Dear Henry,

I loved your fall description. Here’s a photo that hints at our colorful light displays. I know, you’ll feel like you’ve been dragged back to photosigmoidoscopy…

View larger image

I didnít intentionally ignore Joan Cass’s directions; I defaulted to something that would allow me to resume breathing. Listening to the other stories in class, I thought, I can never make up something and have it believable. That, however, does not mean I wonít try.

Here is this Thursdayís assignment:

ìTake any piece you are working on now, and create a diversion for your characters. It would be best if you could take a climactic scene and introduce into the middle of it something that has to be dealt with immediately òmaybe a screaming child, or a fire, or an interfering acquaintance. In this last case, the person who interrupts the scene might take the part of one or the other of the central characters, or put his/her own interpretation on the problem and insist it be settled that way.î

Iíve got to slither off and do my writing but while Iím away Iíve got a story from yet another guest blogger. This one with explicit permission. This one that might encourage one more guest submission. I’ll post it tomorrow.

One more thing. Robert, the Blue Hillís teacher, sent back my copy of ìClemencyî with his edits and these comments:

Dear Michael,

I enjoyed ì Clemencyî for its solid dramatic narrative. You had a genuine story to tell here and you handled the storytelling well, though I noted on the paper a few things I thought could be clarified. I especially like the way you link the camping trip and your experience with the overturned car years earlier.

Our group brought up a number of suggestions at the workshop, but in general I feel you could do more to establish the tension of the family scene after the accident. The fatherís voice finally becomes significant to you at the end of the essay but the reader never hears his voice. Maybe more dialogue throughout would help. Instead of simply stating that you frequently argue with your brother, why not let us hear a sample of a typical conversation?

When you find good active verbs to use your descriptions can be excellent, quite accomplished, as I point out in the opening paragraph of Chapter II. A very nice piece of prose! But note how often ìisî and ìwasî appear throughout you opening paragraphs. The effect can be monotonous and repetitive. Iíd try rewriting your opening paragraphs by doing what you did in the paragraph that opens Chapter II.

If you take another shot at this, would you return the essay to me? We may be assembling another (though larger) collection of workshop writing this year and Iíd like to consider ìClemencyî if we do. Iíll let you know what happens.

Bob

A splendid trip indeed.
Perfect weather, just enough food, almost not enough toilet paper, menu mix-ups, sore backs, moonlit paddles across dark bodies of water, nighttime stumbles down mountainsides, and Scotch to kill for. And, for me, the most memorable quote of the trip, spoken by Adam, ìDo you two want to go while I stay here and contemplate your stupidity. Or should I go with you?î

And yes, Henry, we sorely missed our two buddies.

View from my tent. Click below for the big picture.

View image

My son Patrick’s got a black belt in karate, he thinks nothing of
snowboarding all day on the slopes, goes mountain biking for days on
hills I’d never consider biking up or down myself. But he had never
learned how to play racquetball, and I had a little experience in the
game.

Anyway, two years ago when he was a senior at UMd (fall of 2001), I
taught Patrick how to play racquetball, and we’ve been playing once a week
ever since. The first year, we were playing with university racquets,
all randomly junky, squishy and small. But we didn’t know any better.
Then one day, in the fall of 2002 (I remember it well) for no apparent
reason, the gym started to supply Titanium racquets, and (wow!) our games
suddenly improved–mine much more than Patrick’s, since his speed and
strength didn’t need any supplements. With the new racquets I found I
was beating Patrick in every game. Before that I was just barely winning
more than losing.

So I went out and bought a Titanium racquet for myself. And that has
put a serious monkey on my back. Not a week goes by when I think to
myself, “Can this run come to an end? Will the string be broken this
week?” Well, the string in 2002 was, technically speaking, broken,
but only twice, one time we were running out of court time, and a game
had to be stopped in a 9-9 tie. Another time I didn’t have my
sneakers with me and had to play in regular street shoes. The score
was 15-13, Patrick’s favor.

I recall after one sweaty match last spring, we were heading down to
the showers, and this gorgeous black coed came up to Patrick and said
“Hi!” to him. She gave him a hug, and Patrick introduced me to her.
She leaned over and gave me a hug, too. (I’ll tell you, it was a good
thing we ran into her after the match and not before it, or I wouldn’t
have been able to hit the ball.) So she asks, looking at our
racquets, “You’ve been playing racquetball?” And Patrick says, “Yeah,
he always beats me.” I say, “Well, not all the time.” And she just
beams a beautiful smile at me. Made my day, I’ll tell you.

This run of wins continued through Patrick’s graduation last June, and
I thought that the pressure would be off. Sad that we wouldn’t have
regular games, but, as I said, the pressure would be off. But
no. Patrick decided to sign up at the gym as an alum, and we would
continue our weekly matches. Everyone I’ve spoken to about this says
that I can’t expect to continue winning forever. Well, of course not.
One or the other of us has to die sometime. Even with my 40 years on
him, the way Patrick snowboards and bikes, it could be him first.

I think the reason Patrick doesn’t win is that he doesn’t warm up
before playing. He meets me at the court, and I’ve just finished
doing 20 slow minutes on one of the gym’s elliptical trainers, so I’m all
warm and relaxed, and he’s all tense and cold. Last week’s match was
fairly typical. I started off beating him 15-1, and then in the
second game it was 15-7. By the 3rd game he was warmed up and ready
to go, so I really had to focus on treachery.

The game was close right from the start. He got the first 2 points. So
it was 2-0, his serve. I returned it with the kind of shot I often
wake up in the morning thinking about. (Yes, Miss Manners, I dream
about racquetball. I admit it.) A solid “whack!” one foot above the
floor and one foot in from the corner, not a true “kill” (which is 1-2
inches above the floor), but unreturnable because as it returns from
the front wall, it grazes the side wall too low and too close to hit.
Naturally, Patrick dove for it, but no luck, his reach was not enough.
From then on, it was my usual tactics: never repeat the same serve
twice. Hit a fast serve into the left rear corner, then a fast z-shot
to the right. (A z-shot serve goes close into the corner, hits the
side wall close to the diagonally opposite rear corner, and gains so
much spin that it moves off almost parallel to the back wall.) A
z-shot to the left, then another fast grazer along the left wall.
Then a change-up (which looks like it’s going to be fast, but is
slower, throwing the returnee into a swinging fit). So I was able to
stay ahead on serves.

Now it was 12-11 my favor. I was getting tired. Patrick was just getting
warmed up. His serve. He hit it to my weak backhand, and I used my
delaying tactic–hit it off the ceiling. The ball arched way up,
slowly fell to the back wall, requiring Patrick to back hand it off
the back wall (he’s good at that). But the angle of descent means his
return was also off the ceiling. And so was my return. That went on a
few times, each time the slow descent of the ball permitting me to
regain my breath and walk (not run) to the center of the court.
Finally, I sneaked a return ball behind Patrick’s back as he moved
the wrong way. That, back in the good old days of 2001, used to work
at least 90% of the time, but now it works only if my timing is right,
and he can’t whip around quite fast enough. A few more sneaky moves
and I won 15-14. Hoo! That was close. But time’s up.

So I go for the Motrin and the hot shower on my tendinitis-prone
shoulders, while Patrick speeds off on his mountain bike at full
tilt across the campus. No motrin or hot showers for him.

My questions for you, Miss Manners: Is there a polite way to ask
Patrick if he is toying with me? Is it fair of him to put all this
pressure on me?

Yours sincerely,

Rickety Rackity Ed

Dear Henry.

Circa 1974, 318 Beacon St., Somerville

My turn to cook lunch. Diane and Jim McMahon sat at our pine table.
ìShould I make Campbellís Chicken Noodle Soup or their Vegetable Beef?î
Both Jim and Diane agreed – Vegetable Beef.
I opened the can, poured the contents into the saucepan and stirred. Jim got up from the table, looked in the pot and asked, ìWhereís the beef?î
Nothing but chicken and noodles swimming in that broth.
Iím still not real good at following directions.

Adam and Tricia keep their house, guarded, and the perimeter mined, to keep prying eyes from seeing the almost finished addition/deck.
The great unveiling occurs on the 18th of October, the first Saturday after we return from our camping trip to Maine. Speaking of which, I checked the long range forecast for the nearest town, Millinocket, and look what I found.

TodayOct 08 Partly Cloudy 67∞/45∞
Thu Oct 09 Mostly Sunny 64∞/36
Fri Oct 10 Partly Cloudy 64∞/43∞
Sat Oct 11 Partly Cloudy 64∞/45∞
Sun Oct 12 Mostly Cloudy 59∞/51∞
Mon Oct 13 Rain 61∞/43∞

Anyway, the Kibbes are having a room warming that Saturday, inviting twenty people including the usual suspects and close friends from Connecticut. However, and the reason I bring this up, I had to borrow tools from Adam and yesterday I got a sneak preview. Adam has slaved for weeks, arduously completing those time consuming finish details : painting, installing window,door and cabinet trim, tweaking light fixtures, it goes on, as you know all too well. The room, in a word that Adam often uses, is astonishing. Or one that I often use , puissant. After the party, Adam will post photos and youíll see what I mean.

Last Thursday was the first night of my second writing class. This one, taught at the local Junior High School by freelance writer, Joan Cass, has an enrollment of eleven – more men than women. Another course that Diane, of course, found for me in our local Adult Ed catalogue. Remember, Adult Ed in Acton is the equivalent of an honors course at a school like Carleton.

I anticipated a formal beginning to class, one where the instructor asks each of us for a short bio. An efficient way of shaking every hand at once. But she did not. She seemed nervous and immediately launched into our assignment for the night, to write an essay in forty-five minutes to then read aloud. Here is the first paragraph from her handout:

ìDuring tonightís class, I ask each student to write a short piece, presenting a character with at least one dominate, interesting trait. The idea is to show the character in action, rather than just to describe her/his personality.î

Was she kidding? Should I get up, walk out, go home, and strangle Diane? How am I supposed to write a story in less than an hour? It takes me that long to compose a decent email. Cripes, Henry, you have seen me struggle for days to type the shortest of blog entries.

I thought, maybe hoped, Iíd pass out. Fear of failure tip-toed up my spinal cord in search of that last unfrozen brain cell. I tried to calm myself by taking deep breaths, focusing on the task, and tuning out Ms. Cass as she explained in more detail, what was required. I did hear her say ,îWhat ever you do, donít compare your writing to others in the class. You will always appear lacking, even when youíre notî. I scanned for a past blog entry that might fit. Spirits, about two friends dealing with the death of loved ones…nope, that has two semi-dominant characters. Besides, who needs more reminders of death. What to do?

Then, I thought, how about the best character I know? Iíll write about my humbling experience at my summer writing class. In a writing class, writing about a writing class, I liked that. But was this what she wanted? Donít know, but now Iím down to thirty-eight minutes and forty-five seconds and the walls are closing in.

I scrawled away as fast as I could, hoping that when it was my turn, I would be able to read my writing. Those minutes darted by like a neutrino in search of a planet to penetrate. When she said, stop writing, I was pretty happy with what I had produced. There was a story line, a character or two, and it made me laugh. I wanted to read first but the choice was taken from me when she began clockwise around the room.

The first reader, name not known, read his story from a scrawl that looked at a distance not unlike mine. His story was short, but I was amazed by his compact, descriptive sentences. ìCold can of beer against the back of my neck.î I liked that, and told him so, but I thought, thatís not what I wrote.

Next, a slender woman in a bulky sweater, who read quickly. That was a good thing because she had three tightly spaced pages involving multiple characters and a complex plot. I was drawn into her story, again, by descriptive phrases. Reminded me of Virginia Wolff.

At the bottom of our handout were instructions regarding feedback. ìIt is not helpful to a the writer for someone to say, ëI liked that piece.í What is helpful are comments like ëI was very involved with your character because he was convincingly desperate.íî Helpful or not, I almost shouted, ìI canít believe you wrote that in forty-five minutes!î I thought, privately – that is not what I wrote.

She was attached in some way to the guy next to her – husband, boyfriend, brother? – who read his story about a man, Elon, and his agonizing employment problems. It was almost as long as his wifeís, not as flowery, but equally flowing. Suddenly, I wanted the comfort of my summer writing class, where there were good writers, but also mortals.

Iíll skip the next three essays, including a college studentís Boston Globe Magazine-ready piece about lost love, saliva baths, and teeth pulled by slammed closet doors.

The story that convinced me I had failed was read by a woman slightly older than I. Its pacing tighter than my jockeys now felt, her story depicted a war weary old man stumbling around the streets of Brussels during the end of WWII. As she read, scenes unfolded in bold strokes following this man beaten down by the destruction of his beloved city. It ends with a V2 rocket landing nearby, throwing a GI from his jeep. The loop closes with an emotional reconciliation as the old man cradles the dying young man.

That was not what I had written. Not even close. Mine was not close to anyone’s, even the guy who had only managed a paragraph. How had I ignored her directions? I looked down at the handout one more time and read, ìPlease note that written characters arenít always believable when they do exactly what an actual person did in real life. Truth is stranger than fiction. Your fictional characters need to be more consistent than the people we know.î

I had written one of my patented verbatim stories. Sheesh.

In spite of the imperative not to compare to others, I tried hastily to reshape the class assignment. Without a fictional narrative, maybe I should introduce my story as a comedic interlude.

M. Cass looked at me and nodded her head, as in ìGo.î

ìI feel like you said, ëGet in a car and drive to Harvard Square,í and I got on a bus to Worcester. I canít write fiction, never have. I write memoirs and thatís what Iíve done. Iím not sure there will be anything to say when I finish, but here it is.î

(The unvarnished, first draft, written-in-class version)

The Importance of Verbs

ìI think itís Michaelís turn to read his story.î
This was the fourth day of our writing class and Iíd brought Clemency, a story Iíd worked on for months. Even yesterday, knowing that my essay was longer than most, I managed to whittle another full page. Hearing others read their stories, I could see a familiar trap. Clemency, ostensibly about a camping trip, but touching on my relationship with my father, had been written for people I know. I needed to explain all those names or cut them out entirely. Or so I thought.
I looked up at Mr. Atwan and asked, ìIf itís okay with you, Iíd rather have someone else read it. Iíve read it a thousand times; I canít hear it anymore. Becky Jackson has already agreed to read it.î
Mr. Atwan turned to Becky and asked, ìHave you read it before?î
To which she replied, ìNo.î

ìI did last night; Iíll read it.î

Sensing something was up, but happy to get the teacher’s attention, I sat back – anxiously.

He was, after all, reading what I had thought was my best story. Maybe as he told Mercedes the day before, he would say mine is ready for publication. I had high hopes.

Until he pronounced gunwales, gunwhales.

Until he got lost in my weaving of timelines.

ìYou mean itís a three hour bus ride from Boston to Indianaî?

ìNo, my bus ride was when I lived in Indiana.î

Until he came to my approaching an accident scene late at night, after a brief description of my making love to my college girlfriend.

He turned to Becky and said, ìArenít you glad you didnít have to read this?î

Becky an English teacher at Lawrence Academy said, ìEven my students donít write like that.î

She might have been kinder, but that is what I heard.

Now I wanted it to stop. I wanted a second chance to write it again.

Finally, he finished, reading my last carefully crafted, tortuously developed ending, ìIt was then that I realized my fatherís voice had caught up with me.î

But Mr. Atwanís expression was blank. As if he didnít understand my epiphany. I wanted to run out of the room, or hide under my desk, but I stayed knowing, hoping, the bulls eye would move to someone else.

But Mr. Atwan wasnít quite done. The day before he lectured us on the use of interesting verbs. ìBe careful of boring to be verbs.î

He turned back to page one of my story, and as if continuing yesterdayís lecture, he said, ìIíll read just the verbs on this page.î

I hadnít quite grasped the verb concept so I thought, okay, go ahead.

He began:

He was
She was
They were
He had
You were
I was

Oh, those verbs, I thought.

I raised my voice when I got to the last sentence, hoping it would sound more like an ending.

There were many comments, but the one I remember most vividly was from the Ms. Cass. She said. ìYouíre living in your own little world, arenít you?î ìYour character is living in his own little world, isnít he?î

I was tempted to reply, ì What kind of soup would you like?î

Unfortunately, the class ended after my story and Iíll miss the next one, Thursday the 9th. Hopefully, Mark, Adam and I will be camped on Debsconeg Lake in the shadow of Mt. Katahdin.

Henry, you are no doubt wondering what the status is of the BMW. AVA Restoration in Dublin NH received, then sent to Dover NH, the difficult to machine flywheel. They are confident that by early next week the job will be done. In the meantime Iím sending them the throw bearing that also needs to be replaced. They THINK they have a replacement, but need to make sure.

Diane. ìWhat was that blonde joke that Jimmy told us? The one that
was so funny, about dieting. I might use it with my patients.î

Me. ìYeah, what was it. Matt do you remember?î

Matt. ìNo.î

Me. ìGive me a moment, Iíll find it.î

Clickity, clickity, after maybe fifteen seconds, tops.

Me. ìHere it is.î

A blonde was terribly overweight, so her doctor put her on a diet. I want you to eat regularly for 2 days, then skip a day, eat regularly for 2 days, then skip a day. Repeat this procedure for 2 weeks.

“The next time I see you, you’ll have lost at least 5 pounds.”

When the blonde returned, she shocked the doctor. She had lost nearly 20 pounds.

“Why, thatís amazing!” the doctor said. “Did you follow my instructions?”

The blonde nodded. “Ill tell you though, I thought I was going to drop dead that 3rd day.”

“From hunger, you mean?” asked the doctor.”

“No, from all that skipping!”

Diane. ìThat is the one, but Jimmyís version was much funnierî

Me. ì It was, but what do you think of yours truly, The Googlemaster?î

Diane. ìIncredible.î

Matt. ìPatheticî

Updates:

Two new contributors to the blog, Dan and Ed, are honing their stories.
Scheduled publish dates….soon.

The BMW flywheel is on itís way to Dublin NH, to a machine shop that specializes in classic BMW restorations.

Matt is going to the LOCOBAZOOKA! ‘UNITED WE ROCK!’ festival this Sunday. Itís an all day, open air concert, held at the airport in Fitchburg.

Last night we celebrated Mark and Gingerís twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and then went to Willow Books to see Elinor Lipman read from The Pursuit of Alice Thrift. I queued up to have her sign my copy and to tell her how much I liked her writing. Before I finished, I looked down to see her stroking my arm.

Email from Ed yesterday:

That overhyped Isabel has left us in the dark for nigh onto 70 hours
now. Most of Bowie is without power, and I’ve had to drive into
College Park to the Univ. of MD, which has local generators keeping
its servers alive. (where I am now)

Beth and I have been cooking on our camp stoves and using propane
& kerosene lamps. We’re a lot better off than our neighbors,
who seem to be using candles for light and heat. It would be as dark
as Gilsum in our neighborhood, except that some powerful street
lights in other parts of town light up the sky.

We’ve been going out of town to movies and restaurants, though we
have to pick and choose among towns. Annapolis is flooded and getting
worse, and parts of DC are threatened by a rising Potomac. Some other
towns in MD seem to be unaffected by the storm, but a few are
darker than Bowie.

What day is this anyway? Sunday? Saturday? It seems like Monday
because of all the days off since Isabel came to town.

Got to pick Katie up from her dorm. Then head back home 13 mi
thru intersections without lights. Interesting times.

Ed

We sat on her porch, enjoying the first breezes inspired by Isabel. As always, her doors are open; the house full of light and life. Her gardens planted and tended in memory of her husband. I sipped fresh gazpacho, swallowed the last bite of my second pastry and thought, what a giving, nurturing woman.

ìHow are you doing?î

ìSome days okay, but other days, so so.î

ì Donít tell me that.î

ìWhy?î

ìBecause, you look so good; I want everything to be okay.ì

ìSo do Iî her voice rose, ìbut I miss my guy. We were married twenty-two years. If Iím busy Iím all right. I ran a workshop on Star Island and I hurried around all day. Working, talking, teaching, but then I came home and … .
Sometimes I flop down and do nothing.î

ìCould I ask you a favor? I have a friend, her name is Ann. Her son died when he was seventeen and her husband died two months ago. Whenever I ask her how she is, she cries. Sheís so overwhelmed, she cried as we talked about water in her garage. As if her wet floor made life impossible. When you said you feel better when you are busy, I thought you might be able to help her. She rattles around alone in her house with nothing but memories.”

ìYou could say that about me.î

ìBut youíre moving, doing, creating. Look at your house, the spirits are free to fly in and out. There is no movement in her dark house. Her spirits are locked up tight.î

ìIíll call her if you want.î

ìSheís English. You know, that stiff upper lip. Iíll give her your name and if she can, sheíll call you. At least Iíll have done something. Yesterday I snapped at her. I told her, î You said before, itíll take time. You canít rush it, Ann. You want it all over, but it takes time.î

Still crying, she looked hard at me and said, ìIíve been through worse. Iíll get through this.î

I should have hugged her.

That guy is me.

http://www.mikimoto.com/index_f_en.html
Sent to me by my sister, Joan.

I don’t know that I’ll know how to just BE in the room, if and when it is judged to be done (which will have to be by more objective observers). It has become so much The Project for me, such that its needing doing now seems sufficient reason just for its being.

I’m not averse to being finished, mind you, but there is a perverse sense of jealousy about sharing it incomplete, when a sense of done finally seems a tangible possibility. On our recent 10th anniversary, Tricia suggested inviting Mike and Diane over for a quick impromptu drink to help celebrate. Now, Mike has been there since the room’s birth, right through its Terrible Twos, gradeschool eagerness, highschool daze, and young adult flightiness. But Diane has only seen pictures thus far, and I found myself not ready to share it with someone thus removed until the room was in its wedding dress and poised on the aisle. Especially not someone about whose reaction I care.

My thought process might be somewhat informed by my subsequent reaction to Tricia talking me into installing the stereo this weekend. I had long imagined the first bars of Tori Amos’ most excellent “Scarlett’s Walk” CD wafting into the finished room — a major carrot. But here I was being asked to eat that carrot before journey’s end. With lighting installed and cabinetry all but finished, there are few enough such carrots left that I am loathe to relinquish their distance. They drive me to finish the more mundane details. And unveiling the room to close friends is perhaps the juiciest of them left.

This last weekend Mike volunteered a few hours time helping me work on the deck, the old familiar friends-with-toolbelts relationship at least temporarily supplanting the employer/contractor one. Not much was said, but we whiled away quite productively, our shoulders against separate wheels, but driving the same wagon. Much progress was made. Having arrived about 1:00, Mike finally cleaned up, packed up, and shoved off about 6:00. I continued putting stuff away awhile longer, and then, rather than try slopping sealer on in the dark, I chose to erect some tarps against forecast precipitation. And Isabel but days away…………….

Tarps……………. While many fond associations linger — our annual Maine camping trip is less than a month away, after all — I was not happy to see them back on site. It had been many months since they were last required. But after showering and having dinner, I looked out at the deck and had a thought:

Mike has grumbled and tried to cajole a blog entry out of me for some time. Perhaps he wanted other than a room update (I’m sure others would have), but I thought to try. But what to say? What to show? The room’s in its lacy underwear, putting on makeup, the smell of perfume in the air. An indecent time to publish voyeuristic peeks into the chamber. But I realized I could show the day’s progress and not show anything of the interior, with a night flash shot and the right angle. And given the tarps, I could even be somewhat coy about the deck itself…………… So perverse or not, I offer the above text and the following photo as sacrifice at the altar of Mike’s blog:

The World’s Smallest Deck awaiting railings and sealer.

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.

Susan wouldn’t need the title to know that this is Adam’s
photograph.