It’s only July, but it looks like it could be a crowded field in November with several potential candidates jousting for the mayor’s seat in Biddeford.

Mayor Alan Casavant announced in April that he would seek a third two-year term.

A few weeks before Casavant’s announcement, Perry Aberele made a statement to a Boston Globe reporter that he would be seeking the seat; and today Dr. Daniel Parenteau, PhD., announced that he will also seek to oust Casavant in November.

Parenteau told the Portland Press Herald he is running because of his concerns about the “trajectory of the city,” saying city hall politics have been stalled by sexual abuse allegations and unsettled contracts with union employees.

This is not Parenteau’s first bid for public office.

Two years ago, Parenteau was one of six candidates for the city’s two at-large city council seats. He finished in last place with 805 votes, despite support he received from Casavant.

Only a few weeks after losing his bid, Parenteau was appointed by Casavant to chair a newly-formed Efficiency Committee. (Disclosure: I was also appointed to that committee.)

The “Efficiency” Committee met only three times and never forwarded any recommendations to the city council.

Parenteau is a life-long resident of Biddeford and regularly posts on his blog: Letters to Myself.

As for Aberle, this is not the first time he has considered running for mayor. Aberle finished third in a three-way race for the seat in 2013 with 720 votes, compared to Casavant’s commanding lead of 2,377 votes and 1,043 votes for Joanne Twomey.

(According to the Biddeford City Clerk’s Office, write-in candidate Karl Reed, Jr., received four votes)

Twomey, who served two terms as the city’s mayor before being ousted by Casavant in 2011, has reportedly told her supporters that she will not seek the seat this year.

Another potential candidate is former City Councilor Roch Angers, who organized a citizens meeting earlier this month to hear concerns about sexual abuse allegations that have been leveled against two former police officers.

During a telephone conversation a few weeks ago, Angers skillfully dodged my question regarding rumors that he might be seeking a seat.

Although Angers, who lost his own bid for an at-large council seat in 2013, was direct in telling me that he is still upset with Casavant for supporting Parenteau in that race, he declined to say whether he would consider another bid for office. “It’s not something I want to talk about at this time,” he said.

George “Pete” Lamontagne, another former city councilor, quelled rumors that he might seek the seat, responding to friends and supporters on Facebook that he is happily retired after many years of faithful public service.

Casavant has won his past two elections with strong numbers, but he will be challenged in this cycle by several factors, including the recent budget, stalled labor contracts and the allegations of sexual abuse.

Although the mayor has no vote on the budget or the contract negotiations, voters will likely hold him responsible either way.

Regarding the sexual abuse allegations, Casavant has said the city is cooperating and complying with the Maine Attorney General’s Office as that agency continues to conduct its investigation of the allegations.

Nomination papers for mayor, city council and school committee will be available from the City Clerk’s office on August 3.

That fire, like so many other fires, started as an accident.

Sitting here now, only a few feet from the southwest shore of Rangeley Lake, it seems strange that I would be thinking about something that happened more than 30 years ago.

The sun has barely risen, and it cuts across the lake like a sheet of diamonds. But my thoughts remain with that cold November night and the fire that would become a defining moment of my rather unremarkable life.

Laura and the kids are still asleep, oblivious to the gentle sounds of the frantic chipmunks, some lovesick chickadees and the distant hum of an old two-stroke outboard somewhere across the lake. It is so tranquil, and now the cry of an early morning loon is all that separates me from my persistent thoughts about the fire.

The sun is now beginning to creep through the boughs of the white pines, birches and poplar trees that surround me, shield me from the reality of my normal life…the day-to-day of the real world.

Day One of our vacation and I am already anxious about returning to the rattle and hum of the mundane.

So I choose to think about the fire, especially since we are at Rangeley Lake, only a few miles north of where my uncle lived.

That fire should have changed my life, but it seems like I can never hold onto the lessons it taught me.

Burnin’ down the house

A few years ago, our family started taking a new route for our annual trek to Rangeley. That new route goes right past the house that my uncle Leonard once owned.

My uncle had already raised three boys and a daughter of his own. My older cousins were heroes to me when I was a young boy. They were hippies, rebels and the funniest people I ever met. They knew everything about small engines, Jimi Hendrix, guns and dope.

My uncle took me in after my parents’ divorce, sparing me from the chaos of that situation.

Leonard Brooks was incredibly intelligent and self-reliant. He towered over most people and had broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes and a disposition that encapsulates everything you can imagine about a grumpy, old guy.

He was a champion of common sense. He suffered fools lightly and had little use for flatlanders, rock n’ roll and anything south of Lewiston.

Unlike my father, Leonard rarely, if ever, raised his voice. He conveyed his displeasure with a silence that was pure torture. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, you listened.

So it was, during my second year of living with Leonard, that the fire happened.

It was a chilly Friday night in mid November. My uncle left with a few friends for a weekend hunting trip. I was not allowed to join because of my lackluster chemistry grades and a backlog of homework.

So, there I was: stuck with my aunt and my youngest cousin, Cathy, who still lived at home and was five years older than me. The weekend certainly looked bleak, and there was a cord of firewood that needed to be stacked in the basement before my uncle’s return home on Sunday.

Cathy, however, made plans to have a much better night. With a baggie of homegrown weed and a six-pack of Budweiser, she invited one of her girlfriends over for a back yard campfire. My aunt was oblivious and already in bed.

Maybe it was because they were completely baked, or maybe it was because the wood was too green for burning. It didn’t matter, their fire was not much more than a spark and a cloud of smoke, But I wanted to impress the girl, so out I came with a one-gallon can of what I thought was kerosene.

It was not kerosene. It was gasoline. If you do not understand the significance of that distinction, there’s no point in my trying to explain it.

Sure, I stood back a few feet, but that was the only smart thing I did that night.

It was like an explosion, and I panicked. The flame traveled right up to the can of gasoline in my trembling hands. I did the only thing I could at that moment. I threw the can away from me, across the backyard and, in retrospect, far too close to the snowmobile and picnic table that were parked nearby.

Cathy was stoned beyond recognition and could not stop giggling. “Fire, fire, fire,” she chanted, before darting into the house for a glass of water.

Pouring water on a gasoline fire? Not too smart.

The damage looked much worse in the morning. The bulk of the backyard was scorched and reeked of gasoline. The picnic table was destroyed, and the snowmobile cover had melted and was now bonded to the charred remains of my uncle’s beloved Polaris sled.

Dead man walking

My uncle was going to kill me.  I would never graduate high school. I would never get laid. There was nothing more to my future than the 36 hours until my uncle would release me from the mortal coil.

I don’t remember much about that weekend other than the extreme sense of dread that draped over me like a heavy blanket on a hot July afternoon.

My oldest cousin, Steve, stopped by the house to pick something up. He made no effort to hide his amusement about the damage, but he offered some sage advice:

“The only shot you have at survival is to just man up and own it without excuse,” he said before adding the most important part. “You should also wait until he has had a chance to settle down and have a couple of shots before you tell him.”

With that, Steve was gone, taking cover from the impending storm.

Finally, it was Sunday evening. I shook hands with the grim reaper as I watched my uncle’s Dodge pickup ramble up the gravel driveway in front of the house.

I followed Steve’s advice, waiting until Leonard had settled in and able to enjoy a a shot of his preferred Scotch.

I was shaking when I approached the kitchen table. Cathy hid upstairs in her bedroom, quiet as a church mouse.

He peered at me over the rim of his bifocals. “Yes, young fella?” He seemed to sense my dread and probably noted my ashen complexion and trembling limbs.

“I had an accident while you were gone, “ I said with as much courage as I could muster, my voice cracking.

He stiffened in his seat. “An accident?”

“Yeah, in the backyard,” I stammered, wondering how I was keeping my eyes open. “It was a fire.”

“Well, let’s go take a look,” he said evenly, without trace of any emotion whatsoever.

Together we stepped off the back porch, and he surveyed the damage quickly.

“Let’s go back inside,” he said softly.

I followed him back to the kitchen table, ready to vomit at any given moment. He grabbed a pen and the back of a discarded envelope, drawing a rather primitive diagram with a circle and an arrow.

I sat down and he explained the diagram. “When you build a fire, you always, always know which way the wind is blowing,” he explained. “Always keep your back to the wind. If you are going to use an accelerent, do so before you spark anything,” he emphasized. “Do you understand?”

I could only nod in the affirmative.

“Alrighty then, “ he said as stood up and headed to his favorite recliner in the living room.

I was in shock. “What is my punishment,” I  inquired.

“Punishment?” he chuckled with his blue eyes sparkling. “What possible punishment could I give you that would be worse than what you have put yourself through over the past two days? Just don’t forget the lesson.”

And that was that. He never talked about the incident again.

A lesson learned?

My uncle died in 1997, four years before I met Laura, Tim and Matt.

I wrote his eulogy.

The world shrank, and my 50-year-old Starcraft boat looks exactly like the boat he owned.

I know exactly what he would say to me today. “The only thing you need is common sense,” he would say. And with that, he would sprinkle some salt in a mug of Budweiser and put his feet up on a tattered ottoman, content that all was well with the world.

And that lesson is priceless, the one I cannot seem to convey to my sons.

Leonard would have loved my boys. He would most certainly approve of Laura, her carefree spirit and her lack of airs.

He would shake his head in dismay if he found out that I cannot back a boat down a ramp or build a bookshelf.

But none of that would really matter to him because he knew, and still knows, that I know how to build a fire.

And if you can build a fire, everything else is going to be okay.

Note: this is a condensed version of a post I published in July 2013. To see the longer version go here.

Congratulations to my youngest son who is turning 18.

I think Alice Cooper sums it up best, so enjoy the video and see this boy grow into a man.

Happy birthday, Matthew!

 

Regular readers of this blog know that I believe strongly in the power of social media.

Social media has been used to topple governments, connect people globally around a common cause and to highlight awareness of issues that may otherwise go unnoticed.

You can also use the awesome power of social media to put pressure on companies or businesses that fail to deliver on their promises.

But today, I want to highlight a company that responded to the pressure of social media in a productive and meaningful way.

Some of you may recall that I was fairly harsh with American Airlines regarding the treatment I received on a March 21 flight from West Palm Beach to Portland, Maine. You can read all the gory details here: Automatic For The People.

I used Facebook and Twitter to express my dissatisfaction with the airline. I waged a relentless battle while the airline repeatedly asked for my patience. It took nearly two months to get a response.

That said, the response I received was meaningful and sincere. The airline explained why the situation happened, detailed the corrective steps that they were taking and agreed with me that they had short-changed me on my compensation for an over-booked flight. It was a lengthy and detailed response. It showed empathy and reinforced the airline’s commitment to customer service.

Since I was particularly tough on the airline, I thought I should share their response publicly. The text of their e-mail is posted below: (Personal information has been redacted)

***************

May 14, 2015

Dear Mr. Seaver:

I’m sorry you weren’t able to board your scheduled flight to Portland and I understand your frustration. You have every right to expect to be boarded on the flights you have reserved. As you may know, airlines overbook to help plan for customers who are re-booked at the last minute or do not show up for their flights. An empty seat on a flight means a loss of revenue, which in turn means higher ticket prices. I realize this explanation doesn’t change what happened, but I wanted to let you know some of the reasoning behind this process.

At American Airlines we are committed to providing a truly enjoyable travel experience, and a warm, courteous attitude on the part of our employees is the key. That is why your email is so disheartening. We did not afford you with friendly customer service at the gate and the Passenger Assistance Counter, and we apologize. Your comments are important and serve as a significant tool in helping to maintain our standards of excellence. I have shared your feedback with the Philadelphia Station Manager to be addressed directly with the personnel on duty at these positions.

Per our Customer Service Plan and in accordance with the regulations of the US Department of Transportation, when a passenger has been subjected to involuntary denied boarding on a domestic flight, the passenger is entitled to one of the following forms of compensation:

* If the passenger’s arrival at his or her final destination is greater than one hour but less than two hours past their original scheduled arrival, involuntary compensation is 200 percent of the sum of the values of the remaining flight coupons of the ticket to the next stopover, but not to exceed $650.

* If the passenger’s arrival at their final destination is two hours or more past their original scheduled arrival, involuntary compensation is 400 percent of the sum of the values of the remaining flight coupons of the ticket to the next stopover, but not to exceed $1300.

Based on the circumstances surrounding your flight, you should have received a check for $[redacted], and we apologize that the check you were given did not meet this amount. I have issued an additional check for $[redacted], the difference between the correct value and what you received at the airport.

Mr. Seaver, I truly appreciate the time you took to share your experience with us. It is always our pleasure to have an opportunity to serve you and hope you will look to the new American Airlines for your future travel needs.

Sincerely,

[Redacted]

******************

We all screw up sometimes, but it is heartening to know that simply acknowledging your mistakes and taking corrective actions can restore faith and trust in your relationships, whether they are personal or professional.

Kudos to American Airlines for stepping up to do the right thing.