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!