Bill was unusually gendered, and as a child and young adult on the island he struggled with the predictable torment—predictable at the time, but now, thankfully, fading.
While his was a very difficult identity for us to quantify or for him to acknowledge and deal with when he was an adolescent, he settled into who he really was, became less hesitant expressing himself, and eventually assumed a comfortable and wonderful flamboyance, sufficient to overcome his detractors and endear him to us all.
Some of us, the elderly, the infirm and bedridden, the lonely, dogs and cars in need of love and attention, anyone or any creature, really, who needed anything it was in his power to give, quickly discovered the true generosity of who he was.
For years, Bill worked off and on at the Tidewater Motel as a cleaner. That seems an unlikely occupation for a middle-aged man, but in fact he cleaned elsewhere as well, and continually—cleaned houses, cleaned others, and cleaned up after others all over and throughout the village.
Over the years, he became very attached to me, an affection that might have been awkward had we both not acknowledged the realities of mutual affection for what they were.
“I’m looking for a man,” I responded thoughtlessly, whereupon Bill, way ahead of me and thinking in the extreme, leapt in my direction.
When he wasn’t working, he often visited, with me or with another cleaner with whom he was close. On one such occasion, I happened to walk by on my way to the town parking lot to see if I could find someone to help me move a heavy oil tank. As I passed, Bill asked coyly, “Phil, what are you doing?”
“I’m looking for a man,” I responded thoughtlessly, whereupon Bill, way ahead of me and thinking in the extreme, leapt in my direction. Had I not stretched my arms out accommodatingly, he’d have fallen to the floor.
Bill died suddenly and unexpectedly. He was only 54. For the 30 or so years preceding his death, he had lovingly touched the lives of everyone with whom he had even the briefest contact.
Vinalhaven’s elderly population, particularly (but not only) the ladies, were very well looked after. He lived several miles out of town but responded immediately and without exception to calls for assistance day and night. A desperate plea for simple companionship would find him at the side of the lonely or the bereaved within minutes and then settled in for as long and as often as it took to provide the comfort needed.
He might be called upon for help cleaning up after the kind of embarrassing accident that sometime attends aging, testimony to the intimate nature of Bill’s unabashed compassion and to the trust and regard those folks had for his nonjudgmental care.
Often, he’d be called upon to help someone simply getting dressed—and not to only help with the mechanics but to select apparel that presented the wearer in the best possible light.
The gratitude of many of the recipients of Bill’s loving attention was manifest in their largesse when, now and then, one or another of them passed on. Bill was left personal items, property, homes, and money, and these might have been seen as a calculated reward for his efforts had he not exhibited the same largesse in giving it all away as fast as he acquired it.
Bill loved a party, and whatever the occasion, he was always on hand—before, to decorate, arrange flowers and furnishings; during, to tend bar or serve; and after, to clean up.
A harborside service was planned. It was drizzly day on the wharf. The family had erected one tent, figuring to keep 30 or so dry, but over a hundred showed up.
Because of the weather and limited shelter, we had to cuddle up. Bill would have approved.
Phil Crossman owns the Tidewater Motel on Vinalhaven. He may be contacted at philcrossman.vh@gmail.com.
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