Last night Rakkity sent me the link to this summer’s hike into the mountains by the “fogies foursome.” The mountain range now has a pseudonym to keep it annoymous and unfindable, at least by readers of this blog. Rakkity tells me the accompanying text is sparse, but when time allows, he will add more. Yes, I guess I did complain, but it’s sparse by his standards as well as mine. Take a gander at last year’s adventure.

Clouds drifing into the Rift.

Hiking down to the Rift.

We celebrated Flo’s birthday last night at the Hopkins’.
She’ll turn 92 on Monday.
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Matt and Flo, with Mary peering out from the centerpiece.
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Flo told this story last night:

“I’m sitting with my friends at Concord Park and this lady walks up, bends down, looks into my face and asks, “What is your name?”

“I tell her Florence Canning. She takes a step back and asks, “How do you spell that?”

” I tell her it’s C-A-N-N-I-N-G. Canning peaches, canning pears, canning pickles. She disappears and I don’t see her until the next day when she’s getting ready to leave. I approach her and ask, “Do you remember my name?”

“Why of course I do,” she replies. “It’s Florence Pickles.”

We celebrated Flo’s birthday last night at the Hopkins’.
She’ll turn 92 on Monday.
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Matt and Flo, with Mary peering out from the centerpiece.
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Flo told this story last night:

“I’m sitting with my friends at Concord Park and this lady walks up, bends down, looks into my face and asks, “What is your name?”

“I tell her Florence Canning. She takes a step back and asks, “How do you spell that?”

” I tell her it’s C-A-N-N-I-N-G. Canning peaches, canning pears, canning pickles. She disappears and I don’t see her until the next day when she’s getting ready to leave. I approach her and ask, “Do you remember my name?”

“Why of course I do,” she replies. “It’s Florence Pickles.”

Rick and Eileen Cote, nearby neighbors and close friends of Peter and Patti, invited us all to their house for Thanksgiving. The dining table sagged under the weight of food prepared by the Coteís, which included TWO turkeys cooked by Rick, and assorted dishes brought by guests. Mary Hopkins sent us north with her creamed onions and sweet potato casserole as well as Charlieís perfect corn muffins, and Karen Grojean and Linda Laughland made apple pies.
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Charlie’s perfect muffins presented at dinner, but oddly, not an even number.

Robert always washes our Thanksgiving dishes – is there a more thankless task? Here he is continuing the tradition at the Cote’s. He oughta get a medal.

Chris isn’t as long winded as I am…

Here’s mine. Robby’s at my house and Matt calls us on his cell phone. He tells us he’s nearby, sitting on the railroad tracks. All of a sudden we hear the blast of the train whistle and then Matthew screaming, ‘Oh SHIT.’

It was the end of the summer and Chris was working with me on those condominiums. He was about to leave for baseball camp, vacation, and then the beginning of school.

“Hey, go.”

“Go?”

“Yeah, go.”

“Go?”

“It’s your turn. Start!”

“Start?”

“Come on, this work will bore us both to death without more stories. I told the last one, and now it’s your turn.”

“No, you go.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve lived longer. You have more stories.”

Our story telling began days ago. Chris tells a story, I tell one, then he tells one, and that helps us survive our mind-numbing days. Even when we’re lifting beams or replacing supporting walls, we’d tell stories. We stopped only when we were glued to our ladders working on those tall chimneys.

“Okay, I’ll start. This one is about trains and walking the train tracks. Something you and your sixteen year old friends are familiar with. I was fifteen at the time.

“Glenn and I …”

“It’s always Glenn and…”

“We were inseparable, which might not have been a good thing. This time we brought Arnold, who, to be honest, was as much mascot as friend. Glenn always included Arnold, although he was slower, clumsier and odder than the two of us. In a three way race, Arnold would come in last behind the turtle and the rabbit. I hate to admit it, but we made fun of him when he wasn’t around; in fact, we made fun of him when he was with us. And our constant needling killed any trust between us. Remember the firecracker story and how I couldn’t convince Arnold to throw his M-80’s away as the cop was sneaking up behind him?

We lived within three blocks of one another, a few miles from downtown Cincinnati, so these tracks weren’t in the sticks as they are here in Acton. Anyway, Glenn and I, wearing out traditional white shorts and black BVD muscle t-shirts, met Arnold at his house. It was early, sticky hot and we had no plans but to walk those tracks. Our previous hike-the-tracks distance record? All the way to Ann Rush’s, a girl I had a crush on in junior high. This time we passed behind her house, wending our way through what little undeveloped land remained.

After two hours of following the tracks, we emerge from the woods. No longer are we in amongst the trees and the distant houses; we’re at the top of a hill with a view of the city. The ground descends to the street, and a railroad trestle stretches off in the distance over the cars and the houses and the factories below. A majestic view for us suburban boys and an enticement richer than a root beer float.

Are we going to turn back and go home, or follow the tracks out on this wooden trestle? There are two obvious problems. To walk on the trestle you have to skip from one tie to the next because in-between those ties is nothing but air. No more gravel, no more mother earth. The bigger problem is the rightful owner of those tracks, Mr. Freight Train. I’d like to say the three of us weighed the pros and cons, but that would be a lie. Instead, Glenn and I convinced Arnold it was perfectly safe.

As soon as we strut onto the trestle, and don’t ask me why, chalk it up to the times, street kids below begin throwing rocks at us. This forces us further out, away from the boys and their stones, but also away from the safety of land.

Now we’re on the trestle and giddy. With each step forward we gain about a mile in altitude. We pass a rickety, wrought iron, wooden floored platform, about four feet square, which hangs off the side of the tracks. We look at it and laugh. Standing on the tracks over the ant colony below is bad enough, but there is no way we’re going near that thing. What if it breaks off? We keep walking, staring into the city haze, hoping to see the end, where the trestle again marries mother earth.

Every hundred feet or so, I bend down and rest my ear on the sooty iron rail to listen for an oncoming train. I learned that from Tonto and The Lone Ranger. We’re hundreds of feet out on this trestle – from the street we surely look suicidal – when it finally penetrates our thick skulls – this is crazy. We’ll never reach the other side, and if a train comes, we won’t be able to outrun it. And as if on cue:

“I heard a whistle,” squeaks Glenn.

“No you didn’t.’ I put my black ear back on the rail.

Arnold looks into the distance and then back at me and says , “Oh no!”

I jump up and sure enough, way off, but not way off enough, is a black locomotive, its single head light shining, steam from its smoke stack trailing.

We freeze. How fast is it going? Who cares? We turn and run, but it’s hopeless. We’re miles from land and running for your life on railroad ties linked by the void is a nightmare. Try practicing back flips on the rim of the Grand Canyon. And besides, we have our mascot, Arnold. If Glenn and I beat the train, Arnold won’t.

Terrified, we squawk at one another.

“You idiot. Why we’d come out here?’

“Shut up.’

“My mother is going to be so mad.’

“Shut up and run.’

“I’m going to fall.’

“Shut up.”

I glance back at Arnold and he appears to be running on strips of flypaper. Soon, he’s twenty feet behind us. “Faster, Arnold, Faster,” I shout, but he can’t move quicker, and this time it’s not because he thinks we’re playing some prank. There is one choice – the scary platform- and Glenn and I leap onto it. We look back and there’s Arnold, a flailing cartoon character outrunning a freight train. We holler and wave our arms like the pit crew at a stock car race and Arnold finally lumbers onto the platform.

The three of us pin ourselves against the rusty back rail as if fat balloons on a dart board. The train roars by and like a popsicle stick strummed between your teeth, our floor rattles up and down. I can’t see the rocks whizzing by our heads because my eyes are closed. Arnold moans like a kicked dog, and Glenn, convinced we’re going to be launched into space, or some part of the train will decapitate us, sounds like he’s reciting the rosary.

Now, you tell your story.”

“My story? Is that all?” Chris replies.

“What do you mean is that all? I’m here aren’t I? The train went by and we walked home. And you know what? We didn’t learn a thing from that. You’ll see. I’ve got more stories, but let’s hear yours first. ”

A mighy fine rakkity discovery . Helen Virginia, click on the link, go have coffee and a nap, and then come back. They are worth waiting for. The bottom of the page links are impressive too.

They are rumors, not yet debunked by snopes.com, that the Beartooth II saga is nearing completion.

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Bob Hopkins responding to his brother-in-law, David’s toast. My toast preceeded his, and I’d like to think I softened Bob with more from The Limerick Machine:

Bob could see he’d not been understood
“Orange cake with orange frosting is good!
Mary, don’t blow your lid –
it’s what I loved as a kid
Takes me back to my days in the ‘hood!”

Young Bob’s days in Deerfield were bliss
But an off year his new wife did not miss
Finding one old bad grade
But one comment was made:
“Geez, I thought you were smarter than this.”

There once was a shrink, name of Bob
Who thought he did quite a fine job
‘Til a patient named Daisy
Said, “I’m not stupid, just crazy!
Find someone less discerning to rob!”

Last night we had dinner at the Quarterdeck in Maynard with Mark and Ginger. We had four distinct choices: Indian, Thai, and Korean, but we chose fish. And it was delicious. Especially the appetizers: seared Sashimi cut wafer thin with a narrow crust of peppercorns and mustard, Coconut Crusted Scallops with chili sauce and the New England staple, fried clam bellies.

Sometime during the evening someone says the word “interesting.”

I launch into one of my mini tirades.

Me: “What is the single most overused, boring and meaningless word?”

Ginger: “Interesting?”

Me: “No, worse.”

Diane: “Fascinating?”

Me: “Worse.”

For me the word is “unbelievable,” and I’m sure someone will guess it. I pause again.

Mark: “I love you?”

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Add cold weather and rain to this landscape and you can see why Mark Schreiber pushed so hard two years ago for a change in venue. He had just returned from Glacier National Park (this reminds me, Rakkity, how about Beartooth II?), having hiked in view of the majestic peaks, under the endless deep blue skies.

The truth is, most of our Maine camping trips look like this. It is a testament to our photographic and editing skills (Adam, Dan, me), that each year we produce a travelogue the Maine Chamber of Commerce would pay to have.

I snapped this shot as we were leaving our campsite, after the colorful tents had been removed. Note, reflected in the water, the wonderful gray ceiling, an armís length away, and all the vibrant fall colors long gone.

Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

– Stanley Kunitz

Lunch atop LIttle Boardman Mountain which is at the other end of our campsite on Crawford Pond. Mark and Chris Schreiber and Mark Queijo.

Yes, it was hunting season.

If you look closely you’ll see two missing items. Adam is the most obvious, the pan to cook Jan’s corn chowder (in the large yellow ziplock), less so. I think we’ve done this before, brought soup, the stove, but no pot. I know for sure we’ve hiked miles on only one bottle of wine. Both hardships for the sort of “getting away” we do.

Peter: “Helen’s back is hurting her again and they sent a new physical therapist, not the old one she liked so much. She tried to explain to this new person how her pain was related to the stenosis, but was told stenosis is another word for arthritis. Helen replied, ‘Oh, I thought stenosis was a narrowing of the vertebral canal.’ “

We both laughed. Some young “chippy” (Roland’s word) underestimating her eighty-seven year old patient. Peter and I have been humbled often, but in a somewhat more gentle, motherly way.

“You know she’s just too aware to put a pillow over her face.”

P.S. Helen’s original therapist returned yesterday.

Behind the “tall guy.” Charlie, the violinist, has known Steven since the sixth grade in Levittown NY.

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