Dan Downing

I once had this precious little son. He was the most sparkling, alive, friendly, curious, intelligent, little boy any dad could hope for.

When he was still too young to walk, I used to carry him in this little blue snuggly on my back, and weíd go for a walk in Menotomy Rocks Parks, just a block from where we lived in Arlington. We used to talk to, and then hug, our favorite trees. It was our own private time; it was our own special world.

But life throws us curve balls ñ or more like, we chose curved paths that lead us into unexplored by-ways ñ and we sometimes get scaredÖand may believe ourselves at dead ends. When we do, we may jump off that trail completely; and this creates discontinuities that we hide from, hurt from, live with, for a lifeime.

Fast forward twenty-five years or so.

Today, that beautiful, sparkling, intelligent, sweet boy, is a man. An intelligent, deep thinking, creative young man.

Today we walked nine holes around a small par-3 course in Lexington, hitting the ball, laughing, talking. We talked intimately about growing up, about events and decisions in our lives that are painful to face, difficult to reveal. We talked about our tastes in literature, how they differ, what they share. A common thread of our conversation was roads taken and not, that sometimes separate us from parts of ourselves, bringing loss, pain, self-doubt, denial, depressionÖand then re-birth.

We enjoyed the warm Fall day together, had lunch, took the trash to the dump, made a deposit at the ATM. When we parted, we hugged and kissed, with lightness in our hearts, agreeing to do this again.

After dinner Linda and I watched a movie.

Two young childrenís parents are killed in a car accident in the first scene. Fast forward twenty years or so. The girl is living in the house their parents left them. She has a nine-year-old boy, a job at the local bank, and a no-good husband that abandoned them years ago. Her younger brother, a confused young man with a couple of scrapes with the law in his background, arrives in town, ostensibly to visit her, but really just asking for money. He ends up staying awhile.

Fast-forward some more, through scenes where they work at piecing their estranged relationship back together, not without missteps, even as they continue to struggle through their own paths, not always making the best choices. They manage to strengthen their bond more, work through some old stuff.

In the end, the brother decides he must leave again, to go back and pick up some abandoned pieces of his own life. His sister waits at the bus stop with him, fretting that she will never see him again.

To reassure, he turns to her: ìDo you remember what we used to say to each other when we were kids?î

ìOf course I do!î

They embrace, there are tears.

As the bus rides off and the credits roll, my own tears rush out, propelled by a deep crying for a time lost, for pain inflicted and felt, for the memory and the joy of my beautiful little boy.

But I say to him, now a fine man in his own right, a renewed joy in my life, what the movie by the same title left unsaid, but was obviously the siblingsí bonding promise.

ìYou can count on me.î

Dan Downing

I first experienced Flamenco up-close-and-personal in a restaurant-theatre in Madrid in May of 2000. I got to spend the better part of a week there on a business trip with two business colleagues and their wives. Linda had been invited to come also, but being the middle of the school year, she had to decline.

Weíd been seated at a table maybe 15 feet from the raised stage, and feasted on tapas and local fare before the show came on. Over the next hour or so, four men, dressed plainly in blacks and browns, and five women in colorful, flowing, gypsy outfits, created and wrapped around us an organic experience that was less choreography and performance than genuine outpouring of emotion. It was, for me, a transcendent experience. It left me intoxicated, shaking, unable to communicate the feeling to my colleagues, and aching for Linda to be there sharing it with me.

Tonight I finally got to share with her this ancient Spanish art form. Our orchestra seats in Row G at the Emerson Majestic Theatre placed us as nearly as close to the stage as I had been in Madrid.

I read to Linda from the Playbill before curtain time. ìFlamenco is a storm of dance, song, and acoustic guitar, set to a lively beat, inside of which the dancer-singers improvise, using their bodies as instruments, bellowing and tapping out a wail of human suffering and grief that is the cultural root of this 15th-century Andalusian genre.î

But no words are adequate to convey the whirling-dervish-cum-tap-dancing, deep bass male cante, staccato clapping, accompanied by impeccably strummed guitar chords, and accented by ìallez!î as they cheer each other on, that is the live event.

Linda loved it. And agreed that our next vacation should be to Spain.

For those intrigued, Flamenco Festival 2004 will bring an Andalusian dance troupe to the Majestic at the end of January.

Letís all go!

Dan Downing

It takes a long lever to move me off my long-post-empty-nest butt. But how enjoyable, once forces conspire to do so (yet how quickly inertia sets in again). But the bonds strengthened and the territory explored make a repeat of this weekend a must.

Picked up Jim at Alewife Thursday eve, enjoyed a Linda dinner of pork tenderloin, and retired early. We rose by 6 the next morning, and by 7, with fresh-brewed Starbucks in hand, were off to Stow Acres for an 8:05 tee time with Irma and Beth.

We relished the glorious late-Summer morning, encouraged each other, swung those clubs way too many times to bother counting, and let several groups play through our beginnersí slow pace. Then a brief stop at home to scarf some lunch, pack a few clothes, bag some food for Remo, and off to pick up Greg in Somerville.

By four we were headed north for the main event ñ father-and-sons — and-dog –getaway at Boothbay. A first; spontaneously planned; the stage sparingly set for improvisation.

The three-plus hour ride began with catch-up talk on current events: Channel1ís dialup customers transitioning to Earthlink and Gregís subsequent job-hunting; record quarterly sales at Jimís Starbucks and his overcoming store politics to train managers for a new store; my Tufts project signaling a long-awaited upturn in the computer consulting business; movies in the ìfuzzy realityî genre that weíd recently seen and had puzzled through to understand (Mulholland Drive, Memento, Swimming Pool).

Conversation gave way to Billy Joelís Greatest Hits as we hit the Maine Turnpike, triggering reminiscence of songs and concerts long enjoyed, as interpersonals settled into a welcomed comfort zone. Gregís Robin Williams Live found its way into the car stereo as we hit Falmouth, comedic commentary spiked with laughter filling our mobile private world.

Pulling into Hannaford Foods and letting Remo out not a moment too soon for a long pee and dump on a wooded trail at the edge of the parking lot, we provisioned for the weekend: Fresh shrimp, Bombay Sapphire, tonic water and limes, for cocktail hour; ice cream to cap our anticipated lobster dinners; bagels, OJ, fresh ground Starbucks, and half-n-half, for breakfast; two bottles of wine for the next evening.

Five minutes later, Remo was happy to be back on the ground as he jumped from the car one last time at the new-yet-familiar-smelling 148 Atlantic Avenue cottage.

We settled in and repaired to a round of G&Ts and shrimp on the front porch, with the tranquil bay at high tide in the distance. The conversation flowed into more personal territory as dusk settled and appetites rose.

From: ìWhy do gays universally love celebrities like Cher and Bette Midler?î

Answer: ìBecause theyíre ëright out thereí with their stuff — and this speaks to gaysí more flamboyant personalities.

To: ì Greg, ever think about what your ideal job would be?î

Answer: ì Really canít sayÖI guess Iíd like to be doing something Iím good atÖin a small homey atmosphereÖyou could say my two years at C1 have been my ideal jobî.

And then: ìIs there anything you feel passionate about?î

Answer: ìWell I used to be about writingÖbut I stopped after concluding my stuff just wasnít good enoughî.

That subject would be pursued deeply on Sunday morning.

Dusk led to twilight which moved us to dinner. We walked down the hill to the Lobster Dock and traded cousin Marjieís gift certificate for two lobsters and a crab roll, two beers and a coke. Greg has never liked lobster, but agreed to forsake fried chicken for a different shellfish. We cracked and chomped and washed down, conversation meandering in and out of inconsequential side-dish topics.

An uphill walk, and ice cream, followed, and for me, shortly thereafter, sleep.

Saturday was made for the outdoors. We clambered about the unequivocally-Maine, seaweed-laden rocks at Lobster Cove, where Remo took a couple of assisted dips into the high-tide water. We reminisced of a Summer long-passed, when the kids were little, on one of our many family mini-vacations, which Jim, at 21, had only recently become part of. Linda had brought a blow-up shark, and I taught Sarah, Greg, and Becca how to jump off the big rock with the shark tucked under their legs. And how Lucy, our water-loving lab, intent on ìsavingî the children, would swim out to them and unwittingly to scrape them up with her splashing front paws, with ensuing screeching and a round of band-aids and hugs to soothe all bruises.

Our second adventure was more strenuous: a boat trip to Squirrel Island, a two-hour hike along the 5 miles of paved and wooden walk ways and trails that encircle this exclusive but uniquely New England Summer community. We picnicked on the ocean-facing north side, a rocky ledge shielding the hot sun, not twenty feet from the crashing breakers, in direct view of the dozens of sailboats tacking for position for the afternoon regatta.

Shopping, naps, then JimKís favorite Pinot Grigio with chips and dip on the same porch followed our return. More conversation about work: the engineering desk job options that JimK is looking at for his next Coast Guard assignment. St. Pete, Miami, Virginia beach, Boston, or Portsmouth, in that order of preference. The Jims have had enough of this ëgoing to seaí six weeks out of every ten. Stressful way to have a life together.

Appetites pulled us off the deck and back into the car (Remo unhappily staying home again), but before dinner, a ride out to Ocean Point. Jim shivered in the brisk breeze while we three scampered about the rocks as far out as we dared to where the Bermuda storm surge was spraying.

Heading back to Lobstermanís Wharf in East Boothbay, we ended up making a couple of circles, finding that retracing our steps in the dark was trickier than it seemed. The restaurant was busy ñ a good sign. As we slid into the only empty table, Jim and I were already coaxing Greg into trying a new fish. He evidently felt adventurous and did — broiled cod (he liked it!).

Between slurps of my lobster bisque and Jimís morsels of Salmon, we discussed the challenges of moving to a new city. How lost you feel at first, not knowing where to go for the simplest things, like mailing a letter or getting a haircut. Having moved once, though, and succeeding at making new friends and establishing a new life, how empowering. You feel you could do it again, no prob. Ann Arbor to St. PeteÖand now toÖ?

ìOne thing that would be hard, though, is re-adjusting to cold weather, if our next move is to Bostonî, Jim mused. ìBut on the plus side, weíd be close to you guysî. ìOn the minus side, I doubt you could afford to buy a condo in Charlestownî.

Stuffed, we paid and drove back to the anticipated Scrabble board. I started with a seven letter word: S-T-E-A-M-E-R ñ that opened up the board, but dimmed Gregís hopes of beating me. We talked, appropriately, about the meaning of words, about what happens when you use a ìbig wordî in a context where few understand it, about the effect on the reader when used incorrectly. This ñ and the discussions about Mikeís web log — may have sparked Gregís The Power of Language.

Two games later, and another night of deliciously refreshing sleep, perking Starbucks roused us all, and a misty morning soon found us again on that porch, armed with juice, bagels, and Remoís breakfast bowl.

ìSo exactly why did you stop writing, Greg?î

ìI guess it was the criticism from people whose opinions I cared about. I couldnít seem to get my meaning across without someone misunderstanding.î

Earlier conversation threads came together over the next two hours, as we considered:
– How good Greg is at writing, and how many of us wished he hadnít stopped
– Thinking about who your audience is for a given piece
РHow much of your stuff do you reveal ̱ and to whom
– The art of writing concisely
– Being clear about what your message is.
And finally, taking a writing course, and talking to Mike about his. ìHe can give you good advice about writingî.

All this mustíve dislodged a boulder, as Greg ran inside, found some writing paper, and proceeded to write ìThe Rantmasterís Rebirthî.

The ride home found us exploring our likes and dislikes in reading.

Gregís: ìFantasy explores the eternal struggle of Good and Evil more starkly than in real life, and how heroes use their special powers to defend Good. It makes me think about how I would use special powers.î

Mine: ìI prefer reality writings, how real people relate and deal with real issues; what I can learn about how to live my life better. How I can be a hero in perhaps unglamorous but plausible settingsî.

Remo was clearly unhappy at being abandoned in the car while we three lunched at Sarahís CafÈ just over the bridge in Wiscasset. Enough fish for the boys; they had burgers. I stuck with chowder.

On our return, Remo showed his displeasure by refusing to move out of the passenger well, and snarling as Jim tried to help him out. We let him out a bit later on the first Rte 95 rest stop. He peed, then deciding it was okay to drop his attitude, resumed his co-pilot position in the back with Greg, paws perched on the front console, apologizing to Jim and me by kissing us, and drinking some water from the cup weíd brought him.

The ride home was dominated by light: light banter, light snoozing, and, thankfully, light traffic. Whew, enough heady subjects, already.

Greg asked to be dropped off rather than coming back to Lincoln. Jim and I arrived home to enjoy yet another lovingly-prepared meal, debrief with Linda, and sharing some people-food scraps with Remo. I again was off to bed early, sugar plums of father-sons weekend lulling me to sleep.

Letís definitely do this again, I thought, after dropping Jim off at Logan the following noon. It was energizing, all the way around, I think.

Remo said so.