Tim Watts died Wednesday morning and the tenor of Tenants Harbor changed in a heartbeat. He is a great big reason I know and love Tenants Harbor, and for that I will be forever grateful.
Spring of ‘79, I was searching for Mohegan-on-the-mainland (I could no longer walk the rocky paths with confidence.) when, while reading Down East Magazine, I spotted in the East Wind Inn’s three-line ad, “Country of the Pointed Firs.” Worth a try, I thought, and wrote to Innkeeper Tim asking for the particulars, e.g. walking surfaces and distances to water, rocks, boats, general store, post office, library, restaurant, public landing, trails, etc. Thanks to his detailed, precise, sometimes terse response, Charlie and I came that August, settled into the EWI for two weeks and fell in love with Tenants Harbor. We came back each summer.
Who can look at the East Wind Inn and not see Tim on the steps? Not I.
Then, April of ‘82, after surgery at Mayo to stop the crippling, I called Tim and said, “Guess what? I have a new nine-month job.” (Pause) “What is the question?” he asked. “Can I come and volunteer mornings at the East Wind for room and board?” “Sure,” he said, (or “Shoo-ah” to my Midwestern ears.) So thanks to Tim, I began my treasured summers in Maine, and, because I was there, knew to bid on long unoccupied, but ever-tended Roseledge, which would be available once they found Bess McClusky’s heirs. (That’s another story.) I bid and won that lottery in summer ‘83. Tim surprised me with electricity in the cottage for which I berated him, as it just made fall’s leave-taking harder. He just harrumphed.
The earlier Gledhill, unlovely then, perfect for the summer staff.
June of ’84, I arrived ready to move into Roseledge, but before that happened, local son Tim took me to the doors of my neighbors to introduce me. First I met Harry who said, “You’re in my lady’s house” (another story) and I said, “I know and I will do my best to take care of it.” Harry harrumphed with a half smile and turned away. Tim and I went to meet the Andersons up the hill who said “I’m Bill” and “I’m Mrs. Anderson” and I responded with my name and plans to live next to them in the summer. They nodded and that was that. Some time later that day, Harry and Bill, both deaf as posts, met on the road in front of Roseledge and began shouting, “And then she said to me…” “And then she said…,” and each one repeated exactly what I had said, so I figured that was fine. The Andersons sold their house a couple of years later, but Harry was my good neighbor for nearly twenty years, and I miss him still. Introductions matter. Thank you, Tim.
Roseledge and neighbors, with rocks at low tide, in front of the East Wind Inn
I will miss Tim. He was the crabbiest person I know (“Then you get to be the nice one,” he would say.), but he was always there with a just-right solution to whatever needed doing. He is my definition of a Mainer and, though I know he will haunt the harbor forever, I will miss his presence. Tenants Harbor just changed indelibly. Real estate shifts don’t bother me; I figure that’s a generational thing. But Tim’s going? Well, maybe that’s a generational thing, too, but he died way too young and deserved his dotage as a generous crabby person turned generous curmudgeon.
Colleen
Oh Colleen, this is a beautiful profile of Tim. I don’t know why exactly, but this poem by John Haines seems right at this time of mourning our friend.
If the Owl Calls Again
at dusk
from the island in the river,
and it’s not too cold,
I’ll wait for the moon
to rise,
then take wing and glide
to meet him.
We will not speak,
but hooded against the frost
soar above
the alder flats, searching
with tawny eyes.
And then we’ll sit
in the shadowy spruce
and pick the bones
of careless mice,
while the long moon drifts
toward Asia
and the river mutters
in its icy bed.
And when the morning climbs
the limbs
we’ll part without a sound,
fulfilled, floating
homeward as
the cold world awakens.
Hi Colleen,
I’m one of Tim’s nieces that live in the area. I was looking for an article of the history of the Inn which I found a few years back with old pictures of Tim and my great grandfather. However, I came across your blog and am very thankful to hear your words. As you said, he sure was one of the crabbiest people. But that’s one of the reasons we loved him so much- his brutal honesty and opinionated advice. There aren’t many like him. My father, Todd Watts, told me that he also did a lot for the community, although he never liked to be recognized for it. Although he is no longer there, and the Inn is no longer his, I have no doubt that all who enter will be graced with his presence. Thank you for writing this, it made me smile to hear your stories.
Best wishes,
Taylor Watts