I was probably three years old the first time I can remember getting into real mischief. I was sitting in a baby carriage, rocking it on purpose until it tipped right over. Looking back, that says a lot about me—I liked to test things, to see what would happen, to explore.
I was the youngest of five children. My mother had what she called “two batches” of children. Three came early, and much later, Angel and I were born. By the time we were young, the older brothers and sister had already moved out into careers and marriages. Still, they stayed connected. We would visit them, and sometimes they would come stay with us. My brother Buzzy lived for years in Pleasant Valley, raising horses and chickens, and his family became part of my childhood landscape.
Home life was shaped by my parents. Dad worked for Bower Memorials, selling gravestones. He always had a big briefcase full of papers in the car. If you rode with him, your feet rested on it. He was a kind man, and he passed on one main lesson: observe everything. Pay attention. You can learn from life if you’re willing to watch closely. My mother was a teacher and librarian, and she filled our home with books. That love for reading has never left me. After school, I would explore the library where she worked, watching her sort books. That’s where my imagination grew.
We had our traditions too—Christmas, Easter, and always supper together. And there were the rhythms of farm life. Dad had a cow, and Angel and I would go with him when he milked. Our job was to run up the hill to the spring, a mile away, stick a pole in the water, and check how deep it was. We ran back proudly to report. I was also in charge of feeding the chickens and collecting eggs. At dusk, I’d scatter corn for them and then climb up on the chicken house roof to watch. From there I’d name them, one by one, imagining their personalities.
The best companion of all was Schatzi, my boxer dog. Together we roamed the creek behind town. We had an old rowboat from my uncle Jimmy, and Schatzi would run along the bank as I rowed upstream, exploring. That sense of discovery, of wanting to see what was around the next bend, has carried me through life.
We belonged to the Presbyterian Church, and Sundays meant Sunday school followed by worship. Teachers like Mrs. Bower, the wife of my father’s boss, taught us to sing “Jesus Loves Me.” Later, in youth group, I found fellowship with other kids. Those were good memories of belonging.
As for vocation, I grew up wanting to be a veterinarian. When I got to college, they told me there wasn’t really a “pre-vet” program, only “pre-med.” At first I thought it didn’t matter much—the sciences overlap—and my good friend Fred Chang was pre-med. That nudged me toward medicine. Orthopedics became my passion. As a child, I loved building treehouses out of wood scraps. My father would give me a box of nails, and I’d use them all in no time. Orthopedics is a lot like that—putting bones, tendons, and ligaments back together. It felt like something I was born to do.
During my residency in New York City, I met Linda. I was working in orthopedics, she in pediatrics. We both cared for an eight-year-old boy named Michael Washington with osteomyelitis of the tibia. I still remember his name. Linda was standing in the doorway with a clipboard, and I was too shy at first. But she introduced herself simply as “Linda Maraya” instead of “Dr. Maraya.” That gave me hope.
I began checking on that patient perhaps more times than necessary, just to see her. I asked her out—first to a ball game, which she declined, then to lunch at Michael’s, a little restaurant across from the hospital. That day her professors happened to sit at the next table, but it didn’t matter. She ordered juice, we talked, and slowly something began. I got her beeper number from the hospital chart and found excuses to call. We met on the hood of cars in the parking lot after work, sharing stories. By 1978, it was clear where this was going, and we married the next year. It has been 46 years.
The secret of our marriage? Kindness and tolerance. Speak to your spouse as you would to any other human being—with respect. Don’t force your way, don’t dwell on faults, and be tolerant of mistakes. That has carried us.
Life had challenges, of course. College was probably the hardest—abstract thinking in physical chemistry and calculus was very challenging. Medical school was intense too, but it was more about volume than abstraction. I survived both.
My proudest achievement, though, is not professional. It’s my children—Joe and Alice. Watching them grow has been life’s greatest joy. The sweetest years were when they were under five, discovering the world with delight. Later, it was watching them learn kindness, resilience, and courage. Now there are grandchildren. Family is the true reward.
Coming to Houlton brought us to the Methodist Church. At first we visited around, even tried the Catholic Church for a while. But friendships led us to the Methodist congregation, and that became home. Our kids grew up in the Sunday school, hanging up coats on the racks that they could not reach and laughing at memories we still tell today. Church life has been a positive anchor for us.
As I think about life lessons, one stands out: know yourself. Know what you can do and what you cannot. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. Be honest about both. If you failed because you lacked knowledge, go back, learn, and try again. If it is simply something beyond your ability, accept that and move toward what you can do. That’s wisdom.
Books have guided me too. Diet for a Small Planet changed my life. It taught me that the Earth’s resources are limited, and eating meat wastes food that could feed the hungry. In 1971, I became vegan and have stayed that way since.
Music has also been part of me. Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto moved me deeply. Before my stroke, I even learned to play parts of it. Since then, I’ve had to adapt, practicing tirelessly, working around limits. Determination is essential—practice a thousand times if you must. That is how life is lived: persistence with joy.
If I could be remembered for one thing, it would be that I tried to serve others. Imperfectly, incompletely, but I tried. Whether in medicine, activism, or community, I tried. In college, the war in Biafra shook me. Millions were starving under blockade. With the help of local pastors, I gathered signatures—2,000 in all—and carried them to Washington. I met with congressmen, and then they even passed the petition to the president. It failed, but it taught me the power and the limits of human action. One person cannot stop suffering, but together, people can move governments. That truth has shaped my worldview.
As for faith, my path has been different. I do not hold belief in God as a personal being. To me, God is the universe itself—physics, chemistry, nature. I see no consciousness there, only reality. I know others disagree, and I respect that. I admire the life and teachings of Jesus, who I see as a remarkable human being with a message the world needs. Churches matter. Community matters. Living kindly matters. Faith, for me, is not belief without evidence but the commitment to live by truth, compassion, and respect.
So when I look back, I see a life of exploration—from tipping over carriages to rowing creeks, from building shacks to rebuilding bones, from activism to music, from marriage to grandchildren. I see a thread of persistence and curiosity. My hope for those who come after me is simple: be kind, seek knowledge, and live with joy. Learn, laugh, and love. That is the heart of it.
I was the youngest of five children. My mother had what she called “two batches” of children. Three came early, and much later, Angel and I were born. By the time we were young, the older brothers and sister had already moved out into careers and marriages. Still, they stayed connected. We would visit them, and sometimes they would come stay with us. My brother Buzzy lived for years in Pleasant Valley, raising horses and chickens, and his family became part of my childhood landscape.
Home life was shaped by my parents. Dad worked for Bower Memorials, selling gravestones. He always had a big briefcase full of papers in the car. If you rode with him, your feet rested on it. He was a kind man, and he passed on one main lesson: observe everything. Pay attention. You can learn from life if you’re willing to watch closely. My mother was a teacher and librarian, and she filled our home with books. That love for reading has never left me. After school, I would explore the library where she worked, watching her sort books. That’s where my imagination grew.
We had our traditions too—Christmas, Easter, and always supper together. And there were the rhythms of farm life. Dad had a cow, and Angel and I would go with him when he milked. Our job was to run up the hill to the spring, a mile away, stick a pole in the water, and check how deep it was. We ran back proudly to report. I was also in charge of feeding the chickens and collecting eggs. At dusk, I’d scatter corn for them and then climb up on the chicken house roof to watch. From there I’d name them, one by one, imagining their personalities.
The best companion of all was Schatzi, my boxer dog. Together we roamed the creek behind town. We had an old rowboat from my uncle Jimmy, and Schatzi would run along the bank as I rowed upstream, exploring. That sense of discovery, of wanting to see what was around the next bend, has carried me through life.
We belonged to the Presbyterian Church, and Sundays meant Sunday school followed by worship. Teachers like Mrs. Bower, the wife of my father’s boss, taught us to sing “Jesus Loves Me.” Later, in youth group, I found fellowship with other kids. Those were good memories of belonging.
As for vocation, I grew up wanting to be a veterinarian. When I got to college, they told me there wasn’t really a “pre-vet” program, only “pre-med.” At first I thought it didn’t matter much—the sciences overlap—and my good friend Fred Chang was pre-med. That nudged me toward medicine. Orthopedics became my passion. As a child, I loved building treehouses out of wood scraps. My father would give me a box of nails, and I’d use them all in no time. Orthopedics is a lot like that—putting bones, tendons, and ligaments back together. It felt like something I was born to do.
During my residency in New York City, I met Linda. I was working in orthopedics, she in pediatrics. We both cared for an eight-year-old boy named Michael Washington with osteomyelitis of the tibia. I still remember his name. Linda was standing in the doorway with a clipboard, and I was too shy at first. But she introduced herself simply as “Linda Maraya” instead of “Dr. Maraya.” That gave me hope.
I began checking on that patient perhaps more times than necessary, just to see her. I asked her out—first to a ball game, which she declined, then to lunch at Michael’s, a little restaurant across from the hospital. That day her professors happened to sit at the next table, but it didn’t matter. She ordered juice, we talked, and slowly something began. I got her beeper number from the hospital chart and found excuses to call. We met on the hood of cars in the parking lot after work, sharing stories. By 1978, it was clear where this was going, and we married the next year. It has been 46 years.
The secret of our marriage? Kindness and tolerance. Speak to your spouse as you would to any other human being—with respect. Don’t force your way, don’t dwell on faults, and be tolerant of mistakes. That has carried us.
Life had challenges, of course. College was probably the hardest—abstract thinking in physical chemistry and calculus was very challenging. Medical school was intense too, but it was more about volume than abstraction. I survived both.
My proudest achievement, though, is not professional. It’s my children—Joe and Alice. Watching them grow has been life’s greatest joy. The sweetest years were when they were under five, discovering the world with delight. Later, it was watching them learn kindness, resilience, and courage. Now there are grandchildren. Family is the true reward.
Coming to Houlton brought us to the Methodist Church. At first we visited around, even tried the Catholic Church for a while. But friendships led us to the Methodist congregation, and that became home. Our kids grew up in the Sunday school, hanging up coats on the racks that they could not reach and laughing at memories we still tell today. Church life has been a positive anchor for us.
As I think about life lessons, one stands out: know yourself. Know what you can do and what you cannot. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. Be honest about both. If you failed because you lacked knowledge, go back, learn, and try again. If it is simply something beyond your ability, accept that and move toward what you can do. That’s wisdom.
Books have guided me too. Diet for a Small Planet changed my life. It taught me that the Earth’s resources are limited, and eating meat wastes food that could feed the hungry. In 1971, I became vegan and have stayed that way since.
Music has also been part of me. Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto moved me deeply. Before my stroke, I even learned to play parts of it. Since then, I’ve had to adapt, practicing tirelessly, working around limits. Determination is essential—practice a thousand times if you must. That is how life is lived: persistence with joy.
If I could be remembered for one thing, it would be that I tried to serve others. Imperfectly, incompletely, but I tried. Whether in medicine, activism, or community, I tried. In college, the war in Biafra shook me. Millions were starving under blockade. With the help of local pastors, I gathered signatures—2,000 in all—and carried them to Washington. I met with congressmen, and then they even passed the petition to the president. It failed, but it taught me the power and the limits of human action. One person cannot stop suffering, but together, people can move governments. That truth has shaped my worldview.
As for faith, my path has been different. I do not hold belief in God as a personal being. To me, God is the universe itself—physics, chemistry, nature. I see no consciousness there, only reality. I know others disagree, and I respect that. I admire the life and teachings of Jesus, who I see as a remarkable human being with a message the world needs. Churches matter. Community matters. Living kindly matters. Faith, for me, is not belief without evidence but the commitment to live by truth, compassion, and respect.
So when I look back, I see a life of exploration—from tipping over carriages to rowing creeks, from building shacks to rebuilding bones, from activism to music, from marriage to grandchildren. I see a thread of persistence and curiosity. My hope for those who come after me is simple: be kind, seek knowledge, and live with joy. Learn, laugh, and love. That is the heart of it.
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