A Glorious New Day

This morning, the air feels cleaner, the birds sing sweeter, the sunrise ushers in a day of serendipitous possibilities...all because last night, just before midnight, Gotham was vanquished.

The Boston Red Sox followed up their ecstatic game three 16-1 thrashing of the forces of evil, with a 4-3 victory to win the series. The fact that this two game ass-kicking took place in Yankee Stadium, that hideous concrete and steel knockoff moneygrab ie..The House That Greed Built...makes it even sweeter. Watching 49,000 entitled, pompously obnoxious Yankee fans slouching out, crestfallen, back into the five boroughs from which they had crawled, was a moment of delicious schadenfreude. I can only hope that George Steinbrenner’s hot corner suite in hell has a TV. Wouldn’t have wanted for him to miss it.

As soon as the Houston Astros won the World Series last year, the baseball press began the drumbeat about how dominate the Yankees were going to be in 2018. Once Giancarlo Stanton was signed, ESPN began their drooling, fawning coverage of these new, kinder, gentler Baby Bombers. Why, between Stanton and Judge, they might combine for 150 homeruns!! Instead, Stanton stuck out over 200 times, and had Judge not missed 50 games with an injury, he would have struck out even more than Stanton. Something went awry on the way to the coronation. So now, ESPN’s dreams lie in ashes, the Steinbrenner spawn have been sent back to the drawing board, and John Sterling is left trying to figure out a new insipid homerun call for Giancarlo that doesn’t rhyme with choke.

For me, the remainder of the baseball post season will be a delight, now that the evil empire has been defeated. I can sit back and watch the games, marveling at the masterful pitching, the clutch hitting and brilliant defense that will be on display. I will be rooting for the Sox, naturally, but even if they lose, I will still rejoice until the final out of the year, no matter who wins. Because the Yankees are gone, a rapturous feeling has returned to October baseball, not unlike the palpable relief that fills the house when a baby’s fever breaks, or the joy that comes after grandma miraculously recovers from a long illness. Watching the transmission of the Yankee team bus fall onto the interstate has to be close to how the beleaguered pioneers out west felt when they saw the cavalry come over the hill rescuing them from marauding Sioux warriors. The Bastards of Bastone couldn’t possibly have felt a greater sense of relief upon hearing the first roar of Patton’s tanks than I felt last night when the umpires gave the out call after their ridiculous review of the last play of the game. Now. Finally. At long last...our children can once again play in the streets. Life is sweet again. The specter of death has been removed from the land. We have stared into the eyes of darkness and seen a new light!!

While reading this, some of you might think that this is a little over the top, a touch melodramatic, and maybe a bit overblown. If so, now you know exactly how I feel when I read your political posts on Facebook.

Foolishness

At the risk of alienating those of you who are sick and tired of my Maine posts, I have one more...although this will be my final one of 2018. It has been a magical six weeks. 

The first three weeks on Pemaquid Lake was our summer vacation. The second three weeks on Quantabacook was an impulse purchase, booked on a whim in late October of 2017, after returning from our first trip to Loon Landing. What I didn’t know at the time of this impulse was the path of destruction that life was about to cut through my finances. With each new surprise expense, I weighed my options. Should I cancel? Take the hit from the rental company? Each time, I talked my self out of it. When the bills from the wedding started pouring in, when the air conditioner had to be replaced, then the water heater, then the deluge of medical bills...I stubbornly held on to my Loon Landing reservation. It made no financial sense. It was foolish.

But sometimes, the very best experiences of life are birthed in foolishness.

As I looked through the hundreds of pictures we took, these are the ones that will stay with me:

A Walden-esk scene from our hike beside the Georges River.  

One of the 45 bass I caught on the same lure during five visits to my fishing hole at the south end of the lake.

A note I left for Pam one morning when she was out kayaking somewhere. This would never happen in Short Pump, and if it did, it would be a text.

Even in a driving rain, my wife contemplates heading out in the kayak anyway.

A schooner glides past the point of the Rockland Breakwater lighthouse.

Maybe the finest reading spot in the entire universe...the bench seat at the Camden Library.

Pam, chasing another sunset on her paddle board.

Me, returning from a fishing adventure.

Ridiculous beauty...

Our Loon buddies.

Every morning, filled with possibilities...

Every evening, comfy cozy.

So...there you have it, three weeks on Quantabacook. Now, it’s time to pay the piper. I have not only foolishly spent money I shouldn’t have, I have foolishly forfeited three money making weeks relaxing in Maine. The eight ball now casts its shadow over me. My troubles are self inflicted. But, you know what? I don’t care. My checkbook will recover. It always does, eventually. 

Foolishness is in the eye of the beholder.

Today Is The Day

The sign told us that we were entering the Gibson Preserve of the St. George River. It was open to the public, free of charge. The guide described it correctly as an easy to moderate hike of less than two miles. It was a delightful walk featuring a winding river, a Christmas tree forest, and a canopy of gorgeous fall colors. About half way in, we discovered a huge, thick, and ruggedly built bench covered with red leaves...

Take a closer look. Time has faded the message. We didn’t notice it right away, but along the top plank of the back board were carved the words...This is the day. As an added flourish, the carver took the time to make the T a medieval drop cap.

For the past three weeks, this has been our unofficial theme. This is the day...not yesterday, that’s already gone and nothing we can do will bring it back...not tomorrow, that hasn’t come yet, no sense borrowing trouble and making too many plans for a day we might never see. Today...that’s what we have, and it deserves our undivided attention. If today brings perfect weather we will have ourselves a marvelous time doing the things that perfect weather was made for. If it’s gloomy, overcast, raining and cold, we will find other ways to enjoy the day, with the understanding that even gloomy days can be redeemed by staying in the moment.

This is our last day here. The weather isn’t great. Tonight we will scurry around the place packing up so we can hit the road in the morning. If I think too much about leaving I will miss what this day has in store...and that would be a big miss.

Today is the day....

Toxic Masculinity

“There are certain things every man must know. They are, in no particular order—how to change a flat tire, do a chin-up, make scrambled eggs, do laundry, throw a punch, get down on your knees and pray, fasten the clasp of a woman’s necklace, handle a horse, change a diaper, split wood, and earn the love of a dog.”

Elizabeth Kelly, from The Miracle on Monhegen Island

When people ask me why I read so much, this is what I tell them...because, every once in a while you run across something quite beautiful, a phrase or sentence that sticks with you for a while. The fact that these sentences above were written by a woman is instructive of something, but I’m not sure what.

I’ve been hearing the term toxic masculinity a lot lately. It’s become a buzz word, a catch phrase of the media and academia. As best as I can figure out it’s meaning, toxic masculinity is short hand for everything bad about men, our tendency towards violence, brute strength and manners, but mostly our tendency for sexual aggression. It’s hard to read the news lately and not admit that there does seem to be something dreadfully wrong with us. Nevertheless, I am conflicted by this term.

When I was a boy, I learned about what being a man was from my Dad. There were no, or more accurately...few, sit down lectures on the subject. Mostly, I learned by observation, watching the way he did things. I noticed the way he spoke to my mother, always in a different voice register, with what I can only describe as tenderness. I noticed how he spoke about my mother, with respect and admiration. Even when they argued...and they did argue...my Dad always seemed restrained by some unseen thing. Mom did most of the arguing, Dad would offer only the occasional halfhearted rebuttal. It was as if he was overly aware of us kids...that we were listening. My father was a man of a different generation, and no doubt, some of his views about the proper roll of men and women in the church and the world would seem old fashioned and out of touch to modern ears. But, there was absolutely nothing toxic about him.

I was in awe of my father’s knowledge of the real world. The man literally knew how to do everything. He may have earned two advanced degrees in his time on this earth, but he never forgot the skills he learned growing up as a sharecropper’s son. Today, we call them life hacks. All I know is, if the transmission of the old Studebaker was on the fritz, Dad could fix it. He could plow a straight row in the garden with a blindfold on. He could fix a leaky faucet, perform rough and fine carpentry, do electrical repair, install drywall, drop a crow menacing his tomato plants from a hundred yards with a .22 rifle, build window fans from scratch, yet...hold the trembling hands of a grieving widow, comfort a young couple through the excruciating loss of a child, and fight back tears while holding each of his new born grandchildren. He was a product of his experiences, of back breaking manual labor as a child, of serving his country in the jungles of the South Pacific as nothing more than a teenager, and of his abiding and transformative faith.

As uncomfortable as I am with the term, toxic masculinity, it brings a ring of truth with it. When I hear the phrase, I become instantly defensive. This is not me...this is not who my brother is or who my Dad was...I know hundreds of men about whom this term would be a scandalous slur!!

But, I’m not blind. I see the news. I read the reports. I know the statistics. They cannot be denied. For a large slice of this world, men are toxic. Too many of us have confused masculinity with a twisted, brutish knockoff version, fueled by arrogant entitlement, and distorted by pornography. 

Elizabeth Kelly’s list of man-skills took me back in time. I counted off the ones I could do and smiled...(can’t handle a horse and my laundry skills leave a lot to be desired). Then I thought of my Dad. He could do them all and a whole lot more, and all without any strutting bravado. Dad’s was a silent strength. In one of his one sentence lessons to me about manhood, he would often quote scripture...Let another man praise you, and not your own mouth; a stranger and not your own lips. He assumed I would understand and expected me to learn.

Who is teaching today’s young men?

My Girl

   

 

 

This is my girl. She is adventurous, fearless, and relentless in her two-fisted pursuit of this lake.

Two minutes ago, she stood at the door gazing at the raindrops falling on the water and asked...I wonder what it would be like kayaking in the rain? 

She is crazy.

But, when she is here, she is the best version of herself. 

I can hardly keep up.

I Know...

Each morning here is a glimpse into the sublime, a fresh canvas of jaw-dropping beauty that manages to simultaneously lift your spirits while making you feel small and insignificant. As I stared at the latest sunrise, it occurred to me that this happens each and every day, whether or not I’m here to see it. An audience of one. This is eternal beauty and I see through a glass darkly. I take it all in, the grand sweep of it, and know that my redeemer lives...

Today’s Agenda

We have had two uncomfortable weather days in a row, resulting in lots of exploring. While, there’s nothing wrong with exploring, since we’ve actually seen some cool stuff and had fun, I don’t like being away from the lake all that much. Today and tomorrow are supposed to be bright and sunny, with today being the warmer of the two...upper 60’s. I intend to take full advantage. My activities will include but not be limited to the following:

Going for a run.

Continuing my assault on the bass population of Quantabacook.

Going for a swim...for the first time ever with an air temperature in the 60’s.

Kayaking to the north end of the lake...5 mile round trip.

Reading on the dock.

Taking an afternoon snoozle.

Eating a Whoopie Pie.

Having a bowl of Riverducks ice cream.

I will do all of this while trying desperately to ignore the fact that we have now entered our third and last week here.

Kavanaugh v. Ford

I blame my son for this morning’s foul mood. Him, and another cloudy, misty day in the forecast. Patrick sent me a text yesterday afternoon bemoaning the tragedy unfolding on national television. It was getting worse and worse, he said. It sounded to me like he wanted my opinion. I offered this...

I haven’t been watching, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that liberals believe Ford and conservatives believe Kavanaugh. Liberals are convinced that he’s guilty and should withdraw, while conservatives believe that he’s a victim of an orchestrated characters assassination. How close did I come?

Patrick: Pretty close, yeah.

So, thanks to my son, the Kavanaugh confirmation debacle got deposited into the front row of my consciousness at just about the time I had managed to shove it in a closet down the hall, right across from pending doctor’s appointments. In fairness to him, it’s not like I wasn’t aware that it was going on, rather, I had purposefully limited my access to news about it. When you are on vacation, the very last thing you want to be thinking about is national decline and civilization’s retreat. To make matters considerably worse, my sister stormed through the house right after Patrick’s text in high dudgeon, informing me that she had just gotten off the phone to both Warner and Caine’s offices, expressing her outrage at the proceedings. When I failed to respond, she snapped, So, you’ve just totally disengaged, is that it? The honest answered would have been...Yes, yes I have, as a matter of fact. Then, a friend sent me a long private message laying out his thoughts, wanting my take. He considered it a binary choice between two bad options, much like Trump vs. Hillary...another in a long series of Faustian bargains which have been forced upon us since the arrival of this reality show presidency. 

Almost three months ago when the Kavanaugh nomination was announced, I tweeted the following:

I don’t know the first thing about this Kavanaugh dude...but by the time the Dems get through with him, he will make Hannibal Lecter look like a Boys Scout.

Why such a dour prediction? The Gorsuch nomination had gone through with little fuss or fireworks. Well, Gorsuch was a replacement for Scalia, which would have no bearing on the Court’s direction. There was no point for the Dems to waste ammunition on him. They were always keeping their powder dry for a nomination to replace either a liberal justice or Kennedy’s swing vote. That nomination was going to be all out war. So...one week before the vote, an avalanche of skeletons come storming out of the fever swamps of Kavanaugh’s high school yearbook, and it’s on! I take no pleasure in being right about how this was going to play out.

I didn’t watch yesterday. My understanding is that no collaborating evidence was offered to substantiate Dr. Ford’s claims, other than her memory of the event. Apparently, she was a compelling witness. Many people commented on her bravery and courage. Judge Kavanaugh’s statement was also powerful and emotionally charged, defiant and full of fire. Some seemed concerned by this, believing it dispositive of an unjudicial ill-temper. I feel 100% certain that those making this charge have never had their reputations trashed on national television in front of 100 million people...along with their two daughters.

I do not possess the ironclad certainty which is the blessing of partisans. I can’t simply take my cues on what to think based solely on who wins and who loses as a result. I am burdened by the facts that are available to me. Part of me ponders the eleventh hour nature of this revelation, the way it was held in reserve, a rusty trap to be sprung at the last minute, designed to cast doubt by raising what the Dems knew would be an unfalsifiable, impossible to collaborate charge. But, another part of me ponders why anyone would volunteer to have themselves thrust into the national limelight and the prying eyes of millions, for a made up story? When the first accusations were followed by three or four(I lose count) others, I start to wonder what the hell the FBI was doing the six previous times they performed background checks on this guy? You mean to tell me there was a band of gang rapists showing up practically every weekend at parties which Kavanaugh attended for months and months, and the FBI could find nothing about them? Not one speck of evidence? But I also start to ponder that age old adage about the simultaneous presence of smoke and fire. 

So, I am left with yet another Sophie’s Choice. Do I simply...believe the woman, and allow her unsubstantiated accusation bring down a nominee to the Supreme Court, the power of a suppressed memory being enough to override a lifetime of honorable legal service on the bench? Or do I support the confirmation of a man who is being accused of despicable behavior by a multitude of women from 30 years ago? Is this the best we can do? Apparently, in 2018...it is.

Feeling Better About The World

Perhaps the most beautiful building in Camden is the majestic Camden Public Library. Built in 1927 on land donated by Mary Louise Curtis Bok, and with money raised entirely from locals to match Ms. Curtis Bok’s generosity, the award winning architecture and landscaping dominate the hill overlooking the town...

The other day, I walked in just to sit in the grand window seat overlooking the harbor like I did on my very first visit nearly 15 years ago. Back then, I curled up in that spot and read the New York Times while Pam was shopping down the street at the Smiling Cow. The amphitheater down the hill from that window hosts a variety of events during the year, from private weddings, to concerts, Monday night movie nights, and Shakespeare in the Park productions. Whenever I visit there is usually someone with a small child or a rambunctious dog, or vice versa. But always, every single time, this place warms my heart. It’s the kind of library where people still whisper inside. The craftsmanship of its construction, the beauty of its interior, the majesty of the art work suggests to all who enter that this is a special place. Leave your presumptuous entitlement outside, along with your loud yawps. Come here to learn and be quiet for a minute. Put your money away. It’s no good here. It will not buy you influence. Take the ear buds out. If you are crude and disrespectful enough to attempt a cell phone conversation in this place, we might have to ask you to leave...but we will do so respectfully. 

I asked the white-haired lady at the desk if it would be ok for me to take a brief 360 degree video of the place. She said...Of course! Who wouldn’t want to?? She then went on in a practiced whisper to brag about the room, giving me the lowdown on all the paintings on the wall. Her smile was broad and earnest. When I told her that I come in every year to take it all in, her face lit up as she clasped her hands under her chin. Isn’t it just amazing??...she asks. I ask her how long she has worked here. She says...Oh, I don’t work here. I’m a volunteer! The white-haired lady is very proud to be a volunteer. She has the manner of a person who very much believes that this library belongs to her...and every other citizen of Camden. This is their library. Her ancestors, great and small, they raised the money, they hauled the lumber and the bricks, they labored in the hot sun and the freezing cold to build the place. It belongs to them...not the state, not some corporation, the people of Camden. And with that ownership comes great responsibility. 

Before I left, like I always do, I find the donation box. I drop in a $10 bill, take my video and head back down Commercial Street, feeling considerably better about the world.

A Fish Story

Let me begin by saying that despite recent photographic evidence to the contrary, I am not a fisherman. By this I mean to say that I don’t think of myself as an avid angler. I only take it up once a year...here in Maine. I can’t remember the last time I went fishing back home. It just never occurs to me. But the minute I arrive in Maine, I’m all in. It’s like a temporary obsession. For three weeks, I channel my inner Roland Martin and get after it with great enthusiasm. But it never, ever translates into Virginia.

Anyway, for reasons that remain a mystery to me, I have enjoyed tremendous fishing success in Maine, despite the very clear fact that I don’t know what I’m doing. Whenever I go out in the kayak to fish, I spend literally half of my time trying to untangle the lines, or trying to disengage those confounding triple hooks from either some tree branch, a lily pad, or...most often, some article of my clothing. I would make an excellent outtake reel for one of those fishing television shows. In addition, the thumb and forefinger of my right hand both have taken on the look and feel of raw meat from the sixteen thousand times I have accidentally hooked myself while trying to remove a hook from a fish. It is fair to say then, that describing me as a fisherman would be the equivalent of describing Donald Trump as an Intellectual. If true at all, it would be entirely by accident.

Having said all of this, I must report that yesterday at approximately 11:30 on a sunny but windy morning, the temperature hovering around 50, I stumbled upon the mother of all fishing holes. I took the kayak all the way to the south end of the lake, where the water narrows into a creek, no more than 30 feet wide. At the end of the creek, there’s a small slab of concrete which serves as a dam...

Since I was having a hard time fishing from the kayak because of the power of the wind-driven current, I decided to drag the kayak into the rocky shore and try my luck from the shore line. It was then that I noticed the very deep water on the other side of the dam, the beginnings of Quantabacook Creek, and this perfect little rock placed perfectly amongst some bushes...

At this point, I should mention my good Maine buddy, Alan Smith. He is the husband of one of Pam’s cousins up here, Lisa. We’ve known them for years. Alan actually is a fisherman. He’s forgotten more about catching fish than I will ever know. Last year when we were here, they came to Loon Landing for a visit. When he looked at my tackle box, he took on the facial expression an opera singer might get when hearing a choir of tone deaf bricklayers performing a hip hop version of Handel’s Messiah. It was like...Oh my...Dude, what is all this? It was so bad, he goes to his truck and put together what amounted to a care package...a collection of lures and big-boy fishing tackle, among them...this baby....

He told me that I could use this in places where there might be a lot of sticks and stuff below the surface. This guy floats along the top of the water and doesn’t get hung up...or something. He tutored me in the proper technique of its use. I listened intently, staring at him with partial understanding, picking up every third word or so, nodding my head solemnly.

Up until yesterday’s triumph,the entirety of my catch over the previous 9 Days had been limited to one respectable smallmouth bass, a handful of tiny ones, a yellow perch and one freshwater pike. Then, I stepped up to the rock in the above picture and cast out into the deep. Instantly a fish knocked it out of the water.i was so shocked I snapped a picture...

The second cast yielded the same result. Then a third...each fish a little bigger than the last. Over the next forty minutes I caught 9 largemouth bass, and my clumsiness allowing another five or six to wiggle off the hook. As the frequency of the haul began to slow, I glanced down at my watch and saw that was almost 1:30. Two hours had evaporated in what seemed like an instant. It was easily the most fun I have ever had with a fishing pole in my hand. But, I felt like I needed to get back to the cottage. For one thing, Paula and Ron were due to arrive any minute, and for another, I was starving to death. I kept telling myself that this next cast would be my last. On the very last cast, the fish took the bait almost gently, barely moving the water...but as soon as I pulled back to set the hook I knew that something was different. It was almost as if I had hooked a leather boot. Then suddenly he broke through the water. Good Lord, I thought...I’ve hooked Walter!

For the uninitiated, Walter was the great elusive monster bass which always eluded Henry Fonda’s character from On Golden Pond. Anyway, this fish broke the water three different times in angry defiance. When I finally brought him in I found that he was barely hooked. I took a picture, congratulated him on his valiant fight, and released him back into the best fishing hole in the history of the world. What an incredible two hours!

The Morning

The sun comes up behind us here, creeping up through the tall pines from the back of the cottage. The first evidence is a tinge of color that lights up the northern edges of any thin clouds that remain from the night, then the tops of the trees across the lake. I watch it all unfold every morning because for some reason, I’m awake at 6:00, dependable as the sun. I make my coffee, sit in my chair and watch.

There’s a long, double-gabled house across the lake that gets lit up next. Beside it there’s a small a-frame right on the water which has a window that catches the sunlight just right, turning it into a bright shimmering square for ten minutes or so until the sun continues higher, moving the light further down the lake. Then, the white boat tied to a dock glistens bright as it bobs gently with the morning breeze. It’s never been used since we’ve been here. I kayaked past it the other day and it’s covered by a tight canvas, secured by a series of rusty snaps. Somebody will put it away soon, out of the water before the lake freezes.

The wind blows from the north today. Yesterday it was out of the south. It was 38 when I woke up. Last year when we came here in September we had low 70’s most of our three weeks. This year it’s much cooler, more seasonable actually. The lake looks different in the cold air, although I can’t put my finger on why. It seems more formidable, edgier, more robust, a place not to be trifled with. It’s as if it’s saying...You southerners with your sunny skies and warm autumn afternoons, watching the leaves change in your shirtsleeves, come up here to my lake and expect to work on your tan six days before October? This clean blue water that gently rocks beneath you on this dock will turn into a solid 18 inch block of ice while you guys are complaining about the three inch snowfall in the forecast for Valentine’s Day. Let me give you a hint of what my lake is really all about...

But, the fish are still biting, and my sister and her husband arrive today for a week. They don’t seem disappointed with the cooler forecast. They are looking forward to a week of rest, they say, of just being here. They’ve come to the right place for resting, I think. It’s a strange feeling that comes over me,. I want everyone to come here. I literally want every person I love to come here...at the very same time that I want no one to come here. I want to share this place with everyone and I want it all to myself, generosity doing feverish battle with selfishness. Generosity wins out only because to hoard a place this beautiful seems small and petty. And Quantabacook doesn’t encourage smallness. This is a place for big thoughts, big hearts...and small egos, a place to have your self regard taken down a notch or two, a place you come to fill up your humility bucket. 

The Coywolf of the Baskervilles

Ok...not everything about lake living in Maine is moonlight and magnolias. These lakes can be...kinda creepy.

After last night’s spectacular sunset, and another delicious dinner, my wife and I went to bed. The last thing she says to me is this...

I’m setting my alarm for 7 am. I know that you’ll get up earlier than that. When you do, check out the lake and if it’s good kayaking conditions, go ahead and wake me up.

I hate this type of request. Especially since, for Pam, good kayaking conditions essentially means...anything but a hurricane. I exaggerate...but only a little. So, I wake up at 5:45, make my coffee and see this...

First of all...yes, the dock does look like it is floating in midair. And, yes...the lake is still as glass. But there are two problems with these “kayaking conditions”...that fog and the fact that it is 40 freaking degrees outside. So, what’s a husband to do? I step outside to take the picture above and that’s when I hear a new sound...the mournful howls of either wolves or coyotes coming from the north end of the lake. Any minute I expect Sherlock Holmes to materialize out of the mist, hot on the trail of the Hound of the Baskervilles. Do I dare send my wife out in this?

I go back inside and Google... wolves and coyotes in Maine, and discover that there is rumored to be a new hybrid of these two creatures roaming the Maine woods...the coywolf. Perfect! Leave it to the land of a Stephen King to give birth to a new species of creepiness.

Since sitting down to write this, the lake is transforming before my eyes, as of this moment looking like this...

The blue sky brings a more cheerful vibe. The appearance of the first duck of our stay seems odd. Maybe he also heard the coywolf and decided to head for the safety of the water. And now, the crow of a rooster peels across the glassy depths. Good Lord! Never a dull moment on Quantabacook.

A New Mood

And now...a windy day. It started blowing last night, making strange noises outside in the unique, pitch black darkness of Maine. In September, when most of the cottages on the lake are empty, there are not enough man made lights to compete  with the night, making the darkness feel primeval. On a clear night the stars feel close enough to touch. It’s at night when you are most aware of your status as a visitor, someone from away. During the night a gust of wind made a sharp, screeching noise that woke me up. It was 2 o’clock. I could have drifted back to sleep easily enough, but I was curious. I slid open the door to the deck and felt the fresh wind in my face, cool and damp and smelling like rain. I stepped outside and strained to make out the dock, the edge of the deck...anything. It was like gazing into a dark tunnel of nothing...black as coal. For a moment it brought a suggestion of what it might be like to be blind. I waited for my eyes to adjust. I waited some more. If not for the one house light in the cottage a half a mile across the way, I would have been completely disoriented. I decided to stop fighting it and just stand there with my eyes closed, and let my other senses do the work. The smells of the lake drifted by, spruce trees, the mild briny tang of lake water, the mossy staleness of wet dirt. Then the whistle of the wind in the trees, the rhythmic ripple of waves against the rocky shoreline. I get the distinct impression that this is not my home. But, maybe it could be.

This morning, the sun shines and it’s 63 outside, which will be the highest it gets today, we’re told. Tonight we are in for a low of...40. Each day brings something new here, a different perspective, a different mood. The next two days will just be Pam and me. It will be quieter, lazier, more contemplative. This is good. How many times in life are we afforded the chance for quiet, thoughtful laziness?

Not often enough...

Week One in the Books

Week one on Quantabacook draws to a close today, and what a week it has been. Great weather, terrific food, and this incredible lake have combined to give us a wonderful seven days. We’ve tooled around in Camden, visited a lighthouse, had blueberry pancakes, clam chowder, and lobster rolls. We have kayaked, paddle boarded, fished, and swam. We’ve had three campfires, played Mexican Train and Farkle, read books and enjoyed at least ten meals Al fresco. Oh...and we’ve enjoyed the great company of these guys...

Gordon and Leigh Ann Fort have listened to us brag about Maine for over ten years now. Bringing them here for a week was fraught with great risk. Would this place live up to all of our non-stop hype? Unless the both of them are world class liars, they seem to have loved everything about Maine nearly as much as we do. Gordon has put me to shame in the fishing department, pulling in fish like Roland Martin on steroids. Of course, the vast majority of his haul has taken place safely hidden from anyone’s view, while he slips around some forgotten cove in his kayak. Nevertheless, I know when I’ve been licked. Well done, bud.

So, today they both head to the airport to fly home. It will be just Pam and me for a few days, then Ron and Paula roll in Monday. This will give me time to recover from an unfortunate mishap which occurred on yesterday’s morning run. I was at the 1.5 mile mark and just hitting my stride, enjoying a great run, when something popped in my right calf. At first I thought it was just a Charlie-horse type cramp, but it never went away, and I spent the rest of the day limping around, not being able to put any weight on my toes. This. Or I gotta it’s better, but still tender. By the time Monday rolls around it should be good as new. So for this weekend, I’ll have to restrict myself to more sedentary pursuits...kayaking, fishing, reading and eating...ie, the same exact things I’ve been doing since I got here...minus the running!

My Mistake

Our first taste of bad weather arrived last night. As we sat around a cozy fire, a mere ten feet from the water’s edge, we saw heat lightening across the lake flashing sporadically, revealing a bank of menacing clouds. Soon, the wind changed direction and freshened. Before long our cottage was being lashed with sheets of rain. This morning, the skies are low and cloudy, the water is up and it’s barely 50, with a stiff breeze. Not a lake day, so we will go exploring.

This morning, as I surveyed the scene, my guard dropped for a moment and I made the mistake of pulling up the news on my iPad. All of the screaming headlines were of Kavanaugh and a decades old allegation of sexual misconduct of some kind. There was wrangling over when the accuser would be heard and why the Dems withheld this information until the closing days of the hearings. Hillary Clinton, who can always be counted on at times like this to offer clueless, irony-free comments, opined that Kavanaugh’s accuser...deserves the benefit of the doubt.  Juanita Broaddrick, Kathleen Willey, Paula Jones, and Monica Lewinsky could not be reached for comment.

Setting aside the question of guilt or innocence in this matter for a minute...I’m staring to think that the most terrifying words in the English language for any judge in America are...Congratulations! The President wants to nominate you to the Supreme Court! Who, in their right mind would want to endure the kangaroo court/character assassination/clown show that is the Judicial Committee Confirmation Hearings?? Let alone, subject your entire family to it??

Listen, I don’t really have an opinion on Kavanaugh. He’s a judge, man. What do I know about legal philosophy? Nothing. And neither do any of these preening Senators, who only know what their party talking points tell them. Like all judges, the man has a paper trail of decisions and opinions, some of which I would probably agree with, some not. But, he seems smart enough and qualified by education, training and experience. Here’s what I do know...since he was nominated by a Republican President, the Dems are doing everything in their power to prevent his confirmation, including, apparently, trolling through his high school yearbook for dirt. When it’s a Democrat President’s turn, he or she will nominate someone equally qualified, and the Republicans will pull out every trick in the book to prevent confirmation. It’s the way the game is played. The fact that many years ago it was not this way is irrelevant. Many years ago, people rode horses to town, but that ship has sailed too.

So, apparently, Monday is a big day at the circus. The question everyone seems to be asking is will she show up to testify or not? If she does, it will be yet another low point in our political life, the latest in a long line of bar-lowering embarrassments, a further deterioration of public discourse.

In other words...2018.

But, come what may on Monday...I won’t be watching. My morning will be filled with a round of golf, and my afternoon with lake recreation. I’ll have to find out what happened by checking out my Facebook feed. That should be a blast!

What A Day

Yesterday in Richmond was a nightmare for a lot of people. Tornadoes were tearing through the city, trees crashing through people’s homes, roofs lifting off of buildings, and hysterical dogs being comforted in cramped laundry rooms by hard working pet sitters. While all of this was taking place, we were up here having what will go down as an all-timer...one of the best days in Maine...ever. I hesitate to write about it for the same reason that you don’t announce to the world the great news of your promotion at work while visiting a friend who is on his death bed. Timing, after all, is everything. Farting and belching is all very well and good around a campfire with your buddies, but farting at a funeral would be horrible, and nobody in his right mind would let out a long, sloppy belch during the hushed beginning of Beethoven’s ninth symphony. Time and place...there’s one for everything, I’m told.

So, at the risk of being thought an insensitive lout, I will tell about our incredible day anyway.

It started with Pam and I taking Gordon and Leigh Ann into Camden for breakfast at the Deli. We felt like tour guides, walking them around that beautiful place. We showed them the library, with its sweeping views of the harbor. We walked them down Commercial street, past the Smiling Cow and Sea Dogs. We strolled along the bay where the schooners were filling up with passengers for day cruises. We took them to the famous foot bridge beside River Ducks. It’s hard to describe how much fun it is to introduce friends to a place that you love so much.

We made it back to the lake around noon, after a quick trip to Hannaford’s to buy steak and lobster for Gordon and Leigh Ann’s 35th anniversary dinner. The skies were blue and the high temperature peaked at 76. We spent the afternoon swimming and fishing, kayaking, floating, and snacking. A couple of naps were taken. By 6:00, we all knew that at some point we were going to have to leave the dock. I mean, dinner was not going to fix itself. But, just about the time we were ready to head back to the house, the looming sunset would reveal a new color, a tapestry of soft pink, purple and red. Needless to say, dinner would have to wait.

Eventually, we enjoyed a marvelous meal out on the deck, the tenth consecutive meal we have taken outdoors. We made Gordon and Leigh Ann tell us all about their wedding day and honeymoon. Just about the time they were about to bore us to tears ( just kidding ), we decided it was time to have a fire, and s’mores...

Just a fabulous day, by any measure.

Oh, and it should be noted that Gordon claims to have caught several fish during his kayak trip around the cove, which was conveniently hidden from anyone’s view. He bragged about catching these fish with surprisingly few details. No pictorial evidence was supplied, so he asked me to take him at his word. He gets a lot of mileage out of that missionary thing. 

We Have Guests!

It’s already happened. I’ve been here less than three full days and I already have no idea what’s going on in the world. I know about Florence, but only vaguely. It made landfall. There was lots of rain. The television in the cottage has been on once, for maybe 30 minutes while I watched ‘Bama lay waste to Ole Miss. That’s it...the sum total of my knowledge of current events.

We have guests. Gordon and Leigh Ann arrived yesterday afternoon, and as you can see, have figured out this place quite well. That pea soup fog didn’t stop my wife from launching out in her kayak about thirty minutes ago to God knows where. It’s as if she has a magnet in her heart that pulls her toward the lake.

This morning, we are taking our guests into Camden for a blueberry pancake breakfast at the Camden Deli and a little walking tour of that beguiling town. Then, mid morning we will head back to the lake for a day of fishing, swimming and lounging, topped off by a steak and lobster dinner tonight on the deck to celebrate their 35th wedding anniversary.

There are worse ways to spend a day in September.

Pam’s Capital Idea

I know this has happened to you before, a memory of some delightful event or place from your past grows exponentially with each telling and the passage of time. Before long, your memory of it has mushroomed into legend. Then, when you revisit this place years later you think...Huh...that wasn’t at all as cool as I remembered. It’s like when you tell your kids what an awesome movie Billy Jack was, then you find it on Netflix one night and you make them watch it with you, and fifteen minutes in, you’re totally embarrassed by the sorry excuse for a plot and the atrocious acting. Well, I was a little worried that the same thing would happen with our second look at Loon Landing. Although it’s only been 12 months since we first came here, this place has taken on a legendary place in our Maine memories as...the absolute perfect place. Everything about it...perfect. The lake. The location. The dock. The guest cottage out back. The deck. The proximity to Camden. Everything.

Our second look yesterday afternoon insured that Loon Landing will never be dethroned from the vacation pedestal it sits upon. If anything, this place is more gorgeous than we remembered. Of course, it didn’t hurt that we arrived to blue skies and 74 degrees! But, the owner of this place (aka..the luckiest man alive on planet Earth) has done some additional landscaping that have improved the grounds, and also expanded the dock to twice its old size. There still remains a very short list of shortcomings...no closets, small bathroom, tiny kitchen...but everything about this place stirs within me a couple of emotions that I seldom ever feel in this life...envy and covetousness. If this guy would be willing to sell this place to me, I would move heaven and earth to buy it, even if it meant I could never, ever retire.

Pam deserves a shout out for coming up with a brilliant idea upon our arrival in Camden at 2:30 yesterday afternoon. Check in time wasn’t until 4:00, and we hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. She says...How about we have an ice cream cone at River Ducks for lunch, then do a grocery run at Hannaford’s before checking in at the lake? Then, as soon as we get to the cottage, we can put all the perishable stuff in the fridge, leave everything else in the car, put our bathing suits on and spend the rest of the day on the dock?? We can unpack after it’s dark...I don’t want to miss any time on the lake! For dinner, I’ll send you up to The Fraternity Village store for Italian sandwiches, and we will eat them outside while the sun sets.

Yes, my wife understands Maine better than anyone I know. A brilliant plan, it was. We finally had unpacked everything and properly set up housekeeping by 10:00 last night. This morning, the house was super chilly at 52 degrees, and the lake was fogged in at 6:15...

But, now it’s 7:45, and it’s already lifting...

God, what a beautiful slice of creation...

Don’t Even THINKAbout Littering in Connecticut

Tales from the road...

The government of Connecticut doesn’t mess around with litterers. There I was getting off of interstate 84,at exit 31 near Southington, halfway through the sweeping turn, when I see a simple sign in red script...

$219 Fine for Littering

I’m not sure about you, but if I had been tempted to sling a mentos wrapper out of the window, I might have thought twice if I knew a $200 fine would be the result...but that extra $19 bucks would certainly have made me snap out of that temptation, for sure. I would have loved to have been in that meeting of the highways committee in Hartford...

Bureaucrat 1: Ok, we need to set the fine amounts for 2018. We can’t keep putting this off. Last year it was $197.24. Should we leave it there, lower it, raise it?

Bureaucrat 2: How many litterers did we catch last year?

Bureaucrat 3: 725

Bureaucrat 2: Ok, that means we collected $143,000. How many of those litterers were from out of state?

Bureaucrat 1: We don’t have that information. That would constitute profiling...

Bureaucrat 2: I guarandamn-tee you that most of ‘em were from New York.

(General laughter all around)

Bureaucrat 3: Well, I say we need to stick it to those bastards. How about an eleven percent increase?

(Audible gasps)

Bureaucrat 2: That’s awfully bold, Stan. Why, that would raise the fine to $219!!

Bureaucrat 3: Fortune favors the bold, Al.

Bureaucrat 1: So it’s settled then. $219 it is. Now, let’s move along to how much we should fine people for driving the speed limit in the passing lane. Last year it was $126.15....

Empathy

This blog might wind up being embarrassing for the author. If you’re not a dog person, or if you’re one of those people who think that humans project way too much importance unto their household pets, you may want to skip this one. Maybe it’s just that I’m feeling guilty about the fact that I’m about to leave her for three weeks...but here goes.

Lucy and I have this little morning routine. Almost every morning when I wake up, she is curled up at the foot of our bed, usually entangled with Pam’s legs. Sometimes she’s on the floor, but 90% of the time she’s on the bed. So, when I wake up it’s still dark outside, so as I’m walking past the end of the bed I have to wait until my eyes adjust, and when they do, I find her. Then, I do the exact same thing every single morning...I place both of my hands around her face, kiss her on the nose, scratch behind her ears and say the following:

Who is Daddy’s best girl? Lucy is. You’re the best puppy in the world.

Then I continue on to the bathroom and the rest of my day. Of course, she is sound asleep and has no response to any of this. But I do it every...single...morning.

Why?

I honestly don’t know, other than the fact that it’s comforting to me somehow. Starting your day with a positive affirmation of love...even to a dog...is mildly therapeutic, I suppose. But, it’s more than that. There’s just something about a dog, especially one as neurotic and easily frightened as Lucy, that makes you want to protect them, and what better way can you protect someone than by reassuring them of how much you love them?

A dog grabs ahold of your heart in a thousand ways. Part of it is that they are totally dependent on you for their survival. They always expect nothing but good things from you. To them, we are the most wonderful, fantastic, incredible people in the whole wide world. So, you find yourselves constantly trying to live up to their idealized expectations. I’ve said this before but it bears repeating...I want to be half as good a man as Lucy thinks I am.

Which brings a thought to mind. If we treated each other with half of the unconditional love we have for our dogs, I’m thinking that our world would be a infinitely happier place. For dog lovers like me, although I prefer Goldens, the truth of the matter is, I love all dogs, no matter the breed. When I encounter one on the street, all of them bring a smile to my face. When I see friends on Facebook putting up pictures of their new puppy, it’s always a happy time. When someone loses a dog, I feel the loss along with them. In other words, dogs produce in us a large reservoir of empathy. They make us better people.

Oh, that we could summon such empathy...for each other.

The Trees We Plant

As a married man, I have only lived in two houses, the one I’ve lived in for the past 21 years, and the first house Pam and I built 33 years ago. It was a starter home, only 1600 square feet. We brought both of our children home from the hospital to that house. But, eventually it got too small, so we had a second house built not much more than a mile from our old house. In an average week, I drive by the old place two or three times. I always glance at it with an odd sense of nostalgia.

Since we sold it, the place has had a string of short time owners. Most of them have neglected the yard, which always makes me sad. I spent so much time fussing with that yard, always had it looking great. When I drive by and see that the grass hasn’t been cut in a month I always let out a sigh. 

I bring this up because I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy lately. How would I like to be remembered? It’s strange how so much of what we do on a day to day basis is mundane and of no consequence in the grand scheme of life. Most days are indistinguishable from each other. We busy ourselves with things that seem important at the time, but ultimately matter very little. Earthly pursuits all eventually decay and wither, leaving not a trace of evidence that we were even here.

All of this was on my mind when I drove past the old house yesterday. I immediately noticed that the fence that I had built 33 years ago around the back yard had been torn down. New lumber was stacked neatly in rows. Memories flooded back of when my friend Al and I built that fence soon after we moved in. Had to have it because we had just bought our first Golden Retriever...Murphy. Once again, something I had built had vanished, leaving no evidence of my existence. Suddenly, I found myself turning the car around, driving back to take a closer look. I parked at the curb across the street. No one was home. I got out of the car and stood in the street, staring at the overgrown grass where my fence used to be. It didn’t take long for me to realize how profoundly stupid it was for me to be staring at a place I hadn’t lived in over 20 years. I abruptly turned to head back to the car when I noticed it...the huge maple tree in the front yard.

The first Spring we spent at the old house, I found a healthy, well-shaped maple sapling growing right out from the edge of the house over by the water hose. I almost just yanked it out of the ground and threw it away, but at the last minute the thought came to me...maybe I can dig this little tree up and replant it in the middle of our big, treeless front yard. So, just like that, I planted this little Charlie Brown looking thing in the front yard. It was only a little over two feet tall. It looked silly actually.

33 years later it looks like this...

So, as it turns out, we can leave a lasting legacy. I planted a tree when Ronald Reagan was in the White House. Nobody had a cell phone. Nobody had a flatscreen TV. The Washington Redskins were a good football team. Both of my parents were still alive. I hadn’t yet become a father. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I had never planted a tree before. But I planted it anyway.

Soon, I would have two children, despite the fact that I didn’t know what I was doing. I had never been a father before. But I became one anyway.

Our legacy is about the living. The trees we plant. The children we raise. The people we love.

 

Boycotts Are Dumb

In the last few years it seems as though I can’t make it through a single week without someone asking me to boycott something. Now that the personal has become political, if the CEO of the company that makes your dogfood is discovered to have made the wrong kind of political contribution...well, Fido is going to have to adjust to some new kibble.

Boycotts are the ultimate example of virtue signaling, where you proclaim your moral superiority over your neighbor by demonstrating solidarity, or some such thing, by being willing to sacrifice your dog’s favorite dinner for the greater good of...whatever. This is a bipartisan project. What follows are a few examples of some companies that the woke social justice crowd have targeted for boycotts:

Papa Johns...Hobby Lobby...Walmart...Chik-Fil-A...Amazon...In and Out Burgers

Not to be outdone, allegedly free market conservatives have painted a bullseye around:

Target...Nike...Disney...Kellogg’s...ESPN....the NFL

My view? Boycotts are nothing more than tribal manipulation, a test of your political zeal. The lyric to a Rolling Stones song comes to mind...He can’t be a man ‘cause he doesn’t smoke the same cigarettes as me...The truth is that if you dig deep enough into the bowels of any company that makes any product or provides any service, you will find something objectionable. Somebody in the boardroom will have made bigoted comments, been accused of inappropriate sexual conduct, or donated to a questionable candidate. If you make it your goal to politicize every commercial transaction of your life, at some point you will find yourself filthy, dressed in animal skins, freezing your ass off in a cave, rubbing two sticks together. 

I am a right of center, small government conservative/libertarian. My political neighborhood has recently called upon my tribe to boycott Nike because of their decision to pick Colin Kaepernick as their spokesman. So, yesterday I had to buy new running shoes. I went to Shoe Carnival. There must have been a thousand shoes to pick from. My views about Mr. Kaepernick were a thousand miles from my head as I made my decision, which was based on a combination of quality, aesthetics and price.

So, my opinion? Boycotts are for suckers. If you want to be a preening, virtue signaling moron, help yourself.

                                             

                                            Boycotts

                        Don’t Do It