Becoming a Puzzler

 I have never been a puzzler. Every year since forever there’s always a puzzle table on vacation. I always stand there for a couple minutes watching others sorting through the pile of chopped up pieces of art astonished at their patience. Every once in a while I would spot a piece and snap it in to place just to let them know that I was capable, then I would slip away and leave them to it. But lately—“lately” meaning this year—I have found myself the designated puzzler in this house and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. 

For one thing it is at once satisfying and excruciating, this puzzling business. Finding a piece and slipping it into place brings a brief but visceral thrill. But the searching process feels a bit like sorting through a dumpster looking for something decent to eat. The longer it takes the more frustrated I become. Just about the time I’m about to give up I will stumble upon a couple of pieces that fit together which leads to an embarrassing fist pump and a devious giggle.

What makes this new puzzling experience so strange is the fact that it requires something that I have always struggled with—sitting for extended periods of time. And yet, there I have been at the puzzling table night after night, mumbling to myself as my backside starts to cramp up and my back tightens, telling myself about how ridiculous it all is but somehow not being able to stand up and walk away.

So far I’ve completed one 1000 piece puzzle and one 500 piece puzzle. I am currently engaged in mortal combat with yet another 1000 piece puzzle which, at the rate I am going, might not got finished by the time we roll out of here in eight days.

So, I suppose I’m a puzzler now. Pam comes over every once in a while to offer encouragement, “Oh look at you. You finished the dog’s face! Good job, honey.” I can’t decide whether or not she’s seriously paying me a compliment or being sarcastic. Ron and Bill would have put this particular puzzle together in four or five hours. I’m on day four!

Maybe it’s an aging thing? Don’t get me wrong, I’m still plenty busy up here. I’ve gone fishing every day, I’ve put probably 50 miles on the kayak, I’ve played a couple rounds of golf and stayed faithful to my exercise regimen. But at night after dinner I find myself hunched over at the puzzle table like a man possessed. Part of it is the fact that the internet up here must be powered by a half dozen field mice racing around a tread wheel somewhere. To call it slow would be an insult to turtles. So scrolling is not an option, and watching television is very hit or miss.

So…I guess I’m a puzzler now.

Missing My Hope Peeps

 I love everything about being in Maine for six weeks every summer. The rhythms we fall into up here are comforting, the pace of living here rejuvenates. The views we are greeted with are new every morning and make you think that anything is possible.

But today is Sunday, and every Sunday I miss my church and the family of people who make it special. Actually it’s one of the few things about home that I miss. Every year when we get home we realize how much we missed our house, our neighbors and our trusted routines, but we never think of any of them while we’re here. It’s different with my church. Each Sunday I think of them and miss the familiar faces. 

This is 2026. I can livestream the service…and I do, but it’s not the same. The music sounds tinny and off a beat. There are no cookies. The cameras don’t show me the faces of the people I love the most at that place because all of them are busy on the other side of the cameras. I don’t hear their voices, I can’t shake their hands or hug them. The rest of the world learned during COVID what I have always known. There is no substitute for the gathering, no replacement for the assembly.

I will listen to the sermon. Last week it was Pete, the week before that Kyle, before that David.  No telling who it will be today. Summer plays havoc with the speaker roster. Those guys take vacations too. This particular sermon series hasn’t been my favorite, but there are 3,000 people who show up every Sunday at Hope. I’m sure that there are some in that crowd for which the current series has been a godsend. That’s the way it works in a community as large and diverse as ours. We all hear the sermons differently, but each is a blessing. But watching it on a computer screen isn’t the same as being there in the midst of it. It is possible to hear a sermon but not feel it.

But I am grateful for the technology. After a day on this gorgeous lake I will settle down sometime this evening and check it out. Meanwhile, I’ll be thinking of my Hope Peeps…and missing them.

Only in Maine!!

 Last year I showed up at Rockland Golf Club at 6:00am without a tee time or any golf clubs. This is not an unusual circumstance for me while I’m in Maine. Usually I play three times while I’m here, each time in the wee hours of the morning, with rented clubs and usually by myself where it only takes me two and a half hours to walk 18 holes. But last year on July 27th I was paired with two random guys, Al and Chris. Had a blast playing with them. Apparently they met five years ago when the two of them got paired together and have been playing together in Maine ever since. Well, after last year I was added to their group. I got a text a few days ago from them asking if I wanted to meet them this morning at 6:40 for a round at Rockland. Of course I said yes!

It’s profoundly embarrassing that here I am in my seventeenth month of retirement and it had been an entire year since I last played golf—with these same two dudes on this same golf course. All I had with me was a zip-lock bag full of golf balls. The course has no driving range so my first swing was on the first tee box, a 520 yard par five, which I laced right down the middle. Such a weird game.

Three hours later I lipped out from five feet for what would have been a par to shoot 88. I walked the entire way, a six mile hike up and down lots of hills. My playing partners, being a lot smarter than me, rode in a golf cart like reasonable people do.  We are playing again next Wednesday at a new course they will be introducing me to somewhere up near Augusta, a 45 minute drive from the lake.

After golf, since I was only a few minutes away from Ruckus Donuts, I dropped by and picked up two boxes of four donuts, one box for the hard working people at On The Water in Maine, and the other box for us. It’s currently 5:00 in the afternoon and there isn’t much left. However, I have discovered yet another fun fact about the aging process. Walking 18 holes of golf does not mix with fishing from a kayak. Apparently you can do one or the other on the same day…but not both. 

On another front, my cell phone beeped me earlier today, a “weather warning” for our area of Maine. I’m thinking, Wait…it’s 75 degrees and sunny. What could possibly constitute a warning?? —Please DO NOT enjoy yourself TOO MUCH. Then I saw the problem—apparently, the delightfully warm temperatures might have the effect of making people think that the water isn’t actually a freezing cold 55 degrees!! I have attached Photographic evidence, or you probably wouldn’t ‘t believe me. 

Only in Maine!!

Breaking My Silence on a HUGE Issue

 Despite the fact that I am currently on vacation and in general avoiding the news, sometimes a story comes along that demands my attention. Vacation or not, some things are so important, so potentially disruptive to our lives, a blogger like myself feels a certain responsibility, an obligation to address the issue that is utmost in the minds of my fellow Americans at this moment in time. Which issue am I referring to? Let me quote the Center for Disease Control:

A multistate outbreak of cyclosporiasis—a parasitic infection causing, EXPLOSIVE WATERY DIARRHEA* and stomach cramps.

Needless to say, this story got my attention. I mean, the very last thing I want to experience while on vacation is a case of EWD. My first response to this scary story was to ask the obvious question—“Was Taco Bell involved?” Upon a deeper dive into the story my fears were justified when I discovered that many of the cases were in fact connected to the historically bowel-stewing fast food franchise which I have successfully avoided for the past 30 years. The culprit, according to the CDC, was lettuce imported from—where else? Mexico.—and processed by an American company, Taylor Farms. Over the weekend, the CDC linked what has become known as raging diarrhea in the press, to the company who immediately placed a recall on all suspect lettuce. Of course, in a turn of events which should have come as a surprise to absolutely no one, the CDC then backtracked on their previous conclusion about Taylor farms and contaminated lettuce, saying that the test that had precipitated the recall turned out to be a false positive. Stinks for Taylor Farms. But as the government scientists proved back during the COVID fiasco, nothing has a shorter lifespan than a CDC press release.

Still, the very thought that there could be thousands of people out there about to be overcome with days of EWD, up to two weeks after a trip to Taco Bell sounds positively horrifying. Usually the symptoms of a meal at that place present in less than 24 hours, occasionally before you even make it back home! Now if you were stupid enough to toss back three tacos at midnight after setting through The Odyssey, you’re on the clock for 14 days?? What kind of fresh hell is this? It’s 100 degrees outside all over the country. We’ve been forced to watch soccer for the past 30 days. Donald Trump is in the White House and the Mayor of New York is a Communist. Haven’t we all suffered enough at this point?

* Is there any other kind? I mean, isn’t diarrhea, by definition…watery? 

Whatever Happened to the Pioneer Spirit?

 I am taking a huge risk with the post I am about to write. There is the very real possibility that it will not land well with some of you. I mean, I am in the midst of a six week vacation on a beautiful lake in Maine where the temperatures and humidity levels have been near perfect. By writing this I risk coming across like the guy on his private yacht off the shores of some Greek Island in the Adriatic complaining that the crackers on his seven meat, eight cheese charcuterie tray are too stale…or even worse, like that annoying Dodger fan who whines about  how many injuries his 400 million dollar roster has suffered. Nevertheless, I forge ahead.

Roughly 48 hours ago, a freaky storm cut a path through Maine’s mid-coast region. The entire thing lasted maybe 15 minutes or so, very little rain, no lightening and no thunder.  When it was over a ton of people were without power—including us. What this storm did have was tornado style winds. All of the furniture on our dock was swept away. Other people’s docks were lifted off their foundations. Trees were snapped in two bringing down power lines all over the place. Thirty minutes after the storm passed it was gorgeous outside, 75 and sunny, sky the crystal clear blue of Paul Newman’s eyes. 

We immediately alerted Tif, the all-powerful, all-knowing superstar of the rental market around here and also a wonderful friend. She assured us that all would be well soon. Then we texted our homeowner buddies on the lake to get their take on the situation. “No worries,” was the general consensus. “Happens all the time up here, it’s part of the Maine experience”, they all agreed. This all happened around 2:00 pm Thursday afternoon. All of our homeowner buddies had their power restored almost right away since they are all on the eastern shore of Quantabacook. All of us chumps on the west side were not so lucky.

The following 48 hours were instructive of several things, not the least of which is the fact that  neither Pam nor I would have made very good pioneers. As fate would have it, Pam and Kaitlin had started watching a remake of Little House on the Prairie week or so ago. Compared to the Engle clan, we look like a couple of helpless babies—although I should add that I was able to retrieve all of the deck furniture from the depths of the lake without a trip to the ER, so I’ve got that going for me.

Luckily, Paula and Ron are staying twenty minutes away from us on another lake, and they never lost power, so we were able to go over there the past two nights for dinner and a shower. Also, we were fortunate enough to have spectacular weather Friday, so the house never got hot. Still, it was embarrassing how annoyed we were that our phones and iPads were constantly running out of battery life. Aside from the annoyance of life without electricity, life has continued on its merry way. I caught the biggest bass I’ve ever caught up here a couple nights ago, and Pam persevered through the pitch black darkness of the house at night by continuing her cross stitching efforts with the aid of a battery operated light that drapes around her neck, shining light directly on the project at hand. I swear that women always finds a way to get it done.

All the while we kept getting updates from Tif via text—“should be back on by 8:00!” Then once 8:00 came and went—“Lying bastards! Now they’re saying 2:00! But today was going to be the day, no question about it—“Noon. Power will be on by noon!” Then, bless her heart, she starts apologizing all over the place like an act of God was somehow her fault. At one point she even offers to pay for us to replenish the fridge once the power was restored! Sometimes, she’s a little crazy.

But then, around noon today the power suddenly came on and we were so grateful…until five minutes later it went dark again. That head fake was painful. Despite overcast skies and windy conditions I headed out on the lake to take my frustrations out on the fish. A little over 3 hours later it finally came on for good. Pam is now in Belfast buying new groceries. I have finally taken a proper shower, shaved, and am now telling my whiny story to people who are probably rolling their eyes as they read. Well…sure, its not famine, pestilence or bloodshed…but you try going 48 hours without your back-massaging heating pad!

Lincolnville Strawberry Festival. A Review

 Yesterday was our busiest day yet. It all started when we made the snap decision to attend the Lincolnville Strawberry Festival, about a fifteen minute drive from the lake. This is a delightful event which we have attended three years in a row now. It was a picture perfect day, upper 70’s with abundant sunshine. But this being Maine, there were several oddities. How to explain the appearance of Rocky, for example. Although the fifteen foot long crustacean is certainly a show-stopper, one wonders what he’s doing crashing a strawberry festival. I mean the sign says Maine Lobster Festival, and Rockland is thirty minutes away! Old Tex here was no help, offering no explanation for the appearance of a lobster from a rival town showing up in Lincolnville. Tex did however take great pride in doing his job of traffic control, barking out loud exhortations to any stray visitors who happened to be standing in harm’s way, with no drawl whatsoever.

Then there was the photo op with the Strawberry Festival Clown. When I first suggested this to Silas’ father his response was decidedly negative, something like, “Wait, there’s a clown here? This is Maine. I’ve read IT. Hard pass!!” But eventually I persuaded him that the clown in question could be trusted. Silas wasn’t entirely sure and maintained an appropriate distance.

The event started with the much ballyhooed “Parade”. The two lane road which connects Lincolnville with the rest of the world was commandeered for the event by experts from local law enforcement. We heard a band playing then saw the huge tractor trailer that was pulling them arrive, all twelve members of the band playing a rousing rendition of some song I couldn’t recognize above the sounds of sirens. Then a gaggle of strawberry decorated kids on bicycles raced by, followed by several impressive antique cars. About the time I was really getting into the vibe, Rocky shows up, after which I had a hard time shaking the cognitive dissonance. Then the local shiny red fire trucks from the town fire department pulled up the rear of the parade, which ended ten minutes after it began—exactly the amount of time it took for the entire July 4th fireworks show in Camden. Must be some sort of local fun time limit ordinance at play.

All in all it was a glorious event, with delicious ice cream, lots of nice people and even a couple miniature ponies for the kids. I’m just puzzled by the lobster thing.

Maybe it was because he was red. Strawberries are red. Maybe the city fathers thought, “What the hell? He’s just sitting over there in the warehouse collected dust. Rockland owes us!”

A Day With Pictures

 Yeah, I know. Lots of stuff has happened over the past couple of weeks, political stuff that I should care about but don’t. Instead of offering up my performative outrage online like everyone else I have been distracted by the transcendent gift that is the State of Maine and the miracle that is my grandson.

Today began at 5:47 with another dependably comforting sunrise. I drank my coffee on the dock and caught a nice bass before heading back up to the house around 6:00. After a breakfast which consisted of one giant pumpkin muffin stuffed with some sort of white fluff I headed out for my morning fishing trip. Over an hour and a half later I returned to the dock having caught eight large mouth bass, all about the same size (pound to pound and an half) and full of fight. Somehow in the rush of leaving the dock I managed to drop my cell phone into the water at the where it sat for all one and a half hours of my fishing adventure. When I finally found it and retrieved it from the water it still worked and now, nine hours after its lake bath, the thing still works. Considering how much I have earned off of Apple stock over my lifetime, the outfit owes me nothing. Still, I’m impressed and grateful.

Around lunch time we all piled into the car and made the 25 minute drive in to Camden Hills State park where we introduced Silas to the glorious views to be had of stunning Penobscot Bay from the tree-lined coast of the park and Shoreline Trail. Along the walk we found wild raspberries, which taste nothing like the raspberries you buy at the grocery store. Wild ones that grow in Maine are sweet and juicy and come with a reminder that nothing mass produced is nearly as good as the gifts you find on a walk through the woods in Maine.

Silas’ parents took the afternoon off to discover Lincolnville Beach and Ducktrap, where they searched for and found a delightful coffee shop. Meanwhile, Pam and I took care of the little boy while preparing dinner. When they got back from their adventure we sat down on the screened in porch to eat dinner while a thunderstorm passed by. Listening to the sound of the rain pouring down while we ate was magical—right up until a massive lightening strike hit less than a mile away, sending a crackling jolt of electricity through the trees, introducing little Silas to the violence of creation. He was not a fan. Scared the little guy half to death, along with the rest of us! Luckily, we all quickly recovered, finished our delicious dinner and spent some time with Silas playing with all his toys on the floor. When it was time for his bath we both had a little trouble getting up off the floor—yet another reason our daughter should have made us grandparents when we weren’t quite as—-mature—-as we currently are. Nevertheless we are so thrilled to have this little boy in our lives. 

Oh…one more milestone from this day. The boy learned how to make fart sounds with his mouth. I mean, does it get any better??