Karen called me two weeks before Steven’s 60th birthday party to ask if I would say a few kind words about her husband. I’m a practiced toastmaster, having presided over thanksgiving dinners at our house for twenty years, and I said, “Sure.” I knew there would be others singing the praises of this fine man, and I knew they would all be spontaneous, from the heart and delivered with the passion of a Robert Frost at JFK’s inauguration. How to compete?

I licked my chops

Why not write to Steven’s brother, Igor, in Ohio and and prod him for some dirt? I do, after all, have a reputation to uphold; I do after all, have a younger brother. Here is what Igor sent, which I happily read aloud.

“My younger brother Steven and I lived in Sweden from 1948
to 1954. We came there from Hungary with our parents. When we arrived in Sweden, Steven was three years old and I was eight.

We both went to school in Malmo, Sweden, and we each had our own circle of friends. However, when Steven was about eight years old he wanted to join a social club to which I belonged. This club of 13 year olds met on weekends at a friend’s home in their basement. We had fun gatherings with model trains, ping pong and other hobbies of interest to boys at that age.

There were some younger kids hanging around us,younger siblings and friends of those siblings. They included several admiring younger girls. Steven was one of these “wanna bees”. He wanted to joinour club, but he was repeatedly told he was too young.”


************I paused to hand Steven this photo of The Club with the president pro tem, Igor, in the center. Note his smile. Though Steven listened in good humor, I could see those long simmering, painful memories bubbling up. As if on cue, Steve declared how angry it made him to be excluded from The Club…***********
“This must have upset him. Finally one day he came down in to the basement where the model railroad tracks were neatly laid out, and he proceeded to tear them up in a fit of anger. This was a bad day for us all! After that episode my brother was politely banished from the premises.

I am not sure he ever forgave us. We have long since forgiven him. Several members of this club recently met for reunions, once in Dayton, Ohio and once in Sweden. The club’s steering committee has invited Steven to finally join the club, but he has refused to acknowledge our invitation.

I think it’s time to bury the hatchet! Get over it, Steven! We want you to have a happy rest of your life beyond 60. Have a great celebration with your family and friends.”

your loving brother,
Igor

But it doesn’t end yet. Days before his birthday, Diane and I made a list of relevant facts, some of which came from “the loving brother,” and I fed them to Adam, the limerick machine. I ended my toast with these:

Margit said to Semyon, “I’ll grant you
He needs some help with his pas de deux
But it isn’t by chance
He left history for dance
Our boy don’t look bad in a tutu……

I take frequent calls from our host
And his birthday gives me license to roast
I know all things mechanical
To Steve are satanical
But without me the man can’t burn toast…

The stripper to Steven seemed spastic
And he hollered, “You could be fantastic!
I can help with your issues –
I’ve a couch and some tissues.”
As he slipped his card in her elastic.

Sunday, I wrote Igor to describe the previous night’s events and to thank him for his contribution. He sent this, a photo of the original train tracks:

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Hurt

I carry the box of newspapers and plop them down next to the lawn mower, the lawn chairs, and other assorted junk from my garage. I’m multitasking : cleaning the garage and sanding cabinet doors in my adjoining shop. That’s why I’m wearing hearing protectors, and when Dolly calls, “Michael,” it only registers as a light tap on my mind’s door. I pull out the wheel barrow, and this time, hear a harder knock, “Michael.”

I look over to see Dolly framed in the hollow between the row of tall evergreen trees and the skinny dead maple that separate our yards. She rarely crosses my property line, as though that hollow represents a door and she is waiting to be invited in.

I pull off my earmuffs, wave, and walk over to her.

Dolly, almost eighty now, is wearing dark pants, a cream colored top that matched her makeup, and a blue jacket. She mostly dresses in navy blue, what I imagine she wore in her youth, when she brushed off those flecks of dandruff and strands of tinted blonde hair.

“I never see you anymore,” she says.

“I know. I should have trimmed those evergreens when Lew asked. Now we can‚’t see each other‚’s houses.”

“And your truck is so quiet.”

My old truck, my red Nissan, had a metal ladder rack that clanged when I pulled into my bumpy driveway. I hated the noise; I was embarrassed by it. Dolly, who felt safer when I was home, told me it comforted her.

“I know. It doesn’t wake the neighborhood. What‚’s up?”

“It‚’s my door. I need you to fix my door.”

Dolly lives in a small cape with weathered shingles that have never been painted. Folks with houses near the sea don‚’t bother with paint, but instead of flat shingles weathered an ocean gray, hers are mildewed black and brown with curled edges. Not much has been done to the house since her husband, Lew, died, and that was fifteen years ago. We walk up the three steps to her deck over the now soft floor boards. Dolly points to the inner door, “What do you think?” I pull open the blue screen door with the single rusty, coiled spring, and looked closely at her entry door. The blue paint is still flaking and the windows are still smudged with finger prints. I turn the tarnished brass knob and let go. The door opens as if touched by a spring breeze.

“It seems to be okay, Dolly.”

“Are you sure?”

I open and close it again.

“It works fine. I wish I worked as well.”

“What about over here where my sleeve gets caught?”

Dolly points to a recess on the doorframe where maybe a lock for the screen door had been.

I hesitate, not sure what to say. Of all the repairs her house needs, this isn’t one.

“How about this door?” Dolly put her hand on the wooden screen door.

Relieved we‚’ve moved from the chink in the door frame to something real, I said, “It‚’s old, but it works too. I could replace it with an aluminum door with glass. The new self-storing doors look like combination storm windows, but instead of seasonally swapping the screen for the glass, you simply raise one pane of glass in the summer and lower it in the winter.” As soon as I began, I knew Dolly was lost. I didn‚’t know she was about to have company.

“I had to take my cat, Pumpkin, to the vet. She was doing this.” Dolly pretended to pull at her shoulder with her teeth. “He said Pumpkin was too young when she was… you know.”(She wouldn’t say weaned.) “He said she was looking for a … .”(She wouldn’t say nipple.)

“But Pumpkin is okay now?”

“I would hope so. I clap my hands and she comes. Honest and truly, the neighbors must think, “That crazy lady.”

That was the last intelligible thread in our conversation. We talked about her cat sucking on something, which led to her granddaughter‚’s baby, and then to the neighbor walking up the street, back to her cat, to Matt on Halloween, to shopping, to the upcoming winter weather, to her neighbor, Mary. On the surface you might say where‚’s the gibberish? But imagine writing our dialogue, then cutting the sentences into thin strips, grabbing a handful, and flinging them onto the floor. Pick sentences at random and you have Dolly and Mike.

Diane tells me this is classic dementia, when someone continually changes thoughts, a sentence at a time, smiling and nodding when it might seem appropriate, but it is not. Except it is I, who smiles and nods.

I try bringing us back.

“Dolly, look at Mary‚’s house. Her storm windows work like your new storm door would.” Only Dolly‚’s blank stare can compete with mine.

I gave up.

“By the way, how is Mary? I never see her.”

“She doesn’t leave her house.”

“How does she eat?”

“I buy her milk.”

I imagine a cat. I also picture one widow who no longer makes much sense taking care of a widow whose car has been tarped for three years. I need something solid to lean against, and this porch isn’t it.

“I’ve got to go Dolly, but I’ll take care of your storm door.”

Not long ago, our talks would end on Dolly‚’s porch. Now Dolly imitates Mary. The conversation speeds up when it‚’s over. I walk backwards past her clothesline and the scrawny apple tree, smiling as Dolly chases after me with her voice. I pause at the skinny dead maple, nod as if I’ve understood her, and wave one last time.

My orchid, which blooms every year at this time, has ten buds.

Central St.

Take the Belief-O-Matic test

Here are my results:

1. Unitarian Universalism (100%)
2. Liberal Quakers (96%)
3. Neo-Pagan (85%)
4. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (85%)
5. Secular Humanism (74%)
6. Taoism (74%)

The warning signs on our street have gone, so this is it for mountain lion updates. The latest theories are : an exotic pet release, a Bobcat, or a big dog. The best are individual reactions. Here are two emails Iíve received, both from women:

“I was just talking to my friend (who sent the track photos and like me, is wild about wildlife…) and said to him, “This is like a hurricane. There are those who put plywood on their windows, buy out the grocery store, and hunker down at home. Then, there are the storm-chasers, who go for a walk on the beach as the hurricane approaches………With this mountain lion, there are those who yell at me to stop walking my dog and get inside….and then there are people LIKE me, who walk along the tracks, with dog, hoping for a sighting and wishing I carried some bacon for bait!!”

and

(Remy is her dog)

“Remy has been taken by his grandmother to Cambridge for a few days. She was concerned about his safety in light of the mountain lion. Somehow she did not seem as concerned about my plight as the person attached to the other end of the leash!”

At 1:30 a.m. today residents of Mohawk Drive (Indian Village)†Acton reported hearing a loud growling noise outside their home. Officers responding heard the same growling noises and saw deer running scared through the area. The Environmental Police were contacted and advised the officers to stay out of the woods for the night hours and they will follow up today. Officers at one point saw the animal and described it as a long tan cat possibly 5 to 6 feet in length staying very low to the ground.

Residents are advised to use caution in or near wooded areas.

Frank J. Widmayer III
Chief of Police
Acton Police Department

“Hey Susie.”

“Hey Mikie.”

“I have a question for you.”

“Well.”

“I have this package I want to send Charlie. I’m late, I can’t get a hold of Mary, and I need his Deerfield address.”

I can hear Susan mumbling, “Charlie…find my file, find by contents,” then a laugh, then I laugh because I know she’s using Sherlock on her Mac. “Here it is…but it’s not his Deerfield address. If you send it to Deerfield in care of Charlie, I’m sure it will get there.”

“But I know he has an address with his dorm or whatever. He gave it to me once.” I’m also thinking, Charlie…Deerfield and a zip…yeah, sure, that will get to him.

I hang up and search for his sister Julie’s address. I find a Robert Blake and a Julia Blake, separate listings, same town, and figure that must be the one.

One ringy dingy, two ringy dingys, three ringy dingys…”Hello.”

“Julie?”

“Yes.”

“This is Michael Miller.”

I’ve never called Julie, and I think she’ll be surprised but … .

“Hi Michael Miller. I was just mailing a ____(don’t want to give it away) to Charlie.”

“What a coincidence.”

“I’ve got his address but not his zip code which I was about to look it up.”

“What a coincidence. I have ____ that I want to send to Charlie, I can’t find Mary, and I need his address.” I stick the phone in the crook of my neck and get ready to type.

“It’s Charlie at Deerfield Academy”

I passed this portable flashing road sign near Idylwilde last night, and I almost missed the warning flashed after Use Caution.Toto barked in the back seat as I backed up for a second look.

First cousins at First Communion
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All grown up
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First cousins at First Communion
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All grown up
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I make promises I can’t keep. Chris’s influence on our camping trip for instance…I’m bored with the idea. The problem is, I’ve told the stories too many times, and my brain will freeze if I attempt to write them.

Better is his dad’s email to Molly, Chris’s sister:

Dear Molly,

Chris and I just came back from camping with Mike and Mark Queijo in Northern Maine. Chris is now a man, having passed the wilderness test of being able to drink fine wine and beer in one hand, listen to Red Sox on radio with the other and then get up in the morning (not afternoon) and hike for several hours.

We have given him a local Indian name, “SOS”, which means “tall one who holds the radio.” If you’re interested in history, the short version is “radio holder” or in Chipawa “SOS,” pronounced “sauce” as in curry sauce. Happy show.

Dad

*Editor’s note: Yes, he did get up before noon, but is 11:59 really before noon?

The expanded view of Chris crossing the stream as requested by fellowphotographer with the ip number (12.148.2.90 ) equivalent of a single digit license plate.

The Kibbe addition, circa one year later. Can anyone tell what is wrong with this photo? Hint: The barely discernible black object is the gas grill, the pupurlish object is a hardy mum.

Hiking the Appalachian Trail near our first night’s campsite, we came to this foot-numbingly cold stream. It’s about fifty yards wide, and while the trail ends on one side and clearly begins again on the other, we thought, this is not possible. “They” can’t be asking “us” to roll up our pants and walk through “this”. Somewhere there has to be a bridge, a shallow area with rocks we can hop, or a gondola with a colorful shade-providing umbrella and a snappily dressed, chilled-wine providing gondolier.

Chris leads the way, a bit upstream from the trail crossing, in deeper water.

Markís customary camping clothing is Early Hobo. This time, however, dressed in wool pants given to him by Adam, and a spiffy blue jacket given to him by his brother, Mark resembled a model from J.Crew. Here, he’s careful not to get his feet damp.
The Bigger Picture

Speaking of bums, how about this pair enjoying a beer before hopping the next train?
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