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Chris, Courtney and other would be campers in the background.

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bang bang bang’s comment reminds me that I’d better post the new improved camping date. 5/15 is a problem for two reasons. The most important is that Adam might be otherwise occupied. The second, one that only parents care about, is that the MCAS begins on Tuesday 5/18. So how about 5/23?

I tiled Roland’s hallway floor early in the week, and he asked me if I’d brought his invoice. I said no. He had asked me that the day before, and I had said no. Fed up, he replied, “Don’t ever bring it, I don’t care.” His answer was anything but angry. Customers like Roland, who pay instantly for work done, are very few.

“You know what I did last night instead of writing up your invoice? Matt and I worked on his starter motor.”

Roland is a self-made man. He’s eighty now, slowed by emphysema and diabetes, but at six foot three, three hundred pounds, and a voice as deep as the Marianas Trench, he is most intimidating. A WWII vet, he landed on both Iwo Jima and Okinawa, has been married three times, and has an answer for everything. As George says, “I don’t do nuances,.” Neither does Roland.

“Two bolts, what took you so long?”

“Yeah, two bolts on your car, and Matt and I assumed two bolts, but his BMW has a mounting bracket on the front with a bolt into the engine block. A real knuckle-buster to get to.”

“That’s what you get for buying foreign crap.”

“Come on, Roland, the car is an heirloom. My father owned it.”

“Sell it.”

Indeed, we might sell the car, but we can’t if it doesn’t start, and we won’t even try until it has a brand new paint job. Matt finished his homework early, and we both went back to the task at hand. That mounting bracket had stopped us the night before. It is small, triangular, and ties to the starter motor by two bolts, and to the engine block by one. But – and it’s another big but – once it’s attached to the starter motor, and the starter motor is back in place, the hole in the bracket has to line up perfectly with the hole in the engine block. And do you suppose those Germans drilled the mounting bracket hole larger than the bolt hole to allow for wiggle room? Heil no.

If the job were out in the open, if we could see what we were doing, if there were a way to light the area we were working in, it would have been easy. But none of that was true, and so we fumbled for an hour; dropping the bolt, loosening the bracket, prying the bracket, dropping the bolt, loosening the bracket; precisely the kind of infuriating work that would send Diane running naked and screaming out into the neighborhood. I know, I’ve seen it happen. And the funny thing is, much of my work is exactly that aggravating, and now it’s part of Matthew’s life. What a gift, father to son.

For most of the hour, I was prying from above while Matthew hovered, chest over the engine, hands hidden deep in the bowels. Finally he cried out, “I’ve got it.” The threads mated and now all we needed to do was tighten the bolt. I volunteered, and with socket wrench in hand, and moving one click at a time, the bolt drew down.

Elated to feel the end near, I’d pull that wrench all of three degrees, feel the bolt tighten, and yell, ”Yessss.”

Pull again, “Oh, my god, it feels great.”

Snugger still, “Ahhh, wonderful.”

“SHUT UP!” Matt finally groaned.

“Shut up, what do you mean shut up – aren’t you happy?”

“Yes, but you sound like an idiot.”

Maybe less like an idiot and more like Meg Ryan, or maybe an idiotic Meg Ryan? However, we were finished, and when Matt turned the key, the car cranked like Muhammad Ali’s left jab: bang, bang, bang, bang, (that’s the best I can do – I can’t imitate that cranking sound), and I was delighted. Even though the car didn’t start.

Matt was sure we had done something wrong, like failing to connect a gas line. But I knew better, because I grew up in the days of points, plugs, and carburetors. I moved in behind the wheel, turned the key with my right hand, pulled the choke with my left, depressed the clutch with my left foot, pumped the gas with my right, bounced up and down in my seat, and looked all the world as if I were having a grand mal seizure. I didn’t care, it reminded me of the old days, and like the old days, it eventually started. Demonstrating to Matthew that he can now safely stop for gas, without having to call his dad or Adam for help.

The BMW has been drivable, but only because it has been starting instantly. However, shut it off and try to start it again, and it struggles briefly before giving up. That’s why I finally ordered a new starter motor online, and that’s why yesterday when I got home I asked Matthew, “You want to install it today?”

“No, I’m taking a nap.” It was five o’clock, and I knew Matt had been up late the last few nights. “Wake me when it’s time to pick Nana up from bingo.” That would be 9:45 PM.

I was disappointed but decided to imitate my son. I dropped a pillow on the office floor, tuned the radio to NPR, and lay down for my own nap. That’s when I heard footsteps on the stairs and, “All right, let’s do it.”

The starter motor is anchored by only three bolts, but it’s in an awful place – underneath hoses, the manifold, and greasy stuff that’s hard to see. I expected all kinds of problems, but in an hour and a half we had the old beast resting on the driveway and were screwing the used mounting bracket to the new one.

The primary reason it wasn’t more of struggle is because my father had previously repaired it, and when he put it back, he had used a thread compound called Siloo. Siloo is about the only thing I’ve given my father that he actually used. I inherited most of those presents placed under his side of the tree. The super view-all, extra wide rear view mirror was tossed; the suicide knob, I put on my ’56 red and white Plymouth; all those snake oil additives, I eventually poured into my own carburetors; and the Craftsman toolbox from which I was pulling our wrenches was his also. But Siloo he used, and the amazing thing is, it performed as advertised. Twenty-five years later those nuts slid off those bolts as if they were brand new.

So thrilled to see the gray goop on those threads, after each bolt I removed, I’d say to Matt, “You know why we could remove that bolt with our fingers? Siloo!” After the third proclamation, he told me to shut up.

We struggled for another hour getting the new starter motor back in place, but darkness and a thunderstorm sent us scurrying into the house before we could finish. We had a late dinner from T. C. Lando’s, we talked more about the camping trip, I called two parents, and Matt drove off to pick up his grandmother. He didn’t get home until almost eleven, which means you can lay even money on our finishing the repair this afternoon. Or taking naps.

Filling up in Kokadjo.
Running low, we had to make one run into town for gas.
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And now, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story:

Chapter Three by Adam

Before anybody could think long and hard enough to back out, Michael had flashlight in hand and was off through the undergrowth, the boys sucked in behind as if tethered to him, loathe to let any distance grow between them and his flashlight as he headed into the dark woods creating bounding shadows. Not towards any “landmines” where he’d first heard the noise, I sincerely hoped, as I headed in after them…….

Actually, I had been about to suggest we walk down the open shore to get to the so-called “pond”, but Michael probably knew this, hence the decisive departure. Up ahead, comedy flirted with panic as boys crashed through unseen branches in an effort to keep up with those who actually had flashlights. I kept up the rear at a comfortable distance, though the eeriness of the woods, only fleetingly illuminated by the beam of my flashlight, was undeniable. Darkness would rush in to swallow recently memorized details, almost as if with a purpose. Hard not to feel another presence, and any hope of night vision erased by our use of electric light.

After a fairly short and uneventful wander, we found ourselves in a clearing, though not at the expected pond — no open water. Rather, a lumpy topography of logs covered in grassy reeds, a monochromatic, monotextural landscape almost alien in the raking light of our flashlights. We stopped to ponder what dangers might lurk beneath a surface possibly less consistently solid than it appeared. Ahead we could see the edge of what we remembered as a snowbank overhanging the pond, a continuation of the gravel bar that separated this small body of murky water from the main bay. Beyond that possibly the water itself. And as we started forward again towards the snow, the first apparition flitted into our furtive beams.

A more or less single row of trees grew on the shore of the bay above the snowbank, providing a bit of a windbreak from the westerly winds roaring towards us across Spencer Bay (yet another reason Michael may have chosen the sheltered overland route). And apparently fighting that gale — and merely holding steady — was a flying thing.

Okay, a bird. A swallow, I think. But in the isolating beam of a flashlight against the black night, in the general direction where we were sneaking up on some unimaginable living thing that there lurked, and motionless, yet in full motion, it WAS a pretty spooky sight. The phrase, “What the hell is THAT?!” hissed into the night in several breathless adolescent whispers. In truth, I think the bird was just in the final negotiations of trying to land in a tree against a severe headwind, but it DID make for an interesting sight before it disappeared. To no one’s comfort.

We crunched up on top of the snowbank. All was in silence, The Noise in full abeyance, probably due to our presence. We were certain in both a gut and a brain way that this is from where It was coming, but there was nothing. We had, we supposed, only to wait for its maker to re-establish whatever conditions it required before resuming its unfathomable nocturnal rite.

But silence, where there are humans, must be deliberately made, and The Well-Armed Boys were too spooked to stay quiet for long. Much shuffling, some talking, and plenty of darting of flashlight beams. No way was It going to forget our presence with all this racket. And then Matthew spoke: “Is it just me, or do I see hundreds of eyes in the beam of my flashlight?”

I mentally immediately chalked his interjection up to a combination of paranoia and sadism, deliberately further spooking both his friends and himself. But then I saw what he saw — tiny glintings at the surface of the water. Most of them moving.

Frogs. Perhaps not hundreds, but still, LOTS of frogs. Inwardly I shivered. I’d several times seen what I understood to be heterothermic amphibians in the almost equally cold fall waters and wondered how they managed to move, or even survive, much less thrive. This water was only a degree or two above freezing — we homeothermic mammals gotta get out right fast. I can see the fallacy in my logic, but still I shivered. And below us, the frogs repositioned themselves and waited.

We did get the boys to quiet down and turn off their flashlights. One of them announced that he would stand between me and Michael, and resolutely did. There were barely inches or less between us all, yet still there was a little shuffling — but we were becoming a fairly quiet group. And we waited.

And waited. After awhile, patience wore thin, with no payoff. More shuffling and whispering. But then a croak. A single phrase from the gobbling choral chaos of an hour ago, but we knew we had our source. And it was just frogs.

Matt allowed as how he’d begun to worry about what might be coming to prey on these frogs, and whether we might by mistake or proximity become collateral victims of some unforeseen attack, but I tried to reassure him reasoning that:
a) the likely predators included heron and raccoons, not grizzlies or great whites, and;
b) the frogs probably knew when was a good time to come out and all start yelling at once, “Hey baby baby, here I am, pickmepickmepickmepickmepickme!!!!!”
I was pretty sure we could trust the frogs that all was safe.

And so the group started to break up, push out through the windbreak onto the gravel lakeshore and make our way back to camp the easy way. The mystery had been given a face, and a pretty non-threatening — though still reptilian — one at that. I hung behind as the group moved off towards home. Nervous flashlights darted back my way as if to divine my status or my intentions. But alone, I stayed.

And within mere minutes the whole spooky, amazing chorus fired right back up. It’s as if those little well-chilled froggies knew exactly where we were the whole time, or had telepathic access to our intentions. Once the “home” light was lit up in our limbics, they went confidently back to trying to get laid. And what a racket! Like no sound I’ve ever heard. All of what Michael said, and more, at close range. I was super glad I’d waited. Even a dozen yards down the shore, the wind would’ve vastly reduced the impact.

A few minutes later I sensed as much as saw two shadows approach from the direction of the camp, Michael and Robby finally having decided to double back and see what I was hanging around for. We listened in excited glee, finally truly rewarded for our efforts, and then we too headed back “home”. This time without the use of flashlights, a fragile, elusive rapport with a darkness not so dark our prize.

Ericksons has reopened for the season.

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Chapter One by Adam

We were herded by circumstance onto Spencer Bay. As posted before leaving, we were headed for Lobster Pond, but an updated Maine Gazetteer purchased in the Indian Hills Trading post outside Greenville made it clear there was no access by road. Then we bottomed out in snow and got stuck on the way to a tempting alternate, Blood Pond, and though we proceeded on foot just to see it, there was very little “there” there, so we dug & we dug, chunking in rocks & branches for traction, and generating one limerick:

Mike’s truck’s stuck in icy wheel pits
Tires spinning, like a rock there it sits
But with enough sticks & stones
And thank God no broken bones
We’re finally off again in search of the Ritz

That search took us to one thwarted destination after another, racking up literally hundreds of logging road miles and taking a minor toll on Mike’s undercarriage (one muffler support bracket weld cracked). And as darkness loomed, we chose our final destination (back to the motel of night one was indeed discussed), which would have seemed too near civilization and too “easy” had we spied it earlier in our quest. After one last exciting washout crossing (flanked by many a downed tree, courtesy of ambitious — though possibly lost — beavers) out onto the open expanse of the gravel fields of Spencer Bay we rolled.

It was so clearly a party arena, we almost didn’t stop. Vast, no shelter, barren and open, and certainly devoid of firewood, picked over by the preceding droves. But it was late, the scenery across the lake uplifting, and so we headed for the edge of the woods and threw down anchor, hoping the Greenville football team bus didn’t pull in about midnight.

We did have a few visitors over the next three days, just regular nobodies like us looking for whatever one can find at a lakeshore at the end of a road on a map. They all left us to our privacy after brief inspections. But on the last night, I thought I’d spied a flashlight bobbing along the shore of the campsite north of us, so after dinner, I remarked that I was walking out to the point and set off.

My reconnaissance sortie immediately became a group affair. Whether bored and willing to avail themselves of positively any diversion, or suspicious of my motives, the Three Well-armed Boys set off after me, with Mike trailing. Some dozen yards out front, I heard a weird noise from the middle of the expanse, and stopped.

We all heard it, this gobbling racket borne on the evening winds, which were beginning to pick up steam. Many ducks squabbling, we posited, perhaps at the shut-in pond down the shore. But unable to conjure a positive identification, we kept on out to the point, where we saw no signs of neighbors. The warm winds off the frozen lake weirded us out, though, and then we heard our tarps collapsing in the gathering gusts and hastened back.

Nothing to do but strike the shelter. With dinner over and tomorrow’s departure almost here, it just seemed practical. But afterwards, there was little to do without our makeshift site for “locale”, and the winds were really picking up. And then Michael suggested we go check out The Noise.

Chapter Two by Michael

I continually compared this camping trip to those fall trips with the guys. And this one was a model of efficiency. We arrived in Portland in two hours, had a quick dinner, and were in Greenville by ten. Unheard of for the guys who lollygag everywhere they go. We also had three meals a day, at close to reasonable times – not breakfast at ten, lunch at four and dinner stuffed down after eight.

Sunday was no different. Adamís dinner, boil in a bag Pad Thai (chicken and shrimp for us), bookended Robbyís breakfast of ham, eggs and bacon. But this external regularity had no effect on my internal workings. Which is why, long after dinner, I wandered into the woods in the dark.

As an aside, I think when friends claim they canít camp because they canít do without hot showers and soft beds, what they are really complaining about is the lack of a bathroom. Which might also explain why each boy arrived with several rolls of toilet paper. We might run out of food and water, but weíd never have to resort to dry leaves.

Anyway, single roll in hand, I proceeded into the lampblack forest. I knew I had to go deep into the woods to create my own private privy, but also to be sure I wasnít going to be a target. Target practice was constant, and the path was decorated by hanging, pellet-riddled Pepsi cans. Sometimes the boys would stand up and shoot at those cans; often times, sitting at the picnic table, they would simply spin and fire. With memories of Gilsum, and Robby using his Daisy to plunk the back of the out house I was using, I plodded on.

With flashlight in hand, I wove in and out of thickets, past trees stumps, and over a truly amazing amount of moose, deer and doe poop. It was obvious, without the presence of people, this area was a veritable Mall of America for animals. Although we never saw them at our site, we even awoke on Monday to fresh poop outside our tent.

I felt like a cat in search of the perfect spot, which for me is a downed tree resting horizontally a couple of feet above the ground, against which I would rest my back. I kept walking and thatís when I first heard the noise to which Adam refers. Iíd stop to listen and the noise would get louder. Iíd walk and the sound would diminish. I wasnít really concerned, because I have no forest fears, and I knew it wasnít coming from a panther or a space alien.

However — and this is a big however — you try turning your back in the dark, in the woods, to an unknown sound. And to amplify that however, turn your back and drop your pants down around your ankles. I felt like a prisoner with ankle irons, and pretty soon, if I could force myself to relax, I knew running was going to be damn near impossible.

My position, bare bottom to the noise, was bad enough, but my silence emboldened the whatevers to make even more noise. I had no idea what they were, but the sound was not unlike the ominous music played in most horror movies from the sixties. The dead arise from their graves and the closer they get to the unsuspecting victims the higher that warbling pitch.

When I returned, I didn’t tell anyone about that noise, and it wasn’t until the next night, when the boys and I trailed curious Adam out onto the beach, that we decided it was time to investigate. Remember, this is Monday night, the boys have weathered a frightening thunderstorm, the winds have torn down our tarps and smashed our lantern, and we are all moving as one. I may have been the first to queue up behind Adam, but Matt, Daryl, and Robby with his trusty machete, were instantly at our side.

The Conclusion coming soon… .

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Paddling Lobster Lake in October, 1999.

I was tucking in my shirt when Matt walked past our bedroom already dressed for Easter dinner at my cousin Jenniferís. ìHey, Matthew, knowing what we know now about the BMW, and given the work weíve put into it, can you believe we drove that car all the way to Minuteman (where he took his auto mechanics course) last summer?î

ìNo,î he answered. ìHow about if I drive it to Newton? I could follow you.î Honest to god, although the idea had occurred to me, it wasnít implied in my question,

I thought, if he doesnít break down, he could show off his car to the Paciís. If it does pop a radiator hose, or the fan blade spins off, weíd park it and pick it up on the way back. Doable, although anxiety provoking. But for Diane, it was a flat out bad idea. She said, we should drive together and discuss Mattís summer plans, if his car goes kaput, weíll be late, and most importantly, we had agreed that he could drive the BMW around town, but not on the highway. I had to admit, she was right on all those points, especially keeping the car off the highway. But what did I do after we pulled out of the driveway, caravan-style? I sealed the bad deal when I violated another sacrosanct rule. I called Matt on his cell phone. But how else to tell him to watch his temperature gauge? I didnít have to turn my head to feel the barrage of eyeball-launched daggers from my lovely wife.

The trip, with Matthew behind us, was a frosty one, until we pulled onto the off ramp from route 128 and onto route 30, a few short miles from Easter dinner. I was as surprised as Diane was happy that weíd made it. When we finally drove into Jenniferís driveway, Mattís custom exhaust burbling, I naively thought Matt and I would do some serious palm slapping. Instead, ìDad, you drive like a drunk. Donít you know what a lane is? And, you drove so slow I thought Iíd go insane.î

ìWait a minute. Diane, a few minutes before, told me how delighted she was that I could be good driver.î Diane thinks driving the speed limit is being a good driver.

Diane corrected me, ìNo, I said I was surprised that you could drive carefully,î

Yeah, okay.


Side by side with Vic’s car. Note Matt’s new tail pipe.
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Liz, Vic, Jennifer and James
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I was stuffed, happy, and over confident on our return trip. When Diane suggested taking the lazy route, 117, to avoid this commuter clogged highway with the monster-sized SUVís threatening to squash Mattís car, I shrugged her off. Again, I shouldnít have. Maybe two miles past 117, my cell rang. ìDad, we have to stop, the fan blade is making a terrible noise.î

ìAll right,î I replied, and dready thoughts instantly invaded my brain – pistons popping through the hood, the fan blade impaled in the radiator – but there was nothing I could do but drive on. We were on 128 near the route 2 interchange – without a breakdown lane. If we pulled over, weíd all be dead. And I knew route 2 provided no safe haven until the first farm stand after the highway narrows. Thatís when the grassy, almost green median that separates the off ramp from route 2, beckoned. Instead of following the curve of the road, I drove straight (something I had always wanted to do) and easily bounced over the curb and onto the grass. I worried, briefly, about Mattís low slung car, but there he was right behind me, and there was the noise he had to listen to – an awful, cyclical, banging metallic sound. Sounded less like a fan blade, and more like the valve clatter Adam has been warning us about. As if those valves had shattered and were bouncing around inside the valve cover.

However, with the hood up, Matt instantly spied the problem. A long grounding bolt had worked its way loose, and was sitting atop, and interfering with the alternator fly wheel. As the alternator spun, each nub of the fly wheel would hit the loose bolt, sending that metallic clanging throughout the car. This was the best of all scenarios, and once we removed the bolt altogether, we were ready to resume our trip home.

Nica

Matt told everyone at Easter dinner about his plans to go to Nicaragua. They responded as most people do. ìOh, youíre going with a school or church group?î Anita, Vicís sister, who lived in Venezuela for many years, was the most excited. She offered to help Matt with his Spanish, before and after his trip. Generous Dan and Linda sent money to cover transport costs from the airport in Managua to Esteli for both Matt and Hil.

Camping

I sent the boys this camping list and I just received this from cousin Jennifer who is an executive vice president for Sappi Paper: “Now, on the trip to Maine, my guy in Skowhegan is advising against it, unless you have “inside” info and advice. Here’s why: Still two feet of ice on Moosehead Lake and south into Rangely lake district. A couple feet of snow in the woods still. On the Kennebec River, you may encounter ice flows and high risk of hypothermia if you fall in. It is predicted to rain this weekend, so may be somewhat better conditions, but still…….Can you find a safer place to go?” She sounds a little like my sister, Joan, doesn’t she?
How did all these worry warts invade my family?

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Diane laid her chop sticks on her plate while I finished the last of the seaweed and sesame oil. Another Friday night, another meal at the Sushi House. We were trying hard to make our summer plans, mostly revolving around Matthewís, and we needed to resolve when he would go to Minnesota and whether we would fly with him or join him later. Our constraints were: Susanís end of August trip to Ireland, Mattís month in Nica, my scheduled work (a kitchen near my house, a bathroom in Lexington), and for how many days the Torroemoreites could tolerate us.

ìHow long to you want to go for?î We had been talking about how hard work had been, how tired I was, how tired we both were. Suddenly it was a sunny, breezeless day, the green cut short, and sheíd Teed up a Titleist for Justin Rose.

ìA month.î I replied.

ìSo that is what you want to do, spend most of the summer at Jimmy and Susanís?î

ìOf course, but you know we couldnít stay a month. We canít afford it even if they were willing to have us. Maybe ten days.î

ìWe could go when Susan is in Ireland. Jimmy would probably be happy to have us. Or we could move into the downstairs and not tell anybody.î Diane, laughing, continued. ìWe could go before Susanís trip to Ireland, and when they drop us off at the airport, rent a car and sneak back.î

ìBut Susanís office is down there,î I answered as though this were a real plan, ìShe would see us when …..î

Diane cut me off. ìThatís why we plan our trip near hers. Jimmy would be home, but weíd be very quiet, and remember, there is a refrigerator on that floor.î

And ripe tomatoes in the garden, a computer with DSL, midnight swims in the lake… .

Matt’s old muffler pictured here, laying atop the hood of his car, because it has been replaced by a shiny, performance enhanced, Bavarian AutoSport’s muffler. More about that exciting development Monday.

Comments in response to Mattís upcoming trip to Nicaragua.

ìI was telling Seah about Matt’s plans.
She said it was as ill conceived a plan as when her friend Karen Pence
– the most white bread girl on earth – went to Africa and took a
decade to recover.

And I said – yeah, I should write his aunt Susan and ask if she is
really going to let this happen. Instead I am writing you – in case
Susan already is on the verge of hysteria about it.
Tear up the ticket. Lose the bucks.
Send Matt here and we’ll treat him badly but with hospitals close by.î

ìDiane, did you feel like you couldnít say no?î

ìYou know, at your age itís too late to have another.î

ìHeís going where?? With a girl his age??î

ìToo bad you will never see him again.î

I was lying in bed the other night with these comments floating in my head when I sat up and thought, I wouldnít go to Nicaragua. What were we thinking? But then I wandered down in my pajamas and read Edís offering.

Great plan. Sounds like a mini-peace corps gig.
Good for Matt & Hillary, good for Nicaragua.

Buena suerte!

So there, all you nay sayers, it is a good plan, even if we donít see him again.