Molasses Pond, 5 AM, Monday morning.
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We were gonna come home Sunday night. But on the way to Molasses Pond, during lunch in Belfast, Maine, with the sea smells a waftiní and Diane enjoying a ridiculously-sized portion of steamed in garlic and tarragon mussels, she looked at me and said, ìLetís go home Monday morning. Early, before the traffic.î

Anyone want to go to the airport with us tomorrow to pick up Matthew? He arrives at 5:45 PM.

Story of My Life

Each day goes down in history, wets its feet,
bathes in clear or murky stream, drinks deep,
comes out to join past days on the other bank.

We go in with the bathing day, every morning,
brace the shiver on our skin, taste the slaking
of thirst, find footing on mossy rock. Climb out

with sleep, Waking, weíre back on the first bank,
wading with a new day into the kaleidoscopic
water. Days far from either bank are barely seen

and seem unseeing. There is no recording of them
that knows the cold and quenching of their moment
in the water. Yet I can not let them go, nor bear

the strong suggestion formed by their fading figures
that they have let us go and that those coming can not
be foretold anything actual of water, flesh, or stone.

Publisher holds out a large envelope, says, Sorry,
We canít publish your autobiography.
Man sighs, says, Story of my life.

All these words then, are only for the stream?
The stream is everything? The stream is not enough?
The specters on the banks are deaf but listening?

Jennifer Michael Hecht

From Joan:

Talking to HO about Aunt Mary Jane, Bill etc.
I said at least Michael has good sense.
HO said, “Well, he had the good sense to marry Diane.”

You had to hear the delivery / see arch of eyebrow.
I know… sounds like he hasn’t had a good idea since.

Toasted, not roasted, by a longtime friend and colleague.
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Jack sang three songs at his retirement party at The Sitting Bull Tuesday night and ended with, ìI know what you are thinking, donít quit your day job. Well, itís too late!î Since it was open mike night and there were many to follow, Jack speculated there would be much applause from his fellow work mates (there was), and that the other performers not knowing the set-up, would be encouraged, thinking, Gosh, that guy stinks and they still love him.

Jack didn’t stink, he was quite good, perhaps the best that night, his night.
(Jack met John at Yale in the seventies. We met Jack through John who worked with Diane at McLean and owned half our house before he married Ruth. I worked for a brief time with Jackís brother, Tom, in 1982.)

Chris’s new puppy, Dash.
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“Thus far this trip has been one of the most amazing experiences…there is nothing like being your own boss in a foreign country. “

No, we haven’t heard a word from Matthew or Cel.

It’s about midnight and we just returned from her fiftieth birthday celebration. I met them both while working on their condo and they were kind enough to invite us to her party. Here’s the slideshow and the rest of the smaller image.

Last night at Scupper Jacks.

Diane: “ I can’t believe we forgot.”

Me: “I remembered when I was in Evansville. I debated waiting to give you those earrings until today.”

Diane: “I’m full up. There’s no room left.”

Me: “The last two days have been Matthew and not much else. And, I guess, Linda too. If someone at work hadn’t asked you what day it was, we’d a missed it entirely.”

Matt and Cel. Fill us in… .
And Matt, I sent Dash’s email address to your AB account.

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Yesterday, Joe and Robby were here to see Matt off, and Joe said something like, “Have fun in Europe.” That’s when it sunk-in for me, and, I believe, for Matt because on the drive to airport he kept saying, “I’m going to wake up in a foreign country?” (The blessings of an exam tired youth meant sleep on the plane). How had we taken this trip so casually? Because it’s not Nicaragua? Because he has already flown (take a guess at the number *) since he was born?

We arrived at the airport early and after a steak and cheese sandwich and an IBC root beer Matt said, “I’m going.”

“But you don’t have to go through security for forty minutes. Your plane doesn’t leave for an hour and a half.” I tried to hold him back.

“I’m going.”

“No you’re not. You’re staying with us for another forty minutes.”

Two hugs later and he was a mere ghost passing through security.

Godspeed, my son, and don’t forget to visit Dash.

(*35. I boarded my first plane at twenty-one)

Matt holds the door at the Quarterdeck restaurant for Flo et al while pondering how heíll have time to hang with us, study for his final final, take the test, pack and be ready by 2 PM for his trip to Logan and Barcelona.