What is a Concerned Citizen to do?

 So, I made a mistake this morning. Friday is the day where I open the Cafe at Hope, so I’m up a lot earlier than normal. After doing my morning chores I usually use the sunrise hour to check out the box scores, say a few prayers and drink the day’s first cup of coffee. Sometimes I take this time to write this blog. But this morning at 5:30 am I made the mistake of pulling up the famous news aggregator—The Drudge Report. For much of the last two months I have been distracted from the news by Maine and a new grandson. These happy distractions have done wonders for my attitude. But there is nothing that will destroy your happiness more than reading the news, even just a headline summary thereof. So, I have nobody to blame but myself.

Of the 50 or so headlines I read I’m thinking that somewhere between 15-20 are completely misleading, another 15-20 are flat out lies and the rest might actually be true, so maybe I have no reason to be concerned. But here’s my problem…

I have no confidence in the fidelity of the news media in this country to tell me the truth. Fox and others on the right are so in love with Trump that they are nothing more than mouthpieces for his administration. The rest of the legacy media are so far in the bag in their hatred of the man, they can’t be trusted to be fair. On top of that, Donald Trump can’t be depended on to tell the truth about—anything. So, what is a semi-concerned citizen to do?

All of my choices are flawed but they are: 1. Stop reading the news. 2. Read the news every day until my social media algorithm figures out my politics and starts feeding me stories that match my current beliefs. 3. Read the news every day and become convinced in the complete virtue of “my side” to the point where I start arguments with everyone online who disagrees with me. 4. Once a week or so skim through the news from a variety of sources and try to figure out what’s true and what isn’t, then go about living my life.

Number 1 is the easiest and most beneficial to my mental and physical health. Number 4 is where I land most of the time.

So, I’ll alternate between numbers 1 and 4. But not until the election is over with. Number 1 is the only choice when their’s an election afoot.

Playing Hurt

 Just got back from four days in Columbia. Spent most of my time hanging out with my grandson. When I wasn’t gawking at, playing with, rocking to sleep or singing to him, I was working on the new novel. I love writing, love the process, the grind, the agony of constructing the story. But as much as I love writing, it’s nowhere near as much fun as watching your grandchild look you straight in the face and burst into a smile.

In our time there we experienced several “firsts”. He had his first restaurant experience, the two hour, slow-service variety. There were nine of us, six adults and two other kids besides Silas, all seated outside—in Columbia, SC—in August. He was an angel, behaved himself better than his Pops. Then on Sunday he went to church for the first time, where his mother handed him off to a friend who worked the nursery. He slept the entire time. Then on Monday, we put him in his expensive car seat and took him all the way across town to visit his Daddy at work. Not a minutes trouble.

The only negative thing about our time with him was the realization that the unique physical demands of being a grandparent are not ideally suited for a 67 year old. It was pointed out to me by my wife that her mother became a grandmother at age 44, while my parents were also in their 40’s. One of the drawbacks of your kids waiting later to have their children is how painfully difficult it is for 67 year old men to get up off the floor after playing with a baby for twenty minutes. In addition, holding a baby in the conventional manner plays hell with the back. Regardless, none of these realities stopped me from getting on the floor to play or holding him until he fell asleep. I’ve spent an entire lifetime playing hurt, no reason to stop now.

Reunited!

 

It’s been a full 7 weeks since we’ve seen our grandson live and in person. All the time we were in Maine we received daily video updates and each time felt gratitude that we live in an age where that was possible. But it’s not the same as holding him in our arms. Two things I noticed…

When Kaitlin handed him to me I was struck by how much heavier he was, how long he was, how much fuller he looked. Newborns seem so fragile and alien. Silas is now a solid, emotive, mini-human, with fire and energy in his eyes.

Meanwhile something had changed with Kaitlin and Jon. They were no longer sleep-deprived deer-in-the headlights zombie parents. They were relaxed, in command, fully confident and in control. Back when they brought him home from the hospital they deferred to us…What do we do?? Now, we defer to them. Suddenly, they are the experts when it comes to Silas. They know every single thing about him now. All of that in 7 weeks. Last night Kaitlin asked me if I wanted to get him down for a nap. I tried without success. Kaitlin then came into the nursery and offered to help. Within five minutes the boy was sound asleep. It made me so happy.

It’s nice to know that he still loves music and the sound of my guitar.

And he is still clearly a little in love with Lolli.

These are the best of times.

Back Home

 This beast was an Italian sub I ordered at Camden Deli. It was $14 and included a small bag of chips and an even smaller pickle. But this sub ya’ll…

The bread was soft and fresh. The meat they somehow managed to stuff inside this thing was exquisite and generous. The tomatoes were bursting with vigor and the black olives were liberally sprinkled along with onions, salt and pepper and oil and vinegar. But what made this dog hunt was the outlandishly delicious red pepper and aioli relish. I washed it all down with a Snapple Peach Tea.

Got home Sunday afternoon and although I miss Maine, it was nice to be home again. There’s something special about walking back into your house after being away for six weeks. It takes a few hours to get reacquainted with the place. It seems so much bigger than it was when we left. But this is our house, no question about it. Everything in it is us. This place is the accumulated us after 41 years together. There’s a joyful familiarity to our homes, isn’t there? I walk in my house and am overcome with gratitude for it. No, it doesn’t have a lake. And the summer’s in Short Pump feel like hibachi night at a Turkish bathhouse. But our house is the place where we have built our lives. Coming back feels like a surprise you find inside a box of cereal when you weren’t expecting one. A delightful bonus.

But every day around lunch time for the next week or so, I’ll be thinking about the finest Italian Sub in Maine.

A Trip Around the Lake

 I left the dock at 9:45. I brought my fishing rod but didn’t plan on using it very much. Despite there being a healthy breeze coming up from the south, and for the first time in the four weeks since I’ve been here…I had a plan. I would circumnavigate Quantabacook in a kayak.

The lake is 662 acres and I’m told by people who know such things that the perimeter of Quanty is 8.3 miles. In my 15 years or so of coming here every summer and most fall’s I have kayaked every part of it…but never the entire thing in one trip. The weather forecast yesterday was ideal, like it’s been almost everyday for four weeks now. There’s no time like the present, I reasoned as I pushed off from the dock at Fernwood, and I ain’t getting any younger or better looking.

My voyage started easy. The wind was behind me as I drifted by the old dance hall camp, an iconic structure that goes back over a hundred years I’m told. It was built right on the water with a long row of windows facing the lake. For me, it’s these windows that catch the rising sun’s reflection when I wake up across the lake at Loon Landing. By the time I reached the marshes west of Sheep Island I had passed houses great and small, little one bedroom camps and large family compounds. When I made the turn eastward at the marshes I paddled into a cross current which sent the occasional splash of cold lake water onto my legs. It was delightful.

Halfway around Sheep Island heading north I passed the construction site. There was a barge at the dock and the sound of hammers. The giant hulking frame of what will be the largest structure on the lake once completed, juts outward and upward through the pines. It looks twice as wide as the old dance hall. I happened to kayak by a few days ago when the owner was on the dock with her contractor. I asked her in as friendly a way as possible, “Whatcha building?” She answered in an equally friendly manner, “Just a house…I love this lake.” “I do too,” I answered as I drifted by.

At the turn I paddled past the eagle’s nest, the same one that has been there seemingly forever. No one was home. There are no chicks this year, a disappointment. I encountered a beautiful Golden Retriever taking a leisurely swim in a cove by himself. I think he belongs to the family who own the house on the north shore of Sheep Island, the one that always flies the Maryland State flag.

As I continued in calm still waters I encountered several large mansions high in the hills, hidden by the trees. I’m not in this neighborhood of the lake often so it’s easy to forget they are even here. They look large enough to accommodate a baseball team, as far removed from the bungalow camps that dominate most of the lake as it is possible to be. Nothing wrong with them, just very different from what I imagine when thinking about camps in Maine.

I finally reached the northern shore of the lake, three and a half miles from where I started. The wind had picked up and although my arms were holding up well, my backside was feeling it, along with my perpetually gimpy back. After passing the beautiful rocky, uninhabited cove at the northeast corner of the lake I turned south into the teeth of the wind. The next mile would be nothing but water and land. No docks, no homes, no people. Lucky for me, my ass and my bladder, I came upon a rocky beach that opened up to a large campsite that someone had built, a stone fireplace along with benches all around, the entire area blessed with a soft bed of pine needles. The view from the campfire spot was stunning. I took some time to stretch. I knew what was coming. The next three miles I would be into the teeth of what by now was a whitecap wind. Why do I come up with such ridiculous ideas?

Paddling into a stiff wind in a kayak isn’t at all difficult, I do it all the time. What’s difficult is doing it on mile 5-7 of a trip. I paddled past the fancy homes at the end of Walker Road feeling my back tightening up. Eventually I arrived in familiar territory, struggling past Matt and Sharon’s place, Summer Dreams, a place Pam and I have stayed for several years. Then I made it to our favorite cove on the lake, where the most iconic Maine camps can be found…the Warren place, Keith and Carolyn’s Loon Landing, our home away from home. I limped past Gil and Charles’ place then made the turn around the point for a straight shot down to the dam. When I made it down there among the lily pads, with the church steeple in the background I just let the kayak drift in the water for five minutes while I caught my breath. The last little stretch up the east side of the lake on the Pond Road side I was mercifully with the wind. By the time I drifted into the dock at Fernwood my GPS said I had paddled 7.62 miles in 3 hours and ten minutes. Obviously I cut a few corners, but all in all, I was proud of myself.

One thought that kept coming to mind as I paddled is that—isn’t it funny how there are many, many owners of homes and camps around this lake, but nobody actually owns the lake. But everyone who owns property here and also everyone who rents for seven weeks every year here, we all have a responsibility to Quantabacook. We are all charged with first—doing no harm to its beauty, and second to make it a better place for future generations in any way we can. There’s a larger point to be made about this that I hesitate to bring up but…it’s much the same way with our relationships with others, our family, our neighborhoods and our country. First, do no harm. And second, do whatever we can to make things better for the people who come after us.

One of the many pleasant thoughts that come to mind while drifting along on a beautiful summer day.

Fine Dining in Belfast

Went out for dinner tonight at our favorite restaurant in Belfast, on a beautiful summer evening. Our food was fabulous, the fellowship was enchanting. However, this particular fine dining experience came with a challenging view for the couple seated on the north side of the booth—which would be…Pam and me.

This particular gentlemen was clueless as to his condition, and since this pair of shorts did not have a belt I can only assume that he shares this view with fellow restaurant patrons all over the Mid-coast region.

For my younger friends who are baffled by photographs of men eating at burger joints in the 1950’s wearing suits and ties…this is one of the many reasons why eating establishments had dress codes.

 

We are Finished

 Years from now when I am dead and gone, the historians will write about the eventual fall of the West, of how rampant materialism brought about societal and environmental collapse. When these histories are written, this device will earn more than a passing reference since I can find nothing that better illustrates the decline and fall of man.

Imagine my surprise when I stumbled into the kitchen yesterday morning at 5:45 to make my morning cup when I found this perky blue device front and center at the coffee station. I should point out that the previous afternoon, my sister Paula and her husband Ron had arrived here at Fernwood as our guests. I needn’t have wondered who this device belonged to—it had my brother-in-law’s sensitivities all over it. Ron has always been a bit of a coffee snob/aficionado who has in recent years added tea to his morning constitutional with the same all-consuming fanaticism that he previously devoted to coffee. This means that if there is a vintage, organic, free-range grown tea somewhere in New Zealand, Ron not only knows about it but is on the franchise waiting list. Be that as it may, even I was baffled at this shiny blue gizmo…what could it possibly be used for? Then I saw through the smart translucent shell and noticed two double AA batteries and an on/off switch. I paused cautiously, not sure if I had the necessary training required for the thing. Ron is famously picky about who is allowed to operate his coffee/tea technological equipment. Nevertheless, my curiosity got the best of me…and it was 5:45–he wouldn’t be up for hours yet. I said a quick prayer, imploring the All-Mighty to protect me from myself…then I pushed the button.

Then in a wave of enlightenment it all came to me—we are finished as a species.

Somebody, somewhere got the idea that we humans were no longer capable of stirring our coffee/tea with the conventional, crude implements of our ancestors—spoons, forks, plastic sticks, the random tongue depressor. No, no…we needed a cutting edge, energy-sapping new way. Enter the Creamer-whirl 2000, manufactured by 12 year old children in Bangladesh for the international conglomerate, LA Technologies. But having an idea for a breakthrough new product is one thing. Getting people to buy it is another. Enter my brother-in-law who plays second fiddle to nobody when it comes to the latest equipment. He probably stumbled onto this thing scrolling Etsy one night and thought, “You know, my wrist has been giving me trouble lately. I bet this Creamer-Whirl 2000 might relieve some of that soreness.” and BAMM…the credit card was swiped and the rest is history.

Our fathers fought and won World War II. WE invented and created a market for the Creamer-Whirl 2000 and made the wise guys at Lazy Ass Technologies gazillionaires.