At the age of 16 Burgess was left to tend the lighthouse while her father was away on the mainland procuring supplies. Books have been written honoring her heroism. There have been women keepers, too, most notably Abbie Burgess, who served on Matinicus and Whitehouse islands from 1867 to 1890. The ceremony is held amidst green grass, bleached headstones, with the colors red, white and blue providing a dazzling exclamation point amidst the solemnity of the day. During these ceremonies the keepers are recognized for the sacrifice they made to their own daily lives, their families and to the sailors plying the waters over which they kept watch.įamily members from near and far gather at these ceremonies where brief biographies are read, songs sung, prayers recited and bronze markers with American flags are placed upon gravesites. Over the years I have attended a number of memorial ceremonies at Down East cemeteries paying tribute and honoring lighthouse keepers. Ingalls’ service is well known within the circle of lighthouse historians, perhaps more so because of its tragic end. Within those documents are letters from Eugene Ingalls, who served a short time at West Quoddy Head Lighthouse in Lubec. All of them are unique and have a past with plenty of stories to tell. Many are situated on the mainland, some on distant islands, many miles from shore, exposed and vulnerable. This should not be, for they were the essential workers of their time.Īlong the coastline of Maine there are 65 lighthouses, 57 of which are active. Are these refracted memories held within a beam of light from a lighthouse? Perhaps.Ī recent discovery of documents from the lighthouse on Monhegan Island triggered thoughts about those “keepers of the light” whose past deeds and lives go unnoticed and over time - their time - will be all but forgotten. Light skips across the water’s surface, touches it and moves on. I am warm and snug in a house with many windows and can easily watch the sea amid these socially distanced times. Given our winter days of staying safe, I look to the ocean. There will always be light.Īn imagined moment of a lighthouse keeper as he wakes in damp cold and darkness, again and again, with one job on his mind - bringing comfort to others by providing light. I lift the glass, light the wick, mumble in my dreary sleep, “Let there be light,” and there is light. I look at my hands, wretched, blistered, black from soot and oozing oil. A circular motion begins at the bottom of the rusted metal stairs and then swirls up step by step whistling darkness. I awake with the wind echoing in my ears.
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