Dark History of Mackworth Island

Rocky shoreline
Mackworth Island

Yesterday, I started out writing a nice chatty piece about how I spent a pleasant Maine day strolling around Mackworth Island in Falmouth. But as I was poking around on the internet, searching out minor details on its history, I found instead stories that tied the bucolic location to a history of despair and abuse.

Neglecting to acknowledge that information now seems an insult to the children, now grown, that suffered there. 

The Governor Baxter School for the Deaf is located on the Mackworth Island, and includes buildings and land donated by former governor of Maine, Percival Baxter, an innocuous fact that shows up in all the literature.

What is less common knowledge now is that for some twenty or more years, starting in the 1950s, abuse ran rampant through that school. On that picaresque, and isolated island, children were victimized.

In 1981, a state investigation led to the resignation of Principal Robert Kelly, School Superintendent Joseph Youngs, and Dean of Students Jan Repass. Allegations of physical and sexual abuse were substantiated by the report, but no one was charged. While Youngs died in 1990, Kelly continued to draw a pension.

In 2001, Governor Angus King officially apologized on behalf of the state for the abuse at the school, and the state's colossal screw-up in failing to investigate earlier even when teachers had submitted concerns on suspected abuse. The Baxter Compensation Authority was established to compensate former students for their suffering. The statute of limitations applied for the students willing to testify and so no one ever faced criminal charges. 

Maybe you're saying, oh well, a state institution, everyone is always claiming abuse, how bad could it have been?  Dust the sand off your ostrich neck and read this article, written in 2004 by the Rick Wormwood, the brother of a Governor Baxter School student. He, along with other former students and family members, returned to the island when a decaying house, scene of some particularly heinous incidents, was burned down by the fire department: Why I Hate Mackworth Island by Rick Wormwood. 

The Boston Globe covered the event as well, here:
http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2004/04/25/school_demolishes_symbol_of_abuse/

No one likes to talk about childhood abuse, sexual or physical.  It's easier to pretend it's something that happens to a tiny handful of people, but the flat out truth is, that's crap. Damaged people often push the limits of what they think they can get away with for for as long as possible for whatever pathological reasons they may have (often, and most sadly, a legacy of their own abuse, as also happened on Mackworth Island). In most cases, abusers keep on until they are confronted and find help, are imprisoned, or die. 

Because such chat is not polite dinner conversation, because so often people refuse to believe ("he's a pillar of the community!") or refuse to take any action ("not my problem") or both, suffering continues. 

My childhood was free from that kind of horror, but I have spoken with enough people not similarly blessed to know how lucky I am. As the sister of a disabled brother who spent time at special schools in the care of others, I hope that all was as it seemed, and the stellar care my family and I witnessed him receiving from incredibly kind and patient people was the entirety of his experience.  His schools remain incident free with good reputations.

But every day, there are more stories of nursing homes and psychiatric hospitals and other facilities being investigated. Years ago, the fancy boarding school I attended in New Hampshire drew scandal to its high-powered ranks when a drama teacher was arrested for possession of child pornography, but more recent allegations are easy to find. Consider the title of this GAO report from 2007: Residential Treatment Programs: Concerns on Abuse and Death in Certain Programs for Troubled Youth. 

Vulnerable populations of people, children, the elderly, those without sufficient voice, those that can be bullied and manipulated, continue to be prey to the damaged and ruthless among us. That makes me angrier than I can say.

That rage is neither surprising, revelatory, or unusual by any means. But the vividness of it speaks to more hopeful human characteristics, those of human compassion and the desire to protect the disadvantaged rather than (as is so popular now in the age of suck-it-up) cull weakness from the herd. 

What gives me hope is that the truth does now, much more so than in the past, rise up to the surface. Through state investigations or through families or through the courage of survivors, when the leaden curtain of secrecy is lifted, there is the potential for change. Change means more safety for more children and the adults they will become. Change means the opportunity for acknowledgement, honesty, and healing. 

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Below, the original piece I wrote with some scenic photos:

Faithful Furry Friends and Fairy Houses on Mackworth Island

Stone pier

Mackworth Island, just a few minutes south of Portland, sports some fabulous views on the 1.25 mile trail around the island. A causeway connects the island to Falmouth.  Trail parking is limited, so I was shooed away from the gatehouse on my first attempt to visit as the lot was full.  Next time, my luck improved.  

Beach with view of islands in the distance

Mackworth Island is home to the Baxter School for the Deaf. Percival Baxter, former Governor of Maine, donated his summer house to the school in the late 1940s.

The present-day island contain a few strange stops, including a pet cemetery. Baxter buried his beloved Irish Setters and one horse there.  

Grave markers in the pet cemetery

Plaque with list of Irish Setters

Many children (or many fairies) have also built little houses out of twigs and shells in an area designated as the Mackworth Island Community Village.  The sign reminds visitors that "You may build houses small and hidden for the fairies, but please do not use living or artificial materials." 

Fairy houses

One of the fairies sent me a snake, which almost scared the toenails off of me before I snapped its picture.

Snake!

The Amazing Plastic Man!

Plastic Man gawks at a Picasso.
April 19th, 1999 cover of The New Yorker.
Painted by Art Spiegelman.

After reading a book on neuroplasticity (The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science by Norman Doidge -- strongly recommended), I've decided that it is not, in fact, a completely impossible reality that some day I could sing on key.

Neuroplasticity is not just that the more you use your brain for certain tasks, the better you get at those tasks (practice makes perfect!), but also that your brain actually changes its structure to allot more real estate for those tasks because of that. And that's true even for old brains, so you can, in fact, teach an old dog new tricks (although it may take a little bit longer than with a puppy brain).

What does neuroplasticity have to do with singing? It means that I can train my brain to hear differences and because I put my attention to that task, my brain will change because of that. The more that I can hear differences, the more able I will be to reproduce them accurately.

I downloaded a freebie ear training software today and felt my brain getting smarter all the while, a decidedly odd feeling, to notice my brain catching on to important details. I can now tell the difference between a major and minor 2nd.

Maria Callas, I'll never be. But maybe I'll offend people just a little bit less at stoplights when I forget to stop singing or roll up my window.

Independence at the Portland Museum of Art

Calder mobile, Portland Museum of Art

I spent the afternoon on the 4th of July at the Portland Museum of Art.  Photography is not allowed for most paintings at the museum, but the Calder was free game. Mobiles continue to make me cheery for no reason.

The John Marin, "Modernism at Midcentury," show at the museum is definitely worth seeing, although I confess, I lingered longer by the Magrittes upstairs in the main collection. I loved the cubist leanings of Marin's seascapes, geometry layered over natural ocean chaos. From a how-does-he-do/see-that persepective, it was immensely useful, an entrance into his vision. 

Magritte's surrealism feels like a poem though -- the world explained by setting vision askew.

Some Assembly Required: Gearing up for the Carnival in Bath, Maine

Husks of History: Seneca Stone Cutting Mill & One Dead Turtle

The red stone for the Smithsonian Castle was cut at the Seneca Stone Cutting Mill, off Riley's Lock of the C&O Canal. Ruins of the mill are still open to the public.

I'd forgotten about the ruins, but when I turned left at the turtle resting in peace on the path, I stumbled into them, one historical remnant leading to another.

Thanks, Mr. Turtle.

Evolution of a Painting

For the first time in a long time, I attempted to paint people -- and it became an absorbing exercise.

Our models!

I started with a photograph (which I like to think of as models that don't move). I selected one with which I've actually always had a somewhat awkward relationship; I find something unsettling about their expressions. But that was exactly the draw in terms of painting: strong emotional content and body language.    

Edited photo

Then I edited the photography down to the composition I wanted, one highlighting their faces, and which also mirrored the scale of the canvas I would be using. I ended up moving them closer together so they fit better, hence the noticeable line at their shoulders.

Next, I printed out the photo on my black and white printer. Given that I was fairly sure I wouldn't be using the same color scheme, I was more interested in seeing the light and dark of shadows. And, well, I don't have a color printer. 

I folded that paper in quarters and drew the same guidelines on the canvas, with the hope that I wouldn't get so hopefully off that way. I used pencil -- bad idea, as I had to paint over it.  I'll use charcoal in the future, since that will smudge away when I no longer need it. I heard recently that some people now use projectors, but that seems a little bit like cheating to me.  And while I am trying to plan more, I like the unexpected that produces new directions, the discovery in the process of painting.   

The first completed draft of the painting looked like this:

First complete draft

This was after I'd redone her mouth twice and his nose once (with somewhat limited success, but hey, it's better than it was), but before I re-did both their eyes (so that, for instance, he no longer looked like he was wearing eye shadow) The first wash of the painting was a background shade, the light gold that you see coming through the window, was almost entirely swallowed by other elements, but somehow, it was nice to have that base color, rather than straight white.  And it turned out to be a happy accident - the idea of a growing, light-filled window connecting them on a symbolic level really worked for me so I eliminated the weird curtains from the photo, making the window both more central, but also its detail more diffuse.   

The painting as it stands now looks like this:

As it stands right now

I wouldn't say it's done, but it's resting for the moment, until I can come to it with fresh eyes.  Relative to the original photo, umm, ok, not exactly an amazing copy, no.  But I am pleased that they do a) look recognizable as people and b) have emotional exchange. 

I was reading more of Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain last night as part of my project to be a little less inept in the drawing department. I have not yet comfortably gotten to the point where everything is just shapes with no symbolic value.  But I am starting to get a glimmerings of how that works, of being able to make that transition to a different kind of thinking when I'm working on art.  Progress, however, slow, is satisfying. One thing that amused me is that one of the items that often harder for beginners to draw (or paint, in this case) because of the high symbolic value is a shirt collar.  We think we know what it looks like, so we don't actually see it as it is. I definitely had that with her turtleneck, which, I am aware, looks more like a priest collar.

I also completely eliminated the hood of her coat, which instead turned into a background image, that of a couch under the window (which may not be clear to anyone but me, but that's what it is). 

Yes, a long way to go.  But progress. 

Afterall, let's consider many years ago, when during a very brief spate of painting, I tried to paint a face, and it ended up looking like this:

Eek!

Scary. 

And with no recognizable personality.

You can sort of see why I gave up on people for a while, given the inauspicious beginning.

But I'm going to keep going with the people this time. One recommedation I can make to new painters: if you have opportunity to use BIG canvases, go for it. My new painting is enormous -- 4 foot by 5 foot or so (part of the stash of old canvases with which I was gifted when I was living in in the artist's studio).  While it's a little daunting having larger than life people looking down on you, it's also much easier to put in details, as on that scale, even the details are broad strokes. 

Happy painting!

Glen Echo Park

What I Learned in May

The omentum is an apron-shaped layer of fat lying over the belly. Tumors from ovarian cancer sometimes spread to the omentum. As an outdated evolutionary safety feature from pre-surgery days, the omentum sometimes curled around an unhappy appendix, controlling the spread of poison if it burst, allowing for survival.

Portland Head Light

An extra hour driving through Pennsylvania beats New Jersey Turnpike tolls and traffic.

When I'm nervous, I repeat myself, restating information gleaned from other people to verify it.

Lawyers sometimes hug clients.

On some superstitious level, I think my mother having an admission nurse named Grace who just came back from doing mission work means we have a good word in with God. The Grace of God.

Fresh asparagus tastes better.

Of the many smells permanently fixed in my brain, one of them is that of my brother's spit, which still clings to his toys stored in the basement of my mother's house.

Maine drivers are polite, but gratingly slow. Lights are badly timed in Portland.

Sitting by Back Cove

A dog that is sitting has a much harder time barking.

Low tide in a small cove looks like the plug has been pulled on a dirty sink; rather than the swaying grasses and blue water of high tide, all that's left is ring of muddy pebbles and gray, murky water.

Hospital beds have amazing hydraulics that lift them in all manner of ways, safety rails to keep patients in, and emergency CPR releases to flatten the bed down if needed.

Swelling after surgery is common. Combining swelling with the mellow tones of morphine makes for different facial expressions.

Dilaudid, a relative of morphine, can be administered via IV or in pill form.

Staples from abdominal surgery are informally referred to as a zipper. They come out two weeks after surgery.

Crescent Beach in fog

Two weeks of gray weather is a recipe for depression. The whole city slows down in drowned dismay.

Gardening is just not my thing. I like flowers, but I'm not inclined to put them in any order and I'm not crazy about dirt under my fingernails.

Postoperative ileus is common after abdominal surgery. The intestines, angry at having been moved around during surgery, are slow to wake up their nerves and do their usual work of coordinated contraction. To a point, the solution is to withhold food, hurry up and wait, hoping the nausea and vomiting settle.

Tommy's Tree
 Limerick, Maine

The memorial tree planted at the school where my brother spent over twenty years of his life still looks a little new and spindly.

In some ways, I am more grown-up and capable than I thought. In other ways, I am much, much less than I thought.

Dreams about coffins and rats nipping at your legs are not a sign of optimal mental health.

Fake trees decorating the produce department of the grocery store feel wrong.

An NG (nasogastric) tube can be inserted up the nose and down the throat into the stomach in order vacuum out food thereby ending nausea from ileus or bowel obstruction. While inserting the tube the patient is instructed to drink water through a straw as the swallowing motion moves the tube down the throat. Airplane glue is used to provide extra security when taping the tube on the nose.

Seagull, Eastern Prom

Seagulls seem bigger up north. Maybe they are bigger.

I am spacier than I realized on visual details. I did not notice that my mother's kitchen was gray until she told me. In my head, it was white.

The irony of getting a cold from a germ picked up at the hospital, and therefore not being able to go back to the hospital until I recover from said germ, does not make my fever drop any faster.

"Optimal debulking" is good news.

Petco makes a canine supplement to discourage dogs from eating their own excrement. This is good and bad if said dog is a sneaky pooper that likes to leave deposits on the dining room rug.

Maine Medical nurses are almost universally nice. Some are chattier than others.

For six months or so at Maine Med, medication charting is now handled with a hand-held device that scans the patient ID and then the medication, charting the time.

I have in me the makings of a compulsive hand washer. But not a gourmet cook or neat-nick.

Ruins of Goddard Mansion
Cape Elizabeth, Maine

Changing roles does not change history.

Squirrels really like tulip bulbs. But they leave the flowers for bouquets that liven up a hospital room.

It is impossible for me to look at tulips in a hospital room and not think about the Sylvia Plath poem “Tulips,” which begins with “The tulips are too excitable” and ends with the line “from a country as far away as health.” It is possible for me to not mention that at the hospital though.

Psychological discomfort also manifests as physical discomfort. One solution is substituting in a different discomfort – run faster, walk further, get tired.

If you cry while running in the rain, no one pays you much heed. Who really looks happy running anyway?

Conversely, physical pain inspires psychological discomfort. How do I fix this? What is wrong? Am I all alone here?

Spaghetti squash spaghetti tastes like pasta spaghetti.

Physical contact is comforting. Hold hands. Hug.

Lobster trap washed ashore
Crescent Beach

A parking ticket because you got lost walking for an hour because you forgot to note where you parked your car somehow seems unfair.

If your mother has cancer, you may be able break the rules of a Boys Only Weekend and spend some time drinking with festive, fraternal men who will buy you a mustard colored t-shirt that says “Get Lucky at Ri-Ra!”

Heparin, used to prevent clots, is injected in the upper thigh. Shots sometimes burn.

I will watch five hours of detective shows given access to cable tv and a desire for escape. I should never have cable TV on a permanent basis.

Fog rolling in scares me on some unspoken, primal level, the cold approach of oblivion, even while I consciously marvel at the beauty and power of nature.

Toes at Fort Williams

Anger unexpressed curls the body into odd shapes, closes in on itself, shoulders covering necks, arms across chest, muscles tensed.

Potassium levels must be in the normal range before being released from the hospital. Potassium administered via IV can burn. Liquid medication tastes foul. Pills are large. 

Throughout many years, my cats have seen me through a myriad of events across the country and still come over and purr next to me. And yak up hairballs under the bed at 4am.

To discourage clots in the leg after surgery, patients are encouraged to sit up and stand the same day as surgery. The more movement, the better after surgery, as it inspires the body to wake up and get busy healing. Medical personnel tend to leave out details on just how painful this will be. 

Also to discourage clots, patients often have motorized compression pumps velcroed around their legs, expanding and deflating in rhythmic rounds. Some nurses call them Electric Socks.

Dock, Eastern Promenade,
Portland, Maine

Anger, fear, sadness and love mix up, move around, run away, hit you in the face when you're not looking.

Being the youngest person in the room by ten or twenty years still makes you the baby even if you're 42. This is good and bad.

Taxol is a favored chemical for ovarian cancer chemotherapy.

You can know people all your life and still not really know them.

Breeding What?

Just what are they breeding there in Connecticut? You mean you need a permit for that?

Maybe the New Britain Herald should have re-thought the headline/picture placement of this edition.

Why I Like to Drive

If you fly, you don't get to see all the roadside randomness which is America.

For instance, from 10,000 feet, you wouldn't get to see the Suwanee Belle, a riverboat decaying off Interstate 78, far from any water.

Suwanee Belle, resting on the lawn near the
Riverboat Saloon

Large water wheel; no water.

Slow decay

Where exactly in Pennsylvania, you ask?  Here, this landmark will help you find it:

Large advertisement for Roadside America (the largest known miniature village)

Maybe this is what the sign refers to when you stop at the Pennsylvania Visitor's Center and they provide this helpful advice:

Three Witches

Plight of an English major: watching birds dine by dipping in and out of a trashcan on a cloudy day makes me think about the Weird Sisters in Shakespeare's MacBeth. 

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair / Hover through the fog and filthy air."

I'll refrain from making the inevitable pun on foul/fowl.

Love and War at Fort Reno

cross-posted at bark, bugs, leaves & lizards

Behind the fences at Fort Reno

Memory is unpredictable. What stays and what goes lack any rational processing.

For instance, I remember locking eyes with a brown-eyed boy for a heartbeat or two too long while we both sat on the grass watching the free music at Fort Reno Park in 1988. I never even spoke to that boy, but I can tell you his eyes were deep set, his eyelashes short, and that threads dangled from the hem of the white wife-beater tank top he wore. Like all of us that day in sweltering August heat, he glowed with a sheen of sweat.

Here in 2011, after a frustrating day of minor snafus, unable to remember necessary details like addresses and directions, I found myself driving by Fort Reno just as the incessant spring rain decided to clear off. Nostalgia for 1988 and other days and years at Fort Reno made me stop. I spent a happy hour muddying my shoes, taking many pictures, petting curious dogs, and getting all misty about my gnarled teenage years.

Dogs and brick towers

Fort Reno Park, at the corner of Chesapeake and Nebraska Avenue in the Tenleytown area, contains the highest point in DC. At a maximum of 409 feet above sea level, DC is second only to Florida in flatness. Given its height, the park is a favorite viewing site for 4th of July fireworks.

Fort Reno is also the only Civil War battle location within the District. The original fort (now gone) was built in 1861 and initially called Fort Pennsylvania. Civil War buffs, check out this National Park Service write up on its history.


The Tower on the Hill

The castle-like tower the park is known for was built in the late 1920s as part of the reservoir and water pumping station. The Fort Reno Pumping Station is still in operation at the top of the hill. 

Despite the utilitarian purpose, the design is whimsical. The tower looks as if Rapunzel may soon let down her hair. Or it would, if there weren't quite so much barbed wire.

No trespassing

Large fences protecting our water supply aside, Fort Reno is, as a park should be, a gathering space for the neighborhood. When I arrived, teenagers (likely from nearby Wilson High) were sitting cross-legged on the stage, deep in conversation. Later, I saw construction workers in hardhats cut through the park on their way home. A dog walker herded her charges up and down the hill, chatting with dog owners out with their happy hounds. A jogger stomped by, intent on his task. Small talk was exchanged, sticks fetched and water flung from shaken fur, peaceful humans and canines in community as sun returned.   

The free concert series at Fort Reno still exists, going strong after 40 years, as bands known and unknown continue to set up on the rickety stage every summer and plug into a U-Haul full of sound equipment.


Stage at Fort Reno

The music line-up is organized by Amanda McKaye (sister of Ian McKaye, of Minor Threat and Fugazi fame). Check out http://www.fortreno.com/ for info. It's too late to submit your band's demo for this year, but you can donate. The Summer Concert Series is run entirely by volunteers. 

And yes, Fugazi played at Fort Reno. A lot.  Here's an entertaining snippet where Ian calls out pushy guys trying to be tough who, really, were not all that tough (note, work-unfriendly language used, so listen quietly).

Lookin for a good time? Call...

Nuts and boobies never go
out of style

Graffiti decorates the stage, and it seems the more things change, the more they stay the same. With the exception of the side of the stage that that reads "Facebook killed gays," virtually all other commentary could have been written during my high school days.


All is Fair in Love and War

Climbing up the hill and circling the fence, the view rolled out in front of me. Distance (like time) lends perspective and beauty to sights, qualities that can elude us when we are down in the weeds. 



Clouds over Wilson playing fields

I couldn't tell you why I remember that boy and his glistening youth in 1988. If he's still out there, his deep set eyes presumably sport crow's feet similar to the lines by mine. But I thank him for adding to a sultry afternoon of music in 1988 and windy walking in 2011 watching clouds flow over the horizon.


Clouds playing over the neighborhood

 




H St. on a Tuesday

Dance Class Watcher

Constructing Church Clouds

Walking

The Perfect Cut