Dear Henry,

Although you didnít ask, youíll be interested to know that I visited Dianeís new office, and met most of her fellow fighters of anorexia in teenage girls. Diane needed various colorful photos hung, and after failing to drive simple nails into her walls-you know women, where would they be without men-she begged for my services.

I left work early on Friday, turned left onto the grounds of McLean, took another left at the first fork and finally one more left into a huge common parking lot. Diane had warned me that her old building, Bowditch, was adjacent to the lot, but that the entrance was on the opposite side of the building. I spied a huge red brick structure and followed a well-worn footpath through tall green grass until I came to the front entrance. As I was about to open the mostly glass, too modern door, I noticed that it said, ìAdmissions,î not ìBowditch.î As you know, McLean is littered with stately red brick buildings.

I couldnít walk back the way I came. I canít explain it, but I hate to retrace my steps and I wonít admit when Iím lost. Therefore I continued to meander, hammer in hand, nails in my shirt pocket, looking for a building called Bowditch. I passed patients who looked exactly as they did thirty years ago (I thought there were new, non-zombie creating drugs), and staff too, with their remote Iím just-out-for-a-stroll look. Reminded me of what Joe G, a patient on Brianís floor, had told me thirty years ago. He was attracted to Brian because of that, nonjudgmental just-out-for-a-stroll, look. Joe said, îHe was someone I knew I could talk to.î

Anyway, I finally came to an unlabeled building, this one, too, with those modern glass doors. Taking the chance that it wasnít Bowditch, I entered and asked for directions. After much discussion with someone who looked like a receptionist, who consulted with someone who looked like they were from dietary, I was taken to the rear door where the helpful employee pointed and said, ìItís that one, I think.î I thanked her and walked to the front door of Oaks, again not Bowditch So, like Brian, and the staff I continued to see, I resumed my stroll, hoping to eventually get to Dianeís office.

I circled back to the parking lot, chose the other building facing it, and when I finally did arrive after walking through the famed McLean tunnels that connect all the buildings, Diane asked, ìDid you get lost?î I simply said. ìThe front door was locked.î Which it was. That explained my underground wanderings, but not my 30 minute tour of this land that shaped so many of my friends.

Dianeís office is, as she has explained, small, but cozy with a large bright window, from which you could see my truck parked in the lot. From which she might have witnessed maybe ten minutes of my stroll. She has an institutional-type desk, and because McLean provides no chairs, her space is now furnished with an odd assortment we have collected over the years. Three chairs made of bright steel, beige wood and cane, for instance, from Bobís old office. The one that was consumed by flames, smoke and water.

And those walls? Rock hard plaster that bent my nails too.

While Iím blathering away, Henry, let me tell you a bit more about our trip to the woods. The old Adam was a frequent companion. Say the word ìGilsumî and there he was, sitting in his truck, ready to go. The new Adam, the one engulfed in the finish details of his addition (another story for another time) has been mostly unavailable. Oh, he pops his head up for a blog comment now and then, but that is about it. But not last Saturday. At 3 PM, having completed enough work to free his conscience, he drove up in his BMW, top down, archery target hogging most of the back seat, camping gear the rest, all ready to go.

Diane gave up her car for Adamís, leaving me with Robby, Daryl, Joe and Matt. I must say, we had a blast on our ride north. We played Robbieís downloaded and burned collection of rock at full volume, made our obligatory stop at Mr. Mikeís in Winchendon for extra supplies (more coals to…. ), passed a cloudless Mt Monadnock we again promised to climb, and finally arrived at Beech Lane in Gilsum. This is where the boys pile out of the truck and ride the back bumper for two or so miles through the woods to Edís cabin. I try my best not to speed, but the whoops and screams when we hit bumps and hollows makes it irresistible.

We got to our site too late for an afternoon swim, but in plenty of time to chop wood, get two fires going (one at their site, out of sight from ours), tents set up, and dinner prepared. Hamburgers, chicken, veggie burgers, crisp raw vegetables, and dip. And four bottles of wine for the grown-ups. I know, Henry, that this would be anathema to you, swatting mosquitoes, picking dirt out of scrambled eggs, sleeping on the ground, but itís true, Diane loves the outdoors.

After dinner, Adam, Diane and I walked alone in the dark to the pond as the boys, following Mattís panther-like skills sneaked on ahead of us. When we got to the dock at ten thirty, half a bright moon illuminating the pond, Matt and Joe had already been swimming. This is a first, no adult supervision, or should I say, adult reassurance. And remember, Joe is frightened by most everything in the woods, including unexpected bird songs.

The following day: more food, more swimming, and on the way home a near stop at the demolition derby at the Cheshire County Fair. I offered to pay, but there were no takers. I guess Matt had seen enough in Buffalo. We are all refreshed by these trips to Gilsum woods and are eternally grateful to Ed.

Speaking of the woods, Henry, this yearís fall Maine camping trip, with the guys, has a radical new look. Like Rummyís army, it is leaner and arguably more efficient. Though we donít care about efficiency. Both Dan and Mark Schreiber have work obligations, and that leaves Adam, the other Mark, and me. Our present plan is to camp on a lake near Baxter and take hikes into the park. Using the most frequently climbed trail, it takes four hours to climb to the top of Katahdin. There is a longer, more interesting path that takes you over something called the knife edge, and we may default to that one.

At the end of every summer, I bump up my exercise routine to make sure I can keep up with the youngest and fittest of our group. And now that the heavy lifting at Adamís is over, I can tolerate my old routine of thirty to forty minutes of weight lifting and an equal amount of aerobics on a rowing machine, another gift from the Hopkins.

A funny thing happened on Wednesday. In the middle of my routine I forgot the time of my dentist appointment. You would say a crispness issue, but I had adjusted my entire schedule to arrive at Dr Pinanskyís at 5 PM. All of a sudden I couldnít remember the time, or even what day it was. Diane tells me my routines are too strenuous and that normal people donít finish with soaking clothes, bloodshot eyes, and wobbly legs. Maybe she is right or maybe, as I suspect, I had a stroke.

That is it, H, the cool weather is upon us after a frigid summer and the days are getting shorter – Diane is again quizzing me on how many hours of daylight remain. ìTwelve hours and thirty-seven minutes,î she just announced. Too many things to do to get ready for the winter: trips to Mark Queijoís for firewood, broken windows repaired, our heating system bled, and wood stove flue cleaned. (Btw, that teak kettle from Grandpa Earlís is a perfect size. ) You know, we never put away our winter quilt.

One more thing. Yesterday, in the mail, I received my story Clemency , edited by my writing teacher, Robert Atwan. Still suffering from PTSD, I couldnít open the envelope, but Diane did, and even read some of his comments aloud. That is grist for another time, another story.

Oh, and your original question, the one that inspired this letter?
The BMW sits in Dimitryís lot, waiting for a flywheel for the clutch. The original plan, to machine the existing flywheel, failed, and so far so has the backup plan, to find a new one. Three weeks ago Leonard (Dimitryís main man) told us that he had ordered one from Germany. This week he called to say, in all of Germany, they could not find one. So that is where we are at the moment: no flywheel, no working clutch, no inspection sticker, no BMW. Stay tuned.

Michael

PS Would it surprise you to know that Chris has a poker group?
PPS Flo won $300.00 in bingo and is taking us out to breakfast.

Because someone asked:
https://mainecourse.com/nahmakanta/crew/pages/motley_crew.htm
Begins with Adam.