Paddling Lobster Lake in October, 1999.

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

ìNo,î he answered. ìHow about if I drive it to Newton? I could follow you.î Honest to god, although the idea had occurred to me, it wasnít implied in my question,

I thought, if he doesnít break down, he could show off his car to the Paciís. If it does pop a radiator hose, or the fan blade spins off, weíd 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 Mattís summer plans, if his car goes kaput, weíll 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 didnít 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 weíd made it. When we finally drove into Jenniferís driveway, Mattís custom exhaust burbling, I naively thought Matt and I would do some serious palm slapping. Instead, ìDad, you drive like a drunk. Donít you know what a lane is? And, you drove so slow I thought Iíd go insane.î

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

Diane corrected me, ìNo, I said I was surprised that you could drive carefully,î

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 SUVís threatening to squash Mattís car, I shrugged her off. Again, I shouldnít have. Maybe two miles past 117, my cell rang. ìDad, we have to stop, the fan blade is making a terrible noise.î

ìAll right,î 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, weíd all be dead. And I knew route 2 provided no safe haven until the first farm stand after the highway narrows. Thatís 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 Mattís 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.

Nica

Matt told everyone at Easter dinner about his plans to go to Nicaragua. They responded as most people do. ìOh, youíre going with a school or church group?î Anita, Vicís 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.

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?

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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 Matthewís, 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: Susanís end of August trip to Ireland, Mattís 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.

ìHow long to you want to go for?î 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 sheíd Teed up a Titleist for Justin Rose.

ìA month.î I replied.

ìSo that is what you want to do, spend most of the summer at Jimmy and Susanís?î

ìOf course, but you know we couldnít stay a month. We canít afford it even if they were willing to have us. Maybe ten days.î

ìWe 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.î Diane, laughing, continued. ìWe could go before Susanís trip to Ireland, and when they drop us off at the airport, rent a car and sneak back.î

ìBut Susanís office is down there,î I answered as though this were a real plan, ìShe would see us when …..î

Diane cut me off. ìThatís why we plan our trip near hers. Jimmy would be home, but weíd be very quiet, and remember, there is a refrigerator on that floor.î

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

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.

Comments in response to Mattís upcoming trip to Nicaragua.

ìI 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.î

ìDiane, did you feel like you couldnít say no?î

ìYou know, at your age itís too late to have another.î

ìHeís going where?? With a girl his age??î

ìToo bad you will never see him again.î

I was lying in bed the other night with these comments floating in my head when I sat up and thought, I wouldnít go to Nicaragua. What were we thinking? But then I wandered down in my pajamas and read Edís 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 donít see him again.

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………

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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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.

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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!

Hereís the deal. Jan takes one week off a year and flies to Aruba with a friend. But, she wonít 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, Iíd raised the second floor deck about an inch, and hammered a dozen temporary supports underneath. Why so many?

Two winters ago Iíd come perilously close to dropping an entire porch roof on my head, and I wanted to be sure that this time I wouldnít 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 Markís 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 Markís ladder sink into the muddy earth as he climbed his. I knew we didnít 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.

ìAre you ready?î Mark grunted.

ìIím ready, are you ready?î

ìIím ready. Iím going to lift my end.î

ìGo ahead, lift.î My shoulder was already hurting.

ìReady?î

ìHurry up.î

ìHere goes..uummphî

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 couldnít stop. Mark is tall and strong – Iíve seen him portage canoes alone – and this felt like a cartoon in The New Yorker.

ìNothing happened, Mark, try it again.î

ìOkay, Iím 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.

ìThatís it, Iíve got to put this thing down,î 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 ownerís deck, and swapped it for Markís 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 Iíd 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, Iíd look at Mark and say, ì Are you sure this is okay? Weíre not overlooking anything are we? The deck will settle down on top the new beam, right?î

I was happy to have Mark checking my work. Whatever I overlooked, surely heíd catch, except heíd been providing the dayís entertainment with stories about work and Janís trip. He had been from the start, fully engaged physically, but not mentally.

ìIím sure,î Mark replied, but continued to drone on about how Kevin was fixing Janís 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 weíre 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 wasnít going to die. Except it hit with such force that it knocked our beam halfway off the supports. Start. Mark couldnít see the beam from where he stood, which is why he continued talking about Janís computer.

Work on the second deck, not as high off the ground, resulted in the same comedy of errors. That beam, though longer, didnít 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 couldnít see those supports dangling in air, which is probably why, when his cell phone rang, he answered it.

|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 weíre 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.

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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.

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 didnít 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 ìfriendsî at Willow. Right, Diane?

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