Greg Downing

On request, I was asked to do a piece on how I felt about the trip to Boothbay, and what it meant to me. Of course, how could I refuse? While I won’t say I wake up every day wondering about what to write, it’s important to me that I write, whenever I can. That being said, coming up with what to say was not so easy. Because it required me to think, and remember, how I felt before and after the trip.

Inititally, I’ll admit, I wasn’t overexcited about it. It would require giving up a day of gaming, which is not something I easily give up. Not just because I enjoy it, but because The Sunday game is a commitment that the members of my group make to each other. It’s not something you just not show up for, because it tends to be dependant on everyone showing up. If you’re not going to be there, it’s preferable to let people know at least a week in advance, unless you’re sick or there’s some other unavoidable commitment.

On the other hand, once I determined that my Mom wasn’t going to be needing me on Saturday, I thought about it some more. On the one hand, this isn’t something I do every day, and I definitely don’t see my brother often. And it’s also important to me that I spend time with my father, especially since I’m not always that good at keeping in touch. Finally, it had been forever since I’d been to Boothbay. I remembered it as a place of children hijinks, of swimming in cold water, and of going off to the bowladrome to play videogames. It would be interesting to re-experience Boothbay as an adult.

Having made my decision to go, I still approached the trip with trepidation. What would we do? Where would we go? Spending a few hours with my father and brother would be one thing; it’s completely different to spend a whole weekend together. In the car, I felt them out a little. I made a little conversation, I listened to Dad and Jim’s conversation, I offered music. I napped a little, and read a little. Things weren’t doing too badly.

We finally got in late in the day, after shopping for some food and drink together. And our first activity was having dinner at the Fisherman’s Wharf, since Dad had a coupon. We sad down, and I loosened up a little, though the alcohol might have helped a little. We talked more, and I offered more, and I asked more. We laughed, and I started to feel comfortable. Afterwards, Jim and I stayed up a little late, watching the tail end of the improv Comedy show Whose Line Is It Anyway? and Jim sharing his love of CSI with me, as this was a show I’d never watched. I enjoyed it.

The next day, I had no more idea than the previous what we’d do. So as ideas were suggested, such as going to one of our old stomping grounds, or taking the boat to Squirrel Island to have lunch, I went with it. I found I enjoyed walking around with bro and Dad and Remo, even though Remo clearly did not enjoy getting dumped in the cold water. 😉 About the only bad part was when some dogs took a dislike to Remo, and me and the owners of the other dogs had to rein them in. Then there was the boat ride to the island, and I foolishly assume we were going to have lunch at the picnic tables right there at the pier. No such luck! Dad had a full hike planned. It certainly was an exertion for me, but that was the only thing I disliked about it. I knew that the exercise would be good for me, and it was interesting, looking around the island, and seeing the ‘gnome village’ the inhabitants built (though dad seemed to think I wasn’t impressed. The only thing that I would have preferred is if the hike took longer. I may have disliked the exercise, especially after twisting my ankle, but it was boring sitting and waiting for the boat. There was a sailboat regatta going on, but I wasn’t as interested in that as Dad and Jim.

Getting home, we had some time to ourselves. Dad napped, Jim shopped, and I read. This I needed, as I can only take so much time around other people. It’s just exhausting after a time. But by the time we were all together, I was replenished, and feeling better. We went out to see the waves at some point that I don’t remember the name of (yes, my much lauded memory is fallible). I introduced the comedian Eddie Izzard to my father and brother (which got a lukewarm response, but that could have been because they weren’t really concentrating on it. Also, Dad thought we were lost.

At dinner at another restaurant, I was encouraged to actually eat seafood, which I did. But some of the conversation at dinner was a little uncomfortable, because it was about my job hunting success (or lack thereof), and the likelihood of certain things panning out. I didn’t really want to think about it, but just wanted to enjoy myself.

Later that night, I was having a hard time getting to sleep. My sinuses were acting up, it was hard for me to breathe, and I was killing tree after tree using Kleenex. In the morning, I felt like shit. I just wanted to go home, I’d had enough of Boothbay for now. But I certainly did not expect what came next. I did not expect the conversation that followed, the one that helped me to face some things about myself, about my future, and most importantly, about my writing. That alone made the trip worthwhile, coming to terms with untidy bits of myself, and reinvoking my passion to write.

I still wasn’t feeling great, but the three of us pulled together and worked to try and fix the water, though as it ended up, we needed to call in the professional. And then we packed up and went home, stopping to eat, and ending up having more conversations that were less profound, but no less compelling. Getting home, I just wanted to rest and unwind, and try and get over my sinus troubles. But more than my sickness, I felt satisfied, like I accomplished more and had more fun than I’d expected to on the trip

And that was a good feeling.

Dear Henry,

I loved your fall description. Here’s a photo that hints at our colorful light displays. I know, you’ll feel like you’ve been dragged back to photosigmoidoscopy…

View larger image

I didnít intentionally ignore Joan Cass’s directions; I defaulted to something that would allow me to resume breathing. Listening to the other stories in class, I thought, I can never make up something and have it believable. That, however, does not mean I wonít try.

Here is this Thursdayís assignment:

ìTake any piece you are working on now, and create a diversion for your characters. It would be best if you could take a climactic scene and introduce into the middle of it something that has to be dealt with immediately òmaybe a screaming child, or a fire, or an interfering acquaintance. In this last case, the person who interrupts the scene might take the part of one or the other of the central characters, or put his/her own interpretation on the problem and insist it be settled that way.î

Iíve got to slither off and do my writing but while Iím away Iíve got a story from yet another guest blogger. This one with explicit permission. This one that might encourage one more guest submission. I’ll post it tomorrow.

One more thing. Robert, the Blue Hillís teacher, sent back my copy of ìClemencyî with his edits and these comments:

Dear Michael,

I enjoyed ì Clemencyî for its solid dramatic narrative. You had a genuine story to tell here and you handled the storytelling well, though I noted on the paper a few things I thought could be clarified. I especially like the way you link the camping trip and your experience with the overturned car years earlier.

Our group brought up a number of suggestions at the workshop, but in general I feel you could do more to establish the tension of the family scene after the accident. The fatherís voice finally becomes significant to you at the end of the essay but the reader never hears his voice. Maybe more dialogue throughout would help. Instead of simply stating that you frequently argue with your brother, why not let us hear a sample of a typical conversation?

When you find good active verbs to use your descriptions can be excellent, quite accomplished, as I point out in the opening paragraph of Chapter II. A very nice piece of prose! But note how often ìisî and ìwasî appear throughout you opening paragraphs. The effect can be monotonous and repetitive. Iíd try rewriting your opening paragraphs by doing what you did in the paragraph that opens Chapter II.

If you take another shot at this, would you return the essay to me? We may be assembling another (though larger) collection of workshop writing this year and Iíd like to consider ìClemencyî if we do. Iíll let you know what happens.

Bob

A splendid trip indeed.
Perfect weather, just enough food, almost not enough toilet paper, menu mix-ups, sore backs, moonlit paddles across dark bodies of water, nighttime stumbles down mountainsides, and Scotch to kill for. And, for me, the most memorable quote of the trip, spoken by Adam, ìDo you two want to go while I stay here and contemplate your stupidity. Or should I go with you?î

And yes, Henry, we sorely missed our two buddies.

View from my tent. Click below for the big picture.

View image

My son Patrick’s got a black belt in karate, he thinks nothing of
snowboarding all day on the slopes, goes mountain biking for days on
hills I’d never consider biking up or down myself. But he had never
learned how to play racquetball, and I had a little experience in the
game.

Anyway, two years ago when he was a senior at UMd (fall of 2001), I
taught Patrick how to play racquetball, and we’ve been playing once a week
ever since. The first year, we were playing with university racquets,
all randomly junky, squishy and small. But we didn’t know any better.
Then one day, in the fall of 2002 (I remember it well) for no apparent
reason, the gym started to supply Titanium racquets, and (wow!) our games
suddenly improved–mine much more than Patrick’s, since his speed and
strength didn’t need any supplements. With the new racquets I found I
was beating Patrick in every game. Before that I was just barely winning
more than losing.

So I went out and bought a Titanium racquet for myself. And that has
put a serious monkey on my back. Not a week goes by when I think to
myself, “Can this run come to an end? Will the string be broken this
week?” Well, the string in 2002 was, technically speaking, broken,
but only twice, one time we were running out of court time, and a game
had to be stopped in a 9-9 tie. Another time I didn’t have my
sneakers with me and had to play in regular street shoes. The score
was 15-13, Patrick’s favor.

I recall after one sweaty match last spring, we were heading down to
the showers, and this gorgeous black coed came up to Patrick and said
“Hi!” to him. She gave him a hug, and Patrick introduced me to her.
She leaned over and gave me a hug, too. (I’ll tell you, it was a good
thing we ran into her after the match and not before it, or I wouldn’t
have been able to hit the ball.) So she asks, looking at our
racquets, “You’ve been playing racquetball?” And Patrick says, “Yeah,
he always beats me.” I say, “Well, not all the time.” And she just
beams a beautiful smile at me. Made my day, I’ll tell you.

This run of wins continued through Patrick’s graduation last June, and
I thought that the pressure would be off. Sad that we wouldn’t have
regular games, but, as I said, the pressure would be off. But
no. Patrick decided to sign up at the gym as an alum, and we would
continue our weekly matches. Everyone I’ve spoken to about this says
that I can’t expect to continue winning forever. Well, of course not.
One or the other of us has to die sometime. Even with my 40 years on
him, the way Patrick snowboards and bikes, it could be him first.

I think the reason Patrick doesn’t win is that he doesn’t warm up
before playing. He meets me at the court, and I’ve just finished
doing 20 slow minutes on one of the gym’s elliptical trainers, so I’m all
warm and relaxed, and he’s all tense and cold. Last week’s match was
fairly typical. I started off beating him 15-1, and then in the
second game it was 15-7. By the 3rd game he was warmed up and ready
to go, so I really had to focus on treachery.

The game was close right from the start. He got the first 2 points. So
it was 2-0, his serve. I returned it with the kind of shot I often
wake up in the morning thinking about. (Yes, Miss Manners, I dream
about racquetball. I admit it.) A solid “whack!” one foot above the
floor and one foot in from the corner, not a true “kill” (which is 1-2
inches above the floor), but unreturnable because as it returns from
the front wall, it grazes the side wall too low and too close to hit.
Naturally, Patrick dove for it, but no luck, his reach was not enough.
From then on, it was my usual tactics: never repeat the same serve
twice. Hit a fast serve into the left rear corner, then a fast z-shot
to the right. (A z-shot serve goes close into the corner, hits the
side wall close to the diagonally opposite rear corner, and gains so
much spin that it moves off almost parallel to the back wall.) A
z-shot to the left, then another fast grazer along the left wall.
Then a change-up (which looks like it’s going to be fast, but is
slower, throwing the returnee into a swinging fit). So I was able to
stay ahead on serves.

Now it was 12-11 my favor. I was getting tired. Patrick was just getting
warmed up. His serve. He hit it to my weak backhand, and I used my
delaying tactic–hit it off the ceiling. The ball arched way up,
slowly fell to the back wall, requiring Patrick to back hand it off
the back wall (he’s good at that). But the angle of descent means his
return was also off the ceiling. And so was my return. That went on a
few times, each time the slow descent of the ball permitting me to
regain my breath and walk (not run) to the center of the court.
Finally, I sneaked a return ball behind Patrick’s back as he moved
the wrong way. That, back in the good old days of 2001, used to work
at least 90% of the time, but now it works only if my timing is right,
and he can’t whip around quite fast enough. A few more sneaky moves
and I won 15-14. Hoo! That was close. But time’s up.

So I go for the Motrin and the hot shower on my tendinitis-prone
shoulders, while Patrick speeds off on his mountain bike at full
tilt across the campus. No motrin or hot showers for him.

My questions for you, Miss Manners: Is there a polite way to ask
Patrick if he is toying with me? Is it fair of him to put all this
pressure on me?

Yours sincerely,

Rickety Rackity Ed

Dear Henry.

Circa 1974, 318 Beacon St., Somerville

My turn to cook lunch. Diane and Jim McMahon sat at our pine table.
ìShould I make Campbellís Chicken Noodle Soup or their Vegetable Beef?î
Both Jim and Diane agreed – Vegetable Beef.
I opened the can, poured the contents into the saucepan and stirred. Jim got up from the table, looked in the pot and asked, ìWhereís the beef?î
Nothing but chicken and noodles swimming in that broth.
Iím still not real good at following directions.

Adam and Tricia keep their house, guarded, and the perimeter mined, to keep prying eyes from seeing the almost finished addition/deck.
The great unveiling occurs on the 18th of October, the first Saturday after we return from our camping trip to Maine. Speaking of which, I checked the long range forecast for the nearest town, Millinocket, and look what I found.

TodayOct 08 Partly Cloudy 67∞/45∞
Thu Oct 09 Mostly Sunny 64∞/36
Fri Oct 10 Partly Cloudy 64∞/43∞
Sat Oct 11 Partly Cloudy 64∞/45∞
Sun Oct 12 Mostly Cloudy 59∞/51∞
Mon Oct 13 Rain 61∞/43∞

Anyway, the Kibbes are having a room warming that Saturday, inviting twenty people including the usual suspects and close friends from Connecticut. However, and the reason I bring this up, I had to borrow tools from Adam and yesterday I got a sneak preview. Adam has slaved for weeks, arduously completing those time consuming finish details : painting, installing window,door and cabinet trim, tweaking light fixtures, it goes on, as you know all too well. The room, in a word that Adam often uses, is astonishing. Or one that I often use , puissant. After the party, Adam will post photos and youíll see what I mean.

Last Thursday was the first night of my second writing class. This one, taught at the local Junior High School by freelance writer, Joan Cass, has an enrollment of eleven – more men than women. Another course that Diane, of course, found for me in our local Adult Ed catalogue. Remember, Adult Ed in Acton is the equivalent of an honors course at a school like Carleton.

I anticipated a formal beginning to class, one where the instructor asks each of us for a short bio. An efficient way of shaking every hand at once. But she did not. She seemed nervous and immediately launched into our assignment for the night, to write an essay in forty-five minutes to then read aloud. Here is the first paragraph from her handout:

ìDuring tonightís class, I ask each student to write a short piece, presenting a character with at least one dominate, interesting trait. The idea is to show the character in action, rather than just to describe her/his personality.î

Was she kidding? Should I get up, walk out, go home, and strangle Diane? How am I supposed to write a story in less than an hour? It takes me that long to compose a decent email. Cripes, Henry, you have seen me struggle for days to type the shortest of blog entries.

I thought, maybe hoped, Iíd pass out. Fear of failure tip-toed up my spinal cord in search of that last unfrozen brain cell. I tried to calm myself by taking deep breaths, focusing on the task, and tuning out Ms. Cass as she explained in more detail, what was required. I did hear her say ,îWhat ever you do, donít compare your writing to others in the class. You will always appear lacking, even when youíre notî. I scanned for a past blog entry that might fit. Spirits, about two friends dealing with the death of loved ones…nope, that has two semi-dominant characters. Besides, who needs more reminders of death. What to do?

Then, I thought, how about the best character I know? Iíll write about my humbling experience at my summer writing class. In a writing class, writing about a writing class, I liked that. But was this what she wanted? Donít know, but now Iím down to thirty-eight minutes and forty-five seconds and the walls are closing in.

I scrawled away as fast as I could, hoping that when it was my turn, I would be able to read my writing. Those minutes darted by like a neutrino in search of a planet to penetrate. When she said, stop writing, I was pretty happy with what I had produced. There was a story line, a character or two, and it made me laugh. I wanted to read first but the choice was taken from me when she began clockwise around the room.

The first reader, name not known, read his story from a scrawl that looked at a distance not unlike mine. His story was short, but I was amazed by his compact, descriptive sentences. ìCold can of beer against the back of my neck.î I liked that, and told him so, but I thought, thatís not what I wrote.

Next, a slender woman in a bulky sweater, who read quickly. That was a good thing because she had three tightly spaced pages involving multiple characters and a complex plot. I was drawn into her story, again, by descriptive phrases. Reminded me of Virginia Wolff.

At the bottom of our handout were instructions regarding feedback. ìIt is not helpful to a the writer for someone to say, ëI liked that piece.í What is helpful are comments like ëI was very involved with your character because he was convincingly desperate.íî Helpful or not, I almost shouted, ìI canít believe you wrote that in forty-five minutes!î I thought, privately – that is not what I wrote.

She was attached in some way to the guy next to her – husband, boyfriend, brother? – who read his story about a man, Elon, and his agonizing employment problems. It was almost as long as his wifeís, not as flowery, but equally flowing. Suddenly, I wanted the comfort of my summer writing class, where there were good writers, but also mortals.

Iíll skip the next three essays, including a college studentís Boston Globe Magazine-ready piece about lost love, saliva baths, and teeth pulled by slammed closet doors.

The story that convinced me I had failed was read by a woman slightly older than I. Its pacing tighter than my jockeys now felt, her story depicted a war weary old man stumbling around the streets of Brussels during the end of WWII. As she read, scenes unfolded in bold strokes following this man beaten down by the destruction of his beloved city. It ends with a V2 rocket landing nearby, throwing a GI from his jeep. The loop closes with an emotional reconciliation as the old man cradles the dying young man.

That was not what I had written. Not even close. Mine was not close to anyone’s, even the guy who had only managed a paragraph. How had I ignored her directions? I looked down at the handout one more time and read, ìPlease note that written characters arenít always believable when they do exactly what an actual person did in real life. Truth is stranger than fiction. Your fictional characters need to be more consistent than the people we know.î

I had written one of my patented verbatim stories. Sheesh.

In spite of the imperative not to compare to others, I tried hastily to reshape the class assignment. Without a fictional narrative, maybe I should introduce my story as a comedic interlude.

M. Cass looked at me and nodded her head, as in ìGo.î

ìI feel like you said, ëGet in a car and drive to Harvard Square,í and I got on a bus to Worcester. I canít write fiction, never have. I write memoirs and thatís what Iíve done. Iím not sure there will be anything to say when I finish, but here it is.î

(The unvarnished, first draft, written-in-class version)

---

The Importance of Verbs

ìI think itís Michaelís turn to read his story.î
This was the fourth day of our writing class and Iíd brought Clemency, a story Iíd worked on for months. Even yesterday, knowing that my essay was longer than most, I managed to whittle another full page. Hearing others read their stories, I could see a familiar trap. Clemency, ostensibly about a camping trip, but touching on my relationship with my father, had been written for people I know. I needed to explain all those names or cut them out entirely. Or so I thought.
I looked up at Mr. Atwan and asked, ìIf itís okay with you, Iíd rather have someone else read it. Iíve read it a thousand times; I canít hear it anymore. Becky Jackson has already agreed to read it.î
Mr. Atwan turned to Becky and asked, ìHave you read it before?î
To which she replied, ìNo.î

ìI did last night; Iíll read it.î

Sensing something was up, but happy to get the teacher’s attention, I sat back – anxiously.

He was, after all, reading what I had thought was my best story. Maybe as he told Mercedes the day before, he would say mine is ready for publication. I had high hopes.

Until he pronounced gunwales, gunwhales.

Until he got lost in my weaving of timelines.

ìYou mean itís a three hour bus ride from Boston to Indianaî?

ìNo, my bus ride was when I lived in Indiana.î

Until he came to my approaching an accident scene late at night, after a brief description of my making love to my college girlfriend.

He turned to Becky and said, ìArenít you glad you didnít have to read this?î

Becky an English teacher at Lawrence Academy said, ìEven my students donít write like that.î

She might have been kinder, but that is what I heard.

Now I wanted it to stop. I wanted a second chance to write it again.

Finally, he finished, reading my last carefully crafted, tortuously developed ending, ìIt was then that I realized my fatherís voice had caught up with me.î

But Mr. Atwanís expression was blank. As if he didnít understand my epiphany. I wanted to run out of the room, or hide under my desk, but I stayed knowing, hoping, the bulls eye would move to someone else.

But Mr. Atwan wasnít quite done. The day before he lectured us on the use of interesting verbs. ìBe careful of boring to be verbs.î

He turned back to page one of my story, and as if continuing yesterdayís lecture, he said, ìIíll read just the verbs on this page.î

I hadnít quite grasped the verb concept so I thought, okay, go ahead.

He began:

He was
She was
They were
He had
You were
I was

Oh, those verbs, I thought.

---

I raised my voice when I got to the last sentence, hoping it would sound more like an ending.

There were many comments, but the one I remember most vividly was from the Ms. Cass. She said. ìYouíre living in your own little world, arenít you?î ìYour character is living in his own little world, isnít he?î

I was tempted to reply, ì What kind of soup would you like?î

Unfortunately, the class ended after my story and Iíll miss the next one, Thursday the 9th. Hopefully, Mark, Adam and I will be camped on Debsconeg Lake in the shadow of Mt. Katahdin.

Henry, you are no doubt wondering what the status is of the BMW. AVA Restoration in Dublin NH received, then sent to Dover NH, the difficult to machine flywheel. They are confident that by early next week the job will be done. In the meantime Iím sending them the throw bearing that also needs to be replaced. They THINK they have a replacement, but need to make sure.

Dan Downing

I first experienced Flamenco up-close-and-personal in a restaurant-theatre in Madrid in May of 2000. I got to spend the better part of a week there on a business trip with two business colleagues and their wives. Linda had been invited to come also, but being the middle of the school year, she had to decline.

Weíd been seated at a table maybe 15 feet from the raised stage, and feasted on tapas and local fare before the show came on. Over the next hour or so, four men, dressed plainly in blacks and browns, and five women in colorful, flowing, gypsy outfits, created and wrapped around us an organic experience that was less choreography and performance than genuine outpouring of emotion. It was, for me, a transcendent experience. It left me intoxicated, shaking, unable to communicate the feeling to my colleagues, and aching for Linda to be there sharing it with me.

Tonight I finally got to share with her this ancient Spanish art form. Our orchestra seats in Row G at the Emerson Majestic Theatre placed us as nearly as close to the stage as I had been in Madrid.

I read to Linda from the Playbill before curtain time. ìFlamenco is a storm of dance, song, and acoustic guitar, set to a lively beat, inside of which the dancer-singers improvise, using their bodies as instruments, bellowing and tapping out a wail of human suffering and grief that is the cultural root of this 15th-century Andalusian genre.î

But no words are adequate to convey the whirling-dervish-cum-tap-dancing, deep bass male cante, staccato clapping, accompanied by impeccably strummed guitar chords, and accented by ìallez!î as they cheer each other on, that is the live event.

Linda loved it. And agreed that our next vacation should be to Spain.

For those intrigued, Flamenco Festival 2004 will bring an Andalusian dance troupe to the Majestic at the end of January.

Letís all go!