May 1st. A day of importance all over the World. Different things are celebrated, remembered or cursed.
May 1st is my dad's birthday. Well, it would be his birthday if he was still kicking. Now it has become a day to celebrate his life, remember him fondly, and then follow it all up with some mild cursing and calling him names. As the years pass, the negatives seem to fade and the remembered fondly shine brighter. I miss that old goat.
The picture may seem to have little to do with my dad. If you were as inside this joke as I am, you would understand it's meaning and signifigance. My dad loved jokes like this. Especially the wooden lobsta pot. He would always chuckle when he saw a car from Mass, NY, or some other place heading south on the Turnpike with one or two of these seaweed stinking beauties strapped to the roof.
His appreciation of Yankee ingenuity and humor increased with the sale of each one to folks from away. They would use them for a coffee table base. They might become a lawn ornament for that ocean motif they had planned in the back corner of their suburban postage stamp yard. Or they were destined to be given to friends they did not like much. Who knew? Who cared what they did with them? All the contrary old lobsta men knew was they were damn easy to get rid of if they was piled next to the road with a hand painted sign on them that said, "Bonafide Maine Lobsta Traps for Sale. $5 each. 2 for $10".
My dad was not born in Maine. But he belonged here. I think he truly enjoyed his last years on this planet as a resident of Maine. He had his huge yard. He had his drop by drinking buddies. And he had his privacy. Folks up here don't get nosy or too friendly without an invite. He liked that. And so do I. That's one reason I stayed.