Dan Downing

It takes a long lever to move me off my long-post-empty-nest butt. But how enjoyable, once forces conspire to do so (yet how quickly inertia sets in again). But the bonds strengthened and the territory explored make a repeat of this weekend a must.

Picked up Jim at Alewife Thursday eve, enjoyed a Linda dinner of pork tenderloin, and retired early. We rose by 6 the next morning, and by 7, with fresh-brewed Starbucks in hand, were off to Stow Acres for an 8:05 tee time with Irma and Beth.

We relished the glorious late-Summer morning, encouraged each other, swung those clubs way too many times to bother counting, and let several groups play through our beginnersí slow pace. Then a brief stop at home to scarf some lunch, pack a few clothes, bag some food for Remo, and off to pick up Greg in Somerville.

By four we were headed north for the main event ñ father-and-sons — and-dog –getaway at Boothbay. A first; spontaneously planned; the stage sparingly set for improvisation.

The three-plus hour ride began with catch-up talk on current events: Channel1ís dialup customers transitioning to Earthlink and Gregís subsequent job-hunting; record quarterly sales at Jimís Starbucks and his overcoming store politics to train managers for a new store; my Tufts project signaling a long-awaited upturn in the computer consulting business; movies in the ìfuzzy realityî genre that weíd recently seen and had puzzled through to understand (Mulholland Drive, Memento, Swimming Pool).

Conversation gave way to Billy Joelís Greatest Hits as we hit the Maine Turnpike, triggering reminiscence of songs and concerts long enjoyed, as interpersonals settled into a welcomed comfort zone. Gregís Robin Williams Live found its way into the car stereo as we hit Falmouth, comedic commentary spiked with laughter filling our mobile private world.

Pulling into Hannaford Foods and letting Remo out not a moment too soon for a long pee and dump on a wooded trail at the edge of the parking lot, we provisioned for the weekend: Fresh shrimp, Bombay Sapphire, tonic water and limes, for cocktail hour; ice cream to cap our anticipated lobster dinners; bagels, OJ, fresh ground Starbucks, and half-n-half, for breakfast; two bottles of wine for the next evening.

Five minutes later, Remo was happy to be back on the ground as he jumped from the car one last time at the new-yet-familiar-smelling 148 Atlantic Avenue cottage.

We settled in and repaired to a round of G&Ts and shrimp on the front porch, with the tranquil bay at high tide in the distance. The conversation flowed into more personal territory as dusk settled and appetites rose.

From: ìWhy do gays universally love celebrities like Cher and Bette Midler?î

Answer: ìBecause theyíre ëright out thereí with their stuff — and this speaks to gaysí more flamboyant personalities.

To: ì Greg, ever think about what your ideal job would be?î

Answer: ì Really canít sayÖI guess Iíd like to be doing something Iím good atÖin a small homey atmosphereÖyou could say my two years at C1 have been my ideal jobî.

And then: ìIs there anything you feel passionate about?î

Answer: ìWell I used to be about writingÖbut I stopped after concluding my stuff just wasnít good enoughî.

That subject would be pursued deeply on Sunday morning.

Dusk led to twilight which moved us to dinner. We walked down the hill to the Lobster Dock and traded cousin Marjieís gift certificate for two lobsters and a crab roll, two beers and a coke. Greg has never liked lobster, but agreed to forsake fried chicken for a different shellfish. We cracked and chomped and washed down, conversation meandering in and out of inconsequential side-dish topics.

An uphill walk, and ice cream, followed, and for me, shortly thereafter, sleep.

Saturday was made for the outdoors. We clambered about the unequivocally-Maine, seaweed-laden rocks at Lobster Cove, where Remo took a couple of assisted dips into the high-tide water. We reminisced of a Summer long-passed, when the kids were little, on one of our many family mini-vacations, which Jim, at 21, had only recently become part of. Linda had brought a blow-up shark, and I taught Sarah, Greg, and Becca how to jump off the big rock with the shark tucked under their legs. And how Lucy, our water-loving lab, intent on ìsavingî the children, would swim out to them and unwittingly to scrape them up with her splashing front paws, with ensuing screeching and a round of band-aids and hugs to soothe all bruises.

Our second adventure was more strenuous: a boat trip to Squirrel Island, a two-hour hike along the 5 miles of paved and wooden walk ways and trails that encircle this exclusive but uniquely New England Summer community. We picnicked on the ocean-facing north side, a rocky ledge shielding the hot sun, not twenty feet from the crashing breakers, in direct view of the dozens of sailboats tacking for position for the afternoon regatta.

Shopping, naps, then JimKís favorite Pinot Grigio with chips and dip on the same porch followed our return. More conversation about work: the engineering desk job options that JimK is looking at for his next Coast Guard assignment. St. Pete, Miami, Virginia beach, Boston, or Portsmouth, in that order of preference. The Jims have had enough of this ëgoing to seaí six weeks out of every ten. Stressful way to have a life together.

Appetites pulled us off the deck and back into the car (Remo unhappily staying home again), but before dinner, a ride out to Ocean Point. Jim shivered in the brisk breeze while we three scampered about the rocks as far out as we dared to where the Bermuda storm surge was spraying.

Heading back to Lobstermanís Wharf in East Boothbay, we ended up making a couple of circles, finding that retracing our steps in the dark was trickier than it seemed. The restaurant was busy ñ a good sign. As we slid into the only empty table, Jim and I were already coaxing Greg into trying a new fish. He evidently felt adventurous and did — broiled cod (he liked it!).

Between slurps of my lobster bisque and Jimís morsels of Salmon, we discussed the challenges of moving to a new city. How lost you feel at first, not knowing where to go for the simplest things, like mailing a letter or getting a haircut. Having moved once, though, and succeeding at making new friends and establishing a new life, how empowering. You feel you could do it again, no prob. Ann Arbor to St. PeteÖand now toÖ?

ìOne thing that would be hard, though, is re-adjusting to cold weather, if our next move is to Bostonî, Jim mused. ìBut on the plus side, weíd be close to you guysî. ìOn the minus side, I doubt you could afford to buy a condo in Charlestownî.

Stuffed, we paid and drove back to the anticipated Scrabble board. I started with a seven letter word: S-T-E-A-M-E-R ñ that opened up the board, but dimmed Gregís hopes of beating me. We talked, appropriately, about the meaning of words, about what happens when you use a ìbig wordî in a context where few understand it, about the effect on the reader when used incorrectly. This ñ and the discussions about Mikeís web log — may have sparked Gregís The Power of Language.

Two games later, and another night of deliciously refreshing sleep, perking Starbucks roused us all, and a misty morning soon found us again on that porch, armed with juice, bagels, and Remoís breakfast bowl.

ìSo exactly why did you stop writing, Greg?î

ìI guess it was the criticism from people whose opinions I cared about. I couldnít seem to get my meaning across without someone misunderstanding.î

Earlier conversation threads came together over the next two hours, as we considered:
– How good Greg is at writing, and how many of us wished he hadnít stopped
– Thinking about who your audience is for a given piece
РHow much of your stuff do you reveal ̱ and to whom
– The art of writing concisely
– Being clear about what your message is.
And finally, taking a writing course, and talking to Mike about his. ìHe can give you good advice about writingî.

All this mustíve dislodged a boulder, as Greg ran inside, found some writing paper, and proceeded to write ìThe Rantmasterís Rebirthî.

The ride home found us exploring our likes and dislikes in reading.

Gregís: ìFantasy explores the eternal struggle of Good and Evil more starkly than in real life, and how heroes use their special powers to defend Good. It makes me think about how I would use special powers.î

Mine: ìI prefer reality writings, how real people relate and deal with real issues; what I can learn about how to live my life better. How I can be a hero in perhaps unglamorous but plausible settingsî.

Remo was clearly unhappy at being abandoned in the car while we three lunched at Sarahís CafÈ just over the bridge in Wiscasset. Enough fish for the boys; they had burgers. I stuck with chowder.

On our return, Remo showed his displeasure by refusing to move out of the passenger well, and snarling as Jim tried to help him out. We let him out a bit later on the first Rte 95 rest stop. He peed, then deciding it was okay to drop his attitude, resumed his co-pilot position in the back with Greg, paws perched on the front console, apologizing to Jim and me by kissing us, and drinking some water from the cup weíd brought him.

The ride home was dominated by light: light banter, light snoozing, and, thankfully, light traffic. Whew, enough heady subjects, already.

Greg asked to be dropped off rather than coming back to Lincoln. Jim and I arrived home to enjoy yet another lovingly-prepared meal, debrief with Linda, and sharing some people-food scraps with Remo. I again was off to bed early, sugar plums of father-sons weekend lulling me to sleep.

Letís definitely do this again, I thought, after dropping Jim off at Logan the following noon. It was energizing, all the way around, I think.

Remo said so.

Diane. ìWhat was that blonde joke that Jimmy told us? The one that
was so funny, about dieting. I might use it with my patients.î

Me. ìYeah, what was it. Matt do you remember?î

Matt. ìNo.î

Me. ìGive me a moment, Iíll find it.î

Clickity, clickity, after maybe fifteen seconds, tops.

Me. ìHere it is.î

A blonde was terribly overweight, so her doctor put her on a diet. I want you to eat regularly for 2 days, then skip a day, eat regularly for 2 days, then skip a day. Repeat this procedure for 2 weeks.

“The next time I see you, you’ll have lost at least 5 pounds.”

When the blonde returned, she shocked the doctor. She had lost nearly 20 pounds.

“Why, thatís amazing!” the doctor said. “Did you follow my instructions?”

The blonde nodded. “Ill tell you though, I thought I was going to drop dead that 3rd day.”

“From hunger, you mean?” asked the doctor.”

“No, from all that skipping!”

Diane. ìThat is the one, but Jimmyís version was much funnierî

Me. ì It was, but what do you think of yours truly, The Googlemaster?î

Diane. ìIncredible.î

Matt. ìPatheticî

Updates:

Two new contributors to the blog, Dan and Ed, are honing their stories.
Scheduled publish dates….soon.

The BMW flywheel is on itís way to Dublin NH, to a machine shop that specializes in classic BMW restorations.

Matt is going to the LOCOBAZOOKA! ‘UNITED WE ROCK!’ festival this Sunday. Itís an all day, open air concert, held at the airport in Fitchburg.

Last night we celebrated Mark and Gingerís twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and then went to Willow Books to see Elinor Lipman read from The Pursuit of Alice Thrift. I queued up to have her sign my copy and to tell her how much I liked her writing. Before I finished, I looked down to see her stroking my arm.

Email from Ed yesterday:

That overhyped Isabel has left us in the dark for nigh onto 70 hours
now. Most of Bowie is without power, and I’ve had to drive into
College Park to the Univ. of MD, which has local generators keeping
its servers alive. (where I am now)

Beth and I have been cooking on our camp stoves and using propane
& kerosene lamps. We’re a lot better off than our neighbors,
who seem to be using candles for light and heat. It would be as dark
as Gilsum in our neighborhood, except that some powerful street
lights in other parts of town light up the sky.

We’ve been going out of town to movies and restaurants, though we
have to pick and choose among towns. Annapolis is flooded and getting
worse, and parts of DC are threatened by a rising Potomac. Some other
towns in MD seem to be unaffected by the storm, but a few are
darker than Bowie.

What day is this anyway? Sunday? Saturday? It seems like Monday
because of all the days off since Isabel came to town.

Got to pick Katie up from her dorm. Then head back home 13 mi
thru intersections without lights. Interesting times.

Ed

We sat on her porch, enjoying the first breezes inspired by Isabel. As always, her doors are open; the house full of light and life. Her gardens planted and tended in memory of her husband. I sipped fresh gazpacho, swallowed the last bite of my second pastry and thought, what a giving, nurturing woman.

ìHow are you doing?î

ìSome days okay, but other days, so so.î

ì Donít tell me that.î

ìWhy?î

ìBecause, you look so good; I want everything to be okay.ì

ìSo do Iî her voice rose, ìbut I miss my guy. We were married twenty-two years. If Iím busy Iím all right. I ran a workshop on Star Island and I hurried around all day. Working, talking, teaching, but then I came home and … .
Sometimes I flop down and do nothing.î

ìCould I ask you a favor? I have a friend, her name is Ann. Her son died when he was seventeen and her husband died two months ago. Whenever I ask her how she is, she cries. Sheís so overwhelmed, she cried as we talked about water in her garage. As if her wet floor made life impossible. When you said you feel better when you are busy, I thought you might be able to help her. She rattles around alone in her house with nothing but memories.”

ìYou could say that about me.î

ìBut youíre moving, doing, creating. Look at your house, the spirits are free to fly in and out. There is no movement in her dark house. Her spirits are locked up tight.î

ìIíll call her if you want.î

ìSheís English. You know, that stiff upper lip. Iíll give her your name and if she can, sheíll call you. At least Iíll have done something. Yesterday I snapped at her. I told her, î You said before, itíll take time. You canít rush it, Ann. You want it all over, but it takes time.î

Still crying, she looked hard at me and said, ìIíve been through worse. Iíll get through this.î

I should have hugged her.

That guy is me.

http://www.mikimoto.com/index_f_en.html
Sent to me by my sister, Joan.

I don’t know that I’ll know how to just BE in the room, if and when it is judged to be done (which will have to be by more objective observers). It has become so much The Project for me, such that its needing doing now seems sufficient reason just for its being.

I’m not averse to being finished, mind you, but there is a perverse sense of jealousy about sharing it incomplete, when a sense of done finally seems a tangible possibility. On our recent 10th anniversary, Tricia suggested inviting Mike and Diane over for a quick impromptu drink to help celebrate. Now, Mike has been there since the room’s birth, right through its Terrible Twos, gradeschool eagerness, highschool daze, and young adult flightiness. But Diane has only seen pictures thus far, and I found myself not ready to share it with someone thus removed until the room was in its wedding dress and poised on the aisle. Especially not someone about whose reaction I care.

My thought process might be somewhat informed by my subsequent reaction to Tricia talking me into installing the stereo this weekend. I had long imagined the first bars of Tori Amos’ most excellent “Scarlett’s Walk” CD wafting into the finished room — a major carrot. But here I was being asked to eat that carrot before journey’s end. With lighting installed and cabinetry all but finished, there are few enough such carrots left that I am loathe to relinquish their distance. They drive me to finish the more mundane details. And unveiling the room to close friends is perhaps the juiciest of them left.

This last weekend Mike volunteered a few hours time helping me work on the deck, the old familiar friends-with-toolbelts relationship at least temporarily supplanting the employer/contractor one. Not much was said, but we whiled away quite productively, our shoulders against separate wheels, but driving the same wagon. Much progress was made. Having arrived about 1:00, Mike finally cleaned up, packed up, and shoved off about 6:00. I continued putting stuff away awhile longer, and then, rather than try slopping sealer on in the dark, I chose to erect some tarps against forecast precipitation. And Isabel but days away…………….

Tarps……………. While many fond associations linger — our annual Maine camping trip is less than a month away, after all — I was not happy to see them back on site. It had been many months since they were last required. But after showering and having dinner, I looked out at the deck and had a thought:

Mike has grumbled and tried to cajole a blog entry out of me for some time. Perhaps he wanted other than a room update (I’m sure others would have), but I thought to try. But what to say? What to show? The room’s in its lacy underwear, putting on makeup, the smell of perfume in the air. An indecent time to publish voyeuristic peeks into the chamber. But I realized I could show the day’s progress and not show anything of the interior, with a night flash shot and the right angle. And given the tarps, I could even be somewhat coy about the deck itself…………… So perverse or not, I offer the above text and the following photo as sacrifice at the altar of Mike’s blog:

The World’s Smallest Deck awaiting railings and sealer.

Dear Henry,

Although you didnít ask, youíll be interested to know that I visited Dianeís new office, and met most of her fellow fighters of anorexia in teenage girls. Diane needed various colorful photos hung, and after failing to drive simple nails into her walls-you know women, where would they be without men-she begged for my services.

I left work early on Friday, turned left onto the grounds of McLean, took another left at the first fork and finally one more left into a huge common parking lot. Diane had warned me that her old building, Bowditch, was adjacent to the lot, but that the entrance was on the opposite side of the building. I spied a huge red brick structure and followed a well-worn footpath through tall green grass until I came to the front entrance. As I was about to open the mostly glass, too modern door, I noticed that it said, ìAdmissions,î not ìBowditch.î As you know, McLean is littered with stately red brick buildings.

I couldnít walk back the way I came. I canít explain it, but I hate to retrace my steps and I wonít admit when Iím lost. Therefore I continued to meander, hammer in hand, nails in my shirt pocket, looking for a building called Bowditch. I passed patients who looked exactly as they did thirty years ago (I thought there were new, non-zombie creating drugs), and staff too, with their remote Iím just-out-for-a-stroll look. Reminded me of what Joe G, a patient on Brianís floor, had told me thirty years ago. He was attracted to Brian because of that, nonjudgmental just-out-for-a-stroll, look. Joe said, îHe was someone I knew I could talk to.î

Anyway, I finally came to an unlabeled building, this one, too, with those modern glass doors. Taking the chance that it wasnít Bowditch, I entered and asked for directions. After much discussion with someone who looked like a receptionist, who consulted with someone who looked like they were from dietary, I was taken to the rear door where the helpful employee pointed and said, ìItís that one, I think.î I thanked her and walked to the front door of Oaks, again not Bowditch So, like Brian, and the staff I continued to see, I resumed my stroll, hoping to eventually get to Dianeís office.

I circled back to the parking lot, chose the other building facing it, and when I finally did arrive after walking through the famed McLean tunnels that connect all the buildings, Diane asked, ìDid you get lost?î I simply said. ìThe front door was locked.î Which it was. That explained my underground wanderings, but not my 30 minute tour of this land that shaped so many of my friends.

Dianeís office is, as she has explained, small, but cozy with a large bright window, from which you could see my truck parked in the lot. From which she might have witnessed maybe ten minutes of my stroll. She has an institutional-type desk, and because McLean provides no chairs, her space is now furnished with an odd assortment we have collected over the years. Three chairs made of bright steel, beige wood and cane, for instance, from Bobís old office. The one that was consumed by flames, smoke and water.

And those walls? Rock hard plaster that bent my nails too.

While Iím blathering away, Henry, let me tell you a bit more about our trip to the woods. The old Adam was a frequent companion. Say the word ìGilsumî and there he was, sitting in his truck, ready to go. The new Adam, the one engulfed in the finish details of his addition (another story for another time) has been mostly unavailable. Oh, he pops his head up for a blog comment now and then, but that is about it. But not last Saturday. At 3 PM, having completed enough work to free his conscience, he drove up in his BMW, top down, archery target hogging most of the back seat, camping gear the rest, all ready to go.

Diane gave up her car for Adamís, leaving me with Robby, Daryl, Joe and Matt. I must say, we had a blast on our ride north. We played Robbieís downloaded and burned collection of rock at full volume, made our obligatory stop at Mr. Mikeís in Winchendon for extra supplies (more coals to…. ), passed a cloudless Mt Monadnock we again promised to climb, and finally arrived at Beech Lane in Gilsum. This is where the boys pile out of the truck and ride the back bumper for two or so miles through the woods to Edís cabin. I try my best not to speed, but the whoops and screams when we hit bumps and hollows makes it irresistible.

We got to our site too late for an afternoon swim, but in plenty of time to chop wood, get two fires going (one at their site, out of sight from ours), tents set up, and dinner prepared. Hamburgers, chicken, veggie burgers, crisp raw vegetables, and dip. And four bottles of wine for the grown-ups. I know, Henry, that this would be anathema to you, swatting mosquitoes, picking dirt out of scrambled eggs, sleeping on the ground, but itís true, Diane loves the outdoors.

After dinner, Adam, Diane and I walked alone in the dark to the pond as the boys, following Mattís panther-like skills sneaked on ahead of us. When we got to the dock at ten thirty, half a bright moon illuminating the pond, Matt and Joe had already been swimming. This is a first, no adult supervision, or should I say, adult reassurance. And remember, Joe is frightened by most everything in the woods, including unexpected bird songs.

The following day: more food, more swimming, and on the way home a near stop at the demolition derby at the Cheshire County Fair. I offered to pay, but there were no takers. I guess Matt had seen enough in Buffalo. We are all refreshed by these trips to Gilsum woods and are eternally grateful to Ed.

Speaking of the woods, Henry, this yearís fall Maine camping trip, with the guys, has a radical new look. Like Rummyís army, it is leaner and arguably more efficient. Though we donít care about efficiency. Both Dan and Mark Schreiber have work obligations, and that leaves Adam, the other Mark, and me. Our present plan is to camp on a lake near Baxter and take hikes into the park. Using the most frequently climbed trail, it takes four hours to climb to the top of Katahdin. There is a longer, more interesting path that takes you over something called the knife edge, and we may default to that one.

At the end of every summer, I bump up my exercise routine to make sure I can keep up with the youngest and fittest of our group. And now that the heavy lifting at Adamís is over, I can tolerate my old routine of thirty to forty minutes of weight lifting and an equal amount of aerobics on a rowing machine, another gift from the Hopkins.

A funny thing happened on Wednesday. In the middle of my routine I forgot the time of my dentist appointment. You would say a crispness issue, but I had adjusted my entire schedule to arrive at Dr Pinanskyís at 5 PM. All of a sudden I couldnít remember the time, or even what day it was. Diane tells me my routines are too strenuous and that normal people donít finish with soaking clothes, bloodshot eyes, and wobbly legs. Maybe she is right or maybe, as I suspect, I had a stroke.

That is it, H, the cool weather is upon us after a frigid summer and the days are getting shorter – Diane is again quizzing me on how many hours of daylight remain. ìTwelve hours and thirty-seven minutes,î she just announced. Too many things to do to get ready for the winter: trips to Mark Queijoís for firewood, broken windows repaired, our heating system bled, and wood stove flue cleaned. (Btw, that teak kettle from Grandpa Earlís is a perfect size. ) You know, we never put away our winter quilt.

One more thing. Yesterday, in the mail, I received my story Clemency , edited by my writing teacher, Robert Atwan. Still suffering from PTSD, I couldnít open the envelope, but Diane did, and even read some of his comments aloud. That is grist for another time, another story.

Oh, and your original question, the one that inspired this letter?
The BMW sits in Dimitryís lot, waiting for a flywheel for the clutch. The original plan, to machine the existing flywheel, failed, and so far so has the backup plan, to find a new one. Three weeks ago Leonard (Dimitryís main man) told us that he had ordered one from Germany. This week he called to say, in all of Germany, they could not find one. So that is where we are at the moment: no flywheel, no working clutch, no inspection sticker, no BMW. Stay tuned.

Michael

PS Would it surprise you to know that Chris has a poker group?
PPS Flo won $300.00 in bingo and is taking us out to breakfast.

Because someone asked:
https://mainecourse.com/nahmakanta/crew/pages/motley_crew.htm
Begins with Adam.

Susan wouldn’t need the title to know that this is Adam’s
photograph.

Susan wouldn’t need the title to know that this is Adam’s
photograph.

I could take credit for finding these links (think Matt’s photos) but I
won’t. They were sent to me by my brother.

Ed can relate to this one.

The trampoline is too small.

You could spend the day here, but I don’t suggest it.

And this guy, well, he was just insane.


On the dock after Matt and Joe’s late night swim. Daryl behind Joe.

Mock Orange

My mother comes in the front door.
That smell is too much, she says, nodding
toward the mock orange.
Those little white flowers are pretty,
but the bush smells too ripe, don’t you think?
Maybe you should cut it back.
It smells like those locust trees in New York
near the hospital-so sweet
they’d take over your senses, cross the line.

I tell her I dreamed of Jeff last night.
I don’t like to think about dreams.
I push them away, try to forget everything bad
like when Jeff insisted on telling me about…you know.
She looks out the window.
I told him I knew but didn’t want to know.
I didn’t want my friends to feel sorry for me.
I went to the beauty shop when he was sick.
and played bridge with my ladies.
And honey, when you write poems about him,
you don’t say what he died of, do you?

Linda Goodman Robiner