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CounterPunch
September
25, 2002
Riding to Maine
by JAMES T. PHILIPS
I left Kempton early in the morning without saying
goodbye to anyone. I wanted to get on my horse and ride. I'd
stayed a week in the small eastern Pennsylvania town, made a
few dollars working in the kitchen of the Kempton Hotel, and
was anxious to get back in the saddle. I rode northeast through
rolling hills and, after riding about fifteen miles, turned Horse
into the woods and found a secluded spot near a dribbling little
creek where I set up camp. I watered Horse, fed him some oats,
pitched my tent, built a fire, made coffee and lit a joint. I
was in the woods with my horse. I was a free man.
I sat by the campfire thinking about
the years that I had spent traveling around America. I thought
about the life I was living on horseback. For the next few days
I puttered around my camp in the woods. I repaired some holes
in my jeans, brushed the dirt out of Horse's hide, cleaned all
of my equipment and washed all of my clothes. I read a little,
but mostly I let my mind wander through the years of living on
the road.
It was early springtime and the earth
was sprouting new life. So was I. Riding horseback across America
was something that I loved. I awoke every day a happy man. I
did have a few tough nights, but all of the days were wonderful.
I could ride from dawn to dusk, then disappear into the woods
with my horse, pitch camp and call it my home.
In early July, my life riding horses
and living free would come to a dramatic conclusion when I crossed
the Piscataqua River Bridge separating New Hampshire and Maine
and rode north. During the summer of 1979, my days and nights
would be filled with cops and robbers, good guys and bad guys,
and one old lady who lived in a zoo. But, before I arrived at
my destination in the coastal village of Cape Neddick, I had
to deal with the police in two different small cities in the
state of New York. In one city a cop arrested my horse; in the
other, two cops busted me.
* *
*
When Horse and I rode into New Paltz,
I didn't know it was a college town; by the time I reached the
center of the city, I knew it was a party town.
The sight of a man on horseback was something
many of the students had never seen in their young lives. I caused
a rush of excitement when I stopped and dismounted. More than
one young person carefully approached Horse and patted her on
the neck; a few brave kids actually touched her hindquarters.
I tied Horse to a fence in a small grassy area. I wanted to get
a cup of coffee and a newspaper. The young people slowly walked
away, except for one young man.
"Hey, dude, want to get high?"
Except for the 'dude' part, I had been asked that question many
times. I usually answered yes.
"Yes," I said. The young man
smiled.
He had long brown hair tied in a ponytail
and wore a plaid shirt and blue jeans. He was a college student.
David lived in a small apartment around the corner from where
I had just tied Horse. David assured me that my horse would be
okay while we went to his place to smoke some pot. I checked
the rope that tied Horse to the fence, then walked away with
David. We sat on his porch smoking and talking. I learned that
'dude' meant 'man'. I thought, far out, I'm getting old. A few
of his friends joined us, then a few more. It was turning into
a party; it was time for me to go. I stood up, thanked David
for getting me high and left the porch. I walked back to where
I had tied Horse.
Horse was gone. My thousand pound animal
was missing, and everything I owned was tied to her back. "What
the (expletive deleted)," I yelled aloud.
I looked around. There was nobody nearby.
I ran to a parking area and asked a group of students if they
had seen a horse. No, they said, looking at me as if I was crazy.
I noticed a man about my age open the door of his van. I ran
up to him and explained that someone had just stolen my horse.
I asked him if he would drive me around in a search for my horse.
I was so upset and angry, the man probably thought I was ordering
him to help me. He told me to get in and we began to look for
Horse, driving through the busy streets of New Paltz, New York.
I saw Pintos and Mustangs, but no Horse. The man had been driving
me through New Paltz for a half-hour when he suggested that I
contact the police. I could think of a few reasons to avoid the
cops, but reluctantly agreed. He turned his van around and drove
to the police station.
Horse was tied up in front of the station,
calmly nibbling on the grass. I thanked the driver and got out
of his van. He wasted no time in getting away from the crazed
hippie. I walked over to Horse and said hello.
"Hi," said a middle-aged man
dressed in a blue uniform. "I'm Officer Turner. Is that
your horse?"
Officer Turner was a cop and had just
walked outside the police station. He was pointing at Horse.
"Who the (expletive deleted) stole
my horse? I yelled. I was angry.
"Nobody took your horse, mister."
replied Officer Turner in a patient voice. "We thought he
had broken free."
"Bullshit," I said. I kept
mouthing off to the cop as he turned and walked back inside the
police station. I followed him into the lobby and continued on
with my tirade. I accused Officer Turner and the rest of the
New Paltz cops of horse theft.
"They hang horse thieves,"
I taunted.
Officer Turner never raised his voice,
and nothing I said seemed to bother him. When I was really going
good, he opened a door to another room and walked out of the
lobby. He closed the door. I was ranting to an empty room. I
stopped yelling and stood still for a moment. I then walked outside
and sat down on the steps.
"Feel better now," asked Officer
Turner.
He had waited a few minutes for me to
exhaust myself, then came outside and sat down next to me. He
explained that someone had called the police and reported a lost
horse. The cops were just doing their job. He was correct, and
I felt lousy for acting like a jerk. I apologized to Officer
Turner, stood up and walked over to Horse. I tightened her cinch,
stepped into the saddle and rode away.
* *
*
"Bend over."
I was standing in front of three hefty
Hudson cops, looking at the bars of the cell I would soon be
occupying. The cops were looking at my butt. My jeans were down
around my ankles.
"Bend over," said one of the
cops in a louder voice. He sounded winded, out of breath. "We
have to search you for contraband."
Hudson, New York is a large city situated
on hill high above the Hudson River. After crossing the long
bridge that spans the Hudson, Horse and I rode up the road and
entered a poor black neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.
The children scattered, then turned around with shy smiles and
waved hello. I waved back. The adults hanging out on the street
just stared.
I weaved my way through the narrow streets
and alleys of west Hudson and wound up in a downtown area where
a small park dominates the cityscape. The park was filled with
people lounging on benches and walking up and down pathways.
I met Thomas in the park. He was sitting
with some friends when I rode by. Thomas said hello and invited
me to join them. They were drinking beer and smoking pot. I tied
Horse to a tree, and sat down next to Thomas. He handed me a
can of beer.
"No, thanks," I said. "I
don't drink anymore."
I handed him my marijuana pipe. It was
filled with pot. For the next few hours, Thomas and his friends
entertained me with stories. They lived lives that consisted
of dull, low-paying work, cheap beer and weekends spent partying
with friends in the park. It was Friday night, and we were in
the park.
"Where are you staying tonight,"
asked Thomas.
"Don't know," I said. "I'll
find a place."
"You can camp in my backyard,"
said Thomas. "It's small, but there should be room for you
and your horse."
Thomas walked me to his house. It was
in the city and the backyard was really small. But, it was late
and I wanted to go to sleep. I was tired and stoned. With Thomas'
help, I managed to get my tent set up in an area where Horse
wouldn't be able to kick it down. I got water for Horse from
the coiled garden hose. Thomas said goodnight and left the backyard.
I thought he was going into his house. Instead, as I would learn
later, he returned to the park and spent the rest of the night
partying with his friends. Thomas wasn't home early the next
morning when I was awakened by a male voice trying to sound tough.
"Come out of that tent right now,"
the voice commanded.
Two cops were standing on the other side
of the backyard fence. Neither one of them wanted anything to
do with Horse. This was going to be a long-distance arrest.
"Do you have any weapons?"
asked one of the cops.
"Just my knife," I said. I
was standing next to Horse.
My arrest was negotiated. I tried to
explain that I had permission to be in the yard, but the cops
said that the woman inside the house had called them. Horse and
I were trespassing. Thomas didn't tell his wife I was staying
in the backyard. There was no beating me to the ground, no handcuffs
tightened around my wrists, no threats or intimidation. My arrest
in Hudson was abnormal. The cops allowed me break camp and saddle
Horse; and, they waited until a representative of the local Animal
Society arrived to take Horse to a shelter. When I knew that
my horse was okay, I submitted to the arrest and was taken to
the police station.
"Bend over," said the cop.
The Hudson cops didn't find any contraband,
and I was placed in a cell. The Hudson cops also didn't find
any contraband in the saddlebags they allowed me to take into
the cell; I found it. I had a small stash of pot and a marijuana
pipe hidden in the bags. The cops were apparently more interested
in my saddle-sore butt than my saddlebags. So, while the cops
were out looking for Thomas, I was getting high in the Hudson
jail.
The cops eventually located Thomas and
he came immediately to the jail and bailed me out. To save face,
the cops wouldn't drop the charges. They made me stay near Hudson
until I could see a judge on Monday morning. I had to wait two
days before the matter could be settled. I did a repeat performance
in the Hudson court of the one I did in the New Paltz police
station, except in Hudson I was right. The judge let me rant
and rave, and then he apologized for the actions of the cops.
I thanked the judge and left the courtroom.
I walked outside to where I had tied
Horse. I tightened her cinch, stepped into the saddle and rode
away.
* *
*
I was still more than two hundred miles
from Cape Neddick, Maine when I left Hudson, New York. I tried
to stay away from cities and large towns; I was tired of dealing
with cops. Horse and I rode hard for the next week, night and
day. I wanted to get to Maine. Except for the mountains in western
Massachusetts, it was an easy ride. I stopped for an afternoon
and evening in Lunenburg to give horse rides to children at a
birthday party. Horse threw a shoe in southern New Hampshire
and, at the entrance to the Piscataqua River Bridge in Portsmouth,
New Hampshire, Horse balked and didn't want to cross over into
the State of Maine.
I got out of the saddle and walked my
horse across the bridge.
"Well, you look lean and mean,"
said Gebhardt as I rode up to his front door. Gebhardt's trailer
home was located on the west bank of the Cape Neddick River.
We had been friends for a long time.
I was lean; the mean came from being
in good shape. Hanging on to a large horse all day long made
me strong. I was tanned from being outdoors every day. I rarely
wore more than a pair of old jeans: no shirt, no shoes. My hair
was long and I wore a headband to keep it out of my face.
I was fit and I was in Maine. My horse
was healthy. Life was good.
* *
*
"You can camp at my place,"
said the chubby young man as he sat inside Gebhardt's trailer.
"You can give horse rides there, no problem."
I looked over at Steve. I wasn't interested
in hanging out with him. He gave me the creeps. But the idea
of earning a few dollars always made me pay attention. I had
been at Gebhardt's for about a week when Steve made his offer.
He was visiting Gebhardt with a friend named Jim. Jim was a big
fellow in his mid-thirties with a craggy face, a Jack Palance
mug chiseled out of granite. When Jim talked, his voice always
sounded like he was snarling. I liked Jim.
A few people who knew Steve tried to
dissuade me from going to where he lived. It was a large piece
of property across the Cape Neddick River, about a mile from
Gebhardt's trailer. They told me that there was always trouble
at the 'Park'. It was a dangerous place, with lots of arguments
and fights. But when I heard the word Park, I could only imagine
nice folks with children willing to pay for horse rides. I ignored
the negative comments. On 6 July 1979, I rode the short distance
from Gebhardt's trailer to Steve's place. It was then known to
the local community as Kuhn Park.
Kuhn Park was infamous, and hidden from
view.
River Road winds along the north bank
of the Cape Neddick River. The meandering road is an architect's
dream. Old colonial homes, mansions, large Victorian houses,
small ranch-style homes and a few farmhouses are located along
the roadside. The road continues past the Cape Neddick Baptist
Church, then ends at the intersection with Route One, the old
King's Highway. The lawns are always well groomed, trees and
shrubs are pruned regularly and colorful flowers sprout everywhere.
The view down the river is postcard beautiful. River Road takes
a dogleg turn near the church, and next to the church was a dirt
road that led into the woods north of the river. The dirt lane
was the entrance to Kuhn Park.
In July of 1979, a horse rider could
find both God and Hell on River Road in Cape Neddick, Maine.
* *
*
"You must be Terry," said the
old woman.
"Yes, ma'am," I said. I was
thinking, who the heck is this?
The old woman smiled. She seemed to be
having trouble focusing in on me; one of her blues eyes wandered
around in its socket. She was sitting in the passenger seat of
a late-model sedan driven by a middle-aged woman. The car had
just exited from the dirt road next to the Baptist church, and
had stopped next to me as I rode Horse alongside River Road in
Cape Neddick.
It was in the middle of the summer and
it was hot, yet the old woman was wearing a bright red overcoat.
She wore a black felt hat; strands of her grey hair were dangling
from under its broad brim. She was a big woman; not fat, just
big. She looked to be somewhere in her seventies.
"I'm happy to meet you," she
said. "I'll talk to you later. Goodbye."
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
I had no clue about what the old lady
meant, but I always treated elderly folks with respect. It's
something that the children of a Tennessee-born father can certainly
understand.
I turned Horse to the right and rode
up the dirt road into the Park. I was riding into Hell. One hundred
feet up the road up the road on the right was a small clapboard
cottage painted shocking pink. The small house was run-down,
and trash was strewn all over its yard. Shards of broken beer
bottles were scattered everywhere. The road curved to the left
past the pink house. When I rounded the bend I saw a junkyard;
or, what looked to be a junkyard. In the middle of all the trash
and garbage, between two huge piles of burned-out vehicles, was
a large modern wood-shingled building.
I was looking at Kuhnhouse for the first
time. It wasn't the best of times for Kuhnhouse. A concrete ramp
led up to a small porch in the middle of the large building.
As I rode closer, I saw three young men sitting on the weed-infested
grass in front of the porch; they were drinking beer and smoking
cigarettes. One of them was Jim. A fourth man, Steve, walked
out the front door onto the porch of the building.
"Hello, Terry," he said. "Glad
you decided to come."
I dismounted and tied Horse to the wooden
rail fence that separated the building from the road. I nodded
hello to the three men sitting on the grass. I looked around
slowly at all of the accumulated junk, then looked at Steve.
"This place is a (expletive deleted)
mess," I said.
Everyone laughed, but I wasn't joking.
The place was a dump. Steve offered me a beer. I refused.
"I don't drink anymore," I
said.
"That's okay," said Steve.
" I'm getting some pot later on. I'll get you high."
I didn't mention my small marijuana stash.
Steve sat down with his friends and opened a beer. They started
asking me questions about riding, about my horse and about me.
My answers were offered in a friendly manner, but I was vague.
I listened to them talk among themselves; they had an inclination
to talk about cars, women, partying and fighting.
I had been warned.
The four young men were having a good
time laughing and carrying on and, of course, drinking beer.
They were all drunk.
"I met an old lady on the road,"
I said. "Who is she?"
I described the woman in the red coat.
"Oh, that's just Brenda," said
Steve. "Brenda Kuhn. She's my mother."
Three of the four young men laughed uproariously.
They were punching each other and wallowing around on the ground.
I noticed that Jim didn't join in the laughter. "Just Brenda"
was, apparently, quite a joke. I started asking questions, also
in a friendly way. I wanted to find out what I was getting myself
into by coming to Kuhn Park.
Brenda Kuhn really was Steve's 'mother'-
she had legally adopted him when he was a young man in his early
twenties. Steve's real mother lived across the river on Clark
Road. He had taken a job at the Park when he was a teenager,
and very quickly had taken over Brenda's life. Steve had been
living in the Kuhnhouse for more than four years.
I learned a lot that afternoon while
sitting with Steve and his friends; more than enough to realize
that Brenda Kuhn was being terribly used and abused. However,
I had no real understanding of the horrors that had been inflicted
on the old woman. In time, I would learn more than I wanted to
know.
"I'm going to set up my camp,"
I said.
The four men watched as I unhitched Horse
and walked her over to a wooded knoll that sat between Kuhnhouse
and the pink building. I re-tied Horse to a tree and began setting
up my tent. The four drunks lost interest in the hippie on a
horse. Unfortunately for them, especially for a short blubbery
young man named Steve, I had taken an interest in what they were
doing to the old woman. I took my time organizing a campsite;
I wanted to think. I crawled inside my tent and lay down on my
unrolled sleeping bag. I closed my eyes, but I didn't sleep.
No one bothered me. I had a quiet night on the knoll. I didn't
get high.
The next morning, I got up early and
started a fire. I was going to make some coffee, and was starting
to collect firewood when the front door of Kuhnhouse opened.
Brenda came out onto the porch. She adjusted her hat, then walked
down the ramp. She had a cane in her hand. I watched as she continued
walking down the dirt road in the direction of River Road.
"Good morning, Miss Kuhn,"
I said.
"Good morning, Terry," she
responded. "I'm so glad you are here."
I walked over to her. Brenda looked tired.
I spent a few minutes telling her about my life on horseback.
I then listened to her as she tried to explain away the mess
that surrounded us; she could only manage a few sentences before
she sighed and looked at Kuhnhouse.
"It was beautiful at one time, Terry,"
she said. Brenda turned around and started walking away. I asked
where she was going.
"To the store. Steve wants bacon
for breakfast."
I watched as Brenda walked out of the
Park and turned right on River Road. The store was about a quarter
of a mile down the road. I wanted to go into Kuhnhouse and drag
the fat jerk named Steve out of bed and kick his ass. But, I
waited. I knew I had to go about things slowly and carefully
if I was going to help Brenda without getting myself hurt too
badly. When Brenda returned from the store, I met her in the
middle of the dirt road. We were standing in front of Kuhnhouse.
"Miss Kuhn," I said. "Do
you want to see some changes around here?"
"Yes, Terry, I really would,"
she answered.
"Would you like me to help you?"
"Yes, please. I've been waiting
for such a long time."
* *
*
Brenda Kuhn was born in New York City
in 1911. She was the daughter of Vera and Walt Kuhn. Walt Kuhn
was one of America's premier artists, the man responsible for
the infamous Armory Show of 1913. Brenda grew up in New York,
but her family spent many vacations in Ogunquit, Maine, a small
fishing village and artists colony located a few miles north
of Cape Neddick.
Walt Kuhn died in 1949; his wife died
in 1961. Brenda's parents left her an Estate that was very valuable.
It included artworks by her father and property in Maine. Using
the income from the sale of Kuhn paintings, Brenda bought more
than one hundred acres of land located on River Road in Cape
Neddick. She wanted to create a memorial to her parents and,
in 1965 the Kuhnhouse was built and Cape Neddick Park was officially
opened. Brenda was in her mid-fifties. It was the first time
in her life that she was able to do something on her own without
the influence, good or bad, of her mother or father. Walt Kuhn
was a tough, domineering father and husband who controlled the
lives of "his girls"; and, after Kuhn's death in 1949,
Brenda would live in her mother's shadow until 1961.
The village of Cape Neddick was where
Brenda Kuhn decided to honor her parents by designing and creating
Cape Neddick Park. The Park was Brenda's gift to the community
and she worked hard to develop the project. Kuhnhouse was a large
structure designed for meetings, exhibitions, and recreational
activities. The grounds of the Park included picnic areas, hiking
trails and a hard-surfaced basketball court. The Park was utilized
and enjoyed by many community groups from York and the surrounding
area. For more than a decade Brenda was able to manage the operation,
in addition to providing the funding. However, in the early seventies,
health problems and poor art sales caused Brenda to agree to
the formation of a non-profit corporation that would manage the
affairs of Cape Neddick Park.
In 1975, the people in charge of the
Corporation hired a teenager to help do chores at the Park. His
name was Steve, and he lived across the river with his mother
on Clark Road. Cape Neddick Park would slowly evolve into the
horror show known as Kuhn Park.
* *
*
I traded Horse for a sawed-off shotgun.
Steve was a bully and he only picked
on the weak and helpless. I never really worried about Steve;
however, I was concerned about the various people and groups
using the Park as a place to hang out, a place to party, and
a place to raise Hell. When I arrived at the Park, I was unarmed.
During my second night at the Park I realized that I might need
a little extra protection. Jim helped me obtain the shotgun.
He had a friend who wanted a horse.
Jim was also the first person that I
talked with after having a lengthy, and eye-opening, conversation
with Brenda. Jim was living in a tent on Park property with his
young wife and newborn baby. He was in his mid-thirties, stood
over six feet tall and had only recently been released from the
Maine State Prison in Thomaston; Jim spent most of his adult
life in prison for assault and parole violations. He was a native
of York and still had family living in town. Steve had invited
Jim to stay at the Park. Jim was a drinker and almost uncontrollable
when he got drunk. He liked to drink and argue and fight.
Sober, Jim was a really nice fellow.
It was the sober Jim who Brenda appreciated.
"Jim," I said, "Brenda
wants me to run the Park."
"What about Steve?" he asked.
"Screw him," I said.
Brenda told me that Jim always treated
her with respect, even during the wildest parties. She didn't
feel threatened by Jim. Most of the other people scared her.
I told Jim that he and his family were the only people, other
than Steve, who could remain on the property. The party days
were over. There would be no more drinking and partying at the
Park.
"Jim, you have to make a choice."
I said. "Either support Steve, or me."
Jim was sober when we talked. I had no
time or interest in arguing with a drunk. He realized I was serious
and that I was the first person who had made any attempt to confront
Steve about his abuse of Brenda. I told him that he could move
his family from the tent into the pink house. Jim was not a stupid
man.
"You're the boss," said Jim.
The next day, Jim met with a friend and
negotiated the trade for the sawed-off shotgun. There was a long
list of other folks who needed to be educated about the changes
that were about to occur at the Park. Some wore dirty jeans;
others dressed in expensive suits.
Horse was history.
* *
*
I wasn't certain about why the people
in Brenda's life turned their backs on her for such a long time,
but Brenda's hospitality and generosity for more than ten years
were repaid with hostility and apathy. The well-known Maine characteristic
of minding one's own business, the live and let live attitude,
allowed Steve to perpetrate indignities on Brenda that were not
a secret in the community. People who knew what was happening
at the Park couldn't find the courage to challenge Steve as he
went about destroying Brenda Kuhn's dream. Luckily for Brenda,
I wasn't a native of Maine. I was from someplace south of the
Piscataqua River. I was 'from away'.
"Steve," I said. "It's
time for you to go."
Steve was sitting at a table in the room
I occupied in Kuhnhouse. I had been living there for one month.
The job of getting rid of the garbage that had accumulated at
the Park was almost finished. Earlier in the day Brenda asked
me to tell Steve that he had to leave the Park.
"Why, Terry?" It was more of
a whine than a question. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"I'm not going to argue," I
said. "Brenda wants you out of here. You have to leave."
The why was left unsaid. Steve knew why:
intimidation and verbal abuse, physical and sexual assaults and
destruction of Brenda's life and property. For being a bully
without balls, I thought.
Steve did not argue with me. He knew
that I would enforce Brenda's desire to see him leave the Park.
For more than a month, Steve watched as I confronted various
people and told them to go away, including a local biker gang
named, ironically, the Iron Horsemen. The bikers had used the
Park for parties and gatherings. The local young people who used
the Park for partying would, for a short time, continue to drive
up the dirt road looking for fun. All of them would be told to
leave; I would rarely have to say it twice. The criminal element,
the hangers-on and the local kids who used and abused the Park
were soon gone from Brenda's life. Six weeks after I rode into
the Park, Steve also went away. He never returned.
It was as simple as that.
I then fixed my sights on the people
wearing suits - Brenda's lawyer, banker and art dealer - who
not only ignored the abuse but also profited from it. They were
the real bad guys. I got angry with the people who abused Brenda
at her Park; I got ugly with the people who allowed it to happen.
(In 1980, the Walt Kuhn Gallery at Cape
Neddick Park opened in the Kuhnhouse, and was a respected art
and music facility until it closed in 1990. James T. Phillips
was the director of the Park. In 1991, the Kuhnhouse was sold
to Weiser Publications. Brenda Kuhn died in January of 1993 at
the age of 81.
James T. Phillips began a career as a reporter and photojournalist
in 1991. He has covered the wars in Iraq (1991-1992), Croatia
(1993-1995), Bosnia (1993), Kosovo (1998-2002) and Macedonia
(2001-2002). Riding to Maine is an excerpt from Phillips' book
manuscript entitled Remembering Maine.)
He can be reached at: jamestphillips@yahoo.com
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