A man possessed of a measure of resilience way beyond nearly anything the rest of us will ever have to muster, or need to, died on Sept. 29. Before that unexpected departure, however, Lonnie Morton and his devoted wife Kathy brought together and—for 20 precious and memorable years—sustained community and fellowship around a legendary and satisfying dining venue that was the Harbor Gawker.
The Gawker followed on the heels of the Mill Race, a similarly magical and communal dining adventure, featuring weekly sing-along evenings hosted by four loved and local talented musicians and overseen by John and Barbara Morton, Lonnie’s dad and stepmom, and it too gave us 20 memorable years.
I’ve written before about Kathy and Lonnie’s astonishing accomplishments and their perseverance in the face of so many obstacles. Certainly, the most profound of these was Lonnie’s 2002 diagnosis when he was found to be—I’m tempted to say “suffering from” but that would not at all describe this most determined and resilient man—afflicted with Buerger’s Disease, an uncommon condition that causes blockages in blood vessels.
Perched on the magic stool, he managed the culinary wishes of 60 or 70 happy customers…
The Buerger’s persisted and he began to lose fingers and toes and eventually a lower leg to amputations. These were intended to save him from the infectious consequences of diminished blood flow to extremities even moderately injured by a minor encounter with a knife or open flame, wounds that happen all the time in a commercial kitchen, and that would require only a Band-Aid for anyone else.
He had been managing from an area in the kitchen where he could access a range, fryer, grill, oven, and related components, and create whichever of a seemingly impossible 140 entrees a diner might crave, but with one leg, it became difficult—difficult but not at all a deterrent. Rather, his determination and resilience grew in inverse proportion to his departing appendages.
When he lost his other leg, he simply had modifications made to kitchen gadgetry, and assumed command from a stool from which the backrest was removed so it wouldn’t interfere with his quickly twirling as much as 360 degrees from one station to another.
Perched on the magic stool, bellowing out to his wait staff, as he had for years, the name of each dish as it was readied, he managed the culinary wishes of 60 or 70 happy customers at any given moment. On a nice sunny day in the middle of July with a line that often extended around the corner and out onto the sidewalk, a waiting diner could glance it at Lonnie in his kitchen, a marvel to behold.
On Oct. 1, 2018, Lonnie, now with no legs and just a few fingers, put together one of several final meals—my favorite—the haddock and havarti sandwich, which I enjoyed and with a gusto that I’d reserved over the years for precisely that exquisite sandwich.
The season had passed, as it does every year on Labor Day, and I stood with other year round islanders, each waiting for a final go at their own favorites, each adding their voices to the litany of grateful well-wishers who’d been stopping by to wish Lonnie and Kathy well and to tell them how much they and the Harbor Gawker had meant to them and to this island community.
“Fish and cheese,” Lonnie yelled from his perch, whereupon a responding waitperson, one of his devoted children or grandchildren, retrieved my sandwich from the kitchen and delivered it to me.
Several of us had taken a table in the far corner, next to the rushing water and, enjoying our last meal with bittersweet relish, we reminisced together about this place, about this extraordinary man and about the gift to us all that had been both Lonnie and the Harbor Gawker.
Phil Crossman lives on Vinalhaven. He may be contacted at PhilCrossman.vh@gmail.com.
