“Adam told to write about the Ice Hotel and dipping into the frozen river with Marianne. He thinks I can develop a story that follows on one I’d already written about cold water swimming in Maine. Start there, weave into it last year’s obsession with White Pond, add a dash — am I mixing my metaphors? — of Québec City and voilà! the blog lives again.  But I can’t because it’s so all about me. Mainecourse is full of what I see as  my woe-is-me will I ever find happiness sob-stories. How do I write about stuff I’m doing without it being about stuff I’m doing?”

KO: “Write it in the third person.”

“You always say that. The third and I’m still me, I’d have to write in the  sixth or seventh person.”

KO: “Breathe, Michael, breathe. First those stories aren’t as self centered as you think. Secondly, the third person gives you more freedom to play. You’ll have less obligation to stick to the truth.”

“Not that I do anyway.”

KO: “Not that you do anyway.”

Time passes and no new stories magically appear on this here blog so  Adam offers less work: “Post a bowling photo and link it to the bowling movie — how  hard does it have to be … ? Or do you fear the slippery slope of re-immersion & expectation … ?”

Bowling? Yeah, bowling. Compare our passion with Ralph Kramden’s and the “Hurricanes.”  Maybe begin with Ralph yelling at Alice, “Hurry up with the eats, I’m going bowling,”  because often at our table it’s something like, “Why’d we start dinner so late we’ve got to get bowling.”

“Pick an Oak,” was a toe dipper. Water’s warm.  This next one could be a dive off Caroline’s pier, and if so, then I’d hope to have more than voyeurs. Here goes.

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In the depths of last summer’s humdrum,  Matthew and friends chose Wednesday nights to meet at the “Drome,” the local candlepin (small bocce-like balls) alley down the street across from K-Mart and the only McDonalds in America to have gagged on its own grease and gone belly up.   Why Wednesday? 1960s prices: A dollar a string and two bucks for a beer. Some nights Matt and his crowd commandeered multiple lanes, and he’d return home with stories of his high scores and near fistfights. I remembered my early competitive days bowling against my roommate, Jim McMahon, and later taking Matt and the foster kids to what was then called, “The Bowladrome.”

But this latest entry is not going to be  about Candlepins and little balls, this one, or the upcoming one which I hope materializes, is about big balls, chainsaws, and ice.

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“Hey, Matt, I need an editor. Your mom’s gone and I have to have someone tell me I’m not embarrassing myself before I embarrass myself. I’d like to keep it in the family and you’re a writer.  Will you read my latest attempt to get the blog rolling?”

“Sure, I’d like that.”

(Thought bubble : You’d like that?  What, no, “Is this punishment for living in the same house with you?”)

Matt reads this while I burn an omelet with cheese, veggies and beans.  I hear a snort and a laugh which I take as good signs. Then he looks up from his computer, “I like the way you say you’re going to write something and then you don’t.”

“Or that I act like I’m going to write about bowling but don’t? Or is it more like saying I’ll finish a job like the bathroom and then don’t?”

“ And, I’d take out the pick-an-oak sentence.”

“You mean I can’t publicly pressure people to help out here like they did in the  old days?”