More Noland

“Today, they’d probably throw me in jail.”

Noland doesn’t add history to his stories. Or background. But I do know he used to drink, and I do know both of his wives were alcoholics.

“David’s mother, she put a burning cigarette in my face. One punch, and she went down.” He’s a large man, with large fists and he jabbed the air, once, stopping right where her face might have been. “She was out for five minutes.”

“My second wife, she threw a glass ashtray that hit me in the face. Cracked a bridge and split my lip. I hit her and she was out for half an hour. I thought I killed her.”

When Caera walked in and sat down on the piano bench with her Celtic Harp, I thought, Boy does she look Irish. Irish like Eileen Foley, with black hair and blues eyes. When she sang in Gaelic, I thought, I wonder how long she’s been in this country. After a song or two she talked about having just flown back from Ireland where she played in a village of Gaelic speakers. She wanted so badly to go back, she’d even written a sad song about her longings. I thought to myself, Why not just go home?

I was so enamored by this Irish musician – I guess I’d been traveling vicariously with Susan- that my brain almost seized when, about midway through her gig, she said, “My first trip to Ireland was five years ago after I began exploring my heritage. After all, three out of my four grandparents are Irish.”

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Flo told Caera about her own daughter’s fascination with Ireland (Diane chimed in with, “She too has three Irish grandparents”) and after the recital, Flo hurried up to her room, and returned to show Caera Susan’s printed itinerary.

Flo’s friend, Lois, enjoying the music, but secretly wishing Caera would sing in French.

“Photo of pas des deux is from Le Corsaire – Semyon Troyanoff with Anna Liudmilla, c1927, Paris, costumes by Georges de Pogedaieff. ”

Semyon Troyanoff is Steven’s father’s stage name.

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Steven Varga-Golovcsenko’s parents – Semyon and Margit Varga-Golovcsenko
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Rakkity sent me this link . It’s one friendly American’s view of Germany, or more specifically, the Germans. Insightful and amusing, and if you read only one of the four pages he’s written, I’d start with the last : Tuesday, September 21, 2004.

“…Germans (or maybe Europeans, I’m not sure everyone here is a German) are not the most outgoing people in the world. In the village, no one looks you in the eyes as you pass on the narrow path. There are no quick smiles from young girls on bicycles that stir an older man’s imagination. There are no cheerful ìGuten Morgens!î among strangers waiting at a bus stop. To have a conversation you almost have to be in a business transaction with someone. “

From Sunday’s Globe Magazine

Squash, Green Bean, and White Bean Casserole

“Set the oven at 425 degrees. Spread the squash, flat side up, in a baking pan and sprinkle with olive oil, salt, and black pepper. Add 1/4 cup of the water to the edges of the pan. Roast the squash for 30 minutes or until it is almost tender when pierced with a fork. Set it aside to cool completely.”

And that would be about it for me. If I were the cook. But Diane is fearless, always has been, and she chopped and peeled and seasoned her way through the remaining six paragraphs as effortlessly as I click through web sites. Too me, cooking is like waiting in line. If I can throw a sword fish steak on the grill, flip it once after five minutes, then fine, I’ll do it. But paragraphs of instructions raises the same hackles as “Some assembly required.”

It’s worth a closer look

While Diane cooked, I played grease monkey. I came home early to work on Diane’s overheating Mazda, and after a call to Peter, my all knowing brother-in-law, a hunt for the right tools inlcuding my not oft-used Ohm meter, and two trips to auto parts stores, with one stop at the library to scope out what Chilton’s Auto Repair recommends, I fixed it. The fan wasn’t spinning at idle, but now, with the newly installed coolant sensor, the temperature gauge no longer registers – Bail Out, The Car Is About To Explode.

However, the best thing is not the repair. I was ready to let Diane deal with that. Nope, it’s The Enemy. Rakkity told me he had just finished Lee Child’s latest book, but because it came from his library, he couldn’t send it north. I assumed there would be no chance of finding it at my library until half the town had read it, but no, it was right there on the Popular New Fiction shelf.

Speaking of rakkity, I asked him two questions we’ve all been scratching our heads about, and I could either paraphrase his answers or reprint, without his permission, his email.

> Whatever happened to this year’s Beartooth saga?

“Yeah. That’s what I’d like to know. Captain Phil and Surgeon
Reed have disappeared into the woodwork, and I can’t do anything without their photos. Obviously they have different priorities than you and me. Sheesh! Don’t they know the blog needs content?”

> You still playing racquetball with Patrick?

“Are you kidding? Does the pope drop trou in the woods? Do bears swing from the balconies of the vatican? Is rakkity named rakkity?As a matter of fact, last evening I started work on a new racquetball story, “The King is dead, long live the King.” But, what with 25th anniversary festivities and all in the Schmahl house from Thurs to Sun, I may not get it posted till next Monday, but I’ll sneak a few minutes to
at least write it on my laptop (when my sweet S.O. isn’t looking).”

Welcome Back From Ireland, Susan.

Saturday, we (Dan, Mark, Mark and Adam) all met at out favorite haunt, La Provence, in Concord. We’ve occupied tables there for hours at time, mostly in the back room which is offset from the main dining area. The last time we met for lunch, the back room was closed, and because it was so busy, we were eventually evicted by the owner, Robert Didier. Politely, to be sure, but nevertheless, told to take our garrulous butts and go elsewhere.

Though it wasn’t as busy this day, Robert was again stalking our table. Or so it seemed to me. He’d look out the plate glass window, then back at our table. Finally he walked over and asked, “Does anyone own a Jaguar?”

Adam and I simultaneously replied. “I wish.” But the couple sitting at the table behind us, closer to the window, offered, “We do.”

“I have some bad news, “ Robert said as the male half of the couple got up from his table. Robert put his arm on the concerned customer’s shoulder and walked him to the window. “You have a flat.”

Clearly relieved that someone hadn’t sideswiped or backed into his car, the Jaguar owner sat back down at his table and said to his wife, “It could have been worse.”

Adam, who rarely includes himself in strangers’ conversations, turned to the couple and said, “Yeah, it could have been a Corolla.”

The Full Story

Pumpkin, Dolly Smith’s cat, was our cat’s best friend. She’d frequently sit somewhere on the lawn and look at our house, waiting for Skunk to join her. Skunk displayed little interest, but I’d always open the door and let him out. He would then stretch, lie on the deck, lick his paws, gaze at the sky, or occasionally run off with Pumpkin.

Skunk died in our house two years ago while we were in Hawaii, but Pumpkin still appears in our yard looking for her buddy to come out and play.

I wake and the sky
Is there, intact
The paper is white
The ink is black
My charmed life
Harms no one–
No wife, no son

Samuel Menashe

Yesterday’s photo of Bill Lewis clearing snow off of his canoe with a wooden paddle brought this emailed response:
“Look at the picture you posted on the blog, the snowy one. That thing on the left looks like a zaftig headless, armless woman with very large breasts. I wonder what it means. Other than that distraction it’s a gorgeous picture.”
That “distraction” was a snow woman (instead of breasts, I see Snoopy with those half arms looking more like ears) created by Adam, who sends this disclaimer:
“It means that Adam was at the time barely 30 , had been celibately in the woods for what at that time passed for a longish while, and was working out his own anxieties not with a knife to the throat, but by creating visions of comfort by turning the very stuff of threat into the stuff of play.”

A closer look at the sculptor and the sculpture
The scene to which Adam alludes is Bill deciding to end it all because : A. We have canoed down a fast flowing river to get to this campsite and there is no way to paddle back up the river. B. The lake water is so cold that if we capsize we die, and C. We are in the middle of nowhere and our bodies won’t be found until spring. What Bill doesn’t yet know, and is an even better reason to cut his throat, is Adam’s plan – load the canoes with all of our gear and pull them overland back to our minivan. I don’t know the exact distance, but it took us two trips and eight hours.

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The rest of the story written soon after the trip is here.

As we plan this year’s fall camping trip… a look at the past, Allagash Lake, 1993.
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