OOOOoooooffffff!!!!

WARNING!!! The following blog contains disturbing images that may offend the sensibilities of many female readers, and cause actual physical pain to many male readers. Proceed with caution.

During my first week back in the salt mines, the one saving grace in an otherwise horrendous week has been the baseball playoffs. So far, four games have been played. The two wild card affairs were truly wild, and the openers of the division series last night were both great fun. Unlike another famous American sport, I have been able to watch each game without having any clue as to the politics of a single player. Our National Anthem was performed before each game without incident. It was quite refreshing. But, this blog is not about political protest. It's not even about baseball. It's about one isolated image from one of the games that I found...priceless.

It was the fourth inning of the wildcard game between the New York Yankees and the Minnesota Twins. On the hill for the Yanks was reliever, David Robertson, who throws a baseball 100 miles per hour with great movement. He is not only hard to hit, but hard to catch. On one particular pitch, Mr. Robertson uncorked a wicked 98 mph sinking fastball towards the plate. Yankee catcher, Gary Sanchez was about to catch it when the hitter swung wildly, desperately trying to catch up with the pitch, but only catching a tiny piece of the ball. This is the nightmare of anyone who has ever played catcher in baseball...the dreaded foul tip. Only, when the foul tip in question is slight...and comes against a 98 mph pitch, this happens:

Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you...this particular foul tip ended up in a terrible place. On national television, played live and many nauseating times on super slow motion, Gary Sanchez took a direct hit in the old family jewels. All across America, in living rooms great and small, across a broadly diverse audience of both liberals and conservatives, rednecks and metro-sexuals, gays and straights, meat eaters and vegetarians, men from every imaginable background let out a collective groan of sympathetic agony. Suddenly, even avowed Yankee-haters like me, put all of the vitriol aside for a few agonizing moments of commiseration with this suffering brother. Sanchez went down in a heap, like a sack of potatoes. Grandfathers all across the country turned to their sons and grandsons whispering, Boys, this is why you wear a cup.

Of course, the one man in America who had the best view of what happened was the guy who threw the pitch, David Robertson. His reaction, caught on camera for all the world to see was....priceless:

Exactly!!! Here's a big league pitcher, performing in a pressure packed game on national television, who suddenly isn't thinking about himself or even his team. He's only thinking about one thing, ladies and gentlemen...and it isn't his next contract!

      

To the everlasting credit of Mr. Sanchez, he remained in the game, as did Mr. Robertson, to the great relief of men all across the fruited plain. Perhaps there's a greater lesson to be learned from this unfortunate incident. Perhaps it's possible, after all, for men to put aside their considerable differences and unite around a common theme greater than ourselves. Maybe it's possible for men and women to lay down the things that divide us long enough to unite in compassionate empathy for the excruciating suffering of a fellow human being brought low by a foul tip. If we can do that, maybe we can eventually figure out how to get along outside of the ball park.

On The Edge of Madness

Sanity, I've discovered, is a fragile thing. You might think that you're basically a stable person with no prior history of mental illness, much like the Las Vegas shooter. You might consider the fact that since there is no evidence of mental illness or instability in your family history, you're in the clear. But, I am here to testify to the fact that Mother Theresa herself could have been driven mad by the introduction of high powered fans into her Calcutta hut. While she might have been perfectly suited to the rigors and despair of living amongst the poorest of the poor, three days of listening to the constant, incessant hum of industrial turbines would have transformed her into a raving lunatic.

I'm told by the powers that be that this protocol is required by the insurance company in order to determine the extent of the damage to our kitchen floor. The very efficient Servpro technicians come by every 24 hours to measure exactly how much moisture is being extracted by the four machines that have taken up residence in the downstairs of my house. They enter the data into their hand held computers, then disappear without comment. Meanwhile, the noise continues...the deafening, grinding, whirling sound of a category 5 hurricane...continues, taking a slow, inexorable toll on our sanity.

If I were a more tech-savvy blogger, I could upload audio of these machines, to give you some clue as to what we are dealing with. But because I am not, I will have to rely on my way with words. But first, let me introduce each of them to you...

This is Judas, named for the infamous betrayer of our Lord. He is responsible for producing gale force winds along the surface of our kitchen floor 24/7, which follow the contures of the cabinets to create a whirlwind effect throughout the space. This has the effect of destroying my wife's hair every time she makes the mistake of entering the kitchen for any reason.

Ok, this girl is the star of the show. We call her Ursula, the Sucker of Death. Ursula is the loudest machine in the house. Her job is to suck any moisture that happens to be lurking under the hardwood floors through the cracks. The big black pads are filled with hundreds of sucking nodules that hold the floor in a death grip when deployed, but whenever the machine is cut off, serves as an occasion to send send you ass over tea kettles if you ever step on them without great care. So, not only is Ursula the loudest, most obnoxious machine, she is also the only one which poses a threat to your physical safety as well. A true dual threat.

Then, there's this guy, Donald...so named because like the other famous Donald, serves no discernible purpose. He just stands there, taking up a considerable amount of space, with the stated job of de-humidifier-in chief. Exactly why the entire downstairs of my house needs de-humidifying is unclear, since the offending moisture is beneath the floor of my kitchen. But, I defer to the experts in matters of de-humidification. A side effect of Donald's presence in my house has been a drying out of every orifice of the human body. Any day now, the nosebleeds will begin in earnest.

Thanks to the open floor plan of our house, there is no avenue of escape from the roar. Even when we retreat to our upstairs master bedroom, with towels stuffed around the door, we still hear it. In the shower, we still hear it. When blasting Def Leppard full blast through the Bose, we still hear it. Even when I leave the house to go to work, the residual sound still rings in my ears for half an hour.

But, very soon, I'm told...this will be over. Then we will get to enjoy the harmonious hum of floor sanding machines for a few weeks.

Why don't you guys all come over and we'll hang out?

Things Are Looking Up!

Highlights of this day, Wednesday, the 4th day of October, 2017:

# My luck began to change this morning when, just in the nick of time, my dentist had to cancel all of the day's appointments because his wife had a horrible kidney stone thing that forced him to flee the premises to rush her to the hospital. YES!!

# I heard on the radio that today is the tenth anniversary of the opening of Big Al's, giving me an excellent excuse to watch tonight's baseball playoffs at my favorite bar.

# Our Secretary of State and fourth in line for the Presidency, Rex Tillerson, called a hasty press conference this afternoon to dispel rumors that he was about to resign because he had concluded that his boss was a moron. He assured the country that no, he had no intention of resigning...despite the fact that his boss is a moron.

# Blood Pressure clocked in at an impressive 120/80 at my doctor's appointment. My new doctor, the one I was assigned after my doctor  of over thirty years suddenly dropped dead, cheerfully informed me that despite my overall good health and fine conditioning, the primary driver of life and death is genetics, so I shouldn't get too cocky about one decent BP reading.

# The US Postal Service finally delivered our mail that we had asked them to hold while we were away for three weeks. To the surprise of absolutely no one, they only held it for roughly half the days that we were gone, delivering it on the other days. According to the advertisements I received in today's haul, one of the guys running for some office in the next election is a real scumbag, and if I know what's good for me I won't vote for him.

# After their victory in last night's wild card game, the Yankees have become the odds on favorite to win the World Series...according to every single solitary talking head at ESPN.

A Troublesome Losing Streak

Ok, it seems like since I got back from Maine, I've settled into a disturbing losing streak of sorts. Maybe it's my imagination, a kind of vacation jet-lag or something, but lots of bad things have been happening. First, the dish washer goes belly up, then all of these ponderous machines take over the kitchen, sucking up water, de-humidifying and blowing air everywhere at deafening noise levels 24/7. If the machines don't fix the bowed floors, they will have to be torn up, replaced and re-sanded...which will require great dislocation for weeks, I'm sure. As a side benefit of all of this, I have had an allergy for two days, no doubt due to all of the mold being flung throughout my home by the aforementioned machines. This particular allergy has featured a swollen and runny eye, always a delight.

Now, today I discover that my day will be consumed largely by visits to a couple of health care specialists, appointments that were set months ago. First up there's my all time favorite buzz-kill, a trip to my dentist. Dr. T (I withhold his real name as a courtesy) is a decent enough guy, well-trained and friendly, but that doesn't change the fact that he makes his living probing about people's mouths with sharp, pointy objects accompanied by the hideous, high-pitched wail of even more machines. I spend my time there holding my breath and trying to conjure up my happy place (front row seats down the third base line at a baseball game, being served kielbasa and beer by an adorable blonde wearing a Cappy's hat...if you must know!). But every time I get close to that image, this guy shows up.

My second appointment is with my general practitioner for a six month check of my blood pressure and a follow up blood test on the results of my new cholesterol medicine regimen from my stroke thing earlier this year. When I was reminded of this meeting via text my heart sank. Just about the time I had put that unfortunate incident behind me, here comes a snooping doctor to rub my face in it again. 

All is not lost, however, since last night saw the beginning of the greatest time of the year... the Major League Baseball Postseason!!!

Of course, I couldn't watch last night's opener between the Twins and the Yankees on my beautiful television downstairs because of the high winds and industrial hums coming from these guys:

I might have watched on the big screen upstairs in what used to be Patrick's bedroom, now the upstairs den, but that television doesn't work because of a faulty Verizon connection or box or some such things that for some weird reason we have failed to have fixed for like two years now. It's on the list of crap I need to get done, and last night I was kicking myself for putting it off. So, there I was, huddled in my recliner in my bedroom, door closed to the violent wind storm downstairs, following the action on my iPad's MLB app. Aaron Judge doesn't look so huge on an iPad, but I still hate the guy because he's a miserable Yankee.

But, I have no doubt that better days are ahead. My son is getting married to a beautiful girl soon, my daughter and her husband are killing it down in South Carolina, and I'm married to the most beautiful woman in Short Pump. Unlike America under Trump, I'm actually winning!!

58 Dead, 515 Wounded

I wake up this morning to the news that a new record has been set in my country for deaths in a mass shooting event. 50 killed and over 200 wounded is the new standard for American violence. A 64 year old man named Stephen Paddock opened fire from his room on the 32nd floor of the Mandalay Bay Hotel with an automatic weapon into a crowd of 30,000 people gathered below for a country music concert in Las Vegas. A SWAT team eventually burst into his room and killed him. His female companion, a petite Asian woman named Marilou Danley, is being questioned in police custody at this hour. At this point, no motive has been assigned and not much is known of Mr. Paddock other than the fact that he is an elderly retired white guy going through a divorce who likes to gamble.

I scrolled through the pictures and videos from the scene, courtesy of a British news service, the U.K. Daily Mail, and note that it is always the British press that gives me information like this first. It's odd but consistently true. This sort of thing used to fill me with sadness. In the past a mass shooting would enrage me. Now, I flip through the pictures and shrug. Now, I brace myself for a week of boilerplate shrieking from politicians. I wait for my Facebook wall to fill with some new solidarity icon for the victims and their families, then the inevitable memes that will follow. I will quickly get tired of the calls to Pray for the Las Vegas Victims. Why have I become so jaded? This....

-April 18, 2017 Kori Ali Muhammad shoots dead three people before being arrested by police and charged with murder and assault with a deadly weapon.

-June. 12, 2016 Omar Mateen, a 29-year-old security guard, killed 49 people and wounded 58 others in a terrorist attack/hate crime inside Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida.

-Feb. 25, 2016: Cedric Ford, 38, killed three people and wounded 14 others lawnmower factory where he worked in the central Kansas community of Hesston. The local police chief killed him during a shootout with 200 to 300 workers still in the building, authorities said.

- Feb. 20, 2016: Jason Dalton, 45, is accused of randomly shooting and killing six people and severely wounding two others during a series of attacks over several hours in the Kalamazoo, Michigan, area. Authorities say he paused between shootings to make money as an Uber driver. He faces murder and attempted murder charges.

- Dec. 2, 2015: Syed Rizwan Farook, 28, and Tashfeen Malik, 27, opened fire at a social services center in San Bernardino, California, killing 14 people and wounding more than 20. They fled the scene but died hours later in a shootout with police.

- Oct. 1, 2015: A shooting at Umpqua Community College in Roseburg, Oregon, left 10 people dead and seven wounded. Shooter Christopher Harper-Mercer, 26, exchanged gunfire with police, then killed himself.

- June 17, 2015: Dylann Roof, 21, shot and killed nine African-American church members during a Bible study group inside the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. Police contend the attack was racially motivated. Roof faces nine counts of murder in state court and dozens of federal charges, including hate crimes.

- May 23, 2014: A community college student, Elliot Rodger, 22, killed six people and wounded 13 in shooting and stabbing attacks in the area near the University of California, Santa Barbara, campus. Authorities said he apparently shot himself dead after a gun battle with deputies.

- Sept. 16, 2013: Aaron Alexis, a mentally disturbed civilian contractor, shot 12 people dead at the Washington Navy Yard before he was killed in a police shootout.

- July 26, 2013: Pedro Vargas, 42, went on a shooting rampage at his Hialeah, Florida, apartment building, gunning down six people before officers fatally shot him.

- Dec. 14, 2012: In Newtown, Connecticut, an armed 20-year-old man entered Sandy Hook Elementary School and used a semi-automatic rifle to kill 26 people, including 20 first graders and six adult school staff members. He then killed himself.

- Sept. 27, 2012: In Minnesota's deadliest workplace rampage, Andrew Engeldinger, who had just been fired, pulled a gun and fatally shot six people, including the company's founder. He also wounded two others at Accent Signage Systems in Minneapolis before taking his own life.

- Aug. 5, 2012: In Oak Creek, Wisconsin, 40-year-old gunman Wade Michael Page killed six worshippers at a Sikh Temple before killing himself.

- July 20, 2012: James Holmes, 27, fatally shot 12 people and injured 70 in an Aurora, Colorado, movie theater. He was sentenced to life in prison without parole.

- April 2, 2012: Seven people were killed and three were wounded when a 43-year-old former student opened fire at Oikos University in Oakland, California. One Goh was charged with seven counts of murder and three counts of attempted murder, but psychiatric evaluations concluded he suffered from long-term paranoid schizophrenia and was unfit to stand trial.

This country needs more than prayer at this moment. 

Taking the Bitter With the Sweet

What follows goes into the category of the ebb and flow of life, or maybe... you win some you lose some, or even, you must take the bitter with the sweet. If any of you are my secret enemies and read this blog only to collect evidence to support your resentment against me, or if any of you have quietly resented my three week Maine vacation, you're gonna love this!

Ok, so after unpacking yesterday, I collapsed on my bed for a nap. I've come down with some sort of sinus thing/cold or something, so I was pretty wiped out. When I woke up, I walked downstairs and noticed that where my coffee maker used to be there's an unopened box containing a brand new Hamilton Beech model. My wife explained that when she opened the lid to give it a clean after three weeks of inactivity, she noticed a that the filter and grounds from my last pot was still in there, encrusted with enough mold to kill an asthmatic at thirty paces. She had made the snap decision that instead of cleaning it out, the damage was so severe and disgusting, only a new coffee maker would do. So, she did an online search of five different stores, picked out this Hamilton Beech beauty and marched herself over to Walmart to buy it...and there it set. The maiden pot was brewed without incident. All was well until thirty minutes later when we noticed an odd humming noise coming from the shiny new appliance. The side of the thing became hot. The unmistakable smell of burning plastic filled the air, then the digital display began to flicker. It seemed possessed by an evil demon. Pam grabbed the chord and ripped it from its plug, preventing it from bursting into flames. Now, I have no coffee maker.

After this fiasco, things settled down nicely. We had dinner while we watched the first episode of the new Ken Burns Vietnam documentary. After dinner, Pam loaded the dish washer, turned it on, then went about her business. Suddenly, I heard her exclaim...Oh no!! What's this?? There's water leaking out of the dish washer!! 

Over the next couple of hours, Pam and I did our best Keystone Cop imitation as we frantically tried to...get it to stop!!! Turn it off!...was my expert advice. But turning it off did nothing to stop the flow of hot, dirty water being belched out across the kitchen floor. Legions of towels were brought to bear against the gushing beast. I tried opening the door, which turned the flow into a deluge. Quickly I ran to the fuse box and turned off power to the thing, to no avail. Still, the water gushed. Pam, frantic and wild eyed, instructed me to crawl under the house and find the thing that shuts off the water to the house! I did as I was told, of course, although in twenty years here I have crawled under the house exactly once, and had no idea where this magical valve was located. But, there I was on hands and knees, crawling towards the sound of rushing water, with a sharp eye peeled for any reptilian beasts that might be lurking in the formidable shadows. To my great relief, I heard my wife scream, the water has stopped!!

Of course now we had the dish washer door opened, and it was full of water and weighed a ton. The inside of the expiring appliance was also full of water. If Pam's husband was the handy type and knew anything about how stuff works, he might have instinctively known what to do. But, that ship has sailed...so she did what she always does in times of mechanical crisis...she called Ron Roop, my brother-in-law. Within fifteen minutes, he shows up with a shop vac to suck up the water in the bottom of the dish washer. Although it worked, it also began some belching of its own, spewing filthy water out of several places around the the lid. Then we positioned a couple of deep dish pans under the door of the unit and slowly lifted the door, releasing torrents of water all over the place, but mostly into the dishes. After bailing in this fashion for fifteen minutes, it finally stopped leaking. Order was finally restored and every towel we owned was now draped over the deck railings to dry, making our deck look like it belonged to a family of Gypsies.

So, now I have no coffee maker, our dish washer doesn't work, and the hard wood floor in the kitchen is bowing quite nicely.

Welcome back home, Dunnevant's!!!

Back Home

Just a note to let everyone know that we made it safely home this afternoon. It was a largely uneventful two day slog back to Short Pump. And, just like that, it's over.

Lucy has been ecstatic to be back home. She has alternated between sitting on our bed, which has always been her upstairs throne chair, and the sofa, the only piece of furniture she's allowed to sit on downstairs...therefore, her downstairs throne chair. She took a quick spin around her fenced in yard out back just to remind herself that she was home, now she's sacked out on the floor in my library. She may sleep for a week.

It's when you arrive back home from vacation that you realize you're not rich. If I were rich, surely I would have people on the payroll to do all my unpacking. What a miserable exercise...as if I needed any reminders that my vacation is over. You open up your suitcase full of mostly dirty clothes and the delightful aroma of Loon Landing hits you in the face. It's a mixture of pine needles, lake water and campfire smoke. One tumble in the washing machine will take away the smell from my clothes. Luckily, there is no machine capable of getting that smell out of my heart and soul.

The good news is, there's only 9 more months until we go back, this time with the kids. 

Tomorrow is my one and only buffer day between being in Maine and being back at work. It's all I'll need. There are actually things about home that I've missed. I missed my house. We've been here twenty years. That's a significant amount of time which has endowed this place with its own powerful memories. I've missed my office, the people there more than the actual work, but missed them just the same. I missed my church, and the people in my small group. But, mostly I missed the calming, dependable rhythm of my life here. How lucky I am to be able to go to so fabulous a place as Maine, then come back to a good life in Short Pump. Sometimes, I wonder why I have it so good. Why me, while so many others have such a struggle? I have no answers to questions like this. But, I am grateful, and I don't take a single part of it for granted. 

Pam's at the store. Tonight she will make white chicken chili. We will watch something on television while we eat. Tomorrow morning, we will go to church.

Good. Maine was great, but being home is good too.

The Last Day

The problem with vacations is that they all have a last day. Today is ours. 

My profession is measured out in numbers, it's how we keep score in the investment business. Everything, eventually, can be reduced to a number. Not so with vacations. Although it doesn't prevent me from trying:

Loon Landing vacation by the numbers:

Only 1 day of rain.

Pam, inexplicably, only ate 1 lobster roll.

Played 2 rounds of golf.

Hosted 2 sets of guests...Russ and Vi White and Alan and Lisa Smith.

Turned the television on 3 times...two games, and the season premiere of This Is Us.

Fell in love with family of 3 loons who continually entertained us for 3 weeks.

Read 5 novels.

Posted photographs of 7 sunsets on Facebook. Could have added 13 others.

Took at last 20 killer naps.

Logged 25 miles of runs/walks on the paths and trails around the cabin, along with 12 miles of kayaking around the lake.

Caught 4 bass, 3 largemouth and 1 smallmouth.

Cooked at least 20 meals on the grill, including steak, hamburger, shrimp, chicken, smoked sausage and foiled potatoes.

On one particularly fabulous run of weather, took 10 consecutive meals outside.

Of course, numbers tell an incomplete story, turning wonderful things into flat, one dimensional digits. Sure, I can tally the number of sunsets, but to understand the beauty and magic you needed to be here. No mere number can describe what it's like to watch the leaves change in slow motion for three weeks. Photographs help, but only a little. I cannot assign a numerical value to the peace that has come over us during our time on this lake. That's the thing about this life, the thing that our parents told us when we were kids...the best things in life can't be measured by numbers. There is so much more to life than the counting of things...how much we have, what we own, the size of this, the heft of that. Too much counting produces men and women who know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

So, every year we come here to banish the numbers from our mind. And each year, there is a last day.

But this day, like all others, is a day that the Lord has made. We will be glad in it.

On The Home Stretch

Our vacation has entered the home stretch, there's just a few days left and we are already trying to banish images of packing up from our imaginations. Weather still holding on to this amazing run of beautiful, sunny days and crisp, cool nights. It might make it easier to leave this place if it would get rainy and cold, but no such luck. Last night we drove into Camden to have dinner at Sea Dog's, the replacement for our beloved Cappy's, which used to serve the best clam chowder in the world, but now serves clam chowder with a strange spice in it which disappoints. 

Besides, nothing Sea Dog's ever does will be able to top this awesome hat I bought at Cappy's on the occasion of their 25th anniversary back in 2005.

This morning I will be heading into the offices of our fabulous rental company, On The Water In Maine, to begin plotting and scheming next year's four week adventure. I will lay out my must-haves and throw out some possible dates, and they will get to work. We can't actually make 2018 reservations prior to November 1st or something, but we must begin the search right away. Next summer will be tricky. There will be a wedding at some point next year. That may make it difficult for Patrick and Sarah to take a week in Maine after having already taken time off for a honeymoon. Also, funds will be tighter since I will, no doubt, have spent a bundle on the blessed event. But, this is the sort of thing I do. I excel at making things happen when it comes to my children. If I have to fly the two of them up here on a Friday and fly them back on a Sunday, well, so be it. There's a chance that Jon and Kaitlin might be able to come for two weeks. Then there's Ron and Paula, and Gordon and Leigh Ann....probably need to find a bigger house for next year. But, I would love to find one on this lake. Quantabacook is about as perfect a place as we have ever stayed up here. And, if this house had one more bathroom I might be tempted to shoehorn everybody into Loon Landing next year too!

Woke up with a sore throat this morning, which is a bit unsettling, since I hardly ever get sick in Maine, or at least...it's been a while since I have. It's probably God's judgement on me for foolishly getting involved in ( i.e...starting) a Facebook political dispute yesterday about the NFL protests. That was a rookie mistake that you would think a seasoned Maine vacationer wouldn't have made. The key to happiness up here is to stay fully disengaged for the duration. I should have known better. So I wake up with a sore throat. God is just, and he will not be mocked! There will be no more of that!!!

Almost finished Empire Falls. Holy Cow, can Richard Russo write. I can't wait to read everything else he has written. Of course, if you can't write inspired prose sitting at a table at the Camden Deli every morning overlooking the bay, then you should probably give it up.

The Time Thief

Regular readers of this blog might be wondering what has happened to me this past week. After a deluge of lake pictures and vacation posts, I inadvertently went dark and have maintained radio silence for over five days. This was not intentional. It was not due to some creative deficiency or writer's block. Rather, I have been hypnotized by this place into something very much like a trance. While enthralled by Quantabacook , I have found it surprisingly easy to tear myself away from the gravitational pull of my former habits. Instead of writing this blog, I've been occupied with a series of new daily rhythms, which include but are by no means limited to, kayaking, fishing, reading, running hastily constructed 5k tracts through the woods, taking Lucy for walks, floating on inflatable rafts, taking my meals on a wooden table on the deck while Pam and I sometimes talk, but mostly just stare at the lake, soaking up the silence. It is this last thing, this staring at the lake, that has risen to the top of the distraction list. It's hard to explain how such a mindless, effortless, seemingly passive exercise could become such a show-stopper, but...let me try.

I wake up between 6:00 and 6:30 in the morning. Upon entering the main living room of the house, the first thing I do is walk over to the wall of windows that face the lake. 

There is always a rush of expectation. Will it be calm or choppy? Clear, or fogged in? Most days it's been calm and clear, since we have won the weather lottery by choosing September of 2017 for this trip. Locals can't believe how warm and beautiful it's been here since we arrived. We are taking full credit for bringing this weather with us through a combination of Southern benevolence and clean living, global warming be damned. After this morning reconnaissance, I allow myself the distraction of making coffee. 

The only deficiency we have found in this lake house is it's lack of comfortable seating. The two chairs and sofa are fine but don't lend themselves to long, leasurely reading sessions...but I make do. This past few days it's been a book by my new favorite author, Richard Russo and his Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Empire Falls. I cannot for the life of me figure out how I have gone 59 years without reading this guy. His stuff always pops up in books you might like when I'm browsing iBooks, and I've known of him forever, but for some reason, never read any of his work. Well, imagine my surprise when I open this one to the acknowledgement page and see this:

Come to find out, the guy has a house up Main Street just past the library and used to come in to the Deli and write every morning. Richard Russo won a Pulitzer for a novel he wrote at the freaking Camden Deli! I'm hooked. Now that Pat Conroy is dead, I've needed a new literary hero. I've found him.

After a robust morning read, Pam eventually emerges from the bedroom in her kayaking outfit, a snappy pink thing that clashes horribly with her bright red kayak, causing her great anguish, but not enough to prevent her from launching out into the deep for a 3-4 mile meander around the lake. I watch her get smaller and eventually disappear around the point, ripples trailing behind her. I watch the sun spread out its warmth to the houses across the way..the morning sun houses. Pam is jealous. She wants morning sun...right up to the point in the day when those houses across the way are in the shade and our dock is splashed in sunlight from around 1:30 in the afternoon until the last rays dip behind the pines at sunset. Then she's content with what we have. She eventually gets back, and we have some sort of breakfast, usually on the table outside. On the days I run, it's something lighter. Now that our last guests have left, it will be less regimented...if you can call a meal with no start time and no fixed menu..regimented.

Then, I'll fish a little. I've caught three nice sized bass this year, and learned how to fish effectively with crank baits, earning significant upgrades to my man card. However, I haven't let the fishing interfere with the real business of my days here in Maine. My job has been to keep a sharp eye peeled on this lake and all of its surroundings. I watch for the appearance of the Loon pair who own this lake, a Mother Loon and a juvenile. They pop up at various times, sometimes as close as twenty feet from the end of our dock..which drives poor Lucy crazy. Just about the time she is about to explode in excitement, they will suddenly disappear, diving below for fish. This vanishing act is a source of great wonderment for Lucy...What happened?? Where did they go? 

I watch for the arrival of wind, if it comes at all, it usually arrives mid-morning. Ripples start sliding in from the north or sometimes the west. After a while the ripples upgrade to a discernible current, then what can be called waves arrive. When the waves get large enough, the dock starts to bob up and down, which used to emit an annoying metal screech in the joints of the dock until I bought the last bottle of WD-40 from the Fraternity Village store and put a stop to that outrage. Mid-morning brings an hour of sun to the dock surface from 10:00 to 11:00. I take advantage by moving a chair out there in it to warm up. Mornings are chilly here, no matter how warm it gets during the day.

Then, Pam and I are always astounded to discover that somehow it is now 2 o'clock in the afternoon and we haven't had lunch. How on earth does this happen? Seriously?? How can it be 2 o'clock? I mean, we've done virtually nothing all day. Sure, there was the kayaking, the fishing and increasingly Pam's paddle boarding...but 2 o'clock? It is a great mystery where the time goes here.

So, we have a snacky lunch. Then, more lake watching. When the afternoon sun arrives in our cove, I swim and take Lucy out for a swim and a frisbee fetching session. Then, maybe a nap.

Eventually, we are always baffled when we discover that it's now 6:30 in the evening and we're still floating out in the lake talking about the kids, having made zero preparations for dinner. Again, the great time thief has struck. We shrug and watch the sun disappear.

Different Year, Same Result.

The weather has finally turned on us. After ten days of perfect conditions, the past couple of days have been overcast, foggy, and filled with drizzle. It was bound to happen. Yesterday was a lazy day. Pam took Russ and Vi to the airport in Portland. While they were gone, I caught a beautiful bass off the end of my dock with a fancy lure that my buddy Alan had loaned me. 

I took a quick picture of it because if I hadn't, he would never have believed me. 

So, today will feature a leasurely trip into Camden for breakfast and some shopping. I need a new book to read. I've read three novels on this trip, only have one more left on my iPad, and need another to reach my goal of five books read on vacation. So, I will browse through a couple of the great bookshops in Camden until I find something that intrigues me. Then we will come back to the cabin to check on Lucy. If the weather is still cloudy and gross, we will spend the afternoon exploring the town of Belfast, around 15 minutes away. 

Last night, after dinner, my wife and I renewed our Rummikub competition from last year. Alert readers will recall the beatdown she laid on me on last year's Maine adventure. Well, so far this year, nothing has changed. A few nights ago, we played probably ten hands of Gin...she won seven. Last night, she won two out of the three games we played. It's the same thing every year...the woman is a cold blooded killer. 

Come...Walk With Me.

I've taken a thousand photographs in Maine, probably a hundred or more of this place alone. It begs to have its picture taken. But, I'm so often disappointed in how they turn out, not because they are blurry or ill-centered, but rather because they never seem to capture the magic. 

Except for a special few, when you say, Ahh, that's it!

This is the one.

It doesn't matter where I took it. This shot doesn't need context. This photograph captures everything I love about Maine. It's an invitation. It stands before you like a great mystery. Where does it lead? How far? Is it dangerous or tranquil, treacherous or benign? It's impossible to tell. Still, it beckons you with the invitation...Come, walk with me.

But, I don't know where it will take me.

We will find out together. Come, walk with me.

I'm tired. This is not a good day for such an uncertain walk.

All of life is uncertain. Come, walk with me.

But, I've too much on my mind right now. My kids, I'm just too worried about my kids to enjoy a walk.

Come, walk with me and I'll show you the reason you wanted to have kids in the first place.

How can I take such a walk when I'm so worried about my job? I don't even know if I'll ever be able to retire.

If you will walk with me, you'll be better at your job.

You don't understand. Have you read a newspaper lately? Trump is in the White House. They're tearing down statues, and driving cars into crowds of young people!

There is no racial hatred where I will take you, and nobody here knows who the president is...come walk with me.

But, there might be ticks.

Hush...when did you get so fragile? Come, walk with me.

I want to, I really do...

There was once a time when you would have run down this path without even thinking. What happened to that guy?

I don't know. I grew up.

No, you grew inward. Come, walk with me and I will reintroduce you to the person you used to be.

How long will it take?

As long as you like. 

Come...walk with me.

Apparently, There Was an Awards Show Last Night

One of the biggest advantages to staying at a lake house in Maine is the fact that you never watch television. Sure, there's one here and the satellite connection is quite good. I know this because, Saturday a week ago, I turned it on to watch part of a college football game. It hasn't been on since. In its place, I have read three novels. I already feel smarter.

So, I cannot offer an opinion on the EMMY's show last night, since I didn't watch. Apparently, it was a three hour Trash Trump Fest. The fact that anyone would be surprised is baffling to me. Who cares, people? It's Hollywood, and they have First Amendment rights too, so chill out!

Meanwhile, a much more important bit of news is the fact that we are finally supposed to get a cloudy day, all day. If so, it will be the first since we arrived eleven days ago. We are at the half way point of our vacation. Tomorrow, Russ and Vi fly back to Richmond. That means that today we will be heading to Hazel's for a lobster roll lunch. Then we might do some sightseeing along the coast. Only supposed to be in the 60's. Perfect weather for a sweater and some ocean scenery. If I stumble upon any permanent damage done by any of those Trump-trashing one liners from last night's EMMY broadcast, I'll take pictures!

Cry, The Beloved Country...

A quiet day at the lake, foggy at dawn, then brilliant sun in the afternoon. I drove into Belfast to play a round of golf at a course I had picked out online. When I got there, there was a tournament being played which wasn't disclosed on their website. The guy in the Prop Shop acted like he didn't even know they had a website. But, he was kind enough to inform me that there was another course north of town that I could get on with...no problem. He was right. I pulled up into the Searsport Pines Golf Club and my vehicle doubled the number of cars in the parking lot...not a good sign.

The good news...I walked 18 holes in a mere 2 hours and 3 minutes. The bad news...I shot an 88 on what was possibly the worst golf course I have ever set foot on. This place had fairways that owe cow pastures an apology. But, I walked 5.64 miles, got in some practice, and redeemed my trip by stopping at the Hannaford's in Belfast for a bag of marshmallows, and a bunch of other necessities Pam had added to a list she had sent via text. Tonight we are having a shrimp boil or some such thing which involves sausage, so I'm excited.

Tonight, thanks to my buddy Alan Smith, we will be having a campfire with freshly chopped Maine pine from Alan's personal woodpile. It comes with much hype, guaranteed to burn hot and make lots of crackling sounds. I still don't have a decent poker. The one that came with the cabin is an embarrassment, extremely short and dysfunctional for what it's alleged purpose is supposed to be. I will make do until Alan brings something more manly when they come back to visit next weekend.

I finished, the great Alan Paton classic, Cry, The Beloved Country the other day. When I was a sophomore at Uof R I took a survey of western literature class in which I was given the task of picking five novels to read out of a list of ten or so. Cry, was on the list and I didn't pick it as one of my five. I had been meaning to circle back and read it ever since. Now, 39 years later, I find it in the bookcase here at Loon Landing. Time flies...

So, this book was written in 1948 by a nobody reform school principle from South Africa. He had never been published and wrote the thing while traveling in Europe and the US touring other reform schools. Some American friends of his read it and promised to try to get it published, submitting it, unsolicited, to Scribner. That never works, right? Yeah, well, lucky for Scribner...the book was a sensation, the critics loved it, and it sold like hot cakes, allowing Mr. Paton to live well the rest of his life, and turn his full attention to writing and the brewing conflict in his country.

In many ways, the racial history of South Africa is the opposite of ours in that the Afrikaners and Europeans who ruled that land were in the small minority. The great indigenous tribes that far outnumbered these white settlers where kept in second class status during these pre-apartheid days and trouble was brewing when Paton began to write. Throw in several different languages, a thriving gold mining industry, duplicitous politicians, and racial violence and an exploding crime wave and you've got a volatile mess. But, Paton resists the temptation to write a political book, or even a book about revolution or even race. He writes about the human heart and its great capacity for both love and hatred, grace and vengeance. Most of all he writes about a country that he loves, despite the wickedness that is everywhere around him. His story doesn't absolve the white ruling class of their sins, he doesn't pull any punches on who the main villains are, but neither does he lay every South African pathology at their feet. There is a lot of blame to go around in his beautiful, beguiling homeland. He examines the hearts and motives of the labor unions and agitators within the black liberation movements, applauds them where they deserve it and cristicizing them when they don't. The famous line still resonates...I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving, they will find that we are turned to hating.

It was a beautiful read, full of evocative prose that made you at once hopeful and sad. I couldn't help but draw rough parallels to the race conflicts in my country. I only wish that someone would rise up to write something as rich and moving about how we should move forward. 

Great book. Worth the read and then some.

Week One Complete

Wide awake at 5:25 this morning. The lake is shrouded in a blanket of heavy fog. There is a heavy dew. Two loons drift by, less than 50 feet from the dock. My coffee is ready.

I'm told that by mid morning the fog will give way to brilliant sunshine and a high temperature of 78. I'm also told that by 11:00 the noise level of this slice of paradise will be elevated by the arrival of Bill and Nancy Crooker of Livermore Falls, Maine. Later, their daughter Lisa, and her husband, Alan, will pop in for a visit. These are friends of the family from Maine. Nancy is a hoot, and the only person I've ever met who can out-talk my mother-in-law! They have been friends since childhood.

I first met Bill and Nancy around a campfire at Dummer's probably thirty years ago. When I first heard Nancy speak I almost laughed out loud. She has the thickest Maine accent of all time. I've been relentlessly teasing her about it ever since. She'll say something and I'll ask, Wait...what the heck was that word?? She just looks at me and says, You hush!

Of greater importance today is the fact that we are now in Week Two of our vacation. How did that happen? Slow the heck down!

Highlights of Week One include:

- Seven consecutive meals taken outside on the deck

- Blueberry pancake breakfast at the Camden Deli

- Fried clams at Marriner's

- Taking Russ and Vi to the top of Mount Battie and to the ocean views at Camden Hills State Park

- Watching Lucy dive into the lake to fetch her frisbee

- Exploring this lake via kayak

- Watching Pam master the paddle board in about two minutes

- Getting a FaceTime call from Patrick and Sarah announcing their engagement 

- Finding a copy of and finally reading Cry, The Beloved Country (more on this later)

- Learning how to take a shower in a 3' x 3' shower stall

An Angry Aside

 Our beautiful lake house is exactly .6 of a mile from the closest state maintained road, route 131. The road that leads here from the state road services Loon Landing and five other lake houses on this corner of the lake. It is a lovely path wide enough for only one vehicle at a time. Since I've been here I have mapped out a three mile trail to run each morning which includes the .6 mile track I am describing. Each day I have done so, I have been increasingly annoyed by the sight of several discarded beer cans along the way. So, this morning, I decided to carry a trash bag with me to pick them up and dispose of them properly. Here are the results:

If I had been willing to walk more than ten feet into the Maine woods on my walk, I could have filled another bag. 

It is difficult to describe my feelings about this, it's somewhere between baffled and furious. The only people who would be driving on this tiny little path through the woods are one of the owners of these 5 properties, their guests, or renters like us. Question: under what circumstances would it enter one's mind to throw an empty can of beer out of a vehicle window when you are literally less than a minute from your house? What kind of human being does this sort of thing?  The people who would be using Brierley Road are people who have been blessed beyond all measure with one of the most beautiful places in America. This is the way they treat it? In Genesis when God gave man dominion over the Earth, I'm reasonably sure he didn't mean, Feel free to chuck your empty beer cans out of the window whenever you feel like it! 

My guess is that this outrage has not been committed by Maine people. They would know, for example, that empty drink bottles can be turned in for cash. No, I'm thinking that this is the work of people from away who are renting for a week. If so, shame on them. What the heck is wrong with people? 

The Magic of a Camp Fire

We finally got around to having a fire last night. This house comes with a portable, light weight fire pit which you see above. This particular fire pit was perfect for my teetotaler inlaws! I set it up around 30 feet from our little beach, and the lake sucked all of the smoke away from the house like a champ. 

In the 30 plus years I have been coming to Maine, these late night campfires have been a staple. In the old Dummer's Beach days, all of the White family, along with their guests and campground friends would gather around, sometimes as many as 15 in the circle. Every night it was the same conversation, and the same routine. There would be Russ, with his broomstick fire poker, complaining about what a lousy fire his son-in-law had made. There was Vi, getting all of us up to speed on every physical ailment that had afflicted anyone and everyone at Dummer's. Then the tall tales of years past would begin...the time Pam got the worst sun burn of her life because she spent the entire day flirting with a pack of boys out on the swim float...the one about the high pitch scream that my Mother had let loose the first time she tried to go in the water, heard all the way up in Weld, they said. When we were younger, whenever it was time for the kids to go to bed, they would go around the circle in their footie pajamas and give everyone hugs and kisses. Once they were down, the topics of conversation would get more serious, and even more salacious...Apparently Bob and Lois are going through a hard time right now due to Bob's drinking problem!!...wait, maybe it's Lois who has the drinking problem, either way, all is not well over on PT 7.

Eventually, the fire would die down, and everyone would draw closer in the circle. The talk would fall away and we would all listen to the sizzle and pop of the flames. Someone would say, It's probably time to go to bed. A moment of silence...then, What do yau'll want for breakfast? Someone would say, fried bread...then someone else would suggest, blueberry pancakes. Vi would eventually say, We can do that. Then, one by one, we would stand up, stretch, and go to bed, smelling of smoke, thoroughly relaxed without a care in the world. It was my favorite part of the day.

Last night was exactly the same as the Dummer's Beach days, only a smaller circle, and no fat man in a truck coming around and grunting, Now, you folks be sure to put that fire good and out before you retire! After I made sure the fire was out, I walked out onto the dock and looked up at the sky. It was splashed with a million stars. The only sound was the steady buzz of the crickets.

I slept like a baby...

An Ice Cream Fiasco

Looks like we might have a cloudy day today, breaking a three day streak of astonishingly perfect weather. I'm debating whether or not I should take advantage of the clouds by playing golf. There are three courses within a thirty minute drive. Not an easy decision.

On the one hand, I love golf in Maine. The courses are all designed for people who like to walk. Each green is a short walk to the next tee box. Most courses up here are only 9 hole affairs with two sets of tee boxes for the front and back nines. This is a function of the fact that they don't get a ton of play throughout the year (it's hard to play golf in three feet of snow) and it's cheaper to maintain 9 greens instead of 18. It's incredibly cheap to play golf in Maine, at least at the courses where I play. To walk and rent a set of clubs will cost me $35-$45. The grounds are always emaculate, beautifully maintained, and the folks that run these places are as nice as they can be. Last year, I got paired up with three locals who could really play. Nicest guys I've ever played with. On the 11th hole, the skies got very dark and soon it was raining cats and dogs. We pulled over into a shelter. I mean, it is pouring buckets and the sky was ominous as far as the eye could see. None of my playing companions showed any sign of wanting to head to the clubhouse. I was assured by each of them that this was merely a "passing showah." As soon as it slowed to a moderate level of rain, these guys were ready to finish the round. I could hardly believe it! We had 8 more holes to play and these guys seemed perfectly fine playing in a steady rain. Well, there was no way this Virginian was going to tuck tail and run back to the clubhouse. Apparently, in Maine, one plays through inclement weather. By the time we got to the 17th green, puddles had started to form. I tried to putt through one such puddle from about 30 feet and came up 8 feet short. One of them deadpans, "When you're putting through puddles ya gotta hit it haaddah.."So, I finished the round in a driving rainstorm. By the time I was buying them a round of drinks at the 19th Hole Grill, I was soaked through to my Fruit of the Looms. I guess if you live in a place which for long stretches of the year looks like the inside of a snow globe, you don't let anybody or anything stop you from finishing a round of golf!

However, on the other hand, if I go off to play golf, that leaves Pam, Russ and Vi stranded here with no car. Of course, I could roll the dice with Uber. Do they do Uber in Maine? My luck, some guy would roll up in here with a log truck and say, Hang on back there!

Just ran the idea by my wife. She's thinking that her folks might want to go eat some fried clams at Mariner's in Camden today, so golf will have to wait.

One more thing...last night, after a dinner of red hot dogs, baked beans, and pink fluff (don't ask), we decided to drive into Camden for some River Ducks ice cream. For my wife, River Ducks is what she thinks of when she imagines what heaven looks like. Last year, her goal for the month of July was to sample each of the 12 Uniquely Maine flavors. She missed it by two, mostly because they ran out. Anyway, it's great ice cream and the most charming little stand you can imagine. If it's possible for an ice cream joint to have ambiance, then River Ducks has it. 

So, we walk up and olace our order with the server of the day, Sarah. Unfortunately, the State of the Day is Kentucky, so no free cones for us. I ordered Megunticook Chocolate Mayhem. Sarah asks, How many scoops? Without thinking I say...Two. Pam and Russ followed and ordered two scoops. Vi demurely asked for one scoop. 

I have no idea what we were thinking. We have been eating ice cream at River Ducks for like eight years now. We should know better. When the lovely Sarah handed me my two scoop Megunticook Chocolate Mayhem on a waffle cone, the thing was nearly a foot high from the pointy bottom of the cone to the decadent mounds of chocolate confection at the top. Immediately, I remembered that we always get one scoop. But, the damage had been done. I wasn't about to give it back. I should note, at this point, that neither Pam's or Russ' cones had been prepared. Both of them had plenty of time to correct their orders...but neither did. So, we set on the footbridge stuffing our faces with a pound of ice cream. They couldn't finish theirs....but I did.

So, this morning I will compensate for last night's ghastly display of indulgence by running an extra half mile and cutting back from four pieces of bacon to two. Sacrifice and discipline. That's me!

My First Swim

I finally worked up the courage yesterday afternoon to take a swim. It was a balmy 78 with abundant sunshine with very little wind. Lucy had already taken her maiden voyage to fetch her frisbee. I had run out of excuses. Since Pam was down in Portland picking up her parents at the airport, I had the added benefit of no human witnesses, so if I screamed like a child no one would be there to hear it.

Many people, including several Mainers had told me that since we were going up in September, although it might be a bit cooler out, at least the lake temperature would be warmer, having spent all summer basking in the warm sun. 

There was no basking. The sun must have been hiding behind clouds all summer. Quantabacook could do with a heaping helping of global warming. I jumped in around 3 o'clock in the afternoon. I jumped out around 3:02.

Lest you think I am some sort of southern wimp, I have been coming up here for over 35 years now and each year have spent many a day swimming in lakes. And yes, it has always been cold. In fairness, the first swim is always the worst, it generally gets easier each day. The body does build up a tolerance. But, holy cow! 

Maybe it's no colder than any other lake in any other year. Maybe it's just my 59 year old body tying to tell me that this sort of tomfoolery was all well and good when I was a young father with little children, but now that I'm older and have no logical reason to jump in ice cold water, it's simply unacceptable.

My inlaws made it to Loon Landing safe and sound. They made it just in time to watch the sun set from the back deck. Then we had a dinner of Italian sandwiches from the Fraternity General Store up the road which is sort of a White family tradition. After dinner, we got them both settled into their accommodations up on the hill behind our cottage. They will spend a week here with us.

It's a strange feeling. Life has a way of coming full circle. If I had never met Pam, I would never have come to Maine. In the early years of our marriage, when we were struggling a bit financially, Russ always paid for our site rental whenever we came up for summer vacation. He never wanted to take any money from me for my share of the grocery bill. It was the cheapest vacation you could imagine. All we had to do was show up. Once Pam became a full time, stay at home Mom, it was the only vacation we could afford.

Now, I get to return the favor. 

Of course, that doesn't mean my father in law gets a total free pass. I have a chore list a mile long and growing for him to get busy on while he's here. He will have to build the fires at night, including any requisite wood chopping. Oh, and if I smell red flannel hash anywhere on the property...he's OUT!!!

A Perfect Day for an Announcement

According to all the weather people, our first three days here were supposed to be a washout. Not even close. Yes, we've had a few showers, and the wind has blown some, but each day has had plenty of loveliness about it to enjoy. Now, this morning begins a string of three days of radiant sunshine and temperatures in the upper 70's. 

So, yesterday afternoon was a perfect example of what happens to my wife whenever she comes to Maine. I have said for years that she is never more beautiful than she is when she is here. Something magical happens to her, there's a peculiar bliss that paints itself on her face. Listen, I love coming here...but, Pam is enchanted. 

I had just settled in for my Sunday afternoon nap, while Pam was flitting this way and that around the house when her cell phone rings. It's a FaceTime request from our son and his girlfriend. This happens hardly ever. He calls...but when was the last time he Facetimed us with Sarah? One would think that a light might have gone off in Pam's head. We had been waiting for news from the two of them for months now. There they sat, smiling from ear to ear, snuggling close to each other. What does my wife do? Immediately, she launches in to a room by room video tour of our house and the grounds outside, going on and on about how perfect the place is and how delightful the views of the lake, etc..etc. Patrick and Sarah, to their great credit, were patient and attentive throughout the tour. Finally, Pam ran out of rooms and views, and stood still long enough for my son to make the announcement that he had proposed to Sarah and that she had said, Yes!! Joyous bedlam ensued.

A word about Sarah... I know that I speak for all parents when I say that from the time you are lucky enough to bring a child into this world, your every waking thought centers around their care and feeding. When they grow up and launch out on their own, your number one source of anxiety becomes, When will they find the one? You look at your own life and you understand how it has been made infinitely better, more joyful and complete by finding your own spouse, so you pray that your child finds the same thing. When my daughter found Jon, it was as if a giant weight had been lifted from us. We knew then, and it has been confirmed a thousand times since that he was and is perfect for her. So, the first time we met Sarah, something clicked. Here was a smart, talkative, opinionated, musical, tenderhearted, video game-playing beauty right out of central casting. My first reaction was, how did Patrick manage this?? Over the past couple of years we have had lots of opportunities to observe her in multiple situations. I have searched for warning signs, red flags, and found nothing. I was ready for them to get married long ago, but my son is the slow and careful type. He will not be hurried into anything, I have discovered. But, this weekend, he finally proposed and she accepted, and now...just like that, I have a new daughter.

After the call, I grilled hamburgers on the grill, and we had dinner on the deck while watching the sun disappear behind the pine trees across the lake, casting pink swirls in the western sky. I looked at Pam and she said, What an absolutely perfect day.

Yes. Yes it was.

Finding My Rhythm

Day 3 starts a chilly 50 degrees with fog shrouding the lake. There isn't a ripple of movement and no sound whatsoever. I have made the transition from Virginian to Main-ah in record time. It normally takes three or four days to find my rhythm here. I've managed to do it this year in 36 hours. For me it took a quick trip into Camden...

I noticed when I was up at the Fraternity Village General Store to buy Italian sandwiches that the spot in the cooler where the night crawlers were supposed to be was empty. Then, yesterday, when Pam made her opening trip to the Hannaford's in Belfast she found the same empty spot in their night crawler spot. Then she discovered the terrible news- post Labor Day in Maine, NO LIVE BAIT ALLOWED!!!

Ok, I should resist my usual snide comments about government overreach and the tyranny of the bureaucratic state, but..what career functionary is responsible for this bit of jackassery? By all means, lets arbitrarily pick a day of the year after which we will declare that if you're going to catch fish we must insist that you do so with artificial lures..because...well it doesn't really matter because we are the rule makers and we must do what we were born to do...make rules. In a temporary panic, I contacted my fishing expert, keeper of all manly information, and Maine fishing know it all, Alan:

Me: Dude, I'm in trouble. I just found out that it's too late in the year to use live bait to fish! What is a visitor from Virginia, without a license to do? I'm not a lure kind of guy...

Alan: First of all, don't panic. You need to find some Berkeley Gulp Worms. They fish just like live bait and they are legal. As far as the no license thing goes...all I can do is offer bail money.

Me: How much would a non resident temporary fishing license set me back?

Alan: Probably a lot, knowing Maine.

So, I drove into Camden to remedy the situation, pay my protection money to the Maine racket in charge of Inland Fisheries, and find me some Gulp Worms. We had been told that our beautiful little town wouldn't be crowded after Labor Day. We wouldn't recognize the place without the summer traffic clogging Main Street, they said. Lies. I had to park up at the library and walk three blocks to the store that accepts tribute money, only to be informed that this particular branch doesn't accept bribe payments, but their other store, a mere mile and a half away, does. Walking the three blocks back to my car, I passed by all of the familiar shops and noticed a couple of new ones. I paused a minute and just looked around. The thought came to me that I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world right now than here in Midcoast Maine.

The second branch of Camden Sporting Goods expertly took my shakedown money with all of the faceless efficiency of a Soviet era government cheese store. For the privilege of three weeks worth of legal fishing, I would be charged $64. The twenty-something clerk who filled out the paperwork was a dual threat since not only was he up to speed with the paperwork required to keep the wheels of the state fully greased, he also knew exactly what a Gulp Worm was and twenty more dollars later, I was once again a fully equipped, law abiding fisherman. At this point Alan had more sage advice:

Alan: Ok, be careful with the Gulp juice...it stinks. Don't get it on your clothes and don't open it inside the house. Pam will not be pleased. Lisa hates Gulp!!

Armed with this crucial information, I drove the twenty minutes back to Quantabacook. I took the back way, a road that wound its way over hills and around sweeping curves. One minute there would be the trashy yards of old houses, bespoiled with ancient rusted vehicles and piled high with mountains of firewood. The next minute, over the rise of a hill, a lush valley would be revealed, sweeping fields of grass punctuated by a few grey boulders covered with moss. Off in the distance there would be a lake. There is always a lake. By the time my back road finally emerged onto a more familiar one, I had found my groove.

I'm on vacation...