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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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, ìHi, this message is for Matt Miller from Leonard, Alpha Automotive. Your car is done, believe it or not, it is running fine.î Suppose heíll 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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ìIt 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.î 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, donít 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.

Iím not sure where the last photo was taken, Adam. However, I thought Iíd 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 youíll see what I mean.

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I answered the phone yesterday evening and it was Florence.
ìWhat day is it? Saturday or Sundayî?

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, ìDo you want to see my new boiler?î

On my way home from Floís I stopped at Dollyís, Maryís next door neighbor. Dolly had called about her wobbly front porch railing and wanted it fixed before Halloween.

ìMatthew said he loved those orange drops.î
She spoke as if she had seen him last night.

I tried to express my concern about her friendís memory when she stopped me.

ìIím going to be a grandmother…or is it a great grandmother?î

ìWhoís having the baby?î

She thought for a moment, ìTory.î

Over the years I had heard many stories about Tory, her blonde grand daughter.

ìThat would make you a great grandmother.î

ìOhî

ìDolly, remind me, what is your daughterís name?î

ìItís…. Just a minute, I know it. Oh isnít this silly. Itís…letís see, Smitty…î

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 wasnít sure I should be there until Dolly smiled at me.

ìDebbie, thatís it, Debbie.î

Smitty, the illustrator, in plaid, with Dolly at his side. Tulum
watches Matt following me up the ladder.

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. Iím 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 shelfís edge chipped, and two pieces of art were beyond repair, but for tempered glass laden with objet díart, 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 Lindaís catering, the roomís unveiling, and on each otherís rich company.

Though some amongst our number would count themselves fogies, the local contingent didnít 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 weíd 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 Hedgesí brilliant acoustic covers of Dylan/Hendrixís ìAll Along the Watchtowerî and the Beatles ìCome Togetherî, 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 whatís 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, ìNah, itís just a room.î Much has been made of it already, I decided I neednít puff it up more. I wish Iíd 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 whoíd 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.

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.

The moon setting in front of my tent at about 5 AM.
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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 donít; 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 ìshotgun.î I wake up like an old computer monitor, and Matthew who has inherited both Peter and Brianís night habits, may come to life faster but Iím 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 wouldnít 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 didnít die in a fiery crash. But then, Matt was driving.

His only comment, ìWhat was that?î

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:

îTruly evocative poetry. This is a fine meditation on mortality: understated and chilling. ì

Not dead, and much needed reinforcement for my writing. Iíll take it.

Iíve too many photos to post all at once. Hereís the first mini-gallery and all of Adamís

All links open new windows.

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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:

ìGuess where I am with Chris? Guess who is up four to one? Iíll call you later.î 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,

ìWhy donít you call your mother now? You can use my cell phone.î

After last night, I bet there are many people who would like to use that phone.

First Debsconeag Lake

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Mt Katahdin
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Wednesday is Mattís 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. ìI ate maggots once.î
Matt glanced over at Robby, ìNice.î
Me. ìMost of the world eats bugs.î
Robby. ìWhen I got through eating I wasnít bothered at all. I guess it means I donít mind eating bugs.

I thought, great dinner conversation.

Me. ìWhen are we going to Gilsum next? We canít this weekend and next weekend is Annieís Bat Mitzvah. How about the weekend after that?î

Matt. ìSure.î

We usually leave at 3PM, after his shift at Skipís, but with the sun setting at 6 in those hills….

Me. ìYou should call in sick on that Saturday.î

Diane. ìHe canít call in sick.î

Me.í Tell Skip you canít work that weekend.î

Diane. ìThatís different, thatís not calling in sick.î

Robby. ìBut calling in sick is the only way heíll be sure of getting the
day off.î

Me. ìIíll bring one of my new lanterns so you can have light at your camp site.î

Matt. ìWeíll build a big fire; we wonít need more light.î

Me. ìYour fires are so big the earth doesnít need the sun.î

Matt, deadpan. ìGood one, dad.î

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. ìNo, really, I meant it.î

Me. ëYeah, Iím sure you did.î