October in Maine

This Friday, Pam, Lucy and I will leave Short Pump for our last trip to Maine in 2021. This time it will only be for two weeks, and this time it will be on a lake we have never stayed on before…Coleman Pond. The long term weather forecast for the two weeks in question calls for mostly sunny conditions, with high temperatures in the low 60’s and lows in the upper 40’s. It should be noted that the value of a long term weather forecast in Maine is roughly equivalent to the value of crypto futures in China about now, but that’s another story. The house is old school Maine campy, which is a compliment not an accusation. The lake is way too small for our taste, but complaining about staying on a too small lake in Maine for the first two weeks of October is like complaining that the deck chairs on your yacht are starting to look dated. Literally nobody wants to hear it.

So, why another trip to Maine when we spent a month and a half up there in the summer? This is a reasonable question. The answer is simple. Maine in October is a completely different place than Maine in July. We started adding a fall trip four or five years ago and were so throughly enchanted by the experience that it became permanent. Some observations:

The leaves. Fall colors in Maine are all the more stunning than they are anywhere else because of the reflective power of lake water. Some of the pictures that Pam has taken while kayaking in October are among the most beautiful images I’ve ever seen. Also, there is something extraordinarily breathtaking about the sight of bright yellow and red leaves flittering in an…ocean breeze.

Sitting around a campfire beside a lake while listening to loons calling out, the sky resplendent with a million stars, can’t possibly be adequately described or documented. It simply has to be experienced. 

The crowds have thinned out in October. Sure, there is the leaf-peeper contingent, but there aren’t nearly as many of them as there are summer visitors. We can walk the streets of Camden and Belfast like we have the entire place to ourselves. One downside is the fact that after Labor Day, lots of restaurants and shops have shut down for the season. But even that has a benefit…no crowds

Drinking your morning cup of coffee with sweater, hat and long pants, sitting here…

…is the stuff of magic.

Here’s the house, which goes by the unimaginative name of Coleman Pond Cottage.

And, here’s the little lake…

Lucy is especially excited to be making this trip. Like the rest of us, she becomes a different dog up there, drawn to the water like a moth to flame.

Lots of things to do between now and Friday, lots of details to button up.

Can’t wait.

60 Years of Marriage

Last night there was a family celebration, my in-laws’ 60th wedding anniversary. Pam had been slaving away all week getting everything thought out and organized just so. Kaitlin drove up from Columbia straight from work Friday night. She arrived around 9:30 and the two of them were nonstop. This morning it’s all over and I expect that they both will sleep late.

We had dinner at Tarrant’s West then returned to the house for presents, dessert and a rousing game of the Not So Newlywed Game. Patrick, Sarah and Jon were brought into the festivities via Facetime. In total,16 of us came together to make a big deal over the fact that Russ and Vi White have been married for six decades.

I bought them a card, but I felt like the occasion was important enough for something more. So I jotted down a few observations and read it aloud…

“The card I bought for you guys says that falling in love is easy, its the staying together that’s worth celebrating. Sixty years of staying together is a big deal, not just because it is so uncommon and increasingly rare, but because of the multi-generational benefits that everyone here tonight has enjoyed as a result of your steadfast commitment. I would like to list just a few of those benefits:

—None of us have fallen into poverty. The statistics are overwhelming that when a marriage falls apart, so do the living standards of all involved. Not only did you keep your family from poverty, you were willing to pull up stakes and move over 800 miles away to provide for them, not once but twice, first from Rumford, Maine to Richmond, Virginia, then from Richmond to Baton Rouge, Louisiana where Russ endured the hottest and most miserable summer of his life. Fortunately for all of us at this table, the Louisiana thing didn’t work out!

—Neither Pam, Sharon or Angie ever had to go through the debilitating pain and self doubt that accompanies watching your parents go through a divorce. All three of them grew up with the assurance that each of you loved them and each other. That stability allowed them to grow up in an emotionally safe place, something that continues to pay dividends in the lives of their husbands and their children.

—Both of you have taught all of us through the example of your lives that service to others is what makes a good life. Between the two of you, I count over sixty years of teaching Sunday School, Children’s Church and Awana. The countless hours of planning and executing over 9000 lessons to young children is the kind of selfless act that makes an indelible impression on those with a front row seat…your family.

—Bernadette, as the latest person to marry into this family, you too are the beneficiary of this legacy. You have married a man who grew up with this example before him, grandparents who loved him, and parents who love each other and share the same life long commitment to each other. This makes it possible for you to live your new life with Isaac with confidence and trust in the power of his character. When it becomes your turn to have children you will get to experience what it is like to have the full support of your in-laws, something that Pam, Sharon, and Angie have all experienced.

So, Russ and Vi, thank you from the bottom of our hearts for doing the hard work of making your marriage something worth celebrating.”

The Power of Smell

Last night I asked Pam what was for dinner? She answered by handing me step by step instructions for Brats with Stewed Spicy Peppers, a recipe she got from this amazing book…

I had made this a couple times in the past but it had been a while. Of course, she had done all the heavy lifting. All I had to do was follow these instructions:

…which I did.

Yes…that is a Baxter, one of Maine’s finest adult beverages.

It was pretty easy to grill this all up, but it took a while. The three steps took up a total of 40 minutes. But there was a tremendous side benefit associated with this dinner. For nearly an hour my backyard and by extension probably the entire culdesac…smelled like the State Fair. I remember when I was a kid, going to the State Fair was a big deal. This was back when it was over on Laburnam Avenue. We would walk through the big field that had been transformed into a parking lot towards the ticket booths off in the distance. The closer we got, the more smells there were, the aroma of the barnyard, of farm animals. Then the sweet whiff of cotton candy. But as soon as we were admitted onto the premises we would be bombarded with the powerful force field of Polish sausage, fried onions and green peppers. For a ten year old boy, this was an exotic aroma. We were a meat and potatoes family, not a lot of foolishness at the dinner table. But this…this smell… was the smell of the other, something European, something from far away. It made me think that the State Fair was somehow an international extravaganza, even though there was nothing in the entire world more uniquely American than the State Fair of Virginia. But I didn’t know any better. To this day I remember the first time my parents allowed me to actually buy a Polish Sausage to eat. They had warned me that I wouldn’t like it, that it was too spicy for me, that I would take one bite then be pestering them for a hamburger five minutes later. Lies…all lies. When I took the first bite of that gigantic, greasy feast of flavors that was three sizes too large for my mouth the first thought that went through my mind was…I wonder what else my parents have been lying to me about!!”

Thus began a life long love of sausage. Links, patties, pork, spicy, mild, Polish, German, Italian, brats, it matters not. If there was a Pakistani sausage I would probably love it too. To this day whenever I go to a restaurant for the first time and am confused by the menu, I simply look for the word “sausage’ in the entree description and go with that, a strategy that has seldom failed me.

So, to all of my neighbors who may have been wondering where that heavenly smell was coming from at 6:30 last night? You’re welcome!

Why Do I Run?

I have a presentation to make at 8:30 this morning so naturally I’m awake at 4:30, drinking a cup of coffee and getting ready for a four mile run at 6:00. I have no idea why I do this. I am not fond of running, have never been. I am still sore from my last run two mornings ago. But here I am. I think it has something to do with the angst brought on by my advancing age. When a man turns 60 he becomes keenly aware of time…of how short it is. You become aware of subtle changes happening to your body. You can feel yourself getting soft. You can actually see the softness in your skin, how it has suddenly become stretchy and thick in places. So partly out of vanity and partly out of anger you step up your exercise routine, part of which involves hitting the road at ungodly hours to do something that you have always hated…running.

So far this year my handy running app tells me I have logged 382.5 miles, burning 51,886 calories in the process. Have I lost any weight? Not really. But I haven’t gained any either which feels like a victory. The only good thing about running is that when you arrive back at the house dripping with sweat— it is a profound paradox—you feel great for about fifteen minutes. You feel like you’ve accomplished something. You ask yourself, “How many 63 year old men can run 4.25 miles in 41 minutes?” You ignore the companion question…How many 63 year old men die every year trying to run 4.25 miles in 41 minutes?

You take a screenshot of your latest run and send it to your son in Nashville who is training to run a half marathon this November. Running has become something that brings you together with your boy. Out of nowhere he decided that he wanted to run a half marathon, this from a kid who has never been in to fitness or exercise. You worry that you have passed along your tendency towards dangerous schemes of self destruction to your children. But, its been fun to compare our running struggles. You are proud of him. This isn’t his thing, but he’s sticking with it and working his tail off, yesterday running in a driving rainstorm. Chip off the old blockhead.

Somewhere around the 2 mile mark this morning I will think to myself, “Why are you doing this? You hate running.” By mile three my hips start to hurt. I am no longer asking myself questions by the time I get close to the end. For reasons that escape logical inquiry, I am sprinting at this point. When I’m done I will consult my running app and discover that once again my fastest mile was the last one. It’s like I have somehow convinced myself that if I sprint to the finish I will have taught running a lesson…not to mess with me! But the only real lesson is that I am a weird dude with strange motivations.

At some point I won’t be able to do this anymore. I will have to find a less physically punishing exercise regimen. Unlike my son I have been into exercise all of my life. When I was younger I would often quote that tired old gym mantra—pain is weakness leaving the body. But there is an addendum to that hackneyed phrase once you become a man of a certain age…pain is stupidity entering the body.

Scandaleux!!!

Suddenly, submarines are in the news. Normally, this would be a topic about which I would have no opinion. But if you throw the French government into the discussion I’m all in. Also, I’m not much of a Joe Biden fan. I mean, I voted for him and everything but only because the other guy was nuts. So, the best thing I can say about Joe is that he isn’t nuts. But when it comes to this submarine thing, I’m 100% Team Biden.

Ok, since most Americans are too busy talking about Nikki Minaj’s cousin’s friend’s testicles, I’m thinking an explanation might be prudent. Yesterday came news that the United States had entered into a strategic partnership with Great Britain, and Australia to provide nuclear submarines and related technology to the Land Down Under. In so doing, the French 60 billion dollar contract with the Australian government was scrapped. The French Government was so outraged that they cancelled a gala dinner in Washington, accusing us of treachery and some kind of anti-French bigotry.  Scandaleux!!!

I probably should have a better reason for being in favor of this Anglo-alliance thing other than the fact that the French are so pissed about it, but honestly, there’s nothing that makes me happier than French angst. Ahh yes, the gallant French, with their vaunted Maginot Line, their Vichy capitulation, and their seven decades long whining about lack of respect. I’m thinking that if somehow your country earns a nickname as bad as cheese-eating surrender monkeys, it may take a century to live it down.

So, I’m delighted that the French got hosed in this deal for two reasons. First, I’m all for the English speaking countries sticking together here. Great Britain and Australia have been stalwart allies of America for a very long time. And secondly, we will get to hear Macron’s whiny little voice crying about how terribly unfair it all is for months now. Talk about entertainment!!

What Has Happened to Men’s Fashion. Part II

“Fashion contributes to pollution of the earth and the exploitation of workers to an unparalleled degree; the fashion industry makes, say, manufacturing fridges look like growing wildflowers on an Alpine mountain in terms of its war against nature. The Met Gala will increasingly become a wake for the Woke wealthy, as their mockable costumes and sad faces say ‘We may be rich famous but look – we’re not having any fun – please don’t burn our gated communities down!’.

                                     Julie Birchill

Seeing as how it no longer matters how anything looks anymore, I’ll just leave this wacky script running off the page…

                                    

Shopping For Pants

 I used to brag about my uncanny knack of being able to shop for clothes with far less drama and angst than my wife. In fact, eight years ago I wrote an entire blog about it HERE. If you click on that link you will feel the superiority practically jumping through the screen at you. This was a skill that I was quite proud of. I am here today to tell you that those days are officially over. My experiences over the past couple of days has served to wipe that self-satisfied shopping smirk off of my face. What, you might ask in the name of all that is holy, happened? I’ll tell you what happened, for the first time in five years I went shopping for pants. That’s what happened.

Ok, I’m not a big fashionista. I don’t want to look like a bum or anything, but I’m not the kind of guy who has to have the latest thing when it comes to clothing. Actually I’m confused by changing fashion trends. First of all, who exactly changes them? How does what is considered hip and trendy become so? It is a mystery, one that I suspect is the fault of a small but powerful cabal of conspirators in Paris and New York City. Be that as it may, the fact is that you wake up one day and realize that your pants are looking dated. Suddenly guys are walking around in different styles of pants. Those full cut puffy pleats aren’t working any longer. Besides, they are starting to look a bit frayed. When I look in my closet I see the carnage that has cut a swarth through much of the stuff I used to wear. There must be 6 or 7 suits hanging in there, all lined with a fine mist of dust on the far left of the closet. When I first entered the business world in the early 80’s I wore a suit and tie every single day while sharing a 9x9 office with a guy who chain smoked Marlboro’s. Now, the only time I have worn a suit in the past 10 years has been to weddings and funerals. On the left wall of my closet hangs a tie rack jammed full of silk ties of every color in the rainbow. I currently wear three of them, approximately 20 times a year at the office (never with a jacket) whenever I want to feel more professional. Its all part of yet another trend thats been with us for quite a while now…the drift away from formal and towards casual. I fully expect this trend will one day reverse itself, probably two weeks after I take all my suits over to Hope Thrift.

So, my collection of pants were old and unstylish. Big deal. I would just run over to Joseph A. Banks like I did the last time five years ago, spend ten minutes or so roaming around then see what I want, buy it, and be back home in less than an hour. Only…something strange and disturbing has happened to men’s pants over these past five years. Its as if a group of rogue tailors have colluded among themselves and decided what American men need is 15 different cuts of pants. 

The guy who drew the short straw over at J.A. Banks says to me, “So, you want dressy casual pants, do ya? What cut would you prefer?”

I look at him with a blank expression. “Wait…what?”

“Well, lets see, you can get this particular pant in straight leg, classic cut, athletic, trim fit, slim fit, or skinny cut.”

Having zero patience for this nonsense, I walked out and decided that Kohl’s probably had exactly what I wanted and would be cheaper too. I drive over to Kohl’s and discover the same dizzying array of cuts. Different brand, cheaper prices, but still with the cuts. Plus, what the heck has happened to Kohl’s? That place used to be a pretty buttoned up place. Now there are clothes laying around all over the place, picked over and disorganized. When I went to the changing room, every stall was full of discarded clothes from whoever had used the place over the last week! 

Undeterred, but feeling slightly annoyed, I went across Broad street to another of my old reliables…Men’s Warehouse. Here I was confronted not only with the cut business, but a new vexing problem. Color. I’m a rather conservative guy. For me, pants I’m planning to wear at my office, among other places, need to not be…how shall I say this…loud. When did men’s clothiers start offering khaki pants the color of pumpkin pie? Where was the great hue and cry among men for    Mauve and magenta? Who among us has ever walked into a clothing store looking for banana yellow pants? 

At this point I am completely annoyed and ended up going home. As I drove down Three Chopt I thought about all the times my wife has gone out clothes shopping, only to come back three hours later in tears. I wasn’t crying at this point but was beginning to feel an introduction to what I had always referred to as the shopping blues when it was happening to Pam.

The next day I go out again with a new game plan. I have done some googling and now had a better understanding of the subtle differences between Slim, Trim and athletic. Further, I had discovered that L.L. Bean might work out quite nicely. I had found a type of pants I might actually like on their website.  “Breathable fabric, water resistant, appropriate for the office and the golf course”, the sales pitch went. I show up over there and found more appropriate colors for a 63 year old man…black, gray, navy blue. Also, after an eternity in the changing room, I decided that straight leg in a 35x30 worked just fine. While I was at it I bought a new pair of stonewashed jeans using the same tyrannical new cut regime. However, L.L. Bean had no khakis that were khaki-color. if I wanted to walk around looking like yellow squash I was in luck, but since I don’t, I had to go to yet another store…Dillard’s, where I was commandeered by a super aggressive middle aged woman with a thick and menacing Russian accent…

“You not need skinny pants. They make you look like fool. You  need straight or classic. These. You try these on…now!!”

I hurried into the changing room as fast as I could and locked the door! The pants she had given me were actually perfect khaki pants. They fit beautifully and were exactly the right color. When I exited the changing room the Russian woman was standing like five feet from the door. She took the pants from me quickly, “You buy these now!”

When she rang them up they were insanely expensive…but there was no way in hades I was going to give this woman any trouble. I paid for them while flashing a nervous smile. To break the considerable tension I attempted to make conversation…

“So, you have an interesting accent. You from Russia?”

At this point, my mask-wearing saleswoman stopped what she was doing, stared at me while slowly lowering the mask, revealing clinched teeth, “I am Lithuanian.” She spoke the country of her birth an octave lower…then smiled broadly, replaced her mask. “You nice man.”

Finally, my two day pants buying mission was over. An international incident was avoided and I spent more money on a pair of khakis than I ever have my entire life.