| The home in
Maine. I lived on Snow Pond from 1984-1987 and that
meeting was late in the summer of 1984. The place was on
the east bank of the lake, a modest typical summer
cottage, about two miles south of the village of
Oakland. Oakland is about two or three miles to the
southwest of Waterville Maine. Snow Pond,
that's the local name, officially I remember its called
Long Pond, is actually a rather large lake, about ten
miles long. Its part of the Belgrade Lakes chain.
Jean had a beautiful location, just below the first
narrows, it was a tight place for tacking a sailboat and
as I write this, I remember clipping past his place one
day, hiked out in a strong breeze, Shep standing on his
front porch holding up a beer in salute! I know they
still had the place when I left in 1987.
My old man introduced me
to Shep when I was a kid back in the 60s, growing up
just outside of Newark NJ. We had a ritual late in the
evening. Dad would pour me a small six ounce glass of
Iron City Beer, we'd talk about the day and then listen
to Shep. On occasion the old man would figure it was a
bit too over the top for me and send me packing, but on
most nights I'd sit there laughing, but then usually get
a bit bleary and finally go to bed. In the morning
as Dad drove me to school he'd tell me what I missed.
When I got a bit older I had one of those pocket
transistor radios, the type with the small dial on the
side, put the earplug in, and tune the show in after
going to bed.
I think I was one of the few of my generation who
actually brought a Playboy for the articles, whenever
Shep had a story, I was there to buy it, and could
actually look the clerk in the eye as I slapped down my
75 cents.
I moved to Maine in the late 70s, started teaching and
sold my first novel in 1982, a science fiction book.
The advance on the book payment finally gave me enough
change to actually get a house, my wife (who was also a
Shep nut, she's Polish and just loved the Polish date
story) and I settled on a home just outside of
Waterville, on Snow Pond. Anyhow, we were watching a
rerun of Shep's American Pie series, the episode where
he is driving to Maine and then started the wheels
clicking. I pulled out one of his books and sure
enough, it was copyrighted under "Snow Pond"
productions. Next day I was at the Oakland Maine
tax office, ran a quick search and up popped Jean
Shepherd, hell the guy was my neighbor on the lake!
So I waited, and a couple of weeks later I saw a car in
the driveway with Jersey tags. Gamely I took copies of
my book, and all of Jean's books, and walked boldly to
the "Great Ones" door and knocked.
Oh, what unfolded over the next few minutes. Leigh
answered the door, I nervously mentioned Jean's name and
her features just fell. The woman went pale, stuttered
she didn't know anyone named Shepherd and started to
close the door. I was crushed. In fact, ironically
I could see Jean out on the front porch with, of all
things, a box load of his books which he was busily
autographing. I was devastated, after all this guy was
my HERO. So, I mumbled an excuse, apologized to Leigh,
told her that I truthfully was their neighbor who had
just built the house up the hill and left a book of mine
on the doorstep. I slowly walked away, embarrassed, not
sure how to react and then I heard that distinctive
voice. "Hey kid, come back here!'
There he stood on the doorstep. I tried not to act like
a golden retriever being invited over to play. Jean
extended his hand and then offered a warm genuine
apology and explained why Leigh panicked. Their place in
Maine was secret, known just to a few friends. The
previous year, someone had come to their home, knocked
on the door, the same as I did, and when Jean opened it,
a crazy maniac had attacked Jean. He pointed
out that I stood nearly six and a half feet tall, had a
fairly strong build, and well, one day I might realize
that there are a lot of crazy people to avoid.
(Oh, how I've learned that since, though not considered
well known in SF, I do have a bit of a following and a
couple of times fans have scared me half to death.)
Thus unfolded a wonderful afternoon. We sat on the
porch, drank beer and talked writing. Jean was intrigued
by my own career and a lot of what he shared with me was
so on the mark about the business, about what I should
write, how publishers too often push you towards the
wrong direction, and most of all to write from the heart
and write what you know.
If anything, it was an afternoon of professional advice
from a Master which I've always treasured.
I didn't live long in that house in Maine, just a couple
of years. Jean made it up to Maine several times, I'd
see him on occasion, we'd trade a little small talk, but
I didn't want to intrude, sensing Maine was the place of
hidden escape and the last thing he needed was another
fan. Once, however, while I was away on business Leigh
dropped up to our place, to invite us over for dinner,
something I shall always regret I was unable to make.
So, that was my day with Jean, and a life of grand
memories of Jean. I am convinced he was truly the great
social critic, humorist and commentator of our age.
Though I love "A Christmas Story," I wish more people
would realize that here was the Mark Twain of our age, a
guy who could cut deep into what we are, particularly
those of us who grew up working class and those who
become trapped in the mad consumer urban society we've
created. I'd like to think that at this moment Jean is
sitting back somewhere, watching, shaking his head, and
laughing that rich infectious chuckle.
I wonder if my old man knew, when sharing that small six
ounce glass of Iron City Beer with me each night while
listening to Jean, I wonder if my old man knew
that he was helping to set me on a career as a writer
and was exposing me to one of the great minds of our
time. . .I suspect he did.. |
