October 31, 2003
Overlook
The tops of the tall pines and Mark's posture convey the height of this
granite bluff, but what you can't see is my impulse to give him a little push.
View from above First Debsconeag Lake.
Our campsite is far to the left, out of the photo.
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October 30, 2003
Into the Beartooths
Comments added to Memories have temporarily delayed my next major entry - The Canning Sisters: Frail or Tragically Flawed?
Matthew went to bed early yesterday and missed this on the answering machine, “Hi, this message is for Matt Miller from Leonard, Alpha Automotive. Your car is done, believe it or not, it is running fine.” Suppose he’ll smile when he hears it this morning?
The flywheel must have been machined correctly and the new throwout bearing, though different in size, a good fit. Next comes inspection, a new muffler and body work to prepare it for a new paint job.
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“It was time to pack up the tents and head down out of the tundra country. We said goodbye to the goats and hiked through our lush water-filtering meadow, turned from the misty Aero Lakes, and crossed the col leading down Cardiac Hill.” Read Into The Beartooths by Ed Schmahl
Ed undertakes real back country trips, not the namby pamby, lie on the beach, eat until you explode, where's the hot shower, don’t forget your cellphone, kind of pampered, pedagogic, junkets The Maine Guys have a penchant for pursuing. Even if you are not interested in dramatic mountain sunsets, wild flowers, hikes up boulder strewn trails, you have to read about the goats.
October 29, 2003
Nary a Ripple
I’m not sure where the last photo was taken, Adam. However, I thought I’d post this one because it retains some of the warthog shape, and it fully illustrates what we find so rare in Maine in October. No wind. Click on
View image and you’ll see what I mean.
October 28, 2003
October 27, 2003
Memories
I answered the phone yesterday evening and it was Florence.
“What day is it? Saturday or Sunday”?
When I brought her milk and Windex this afternoon, she told me that she waited for the school bus last Friday. Not to hop aboard but to hand out Halloween candy to all the children. She laughed as she said she would have to do it again, this Friday.
The problem, her dead transistor radio, rested on the kitchen table with the batteries exposed. I imagine her listening to the all news station that loops through the traffic, weather, date and time, endlessly. Work and the Boston Globe orient me.
A month ago, I was visiting with my neighbor, Mary, not as old as Florence but the victim of the same cruel joke that nature plays on women. Departed husband. Mary wanted to show me her new boiler, except that when we got to the basement, the rickety thing was still there, rust at the seams, but with a new pump. When we returned to her kitchen and as I was about to say goodbye, she asked me, “Do you want to see my new boiler?”
On my way home from Flo’s I stopped at Dolly’s, Mary’s next door neighbor. Dolly had called about her wobbly front porch railing and wanted it fixed before Halloween.
“Matthew said he loved those orange drops.”
She spoke as if she had seen him last night.
I tried to express my concern about her friend’s memory when she stopped me.
“I’m going to be a grandmother...or is it a great grandmother?”
“Who’s having the baby?”
She thought for a moment, “Tory.”
Over the years I had heard many stories about Tory, her blonde grand daughter.
“That would make you a great grandmother.”
“Oh”
“Dolly, remind me, what is your daughter’s name?”
“It’s.... Just a minute, I know it. Oh isn’t this silly. It’s...let’s see, Smitty...”
Smitty was her husband. He died when Matthew turned five, eleven years ago. I remember his funeral and how I slipped into the white church off Main St., after everyone was seated. I wasn’t sure I should be there until Dolly smiled at me.
“Debbie, that’s it, Debbie.”
Smitty, the illustrator, in plaid, with Dolly at his side. Tulum
watches Matt following me up the ladder.
October 26, 2003
Come Together
Adam Kibbe
You get enough people together in one place, and it may be directly demonstrable that local gravity increases. By inference, it seems it might have -- enough stuff fell down. There was one partygoer who went down like a ton of bricks a foot shy of our dining table with no apparent obstacle or slippery surface to blame. I’m sure drink contributed, but the moment still had its surreal aspects. And then one of the new glass shelves slipped loose from its all-but-invisible metal pin supports, taking out the shelf below, and both seeking the lowest local level, the tile floor. One shelf’s edge chipped, and two pieces of art were beyond repair, but for tempered glass laden with objet d’art, the lack of carnage was remarkable. The whole night, in fact, was remarkable.
It was one hell of a party. 25 of our nearest and dearest, food and talk and drink in constant motion, our house brimming with life and energy. Our house -- returned to itself and then some after nearly six months of construction. Cleaned, rearranged, primped and decorated, candles in every beckoning niche, lights done just so. Luminarias outside to guide in our guests. But the best decoration was our friends themselves, smiling faces and hugs all around, here to feast on Linda’s catering, the room’s unveiling, and on each other’s rich company.
Though some amongst our number would count themselves fogies, the local contingent didn’t shuffle off for home and bed until midnight, and then a second wind swept across those remaining -- ourselves and our friends from Connecticut, guests for the night. I think it was the toast we gave to the room and its builders just as Michael was leaving -- perhaps ten of us holding aloft shots of Herradura Reposado tequila and voicing our pleasure in what we’d accomplished. That bottle, newly opened just then, did not survive for long, and over the next couple of hours, all of my other top shelf tequilas met the same end, the way blazed by salt and lemon. As we danced in our own glow in the new room to Michael Hedges’ brilliant acoustic covers of Dylan/Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower” and the Beatles “Come Together”, we noted the passing of 2:30 a.m. As we wrapped up some reminiscing photo viewing, we saw 3:30 come and go. But then we finally went, too. Barely tired, but ready.
Perhaps the most significant fall of all from that night is this, that of the veil of secrecy that recently wrapped The Room, which can now be let slide to the ground. Is The Room done? Almost. A finishing touch or two when I get to them, some grading and a patio in the Spring. But it was certainly christened, loudly and well.
So what’s it look like? Go see the pictures. The first five are by day, then a few by night, then the party. Not scads, and the pictures are snapshots. I thought to use my tripod and tricky fill lights, but then I thought, “Nah, it’s just a room.” Much has been made of it already, I decided I needn’t puff it up more. I wish I’d taken more at the party, but I was too busy mixing drinks and diving in and out of conversations. Dan The Man let me mix him a martini, which you can see in his hand as he holds court with the two women who’d praised his sartorial splendor, as well as his ability to set himself off with the right backdrop (he was leaning on our stainless steel fridge at the time). The night was full of such beauty, far beyond the wavelengths of light which a camera sees. But I hope you can see some of what I see, and thanks for following this saga with us.
October 25, 2003
Go Marlins
Christine Radulski
Well, you and I haven't talked since...well you know. Now, I went to bed when NY tied it up and other than the family telling me who won the game, I have chosen not to partake in any media regarding that game--no radio, tv or newspaper-since the playoffs ended. Why spoil what was an amazing run. To that end, I am sharing with you a glorious day we had at Fenway Park back on August 25. We played Seattle. It was between us and them for the Wild Card. Pedro pitched and we won 7-1. We were in the first row of the Monster seats, me, Mark and our kids, on a beautiful summer day. The kids (okay the kids and Mark) had their picture taken with the mascot, what's his name, oh yes, Wally. They also were beside themselves with anticipation of a homerun coming our way...little boys ready with their little gloves. Alas, that was not to be, but Gabe Kapler did throw a ball up the monster at the end of the game, which went over us, much to the angst of my seven year old (who stated, for anyone within earshot, "this is the worst thing that's ever happened"). My daughter, who turned 15 later that week, was quite happy to spend the day with her little brothers and her parents, something that doesn't happen too often these days! We even got a parking space within walking distance. We go to about 5 games a year, but this was special, even more so than the Yankee games we've been to. The kids went back to school two days after that game, and it was a great day to spend as a family before another back to school time when life spirals into the school routine. So that is what you do when heartbreak happens, remember the really special things and block out everything else. I wish our local sportswriters could do the same.
Here is my Monster view. Interestingly, I've never brought a camera to the
ballpark before. I'm so glad I took one on this day. April is right around
the corner...
Chris
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October 23, 2003
No Bugs
Pretty lake pic for Chris.
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Writing class update.
Handed in Clemency and got back this:
"Please tell me: why do you omit transitions and time cues? I can't believe you think it a virtue to be deliberately obscure."
Not really the feedback I was expecting, and much to the chagrin of almost everyone save Adam and Diane, I guess the answer is yes, I do think it a virtue.
However, there is no reason to go down with this ship so it looks like it's time for revision number sixty-two.
October 22, 2003
Moonset
The moon setting in front of my tent at about 5 AM.
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October 20, 2003
Skills
Found this guy in the stream connecting the First and Second
Debsconeag Lakes.
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Many things I understand about Matthew.
Many things I don’t; his work ethic is one.
He works every Saturday at the West Acton Convenience Market, and has since he turned fourteen, when the owner, Peter Kennedy, offered him the job. He works every Friday night and frequently odd, needed, weekend hours, at Acton Village Video. He was offered that job when he was fourteen but had to wait until his fifteenth birthday to begin.
The unsolicited offers, the jobs, the hours, all that I understand. I am perplexed by his near perfect attendance. Besides family vacations, and an odd illness or two, like the guy who delivers my newspaper, he never misses a day. What about the lure of friends for this oh so social of beings?
Unrelated to his work habits but related to our health, the other morning we left for school, as we always do, with Matthew driving my truck, and me riding “shotgun.” I wake up like an old computer monitor, and Matthew who has inherited both Peter and Brian’s night habits, may come to life faster but I’m not sure he is any more alert.
At the first bend on Central St, not two minutes out of the driveway, we are confronted by a white panel van, which has crossed the yellow line and is speeding along in about half of our lane. If Matthew had turned to talk to me or changed the radio station, he wouldn’t have had time to swerve away from this wannabe head-on collision. But quick flicks of his wrist and we were safely out of the way and then back in our lane. Reminded me of the hours he and I spent racing each other in those thunderous Le Mans simulators at the Bowladrome. Except this time I didn’t die in a fiery crash. But then, Matt was driving.
His only comment, “What was that?”
For my first assignment on a character in conflict, I handed in Christmas Trees. It was returned with constructive criticism about verb tenses and these comments:
”Truly evocative poetry. This is a fine meditation on mortality: understated and chilling. “
Not dead, and much needed reinforcement for my writing. I’ll take it.
I’ve too many photos to post all at once. Here’s the first mini-gallery and all of Adam’s
All links open new windows.
October 18, 2003
October 17, 2003
Life as a Sox Fan
Christopher Schreiber was given two tickets to the sixth game of the Yankee series. He chose to take his sister Molly.
Overjoyed at the early Red Sox lead, and surrounded by Yankee fans, Molly called home and left this message:
“Guess where I am with Chris? Guess who is up four to one? I’ll call you later.” The crowd noise paled compared to the excitement in her voice.
After the game and on the way home she called again, this time from the subway station. She told Ginger that when the Yankees surged ahead at six to four, one rather imposing Yankee fan turned around and said,
“Why don’t you call your mother now? You can use my cell phone.”
After last night, I bet there are many people who would like to use that phone.
First Debsconeag Lake
October 16, 2003
Maggots
Mt Katahdin
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Wednesday is Matt’s night to cook dinner and he usually barbeques on our dubious gas grill. Tonight he invited Robby to help and they both ate Boca Burgers as they waited for the chicken to cook.
Earlier they had to toss out a box of meal moth infested Rice Pilaf.
At the dinner table:
Robby. “I ate maggots once.”
Matt glanced over at Robby, “Nice.”
Me. “Most of the world eats bugs.”
Robby. “When I got through eating I wasn’t bothered at all. I guess it means I don’t mind eating bugs.
I thought, great dinner conversation.
Me. “When are we going to Gilsum next? We can’t this weekend and next weekend is Annie’s Bat Mitzvah. How about the weekend after that?”
Matt. “Sure.”
We usually leave at 3PM, after his shift at Skip’s, but with the sun setting at 6 in those hills....
Me. “You should call in sick on that Saturday.”
Diane. “He can’t call in sick.”
Me.’ Tell Skip you can’t work that weekend.”
Diane. “That’s different, that’s not calling in sick.”
Robby. “But calling in sick is the only way he’ll be sure of getting the
day off.”
Me. “I’ll bring one of my new lanterns so you can have light at your camp site.”
Matt. “We’ll build a big fire; we won’t need more light.”
Me. “Your fires are so big the earth doesn’t need the sun.”
Matt, deadpan. “Good one, dad.”
Matthew purees me and all I can do is laugh. The kind of laugh that speaks to how narrow the margins have become. I would have gotten away with that six weeks ago.
Matt. “No, really, I meant it.”
Me. ‘Yeah, I’m sure you did.”
October 15, 2003
Boothbay
Greg Downing
On request, I was asked to do a piece on how I felt about the trip to Boothbay, and what it meant to me. Of course, how could I refuse? While I won't say I wake up every day wondering about what to write, it's important to me that I write, whenever I can. That being said, coming up with what to say was not so easy. Because it required me to think, and remember, how I felt before and after the trip.
Inititally, I'll admit, I wasn't overexcited about it. It would require giving up a day of gaming, which is not something I easily give up. Not just because I enjoy it, but because The Sunday game is a commitment that the members of my group make to each other. It's not something you just not show up for, because it tends to be dependant on everyone showing up. If you're not going to be there, it's preferable to let people know at least a week in advance, unless you're sick or there's some other unavoidable commitment.
On the other hand, once I determined that my Mom wasn't going to be needing me on Saturday, I thought about it some more. On the one hand, this isn't something I do every day, and I definitely don't see my brother often. And it's also important to me that I spend time with my father, especially since I'm not always that good at keeping in touch. Finally, it had been forever since I'd been to Boothbay. I remembered it as a place of children hijinks, of swimming in cold water, and of going off to the bowladrome to play videogames. It would be interesting to re-experience Boothbay as an adult.
Having made my decision to go, I still approached the trip with trepidation. What would we do? Where would we go? Spending a few hours with my father and brother would be one thing; it's completely different to spend a whole weekend together. In the car, I felt them out a little. I made a little conversation, I listened to Dad and Jim's conversation, I offered music. I napped a little, and read a little. Things weren't doing too badly.
We finally got in late in the day, after shopping for some food and drink together. And our first activity was having dinner at the Fisherman's Wharf, since Dad had a coupon. We sad down, and I loosened up a little, though the alcohol might have helped a little. We talked more, and I offered more, and I asked more. We laughed, and I started to feel comfortable. Afterwards, Jim and I stayed up a little late, watching the tail end of the improv Comedy show Whose Line Is It Anyway? and Jim sharing his love of CSI with me, as this was a show I'd never watched. I enjoyed it.
The next day, I had no more idea than the previous what we'd do. So as ideas were suggested, such as going to one of our old stomping grounds, or taking the boat to Squirrel Island to have lunch, I went with it. I found I enjoyed walking around with bro and Dad and Remo, even though Remo clearly did not enjoy getting dumped in the cold water. ;) About the only bad part was when some dogs took a dislike to Remo, and me and the owners of the other dogs had to rein them in. Then there was the boat ride to the island, and I foolishly assume we were going to have lunch at the picnic tables right there at the pier. No such luck! Dad had a full hike planned. It certainly was an exertion for me, but that was the only thing I disliked about it. I knew that the exercise would be good for me, and it was interesting, looking around the island, and seeing the 'gnome village' the inhabitants built (though dad seemed to think I wasn't impressed. The only thing that I would have preferred is if the hike took longer. I may have disliked the exercise, especially after twisting my ankle, but it was boring sitting and waiting for the boat. There was a sailboat regatta going on, but I wasn't as interested in that as Dad and Jim.
Getting home, we had some time to ourselves. Dad napped, Jim shopped, and I read. This I needed, as I can only take so much time around other people. It's just exhausting after a time. But by the time we were all together, I was replenished, and feeling better. We went out to see the waves at some point that I don't remember the name of (yes, my much lauded memory is fallible). I introduced the comedian Eddie Izzard to my father and brother (which got a lukewarm response, but that could have been because they weren't really concentrating on it. Also, Dad thought we were lost.
At dinner at another restaurant, I was encouraged to actually eat seafood, which I did. But some of the conversation at dinner was a little uncomfortable, because it was about my job hunting success (or lack thereof), and the likelihood of certain things panning out. I didn't really want to think about it, but just wanted to enjoy myself.
Later that night, I was having a hard time getting to sleep. My sinuses were acting up, it was hard for me to breathe, and I was killing tree after tree using Kleenex. In the morning, I felt like shit. I just wanted to go home, I'd had enough of Boothbay for now. But I certainly did not expect what came next. I did not expect the conversation that followed, the one that helped me to face some things about myself, about my future, and most importantly, about my writing. That alone made the trip worthwhile, coming to terms with untidy bits of myself, and reinvoking my passion to write.
I still wasn't feeling great, but the three of us pulled together and worked to try and fix the water, though as it ended up, we needed to call in the professional. And then we packed up and went home, stopping to eat, and ending up having more conversations that were less profound, but no less compelling. Getting home, I just wanted to rest and unwind, and try and get over my sinus troubles. But more than my sickness, I felt satisfied, like I accomplished more and had more fun than I'd expected to on the trip
And that was a good feeling.
October 14, 2003
Colors
Dear Henry,
I loved your fall description. Here's a photo that hints at our colorful light displays. I know, you'll feel like you've been dragged back to photosigmoidoscopy...
I didn’t intentionally ignore Joan Cass's directions; I defaulted to something that would allow me to resume breathing. Listening to the other stories in class, I thought, I can never make up something and have it believable. That, however, does not mean I won’t try.
Here is this Thursday’s assignment:
“Take any piece you are working on now, and create a diversion for your characters. It would be best if you could take a climactic scene and introduce into the middle of it something that has to be dealt with immediately ˜maybe a screaming child, or a fire, or an interfering acquaintance. In this last case, the person who interrupts the scene might take the part of one or the other of the central characters, or put his/her own interpretation on the problem and insist it be settled that way.”
I’ve got to slither off and do my writing but while I’m away I’ve got a story from yet another guest blogger. This one with explicit permission. This one that might encourage one more guest submission. I'll post it tomorrow.
One more thing. Robert, the Blue Hill’s teacher, sent back my copy of “Clemency” with his edits and these comments:
Dear Michael,
I enjoyed “ Clemency” for its solid dramatic narrative. You had a genuine story to tell here and you handled the storytelling well, though I noted on the paper a few things I thought could be clarified. I especially like the way you link the camping trip and your experience with the overturned car years earlier.
Our group brought up a number of suggestions at the workshop, but in general I feel you could do more to establish the tension of the family scene after the accident. The father’s voice finally becomes significant to you at the end of the essay but the reader never hears his voice. Maybe more dialogue throughout would help. Instead of simply stating that you frequently argue with your brother, why not let us hear a sample of a typical conversation?
When you find good active verbs to use your descriptions can be excellent, quite accomplished, as I point out in the opening paragraph of Chapter II. A very nice piece of prose! But note how often “is” and “was” appear throughout you opening paragraphs. The effect can be monotonous and repetitive. I’d try rewriting your opening paragraphs by doing what you did in the paragraph that opens Chapter II.
If you take another shot at this, would you return the essay to me? We may be assembling another (though larger) collection of workshop writing this year and I’d like to consider “Clemency” if we do. I’ll let you know what happens.
Bob
October 13, 2003
Home Again
A splendid trip indeed.
Perfect weather, just enough food, almost not enough toilet paper, menu mix-ups, sore backs, moonlit paddles across dark bodies of water, nighttime stumbles down mountainsides, and Scotch to kill for. And, for me, the most memorable quote of the trip, spoken by Adam, “Do you two want to go while I stay here and contemplate your stupidity. Or should I go with you?”
And yes, Henry, we sorely missed our two buddies.
View from my tent. Click below for the big picture.
October 09, 2003
Dear Miss Manners
My son Patrick's got a black belt in karate, he thinks nothing of
snowboarding all day on the slopes, goes mountain biking for days on
hills I'd never consider biking up or down myself. But he had never
learned how to play racquetball, and I had a little experience in the
game.
Anyway, two years ago when he was a senior at UMd (fall of 2001), I
taught Patrick how to play racquetball, and we've been playing once a week
ever since. The first year, we were playing with university racquets,
all randomly junky, squishy and small. But we didn't know any better.
Then one day, in the fall of 2002 (I remember it well) for no apparent
reason, the gym started to supply Titanium racquets, and (wow!) our games
suddenly improved--mine much more than Patrick's, since his speed and
strength didn't need any supplements. With the new racquets I found I
was beating Patrick in every game. Before that I was just barely winning
more than losing.
So I went out and bought a Titanium racquet for myself. And that has
put a serious monkey on my back. Not a week goes by when I think to
myself, "Can this run come to an end? Will the string be broken this
week?" Well, the string in 2002 was, technically speaking, broken,
but only twice, one time we were running out of court time, and a game
had to be stopped in a 9-9 tie. Another time I didn't have my
sneakers with me and had to play in regular street shoes. The score
was 15-13, Patrick's favor.
I recall after one sweaty match last spring, we were heading down to
the showers, and this gorgeous black coed came up to Patrick and said
"Hi!" to him. She gave him a hug, and Patrick introduced me to her.
She leaned over and gave me a hug, too. (I'll tell you, it was a good
thing we ran into her after the match and not before it, or I wouldn't
have been able to hit the ball.) So she asks, looking at our
racquets, "You've been playing racquetball?" And Patrick says, "Yeah,
he always beats me." I say, "Well, not all the time." And she just
beams a beautiful smile at me. Made my day, I'll tell you.
This run of wins continued through Patrick's graduation last June, and
I thought that the pressure would be off. Sad that we wouldn't have
regular games, but, as I said, the pressure would be off. But
no. Patrick decided to sign up at the gym as an alum, and we would
continue our weekly matches. Everyone I've spoken to about this says
that I can't expect to continue winning forever. Well, of course not.
One or the other of us has to die sometime. Even with my 40 years on
him, the way Patrick snowboards and bikes, it could be him first.
I think the reason Patrick doesn't win is that he doesn't warm up
before playing. He meets me at the court, and I've just finished
doing 20 slow minutes on one of the gym's elliptical trainers, so I'm all
warm and relaxed, and he's all tense and cold. Last week's match was
fairly typical. I started off beating him 15-1, and then in the
second game it was 15-7. By the 3rd game he was warmed up and ready
to go, so I really had to focus on treachery.
The game was close right from the start. He got the first 2 points. So
it was 2-0, his serve. I returned it with the kind of shot I often
wake up in the morning thinking about. (Yes, Miss Manners, I dream
about racquetball. I admit it.) A solid "whack!" one foot above the
floor and one foot in from the corner, not a true "kill" (which is 1-2
inches above the floor), but unreturnable because as it returns from
the front wall, it grazes the side wall too low and too close to hit.
Naturally, Patrick dove for it, but no luck, his reach was not enough.
From then on, it was my usual tactics: never repeat the same serve
twice. Hit a fast serve into the left rear corner, then a fast z-shot
to the right. (A z-shot serve goes close into the corner, hits the
side wall close to the diagonally opposite rear corner, and gains so
much spin that it moves off almost parallel to the back wall.) A
z-shot to the left, then another fast grazer along the left wall.
Then a change-up (which looks like it's going to be fast, but is
slower, throwing the returnee into a swinging fit). So I was able to
stay ahead on serves.
Now it was 12-11 my favor. I was getting tired. Patrick was just getting
warmed up. His serve. He hit it to my weak backhand, and I used my
delaying tactic--hit it off the ceiling. The ball arched way up,
slowly fell to the back wall, requiring Patrick to back hand it off
the back wall (he's good at that). But the angle of descent means his
return was also off the ceiling. And so was my return. That went on a
few times, each time the slow descent of the ball permitting me to
regain my breath and walk (not run) to the center of the court.
Finally, I sneaked a return ball behind Patrick's back as he moved
the wrong way. That, back in the good old days of 2001, used to work
at least 90% of the time, but now it works only if my timing is right,
and he can't whip around quite fast enough. A few more sneaky moves
and I won 15-14. Hoo! That was close. But time's up.
So I go for the Motrin and the hot shower on my tendinitis-prone
shoulders, while Patrick speeds off on his mountain bike at full
tilt across the campus. No motrin or hot showers for him.
My questions for you, Miss Manners: Is there a polite way to ask
Patrick if he is toying with me? Is it fair of him to put all this
pressure on me?
Yours sincerely,
Rickety Rackity Ed
October 08, 2003
Dear Henry (II)
Dear Henry.
Circa 1974, 318 Beacon St., Somerville
My turn to cook lunch. Diane and Jim McMahon sat at our pine table.
“Should I make Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup or their Vegetable Beef?”
Both Jim and Diane agreed - Vegetable Beef.
I opened the can, poured the contents into the saucepan and stirred. Jim got up from the table, looked in the pot and asked, “Where’s the beef?”
Nothing but chicken and noodles swimming in that broth.
I’m still not real good at following directions.
Adam and Tricia keep their house, guarded, and the perimeter mined, to keep prying eyes from seeing the almost finished addition/deck.
The great unveiling occurs on the 18th of October, the first Saturday after we return from our camping trip to Maine. Speaking of which, I checked the long range forecast for the nearest town, Millinocket, and look what I found.
TodayOct 08 Partly Cloudy 67°/45°
Thu Oct 09 Mostly Sunny 64°/36
Fri Oct 10 Partly Cloudy 64°/43°
Sat Oct 11 Partly Cloudy 64°/45°
Sun Oct 12 Mostly Cloudy 59°/51°
Mon Oct 13 Rain 61°/43°
Anyway, the Kibbes are having a room warming that Saturday, inviting twenty people including the usual suspects and close friends from Connecticut. However, and the reason I bring this up, I had to borrow tools from Adam and yesterday I got a sneak preview. Adam has slaved for weeks, arduously completing those time consuming finish details : painting, installing window,door and cabinet trim, tweaking light fixtures, it goes on, as you know all too well. The room, in a word that Adam often uses, is astonishing. Or one that I often use , puissant. After the party, Adam will post photos and you’ll see what I mean.
Last Thursday was the first night of my second writing class. This one, taught at the local Junior High School by freelance writer, Joan Cass, has an enrollment of eleven - more men than women. Another course that Diane, of course, found for me in our local Adult Ed catalogue. Remember, Adult Ed in Acton is the equivalent of an honors course at a school like Carleton.
I anticipated a formal beginning to class, one where the instructor asks each of us for a short bio. An efficient way of shaking every hand at once. But she did not. She seemed nervous and immediately launched into our assignment for the night, to write an essay in forty-five minutes to then read aloud. Here is the first paragraph from her handout:
“During tonight’s class, I ask each student to write a short piece, presenting a character with at least one dominate, interesting trait. The idea is to show the character in action, rather than just to describe her/his personality.”
Was she kidding? Should I get up, walk out, go home, and strangle Diane? How am I supposed to write a story in less than an hour? It takes me that long to compose a decent email. Cripes, Henry, you have seen me struggle for days to type the shortest of blog entries.
I thought, maybe hoped, I’d pass out. Fear of failure tip-toed up my spinal cord in search of that last unfrozen brain cell. I tried to calm myself by taking deep breaths, focusing on the task, and tuning out Ms. Cass as she explained in more detail, what was required. I did hear her say ,”What ever you do, don’t compare your writing to others in the class. You will always appear lacking, even when you’re not”. I scanned for a past blog entry that might fit. Spirits, about two friends dealing with the death of loved ones...nope, that has two semi-dominant characters. Besides, who needs more reminders of death. What to do?
Then, I thought, how about the best character I know? I’ll write about my humbling experience at my summer writing class. In a writing class, writing about a writing class, I liked that. But was this what she wanted? Don’t know, but now I’m down to thirty-eight minutes and forty-five seconds and the walls are closing in.
I scrawled away as fast as I could, hoping that when it was my turn, I would be able to read my writing. Those minutes darted by like a neutrino in search of a planet to penetrate. When she said, stop writing, I was pretty happy with what I had produced. There was a story line, a character or two, and it made me laugh. I wanted to read first but the choice was taken from me when she began clockwise around the room.
The first reader, name not known, read his story from a scrawl that looked at a distance not unlike mine. His story was short, but I was amazed by his compact, descriptive sentences. “Cold can of beer against the back of my neck.” I liked that, and told him so, but I thought, that’s not what I wrote.
Next, a slender woman in a bulky sweater, who read quickly. That was a good thing because she had three tightly spaced pages involving multiple characters and a complex plot. I was drawn into her story, again, by descriptive phrases. Reminded me of Virginia Wolff.
At the bottom of our handout were instructions regarding feedback. “It is not helpful to a the writer for someone to say, ‘I liked that piece.’ What is helpful are comments like ‘I was very involved with your character because he was convincingly desperate.’” Helpful or not, I almost shouted, “I can’t believe you wrote that in forty-five minutes!” I thought, privately - that is not what I wrote.
She was attached in some way to the guy next to her - husband, boyfriend, brother? - who read his story about a man, Elon, and his agonizing employment problems. It was almost as long as his wife’s, not as flowery, but equally flowing. Suddenly, I wanted the comfort of my summer writing class, where there were good writers, but also mortals.
I’ll skip the next three essays, including a college student’s Boston Globe Magazine-ready piece about lost love, saliva baths, and teeth pulled by slammed closet doors.
The story that convinced me I had failed was read by a woman slightly older than I. Its pacing tighter than my jockeys now felt, her story depicted a war weary old man stumbling around the streets of Brussels during the end of WWII. As she read, scenes unfolded in bold strokes following this man beaten down by the destruction of his beloved city. It ends with a V2 rocket landing nearby, throwing a GI from his jeep. The loop closes with an emotional reconciliation as the old man cradles the dying young man.
That was not what I had written. Not even close. Mine was not close to anyone's, even the guy who had only managed a paragraph. How had I ignored her directions? I looked down at the handout one more time and read, “Please note that written characters aren’t always believable when they do exactly what an actual person did in real life. Truth is stranger than fiction. Your fictional characters need to be more consistent than the people we know.”
I had written one of my patented verbatim stories. Sheesh.
In spite of the imperative not to compare to others, I tried hastily to reshape the class assignment. Without a fictional narrative, maybe I should introduce my story as a comedic interlude.
M. Cass looked at me and nodded her head, as in “Go.”
“I feel like you said, ‘Get in a car and drive to Harvard Square,’ and I got on a bus to Worcester. I can’t write fiction, never have. I write memoirs and that’s what I’ve done. I’m not sure there will be anything to say when I finish, but here it is.”
(The unvarnished, first draft, written-in-class version)
The Importance of Verbs
“I think it’s Michael’s turn to read his story.”
This was the fourth day of our writing class and I’d brought Clemency, a story I’d worked on for months. Even yesterday, knowing that my essay was longer than most, I managed to whittle another full page. Hearing others read their stories, I could see a familiar trap. Clemency, ostensibly about a camping trip, but touching on my relationship with my father, had been written for people I know. I needed to explain all those names or cut them out entirely. Or so I thought.
I looked up at Mr. Atwan and asked, “If it’s okay with you, I’d rather have someone else read it. I’ve read it a thousand times; I can’t hear it anymore. Becky Jackson has already agreed to read it.”
Mr. Atwan turned to Becky and asked, “Have you read it before?”
To which she replied, “No.”
“I did last night; I’ll read it.”
Sensing something was up, but happy to get the teacher's attention, I sat back - anxiously.
He was, after all, reading what I had thought was my best story. Maybe as he told Mercedes the day before, he would say mine is ready for publication. I had high hopes.
Until he pronounced gunwales, gunwhales.
Until he got lost in my weaving of timelines.
“You mean it’s a three hour bus ride from Boston to Indiana”?
“No, my bus ride was when I lived in Indiana.”
Until he came to my approaching an accident scene late at night, after a brief description of my making love to my college girlfriend.
He turned to Becky and said, “Aren’t you glad you didn’t have to read this?”
Becky an English teacher at Lawrence Academy said, “Even my students don’t write like that.”
She might have been kinder, but that is what I heard.
Now I wanted it to stop. I wanted a second chance to write it again.
Finally, he finished, reading my last carefully crafted, tortuously developed ending, “It was then that I realized my father’s voice had caught up with me.”
But Mr. Atwan’s expression was blank. As if he didn’t understand my epiphany. I wanted to run out of the room, or hide under my desk, but I stayed knowing, hoping, the bulls eye would move to someone else.
But Mr. Atwan wasn’t quite done. The day before he lectured us on the use of interesting verbs. “Be careful of boring to be verbs.”
He turned back to page one of my story, and as if continuing yesterday’s lecture, he said, “I’ll read just the verbs on this page.”
I hadn’t quite grasped the verb concept so I thought, okay, go ahead.
He began:
He was
She was
They were
He had
You were
I was
Oh, those verbs, I thought.
I raised my voice when I got to the last sentence, hoping it would sound more like an ending.
There were many comments, but the one I remember most vividly was from the Ms. Cass. She said. “You’re living in your own little world, aren’t you?” “Your character is living in his own little world, isn’t he?”
I was tempted to reply, “ What kind of soup would you like?”
Unfortunately, the class ended after my story and I’ll miss the next one, Thursday the 9th. Hopefully, Mark, Adam and I will be camped on Debsconeg Lake in the shadow of Mt. Katahdin.
Henry, you are no doubt wondering what the status is of the BMW. AVA Restoration in Dublin NH received, then sent to Dover NH, the difficult to machine flywheel. They are confident that by early next week the job will be done. In the meantime I’m sending them the throw bearing that also needs to be replaced. They THINK they have a replacement, but need to make sure.
October 05, 2003
Noche Flamenca
Dan Downing
I first experienced Flamenco up-close-and-personal in a restaurant-theatre in Madrid in May of 2000. I got to spend the better part of a week there on a business trip with two business colleagues and their wives. Linda had been invited to come also, but being the middle of the school year, she had to decline.
We’d been seated at a table maybe 15 feet from the raised stage, and feasted on tapas and local fare before the show came on. Over the next hour or so, four men, dressed plainly in blacks and browns, and five women in colorful, flowing, gypsy outfits, created and wrapped around us an organic experience that was less choreography and performance than genuine outpouring of emotion. It was, for me, a transcendent experience. It left me intoxicated, shaking, unable to communicate the feeling to my colleagues, and aching for Linda to be there sharing it with me.
Tonight I finally got to share with her this ancient Spanish art form. Our orchestra seats in Row G at the Emerson Majestic Theatre placed us as nearly as close to the stage as I had been in Madrid.
I read to Linda from the Playbill before curtain time. “Flamenco is a storm of dance, song, and acoustic guitar, set to a lively beat, inside of which the dancer-singers improvise, using their bodies as instruments, bellowing and tapping out a wail of human suffering and grief that is the cultural root of this 15th-century Andalusian genre.”
But no words are adequate to convey the whirling-dervish-cum-tap-dancing, deep bass male cante, staccato clapping, accompanied by impeccably strummed guitar chords, and accented by “allez!” as they cheer each other on, that is the live event.
Linda loved it. And agreed that our next vacation should be to Spain.
For those intrigued, Flamenco Festival 2004 will bring an Andalusian dance troupe to the Majestic at the end of January.
Let’s all go!
October 01, 2003
Matthew
Regular reader, comment contributor and friend of more than twenty years, Chris Radulski, has been telling me stories about her son Matthew from about the time he learned to talk. Precocious? The baby the Tibetans missed in their search for the next Dali Lama?
June of ‘02, from Chris:
As I was rearranging things in the living room, Matthew was helping me. Small suggestions like "Mom, I think a chair in the middle of the new rug would look nice".
After some time of this, he looked at me and said "I'm tired of making all these decisions and want to stop now; and by the way Mom, this conversation never happened".
Not to be outdone, I suppressed laughter and said to him "what conversation".
At that, that beautiful crooked smile appeared.
Matthew is now in the second grade and quite happy because he ”learned everything there was to learn in the first grade.”