Siding Dwight Schirmer’s (of the infamous pokergroup) house. Dwight is utterly fearless of heights. I usually work with people far more timid than I of walking on narrow planks at back breaking heights, but not Dwight. Set it up, and out he goes.
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Stucco is falling off the chimneys at Applewood, and instead of re-stuccoing, theyíve been framing them in with plywood and adding a copper cap to keep the rain at bay. This is my second, and at about forty feet off the ground, hopefully my last. My staging is set on the deck Mark Queijo and I worked on.

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Dan and Jim

War planners

Alice Hanway O’Connell, my mother’s grandmother. Born 1861 and died in about 1945.

The back of Robby’s cell phone fell off and he taped it back on. How many adults could still use it?
More skateboarding pics taken by Chris Grosjean and Robby Nadler.

Shinydome

Thursday morning Barb Westman stopped by on her way to the Humane Society to show us a kitten that had shown up on her doorstep. Seems that someone who didn’t want it had abandoned it nearby. This happens occasionally (both cats and dogs). It was a cute little guy, probably about six weeks old, but she already had two cats and a dog and did not want to increase her “zoo”.

As you may know, I put grape jelly as well as sugar water feeders on our deck to attract and feed the Orioles, but at night I bring them in so as not to attract raccoons. Thursday night about 9:30. I went out on the deck to bring them in when I heard “meowing” and other rustling sounds down below. When I looked over the railing I saw several more kittens. I went in, got a flashlight, and went down to investigate. What a surprise. There were at least a half dozen little kittens running all over. I went back inside and called Barb and asked her to come over and help me corral the little guys. (I knew it would be a mistake to involve Susan. She loves baby animals especially kittens, but she hates cats. She would want to keep them.)

Barb came over and for the next hour and a half we chased the kittens around the house, under the front door “bridge”, up and down the hill, and in the woods trying to catch them. It was almost impossible. We had trouble seeing them in the dark and the beam of a flashlight would scare them into running away to get away from it. We caught three which she took to her boathouse where she fed them. Meanwhile I continued to hunt for the others. I got one more and then learned that the mother cat was also present and was trying to round up her family.

Barb returned with some cat food and the idea that we might have better success tempting them with food rather than chasing them with flashlights. (She had learned how hungry the first three captured kittens were.) So we set up some food on paper plates on the pavers in front of the garage and waited. Before long we had two more kittens and the mother cat in custody. We took them to the boathouse to join the others. We now had the mother and her six babies in a safe place for the night. They obviously had been in the woods for a couple of days. They were very hungry and ate like pigs. The kittens were very thin but seemed in good shape.

Friday morning, I packed them all in the big dog kennel that belonged to Monaghan and took them to the Humane Society facility in Buffalo to join the seventh kitten that was already there.

It is hard to imagine that someone could be so cruel leaving baby kittens in the woods, but when you see the headlines and pictures of the prisoners tortured by our soldiers in Iraq, you realize that cruelty exists everywhere – even at Lake Sylvia.

Father of Helen Virgina and husband of Helen Josephine O’Connell.

This is it for me, the last camping story.

Our first stop after leaving Acton is always Portland, Maine. Besides being a town with good food, it breaks up the long drive. Two hours to Portland, three hours to Greenville, an hour or so to our campsite.

As we drove along the waterfront, Adam and I bantered briefly about where to eat. Portland is a college town, and restaurants abound, with one on every corner, and some streets having nothing but. I thought we should stay away from the micro brews, not because the food that accompanies their copper-kettle-created creations isn’t good, but because only two of us were over sixteen.

We circled the crowded streets before we gave up our search for a cheap meter, and pulled into a parking garage. Matt spied the going rate – one dollar for the first two hours. We laughed. A fee we could afford. We parked, walked out of the garage, and Robby, glancing across the street, said “How can we not eat at a place called Gritty McDuffs?”

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Robby has always reminded me of Travis. They are both understated, smart, and have a sense of humor that appeals to maybe six people in the country. Fortunately, Diane and I are two of those six. I remember Travis and I were looking for lunch one day, and though he wasn’t wild about sushi, we had to stop when he saw the name of the restaurant – Fugakyu.

And that was it, no debates, no hesitation, we walked into Gritty’s, a micro brew, and sat down at a picnic-style table next to one with all women.

I got a quick glimpse before I sat, back to the gigglers, and assumed college age.

Trying to get a conversation going, and wanting to acknowledge how fond I was of the sounds that accompany Matt’s collective group, I said “Those people sound like your friends.”

“What, my friends sound like a bunch of drunk thirty year olds?”

Guess what? Ice out on Moosehead lake – May 1st.

Chapter Two by Michael Miller

No Guardian Angel

Adam listened to the thunder for two hours before the rumble shook me out of my slumber. I didn’t tell him I was awake, I never do. Sleep on the ground is precious and sometimes rare, and all I wanted was to go back. I feared that Adam, a notorious non-sleeper in the wild, might be looking for company. But I was more concerned about Matt, Daryl and Robby. I thought I had anticipated every possible disaster, from pellet wounds to thin ice, but thunderstorms? We never have them in the fall and this one scared me. One thousand and one, one thousand and two, I began counting, not knowing that beside me, Adam was doing the same. We were both hoping the storm was blowing out, not in.

Inside our flimsy walls, the lightning flashes were brilliant and yellow, as though someone were flipping a bug light on and off. I worried about the boys in their tent on the treeless point overlooking Moosehead Lake. They were the highest thing around, heck, they were the only thing around. A blue tent with a metal frame.

Groggy, and disoriented, I couldn’t decide if they were in danger. Our tent would flash yellow and I’d think, of course they are! A month ago I read about Boy Scouts hit by lightning on a mountain. After the following thunder clap, I’d think, chill! In southern Indiana, my father and I would leave our house to be closer to those storms. Often lightning hit the metal rod on the roof, and once I saw ball lightning shoot from the family room fireplace. Another flash, and I’d think – but men are much more likely to die from lightning strikes than women, because they fish and play golf. It’s the metal in their hands. Jumbled, disparate thoughts prevented me from getting my rational mind around the problem. So I fell asleep.

I woke awake again to more thunder, but to a whiter, steadier light – Daryl’s flashlight

I unzipped the sleeping bag, and in my underwear I crawled out of the tent to see Daryl, his dark hair wet, fumbling with the door to my truck.

“Hey,” Daryl said.

“What happened?”

I was happy to see at least one boy back; I assumed the other two were still alive.

“The wind was awful. It flattened the tent on my side and I got soaked. I already changed my clothes. Matt wanted to me to stay, maybe to hold the tent up. I think he’s angry I left.”

Daryl opened the passenger door as thunder pealed overhead.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m sleeping in the truck.”

“Without a sleeping bag?”

“Mine is soaking wet; I’ll be all right.”

“I have another bag. I use it to sleep on. I’ll get it for you.” At two thirty in the morning, I was happy to construct any kind of sentences, even short ones.

I crawled back into my tent for the extra bag, expecting to see Adam sitting up, ready for a night’s dialogue on the physics of thunderstorms, but he hadn’t moved. Jazzed, I wouldn’t have minded the company. I crawled back out into the rain, handed the bag to Daryl who had reclined the seat as far back as it would go. As he snuggled into the bag, I looked out to the point, and sure enough with each lightning flash, I could see the outline of the tent.

I know, I should have walked down and brought Matt and Robby back, but instead, I convinced myself the storm was abating and sneaked back into my tent, and again fell asleep. This time, it wasn’t light or thunder that awakened me, but the sound of voices.

I looked at Adam, nothing, checked the time – 4 AM – and again crawled through the door of our tent. Matt was pulling the tailgate down , and Robby stood beside him.

“I’m glad to see you off the point.”

“You wouldn’t believe the wind.” Robby exclaimed.

“Dad, I woke up and looked for the door. It was over my head!”

Now, there is an image. The wind trying to roll the boys out onto the lake. Adam and I had pitched our tent next to a stand of trees, and we felt the rain, heard the thunder, but were mostly shielded from the wind. Exposed on the point, the blue tent fought the wind and lost.

“The tent is flat on the ground with our stuff in it. We put rocks on it to hold it there.” They dropped the tailgate of the truck and with dry bags, climbed inside. The truck bed is short and the floor is ribbed. With their knees pulled to their chests and no pads underneath, they couldn’t be comfortable, but I was relieved they were inside and safe. I closed the tailgate, snapped the window shut and for the last time slipped into my own bag.

The morning after.
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The remains of the day. Sorting through soggy bags, pads, etc.
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I told Chris I would take credit for these inspired photographs, but after reading the last few comments, Iíve decided discretion is the better part of plagiarism. The extreme close-ups of Matt and friends were taken by Matt, holding the camera at armís length, but after that, I think itís only obvious who wasnít the photographer. Although I do know Chris and Robby worked the action shots. Also, Chris is responsible for most of the image titles.

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

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