From Sunday’s Globe Magazine

Squash, Green Bean, and White Bean Casserole

“Set the oven at 425 degrees. Spread the squash, flat side up, in a baking pan and sprinkle with olive oil, salt, and black pepper. Add 1/4 cup of the water to the edges of the pan. Roast the squash for 30 minutes or until it is almost tender when pierced with a fork. Set it aside to cool completely.”

And that would be about it for me. If I were the cook. But Diane is fearless, always has been, and she chopped and peeled and seasoned her way through the remaining six paragraphs as effortlessly as I click through web sites. Too me, cooking is like waiting in line. If I can throw a sword fish steak on the grill, flip it once after five minutes, then fine, I’ll do it. But paragraphs of instructions raises the same hackles as “Some assembly required.”

It’s worth a closer look

While Diane cooked, I played grease monkey. I came home early to work on Diane’s overheating Mazda, and after a call to Peter, my all knowing brother-in-law, a hunt for the right tools inlcuding my not oft-used Ohm meter, and two trips to auto parts stores, with one stop at the library to scope out what Chilton’s Auto Repair recommends, I fixed it. The fan wasn’t spinning at idle, but now, with the newly installed coolant sensor, the temperature gauge no longer registers – Bail Out, The Car Is About To Explode.

However, the best thing is not the repair. I was ready to let Diane deal with that. Nope, it’s The Enemy. Rakkity told me he had just finished Lee Child’s latest book, but because it came from his library, he couldn’t send it north. I assumed there would be no chance of finding it at my library until half the town had read it, but no, it was right there on the Popular New Fiction shelf.

Speaking of rakkity, I asked him two questions we’ve all been scratching our heads about, and I could either paraphrase his answers or reprint, without his permission, his email.

> Whatever happened to this year’s Beartooth saga?

“Yeah. That’s what I’d like to know. Captain Phil and Surgeon
Reed have disappeared into the woodwork, and I can’t do anything without their photos. Obviously they have different priorities than you and me. Sheesh! Don’t they know the blog needs content?”

> You still playing racquetball with Patrick?

“Are you kidding? Does the pope drop trou in the woods? Do bears swing from the balconies of the vatican? Is rakkity named rakkity?As a matter of fact, last evening I started work on a new racquetball story, “The King is dead, long live the King.” But, what with 25th anniversary festivities and all in the Schmahl house from Thurs to Sun, I may not get it posted till next Monday, but I’ll sneak a few minutes to
at least write it on my laptop (when my sweet S.O. isn’t looking).”

Welcome Back From Ireland, Susan.

Saturday, we (Dan, Mark, Mark and Adam) all met at out favorite haunt, La Provence, in Concord. We’ve occupied tables there for hours at time, mostly in the back room which is offset from the main dining area. The last time we met for lunch, the back room was closed, and because it was so busy, we were eventually evicted by the owner, Robert Didier. Politely, to be sure, but nevertheless, told to take our garrulous butts and go elsewhere.

Though it wasn’t as busy this day, Robert was again stalking our table. Or so it seemed to me. He’d look out the plate glass window, then back at our table. Finally he walked over and asked, “Does anyone own a Jaguar?”

Adam and I simultaneously replied. “I wish.” But the couple sitting at the table behind us, closer to the window, offered, “We do.”

“I have some bad news, “ Robert said as the male half of the couple got up from his table. Robert put his arm on the concerned customer’s shoulder and walked him to the window. “You have a flat.”

Clearly relieved that someone hadn’t sideswiped or backed into his car, the Jaguar owner sat back down at his table and said to his wife, “It could have been worse.”

Adam, who rarely includes himself in strangers’ conversations, turned to the couple and said, “Yeah, it could have been a Corolla.”

The Full Story

Pumpkin, Dolly Smith’s cat, was our cat’s best friend. She’d frequently sit somewhere on the lawn and look at our house, waiting for Skunk to join her. Skunk displayed little interest, but I’d always open the door and let him out. He would then stretch, lie on the deck, lick his paws, gaze at the sky, or occasionally run off with Pumpkin.

Skunk died in our house two years ago while we were in Hawaii, but Pumpkin still appears in our yard looking for her buddy to come out and play.

I wake and the sky
Is there, intact
The paper is white
The ink is black
My charmed life
Harms no one–
No wife, no son

Samuel Menashe

Yesterday’s photo of Bill Lewis clearing snow off of his canoe with a wooden paddle brought this emailed response:
“Look at the picture you posted on the blog, the snowy one. That thing on the left looks like a zaftig headless, armless woman with very large breasts. I wonder what it means. Other than that distraction it’s a gorgeous picture.”
That “distraction” was a snow woman (instead of breasts, I see Snoopy with those half arms looking more like ears) created by Adam, who sends this disclaimer:
“It means that Adam was at the time barely 30 , had been celibately in the woods for what at that time passed for a longish while, and was working out his own anxieties not with a knife to the throat, but by creating visions of comfort by turning the very stuff of threat into the stuff of play.”

A closer look at the sculptor and the sculpture
The scene to which Adam alludes is Bill deciding to end it all because : A. We have canoed down a fast flowing river to get to this campsite and there is no way to paddle back up the river. B. The lake water is so cold that if we capsize we die, and C. We are in the middle of nowhere and our bodies won’t be found until spring. What Bill doesn’t yet know, and is an even better reason to cut his throat, is Adam’s plan – load the canoes with all of our gear and pull them overland back to our minivan. I don’t know the exact distance, but it took us two trips and eight hours.

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The rest of the story written soon after the trip is here.

As we plan this year’s fall camping trip… a look at the past, Allagash Lake, 1993.
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Flo comments frequently about others in her little community. Mostly, she refers to them as, well, “them”, or “they”, or “some,” as in , “some get picked up on weekends.” While we were waiting for the barbershop chorus to begin, she pointed out one woman in spiffy red shorts and matching spandex shirt. “She wears those same clothes everyday.” After the woman sat down, Flo asked me,

“Did you know it was Grandparent’s Day?”

” I’ve never heard of Grandparent’s Day, but I see the Happy Grandparent’s Day card on the piano.”

“Betsy and I were talking about it at lunch. I said it was Grandparent’s Day and the man at the next table thought I was talking about birthdays. He asked, ‘When is my birthday?’ ”

That reads a little like he is asking Flo when her birthday is, but no, he’s asking when his is.

“I said, ‘I don’t know. January, February, March, April, May…?’ ”

“He said, ‘I think January.’ “

“You’re laughing, Flo.”

“I know. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.”

Matt and I are in a valley, at the base of a mountain, trying to decide where to camp. Itís an area similar to many in Colorado, with a small town nearby. Adams comes along, pulls out his map and says, ìWeíll begin at the top and camp at these lakes (pointing to his map as he talks) as we climb down. Weíll end our trip in this town, and eat here,î he says with a smile.

Two Photos from a wedding we stumbled on in Rhode Island.

The bride and friends.
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The Sounds of Concord Barbershop Chorus performed for almost an hour at Concord Park. The number in the Chorus (22) almost outnumbered those in the audience.
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Flo, all ears.

Audience participation. This is when I left my chair and pretended I had more photos to take.

I’m usually going somewhere, and I’m pretty determined about it, but inevitably I get lost. Most times, I’m in Cincinnati, in the hills above the Ohio River. There are highways, buildings and bridges that cross the river. I’m usually on foot, and as if I suddenly had a stroke, I find myself lost. Which way to go? Don’t know. I’m not sure I even know where it is I am going.

The other night I dreamed that friend Eric was about to commit suicide, but not if I could reach him in time. He left white notes with numbers attached to various objects like street signs, fences, etc., and all I had to do was follow those notes. Behind me were other friends of Eric; I think Dan, Adam and Mark Schreiber. I was leading the group, following the notes, when suddenly I’m in a mall; a series of stores not unlike the street mall Peter took us to in Honolulu. When I emerge, I’m back in the twilight trying to follow Eric’s trail. The guys are again behind me, but suddenly they turn left when they should have gone straight and that’s the last I see of them. And it’s the last I see of Eric’s notes.

Within the same three week period:

I’m hiking into the mountains. Mountains not unlike Yosemite Valley. I’m looking for a place to camp, a place to bring Matt back to, but I get lost.

I’ve climbed to the top of Mt Monadnock but now the summit is covered in round snow-covered boulders, and I don’t have any shoes on. I can’t get down.

I’m driving a truck a friend of mine stole and I find myself back at the owner’s house, as he is about to come out of the door. I want to run, but it feels like it’s too late.

I’m driving a flat bed truck full of junk that has to be tossed before I get onto the highway. I’ve stopped just beyond the dumpster, but the traffic is too heavy and the truck too long to back up. Should I attempt to back up or risk losing the load on the highway? I can’t decide.