“Well, you just missed the bomb squad…”
“Now what? Did Nellie turn up another old hand grenade in the back of a desk drawer?”
“No,” I replied. “This time, we had to blow up one of Suzanne’s best Historical Society artifacts.”
Emily sighed. “How many times are my parents going to have to call the bomb squad?”
In April I went to the Maine Resource Recovery Association’s annual Recycling and Solid Waste Conference. I go every year, and I’ve always just called it “Dump School.” At this year’s event, I attended several training sessions about hazardous materials, intended for transfer station operators and others who have to figure out how to deal with dangerous items which find their way into the trash.
“Ether,” we were taught, “once it has sat around for enough decades, can become chemically unstable and form organic peroxide crystals which are a shock-sensitive high explosive.”
It had not been a week since Suzanne Rankin, our town historian, had been talking excitedly around the island about this cool item she had in the collection: a very old can of ether, part of an emergency medical kit from the war days.
I called Matinicus as soon as the class was over. “Where’s the ether?”
As soon as I got back to Matinicus, Lana Cannon, who also works with the Historical Society, grabbed me and said, “I’ll show you.” The little container, labeled “Squibb Ether” was in a crate, on the floor, locked up under the stairs of the town office. At least it wasn’t in Suzanne’s house somewhere, teetering on a high shelf. It isn’t the liquid ether that’s the hazard; it’s the jarring and dropping and messing around, if in fact those crystals have formed, and there is no way to really know without manhandling the container.
We knew two things: I wouldn’t be taking the stuff off the island, because that would mean putting it aboard a boat and then driving it somewhere (unless I accidentally dropped it overboard way out deep, which I was specifically advised not to do). We also knew that most of our neighbors would eagerly volunteer to touch it off themselves. We weren’t about to encourage that, because the dangerous part wasn’t shooting at the little can in a gravel pit; the dangerous part would be moving it clumsily in the first place. This would require a certain… discretion.
I called a few agencies; you can’t just look up “bomb squad” in the phone book. “I’ll see if the Marine Patrol can bring me out tomorrow,” said Sergeant Jeff Mills of the State Police, after I described the situation to him over the phone. Oh, joy. The next day was “oil boat day,” when half the island would be at the wharf anyway, trying to buy kerosene. The Marine Patrol steaming into Matinicus Harbor would just add to the theatrics. I was imagining the island men’s reactions when Suzanne, Lana and I were spotted down there with the cops. With any luck they’d all think we were in big trouble for beating up a few lobstermen.
Before I could have too much fun planning the rumors, Sgt. Mills called again and said he’d be coming on the airplane. That actually simplified this a great deal, as we didn’t really need to be a public spectacle. At the appointed time, Penobscot Island Air flew two members of the State Police Bomb Squad to Matinicus. They got out of the airplane with a reel of electric wire, a few coils of detonating cord, and a very cute little L.L. Bean child’s backpack with lizards on it.
The backpack contained a ballistic insert like a bullet-proof vest. This was the explosives-carrying bag. “Not exactly standard issue bomb squad equipment,” they joked.
They carefully removed the can of ether from the Civil Defense box. I photographed it for Suzanne, who was, after all, losing a piece of her collection. The decision was made that the safest place to blow the thing up was the southern beach, and the safest way to get there was to walk. The deeply cratered roads of Matinicus are not exactly conducive to the safe transport of unstable, shock-sensitive materials. So, anybody who might have seen two large men in combat boots and black sunglasses, one carrying a bright green child’s knapsack, strolling to the beach with us need wonder no longer.
I had gone to the trouble to put two matching license plates on my jeep before meeting the officers. “You must not get much crime out here,” said Sgt Mills’ partner, Trooper Shawn Whalen, down from Aroostook County. I liked that. I told them that if I’d had more time I could have made a batch of donuts. “That’s such a cop cliché, though,” he said. I apologized; I was just thinking that anything that goes on around here of a social nature-say, a meeting, a knitting circle or an explosion– ought to have refreshments.
The next day, Lana came running over to me with a message. “How’s this for synchronicity? Eliza over on Isle au Haut was out for a walk with the kids yesterday, when they found this strange-looking object labeled ‘Hazardous Material…if found, call Police or Military.’ Now she’s got to figure out what to do with it…”
Eva Murray is a freelance writer who lives on Matinicus Island.