Michael John Blythe, Storyteller

Michael John Blythe, storyteller, golfer, world traveler, husband, and father
left this mortal coil on 10 November 2021. Born on 2 December 1939, in
Plymouth, England, Michael was a staunch believer in the power of ideas,
and never shied away from telling you, his opinion. In the course of his long
and storied life, during the Blitz of Plymouth, he survived the bombing of the
building in which he lived with his mother and grandmother, where they
were buried under rubble for several days. He worked for years on the
ocean; on oil rigs in the harsh environs of the North Sea and the waters of
West Africa, South America, the Gulf of Mexico, and the Indian Ocean. He
fought in battles in the early days of the Vietnam War, taught Outward
Bound in the moors of England, and was, for many years, a Texas oil man
in the offshore oil industry. He was a force of nature, an avid reader, a lover
of dogs (especially his beloved Toby), and a man of some mystery. As with
all of us, he was made of stardust, and now rejoins the stuff of mountains,
air, land, and sea. He leaves behind his wife Tricia, son Carew, daughter
Patience and son-in-law Cody, grandson River, and all of his stories that
will live on in the memories of family and friends.

No services are planned at this time. If you want to celebrate Michael, please take a
drive around MDI with your beloveds, learn about World War 2 history, or tell
someone a good (and grandiose) story! We thank especially the staff of MDI
Hospital for their loving care of Michael in his last days. We all thank you for your
love of our family.

In lieu of flowers, please send donations in Michael’s name to the Ark Animal
Shelter, P.O Box 276, Cherryfield, 04622, Acadia Senior College, P.O Box 475,
Southwest Harbor, 04679 or MDI Hospital, 11 Wyman Lane, Bar Harbor, 04679.

Condolences may be expressed at www.jordanfernald.com .


Drinking coffee in St. Louis airport, I am surrounded by travelers all in masks. The airport is cold, as if the weather just changed and they haven’t turned on the heat yet. I am on my way to DC, and then after, to Maine to see my dad before he dies.

He is lying in a hospital bed in that strange transitory space in between life and death; the self is in neither place, almost hovering between. I remember this in the couple of days before Cody’s grandma died. She stopped speaking, hospice stopped giving her water because she had stopped eating, her skin began to change, and then she slowly passed away over the course of one full day.

It is strange to think that parents die. Grandparents dying seems to make more sense: they are old, and old people die. But when parents die we have to acknowledge that we, too, are aging. We, too, will become old. We, too, have limited time.

I feel strangely tired, drained, spacey? I don’t know how to describe it.