Skills
Found this guy in the stream connecting the First and Second
Debsconeag Lakes.
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Many things I understand about Matthew.
Many things I donÃt; his work ethic is one.
He works every Saturday at the West Acton Convenience Market, and has since he turned fourteen, when the owner, Peter Kennedy, offered him the job. He works every Friday night and frequently odd, needed, weekend hours, at Acton Village Video. He was offered that job when he was fourteen but had to wait until his fifteenth birthday to begin.
The unsolicited offers, the jobs, the hours, all that I understand. I am perplexed by his near perfect attendance. Besides family vacations, and an odd illness or two, like the guy who delivers my newspaper, he never misses a day. What about the lure of friends for this oh so social of beings?
Unrelated to his work habits but related to our health, the other morning we left for school, as we always do, with Matthew driving my truck, and me riding ìshotgun.î I wake up like an old computer monitor, and Matthew who has inherited both Peter and BrianÃs night habits, may come to life faster but IÃm not sure he is any more alert.
At the first bend on Central St, not two minutes out of the driveway, we are confronted by a white panel van, which has crossed the yellow line and is speeding along in about half of our lane. If Matthew had turned to talk to me or changed the radio station, he wouldnÃt have had time to swerve away from this wannabe head-on collision. But quick flicks of his wrist and we were safely out of the way and then back in our lane. Reminded me of the hours he and I spent racing each other in those thunderous Le Mans simulators at the Bowladrome. Except this time I didnÃt die in a fiery crash. But then, Matt was driving.
His only comment, ìWhat was that?î
For my first assignment on a character in conflict, I handed in Christmas Trees. It was returned with constructive criticism about verb tenses and these comments:
îTruly evocative poetry. This is a fine meditation on mortality: understated and chilling. ì
Not dead, and much needed reinforcement for my writing. IÃll take it.
IÃve too many photos to post all at once. HereÃs the first mini-gallery and all of AdamÃs
All links open new windows.
THANK YOU!!!!! Wonderful set of images, from the loudly chrome semis, the blur evoking sleep-deprived driving, to the austere zen of lillypads, with glorious scenery and stalwart campmates galore in between. Great breadth and skill of observation.
Clever ploy, this doling out, whetting appetites, unlike that unsubtle cad, Mr. Kibbe………
Comment by iron filings — October 20, 2003 @ 8:38 pm
I’d be unsubtle too if only I had the time and energy.
How come no questions about that other gallery?
Comment by lessdrive — October 20, 2003 @ 8:45 pm
I DID comment, even posted a notice to the Southwest on “lake”. But 4 of 7 have been up below, so big woop. Unless it was other to which you refer………
Comment by driven to distraction — October 20, 2003 @ 11:35 pm
I meant, what happened to the moon set?
Comment by dazed — October 21, 2003 @ 6:09 am
The frog is great! More colorful than the fall foliage, which wasn’t bad, not bad at all. But, what I want to know is, how could you camp within sight of Mt Katahdin and not be drawn to it?
I was puzzled by my own response to “Christmas Trees” until I re-read Cass’s comment, “evocative poetry”. Then I realized that I’d been reading it as an adventure story, illiterate, literal slob that I am. But can’t you give a guy a little warning?
Comment by rackity ed — October 21, 2003 @ 9:55 am
I feel each one of us have to delve into our own souls to answer that question. Our intent was to use First Deb (as the locals refer to it) as a base camp, but once we landed, it was obvious that Adam had discovered another Shangra La. Why leave?
Add to that, our distance from the trail head, two hours, the presumed hiking time of eight hours, and then the inevitable return in the dark … .
You can accept that excuse or Peter’s. “You chickened out.”
Comment by Aesop — October 21, 2003 @ 5:49 pm
I must admit, the Beartooth fogies also chickened out on the peaks around us. Just to be honest, I’m going to have to add a paragraph about that in the Beartooths e-tale. (Which has been delayed by 2 hours of presentations to the public at the Observatory last night, and an exhausting hour of racquetball with Dominic two hours from now.) But the Beartooths tale is coming, really, gradually, eventually…
Comment by rackity ed — October 21, 2003 @ 6:04 pm
The pretzels are piled high, the Budwiser is still on ice, and the lounger is in its reading position.
Comment by Feet Up — October 21, 2003 @ 7:24 pm
What! Budweiser? Go get some Dos Equis or Harps instead of that swill. I’ll delay my posting so you can go out and get a worthy liquid refreshment to accompany the story. If the burros were more reliable, I’d send you a snifter of the fine 12-year-old Scotch we quaffed on our high perch above the Beartooth lakes!
Comment by rackity ed — October 22, 2003 @ 3:42 pm
Hey, Adam, how old was our Scotch?
Comment by Jealous — October 23, 2003 @ 6:39 am
The one ye left me with at camp was a 15 year old Longmorn, first oyd ‘ad it. The one ye pilfered witout the barkeep’s knowledge, if memory serves, was the last of me 15 year old Dalwhinnie, the house favorite, gone now — thanks to yer guzzlin’ ways — witout a chance fer proper goodbyes on me own part. Guess I’ll just ‘afta see about layin’ in another bottle…….
Comment by macwhiskey — October 23, 2003 @ 8:30 am