The Coffin Maker

I had heard stories that deep in the Maine woods, in a small and isolated cabin at the very end of a dirt road, there lived a coffin maker, a man who had fled civilization and modernization for a solitary life, an artist and woodworker who had tired of time clocks and fast food and small talk.

I came across him by accident, trailing after the dogs on an early autumn morning, through the woods and across the pasture, crossing the tiny brook where the deer often gathered, past the abandoned fence lines of Squirrel Point and finally into a small clearing. The cabin stood in the shadows of the trees, looking like a dusty old painting with the sun at its back and a carefully stacked woodpile by the door. A battered pick up truck was parked nearby, its bed covered with a tarp and its windows rolled down and behind it I could see what looked to be a well, roofed with old shingles, a wooden bucket hanging from a frayed rope in the center. The dogs, curious but strangely silent, approached the cabin door where a scarred and clearly ancient tiger cat slept on the window sill. It woke and looked at the them briefly, remarkably impassive and unconcerned, then yawned and buried its head in its paws. Just as remarkably, the dogs gave him no more than a passing glance. There was poetry and a strong feeling of peace in this place, and, I realized with a start, whistling in the air.

The front door of the cabin swung open with a creaking groan and a man appeared. He held a tin cup of coffee in one hand, a pair of worn safety glasses hung 'round his neck. He looked first at the dogs, approvingly, I thought, and then at me, a little less so. Taking a step onto the porch and paying no mind to the dogs, who immediately ran past him to inspect the interior of the cabin, he nodded in my direction. Mornin', he said evenly, Lost yer way, have you? He could have been twenty or forty, tall and thin with dark hair streaked with gray and tied back in a loose pony tail. He wore ragged jeans and a denim shirt streaked with what I thought at first might be blood but then realized was a combination of dirt, paint, varnish and sweat. He stepped aside - he was barefoot, I saw and unaccountably I was surprised - and held the tin cup toward me, Coffee?

The inside of the cabin was lit by lanterns and sunlight. It was spartan - a wood stove against the wall, a single cot, neatly made and covered with a quilt, a wooden table with two ladder backed chairs, a lone cabinet in a corner and a set of shelves mounted on the wall, holding a few plates, a few plastic glasses, a blue and white cup of silverware. A frying pan and a couple of dented pots were hung on nails by the stove and on the back of the single open closet door, a yellow slicker hung on a hook. Inside I could see a pair of muddy work boots beneath a wall of hooks and nails on which rested several flannel shirts, several pairs of blue jeans, a set of longjohns and a navy jacket. A well worn and small chest of drawers sat to the side and I suspected I was seeing the whole of his wardrobe. This was not a man who made concessions - a washstand stood next to the stove, on it a ceramic wash basin and within the basin, a matching but chipped pitcher with a delicately curved handle. I was struck by a memory of Nana's Nova Scotia house, where each bedroom featured just such a set of basin and pitcher although only for show. Mr. McCauley's washstand was obviously not just decoration - a lone and well used bar of a soap, a razor strap, and a folded, shabby handtowel lay neatly beside the basin.

He poured coffee into a mug, handed it to me, and gestured toward the table in the center of the room. Name's McCauley, he told me as he took a chair opposite me, And who are these fine boys? Both dogs had taken up positions at his side and as he scratched their ears, they contentedly laid their muzzles on his thigh, tails wagging
fiercely. Good dogs, Golden Retrievers, he told me across the table, Smart, brave, loyal as all get out. Almost as worthy as a cat. He laughed at this and glanced over his shoulder toward the window where the old tiger cat was now sitting and looking in through the glass with a somewhat bored expression.

Before we left, Mr. McCauley showed me the only other room of the cabin, a workshop that overlooked the woods and far mountains and smelled of wood and hard work, private and solitary work, done by commission only, I later learned. Each coffin was crafted, lined, hinged and polished, one meticulous step at a time - they shone in the morning light, each resting on a pair of sturdy sawhorses that stood a foot or so apart on the planked, unfinished wooden floor of the second room. There were five in all, four completed and one still in progress. They ranged from the simplest - clean lines, sharp corners and plain handles - to the most elaborate - smoothly curved edges with intricate carving and gleaming gold hardware. On the other side of the room, there were two work benches, a wooden stool, and shelf upon shelf of supplies, hammers and screwdrivers, box after box of wooden pegs in different sizes, cans of paint and varnish and lacquer, stacks of polishing cloths, cans of turpentine and an assortment or cleaning rags, sandpaper, paint brushes and hand saws. Everything was neatly arranged and easily accessible. Here Mr. McCauley spent his days, creating coffins against the backdrop of the Maine woods, with only nature and old tiger cat for company.

After a time, the dogs and I left, returning the way we had come in the late afternoon dusk. I spoke of the coffin maker to no one, keeping the visit private and never making the trip a second time. I wasn't entirely sure why, but I instinctively knew that Mr. McCauley would've preferred it. I was to see him again, though. On a frosty cold November morning in Kittery, I passed Pelkey's, the town's only funeral home, and noticed a familiar pick up truck with a tarp covered bed. Workers were sliding a padding covered coffin down a ramp under the watchful eyes of a tall, thin, long haired man in jeans and a navy jacket. As I drove slowly by, he glanced my way, nodded and raised a tin cup of coffee toward me. I smiled back.

Mr. McCauley's choice of coffin making and seclusion, his decision to live apart from the rest of us, remained his own. In some ways, privacy is a gift we can only give ourselves and should be honored, respected, and left alone.