The Covered Dish Supper

Growing up as the son of a Baptist minister brought with it many unique experiences, substandard housing, Sunday night services and living next to a cemetery just to name a few. Being Baptist, of course, meant that church wasn’t just for Sundays. As the child of the Pastor you were expected to be at church every time the doors were opened. For me that meant Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, plus that special service meant for the faithful few—Wednesday night prayer meeting. In addition, for the even faithful fewer, there was Tuesday night visitation. Thankfully, kids weren’t expected to endure that drudgery. So growing up the church building became like a second home for me. And what a strange place it was.

First, there was the smell of the place. Even though our church was meticulously cleaned by a team of janitors, there was a persistent odor that permeated every inch of the building. Perhaps odor is the wrong word. The smell wasn’t exactly a bad smell, rather it was unique inasmuch as I have never encountered its like in any other building I have entered in my lifetime. It was a baffling combination of mold, hair spray, and Aqua Velva…with hints of furniture polish and mothballs. To me that smell meant…church.

Then there were the odd names thrown about to describe sections of the building that I have never heard used in any other context. Words like narthex, vestibule, and the all important fellowship hall. Although I never got an understandable explanation of what a narthex was, I knew exactly what the fellowship hall was and what purpose it served. It was the place where from the day I was born until I graduated from high school, all the most prominent meals of my life were served. I am referring, of course, to the Baptist covered-dish supper. Some churches called them pot luck dinners, but rumor had it that it was mostly liberal churches that used that term. For us, it was covered dish suppers, and they were amazing. It seemed like we had one at least two or three times a month, usually either on Sunday nights or after the service on Sunday morning. The reasons given for having a covered dish supper ran the gamut from celebrating some significant anniversary to mourning someone’s death. Sometimes it seemed like any excuse would do. The thought was that people who eat together, stay together, I guess.

The work that went into a covered dish supper was done by a surprisingly small group of women. These were the ladies who actually ran the church, worker bees who could organize a meal for 150 people in a matter of minutes, with enough food to fill rows of folding tables for as far as the eye could see. Then, after it was over, they would drag their husbands in from the parking lot to put away the tables and chairs, carry out the trash and mop the floors. It was an amazing organizational and culinary feat.

But, the covered dish supper eventually disappeared from my life. First I started attending a much larger congregation where the sheer size of the membership made impromptu meals problematic. Then about six years ago I joined a Presbyterian church and apparently we don’t do the covered dish thing. At Hope, we have meals catered! I didn’t realize how much I have missed it until this past Sunday. I attended a retirement celebration for my Mother in Law, 25 years of service as the church secretary at Hunton Baptist church. It was my first time inside a Baptist church in a while…same exact smell. After the service we were herded through the vestibule, across the narthex, into the fellowship hall, where we were greeted by this…

The ham slices were half an inch thick. The fried chicken wasn’t from Chick-fil-A. Was it homemade? Maybe. Then came a plethora of macaroni dishes, mac and cheese, and mac and some such thing which I couldn’t identify. There were green bean casseroles, corn pudding, and three different options for potato salad. There were deviled eggs, black-eyed peas and a giant bowl of butter beans. There were only three beverage options, water, sweet tea, and coffee.

The dessert table was filled with pre sliced cakes, pies, cupcakes and cookies. Four types of pound cakes (I sensed that perhaps there was a backstory of feuding bakers), pecan pie, and one plate of brownies that remained untouched—no doubt a back story there as well.

It was a lovely meal and a joyful experience to revisit.

As we were leaving I tried to stay clear of the army of stern-faced old men as they lifted the tables and chairs onto racks and rolled them away. 

Probably stored them in the…narthex.

Thanks, Lucy

Each morning when I lift the lid of my iPad part of me is holding my breath. What horrors of human depravity might await me? What events hatched overnight from the four corners of this world will threaten my life and livelihood? This morning was relatively normal. The conflict in Gaza threatening to evolve into WWIII, the Maine shooter found dead at his own hand, Matthew Perry found dead in his hot tub.

This morning’s stories were made easier to process by the presence of…my dog.

Lucy picks and chooses her days. She doesn’t always hop up on the sofa beside me as I drink my morning coffee and read the news. She is a notoriously late sleeper, not a morning dog. But occasionally she finds her way downstairs and takes her place beside me as I read. More times than I can count Lucy will let out a loud and long sigh at the precise moment when I have discovered a particularly disconcerting story of man’s inhumanity to man. Unimaginative people will dismiss this as coincidence. But dog people know better. We understand this as more proof that dogs are angels. Each time I hear Lucy sigh I look at her and give her hip a scratch and I am comforted. I am reminded that she has everything that she needs, a warm house, loving people, good food and yummy treats at the ready. And so do I.

Thanks, Lucy

Not Exactly a Disaster But…

Tonight the recipe was for pasta bolognese with Italian sausage. I was amped up for this one because I had never made it before. When Pam got home I made a big deal about how I didn’t want her to help me. I wanted to do everything myself. Incidentally, in the writing trade this is what is known as foreshadowing.

Everything started out well. I had laid out all the ingredients and read the recipe instructions through from start to finish at least three times. I was ready. First I chopped up the onions and carrots. Pam sat at the counter working on her laptop pretending to not be watching my work. During the slicing phase the only thing she said was, “be sure to cut them up in small pieces.” As I attempted to follow her advice I noticed that more and more bits of onion and carrots were flying all over the place, glancing off the backsplash, skidding across the floor, a complete hack job. But I persevered.

By the time I was ready to toss the tray of Italian sausage into the Dutch oven, beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. Pam reminded me to be sure and break the slab of sausage up into small pieces. Apparently this dish requires everything to be small. As I began to break up the sausage I discovered that when I had lifted the slab out of its styrofoam tray I had forgotten to peel off the thin paper liner on the back. As I began to break it up with the wooden spatula I realized my ghastly mistake, then set about picking out pieces of the paper from the Dutch oven for the next ten minutes, feeling like an idiot. It was about this time when I began to notice a strange smell. It wasn’t a bad smell necessarily but it wasn’t particularly appetizing either. My spirits began to flag.

Now it was time to add the beef broth and diced tomatoes. This was completed without incident. I glanced over at Pam and found her engrossed in some problematic email, completely ignoring me. This buoyed my spirits. If she was ignoring me I must be doing alright. At this point the recipe called for 12 oz of pasta which I first had to rinse with cold water—a confusing instruction that I had have explained to me. Something to do with rinsing off extra starch. Whatever.

Finally, an hour after I had begun the project, the dish was ready to be served. However when I dished it out of the Dutch oven on to the plates it was…runny.

Pam, who is like a cooking detective when it comes to finding where I went off the rails, looked at the recipe and opined that I had erred by placing a cover on the Dutch oven while it was cooking. This prevented the excess liquid from properly evaporating. But, she was soon exclaiming with great enthusiasm how wonderful it tasted. My wife is like my hype man. She’s constantly giving me excessive praise for my efforts at the stove. Clearly, she doesn’t want me to get discouraged. But after tonight I’m starting to question the motivation behind all these accolades. Hmmm…

Tomorrow night Sharon is bringing us dinner.

Thank God.

Even though tonight’s effort wasn’t the greatest I have to admit that its a little bit…fun. If I had to do this every night for the next 20 years it probably wouldn’t be. How Pam has managed to do this for the past 40 years is something very close to a miracle. But the bottom line of all this is the fact that at the end of the day I am enjoying taking care of her.

How Many Deaths Are Enough?

When Hamas terrorists rampaged through southern Israel on the morning of October 7th killing over 1400 people and kidnapping over 200 others, the entire world knew that once the Israelis overcame the initial humiliation of being caught so dreadfully unaware, their military response would be overwhelming and deadly. Hamas, the organization which governs the Gaza Strip, has in its very charter the stated goal of wiping Jews and specifically the Jewish state off the map. The citizens of Gaza voted to install Hamas into power, replacing the Palestinian Authority in 2007. But that isn’t to suggest that all Gazans are part of Hamas, anymore than it would be accurate to say that all Americans are Democrats because Joe Biden is President. As the kids like to say…it’s complicated.

So here we are 17 days after the barbaric invasion where brave terrorists killed babies and kidnapped grandmothers at $10,000 a pop, with a death toll in Gaza of 5,000. And the threatened Israeli ground invasion hasn’t even started. The world has reacted in largely predictable ways. Many in the West have expressed cautious solidarity with Israel while most of the Muslim world have hit the streets in support of Hamas. Chants of Jihad, Jihad, Jihad ring out through the streets of London.

It is extremely difficult to understand what it must be like to live in a place where you are surrounded on all sides by people who despise you and want to see you dead. I try to imagine what it would be like as a Virginian to be the avowed enemy of everyone in Maryland, West Virginia and North Carolina…how it would feel to have survived two wars where all three states attacked you at the same time just in your lifetime, and what my reaction might be to events of October 7th if they occurred in Danville or Winchester?

My own personal opinion falls into the camp of those who believe that Israel has the right to defend their existence and to avenge their dead. To do any less would seem to me to guarantee more of the same. But, how far does the right of self defense and justice for innocent victims go? Are 5,000 dead Gazans enough? If not, what is the correct number of dead?

I hear Israeli generals and some politicians talk of the annihilation of Hamas and I wonder how that can be done without also annihilating innocent Gazans. Which brings up the thorny question of are there innocent Gazans? I think back to World War II and the bombing of Dresden. Were the thousands of German citizens killed in that horrific bombing raid all Nazis? Were they all combatants? Or, after the full extent of Nazi brutality had been revealed was Dresden an act of vengeance for the horrors that the Germans had inflicted on the world? These are all unthinkable matters. Debates will rage for all eternity about what rules, if any, are appropriate during wartime.

Which brings me back to the Middle East. We say we support Israel’s right to defend itself. How long will that support hold? So far with 5,000 dead the support is complete. But at what point do we waver? 10,000 dead? 25,000? 100,000? In addition, should we ask a question of Israel as the death toll and destruction increase—what are your plans for Gaza after the killing stops? Is it to be rebuilt, or just bulldozed, salted over and abandoned, whatever Palestinians still alive left to go back to their Bedouin roots and roam what’s left of the desert? Hard questions for hard times.

Making Dinner While Arguing with Myself

I’ve cooked several dinners since Pam broke her wrist. It’s not like I have no experience cooking, so I do alright. But as I laid all the ingredients out that I would need to make tonight’s meal it occurred to me that for 40 years Pam has made roughly 90% of our meals. That’s an incredible accomplishment. Yeah, I clean up the kitchen afterwards, but that takes no time at all and certainly no planning or shopping. 

I made soup. Black-Eyed Pea with collard greens and sausage soup. I had made it before. As I set about slicing up the carrots and celery my mind began sifting through the news of the day. There’s more death and dying in the Middle East. The Republican Party seems completely inept, unable to elect their own Speaker of the House. The President of the United States seems small, ancient and not up to leading the country through what could possibly end up as World War III. As I turned my attention to dicing up a cup of yellow onion I thought how easy it would be to write a blog entitled, “The Case For Panic”. The world seems on the precipice of something foreboding and dangerous, and most Americans I know have lost all faith in the institutions of the country. The reasons for despair are ascendant in practically every segment of society.

I forgot how long it took me to get everything cut, chopped, diced, measured and into the pot. Time stands still when you’re cooking it seems. Plus, its hard to stay in the moment when you’re arguing with yourself. Couldn’t I just as easily write a blog entitled, “The Case For Confidence” ? If the experiences of my 65 years have taught me anything its that things are never as bad as they seem. Are the present troubles more fraught, more dangerous than what our parents endured from 1929 through 1945? How many Americans must have looked at the devastation of the Great Depression and thought “How in God’s name are we going to survive this mess with an aristocrat President who’s never done an honest day’s work in his life?” Haven’t the times managed to forge the leaders we needed for the moment in the past? How many catastrophes have we survived just in my lifetime? Isn’t the lesson of history one of survival?

As the soup simmered on the stove, I whipped up the Red Lobster biscuits. Don’t panic. It was from a box. Even an idiot could do it…

Now all that was left was to wait around in the kitchen watching the oven, making sure not to burn the biscuits. As I poured the tea I thought about how much worse off we are as a people because of social media and the 24 hour news cycle. We are bombarded with every snippet of terrible news. All. Day. Long. If there was no such thing as the internet, we would be busy living our lives instead of counting down the doomsday clock every day. Of course, without the internet, this blog would make even less sense than it normally does.

Dinner was pretty decent, at least Pam said so. Cleaning up the mess afterwards was a picnic compared to cooking. I’ve definitely gotten the best end of that deal for 40 years. I think I owe her.

That Hospital in Gaza

I heard the report on the radio as I was driving home from work. A hospital somewhere in Gaza had been hit by a rocket and hundreds of people had been killed. The very first thought that flashed through my mind was—How will this effect the markets? It was a shameful moment. Later last night after recovering some moral balance I began to think about the ghastly scene in that horrible place, dead body parts strewn around like so much garbage at a landfill. The number of deaths had been estimated at 500. I found photographs on the internet, most of them unsuitable to publish in this space.

Predictably, two narratives have emerged. Palestinian representatives immediately blamed a rocket fired by Israel. Spokesmen for the IDF blamed a misfired rocket launched from a nearby cemetery by one of many free agent terror gangs operating in Gaza, the Palestinian Islamic Jihad. Most western journalists first went with the Palestinian story, only later adding the rebuttal from the Israelis. Who to believe in this case depends very much on which side you’re on, I suppose. On the one hand, various terrorist organizations in this troubled real estate have routinely situated military equipment in and around hospitals and schools, using these civilian areas as human shields against just such an attack. On the other hand in the past the IDF has shown no hesitation in ignoring the shields if the target was rich enough. Regardless of where the bomb came from, a hospital in Gaza is now a morgue.

Into the midst of such carnage and inhumanity strides our President. The decision to send Joe Biden into a war zone is meant to demonstrate support for our long time ally and to signal our firm resolve to other actors in the region. There are also political benefits to such a dramatic and potentially dangerous trip for the President. It will go a long way to dispelling the he’s too old narrative. This will only work if he can avoid a meandering, slurring, incomprehensible press conference performance—never a sure thing.

It’s difficult for me to conjure up a rooting interest. The list of innocent civilians targeted and slaughtered by Palestinian terrorists in my lifetime is staggering. Neither am I a fan of the State of Israel. They are an independent nation with their own interests which often conflict with ours and yet we seem hell-bent on marching with them into each and every abyss they have stumbled upon for the last 75 years. In addition, being a proud isolationist when it comes to foreign policy, I am always against spilling American blood defending someone else’s interests, no matter how many innocents are caught in the cross-fire. War is hell, after all.

However, if I was forced at gunpoint to pick a side, to declare myself, it would be an easy choice. Israel. Why?

Is it because of some tortured theological interpretation from Christianity which confuses the State of Israel with the Jewish people? That whole “any nation that opposes Israel be damned” business? No.

Is it the brutality of Hamas, the shooting of babies, the indiscriminate murder and rape of grandmothers? No.

For me it comes down to something very simple. Who is more likely to kill me if they encountered me on the street, an Israeli citizen or a member of Hamas? If I, a 65 year old American man, was found walking down a residential street in Tel Aviv as opposed to say Deir al-Balah, where would I more likely get killed? Where would I feel safer, Riyadh or Jerusalem? Tehran or Haifa? San Francisco or Chicago? (No, just kidding about that last one!!)

I suppose it boils down to which of these two troubled populations have the higher respect for innocent life? Although neither of them are exactly Quakers, the society that has demonstrated the most regard for the traditional virtues prized by civilization would be Israel. Which of them is more likely to shoot me point blank in the face? Hamas.

I just wish that my first response to this horrifying news had been a deep mourning and regret for the spilt blood of innocents instead of something as temporary and self absorbed as the balance of my investment accounts.

The Luckiest

We rolled into Short Pump just before noon yesterday after a thankfully uneventful two day drive. Three things happened that I want to tell you about, all three remarkable.

When you return from three weeks away from home, there’s a lot to do and all of it needs to be done right away. Arriving home on a Sunday makes this situation even more stressful and hectic than normal since the working world lurks a mere 20 hours in the future. Unpacking the car, washing, drying and folding loads and loads of laundry, and replenishing your bare pantry all demand attention at a time when you’re already worn out from two days on the road. Now, throw in a wife who has only one serviceable hand and…well you get the picture. I am told that times like thsee are learning opportunities and indeed I have found this to be true. With each load of laundry that came out of the dryer I was enlisted to place clothing on hangers as Pam handed each item to me. I have learned that there is a right and wrong way to hang clothes. I always thought that all you had to do was pick up a hanger and shove it in the neck area of the shirt. But, Pam was aghast at this technique. Apparently, there is a better way. One must always point the open end of the hanger to the left, and when hung in the closet, the front of the garment must always face left. I never knew this. I always thought that nothing approaching a protocol would exist for the hanging of clothes in a closet. I certainly felt sheepish to be taught this at age 65.

But, I digress. Now, for the three remarkable things.

First, my mother and father-in-law showed up at the house after they got home from church with a delicious chicken casserole and a tin of fresh baked brownies. In our forty years together, my in laws have always been so clutch. They always turn up at the perfect time with help in its perfect form. Thanks, Russ and Vi.

Then our friends Chip and Lynn show up with a Mexican casserole, a bag of tortilla chips and two cans of some quirky high octane IPA that Chip found someplace. In addition, Lynn thought to bring some gadget that she thought might help Pam with her one-handedness, a very Lynn thing to do. Now I won’t have to actually make dinner until Tuesday night. Thanks, Lynn and Chip.

Finally, it was time for the two angel girls who live next door to show up on our steps with a handful of “get well cards” they had made for Pam. Each was a delight. The oldest, Kennedy, had also broken her left wrist a while back and was acutely aware of how painful it can be. Here is a portion of one of her cards…

Out of the mouths of babes…She is the cutest philosopher to ever live. Thanks, Sully and Kennedy.

A person can handle a lot of adversity if they have a family who loves and supports them, devoted and thoughtful friends, and neighbors who love and care for them like family. 

We are the luckiest.

Last Day in Maine and Thoughts on Israel.

Pam and I will be joining Paula, Ron, Linda and Bill for brunch this morning at The Hoot, one of our favorite eateries on the coast. Afterwards we will probably tool around in Belfast for a while before heading back to camp to meet with an insurance adjuster at 1:00. Yes, nothing says “we’re on vacation” like an hour and a half with an insurance professional. Once that colossal annoyance is over with we will begin the process of packing up our stuff in preparation for the two day drive back to Short Pump.

Obviously this particular vacation has been a disappointment. Being in this beautiful place is never a complete disaster, but having your wife break her wrist on day 3 was the ultimate buzz kill. Looking back over the past three weeks I believe we have made the most of the situation, enjoyed our time as much as dealing with the injury would allow. Lucy was probably the most disappointed of the three of us since we were away from camp so much more than normal. But she had her moments of fun and frolic.

But our travails amount to nothing more than a mild annoyance when compared to what has been happening in the Middle East. When you don’t watch television you have to find out about events by reading about them, which I have been doing a lot of since it all started. What I don’t know about the pathologies of Arab-Israeli hatred would fill an encyclopedia, but I do know this, I was born in 1958 and for all of my life this has been going on. Indeed, Israel has been dealing harshly with and being dealt harshly by various iterations of enemies since the days of the Jebusites, Hittites and Philistines. Of course the story of Israel and the Jews cannot be separated from their identity in two religious traditions as God’s Chosen People, and The Holocaust. Any discussion about the Middle East seems to begin and end there. 

From what I can gather from the commentary of this latest shooting war, I am asked to be outraged by the indiscriminate killing of innocent civilians by Hamas, but to understand the killing of innocent civilians by the Israelis as self-defense. I am supposed to be appalled that Israel is carpet bombing the Gaza Strip without first warning the residents, but the lack of warning issued by the Hamas terrorist attack is to be considered tactical brilliance. For me, I’m finding it very difficult to tolerate the killing of infants and old people. Full stop. Both Judaism and Christianity extol the virtues and inherent dignity of all human life. I assume this means—even those we hate. And hatred is the most important factor in this centuries old conflict. Not land. Hatred.

So, in the morning we will leave this place. We will return to our normal life and be thankful that we don’t live in the Holy Land.

A Much Needed Win

So, yesterday was a win. Pam’s wrist didn’t hurt, the weather was delightful and Lucy finally got to go on an adventure. We all went into Camden to pick up sandwiches from The Deli, then took them over to Camden Hills State Park for a picnic overlooking the majestic Penobscot Bay…

After lunch we hiked down to the water’s edge through the towering pines. It was Linda and Bill’s first time getting a bird’s eye view of why Camden’s slogan is, Where the Mountains Meet the Sea. Of course, since they are the Hip Sisters, they found a few moments to do what they do best…

Then we drove across the road to the other side of the park, to the peak of Mt. Battie to see the World War I memorial and the gorgeous views of Camden and the bay…

Today’s plan involves a rendezvous at Pemiquid Point and lunch at some place where Linda can get a lobster roll. Lucy will stay at camp this time which she seems fine with after yesterday’s exhausting work…

Tommorow Pam has her follow up visit with the surgeon to get her stitches removed and a new cast/splint. More importantly she will learn more about what she can and cannot do with that hand as she rehabs it while starting back to work next Monday morning. Yikes. I think she will feel better with this knowledge than she feels with uncertainty.

The Gauntlet Chronicles

Long time readers of The Tempest have had to endure many glowing testimonials of our many Maine adventures over the years. I have written of the idyllic tranquility, the fresh air, the off the hook food and the enchanting vistas. I have regaled you with a thousand photographs of us in varying degrees of frolic, smiles plastered all over our faces. Most of you tell me how much you love the stories and pictures but I’m sure that there are at least a few of you who get tired of the Garden of Eden shtick. For all those in the latter category—this blog is for you.

So far, our Fall 2023 Maine trip has been a comedy of errors, none of which have been funny. I use the term “so far” with great care since there are five days remaining in this misadventure and I don’t want to further jinx what has so far been a woe begotten mess.

Saturday, Sept. 23rd.

We arrive after a deceptively easy two day drive to our camp, the ironically named Vacationland, where we both casually noticed a missing paving stone at the stairway entrance. I made the prophetic observation, “Hmm..that’s a tripping hazard.”

Tuesday, Sept. 25th

Pam fulfills the prophesy by catching her toe on the stone, face planting on the flower bed’s border stones, breaking both bones in her left wrist, scratching her face, chin and chest while knocking her teeth temporarily out of alignment. 

Thursday, Sept. 27th

After two days of hospital visits, pain and angst, Pam undergoes surgery where she receives parting gifts in the form of a stylish, cutting edge metal plate inserted permanently in her wrist along with several screws to hold it in place. We spend the following four days dealing with this new reality meaning that our first full week of vacation turned out to be the opposite of everything that term is supposed to mean.

Saturday, Sept. 30th

The cavalry arrives in the form of Paula and Ron Roop, who thought they were coming to Maine for all the usual reasons only to discover that their real job was now cooking and helping me take care of my disappointed and traumatized wife. I should say at this point that Pam limited her “disappointed and traumatized” moments to one or two brief tearful minutes per day. The rest of the time she was an amazingly brave and resilient patient.

Friday and Saturday, Oct. 6-7

Some tropical storm rolls into Mid-Coast Maine dropping 2-3 inches of rain which transforms our formerly useless dock into a completely useless one. Now, in  addition to the mud-guarded quagmire guarding the approach to the dock, we had water blocking all other available angles of approach. Luckily for us, the next door neighbors had a natural boat entry style beach area where I could with great care manage to get my kayak into the water without incident. Unfortunately after the rain, that too was rendered unsafe, which I observed first hand when on…

Today, Oct. 9

…I unsuccessfully attempted to exit my kayak after a morning fishing trip. The incline was too steep, the grass too saturated with water which resulted in me and all of my gear being unceremoniously deposited into the very cold waters of Hobbs Pond. While this was happening everything seemed to move in slow motion. Instead of being angry and thrashing about like a lunatic I was strangely calm and methodical. After all, no bones were broken, nobody was there to witness this embarrassment, although had a video been taken of the entire affair it surely would have gone viral. It seems appropriate to point out that the fishing trip was not a total loss since I did catch this guy…

Our trip has not been a total loss. Nobody has gotten COVID. So far this entire trip has been vomit-free. We’ve got THAT going for us. Oh, and war broke out in the Middle East, which seems entirely appropriate at this point. I can’t wait to see what God has in store for us on our drive home.

On a positive note my big sister Linda and her husband Bill arrived for their first Maine trip. They are staying on a different lake with Ron and Paula. We drove over to their camp last night for dinner and had a wonderful time. Tonight the plan is for the four of them to make soup and bring it over here. As fate would have it, we have now discovered a foul odor coming from downstairs where a dehumidifier used to be. Its not there anymore because it stopped working about the time we arrived. We have finally discovered why it had been placed inside the downstairs bathroom, even though there was a fully functioning dehumidifier in the great room downstairs. We will do our best to mask the smell by dinner time tonight. Hard to describe the odor…its kinda like good luck gone bad!

Calm Before the Storm

Tomorrow is the beginning of our third week here on Hobbs Pond. When we head home next Saturday it will be nine months before we return. Rain is expected for the next couple of days and our last week looks to be considerably colder and wetter than our first two were. Linda and Bill are expected tomorrow afternoon.

Today started still and foggy on the lake so Pam and I decided to take advantage of the calm waters and tour the lake. Just as we were getting started I snapped a quick picture of her floating along behind me. It was only much later when I discovered that we were photo-bombed by a creepy dude standing among some bushes on the shore. Probably with the Illuminati or the Brandenburg Group keeping a sharp eye out for trouble.

The first half of our paddle was a delight. The water was still and the views along the edge of the shoreline were stirring. We got to gawk at the huge homes that dot the woods of this lake like citadels of wealth, their giant plate glass walls staring down at us from above. But there were also more modest, traditional Maine camps to see, many of which I could picture us living comfortably inside. There were a couple thick, knotted ropes hanging from tree limbs near some of the more worn out docks. Some of the old style camps left ample evidence that small children were welcomed, swing-sets and children’s toys still strewn about the yard.

By the time we reached the northern end of the lake we spotted a lonely swim float farther from shore than is customary with a passenger on board…

He let us get very close before he flew off awkwardly, his huge wing tips slapping the water as he tried to gain altitude. It was about this time when we finally had to change directions and paddle south. It was also when the wind started to blow, a chilly wind filled with mist. Towing a second kayak with a passenger, even one as delicate as my wife, ain’t easy into a stiff breeze. By the time I made it back to camp, my biggest concern was how I was going to get out of the kayak without popping a hammy. This was seven hours ago now, and my back is trying to explain to me how much things have changed since I was 30. I am beginning to get the message. The entire trip was only 4.6 miles, but it felt like much more. Still, it was worth it. We both got to see the lake in her entirety. Plus it might be a while before we get out again if the weather nerd websites are to be believed. 

Predictably, Lucy is nonplussed.

A Very Good Day

Things are looking up. In this regard, the weather has been a huge help. Beautiful clear days and chilly nights have provided the conditions for a burst of color from the trees which seem to have popped overnight. We drove into Belfast yesterday for some shopping and lunch at Delvino’s and were blown away by the gorgeous leaves on route 52 between Lincolnville and Belfast. When we got back to camp the lake had gotten as still as glass. Pam took this photograph of the swimming float…

Although this lake is lovely, unfortunately across the way is made up of mostly evergreens, so no color. Just around the point the colors have started to shine…

Lucy’s opinion of the place has much improved since she has gotten the opportunity to go swimming. Yesterday I was on the kayak coming in from a fishing trip when I saw a mallard duck swimming towards our dock. Then I noticed Lucy on the shore, ears perking up in fascination. I knew what was coming. When the duck got close enough Lucy jumped in the water, without her vest in hot pursuit of her new friend. Of course, once she got close enough to it the duck simply took flight leaving Lucy perplexed and disappointed. She thinks that any living creature on the lake is her friend despite the fact that we are always telling her, “the loons are not your friends.” I just hope she doesn’t confront a bear anytime soon.

Lunch at Delvino’s was a delight. We had this delicious appetizer that featured Italian bread, burrata cheese, pesto, and bruschetta which tasted like Italy on a plate. We had our meal outside in 76 degree, zero humidity perfection. Then a delivery truck pulled up next to us with this message…

Today the plan is to get Pam out on the water. The plan is to tie two kayaks together. The trouble will be getting her into the thing without incident. This house has a dysfunctional dock area which is surrounded by mud guarding all safe approaches. The only mud less way to get to the dock is down a steep, root-infested slope, and since the very last thing this vacation needs is another pratfall, we have borrowed the next door neighbor’s access to the lake. There will be pictures to follow.

Great Weather and Guilt

Aside from Pam’s unfortunate fall, we are enjoying picture perfect weather. The high temperatures have been in the upper 60’s with bright sunshine. Yesterday we enjoyed a fire down by the lake after an enjoyable trip into Camden for the semi-annual Arts and Crafts show. While Pam’s wrist might be broken, there is nothing whatsoever wrong with her credit card using fingers, which performed at peek efficiency. When we got back to the camp there was a Thank You card from the Chamber of Commerce.

Even though she is doing her best, Pam isn’t able to do many of the things she loves the most here in Maine, and we are both disappointed by this fact. On top of all that is that hardy perennial—guilt. Last night, our son conducted this…

This was his program, six years in the making, originally planned for 2020 and cancelled by COVID. To a packed house, Patrick finally got to conduct the concert on which he had worked so hard. By all accounts it was a smashing success. So, why the guilt? Simple, we weren’t there. Pam had looked into flying from Portland to Nashville as a surprise for him but after the wrist fiasco that was out of the question. This is just one of many disadvantages to living far away from your adult children.

On the plus side, Lucy finally got to go for a swim. Poor Pup has been so confused by all the medical stuff. All she sees is this gorgeous lake and her parents being too distracted to take her swimming! That all changed yesterday with this plunge…

So, we are making adjustments, improvising like a boss, making chicken salad out of chicken, er…manure. The arrival of Paula and Ron, aka, the cavalry, has been a godsend. The wonderful weather also has added much to our ability to cope. Maybe if it was cold and raining every day we would have packed up and headed home.