One of the great things about our state is the sheer number of famous people who either spend summers here or at least pass through our neck of the woods en route to Bar Harbor or other more glamorous locales. I myself, have had a couple totally unsubstantiated and highly suspect brushes with potentially, possibly famous people — or normal everyday folks who my mind twisted into famous people. You be the judge.

The first and fuzziest memory was from my days at Coffin School. It was the ’70s and my music teacher was a wonderful woman named Melody. I mean, of course her name was Melody. Not only was 1970s Brunswick rife with hippies, bell bottoms and Volkswagen camper vans, everybody had some earthy-crunchy moniker like Melody.

Melody, like I said, was a wonderful woman and if I had a predilection to any kind of little kid-crush on my teacher, it would have been her. She had a light voice, a way with us kids and golden hair that I’m sure smelled of Breck or Herbal Essence shampoo but again, nothing here can be backed up with any kind of reasonable evidence.

Melody also lived in Navy housing — not that I was some kind of creepy member of the junior stalker club or anything. We just happened to go home the same way. It was odd to think of Melody as both a hippie and married to a Sailor in those times. My father would grumble each time we would pass through the Shop and Save parking lot and see a few of them gathered around a dirty van.

Melody taught us things like songs from The Sound of Music and Silent Night in German. In turn, we assaulted her ear drums on a regular basis and no doubt stole her will to live little by little. We were a tone deaf mob who, if recorded and played over a scene from the French Revolution, would leave the viewer none the wiser that it was a bunch of children singing The Lonely Goatherd.

One day, Melody announced that she had a special guest for us. We were anxiously gathered on the stage in the gym awaiting his arrival. Well, that version sounds more orderly than to say a bunch of little kids were chattering loudly while squirming around on the metal folding chairs, occasionally falling off for no apparent reason.

Then, in walks a man with blonde hair in a bowl cut and thin, wire frame glasses. I believe she introduced him as her friend, John. He had a guitar in his hand and he greeted us warmly. I don’t remember if ditto sheets were passed around with lyrics on them but in no time, he had us slaughtering Country Roads.

Luckily, John’s voice lifted high above our cacophony and pulled our many loose ends together. As we sang the chorus, it all kind of came together along with his guitar playing.

Could our guest music teacher have been John Denver? It’s entirely possible. Melody most likely wasn’t a local and came here from somewhere else — maybe the singer’s home of New Mexico or New York where he began his early career?

My next totally unsubstantiated brush with possible greatness was in high school when I worked at Brunswick True Value. Many of you know the lot where it once stood now as where people insist on making left turns on Pleasant Street to get to Dunkin Donuts and blocking traffic back to Freeport. That’s for another column, though.

Anyway, I was a general purpose clerk there. Frequent turnover in staff made me a jack of all trades between stock, clerk, lawnmower and snowblower prepper and one man cleanup crew. For the time I was there, lacking any sort of raise, I replaced my name on my tag with “Pee On.”

One particular day, I was stocking the aisles when I felt a large presence looming next to me. I turned to look into the chest of a man with a long face and dark, curly hair.

I immediately recognized the man, but it couldn’t be — holy crap, that’s Gene Simmons! No, I knew it couldn’t be. Why would he possibly find himself in a tiny hardware store in tiny Brunswick, Maine? I quickly dismissed the idea but still couldn’t help but stare.

He was very polite but direct with me. He said he was looking for the small fans people use in their homes to direct wood stove heat into other rooms. Strange — it was summer — why would he need such a fan?

I told him it wasn’t really the right season for such a thing and asked what he needed if for since he obviously wasn’t trying to shove heat from the stove to the back bedrooms.

“I need them to cool down some amps,” he replied, saying he was hopeful we had one or two tucked in the backroom.

“Holy crap,” it is Gene Simmons, my mind screamed, trying to maintain composure. Still, I didn’t call him out as much as I wanted confirmation. I figured if he didn’t feel the need to introduce himself, I was probably not the fan he was looking for. Besides, his presence was a bit intimidating up close and personal to get pushy with outing him in the store.

So, who would have thought of Brunswick as such a hotbed of potential, and reasonably probable celebrity sightings? Granted, the encounters were through the eyes of a little kid who barely knew who John Denver was and again, through a teen with four Kiss CDs and one LP in his collection.

For you kids, an LP was a flat piece of solid petroleum with grooves in it. You had to put it on a turntable and balance a penny on a stylus with a needle to make music. Anyway, I’ll stick with my memories, be they false or not — it makes me a happier adult.

Douglas McIntire is a writer and teacher in the Midcoast. He can be found at the local chapter of the John Denver fan club or reached at [email protected].