing. I aw in him, too, a lifetime of working for an
indutr that in the end, led to hi end.
You look like our father! People alwa aid to me and till do. Our ee, in particular,
are/were the ame lue-gra and one of mine ag a little, a if I am falling aleep, the
ame a hi. In that amene, I aw what he aw, or at leat I imagined I did, or tried
to, epeciall on our walk around town where hi telling and retelling of the ame
torie ecame more ditilled each time he told them. He’d narrate a we went:
i i
an hitoric pot, he aid one time, pointing to the road, a we paed a vacant lot that
ued to e hi high chool.
i i where Roger Gallant dropped a jar of mercur. I
imagined the all of ilver pinging along the road in tantric line. We walked acro
the frozen oil and cu ed our oot acro the thin now to uncover a plaque of people
who donated mone for the plaque. He pointed to a Gallant, cla of 1951.
m father aid.
at’ the gu that dropped the mercur.
at’ him,
“I aw in that outline of hi od, a lifetime of 7–3
hift at the mill, a weeping remnant of a human
eing.”
In the aftermath of hi death, two ear on, I till can’t look at photograph of him,
ecaue in them I rememer hi emaciated od, acri ced o I could have a new pair
of hoe to tart chool ever fall or a new oftall glove when I turned ixteen. And in
hi ee I ee me.
*
Paul unan loom over the Tourit Information ooth in front of the Androcoggin
where unan-ized log once oated downtream toward the mill. In lue pant, a
matching lue watch cap, and a hort leeve red polo hirt expoing hi rawn arm,
he pro er an equall enormou axe that could clear-cut the Amazon.
at tatue ha
een around a long a I rememer, although it ued to tower aove Puiia’ Hardware
acro the treet, a catchall hop where I ought charcoal and ketch pad for juvenile
rendering of hore. He wa donated to the town when Puiia’ cloed. A a kid, I
didn’t pa much attention to unan depite hi ize, and he lended into the
ackground, a improale a that eem.
I read that Rumford’ Paul unan got a facelift etween 2000–2002, a od overhaul
including a paint jo, a new axe, and teel upport ecured to a huge lock of concrete,
which to replace, the had to remove unan’ head. After the fatened the upport
and efore reintating unan’ head, the workmen wriggled out of unan’ neck.
After Paul’ reurrection, Rumford held a fetival in hi honor featuring a lumerjack
reakfat, zip line ride over the waterfall, a facial hair contet, a annel hirt dinner
dance, and an axe-throwing competition.
unan’ origin remain a mter. mall town, from Maine to Minneota, claim him
a their own, et the agree the o giant wa the hero of all woodmen. Legend
maintain when unan’ cradle rocked, the motion caued huge wave that unk hip.
He alo allegedl whittled a pipe from a hickor tree and could outrun uckhot. Our
unan, I found out, wa crafted from the mold of the Mu er Man, a giant ergla
tatue who pro ered mu er a advertiement on U wa in the 1970. Whatever
the mth, there our unan tand a a guardian or curioit for thoe amling through
the waning mill town of m outh, hi hadow ometime a rooding a the hurtling
river eond. enator dmund ixtu Mukie’ maller, more eriou memorial of quat
dark gra granite lie jut down the riverank from unan. Mukie wa a giant in real
life at 6’4” and the man who penned the Clean Air and Clean Water Act, though no
match for the long hadow cat unan. oth memorialized in Rumford, their act
equall igni cant; one deforeted the woodland, the other tried to reclaim them, the
rock pool on the edge of the Androcoggin panning the gap etween the two of
them.
M father ued to make fun of the unan tatue and the ludicrou lue hoofprint
painted on the idewalk in downtown Rumford, made ae, unan’ lue ox.
town electmen voted, in 2009, to ue $6,500 from their economic development fund
to create ae, guring that he and hi hoofprint would encourage tourit to follow
e
hi path. What the forgot to conider wa that there’ not much left in town to ee ut
Paul unan himelf and thoe garih lue tep that end aruptl at Rite Aid.
Kerri Arenault
Kerri Arenault erve on the oard of the National ook Critic Circle and i the ook Review ditor for
Orion magazine. he teache non ction in The Mater of Art program in Writing and Oral Tradition at
the Graduate Intitute in ethan, CT. Her forthcoming ook, What Remain, i aout how our landcape
de ne u and how we de ne our landcape, due out from t. Martin’ Pre, 2020.
10 DUT NOVL THAT AR ALO THIR
LOUI RDRICH: AMONG TH LIVING AND
AUTHOR’ MATRPIC
TH DAD IN TH TURTL MOUNTAIN
Purchase answer to see full
attachment
