When the deadline is looming for the next edition of The Working Waterfront, I reflect on what I’ve seen, heard, and shared in communities along the coast. Without fail, Tom Groening, our talented editor who has taken the pulse of the coastline for years, has said, “Write about your own experiences.” And I do, but within some self-imposed parameters.
This month, with permission from my family, however, I want to share a much more personal story about loss and love and the power of small communities.
I attended a celebration of life last month for a person that I admired and loved. He wasn’t well-known to many on Chebeague Island, but for those of us who did know him, he was pure life force. Larger-than-life, a raconteur, a truth-teller. He wore his own Irish heritage proudly and wrapped all of us in a big, warm blanket of Irish blessings and wisdom.
He ribbed us about our incessant obsession with local family genealogy and reminded us, by his very presence, that our lives and our communities are enriched by newcomers…
He was the kind of person we all need in our life. Someone who kept us on our toes and whose wit delivered truth and humor in equal measure. Like his infamous cocktail, the Log Cabin Manhattan, he was zesty with a deep soulful finish.
Some might say that it was only a matter of time before he would find his way to Chebeague Island. The ties that so lovingly connect people to islands and his marriage to an islander—my cousin with her generations-long roots—made his eventual move seem inevitable.
He ribbed us about our incessant obsession with local family genealogy and reminded us, by his very presence, that our lives and our communities are enriched by newcomers with new perspectives. He had a few to share.
In jest, mostly, he’d talk about his new life on this “God-forsaken rock.” Had he seen that day, and perhaps he did, the church filled to the brim with people who had come to celebrate, to sing for him, to support his family, and to say his name, our little “rock” in Casco Bay would certainly have felt much less forsaken. Rather, it shone like a homecoming for an honored guest.
In fact, it struck me that we might all hope to end our days ushered along on a bright, royal carpet of such love and community support, with the saints all marching and the colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky. It was magnificent.
And this is where small, close-knit communities excel. We understand that each one of us is meaningful in their own right and worthy of celebration. In coming together, we create an enviable strength that carries the community forward and connects us, one generation to the next. In the most profound sense, each passing breathes fresh life into our community spirit.
To wrap the vim and sparkle of one resplendent individual into the constellation of lives before us and after us is no small thing. How fortunate we are, in all our manifestations of grief, to have so much wisdom lighting our way.
Kim Hamilton is president of Island Institute, publisher of The Working Waterfront. She may be contacted at KHamilton@islandinstitute.org.
