Chewonki Book Reading

November, 2000

 Twenty years ago my friend Mark, the same person that now trims my draft horses’ feet every four months, was farm manager at Chewonki, a wonderful school on the coast of Maine. There he was working with high school juniors from private and public schools across the country, offering them the opportunity to “hone their critical thinking through the immersive scientific study of coastal ecology, place-based humanities, and liberal arts.”  One class he taught was Low Impact Forestry, working with draft horses in the school’s woodlot, cutting and splitting firewood which would warm classrooms and dorms during the coming winter and spring.  He asked me if I and my horses might help teach the class.

I was very excited with the prospect of meeting and working with these kids, some of them who came from the Boston area and perhaps might be attending my boarding school, Milton Academy. At the time I was sporting a very unattractive beard and a cap on one of my front teeth had fallen off.  My general appearance was key to ‘hiding out’ from my class background. My thirty year old box truck which held the horses only added to my cover.

Day One was pretty basic, brushing the horses, doing a little driving, students watching me hook up to the logs and pull them out. All six of my students seemed a bit reluctant to take the reins but by dark, everyone had a go at it with no broken bones and the teacher/student dynamic had become a bit more relaxed.

Day Two dawned cloudy and cold with snow in the forecast, your classic Maine fall day. There was a lot of wood on the ground and Mark was eager to get it out before it snowed. But rather than push us, he kept a good supply of hot tea and cookies coming all morning. But when a break was called at 10:30, all of us slumped down on a few logs for a welcome rest.

As I sat there sipping my tea, I realized I had developed an affection and admiration for this group of students, in spite of the fact that I had no idea of what their lives were like back home.

“So where are you all from,” I began. Two went to public schools, one in New York and another in California and four to private schools in the Boston area. Two of these were in their junior at Milton.

After each described their background, both educational and social, there was a moment of silence. I watched the steam rise from my recently filled tea cup.

“So can you tell us a little about yourself,” one asked me. I felt my stomach tighten. “Boy,” I thought, “will this ever get easier? You knew this was coming. What’s the deal, Pete?”

“Is Dave Wicks still the headmaster at Milton?” I asked one of the Milton girls named Sally.

“As a matter of fact he is,” she replied. There was a mix of surprise, confusion and disappointment on her face, like why was Pete’s story only coming out as a last resort late. But after a few seconds, she was empowered to go on.

“So if I can assume that you are a Milton grad, did you go to college or go straight to logging.”

“No, I went to Harvard first.”

Mark then arrived, saying it was time to get back to work, the logging would end at noon, horses would be unharnessed and fed and a good by lunch would be at one.  

So twenty years later I am invited back to read from my book “Out Watering Horses”. Now there are forty one students gathered on a Friday night to hear my story. And it begins like this.  

November, 2020

“Good evening, thank you for inviting me to read from my book. I am here because twenty years ago a woman from Milton Academy named Sally asked me to explain myself and my answer fell short. Tonight I want to finish that conversation. I am going to do that by reading from my book. And as I do, tears will fall from my eyes and my voice will crack.

“Through my writing I can revisit things I wish I had not done and, in a sentence or two, forgive myself and move on.

“The issues Sally wanted me to address touched big time on class background, wealth and privilege. Twenty years ago I could not talk about this stuff. I was too busy hiding out, obsessed with my cover.

“I know there are four women in the audience tonight who are presently attending Milton Academy, my boarding school. I am also aware that the public school students whose parents can afford this Chewonki program may also be able to relate to trauma that class and privilege can fester.

‘My reading tonight will be a success for me if my tears can in some small way help you to appreciate any and all gifts you may have received that others have not and when appropriate, share with others the strength that comes from that acceptance.

‘My book describes a lifetime journey to accept who I am and from whence I come. I now have the cap back on my tooth, shave regularly and minimize my judgements of others.  I look forward to your thoughts when my last sentence is done. Thanks you again for inviting me.