Justice is mine
A few weeks ago the Chief Justice of the United States administered the Oath of Office as he recited it for President Barak Obama.
Perhaps he was recalling his visit to Vinalhaven last summer and comparing this lofty and prestigious Washington moment with that less auspicious occasion on the island.
The Chief Justice stayed at our Tidewater Motel for a night. He and his wife were with another family and all had sailed over from his place in Port Clyde. As he was checking in, bent over the counter completing his registration card I was trying to recall where I’d seen his face before. His name, John Roberts, right there before my eyes, did not register.
Rather, it went, as things do nowadays, right over, or perhaps even wafted through, my head. I did notice has last name, Roberts, though because that is my ancestral island family name so I thought perhaps he and I were related; perhaps I’d seen him at a family re-union, so I told him he looked familiar and asked him if we knew one another.
Although very circumspect, he indulged me in a cursory examination of that which we had in common, exploring our respective ancestral trees for a little while before concluding, a little too eagerly, there was no connection. At about that moment I realized, first that he was someone well known, then that he was associated with President Bush and finally that he was the Chief Justice.
As my own awareness sharpened, his own realization that I was finally on to him became apparent and I sensed that he was quickly despairing of the anonymity he’d probably been enjoying while on vacation. At that moment a couple came in to the lobby and, excusing themselves, asked if I might sign a copy of my book, Away Happens, for them. He leapt at this chance to shift attention from his identity and said, “My word, you’re famous.”
“Yes, I never get a moment’s peace. May you never have to bear such a burden,” I said with a knowing glance.”
Later that day John (I’d taken to calling him John) asked if I would give him and his companions a lift to the quarry; the children wanted to go swimming. When we arrived I was still in the midst of my description of the island’s granite quarrying history and of how this quarry and others like it came to be the town swimming venues. I accompanied them down over the rock path to the ledges below where we found several mothers overseeing their respective youngsters in the water, most kids calling for recognition and some for applause.
Also in repose were several teenagers and, in a shady corner nursing a Bud Lite, was Scooter Wooster. Scooter, quicker to make a connection that I’d been, sat up a little straighter and said, “Chissake, look here, it’s What’s His Face.” It took a moment for the Chief Justice to make the leap from the somewhat more respectful salutation he might expect from National Public Radio’s Linda Wertheimer to the less formal What’s His Face and to realize that recognition came from this unlikely source but Scooter stays on top of things and is much more well-informed that he appears. His observation that this was someone in particular was not lost on those assembled and as he’d opened the door with a salutation of sorts I felt compelled to follow through.
“Mr. Roberts,” I began, unsure of how to properly address him, “this is Scooter MacFarland.”
Scooter sat up a little straighter so he could accept the Chief’s extended hand. “Welcome aboard,” said Scooter. “Glad you stopped by. I been festering about some things. Want a Bud?” I left the Chief in Scooter’s hands and, agreeing to pick them all up in a couple of hours, drove back to town.
When I returned Scooter still had the Chief cornered and, although the latter’s Bud still sat before him and appeared little diminished and although he did appear ready to go, he didn’t appeared to have suffered any at Scooter’s hands. Scooter got to his feet to say his good byes. “Won’t be long now,” he offered, “a few more months, and you’ll be swearing in a new President. I hope you get it right. We can’t take even another minute of this guy. You want to run through it a couple of times?”
Phil Crossman, a former Working Waterfront columnist, owns the Tidewater Motel on Vinalhaven.