MaineCourse

Thought for the Day

I've decided I want someone else to live my life.

First Year

Collaborative Lighting celebrates their first year in business. Photo of random party people.

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Summer's Over

Chris et famille have finally returned from their endless vacation, and with them, this soon-to-be distant memory captured by Caroline.

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Romance in the Seventies

Borrowed from a recent New Yorker

For An Old Girlfriend, Long Dead

Lying on that blanket, nights on the seventh green--
in the dry air the faint scent of gasoline,

nothing above us but the ragged moon,
nothing between but a whispered soon ...

Well, such was romance in the seventies.
Watergate and Cambodia, the public lies,

made our love seem, somehow, more true.
Of the few things I wanted then , I needed you.

I remember our last arguments, my angry calls,
then the long silence, those northern falls

we drifted toward our newly manufactured lives.
Does anything else of us survive?

That day in Paris, perhaps, when you swore
our crummy hotel was all you were looking for--

each cobbled Paris street, each dry baguette,
even the worthless sous nothing you'd forget.

Outside, a block away, the endless Seine
flowed roughly, then brightly, then...

Then nothing, Nothing later went quite that far.
I remember that spring. Those breasts. That car.

William Logan

Charlie's Hike in the Woods

This Wednesday, my godson, Charlie , will meet his friend Laura in Caratunk, Maine, and will walk with her for eight days on the Appalachian Trail. His destination is Jo-Mary campground, which is not too far from one of our fly-in trips - Lower Jo-Mary Lake. Laura, who began in West Virginia, will continue on, eventually meeting up with her dad to summit Mt. Katadhin.

I've been enthralled by Laura's journey (entries added whenever The Trail intersected with an internet-capable computer) and I'm excited about Charlie's participation. However, it looks like there will be no real time participation as he'll pass through only one town ( Monson) and to the best of my searching ability, it lacks a cyber cafe or even a library with a working phone number. Oh well. It looks like I'll see photos of his Scotland trip and the formerly friendly family of big black bears before he skips off to college.




Legible size map.

More Menemsha

Photos from our last day.

Diane and Matthew at Rest

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Deck View

Diane, Matt and Charlie



Charlie Hopkins

Photo Gallery

Dutcher Dock

Dutcher Dock around midnight.

The Big Picture

Menemsha

I know, it seems all we do is vacation.



Both photographs taken by Diane.

Disjunct

�What�s that?� Diane asked. We awoke to two pulsing, piercing sounds. At first I thought, construction equipment. Then it dawned.

�It�s the fire alarm.� Naked, I stumbled to our bedroom door, not yet conscious enough to dread what might be on the other side. I opened it to see the hallway filled with smoke. Matt�s bedroom, normally sealed like a bank vault behind a closed door, was nothing but smoke. I felt like a threatened reptile. �Fire, Get Out,� I screamed.

From downstairs, Matt�s voice, �Dad, I�ve got it covered.� Immediately, my lizard brain switched from call 911, grab the G5 and run, to, it�s all gonna be okay. Matt is safe and alive, and he�s in control, as he had been when he dodged the panel truck in his BMW. That single answer, in spite of what appeared to be our house burning down, soothed me.

Diane followed me out of the bedroom, ran downstairs and outside to see Drew, transfixed by the mattress bonfire. I felt my way into Matt�s bedroom and climbed up his ladder to the loft. The carpet glowed like pine needles caught just outside a campfire ring, and his down comforter, in flames, beckoned for marshmallows. I grabbed the burning blanket and as Matt entered the room, I threw it down at him and screamed, �I thought you had it covered!�

Matt flew down the stairs with the feathers on fire, and out the front door. Later that morning, I�ll follow those feathers thinking a coyote must have caught a goose and dragged it to our backyard. Later that night, we�ll have dinner with Matt and Joe and I�ll ask Matt, �What did you mean by �I have it covered?� To me, that meant everything�s okay, don�t call the fire department, I�ve got it under control. �

�No, dad. I think I meant that we�re down here with the mattress, and the house is on fire.�

Addendum:

I�ve fantasized about saving lives all of my life. I never have. In fact, I may have helped some along to the other side. Matthew, who appears all too grounded in reality, may have saved Drew�s, his, and ours in that order.

Inside Rakkity

I made this little movie using Rakkity's x-rays. If you need a slower, closer look, have a gander at this.

Matt's Loft

After the fire burned through the mattress.

Two Alarm Fire

At 3:10 this morning, Diane and I awoke to the sound of two screeching fire alarms, an entire house full of smoke, and Matt�s room so thick with it you couldn�t see his bed. As I screamed, �Fire, Get Out, � Matt hollered from downstairs, �We�ve got it covered.�

What happened?

The in-house fire reconstruction team determined that Matt�s friend, sleeping in Matt�s loft, knocked over an incandescent light which caused the mattress fire, which woke up Matt, who along with his friend, raced downstairs with the mattress, which by the time they hit the yard, was fully engulfed.

Little did they know that the down comforter was also on fire, still in the loft.

Had it not been three in the morning, I am certain we would have called the fire department immediately, not after we�d put out the fires and tidied up.

Even the men from our local fire department were impressed with this sight. One muscular guy with a Fu Manchu suggested sending the back pack back to LL Bean. "Lifetime unconditional warranty," he said.

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Matthew's

School Photo



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Finally, Summer Arrives

Yesterday, the weather in Acton: "feels like" 102. Evansville : 100.

Goose It

Chris�s nickname is Goose; it has been for years. From now on the blog will refer to him as Goose thereby eliminating any need to differentiate between the two Chris�s.

Goose comes by once a week to help me work on my yard - trim bushes, that sort of thing. Someday soon he�ll help me replace rotten deck boards, maybe even re-roof the garage.

Monday after we�d finished scalping the bush that separates our yard from our new neighbors in the red house, I asked for a ride to Idylwide to buy chicken and corn for dinner. Goose drives an Accura Legend, a low slung sporty car with a sun roof. He never uses the A/C, but instead swaps fresh air for whatever music is blaring on his car stereo. As we were returning - base pounding, wind whipping, old man in passenger seat feeling young again - I pointed to the black Pontiac Firebird in front of us.

�That�s the car you should have. Think of the comments you�d get.�

�I get enough comments driving this car.�

�Oh.�

�And it�s fast.� Goose accelerated to prove his point. �I can get to forty in first gear in no time.�

� You know what. There is a perfect place on Central St. to see how fast your car can go. Start right before the cemetery and end at my house.�

�Wait a minute. You said right before the cemetery?

�Yeah.�

�There�s always a cop hiding in that cemetery.�

�There is?�

Still Neighbors

My two neighbors, Mary and Dolly, have lived side by side for fifty years. They raised their children together, watched them move away, and then, later, they grieved the loss of their husbands. Mary, slightly older but much frailer, was the first to give up her car keys. From then on she depended on Dolly to bring her food. I’ve known them both since we moved to Acton in 1983. Yesterday, I left work early to visit Dolly.

“I’m here to see Margaret Smith.”

The slim young blond woman with dark eye-liner scanned her list of residents.

“I don’t see her.”

I moved to the side of the desk for a view of the list and touched the correct name.

“That’s her. I’m sorry, its Elizabeth, not Margaret. She’s always been, Dolly.”

“She’s in Wing 1, room 422. Walk down that hall and take a right.”

I’d followed those floor tiles quite a few times. Flo, Diane’s mother, rehabbed her hip in this nursing home and stayed in a room near Dolly’s. I pushed the swinging doors open and as I approached Wing One’s nurses station, I saw two choices. I could take a left or walk straight ahead. Acting as if I knew where I was going, and not wanting to be questioned by the nursing staff, I sped straight ahead, glancing about at women seated in chairs along the hall. I continued until the room numbers petered out at 406, and as I returned a woman wearing a blue striped shirt and pink-patterned pajama pants, with stockings bunched at her feet, piped up, “I said to myself, I know that man.’ ”

“Dolly, there you are.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What are you doing here? And when did you move?” I sat down in the chair next to Dolly and her companion, a lady whose eyes had an odd, distant look, as though she could only focus on the past.

“This is my friend, Shirley.” Dolly turned slightly to the woman sitting to her right.

I stood up, introduced myself and then sat back down.

“Dolly, why are you at Rivercrest?”

“I don’t know. One day they moved me here. Debbie, my daughter, lives in Texas and I might move there, but I don’t know. When I ask how long I’m going to be here they just say, 'hmmm, hmmm.' “

Dolly always had good posture. Like the posters in Health class, you can see the beach ball sitting atop the tennis balls, all in a perfect column. When Dolly talks, she keeps her head straight and mostly moves her eyes, which gives her a regal bearing. Dolly looks better now than when she lived across from my house. She has lost weight, yes, but also those layers of pancake.

“Dolly, you look great.”

“I feel okay, but I don’t know what I’m doing here, and its so dead. There is nothing to do. I just sit.”

“I think I’ve heard that before. Hey, lets walk around. Isn’t there a community room nearby?”

“I think so. Its down that hall.”

“No. I’ve been there with Diane’s mother. I think its this way”

As we stood up Shirley said to Dolly, “But your coffee is coming.”

“Save it for me,” Dolly replied.

We shuffled along until we approached the end of the hall and the exit door, but no community room. "I guess you were right, Dolly.” We walked back past the nurses station, grabbed Dolly’s black coffee Shirley had been protecting, and continued onto the community room, where we sat down next to a round table covered in blue Formica.

“Dolly, who’s taking care of Mary now that you’re here? Remember, you used to bring her milk.”

“Oh, Mary is here too.”

“She is? I didn’t know that?”

“I saw her here one day. I think she’s in the basement.”

“Let’s go find her. We can walk to the reception desk. They’ll know where she is. You lead the way.”

I thought Dolly might object to leaving her wing, but she appeared unfazed, and we chatted as we neared the blonde, who smiled as though old friends were approaching.

“Hi again. This time I’m looking for Dolly’s neighbor, Mary Hill.”

She's in Wing 2, room 509. Go back down the hall past Dolly’s room.”

“Dolly, Mary’s not in the basement, she’s right down the hall from you. We have to pass the nurses station and Shirley again; maybe she’d like to come with us?”

Shirley declined our invitation, and as we shuffled into Mary’s room, she turned and instantly seemed to recognized me. She smiled broadly and said, “Well, I’ll be, aren’t you something?”

We hugged, which wasn’t a simple maneuver. Mary is now impossibly small, and if you painted her pink you could place her out on your lawn. Her legs are as narrow as croquet mallet handles, and the osteoporosis in her back has folded her into that pelican shape. It’s hard to know what to hug, but her eyes gleam, and she shows none of Dolly’s irritation with her new home.

Mary and Dolly sat together on Mary’s bed while I sat in a chair facing them. Mary began again, “Well, I’ll be," and then followed with a string of unrelated sentences. If you locked her head in a vice and forced her to look only at you, she might stay on topic. But every time her eyes drifted she’d add another thought. “I can’t believe you came to visit, you know the lady over there just reads all day, and I’m not sure about the person behind the curtain, and its not too warm out is it? Aren’t those trees lovely, and oh my, aren’t you something, but I’ve got things I have to do, and Dolly how many children do you have?” Each phrase delivered new and crisp, like a freshly starched shirt.

“I have one, and you have two children,” Dolly answered.

“Well yes I do, and there is Bill on the dresser and my daughter Evelyn with her..., hmm, lover, and the boys and I don’t know about this new lady behind the curtain. Isn’t this something? And you know what? I’m almost ninety.”

“You are not.” Dolly looked down at Mary.

“I think I am,” Mary replied.

“Dolly, how old are you?” I asked. Mary had conveniently raised a subject I wanted answers to.

“I don’t know.” Dolly said.

“When you were born?”

“In 1921.”

“That means you’re eighty-four and so Mary could be ninety.”

“I guess so.”

I suspected that I hadn’t reunited two close friends. Maybe Dolly would remember Mary lived a short stroll away, but I knew as soon as Dolly walked away, Mary would have no idea where she went.

We talked for a bit longer, and then I said, “Iv’e got to run Dolly, but why don’t we all walk back and you two can visit with Shirley?”

As we left the room with Mary in tow, I turned to Dolly, “Are we sure this is safe? That Mary will know how to get back to her room?"

Dolly slipped me a very familiar, down-the-nose look. One I had seen moments before when she struggled to understand how Mary could be asking how many children she had. “Don’t worry, Ill take care of her.”

Heron Size

This heron lives in the swamps that border Applewood. If you drive by, it'll continue to fish as though it were all alone. If you stop your truck and roll down the window, it'll continue to perform. If you grab your camera and creep in search of an unobstructed view, hoping for an image that would convey size to rakkity, the heron will fly away. Here he is right before liftoff. If I were to guess, I'd say his wingspang is three to four feet. If I knew Audubon friend, Birdbrain, wasn't periodically checking the blog, I'd say at least six feet. Maybe seven.

Vignettes

Rakkity

The Beeper
---------
When I landed on my wrist two Saturdays ago, the last thing on
my mind was the wristwatch on my wrist. But after the impact, and as I
staggered towards the back door, an image remains strong in my memory--
a free-standing white watch dial lay on the ground, its face disfigured by broken glass,
and the wrist band lay elsewhere, apparently broken away from the dial.
Several hours later, lying on a hospital gurney, I mentioned
the destroyed watch to Beth. She hated that watch because it beeped every hour on the
hour, and couldn't be stifled. Sometimes I would forget to take it off before going to
bed, and Beth would be woken up by a plaintive "Beep!". Not a loud beep, but enough
to wake Beth up (but not me) from a sound sleep. I'd be snoring away, and would wake
up just a little while Beth peeled the watch off my wrist to take it downstairs. So
when she heard that it was destroyed in my fall, she said, "Great! Glad to hear
something good happened today."

Seized
------
"Just hold your arm out here and I'll remove the splint", Dr. Pyfrom said while I sat
down on the examination bench.. My left arm
seemed heavier than usual, and as the Ace bandage was unrolled, it got heavier and
heavier. Finally the cut Dr. Pyfrom had made 14 days previously was revealed. I was
astounded and repelled
by the appearance of my arm, with all those staples jabbed through puffy, bloody flesh.
Now my arm felt like a lead poker, and I asked Beth for some support. Like the good
nurse that she is, she held her strong arms out under my weak one, while Dr. P. swabbed
the arm with alcohol, and said soothing words about how well it was healing. It may have been
healing, but suddenly I felt clammy all over. Then he said, "How about the right hand?",
as he started to slide a gentle finger down the slightly swollen back of my hand.
Then he hit a sore spot. The room went black. Dr. P. and Beth started calling to me as
I fell back against the wall. I must have been out for a second or two. After
the shock of seeing my left arm, getting some bad bones probed in the right arm pushed
me over the edge. Afterwards, Beth said to me, "it was just like an epileptic siezure. I
thought to myself, am I now going to have to live with an epileptic?"

Q and As
-------
Number 10: "Whoa! What'd you do to your wrist!", asked my summer intern, Rick, as I entered
the office. "Well, I was standing up high on a ladder in my back yard cutting off a big
limb with a chainsaw, blah, blah, blah... And when the branch broke, the tree kicked the
ladder forward, and I lost mt grip,... adboringinfinitum...Then apparently I landed on
top of my wrist, which bent into a z shape...etc, etc.

Number 20: "Hey, Ed, what happened to you arm?", a fellow astronomer, asks me in the hall.
"Well, I was on a ladder in my back yard cutting a tree limb with a chainsaw, and when
the branch broke, the tree kicked back. Then I landed on my wrist.

Number 30: "What happened to your hand?" asks the Starbucks barrista. "I fell off a
ladder while cutting a tree, and landed on my wrist."

Number 40: "How'd you hurt your hand?", asks the clerk at IKEA. "Fell off
a ladder."

Number 50: "What's with the cast?", asks some random person tomorrow. "Ladder."

The Radiologist
---------------
Beth and I walked into the radiology office with Dr. Pyfrom's order for X-rays of my
right hand. After a short time, I was called into the X-ray room and sat in the
only chair, right next to an enormous black table with a preying-mantis X-ray source
machine hovering over it. The radiologist came in, and asked, "What happened to
your wrist?" (See Q&A 25 above.) Without any comment, she grabbed my left wrist
and tried to turn my palm flat down on the table. I shouted, and simultaneously
stood up to allow my elbow to rotate the hand. You see, there are two pins in the
lower part of my wrist that prevent the normal rotation (that I will get back again),
like when you turn a doorknob. It's painful for me or any other external force to
try to rotate it, and if that wasn't the only thing, I would have felt my wrist bones
rubbing against each other. But she had failed to realize that I have only a half
cast, and the stapled region is protected only by gauze and an Ace bandage, so her grasp was
was right onto the staples. She may have apologized, but I didn't notice. After two
X-rays of the left hand, I said, "What about the right hand?" She looked at me funny,
and went out to check Dr. P's order form. She returned with a disgruntled look on her
face, and with no comment, X-rayed my right hand.
When Beth and I got the films a few minutes later, there were none of the left hand.
Darn. That would have been much more interesting.

The Return
----------
We were all sitting around the dining room table, and Katie came from the back yard
where she had been cleaning up the debris around the accident site. Something grey
dangled from her hand. "Look what I found", she said. It was the dreaded watch,
and not only did it appear to be intact, but it wasn't anything like the watch
of my imagination. Being digital, it had no face. Talk about false memories!
The watch didn't stay around long enough for us to find out if it beeped. Silently,
Beth consigned it to the deeps of the waste bin.

School Supplies

Emma's color coordinated binder. One of four.

Ernestly Challenged

Karen showed us an article from Blackbook Magazine, which described The Hemingway Challenge. Ernest had been asked to write a story in six words and he produced this: �For sale: baby shoes, never used.� That inspired Blackbook to ask 25 other writers to produce their own six word stories. Here are a few:

�He remembered something that never happened.� AM Homes

�Saigon hotel. Decades later. He weeps.� Robert Olen Butler

�She gave. He took. He forgot.� Tobias Wolf

�Shiva destroys earth: �Well, that�s that.� AG Pasquella

�I saw. I conquered. Couldn�t come.� David Lodge

�Poison: meditation: skiing: ants � nothing worked.� Edward Albee

Last night at La Cantina, Diane and I came up with a few of our own.

I began: �Campfire food. Bugs mixed in. Yummy.�

Diane: �Loon calls. No response. World ends.�

Me: �Open blouse. Two Drinks. Marriage ends."

On the way out, Diane waited for me to catch up and said, �Man compliments bartender. Falls down drunk.�

New Art

Chris�s parents, Karen and John, invited us over for dinner Friday. Sometime during the night, Karen said to me, �How come you only have photos of women from the gallery opening? I wanted to see Merriam�s art.� (If Karen is reading this she now knows what liberal gobs of poetic license I use to recreate these conversations.) I scurried behind the prickly bushes of It�s not my fault, I shouldn�t have been taking photos anyway defense. After dinner I ran home and zoomed in on a few of those photos .

We also talked about all gold, gold finches, which both Diane and I claim to have seen on the thistle feeder. I couldn�t find the photo I bragged about, so today I sat motionless in my truck, window open, about three feet from the feeder, and waited for the unsuspecting to land. Nope, no birds without black wings, except for one little guy who looks like a finch in winter.

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