My first job out of college was as a reporter at The Times Record. I worked with veteran journalists – many whom have left the newspaper industry or since retired. I was fortunate to be one of two reporters who worked out of the Bath bureau, which was then located on Commercial Street. Jim McCarthy and I split our beats, but often – because of the magnitude and nature of the news coming out of BIW or Maine Yankee – we covered for one another. In short order, Bath became home to me.
In those days, Max Dawson was chief of police. The department had a solid crew of both veteran officers and a few rookies, as well as some very helpful dispatchers. There were two detectives, one of whom was Max’s wife, Holly.
I am now about 30 years into my career as a journalist. I am the executive editor and publisher of two daily newspapers in Vermont. It has been a very fulfilling and exciting career – one that has been replete with interesting characters, certain tragedies, astounding events, and lots of camaraderie. There also has been lots of laughter.
That all started with Max.
As a young journalist, Max helped me navigate the whitewater of Bath politics – both at City Hall and up and down Front Street. We often shared breakfast or a cup of coffee at the start of our day so I could learn how to take the pulse of the community. He knew everyone. He knew everything that was going on. He was an excellent mentor — and friend. It was all done behind Max’s trademark smile. (My only regret is I let him call me “Stevie” forever. I hate that.)
Truly, I was lucky to start my career meeting a person in authority who was so generous in spirit, so quick with a joke, so blunt with his honesty and so true to himself and the community he loved. That is rare.
In public service, and well beyond in retirement, Max never stopped giving and never stopped caring about Bath, his friends there and well beyond. He also never stopped being at the center of things.
His death is heartbreaking. It took my breath away when I heard. Max was so kind-hearted to so many who crossed his path, including some who, over the years, came to be in handcuffs and later standing before a judge. Max was easy to like, maybe gregarious to a fault, if there is such a thing.
As a reporter, I once wrote an article about how Max had gotten the family sports car on city insurance while his department vehicle, an Isuzu Trooper, was under repair. While I expect that he was aptly irritated with me (but not as much as Holly), he was willing to be interviewed for the little indiscretion. Then, when I asked if I could get a photo of the vehicle in question, he walked outside the police department, leaned on the hood of the sports car and posed as if it were for GQ. He then asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. And we did. Really fast over to the West Bath exit. Really fast.
He would’ve done the same thing last week.
In recent days, many kind words have been shared about Max. They’re all true. Honestly, I have no idea nor recollection of how Max was as a cop, but as a person he was “chief.” And to a young journalist, all those years ago, he revealed exactly what made a community matter – and how it ticked. It has mattered every day since.
Steven Pappas lives in Vermont.
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