MaineCourse

Harbinger

Taking the leaves off the trees... .





Here it is Adam, taken on the end of the dock.



For the Historian.

Torroemore

The summer of my sophomore year in high school I worked in Nevada Missouri, helping -nominally- to build my uncle Willoughby’s new auto parts store. Nevada (long “a”) is a town of about ten thousand, two hours southwest of Excelsior Springs and a handful of miles from Fort Scott, Kansas. Fort Scott was established in the mid-eighteen hundreds as part of our government's “Manifest Destiny” program.

At sixteen, I was painfully shy around kids my own age. Thus, I was happy to move cinder blocks and bolt together metal display shelving, but I dreaded my aunt Mary Jane’s plans. Meet her friends, play with their kids. My uncle Willoughby, my mother’s brother, could see my discomfort and that is when he pulled me aside,
“As an adult you’ll constantly be doing things you don’t want to do. But not now, not this summer.”

He must have said something similar to his wife because after that, when Mary Jane came by, I no longer had to pretend to be asleep. When my uncle offered, I was thrilled to shoot skeet, eat the cattle drive of steaks that he provided, drive his souped-up yellow pickup truck (no license), and stock up on M-80’s.

Short of being dead, the week we spent at Torroemore is as close as I’ll ever get to to that summer in Nevada. I ate meat, though more tomatoes; I shot images, not clay pigeons, and I limited my daily activities to what would make a flagellum happy. Quite simply, I did what I wanted to do, and not one thing more.

Matthew has made seventeen trips to visit Susan and Jim's, some alone, many with friends, none of late with us, his parents. He loves his Minnesota trips, to the red house on the hill called Torroemore. The smile on his face when I drop him at Logan is exceeded only by the one he brings home.

This is the first year in five that he begrudgingly consented to our company. While his need to leave us far behind has never been a mystery, it was only last week that I realized Torroemore has always been his Nevada summer.

Photo Gallery (New Window Opens)

Travis

Travis, from the time he was sixteen, spent part of every summer at our house. We worked together at Channel1, where he would write code and I would surf porn sites. One summer, the last one, he helped paint my house. Then he went away to college and like the successful athlete who outgrows his old stomping grounds, he turned his back on us. We saw him briefly, a year and a half ago, when he stopped by on his way to the Caribbean. His only comment. “Firewood should be stacked closer to your house.”
Tomorrow: Torroemore, in total (more or less).

Red Ripe Tomatoes

Most years Jimmy's tomatoes begin to ripen in early July.
His plants are tall, exposed to less than a half day of sun, grown
in the blackest compost and are visible from the shore of the Northridge.

I have to confess, I ate them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I ate more than
my share and I hoped no one noticed. For me, the last
tomato is almost as bad as the shortest day.

Dairy Queen

Home Depot has automated checkout llines where customers scan
their own items. The Annandale DQ uses robots.



Looking at this "ad", wouldn't you buy their Lime Misty Slushes?

Now What

Our flight home from Minnesota was uneventful. We sat together, I talked to no one, Diane dozed, Matthew read his new Ken Follett book, and I'm sure we all reminisced about our time at Torroemore. It was, in a word, restorative.



Diane and Matthew floating on Lake Sylvia in Asgard III.



I tried to convince Matthew that this guy looked like his friend,
Daryl. Maybe it was the way the head swiveled. His answer?
"Just Shuuuut - Up. " (Protects Grampa Earl's Country Store)

Whoami?

When I talk to Jim at the lumber yard, I don’t say, “ I need ten 2x12’s with joist hangers and by the way, my wife thinks I should use eight penny galvanized nails instead of joist hanger nails."
When the concrete truck arrives, I don’t say, “My wife wants a thinner mix, can you add more water.”

Robert Atwan, the instructor for my Epiphanies writing class, didn’t ask,
“Why did you take my course?”
He simply said, “ I’d like to know who you are, so tell me a little bit about yourselves.”
There were twelve students and we moved clockwise around the wood paneled, conference room. I was second, after Ann, a pastoral counselor on a sixth month sabbatical who plunged into both writing and painting workshops. Ann was brief and I hadn’t time to fully prepare.

“I am blah, blah, and I live in blah,blah, and I work as a blah, and I’m here because my wife urged me to take this course. I wanted to take a writing class but it was she who found the Blue Hills Writing Institute’s ad. When it came time to choose between Memoirs, Finding Your Voice, or Epiphanies, she said,
‘You have a voice, take Epiphanies.’ ”

Our class format was simple. We all had an opportunity to read our stories, hopefully Epiphanies, which were then critiqued by students and teacher. Everyone followed that format but me. Wednesday morning, when it was my turn, I said, “I’ve read my story so many times that it would help me if someone else read it. That would allow me to hear it. It helps at home when my wife reads my work. “

After Robert Atwan finished reading my story, Martha, an Emory law professor, read hers. Titled Starting Over, it is a polished stone about her father and his suicide. For the first time, Mr. Atwan didn’t need to troll for opinions. Everybody had one and like a boy at a fishing tournament, I waited impatiently to throw mine on the scales.

“You handed out your story yesterday, therefore I was able to read it several times. The second time I listened as my wife read it aloud. When she finished, I wanted to applaud - she was silent.
After a few moments I said, somberly,” I hope I get to read my story first.”
My wife paused a moment, and then replied, “ I hope so too.”

I listed my opinions, quickly: strong paragraph- ending sentences, subtle but powerful content, and a perfect conclusion. “But,” I said, “If there is one thing to change, my wife thinks you should remove the word narcissistic.”

Worst of all, I was aware of what I was doing but I couldn’t stop.
Do I see writing as a female pursuit, something a real man wouldn’t follow?
Was this my way of displaying my female side to the class of mostly women?
Did I think that Diane, not me, should be taking this class?

On Friday, during our final lunch and before the certificate presentation, I shuffled along the buffet line in front of Becky, who teaches English at Lawrence Academy in Groton. As I spooned salad next to my steak tips she asked,
“Would you be interested in forming a writer’s group with me? There is Tim and ..."

Before she could finish I interrupted, “Yes, I’d love to.”

Or that is what I would have said before I became my wife.

Instead I said. ”When I left home this morning one of my assignments from my wife was to return with a writer’s group. I’d be flattered to be part of yours."

Something

“Diane, did you know there’s a dinner reception tomorrow at Curry College so staff and students can meet one another?”
It was Saturday and I was prepared to begin my writing course on Monday, not Sunday.
“Isn’t that what it says on the schedule? The one they sent you weeks ago?”

I filled my plate from the buffet and sat down at a table with three women and two men. I felt anxious about this writing course and unhappy that I knew no one. Jeanne, who had taught writing at a local community college for forty-two years, was sitting to my right. She introduced me to Bob Demling, a surgeon, and Joe Dolan, a retired insurance salesman, both of whom I learned, were in my writing class. There were four separate courses offered at the Blue Hills Writing Institute- Memoirs, Advanced Memoirs, Finding Your Voice, and I was hunting for those I hoped would share mine - Epiphanies.

I saw Mercedes, short brown hair, well dressed, and slender, as she was choosing her table. From across the room she reminded me of a folk singer. I couldn’t will her into my Epiphanies class, but Monday morning, there she was. And Nancy, a woman with hair like my wife's, blonde streaks, but tighter curls, and an alluring smile. The only person missing from my wish list was a strawberry blonde, hair pulled up, whose posture reminded me of the only poet I know.

But it was Mercedes, Ann, and Edith with whom I had lunch on Tuesday, the second day of class. We talked about how the course was progressing. All three were adamant - they wanted more structure and more assignments. I was perfectly content with Mr. Atwan's polite request for people to distribute copies of their stories to be read aloud and critiqued. It jelled with the one given to me by Diane.
“Pick a story and make it better,” she said.

After Ann and Edith left, I asked Mercedes,who from across the table looked less like a singer and more like a descendant of the Founding Fathers, if she received writing help from her friends.
“Some like my writing, some say it’s terrible.” she answered matter of factly.
I thought about my own experience. Some people focus on content, mostly, or so it seems, style and grammar. Some like the weaving of time lines, some don’t. But no one yet has said it’s terrible.

“TERRIBLE!” I couldn’t contain myself. Mercedes, the woman I had given a Puritan heritage, was so, well, restrained. She had said, “terrible.” She could just as well have said, "Uninteresting", or "Make mine medium rare.” I felt like I had to supply the proper emotion. How can a friend write back and say something is terrible?

“Sometimes she - she’s an editor but of business publications - she sends my story back with paragraphs moved, lines missing or crossed out."
Sent back unrecognizable. Better to say it’s terrible.

The following day Mercedes read the second of her two essays, Respite , a gentle, introspective, story that takes the reader on a spring walk. It was written around the time of our invasion of Iraq.

When she finished reading Respite Mr. Atwan said,” This is publishable. It doesn’t need editing. Send it out just as it is.”

Mercedes expression changed but only slightly. Her face redder but not by a full shade. From my seat, I wanted to clap. I rationalized that Mercedes was unprepared to respond, as though her creator had tacked five more years onto her life, but instead of presenting the gift, wrapped, with trumpets blaring, had slipped a note under her front door.

Hadn’t we all taken this class secretly hoping to hear those words?

At our last lunch together, I scouted Mercedes' table and sat down. I reminded her of Mr. Atwan’s comments. I wanted her to know how happy I was; I wanted see more reaction from her.
“Now what do you think of your editor friend, the one who said some of your writing was terrible?”
She reflected, only briefly, her face brightening, her eyes finally betraying how flattered she was. As if she were just now reading that note shoved under her door.

“Well, I guess she doesn’t know everything!”

And then with a broad smile,

“Well, I guess she doesn’t even know something!”

Keeping Score

Carrying a bottle of Dasani, my ticket, Friday’s USA Today, and my suitcase, I trailed Diane, thinking here we go again - seats at the very back of the plane. Matt always sits on the wing and when we fly without him, we usually back up against the bathroom wall. But not this time. Diane stopped halfway past the wing and excused herself as she slid past Nikki, the young woman in the aisle seat. I hefted both suitcases overhead, lost my water bottle, and squeezed into the middle seat.

Nikki grew up in Excelsior Springs twenty miles north of Kansas City. She lives in Wilmington MA, but was going back home for the funeral of her grandmother who had died from complications of emphysema.

“She was sick, even when I was a little girl,” she said.

“Probably started smoking at thirteen,” I replied, thinking of my own Missouri born mother.

“ I started when I was eleven and stopped at nineteen and I still have dreams where I’m smoking cigarettes.”

We didn’t start talking until after I realized that my book, My Old Man and the Sea by David and Daniel Hays, lay tucked in my suitcase above our heads. Like many of my books, this was a loaner from Ed. He had mailed it with the book I had sent him , A Year on Whale Island written by the son Daniel. I loved Whale Island and since it was a hardcover gift from Andrea Geyer, I wanted it back. Little did I know that it would reproduce.

If Whale Island were paper back and not also a gift, I would have said pass it on because I’ve run out of room on my bookcase. Ed, however, has more room in his house. On the inside cover of the books he sends he writes, “Stolen from Ed Schmahl.” I had the paper, an airline magazine with Robert Duvall on the cover and a promise of a long nap, but I suddenly craved his book. With apologies, I said, “This is going to be a long flight, I need my book,” and I again squeezed past Nikki.

When I sat back down, Nikki asked if my book were related to Hemingway’s. Airplane rides create these spontaneous conversations and sometimes I’ll keep score. That would have been a minus one for her. But I refrained from making one of my patented snap judgments and I’m glad I did. She was, I think, looking for a conversational opening. I soon learned that she had left high school at the end of her junior year to attend Clarkston University and then returned to attend her high school graduation.

“Grades have always been more important than friends, still are.”

She then transferred to BU and graduated with a degree in neurobiology.

Nikki had a collection of interesting stories, many of which I accused her of making up.

“When you get back to Wilmington you’ll tell John (her boyfriend) about the gullible guy you met on the flight. How much fun you had with him.”

“I haven’t lied in five years,” she protested.

Nikki began with her dog retrieved at an animal shelter in Salem. The dog’s physical description sounded like the reverse of Charlie’s Welsh Corgi, long legs and not much body. And less obedient than Spud until she began speaking to it in Spanish. Sit, come, lie down - nothing, but sientese, venido, acuestese and presto.

I told Matthew this story and he was unfazed.

“Robby’s dog understands Spanish.”

Suddenly, I’m the only one who has never met a Spanish speaking dog? But it gets better. Her dog can stand on his hind legs for five minutes at a time, a trick it learned in Puerto Rico when begging for food. And often, when they go for a walk, the dog would stand up, put his paws near her shoulders and Congo-line-like, they’d walk down the street together.

“Maybe after five years, you feel you’re overdue,” I said.

I’m guarded about how I sound to the much younger generation. I know they’re processing information at two or three times the speed I am - just ask Matthew - and when I’m falling behind I’ve learned to nod without my rather well honed blank stare. Nikki’s dog stories were followed by waitressing stories. and then stories about her job as a psych aide at the Edinburg Center. Golda Edinburg was Diane’s mentor at McLean.

The Golda connection gave me a time capsule view of Nikki. She became my wife, Diane, at twenty-three working at McLean with choices yet to be made. I felt I knew her future and that prodded me to formulate a retrospective, self aware, but I’m-too-young-to-know-the answer-so-why- are-you-asking, question. You know, as if Nikki really were young Diane.

You don’t know, do you? And neither did I, but the short metaphysical exploration made me tired and I thought better to take a nap than sound like a burned out old hippie. Nikki watched as I struggled to recline my seat using Diane’s controls. I pressed the button and pushed against the back of my chair. Nothing. I pressed harder, pushed harder, still nothing. As I was propping my feet up on the chair in front of me for better leverage, she politely lowered the arm of my chair using the button between our two seats - my button.

I drifted off hoping that I was the only one keeping score.

Team BCD

Team BCD with one M from 3M


Matt devouring The Da Vinci Code; Charlie contemplating poking Matt in
the eye.

Kissing Sisters

Susan is right, I don't have time to add to the blog. I sit in class most of the day and then I come home and try to write. Looking back on my last entry I'd say the writing course has hurt more than it has helped. Maybe it takes time for all this knowledge to move from my brain to my fingertips.

In the meantime, here is one photo from this year's Vineyard trip. Our annual stay with Bob, Mary and Charlie (more about that later) could hardly have been better. We laughed so hard we didn't noticed the almost total absence of that bright yellow object in the sky. One of many memorable comments - Matt telling Diane that she is a, "Delirious little woman." .


Mini golf: Millers 155 Hopkins 155 || However, the much anticipated
match between Matt and Mary resulted in a tie.

Maine Malaise

CATCHING UP

The BMW cost $330.00 for various estimates and to fix the oil pump problem that had left Matt’s instructor scratching his head. We whittled down various Alpha Cars recommended to-do’s and gave them only the go ahead to fix the clutch and drive shaft. That came to about $1400.00. I use the past tense because I just talked to Leonard who said the flywheel could not be machined as planned and they had already ordered a new one from Germany. Add another $182.00. I’m betting that Karen, who had envisioned making this car her own, and perhaps had nostalgic feelings as it left her driveway the final time, has now shed any sense of loss.

Matthew is in Minnesota and anyone who would like to receive the daily edition of the Camp Torroemore Times need only say so in the comments section.

Diane urged me to take a writing class, which is ongoing this week at Curry College. It cost a mint, but after day two, I’m convinced it is worth it. The instructor is good, the workshop format rewarding and tomorrow I read aloud one of my stories.

GIBBERISH

August is early to begin our fall camping trip preparations but there had been early warnings about schedule conflicts. We agreed to meet at La Provence in Concord to discuss dates and places to ensure that this fall we wouldn’t wake up in the woods in the snow. We are a talkative group AND I knew there were real issues that might make facing this year’s trip difficult but I never thought we’d spend so little time on topic.
Here is a look back at last Sunday.
I arrived first, then Dan, who pulled into a space with a broken parking meter. We spent ten minutes attempting to get the meter to work. Our solution -removing the already stuck dime- involved Dan with pen knife in hand, balancing the dime (this is Concord) in the slot so that when I clobbered the back of the meter with the palm of my hand, the dime would spit out. It worked for the stuck dime and it worked for Dan’s dime that replaced the stuck dime, when it too got stuck. Smacking the parking meter in front of a restaurant full of wide-eyed lunch eaters reminded me of Lukas Jackson in Cool Hand Luke.
We all sat down and talked about:

• Mark Schreiber’s computer virus
• Dan’s security talk at Palmer & Dodge. Dan figures every hour of presentation requires sixteen of preparation.Mold in Mark’s basement, which begged the question, did the computer virus produce the mold or the mold the virus.
• Tricia selling books on Amazon resulted, in a round about way, Adam being late as he stood in line as his local post office. Small town America.
• My writing class that began on Sunday with a reception to meet staff and students. Adam called it a social, Dan a mixer. Diane said it better not be a mixer.
• Chris is home and playing tennis with Mark.
• Molly’s tuition at TISCH. As always, I brought up Tulane where she was offered almost eighteen grand a year.Dan compared Molly’s tuition to buying a house every year but amended it to a third of a house. I said a house in Ohio and then added Matthew’s observation - a block in Evansville. Mark’s meager consolation - Molly tested out of a semester.
  
• Mark Queijo and his ongoing voice mail upgrade problem. This time, his new boss is out because of emotional issues leaving him, once again, to struggle alone.
• Dan brought up my comment about memory inhibiting change. He said because he is has no memory, he is a free man.
• Questions about how Matt is doing and the cost of his car repairs. I forgot to bring up the Paypal account where everyone can contribute to those repairs.
  
• Mark Queijo’s father’s 1982 Volvo that was about to become Mark’s nephew Brett’s car.
• Adam’s addition. Not as far along as he would like, but further along these last two weeks than he assumed he would be.
• Mark Garabedian - exam and registration issues. There is always November.Mark Queijo’s plan to dismantle part of the beaver dam that causes his road to be perpetually flooded. I assumed C-4, but Mark claims a pry bar and a shovel will be sufficient.

Trust

“I used to hate cats. Now I have one.”
I thought to myself, you are my age and all of a sudden you can accept something you previously hated?
“If you can change, maybe I can. I was talking to a friend this morning and I asked her if she thought memory inhibited change. Instead of new thoughts, all I have are old ones.”
Yesterday I slipped with my wood chisel, and as I was watching the circle of blood grow under my jeans, I flashed back to an errant ax swing when I was eleven. I was chopping a fallen branch in the backyard that was supported on one side by our neighbor’s fence. When I missed, the corner of the ax bounced off my knee. Same place the chisel hit. What was I doing in my backyard in Cincinnati, when I should be here in Arlington?

My response to Maria was a non-sequitor, and equally so to Ginger, but of late, I’d been chewing on the concept of change. As in, why I can't.

I met Maria once before, briefly, and that was while I was preparing to do work for a friend of hers. I had a cabinet to repair, decks to stain, and other odds and ends. Maria told me about her screened porch that she wanted to remodel and asked if I’d give her an estimate. So here I was, standing in that porch, discussing what changes to make.

But estimates, such as this was, are not only about cost, but about who is going to share your home for the month. When I knocked on the door, instead of inviting me to walk through her house, she motioned to the screen porch on the far side. When we talked about the renovation, it was, oh so dry and clinical. I wondered how to collapse this distance between us. But Maria took the lead when she sat down in her blue director’s chair, and while she did not offer me a seat, I promptly plopped into the chair across from her.

It was then that we dropped the cost of glazing and I learned that she was a school psychologist. She loved her work, not to mention her work hours which mimic her children’s.
“Good hours, summers off, and long term relationships. Teachers stay forever.” I said.

“But six people left this year.”

People close to her, and not only did they leave, but some were retiring. And retiring, we both agreed, adds a dimension to leaving. Not that she wants to retire, but it’s a different kind of moving on. After retirement, there is but one more transition. She was unhappy with the loss and I mentioned that Diane had left her job after ten years. I told her that Diane’s friends had that same, where have you gone feeling.

Gone too was the suburban white noise of nearby lawn mowers which allowed the crisp, cool air of what could have been an autumn day to settle around us. Maria, it seemed to me, had spent a lifetime guarding her emotions but we were now engaged in a gentle two-step as we talked about loss. We were finally making the contact that I needed because just as the customer has to trust me, I too have to feel comfortable.

We also danced around the reason for creating a four season living space out of this porch and, as it often does, it was all about the TV.
“If we move the TV to the porch we reclaim our living room.”
I kept thinking, toss out the TV, don’t give it a room. Finally I told her that is what we had done and that elicited the usual.
“I don’t watch much, but,” she said, “we watch every Red Sox game.”
With a heavy emphasis on every.

"It’s a shared experience then, with your husband?“
“And my kids.” She has an eleven year old son and a younger daughter.
“I listen to the games on the radio, just as I did growing up. I like the rhythm.”
“We watch every minute, every pitch. At that level it becomes almost an art form.”
Okay, I had given her the communal excuse, but I wasn’t buying baseball as art form. I thought, spend those three hours in the MFA if you want art form.

“I have a plumber and a flooring person. Can you work with them?”
Meaning, as a contractor, could I accept her subs, and her supervising them, thus saving her money.
“Sure, I can do this anyway you want.”

“I want the carpentry done right. It needs to look good when it’s done, that’s my expectation. The last guy I had did terrible work and I can’t go through that again. I’d complain and he would say ‘A blind man can’t see it.’
“Could have been a joke.” I offered.
“It was, the first time.”

“But Maria, you told me your expectations, now I can tell you mine.”
Never have I had this opportunity and I wasn’t going to let it slip by. Early in our conversation about her porch remodel, she told me how long it was taking her to paint her dining room. Even her husband was telling her to, "Just finish it!" Sure, cutting around cabinet glass takes time, but finicky folks can be the worst to work for.

“That you get paid on time,” she offered.

“Yes, but ...”,and I didn’t know how to continue. Instead I told her the story of the woman in Cambridge who, with a stocking wrapped around her hand, crawled on her hands and knees, feeling under her radiators after the floor refinisher had applied his third coat of polyurethane. She too, was a psychologist.

“Don’t worry, I’m not super obsessive.”

Although I didn’t entirely trust her, that short interchange would help craft our space together. As I left through the same screen door I turned and asked,
“You really don’t hate cats anymore?”

“I didn’t say that, but I sure miss my cat when she’s not around. Reminds me of all my relationships.”
I laughed, she laughed harder but tried to take it back.
“I don’t really mean that.”
Unselfconscious, if only briefly, but we made a connection. If we worked together, we’d begin as friends.

Dmitry Bykhovsky

“I trust the next blog entry will tell the tale of the removal from the Minuteman School to the shop of the BMW.  Hopefully, you will post before you leave your computer for four days, thus abandoning all your loyal readers.”

S

I’ve been up since 5 am and I have to get up earlier tomorrow to begin our trip to the Vineyard, but first the removal.

My plan was to have Diane drive us to Minuteman and then Matt and I would take our inspection-stickerless-chances and drive the BMW to Alpha Cars in Boxborough where we’d get estimates for various problems that Matt didn’t have time to fix. I was even looking forward to it because I figured it would be the last semi-lawless escapade in the white 2002.

However, that plan died at 11:15 this morning when Matt called me to say that after changing the oil and filter, the oil pump had died and if we tried to drive the car, it would explode. What a revolting development. But then I thought, what the heck, I’ll have Triple A tow the car, leaving me with more time to finish the porch I was working on.

I arranged to have Pro-Tech Towing grab the car with Matt at the disabled end, and me waiting at Alpha Cars for the delivery. It worked flawlessly and we were both mostly smiles as we walked into Alpha’s office to discuss the estimates, the work that needs to be done, etc.

On the way in the door, Matt met Dmitry, the owner and top mechanic. A young guy who bantered with Matt about the work he had already done, and what might be ailing the BMW. Dmitry, thinking that the pump didn’t die when the oil was changed, suggested that Matt fill the crankcase (reads like another name for me) with eight quarts of oil, high enough to engage the pump, let the oil settle, then start the car and see what happens. He was pretty confident that might solve the problem.

But that was the last of the good news. When Matt listed the clutch, the oil pump problem, and why it overheats, I began to think - this is real money. Then when we were told it would cost almost three hundred just for this estimate, I thought, maybe we should try to find Travis’s car.

That leads to the question: Is this fancy place typical of high end auto repair shops. Is it standard to charge for the time spent analyzing the problem? Mark S, owner of an Audi? Beemer, Adam? Dan? We can call off the estimate on Monday, but then what do we do? It isn’t drivable (unless the oil overfill works and they let us do it in their parking lot) and we can’t drive here and there looking for a better garage. The last caveat, I was most impressed with Dmitry.




Click for the bigger picture.


"This doesn't look like a garage it looks like a friggin' art gallery." Matt


I'm hoping that Adam will find the time to post today's installation of his spiral stairs. He looks like a man in need of deep sleep, but still ... .