If it’s been 40 or more years since you last read the diary of Samuel Pepys, you might enjoy reading it again.

Pepys was like FDR in that both were able administrators in their country’s navy and both were helped by relatives in high places.

Pepys was like me in that we both recorded in our diaries what time we got up in the morning, what we had for breakfast and what we had for weather. Pepys married a young woman descended from French immigrants. I married Marsha, The Almost Perfect Woman, also descended from French immigrants. Pepys and I wrote in another language when we wanted to obscure certain personal activities from all but the most inquisitive. At the end of the day we both signed off with the whimsical, “And so to bed.”

Pepys attended the execution of Charles I and served as a member of Parliament under Charles II, suggesting that he knew how to get along good with everybody.

The execution of Charles I was a social event comparable with the 1969 Woodstock concert. Even today two strangers bond immediately when they discover they both crashed in that muddy field at Woodstock – I immediately bond with anyone who has heard of Charles I.

My grandfather Gilchrest kept a diary from 1893 until 1919. He was always chopping wood or helping a neighbor, probably a relative, with a project. He traded potatoes for an item he got from a cousin who owned Kalloch’s store in Tenants Harbor.

On Jan. 7, 1899, he brought home a doorstep he’d made at Eagle Quarry. Mother gave it to me 66 years later and it’s now by the back door at my house. On Jan. 2, 1899, he wrote, “12 below zero awful cold. Eva (his first wife, who died young) and I went to lodge at The Harbor.” That’s 4 miles in a buggy. They often got home at 2 a.m.

Grandfather was 56 when my mother was born in the Rockland hospital in 1916.  They must have expected a difficult delivery because they were in Rockland a week ahead of time and in the hospital for weeks after that. Grandfather stayed with his brother-in-law Harvey, who must have rented a room in town. He mentioned walking the 5 miles to Thomaston and taking the trolley to Rockland.

The same year he recorded the funeral of his father’s cousin, Larkin Gilchrest. I’ve lived in Lark’s house since 1970 and have his tools, furniture, undiscovered items in the attic and crooked floors. I still think of it as Larkin’s house. My next-door neighbor and fourth cousin, Gramp Wiley, said that on days when I was away, he could see Lark looking out at him from an upstairs window.

My grandfather wrote of carving the frieze that decorates the Camden post office. The first time he saw an automobile go by his house was in 1902. He wrote of carving granite monuments and watering troughs. My brother has these diaries, which, along with his and mine, will be preserved by the St. George Historical Society.

When I skim a few pages in my journals for the early 1950s, I am amazed that I lived to see my 25th birthday. In 1957 I left home with $5 in my pocket and hitchhiked to California and back. I often went without food or sleep. Every foolish adventure was duly recorded at the end of each day.

To compound the danger, most of my running mates had no more brains than I did. For two years, a branch of the Treasury Department paid me around $100 a month to protect the coast between Rockland and Calais. More often than not, the battery in my car wouldn’t hold a charge. Even buying gas was a strain on my budget, so a new battery was unthinkable. If I didn’t park on a hill where it would roll and start in gear, I’d have to walk home to get help – and many times I did.

One summer night, parked a stone’s throw from the prison shop in Thomaston, my car’s battery died. The car wouldn’t start when I pushed it down the banking next to a white barn, so I came back with a surveyed hawser the next day and pulled it out. Every time I go by there, I wonder what the government was thinking about in 1953 when it put a gun in my hands.

Samuel Pepys wrote, “I went out to see Major-general Harrison hanged, drawn, and quartered, which was done there, he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.” That is more interesting than my account of riding through a Death Valley dust storm in a Jaguar at 112 miles per hour.  In 300 years, however, my story might well be the unique one.

The humble Farmer can be heard Friday nights at 7 on WHPW (97.3 FM) and visited at:

www.thehumblefarmer.com/MainePrivateRadio.html