ESTESBOG

Charlotte Grant Walker, 84, passed away peacefully Tuesday, October 26th after a long illness at the Orchard Park Nursing Home in Farmington, ME where she has resided for the last 2-1/2 years. 

Charlotte was born April 17, 1926 in Lewiston, ME, the daughter of the late Eugene V. and Jennie (Barlow) Grant.  She graduated from Lewiston H.S. in 1943 and earned a mathematics degree at Bates College, Class of 1947. 

Charlotte is survived by her husband of 63 years, Elmer F. (Ted) Walker, Jr. and her three sons; Peter G. and Nancy Walker of Fort Morgan, CO, Thomas E. and Ann Walker of Farmington, ME and David and Becky Walker of Statesville, NC.  Charlotte leaves six grandchildren; Corey Walker of Pueblo, CO, Emily Walker of Pocatello, ID, Eric Walker of Manchester, NH, Jameson Walker of Helena, MT, Christopher Walker of Kingston, WA and Jennie Walker of Winston-Salem, NC.  Charlotte also leaves five great grandchildren.  Charlotte was predeceased by two brothers, William Grant and Eugene Grant, Jr. 

Charlotte and Ted made their home in Poland Spring, ME while running the family business Ted Walker, Inc., Mechanical Contractors.  Charlotte was an original board member instrumental in the building of the Alvan B. Ricker Memorial Library in Poland, ME, Past President of the Ladies Auxiliary of the Maine Association of Plumbing, Heating and Cooling Contractors and a former member of the National Association of Women in Construction. 

Charlotte’s smile will be missed by all her family and loving friends.

A memorial service will be held at the Poland Community Church on November 20, 2010 at 1:00pm.  In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made in Charlotte’s honor to the Poland Spring Preservation Society, P.O. Box 444, Poland Spring, ME 04274 or the Poland Fire Rescue Department, 1231 Maine St., Poland, ME 04274.

Another of my childhood heroes is gone. Even though I met him just one time in a one-room school house in a rural Maine town some fifty years ago, I have not forgotten the experience. He was one of those men who command your attention. To my 12-year-old eyes, he seemed god-like.

This and the following photo courtesy of HomeofHeroes.com

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My e-friend and frequent commenter Ralph Romero from southern Colorado had a comment on the flying Oldsmobile story: “Great story. I had a 1976 Oldsmobile Omega Brougham. . .great car. However, it did NOT have the ability to fly! I tried it a few times! Why, yes, there was beer involved!”

In the 46+ years I have been (legally) driving, I have owned just about one of everything and two or three of a few. In fact, my very first automobile after I got my license in the fall of 1963 was a 1956 Olds 88 that my grandfather surrendered to me when he decided to give up driving. Along with it came about ten well worn tires which I managed to rotate around and keep it propped up on inflated wheels most days. That car must have weighed as much as today’s average bus. It contained a substantial amount of steel (one of my aunts suggested the frame was probably cast iron).

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Summer weather on the high plains can accurately be described as long periods of boring interspersed with brief periods of potentially fatal. At about 4 p.m. on August 16th I stepped out of my laboartory in Brush, Colorado to see this tornado stretching across the sky directly to the south as a thunderstorm began to graze by the eastern edge of the town. It was too far away for me to see the base and know whether or not it was touching the ground. Later we learned that a barn about ten miles to the south was turned into kindling and scattered over a mile-long stretch of prairie. A valuable stallion in the barn was injured so badly it had to be put down.

A twister of this type is sometimes called a “rope tornado.” I’ve seen a bunch of ropey funnel clouds, but never one that descended all the way to the ground. I ran to my car, got out my camera and snapped a few shots. An hour later on my home computer I sent the shot included here to the Denver NBC affiliate, KUSA-TV, Channel 9. Weather forecaster Kathy Sabine ran the shot 4 times between 5P.M. and 10:30. The next morning John LaPorte of the Fort Morgan Times called to say he’d seen the shot and asked if I’d share. It spanned the upper front page of Tuesday afternoon’s edition. http://www.fortmorgantimes.com/ci_15804119?IADID=Search-www.fortmorgantimes.com-www.fortmorgantimes.com

by Peter Walker

One thousand acre Wassookeag Lake lies just outside the little mill town of Dexter, Maine. From 1975 through 1977, Wassookeag was the most northerly of the more than 600 lakes on my watch as an Assistant Regional Fishery Biologist in Maine’s Fishery Region B, the south central coastal plain.

            Lying next to a minor population center in otherwise rural central Maine, Wassookeag received heavier ice fishing pressure than most lakes. The lake at that time possessed small populations of landlocked Atlantic salmon and lake trout (“Mackinaw”). There were never enough to go around, yet I could always find an assortment of several dozen “townies” trying their luck on Wassookeag.

Wassookeag was well inland and high enough in latitude to lie in a much colder climate than lakes along the coast. By late winter the ice might approach four feet in thickness. This was enough to support any vehicle safely. Read more…

 Photo by Joe Lewendowski courtesy of Colorado Division of Wildlife

by Peter G. Walker

In order to put today’s tale in perspective, and to be fair to all concerned, I need to give you quite a bit of background. First of all, those of you who have never visited the little known region of eastern Colorado, you need to appreciate just how rural it is. Discounting Greeley, which is really an eastward extension of the Colorado Front Range, in an area the size of the entire state of Maine, there are only four “cities” that approach 10,000 people in size. The entire region has a phone book about the size of the one we used 30 years ago for the greater Augusta area in Maine. It’s about as rural as it gets. Mayberry RFD with cattle trucks and wheat fields.

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by Peter Walker

Did you ever hear of a hound making a career change?

Years ago my friend Dave Schnoor, manager back then of the state fish hatchery out in Wray, had a little rabbit hound named Luke. Luke was “beagle-ish,” but by no means a purebred. He was tri-colored like a typical beagle and small in stature. But Luke was heavier set and his head, ears and feet suggested a basset somewhere in his recent ancestry.

At any rate, Luke’s true love, aside from being a Schnoor family member and all the duties that entailed, was hunting rabbits. With his super nose and full voice, he was very good at it.

When Luke was around 7 years old, the unthinkable happened. His humans, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, brought home a pair of Brittany puppies. Suddenly he was overwhelmed with competition. Life was cruel. Life was unfair. And it was about to turn more so. Read more…

 by Peter Walker

His name was Tiny. He belonged to the Tedfords who lived up the hill from my grandparents in rural southwestern Maine.

He was quite possibly the oddest little dog I’ll ever see. Physically he looked like a critter made of leftover parts and pieces. His head was pretty much golden retriever both in size and appearance. But his body was more or less basset hound. So his head was way too big for his body.

His legs were extremely short and his tail stood straight up. His hair was long and frilly – a mixture of yellows and whites. The upper half of his tail had long white hair trailing off like the big flag on a sailboat’s mast. Read more…

by Peter Walker

USFWS photo by Peter Johnson, 2008

Oh, why does man pursue the smelt?
It has no valuable pelt,
It boasts of no escutcheon royal,
It yields no ivory or oil,
Its life is dull, its death is tame,
a fish as humble as its name.
Yet – take this salmon somewhere else;
And bring me half a dozen smelts!

Ogden Nash, 1902-1971

            I can’t explain it either. But ever since I was a little kid I’ve had a fascination with the smelt. And lots of other Mainers do, too.

            Middle Range Pond, the natural lake at the foot of the hill where I grew up in Poland Spring, Maine had a thriving population of tiny, sardine-sized smelts. They lived in the lake’s depths and were only seen in the early spring around ice-out when they ran up the little tributary brooks late at night to spawn. Men used to stay out all night to go smelting. They would catch the tiny fish with fine mesh dip nets. The limit was 4 quarts per fisherman per night. But, as I soon came to realize, smelts for most Maine outdoorsmen, are simply an excuse to stay out all night and howl at the moon and drink themselves into oblivion.

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Drawing by Wayne Lewis courtesy of Colorado Division of Wildlife.

by Peter Walker

            Three years ago my then 7-year-old grandson, Jason, introduced me to the recent hit animated movie “Over the Hedge.” One of the funniest scenes takes place in a tract home when the invading small animals are confronted by the woman of the house, armed with a broom.

            In the confusion the skunk turns to one of her compatriots and says, “I’m sorry you have to see this.”

Then she yells out, “FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

The view pans back away from the house as, “POOM!” a green cloud blows out simultaneously from the windows and doors. Read more…