I'm in a UFO, peering out a porthole window at a two-headed alligator, a giant lobster attacking a trap and a jail cell. I should be dreaming, but this scene is 79-year-old Philip Day's reality: It is his backyard of crazy constructions, a West Bath quasi-theme park that he has deemed the Loony Lagoon.
Day worked constructing ships at Bath Iron Works for nearly fifty years. Following his retirement eight years ago, he began collecting and transforming junk material. An old washing machine became a wishing well, a salon hair-dryer was converted into an electric chair, with "14,000 volts" scrawled across the headpiece.
His creations fill his yard, which he mows daily, and the bordering pond, which he dug by hand. He has clearly answered the inevitable question before, for "why" is barely out of my mouth when he shrugs and crosses his arms, surveying his crowded lawn. "It's just somethin' to do...it's a work in progress." I ask where his ideas come from and he pauses for effect. "Nighmares," he replies, then laughs as I excitedly ask him to explain further. "No, the ideas just come to me; I don't know."
While Day is still developing the Loony Lagoon, many of his creations have clearly suffered from the elements. "Most every time there's a storm, somethin' breaks," he says. Yet Day appears unfazed and undiscouraged by the effects of Maine's harsh weather on his work. Progress and regression make a quirky mix in this park. A coffee can filled with nails rests on a beam running through an unfinished brown and black creation. I peer at it until Day finally offers, "An elephant!" with an air of triumphant matter-of-factness. I suddenly recognize the distinguishing ears and trunk and wonder how I could have missed them before.
In a flannel shirt and old workboots, the stooped and gray-haired Day manages without a cane or walker, but the going is slow. His blue eyes are watery with age yet attentive and excited, locking in on the Loony Lagoon jail, right next to the stagecoach.
The jail is realistically padlocked; Day explains that he has had trouble in the past with intruders ruining his work. Stepping into the jail I experience the same creepy sensation of entering a haunted house. The feeling is heightened when I turn to leave and Day smiles as motions to shut me in the small cell. I laugh nervously and he chuckles at my apprehension, motioning me to keep following him.
A paint-peeling sundial sits in the middle of the Loony Lagoon. Day squints at it for a moment and mutters, "It's... about 11:30." I check my watch and realize he is indeed correct, and that clearly the backyard is not only an indulgence of his imagination but also a functional exhibit, intended to be interactive.
Aside from a few exotic animals, the Loony Lagoon is decidedly Maine-themed. Moose and deer made from logs and painted wood occupy the east bank, with a fake fisherman standing by the pond. I hold my breath as we wobblingly ascend the steps of the UFO, an extraterrestrial treehouse that has a square porthole bordered by old rulers that read "Bath Savings Institution" and "Damriscotta" in bold black letters.
That Day is a born and bred Mainer shows not only in the inclusion of lobster and moose in his work, but also in his clear manual capability, his refusal to be idle and the frank charm of his slightly crude creations. He is an artist and his unabashed decision to translate imagination into reality, to display his eccentric designs, is impressive. The familiar adage, "One man's trash is another man's treasure" is directly manifest in Day's yard. To be more specific, one man's salon hair-dryer is another's 14,000 volt electric chair.