The Lighthouse Diary
By C. M. Dougherty

The plight of nineteenth century lighthouse keepers was one of isolation, back breaking labor and fighting Mother Nature for their very survival. As a result many keepers suffered a variety of debilitating illnesses, ranging from alcoholism and depression to arthritis and some really painful bunions. The average life expectancy for a light keeper was a mere twenty-seven years. Sadly, these problems were largely ignored by the medical community, the U.S. Government and society in general, which looked upon the light keeper as a sort of quaint, seafaring circus carny.

It wasn’t until the now famous Lighthouse Diary was published, that the grim tale of the keeper’s life was fully told. The diary was written in the late 1880s by keeper Jacob Smithwick of Bar Harbor, Maine. Like The Diary of Ann Frank it tells a beautiful, heart-wrenching tale of solitude, hunger and woe. Lots of woe.

The bittersweet passages that follow are not for the faint of heart. In fact some are so crude, so repugnant they are best read behind a welder’s mask.

November 29, 1886 Nearly went bat-shit this afternoon. The first blizzard of the season has rendered the mountain road impassable. Conservation off coal and firewood is critical to survive the long winter. During the days I have resorted to sitting atop of the lighthouse beacon for warmth. Have felt ridiculous, like a giant rotating hen, but have been able to keep my spirits up and sustain a minimum necessary body temperature for survival. Unfortunately, for reasons obvious, I am experiencing terrible migraine headaches and dizzy spells. Worse still, I am running low on opiates and booze. When will it end? On the plus side, the 60,000 watt bulb has given me a nice even tan. Pity I can’t make Madam Claudette’s in Bangor…

December 1, 1886 ...nights are getting tougher. Even with the brandy, several goose down blankets and Freddie the Goat curled up next to me, it is very difficult to keep warm in what is the coldest winter of I have ever known. I have slept very little the past few nights as Freddie never stops bleating. He is also not very discreet about where he relieves himself… Think warm. Must think warm.

December 3, 1886 Still no sign of Pasteur Lewis. He promised to be here on my birthday (yesterday) with a bundt cake and twenty-two candles. Undeterred, I carved a two-tiered cake out of a snow bank. I sprinkled it with some brown sugar and used twigs for candles. I had the gloomy task of singing "Happy Birthday" and "For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow" by myself, to myself, but at least Freddie was beside me, chewing his cud. The cake was "so so" at best (Freddie seemed to enjoy the twigs), but it kept my spirits strong which means, most important of all, the light will stay lit…

December 6, 1886 Today, in an embarrassing episode, I managed to get my tongue frozen to lighthouse tower. I would prefer keep the details of the incident to myself, except to note that I hallucinated I was at a church social, dancing with my sister Agatha.

December 10, 1886 Last night I learned conclusively that Freddie is a male goat. More on this tomorrow as I must change the bed linens...

December 12, 1886 ...strange hallucinations and blasphemous thoughts continue. This morning a Jesus-ground-beef-like apparition appeared while I was fixing the foghorn. He was surprisingly knowledgeable about both fog and horns so I played some hopscotch while he made the repairs. Afterwards we moved on to the kitchen where he gave me tips on how to make a low calorie flan.

December 13, 1886 ...sometimes things that seem unacceptable and indecent in the light of the day become wholly rational in the dark of night. The night becomes a cloak, a mask. It belongs to the devil and with it comes unholy events. Yes. I have sinned… I suppose I can blame my lascivious acts on the brandy or I could say I did it for the warmth or out of sheer loneliness. I will pray for redemption, but I will also say unto God when I arrive at the Gates of Heaven: "Let ye, the desperate soul, who doth not bed thy benevolent goat, cast the first stone" - Luke 2:17 (the gist).

December 15, 1886 This morning I finished reading the last book in the lighthouse library, Seventeenth Century Hoes and Hand Rakes, and immediately became really bored so I tried writing some of my own poetry…

The rocks whisper to the raging sea

"Nice try bud-dy"

The sea returns with twice its might

The rocks say "Ha ha! Get a life!"

The sea grows angry and tries some more

The rocks say "There’s no chance you’ll even the score"

The sea gets tired and goes to bed

The rocks get bored and they go to bed too

I don’t know the point of this poem, but it really puts me in a giggle fit, especially the line "Nice try bud-dy"

December 16, 1886 President Grover Cleveland popped over for tea and scones. He is a rather charming man. Although much shorter than I imagined. We spoke of many fanciful things; French wine, the price of winter scrod, the distance between two abstract points. He took a liking to my stylish keeper’s outfit and hat so we traded up and I now find myself donning a three-piece cashmere suit and a pair of silk garters handcrafted in Paris. Later in the evening, we hit the weight room, concentrating mostly on pecs and abs.

December 18, 1886 Wild animals have a keen sense danger and goats are no exception. With foodstuffs nearly depleted, I am really craving a goatburger. Freddie has been conveniently spending more and more time up in the hills. At night I hear his bell clanking in the frosty air. I can hear him sharpening his nubby horns against the jagged rocks. Confrontation is imminent. Freddie bleats a song of war.

December 19, 1886 Avalanche has made chance for re-supply impossible until the first thaw of spring. Ate pine cone and grub soup for dinner. It wasn’t bad, but I could have definitely used some coriander. Made the decision to eat Freddie tomorrow. I’m sad as he has been a relatively good goat. He has brought me comfort and love in a time of great despair. I will try to make his end a swift and painless one.

December 22, 1886 Still have not been able to catch and eat Freddie. Have been tracking his droppings throughout the jagged hillside, but he is a wily goat. I found his bell, which he gnawed off at the collar. I have the feeling he is holed up in one of the cliff’s many caves. Tomorrow must be the day. Last night I dreamt of having goatmeal cookies and milk with Santa Claus.

Christmas Eve 1886 Freddie put up a hell of a fight. I found him sniveling in a pitch black bat cave, his two vacant eyes peering out at me from behind a stalactite. I coaxed him out with some green tree bark. I wept bitterly as he shyly edged toward the free handout. I felt great pity for him, that is until he took a run at me and sunk his sharpened horns into my kneecaps like two ice picks. It was an excruciating pain such as I’ve never experienced. He twisted and bucked wildly tearing my ligaments to shreds. I tried to pop his eyes out with my thumbs, but he bit me, taking a good inch and a half from my middle finger. Blood rained down like a fountain. With Freddie twisted into my kneecaps, I pulled myself along the cave floor until I found large damp rock and crushed his skull...

Christmas Day 1886 Held a private Christmas mass and prayed Freddie would have swift admittance into the Kingdom of God. I also prayed he would keep his private "Earthly affairs" to himself, but I suppose it matters not. God sees all... I broke several U.S. Lighthouse regulations, as I had to burn some office furniture and books to stay warm and cook Freddie. Coldest Christmas on record with no sign of let-up going into the new year. I drank lamp oil to celebrate as I have decided to save the last bottle of brandy for New Year’s Eve. Freddie was succulent. I made four different recipes, improvising on all of the ingredients. The goat soufflé was off, but the fritters were delightful. Passed out on the floor as I sang "Silent Night".

December 28, 1886 My middle finger seems to be healing nicely although it is much shorter. I am not too upset as I have always felt fingers were overrated. The truth is I am worried about my legs. The scars on my kneecaps have closed, but my right ankle is swollen, discolored and leaking some sort of fetid juice. I fear the worst as I have no antiseptics to ward off infection. I must consider the possibilities of leaving my post or losing my leg. Decisions…

New Year’s Eve 1886 The new year brings with it the grim prospects of self-amputation as I have come to the conclusion that my right foot must be removed just above the ankle. I am not too concerned as I consider feet to be overrated as well. …I drink this bottle of brandy knowing it may be my last Earthly pleasure. I have fashioned a rudimentary guillotine from a sling blade, block and tackle and some sand bags. If all goes well, tomorrow it will take my foot off in one clean motion. I have tourniquets at the ready and will pray through the night. I was hoping that that Jesus-meatloaf character would drop by with some helpful pointers on guillotines and tourniquets (of which I know nothing, nada, zero), but he is now just a sweet memory… The chances for a successful operation and subsequent survival are minimal so I will look upon this entry as my last statement to this bitter world: First, I hearby bequeath all my worldly possessions to my younger brother Hank and my sister Agatha. Everything is to be divided evenly, or if they chose, they may fight to the death in a winner take all. Last one standing gets: in addition to assorted sundries, my trombone and my lifetime subscription to "Better Lighthouses & Gardens" …I have considered myself a good keeper and a decent human being. Only nine vessels have gone down on my watch that can be directly credited (blamed, if you chose) to myself, but three of which, including the frigate U.S.S. Rhode Island, were not really my fault as I was busy taking a dump. …Sure I have not always followed the righteous path and made some errors in life, but that is all behind me. I look forward to a post at a lighthouse in the sky.

- Jacob Bartholomew Smithwick, Keeper of the Light, Egg Harbor Lighthouse, Maine.

Today, descendants of the lighthouse keepers across America feel their forefathers are finally getting the recognition and respect in death that they so deserved in life. They have even persuaded Congress to fund The Keeper of the Light Memorial in our nation’s capitol. It is planned to be constructed next fall, prominently located near the Lincoln Memorial, but behind it, next to the hot dog and pretzel vendors.

For some, however, the proposed monument is just not enough. "Too damn little, too friggin late," snarls a toothless Gloria Smote-Smithwick, great-grandniece of Keeper Smithwick. "It just breaks my heart thinking how much my great-uncle suffered. Someone should be held accountable, and that someone is the United States government. Friggin’ Unky Sam!" Gloria, along with nine other keeper’s families, is leading a twelve million dollar class action suit against the U.S. Government, alleging among other things negligence, back wages and inhumane working conditions.

This may seem like just another frivolous lawsuit by a bunch of New England trailer trash, but after reading a few passages from The Lighthouse Diary one can understand their desire for justice and a hefty cash settlement.

The legend of Keeper Smithwick does not end here as Warner Brothers has brought the rights to The Diary. It is expected to be a real blockbuster. Rumors have placed Brad Pitt to play the role of the Keeper Smithwick and Sir Anthony Hopkins to play Pasteur Lewis. Courtney Love has eagerly signed on to play Freddie. Industry insiders predict it will be a real Christmas tear-jerker. We can only hope Hollywood won’t wash over the poignant and gruesome episodes with cheap musical numbers and gratuitous nudity. Hopefully, this slice of Americana will finally be put to rest.