MaineCourse

Testing the Waters

I arrived home the other day to find Matthew and Sarah in the kitchen talking to Diane. I told Matt to leave the room because I had something I wanted to ask Sarah in private. Matt shook his head as he headed down the hall to the living room.

I knew Sarah had heard most of the camping stories from the boys.

“Sarah, do you think Matthew would ever go back to Maine with me?”

She smiled, maybe relieved that my “personal question” wasn’t so personal. “You mean go somewhere with two feet of ice? And winds that almost blew him, while inside his tent, into the lake?”

“Yeah, that Maine.”

“I don’t think so.”

Last breakfast at Auntie M's in , Greenville, Maine.
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The ride home.

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We Did It

bang bang bang's comment reminds me that I'd better post the new improved camping date. 5/15 is a problem for two reasons. The most important is that Adam might be otherwise occupied. The second, one that only parents care about, is that the MCAS begins on Tuesday 5/18. So how about 5/23?

---

I tiled Roland’s hallway floor early in the week, and he asked me if I’d brought his invoice. I said no. He had asked me that the day before, and I had said no. Fed up, he replied, “Don’t ever bring it, I don’t care.” His answer was anything but angry. Customers like Roland, who pay instantly for work done, are very few.

“You know what I did last night instead of writing up your invoice? Matt and I worked on his starter motor.”

Roland is a self-made man. He’s eighty now, slowed by emphysema and diabetes, but at six foot three, three hundred pounds, and a voice as deep as the Marianas Trench, he is most intimidating. A WWII vet, he landed on both Iwo Jima and Okinawa, has been married three times, and has an answer for everything. As George says, “I don’t do nuances,.” Neither does Roland.

“Two bolts, what took you so long?”

“Yeah, two bolts on your car, and Matt and I assumed two bolts, but his BMW has a mounting bracket on the front with a bolt into the engine block. A real knuckle-buster to get to.”

“That’s what you get for buying foreign crap.”

“Come on, Roland, the car is an heirloom. My father owned it.”

“Sell it.”

Indeed, we might sell the car, but we can’t if it doesn’t start, and we won’t even try until it has a brand new paint job. Matt finished his homework early, and we both went back to the task at hand. That mounting bracket had stopped us the night before. It is small, triangular, and ties to the starter motor by two bolts, and to the engine block by one. But - and it’s another big but - once it’s attached to the starter motor, and the starter motor is back in place, the hole in the bracket has to line up perfectly with the hole in the engine block. And do you suppose those Germans drilled the mounting bracket hole larger than the bolt hole to allow for wiggle room? Heil no.

If the job were out in the open, if we could see what we were doing, if there were a way to light the area we were working in, it would have been easy. But none of that was true, and so we fumbled for an hour; dropping the bolt, loosening the bracket, prying the bracket, dropping the bolt, loosening the bracket; precisely the kind of infuriating work that would send Diane running naked and screaming out into the neighborhood. I know, I’ve seen it happen. And the funny thing is, much of my work is exactly that aggravating, and now it’s part of Matthew’s life. What a gift, father to son.

For most of the hour, I was prying from above while Matthew hovered, chest over the engine, hands hidden deep in the bowels. Finally he cried out, “I’ve got it.” The threads mated and now all we needed to do was tighten the bolt. I volunteered, and with socket wrench in hand, and moving one click at a time, the bolt drew down.

Elated to feel the end near, I’d pull that wrench all of three degrees, feel the bolt tighten, and yell, ”Yessss.”

Pull again, “Oh, my god, it feels great.”

Snugger still, “Ahhh, wonderful.”

“SHUT UP!” Matt finally groaned.

“Shut up, what do you mean shut up - aren’t you happy?”

“Yes, but you sound like an idiot.”

Maybe less like an idiot and more like Meg Ryan, or maybe an idiotic Meg Ryan? However, we were finished, and when Matt turned the key, the car cranked like Muhammad Ali’s left jab: bang, bang, bang, bang, (that’s the best I can do - I can’t imitate that cranking sound), and I was delighted. Even though the car didn’t start.

Matt was sure we had done something wrong, like failing to connect a gas line. But I knew better, because I grew up in the days of points, plugs, and carburetors. I moved in behind the wheel, turned the key with my right hand, pulled the choke with my left, depressed the clutch with my left foot, pumped the gas with my right, bounced up and down in my seat, and looked all the world as if I were having a grand mal seizure. I didn't care, it reminded me of the old days, and like the old days, it eventually started. Demonstrating to Matthew that he can now safely stop for gas, without having to call his dad or Adam for help.

Siloo

The BMW has been drivable, but only because it has been starting instantly. However, shut it off and try to start it again, and it struggles briefly before giving up. That's why I finally ordered a new starter motor online, and that's why yesterday when I got home I asked Matthew, "You want to install it today?"

"No, I'm taking a nap." It was five o'clock, and I knew Matt had been up late the last few nights. "Wake me when it's time to pick Nana up from bingo." That would be 9:45 PM.

I was disappointed but decided to imitate my son. I dropped a pillow on the office floor, tuned the radio to NPR, and lay down for my own nap. That's when I heard footsteps on the stairs and, "All right, let's do it."

The starter motor is anchored by only three bolts, but it's in an awful place - underneath hoses, the manifold, and greasy stuff that's hard to see. I expected all kinds of problems, but in an hour and a half we had the old beast resting on the driveway and were screwing the used mounting bracket to the new one.

The primary reason it wasn't more of struggle is because my father had previously repaired it, and when he put it back, he had used a thread compound called Siloo. Siloo is about the only thing I've given my father that he actually used. I inherited most of those presents placed under his side of the tree. The super view-all, extra wide rear view mirror was tossed; the suicide knob, I put on my '56 red and white Plymouth; all those snake oil additives, I eventually poured into my own carburetors; and the Craftsman toolbox from which I was pulling our wrenches was his also. But Siloo he used, and the amazing thing is, it performed as advertised. Twenty-five years later those nuts slid off those bolts as if they were brand new.

So thrilled to see the gray goop on those threads, after each bolt I removed, I'd say to Matt, "You know why we could remove that bolt with our fingers? Siloo!" After the third proclamation, he told me to shut up.

We struggled for another hour getting the new starter motor back in place, but darkness and a thunderstorm sent us scurrying into the house before we could finish. We had a late dinner from T. C. Lando's, we talked more about the camping trip, I called two parents, and Matt drove off to pick up his grandmother. He didn't get home until almost eleven, which means you can lay even money on our finishing the repair this afternoon. Or taking naps.




Filling up in Kokadjo.
Running low, we had to make one run into town for gas.

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Collateral Victims

And now, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story:

Chapter Three by Adam

Before anybody could think long and hard enough to back out, Michael had flashlight in hand and was off through the undergrowth, the boys sucked in behind as if tethered to him, loathe to let any distance grow between them and his flashlight as he headed into the dark woods creating bounding shadows. Not towards any "landmines" where he'd first heard the noise, I sincerely hoped, as I headed in after them.......

Actually, I had been about to suggest we walk down the open shore to get to the so-called "pond", but Michael probably knew this, hence the decisive departure. Up ahead, comedy flirted with panic as boys crashed through unseen branches in an effort to keep up with those who actually had flashlights. I kept up the rear at a comfortable distance, though the eeriness of the woods, only fleetingly illuminated by the beam of my flashlight, was undeniable. Darkness would rush in to swallow recently memorized details, almost as if with a purpose. Hard not to feel another presence, and any hope of night vision erased by our use of electric light.

After a fairly short and uneventful wander, we found ourselves in a clearing, though not at the expected pond -- no open water. Rather, a lumpy topography of logs covered in grassy reeds, a monochromatic, monotextural landscape almost alien in the raking light of our flashlights. We stopped to ponder what dangers might lurk beneath a surface possibly less consistently solid than it appeared. Ahead we could see the edge of what we remembered as a snowbank overhanging the pond, a continuation of the gravel bar that separated this small body of murky water from the main bay. Beyond that possibly the water itself. And as we started forward again towards the snow, the first apparition flitted into our furtive beams.

A more or less single row of trees grew on the shore of the bay above the snowbank, providing a bit of a windbreak from the westerly winds roaring towards us across Spencer Bay (yet another reason Michael may have chosen the sheltered overland route). And apparently fighting that gale -- and merely holding steady -- was a flying thing.

Okay, a bird. A swallow, I think. But in the isolating beam of a flashlight against the black night, in the general direction where we were sneaking up on some unimaginable living thing that there lurked, and motionless, yet in full motion, it WAS a pretty spooky sight. The phrase, "What the hell is THAT?!" hissed into the night in several breathless adolescent whispers. In truth, I think the bird was just in the final negotiations of trying to land in a tree against a severe headwind, but it DID make for an interesting sight before it disappeared. To no one's comfort.

We crunched up on top of the snowbank. All was in silence, The Noise in full abeyance, probably due to our presence. We were certain in both a gut and a brain way that this is from where It was coming, but there was nothing. We had, we supposed, only to wait for its maker to re-establish whatever conditions it required before resuming its unfathomable nocturnal rite.

But silence, where there are humans, must be deliberately made, and The Well-Armed Boys were too spooked to stay quiet for long. Much shuffling, some talking, and plenty of darting of flashlight beams. No way was It going to forget our presence with all this racket. And then Matthew spoke: "Is it just me, or do I see hundreds of eyes in the beam of my flashlight?"

I mentally immediately chalked his interjection up to a combination of paranoia and sadism, deliberately further spooking both his friends and himself. But then I saw what he saw -- tiny glintings at the surface of the water. Most of them moving.

Frogs. Perhaps not hundreds, but still, LOTS of frogs. Inwardly I shivered. I'd several times seen what I understood to be heterothermic amphibians in the almost equally cold fall waters and wondered how they managed to move, or even survive, much less thrive. This water was only a degree or two above freezing -- we homeothermic mammals gotta get out right fast. I can see the fallacy in my logic, but still I shivered. And below us, the frogs repositioned themselves and waited.

We did get the boys to quiet down and turn off their flashlights. One of them announced that he would stand between me and Michael, and resolutely did. There were barely inches or less between us all, yet still there was a little shuffling -- but we were becoming a fairly quiet group. And we waited.

And waited. After awhile, patience wore thin, with no payoff. More shuffling and whispering. But then a croak. A single phrase from the gobbling choral chaos of an hour ago, but we knew we had our source. And it was just frogs.

Matt allowed as how he'd begun to worry about what might be coming to prey on these frogs, and whether we might by mistake or proximity become collateral victims of some unforeseen attack, but I tried to reassure him reasoning that:
a) the likely predators included heron and raccoons, not grizzlies or great whites, and;
b) the frogs probably knew when was a good time to come out and all start yelling at once, "Hey baby baby, here I am, pickmepickmepickmepickmepickme!!!!!"
I was pretty sure we could trust the frogs that all was safe.

And so the group started to break up, push out through the windbreak onto the gravel lakeshore and make our way back to camp the easy way. The mystery had been given a face, and a pretty non-threatening -- though still reptilian -- one at that. I hung behind as the group moved off towards home. Nervous flashlights darted back my way as if to divine my status or my intentions. But alone, I stayed.

And within mere minutes the whole spooky, amazing chorus fired right back up. It's as if those little well-chilled froggies knew exactly where we were the whole time, or had telepathic access to our intentions. Once the "home" light was lit up in our limbics, they went confidently back to trying to get laid. And what a racket! Like no sound I've ever heard. All of what Michael said, and more, at close range. I was super glad I'd waited. Even a dozen yards down the shore, the wind would've vastly reduced the impact.

A few minutes later I sensed as much as saw two shadows approach from the direction of the camp, Michael and Robby finally having decided to double back and see what I was hanging around for. We listened in excited glee, finally truly rewarded for our efforts, and then we too headed back "home". This time without the use of flashlights, a fragile, elusive rapport with a darkness not so dark our prize.

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Ericksons has reopened for the season.

Fireworks

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We were invited to an early spring barbecue at the Hopkin’s Saturday night, and I raised a hot topic Diane and I had been “fighting “ (her word) about. I called it a moral dilemma.

Matt wants to go camping in Gilsum (in Maine, he kept asking, “Why come here when we can go to Ed’s place), but bring, not just Robby, Daryl, Chris and maybe Joe, but also, Sarah, Courtney, Kathy and Celeste. Seemed to me, at first, to be a good idea, so I jumped right on that moving train, and encouraged him to set a date. Diane also likes the camping idea, however, being the responsible parent, HATES my plan of a community tarp under which they all sleep. She wants two tents, one for girls, one for boys, and maybe a third, ours, in between.

We were talking about this on our way home from dinner on Friday, and the discussion got so heated, we skipped Willow Books. By Saturday morning, I awoke agreeing with Diane, but by Saturday night I had flopped back to my original position. That’s why I asked Bob and Mary for their opinion. If I was looking for support and not simply clarity, I was in the wrong house. To no one’s surprise they both lined up, steadfastly, with Diane.

I said that Matthew, from the beginning, knew my position, and he knew his mom’s. And Matt is nothing if not opportunistic. Diane and I most times - thanks to Diane’s prescient persistence - maintain a united front. Grades, curfews and the like, he knows he can’t crack us. It’s two against one. But sleeping in the woods with his friends, well, he saw the wedge and he knew he had to separate to conquer.

As I was driving them home, late Thursday night:

Chris. “How many cars do we need for Gilsum?”
Matt. “Two.”
Robby. “Who will drive?”
Matt. “My mom will...but I don’t know if she wants to come.”
Robby. “How about Adam?”
Matt, turning to me, “You know, Robby really likes Adam.”
Robby. “Adam’s da man!”
Sarah. “I like him too.”
Chris. “You know Adam?”
Sarah. “I met him twice.”
Robby. “Maybe Adam could borrow a van and drive.”

I put my brain on record for this conversation. First, those boys never talk about liking an adult, secondly, here they were conspiring to have Adam borrow (or rent?) a van, so they wouldn’t be limited to eight friends. And they had also nudged the responsible parent right out the door. The truth is, Diane loves to camp in Gilsum, and she loves Matt’s friends. She would be a perfect companion, but she’d also be a chaperone.

Following Adam

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Chapter One by Adam

We were herded by circumstance onto Spencer Bay. As posted before leaving, we were headed for Lobster Pond, but an updated Maine Gazetteer purchased in the Indian Hills Trading post outside Greenville made it clear there was no access by road. Then we bottomed out in snow and got stuck on the way to a tempting alternate, Blood Pond, and though we proceeded on foot just to see it, there was very little "there" there, so we dug & we dug, chunking in rocks & branches for traction, and generating one limerick:

Mike's truck's stuck in icy wheel pits
Tires spinning, like a rock there it sits
But with enough sticks & stones
And thank God no broken bones
We're finally off again in search of the Ritz

That search took us to one thwarted destination after another, racking up literally hundreds of logging road miles and taking a minor toll on Mike's undercarriage (one muffler support bracket weld cracked). And as darkness loomed, we chose our final destination (back to the motel of night one was indeed discussed), which would have seemed too near civilization and too "easy" had we spied it earlier in our quest. After one last exciting washout crossing (flanked by many a downed tree, courtesy of ambitious -- though possibly lost -- beavers) out onto the open expanse of the gravel fields of Spencer Bay we rolled.

It was so clearly a party arena, we almost didn't stop. Vast, no shelter, barren and open, and certainly devoid of firewood, picked over by the preceding droves. But it was late, the scenery across the lake uplifting, and so we headed for the edge of the woods and threw down anchor, hoping the Greenville football team bus didn't pull in about midnight.

We did have a few visitors over the next three days, just regular nobodies like us looking for whatever one can find at a lakeshore at the end of a road on a map. They all left us to our privacy after brief inspections. But on the last night, I thought I'd spied a flashlight bobbing along the shore of the campsite north of us, so after dinner, I remarked that I was walking out to the point and set off.

My reconnaissance sortie immediately became a group affair. Whether bored and willing to avail themselves of positively any diversion, or suspicious of my motives, the Three Well-armed Boys set off after me, with Mike trailing. Some dozen yards out front, I heard a weird noise from the middle of the expanse, and stopped.

We all heard it, this gobbling racket borne on the evening winds, which were beginning to pick up steam. Many ducks squabbling, we posited, perhaps at the shut-in pond down the shore. But unable to conjure a positive identification, we kept on out to the point, where we saw no signs of neighbors. The warm winds off the frozen lake weirded us out, though, and then we heard our tarps collapsing in the gathering gusts and hastened back.

Nothing to do but strike the shelter. With dinner over and tomorrow's departure almost here, it just seemed practical. But afterwards, there was little to do without our makeshift site for "locale", and the winds were really picking up. And then Michael suggested we go check out The Noise.

Chapter Two by Michael

I continually compared this camping trip to those fall trips with the guys. And this one was a model of efficiency. We arrived in Portland in two hours, had a quick dinner, and were in Greenville by ten. Unheard of for the guys who lollygag everywhere they go. We also had three meals a day, at close to reasonable times - not breakfast at ten, lunch at four and dinner stuffed down after eight.

Sunday was no different. Adam’s dinner, boil in a bag Pad Thai (chicken and shrimp for us), bookended Robby’s breakfast of ham, eggs and bacon. But this external regularity had no effect on my internal workings. Which is why, long after dinner, I wandered into the woods in the dark.

As an aside, I think when friends claim they can’t camp because they can’t do without hot showers and soft beds, what they are really complaining about is the lack of a bathroom. Which might also explain why each boy arrived with several rolls of toilet paper. We might run out of food and water, but we’d never have to resort to dry leaves.

Anyway, single roll in hand, I proceeded into the lampblack forest. I knew I had to go deep into the woods to create my own private privy, but also to be sure I wasn’t going to be a target. Target practice was constant, and the path was decorated by hanging, pellet-riddled Pepsi cans. Sometimes the boys would stand up and shoot at those cans; often times, sitting at the picnic table, they would simply spin and fire. With memories of Gilsum, and Robby using his Daisy to plunk the back of the out house I was using, I plodded on.

With flashlight in hand, I wove in and out of thickets, past trees stumps, and over a truly amazing amount of moose, deer and doe poop. It was obvious, without the presence of people, this area was a veritable Mall of America for animals. Although we never saw them at our site, we even awoke on Monday to fresh poop outside our tent.

I felt like a cat in search of the perfect spot, which for me is a downed tree resting horizontally a couple of feet above the ground, against which I would rest my back. I kept walking and that’s when I first heard the noise to which Adam refers. I’d stop to listen and the noise would get louder. I’d walk and the sound would diminish. I wasn’t really concerned, because I have no forest fears, and I knew it wasn’t coming from a panther or a space alien.

However -- and this is a big however -- you try turning your back in the dark, in the woods, to an unknown sound. And to amplify that however, turn your back and drop your pants down around your ankles. I felt like a prisoner with ankle irons, and pretty soon, if I could force myself to relax, I knew running was going to be damn near impossible.

My position, bare bottom to the noise, was bad enough, but my silence emboldened the whatevers to make even more noise. I had no idea what they were, but the sound was not unlike the ominous music played in most horror movies from the sixties. The dead arise from their graves and the closer they get to the unsuspecting victims the higher that warbling pitch.

When I returned, I didn't tell anyone about that noise, and it wasn't until the next night, when the boys and I trailed curious Adam out onto the beach, that we decided it was time to investigate. Remember, this is Monday night, the boys have weathered a frightening thunderstorm, the winds have torn down our tarps and smashed our lantern, and we are all moving as one. I may have been the first to queue up behind Adam, but Matt, Daryl, and Robby with his trusty machete, were instantly at our side.

The Conclusion coming soon... .

Skipping Stones

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A View From The Top

Chris

In typical tourist fashion Mark, me and the boys, as well as my friend Shelley’s family, took the Fenway Park tour today. It’s something I’ve never done and as a fan I must say I recommend it. We had the ancient tour guide who’s been going there since the Year One. Things I learned today:

Ted Williams is in three hall of fames: baseball, aviation and fishing. This explains why he was such a lousy husband (my interpretation, not Steve the ancient tour guides)

The reason Cy Young’s number isn’t retired is because he didn’t have a number. Nobody did prior to the 1930’s.

Tom and Jean Yawkey’s names are in Morse code under the word “American” on the scoreboard.

Yaz was the last person to win the Triple Crown waaaaaaayy back in 1967.

They take you to the press box, the .406 club and over to the new right field roof seats and the monster seats. Unfortunately for us, they put down a new warning track today, so we couldn’t go on the field or in the dugout which frankly I was looking forward to. I wanted to sit right where the boys of summer sit (okay right where Johnny D sits). Anyway, overall a lovely day, as any day at Fenway is. And not expensive either.




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Less Exposed




The night after the thunderstorm, Adam and I set up the boys' tent next to ours, but they chose to leave it there. To further fortify against the elements, Matt backed the truck up and they all tied the blue tarp to the truck and draped it over and staked it to their tent. Thinking, I presume, that unless the truck blows away the tent will stay put. However, Monday night’s winds were far worse than the Sunday’s - the noise couldn’t have been louder had we camped on runway three at O’Hare - and the tarp and the tent’s rainfly both blew off.

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Spencer Bay

Snow, bridges out, flooded back roads, and more muck than our four wheel drive Frontier could maneuver through, kept us from truly remote camp sites. Lobster Lake, Blood, Roach and Trout Ponds were all inaccessible. By the end of Saturday, with the truck covered in mud and pleading for rest, we clattered into Spencer Bay campground - a wide open, gravely area with multiple fire rings and faint sounds of late summer parties. But we were all alone and it was home. Adam and I will tell the story of this trip and I think it will be worth reading.

I’ll begin with the ride home on Tuesday.

“Hey, Matt, would you like to take a trip like this one again? Maybe go back in the Fall?” I thought the answer would be a quick, yes.

“Wellllll, that depends. It depends on many factors.”

“Like what?” In my head, I scanned possible caveats : no thunderstorms, maybe one night’s sleep, not getting stuck in the snow ... .

“Like, how about a trip where I don’t have to worry about my demise.”

The boys' tent, far from ours, perched on the edge of the water with a panoramic view of Moosehead Lake and the mountains beyond. Idyllic setting to be sure, but ...

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that was before Sunday night's thunderstorm. Daryl and Robby survey the damage...no, that is not Matthew in the collapsed tent.


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Bon Voyage

Maine map with our destination, Lobster Lake.

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Today did not proceed according to my best laid plans. Diane's front pads on her Mazda, which were ground down to the metal, took twice as long to fix, and then the boiler in the basement sprung a leak. That was easy to fix. I shut the @#$%@ off. Our doors are open now anyway.

Now I’ve those last minute, crucial packing things to do, as the boys arrive from school, and Adam, who just called, should be on his way. The weather looks to be spectacular, and I can’t wait to test the two feet of ice on Lobster Lake.

Flo's Return

Flo returned from Arizona, tan, and tired from the long plane ride, but effusive about her sister and brother-in-law who treat her like royalty. After we entered her apartment, the first thing Flo did was look under her bed for her cat, Abu. And Abu, dsyfunctionally true to form, meowed, but did not budge from her dark hiding place. Chris, her new found fourteen year old cat sitter, left affectionate notes, including a description of the cat’s puke and how he had cleaned it up with a warm wash cloth.

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Lobster Remembered

Paddling Lobster Lake in October, 1999.

Lessons Learned

I was tucking in my shirt when Matt walked past our bedroom already dressed for Easter dinner at my cousin Jennifer’s. “Hey, Matthew, knowing what we know now about the BMW, and given the work we’ve put into it, can you believe we drove that car all the way to Minuteman (where he took his auto mechanics course) last summer?”

“No,” he answered. “How about if I drive it to Newton? I could follow you.” Honest to god, although the idea had occurred to me, it wasn’t implied in my question,

I thought, if he doesn’t break down, he could show off his car to the Paci’s. If it does pop a radiator hose, or the fan blade spins off, we’d park it and pick it up on the way back. Doable, although anxiety provoking. But for Diane, it was a flat out bad idea. She said, we should drive together and discuss Matt’s summer plans, if his car goes kaput, we’ll be late, and most importantly, we had agreed that he could drive the BMW around town, but not on the highway. I had to admit, she was right on all those points, especially keeping the car off the highway. But what did I do after we pulled out of the driveway, caravan-style? I sealed the bad deal when I violated another sacrosanct rule. I called Matt on his cell phone. But how else to tell him to watch his temperature gauge? I didn’t have to turn my head to feel the barrage of eyeball-launched daggers from my lovely wife.

The trip, with Matthew behind us, was a frosty one, until we pulled onto the off ramp from route 128 and onto route 30, a few short miles from Easter dinner. I was as surprised as Diane was happy that we’d made it. When we finally drove into Jennifer’s driveway, Matt’s custom exhaust burbling, I naively thought Matt and I would do some serious palm slapping. Instead, “Dad, you drive like a drunk. Don’t you know what a lane is? And, you drove so slow I thought I’d go insane.”

“Wait a minute. Diane, a few minutes before, told me how delighted she was that I could be good driver.” Diane thinks driving the speed limit is being a good driver.

Diane corrected me, “No, I said I was surprised that you could drive carefully,”

Yeah, okay.



Side by side with Vic's car. Note Matt's new tail pipe.

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Liz, Vic, Jennifer and James

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****************************

I was stuffed, happy, and over confident on our return trip. When Diane suggested taking the lazy route, 117, to avoid this commuter clogged highway with the monster-sized SUV’s threatening to squash Matt’s car, I shrugged her off. Again, I shouldn’t have. Maybe two miles past 117, my cell rang. “Dad, we have to stop, the fan blade is making a terrible noise.”

“All right,” I replied, and dready thoughts instantly invaded my brain - pistons popping through the hood, the fan blade impaled in the radiator - but there was nothing I could do but drive on. We were on 128 near the route 2 interchange - without a breakdown lane. If we pulled over, we’d all be dead. And I knew route 2 provided no safe haven until the first farm stand after the highway narrows. That’s when the grassy, almost green median that separates the off ramp from route 2, beckoned. Instead of following the curve of the road, I drove straight (something I had always wanted to do) and easily bounced over the curb and onto the grass. I worried, briefly, about Matt’s low slung car, but there he was right behind me, and there was the noise he had to listen to - an awful, cyclical, banging metallic sound. Sounded less like a fan blade, and more like the valve clatter Adam has been warning us about. As if those valves had shattered and were bouncing around inside the valve cover.

However, with the hood up, Matt instantly spied the problem. A long grounding bolt had worked its way loose, and was sitting atop, and interfering with the alternator fly wheel. As the alternator spun, each nub of the fly wheel would hit the loose bolt, sending that metallic clanging throughout the car. This was the best of all scenarios, and once we removed the bolt altogether, we were ready to resume our trip home.

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Nica

Matt told everyone at Easter dinner about his plans to go to Nicaragua. They responded as most people do. “Oh, you’re going with a school or church group?” Anita, Vic’s sister, who lived in Venezuela for many years, was the most excited. She offered to help Matt with his Spanish, before and after his trip. Generous Dan and Linda sent money to cover transport costs from the airport in Managua to Esteli for both Matt and Hil.

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Camping

I sent the boys this camping list and I just received this from cousin Jennifer who is an executive vice president for Sappi Paper: "Now, on the trip to Maine, my guy in Skowhegan is advising against it, unless you have "inside" info and advice. Here's why: Still two feet of ice on Moosehead Lake and south into Rangely lake district. A couple feet of snow in the woods still. On the Kennebec River, you may encounter ice flows and high risk of hypothermia if you fall in. It is predicted to rain this weekend, so may be somewhat better conditions, but still.......Can you find a safer place to go?" She sounds a little like my sister, Joan, doesn't she?
How did all these worry warts invade my family?

Easter

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Summer Plans

Diane laid her chop sticks on her plate while I finished the last of the seaweed and sesame oil. Another Friday night, another meal at the Sushi House. We were trying hard to make our summer plans, mostly revolving around Matthew’s, and we needed to resolve when he would go to Minnesota and whether we would fly with him or join him later. Our constraints were: Susan’s end of August trip to Ireland, Matt’s month in Nica, my scheduled work (a kitchen near my house, a bathroom in Lexington), and for how many days the Torroemoreites could tolerate us.

“How long to you want to go for?” We had been talking about how hard work had been, how tired I was, how tired we both were. Suddenly it was a sunny, breezeless day, the green cut short, and she’d Teed up a Titleist for Justin Rose.

“A month.” I replied.

“So that is what you want to do, spend most of the summer at Jimmy and Susan’s?”

“Of course, but you know we couldn’t stay a month. We can’t afford it even if they were willing to have us. Maybe ten days.”

“We could go when Susan is in Ireland. Jimmy would probably be happy to have us. Or we could move into the downstairs and not tell anybody.” Diane, laughing, continued. “We could go before Susan’s trip to Ireland, and when they drop us off at the airport, rent a car and sneak back.”

“But Susan’s office is down there,” I answered as though this were a real plan, “She would see us when .....”

Diane cut me off. “That’s why we plan our trip near hers. Jimmy would be home, but we’d be very quiet, and remember, there is a refrigerator on that floor.”

And ripe tomatoes in the garden, a computer with DSL, midnight swims in the lake... .

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Matt's old muffler pictured here, laying atop the hood of his car, because it has been replaced by a shiny, performance enhanced, Bavarian AutoSport's muffler. More about that exciting development Monday.

Esteli Nicaragua

Comments in response to Matt’s upcoming trip to Nicaragua.

“I was telling Seah about Matt's plans.
She said it was as ill conceived a plan as when her friend Karen Pence
- the most white bread girl on earth - went to Africa and took a
decade to recover.

And I said - yeah, I should write his aunt Susan and ask if she is
really going to let this happen. Instead I am writing you - in case
Susan already is on the verge of hysteria about it.
Tear up the ticket. Lose the bucks.
Send Matt here and we'll treat him badly but with hospitals close by.”

“Diane, did you feel like you couldn’t say no?”

“You know, at your age it’s too late to have another.”

“He’s going where?? With a girl his age??”

“Too bad you will never see him again.”

I was lying in bed the other night with these comments floating in my head when I sat up and thought, I wouldn’t go to Nicaragua. What were we thinking? But then I wandered down in my pajamas and read Ed’s offering.

Great plan. Sounds like a mini-peace corps gig.
Good for Matt & Hillary, good for Nicaragua.

Buena suerte!

So there, all you nay sayers, it is a good plan, even if we don’t see him again.

Commingling in a Frothing Hottub

Adam missed the great potluck, pre-camping trip dinner, which might be the real reason there have now been concerned parental offers of satellite phones, St. Bernards and Navy submersion suits. His large, responsible and calming presence would have, I am quite sure, reassured the group. Unless, of course, they were privy to this image



and his mea culpa:

“As I ordered up the French Martini in The Flamingo Lounge just before dancing our brains out for a couple of hours, I wasn't thinking about the morrow, nor the coming evening. A sense of invincibility had descended, following down two pomegranate Margaritas and a glass of Veuve Clicquot during socializing and appetizers, and 2 or 3 glasses of very good Pinot Noir with dinner.........

That frothy, light purple specialite du maison -- made of Chambord, vodka, Grand Marnier and pineapple juice, amongst perhaps other things -- was probably the single most direct mistake of the evening, but the whole trajectory was as well -- a trajectory that followed the purple kiss of death by culminating in two shots of Don Julio tequila (my favorite alcohol thus bookending the evening) just before climbing into the hottub for an hour starting at 1:15 a.m.

So not only did I suffer the physical consequences, which were quite prolongedly miserable, but I've let down my best friend, thwarted his generous return of my reincarnated edged implements, and deprived myself of an equally anticipated second round of socializing. Bad call.

Not to wallow in regret, but I do apologize................”

Photos of the party, a birthday celebration for a close friend, to which Adam refers.

In unfairness to Adam, when he posted the above photos on our common website, I asked if he were writing a story to accompany them.

“Say whuuuuuuuuuuht...............???

I just spent 2 hours creating the flyer for the next DLF event in Pagemaker and Photoshop. I'm beat. Make something up. Tell terrible torrid tales of trials and temptation. Speak of unspeakable musical abandon, gourmand weaknesses of the flesh, and commingling in a frothing hottub in the night beneath the uplit topiaries of David's obsessive horticultural madness. Detail the tastes of culinary labors of love you've neither whiffed nor masticated, and leave no leer unriddled, no stumble unremarked, no sartorial overreach unpinned. But say it gloriously and generously, elevating the fools who play their familiar parts to masters of plot and vision, whose Bacchannalian ritual is not to be judged by those to whom "calorie" and "hangover" have meaning.

And then sign my name and let fly.”

I replied that I wasn’t writing no story for him but would post the pics with his emails, and I did, and there you have it, his words, unedited.

That makes three. I wrote a story, Ed gave me the okay to post his emails, and we now have Adam's Bacchannalian tale...I sense something is missing.

Well, here's something....... The subject's post-facto postscript (yes, 'tis I, little drummer boy.....). First -- yes, it's all true, alas. But second -- lest it mislead, the above image is from three years ago, no direct relation to this more injurious episode, and that's mere exhaustion you see, not a drunken stupor. It was 3:45 a.m., if I recall.........

Ice Out

Spring at Torroemore

Good news for the propective canoeing campers. If you want to take another panoramic photograph of Torroemore you have to swim or take a boat to that same spot on the lake. The latitude of Lake Sylvia is about 45.2, while Millinocket, the nearest town to Lobster Lake is 46.5. Okay, maybe there is no correlation, but it offers hope.

In a related development, the day after our potluck dinner with the parents and the boys, Robby's dad called to say he was going to borrow a satellite phone to give to his son. I wonder, was it something I said, or the photograph I showed him of the guys crossing Lobster Lake in near white-out conditions?
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Kill Shots

rakkity's racquetball updates from Maryland:

I ended up playing 3 people yesterday, an undergrad before KT came,
then KT, and after dinner, Dominic.

Made several visits to Dr Ibumotrin Advil last night.
By the time of the games with Patrick tomorrow, maybe I'll have
numbed up a bit. P. may not realize it, but his chances of
winning have improved markedly.

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The undergrad was hanging out around the courts looking for a pickup game, and I was warming up while waiting for Katie. He asked if I wanted to play, and I said, "Sure, but I'm waiting for my daughter, so it'll have to be a short game." So we started off playing, and after 5 minutes or so, he was beating me 5-3. His serves were fast, but not difficult, and he didn't seem to know about Z-shots. Just as I was catching on to his weaknesses. Katie appeared, and the guy graciously bowed out. So we'll never know whether I could have beaten him or not (unless he shows up at some later date.)

I played Katie left-handed for 3 1/2 games, beating her in the first 2 games (something like 15-10, 15-11), then in the last 5 minutes, we played a quick game, which she won 5-4.

Dominic was supposed to meet me at 8 pm, and I got to the gym about 7:30 to warm up. I was tooling along on the elliptical trainer for a while, glancing up to the clock every now and then to see if D. had arrived. 7:45 and no Dominic, 7:50 and still no Dominic. 7:55, and 8:00, no Dominic, so I made a call to his home. His wife answered the phone, and very apologetically said, "He's on his way. I'm sorry he's late, it was my fault."

A few minutes later, Dominic came. I asked him if he had had dinner (having pre-game dinners had been his downfall previously), and he said no. He humbled me in our first game. He got me with about 10 straight booming serves to my weak backhand, and then I managed to return one, and and almost caught up to him, but he finally beat me 14-10. The second game was similar, but by the 3rd game his energy was waning, and I beat him. He went out for an emergency infusion of empty calories, and after scarfing down a Snickers bar, he beat me soundly again. I wanted to continue, but he refused, saying, "The Snickers bar sugar is wearing off. I'm too tired to play any more."

It's now time to reserve a court for the games with Patrick at 5. If I survive after 6, I'll let you know.

******************************************

Patrick and I played 3 games, and this time I was glad he was late (as usual) in getting to the gym from his job. It gave me some time to warm up. And as he had no warm up at all, I trounced him in the first game. But the second game got up to 2-2 and stuck there, as we each volleyed and volleyed and volleyed. The server would eventually lose his serve, then we'd have another dozen volleys, and that server would lose his serve. We went on for about 10 minutes stuck at 2-2 before I scored a point. Patrick must have gotten warmed up by then, so it was a hard fought game, which I only won by the skin of my teeth, 15-12. The third game was even tougher, and Patrick had an early lead, 3-0, so I had to bear down hard. Patrick got some amazing saves, grabbing several wall scrapers, and scooping up some back-wall droppers, and he managed to recover some tough kill shots that I was sure he'd miss. With his 6' height and very long arms, it's hard to send a shot past him when he stands in the middle of the court. We were up to 12-12 when I got lucky and moved ahead to 14-13. My last return shot hit the front wall only an inch above the floor. Patrick dove for it manfully, but couldn't quite reach it, and I eeked out another win.

But if we ever play 4 games, Patrick will win for sure, because he's not dripping with sweat like I am after 3!

Support

Here’s the deal. Jan takes one week off a year and flies to Aruba with a friend. But, she won’t leave the house unless Mark agrees to stay home and provide loving care for all the animals. Works for Jan, sort of works for Mark, but it really worked for me. That week I had two deck support beams to replace at Applewood, the condominium complex up the street, and Mark offered to help.

These 6 x 8 fir timbers were long and impossibly heavy. The shorter of the two - at fourteen feet - was intended to replace its rotted brethren atop two 6 x 6 posts, under the second floor deck. The previous day, using my trusty six ton Sears jack, I’d raised the second floor deck about an inch, and hammered a dozen temporary supports underneath. Why so many?

Two winters ago I’d come perilously close to dropping an entire porch roof on my head, and I wanted to be sure that this time I wouldn’t take a generous friend with me. The permanent deck posts were ten feet apart, and, corresponding to our respective heights, I placed a short ladder on Mark’s end and taller one on mine. With great effort we hoisted the beam onto our shoulders, then staggered back to our ladders. I climbed mine, and watched the legs of Mark’s ladder sink into the muddy earth as he climbed his. I knew we didn’t have much shoulder time and because I had the ladder height advantage, I waited, rather impatiently, for Mark to push his end up onto his post.

“Are you ready?” Mark grunted.

“I’m ready, are you ready?”

“I’m ready. I’m going to lift my end.”

“Go ahead, lift.” My shoulder was already hurting.

“Ready?”

“Hurry up.”

“Here goes..uummph”

Mark was facing away from me and I watched as nothing moved. Not his back, nor his arms, and especially not the beam. It was as if the plank, Passion fashion, were nailed to his shoulder. I laughed and I couldn’t stop. Mark is tall and strong - I’ve seen him portage canoes alone - and this felt like a cartoon in The New Yorker.

“Nothing happened, Mark, try it again.”

“Okay, I’m going to lift right....NOW!

Again, nothing. Less movement than before, certainly less upward movement. Now I was laughing too hard to hold my end up.

“That’s it, I’ve got to put this thing down,” I hollered, tears running down my cheeks.

We backed off our ladders, teetered into the yard and with relief, dropped the beam onto the ground. I found a taller ladder under a neighboring condo owner’s deck, and swapped it for Mark’s short one. We picked up the beam, wobbled back to our ladders, and with a slightly sub hernia effort, positioned it perfectly on the two posts. I thought that I should nail it, but figured the eventual weight of the deck would clamp it into place.

The next step was to knock out the temporary supports. The front of the deck was held up by cross shaped timbers I’d nailed together. They were robust; they had to be to hold up the deck. I stood under the deck and with my sledge hammer, I began to knock the base of the timber away from the deck. With each bang, I’d look at Mark and say, “ Are you sure this is okay? We’re not overlooking anything are we? The deck will settle down on top the new beam, right?”

I was happy to have Mark checking my work. Whatever I overlooked, surely he’d catch, except he’d been providing the day’s entertainment with stories about work and Jan’s trip. He had been from the start, fully engaged physically, but not mentally.

“I’m sure,” Mark replied, but continued to drone on about how Kevin was fixing Jan’s computer and in the process had... . He was paying enough attention to walk out from under the deck and into the yard. I hit the 4 x 4 again, knocked it another inch, stopped, looked around and asked the same question.

What I had learned from that almost roof calamity, was to double check even what I deemed fail safe. The end of the temporary support pops out, the deck drops that inch and we’re done. Except. Yes, of course, there is always an except. With my last hammer swing the base kicked into the yard, and the top of the cross fell towards me. Suddenly the tape, My Life, was in the VCR and somebody had hit replay. I was watching my second grade confirmation and wondering what had become of those bright white teeth when the cross hit the horizontal beam we had so laboriously added. Stop. Salvation. I wasn’t going to die. Except it hit with such force that it knocked our beam halfway off the supports. Start. Mark couldn’t see the beam from where he stood, which is why he continued talking about Jan’s computer.

Work on the second deck, not as high off the ground, resulted in the same comedy of errors. That beam, though longer, didn’t require ladders. Mark pressed his end into place, but when I lifted my end on, it levered his off. His end hit the ground, mine caught the edge of the deck, and like a teeter totter with the skinny kid in the air, raised the entire structure up off its temporary supports. From where Mark stood, he couldn’t see those supports dangling in air, which is probably why, when his cell phone rang, he answered it.

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|Every year Diane (in her quest for continuing education credits) and I attend a symposium hosted by the MFA, and presented by The Boston Institute for Psychotherapy. This year's focus: What is Your Passion, The essential role of Creativity in Psychotherapy and ordinary life. Pictured above: Ellen Langer, Michael Mack, and Elyssa Ely.


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Tonight we’re having a potluck dinner at our house with the all the camping boys and their parents. And if time permits in their busy schedule, Tricia and Adam will join us. It looks like those Maine lakes are still frozen , but we have fifteen days before departure.

Powers Gallery

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Future World

Camping



Matt is not fond of cold weather or rain, and Robby (pictured above bagging groceries at Idylwilde) smiled broadly when I told him our first night in Millinocket ME would be spent in a motel. Visions of turquoise bottomed swimming pools danced in his head. Not small rooms with ceilings the color of cigarette smoke, beds that push back as hard as will the ground under our tents, and an in house restaurant that serves a grand buffet of runny yellow scrambled eggs, burnt bacon, and soggy toast. As for the cold weather and rain...pray for snow.

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Stalking



We seem to be following Matt and his BMW, but here it is, parked in a numbered space at his high school. One wonders how he rates his own personal space.

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Listening

Last Friday we didn’t make it the concert at Willow Books, instead we had dinner with Bob and Mary at Walden Grill and then walked across the street to The Performing Arts Center. There, we listened to the Concord Orchestra and pianist Sangjoung Kim perform Brahms Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor Op. 15. Two hours gone in a blink, not unlike listening to our “friends” at Willow. Right, Diane?

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Playing

Today I play Katie at 5 pm. Dominic just asked me to play him
tonight at 8 pm. Now Patrick is asking me to play on Friday at 5 pm.

If I survive, there may be a story. If you don't hear from me after
Fri, ask Patrick to write the story.

rakkity