You gotta be nuts!

Well that's what my wife said. "Why would you want to own a 38 year old car? And not just any car, but a VW Beetle?" She had a good point. Why? Since buying the car I've been trying to figure that out. For one thing, its fun. For me anyway, its a ton of fun to just drive around in the thing. My first car was a 1954 Bug. I drove that heap back and forth to college and sold it when I went into the Navy. I think secretly I've always wanted to own another one. So there's the nostalgia aspect. Mid-life crisis and all that. Some guys buy motorcycles or campers or sports cars. This ain't no sports car. What appeals to me most I guess is the honesty of the car. It has no pretentions of being anything other then what it is...plain, simple transportation. Also for me its a statement. Its my way of rebelling against the ultra wired vehicles of today. Most cars have so many switches, screens, voices and wi-fi connections they're like a rolling computer. Plus the engines and suspension and everything else about the car is all computer controlled. The driver is just along for the ride and to give a little guidance when there's a corner ahead. But if something goes wrong...you're dead. forget your password our your electronic key or have a hiccup in the onboard computer and you aren't going anywhere. I hate that feeling of helplessness. I've always been an independent sort of cuss. There is not much that can go wrong with a VW that you can't repair on the roadside and at least be able to limp home or make it to a garage. I can only tell you in a general way how a modern car works, but I can tell you exactly how a VW works. I've taken them apart and put them back together, and tuned them up and timed them and adjusted the valves and the carburetor. So I know. And that gives me satisfaction. So maybe I am nuts. A sort of Luddite railing against the wonders of modern transportation, but I know when I go toodling down the road in the VW I have a huge smile on my face. I have no doubt about how it runs and how it gets me from here to there. My old VW had no heat and neither does this one. When we were dating Jean carried a blanket with her in the car in order to keep warm. She does the same thing now. Who says we can't go back in time? We do every time we take a drive and for now we're loving it.

Shout out for a friend

"A Christmas Thief" written and illustrated by Middy Thomas is finally published and available for purchase. http://thechristmasthief.com/ Maybe just in time for Christmas. This is a childrens' book written by a vibrant, fun loving 80 year old artist. Middy lives in mid-coast Maine and this is her 6th or 7th or 8th book, so she says. Its a delightful story children will relate too and Middy's illustrations bring the characters and action of the story to life. Its a beautiful book. But it makes me wonder if the parents and children who'll read it, have any idea of the work and effort and time that has gone into making this book, or any book? Its a lot of work. But more then that, for a writer or artist (and Middy is both) it seems with each new work, each new creation, the writer or artist gives up a little piece of themselves. They put so much into the act of creating something new and fresh and compelling. There's joy and satisfaction and relief in the end, but the process is often not easy. Books don't just happen. Writing a book is a business, even if you have no intentions of publishing. There are long hours of typing and painting and re-writing involved. And then when you decide to take the work public it becomes even more of an enterprise involving money and taxes and time tables and schedules and compromises and working with other people. It's not easy. I will never forget when "Sandbox Camp Tales" came back from the first editing. I was devastated! I had no idea the readers and editors would make so many changes. How could they? This was my work. Those were my words. I'd written the sentences they way I wanted them to sound. I was stunned. The publisher was matter-of-fact. "They've cleaned up a lot of mistakes and eliminated confusion", she said. "They've killed my book!" I said. She looked at me and rolled her eyes. "Do you want people to be able to read this or not?" she asked. Hard. Cold. Unyielding. "Well, yes...of course." I stammered. "Ok then," she said, "Lets go over the changes." And we began. Reviewing all the changes was agonizing. But there is was. Editing and re-writing is part of the process. Middy told me she was unhappy with the colors. "They didn't come out like the originals," she said. And I knew exactly what she meant. We laughed together. "It's like giving birth," I told her. There's a lot of pain an discomfort but its worth it. Middy said "I suppose so." As I said, "A Christmas Thief" is a beautiful book. It was written and illustrated by a beautiful person.

Into the digital age

Welcome! I hope you have found this blog by following the link embedded in the description of my e-book "Sandbox Camp Tales from a Maine Storyteller." At least that's how we hoped it would work. That readers would find the link and then be curious enough to link to this blog and see what's up. "Sandbox Camp Tales" was actually published in 2008. The ink was hardly dry on the pages before friends began urging me to put my book on Amazon. Well it was for sale on Amazon already, but that's not what they meant. Eventually I caught up on my reading and learned all about "Kindle" and "Nook" and e-readers. Then I read some of the self helps and blogs that told how an author was supposed to properly prepare his text for uploading to KDP. "Kindle Digital Publishing" The more I read the more daunting the process seemed. After all, I am in my 60's and as a early member of the "boomer" generation HTML coding does not come easily. The CD with the book sat in my drawer for three years, until this past fall. I had not forgotten and was all too aware of the explosion that had occurred with e-readers and the iPad. It seemed more important now then ever to get the book published electronically. But how? Then along comes the Maine Writers Alliance in Rockland. I found out they provide a service for encoding and formatting books for uploading to Amazon and Smashwords. Done! With Cheryl's help and expertise we've made it at last. And now you are here wondering no doubt about the book and whether its worth your money and your time. I guess that depends on what you enjoy reading and what kind of mood you are in. Its a simple book. Just a collection of personal and family stories that I finally took the time to embellish and write down. Really that's the genesis of the book. At first I put them in a 3 ring binder to have at the cabin for the enjoyment of family and friends who came to the lake. Then they told me I should see about publishing the stories as a book and the result is "Sandbox Camp Tales." You should know we named our log cabin, the "Sandbox" as it is situated on a sandy beach and that's where we come to play. Hence we called it the "Sandbox." The "tales from a Maine Storyteller" was added by the editor/ publisher. My sons tell me I've written the perfect Maine backhouse reader as each story is just about the right length for reading while spending a few minutes in the privy. I've written in other places that my stories are not much different from the stories of other Maine families or any families that recreate in the outdoors. Its just that I've taken the time to write them down. Almost all of the stories in this collection have been published individually. After I retired I began to write more and worked harder at selling my stories to magazines and papers. Almost all of these pieces have appeared in other magazines. You'll find some reminisces from my childhood growing up here in Maine during the 40's, 50's, and 60's. And you'll find some adventures I've been part of while banging around the woods, lakes and streams of Maine. There are also a few pieces about my family. I like to think some of the stories are thought provoking and others are just long anecdotes told merely for the enjoyment of it. Its like we were all at the "Sandbox Camp" at the end of a beautiful summer day. Its about 8 o'clock and the moon is rising up over the trees on the east side of the lake. Away off across the water the loons call and sing. Their weird songs echo off the surrounding hillsides. Someone kindles a campfire on the beach and as it grows darker they throw on more branches and stumps. The supper dishes are finally done and people are attracted outside to the fire. They bring their beers and folding chairs and cozy up in a circle on the beach while they watch the glowing embers drift upward toward the sky. People speak in low voices and then someone says "You remember when Dad tried making those beanhole beans?" "Yea, that was a mess." "But he didn't give up." "Did you Dad?" And there's my opening and my audience. One after another we tell stories and laugh at our own jokes. Imagine you are there with us sharing in those stories, maybe even telling one or two of your own, and then you'll know what my book is like.
I know you'll enjoy reading the stories.

Time to hang it up?

Its now June 2011 and I wonder if perhaps I shouldn't just delete this blog and wait for another time to create one. It reminds me a little of all this old stuff we now have lying about the house. All these inherited books, pictures, household items, furniture, clothes and tools. None of them have been used for a long time and we won't be using them. My goal is to pass them on or get rid of them. The space in our home is more valuable then these artifacts from our family. If its not something we use at least once or twice a year then we should dump it. Same for the blog, if I visit it only once or twice a year, I should dump it. I guess after all I'm not the blogging type, nor the facebook or twitter type. In the long run, I don't get it. Whenever I read someone's blog or a facebook page it seems like gossip to me. Nonsense, insubstantial prattling by people with apparently nothing better to do with their time. I'm sure they would all say its their way of connecting, of keeping in touch, of staying current with friends. But what did they do before these social networks came on the scene? We grew up without any of these things and somehow it seems like our lives have been more fulfilling then the lives of our children. I'm sure there are people who would say just the opposite that people's lives today are richer and more fulfilling because of these programs and instant communications. I recall when my sister and I received our first bicycles for Christmas and how my father warned us to be prudent and careful when riding. He said there were be a lot of people watching us and that word would get back to him. And he was right. Everyone in town knew who we were and where we lived and who our parents were, and if we had been irresponsible in riding the bikes, our folks would most certainly have heard about it from the neighbors. He knew that and so did we. Our town was a real social network. Except you had to face the person you were talking to. I don't know, I dont' want people to know that much about me and I certainly would not willingly broadcast my intimate or personal information for all the world to see. Nor do I care to know so much about my friends. Writing what you had for breakfast today hardly seems worth the effort to type or to read. So I'm unconvinced. I'm leary of anything that dominates my life and operates by battery. I'd be suspicious of a pace maker. Because it seems just when you need the device or the help the most, the battery dies. It can be frustrating to be so dependant on an inanimate machine. Someone who cared about all this would also be prompt about making entries into his blog. Obviously that's not me. When I have something worthwhile to say maybe I'll return.

Dad's Death

Its been a while. But we have been distracted. Dad died on Dec. 3, 2010 and I have not been quite the same since. Not sure why. Rather empty I guess. His was an easy death,
if there is such a thing. I tell everyone he slept through it. Which is true. The Veteran's Home nurse called and said they'd discovered him coughing up blood when they were doing their bed checks. They called the ambulance and sent him to the hospital. We caught up with him in the ER. By then he was in a coma and he never did wake up. I'm not sure if he recognized me. The doctors pronounced him terminal and the desires of the his living will kicked in. We returned him to the Veteran's Home where he had been living since New Years day 2010. Four days later he passed away. He never did awaken. We spent most of every day there at his bedside. I've thought a lot about loosing my Dad. But the more I think about it, the more I have come to realize that I had really begun to let him go out of my life when we took him to the Veteran's Home. We visited him almost every day, but it was like he had become someone else. The old Dad who had been my parent had checked out gradually over the past few years. His dementia and liver disease slowly but inexorably changed him into another person. So I don't feel too bad. He died easily and within a short time. We can all hope for such a gentle passing. Both his mother and father had lived into their nineties and Dad had hoped to do the same. I hope he was not too disappointed. Now we're looking forward to burying him and mom this coming summer. Both were cremated and Dad wanted his ashes to be mixed with her's. Some people think this was a lovely idea and others find it creepy. We never did bury Mom because of this. Dad kept her urn on a pedestal there in the living room beside the television for eleven years waiting for him to also die. The urn just became part of the furniture. However there were friends who stopped visiting because Mom's presence in the room made them uncomfortable. We just vacuumed around it and dusted it off. This summer we'll bury the one urn that holds their ashes and that will bring to an end their love story and life together. Until now I have not written anything about Dad except to alert the relatives and family. There's just a persistent emptiness now in my life. I know the passing of time will cure that. At times like this you do dwell on the nature of death and dying and come around to the notion that there's nothing you can do to change it, so you just accept it and move on. I have this image of a table in a dark room and the table is filled with hundreds of those little votive candles. All burning with a tiny flickering flame. Think of them as us. And very quietly you just moisten your fingers and pinch one wick and the candle goes out. But the affect is hardly noticed. The light barely dimmed. And just as easily you might strike a match and start another one or two candles and no one would ever know. I think death is like that. I suppose also this would be a good time to ponder what comes next. Nothing, I think. Despite what various religions try to teach. I just look at nature and observe the cycles of birth, growth and death and rebirth, and that's good enough for me. Animals and plants decay and return to the earth. People do the same. Its the way life works and we're all a part of the natural world. We spread some of Mom's ashes beside the pond and we'll spread some of Dad's there too. We'll think of them when we see the Lady Slippers bloom in the spring.

The Wedding

Well, you don't do that every day. Last Saturday I had the privilege of actually marrying my son and his bride. Pretty awesome. I'll tell you how it came about. Back in the winter he gave her a diamond and she said they would have a fall wedding. Then almost as an afterthought, they said "Dad, you can marry us." Well, yes I could. Maine, South Carolina and Florida allow a Notary Public to solemnize a wedding. Forthwith I submitted the paperwork to become a notary. Paid my fifty bucks and I was "official". Like so many young people these days, the kids were not into religion and merely wanted a simple nonsectarian wedding ceremony. I thought what I would want to tell them and then I searched for some quotes and writers who might fit the occasion. They had decided to be married at our very remote wilderness cabin. That also presented some challenges as the place is not easy to get to and has no paved roads, no running water and no electricity. The wedding party would be limited. Then they had the idea to get married on one weekend and have the reception on the next. Nothing like thinking outside the box. So that's what we did. When I mentioned these plans to my sister, who by the way is very religious, her immediate reaction was a question. "Can you do that?" she asked. "Won't that be a problem? Is that legal?" "Yes it is," I told her. I called the state bureau of statistics and records just to make sure and I was right. Everything would be legal and above board. So far so good.
But you know its kind of a funny feeling to take on such responsibility. I mean, who was I that I should have any authority or moral right to pronounce these two people husband and wife? What gave me the right? Well for one thing, they'd asked me. And for another I was Jeremy's father. And Jean and I owned the camp. In a way I was in charge. I guessed if a ship's captain can perform a wedding then so could I. I wondered if my Maine Guide's License contributed anything to the proceedings? The truth is like many young people these days, Jeremy and Shannon had somewhere in their past days together made a silent commitment to each other and for all practical purposes were husband and wife. My few words and signature on the marriage license would just make it "official". I thought how, in some ways, this whole process is backward. How its so easy to get married and so difficult to get divorced, and I wondered if maybe it should be the other way around. Maybe there were be fewer divorces if more work were done up front ensuring the couples were compatible and level headed about their enterprise? Last Saturday was a lovely fall day. We assembled on the beach of the lake in front of the cabin and we all smiled as the beautiful bride came down the steps to meet her new husband. I read from Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea, and then a piece by Robert Fulgham called "Union" and then I asked them "Do you?" and "Do you?" And that was it. "By the power vested in my by the State of Maine I now pronounce you husband and wife." Then there was laughing, and whoops, and clapping and lots and lots of hugging. We'd done it. No, I warrant there aren't too many fathers who can say the did the wedding ceremony for their son. We have some friends who've done the same for their daughter. He and I commiserate over what a rush the whole thing is. Never to be forgotten. Can you imagine the story these kids will be able to tell their children? So, if you get the chance, do it. If your kids should ask you, do it. And if you don't happen to live in Maine, So Carolina or Florida; then maybe you'd move just so you could say "I now pronounce you husband and wife." I'll never forget the moment.

The Floating Campfire

I wasn’t all that enthusiastic about a pontoon boat, but now that we have one, my ideas are changing. At first I thought they were just too awkward and clumsy to be much of a boat. Sort of like a floating barn door. Definitely not my idea of a vessel suitable for off shore adventures. But she persisted and I found a used one we could afford. Its twenty feet long and the first comments from the kids was why hadn’t we bought one sooner? I decided what appeals is the sociable aspect of the thing, what I have come to call the floating campfire. The outdoor campfire at our cabin is a gathering place. As the evening draws on someone kindles a fire and as it grows darker and perhaps a little cooler people begin to assemble. They automatically form a circle around the burning fire, being carful to stay out of the drifting woodsmoke. We pull up beach chairs and stumps for seats and people poke at the coals. They stir the burning ashes and throw on more limbs and the fire flares up. Then the talk begins. About the day and what we’ve done and who was where and the swimming and the fishing and the mountain biking. The kids tell stories and ask questions and before we know it old family legends and fables are being told. Someone brings his guitar and plucks a few chords. Maybe it’s a tune we know and people hum along. We draw closer to the fire and shake up the ashes and watch the sparks soar upward amongst the tree branches to take their place in the star -studded night sky. Everyone feels cozy in the circle of firelight. Well at least that’s how I see it, and now we have a similar experience with the pontoon boat. We find it brings people together. In some instances they may all be following their own interests, but for the duration of the cruise, they’re all here and part of the crowd. The floating dance floor allows everyone to come. The young wives sit in the back and read their romance novels. The teenagers sit at the table and eat their snacks and drinks. The two year old sits on the deck and plays with his toys. Three young men on the bow cast lures against the shore looking for the first fish of the day. The oldsters can sit comfortably without being scrunched up. They can get up and walk around and stretch. The engine is not overly loud so people talk and can be heard. Nor do we go fast but merely idle along the shore. The water slaps playfully against the aluminum tubes that are the pontoons. We take turns passing the mixed nuts and the drinks, netting a fish and steering. Now it becomes clear why she wanted the boat. It’s social. Like the campfire it makes a gathering place and encourages people to interact. The teens debate the merits of their favorite singers and song groups. The men laugh together when one cast his lure over the other’s line. The toddler walks back and forth between the mothers in the stern and his father on the bow. Everyone sees the eagle drop from his perch high in the top of a giant pine and fly low over the surface of the pond. We all hear loons when they take up their chorus for the evening. It takes maybe two hours to circle the lake at our rate of speed but no one complains. The girls pull on their hoodies as the evening chill descends. When we get back to the dock there’s just light enough to see the path up to the cabin. His father has to carry the toddler who is now mostly asleep. People speak in whispers as if they don’t want to disrupt the quiet of the evening and the woods. The floating campfire has done its job bringing people all together at the end of the day. Forcing interaction and conversation and togetherness. In a few minutes someone will kindle the other kind of campfire and people will gather round the fireplace. I have to admit she was right. The pontoon boat has been a good buy. It’s brought a whole new dimension to our days at the cabin and the time we are able to spend with our family. Slowly I’m growing somewhat fond of the boat. I never thought I’d like such an awkward craft, but it just proves there’s a place and time for most everything. And right now this pontoon boat is pretty neat.

Checkmate

I never liked playing chess. It always seemed like a very cruel game to me.
But then I’m a very noncompetitive person. I couldn’t seem to get my head
around the idea that the goal of the game was to defeat your opponent, and
yet at the same time playing was supposed to be fun. And too, some of the
friends I knew who played took the game very seriously. The press was not
encouraging either, presenting stories of world chess masters with minds like
computers that no one else could hope to understand. I smiled to myself when
they created a machine with enough computing power that could finally
defeat the world’s best players. Friends used to tell me how they loved the
game because it was a metaphor for life. I thought it was more like war. What
I hated most of all was how when the end came there were no options other
then toppling the king. Checkmate. All roads out were blocked. All bridges
destroyed. All doors slammed shut. You were trapped like a rat and had to
concede defeat. That’s how the game is played.
But now I find myself part of a real life chess game and the metaphor has come
back to haunt me. My father is living in a nursing home. Putting him there was
like finally giving up the fight and admitting defeat. It was checkmate all over
again. That’s what happens when all your options fail, all alternatives shrivel
up, and you’re left with no other choice. I find life, like chess, sometimes is a cruel game. Poor Dad had been failing for years. Every since Mom died he had continued
living alone and doing his best to get by. But the onset of dementia and physical
infirmities put him at risk. He was either going to leave the stove on and burn
the house down, or he was going to have an auto accident and kill someone.
As each week passed the pawns fell one after the other. He lost track of time.
He became incontinent. He didn’t eat. He fell in the kitchen and we had to
call the EMT’s. He went to the hospital and then rehab and then we brought
him home. The VA provided some in-home care to help with bathing and
cooking and shopping. We had meals on wheels and Dad just stacked the
unopened meals in the fridge. He could not learn to take his medications.
He passed out and could not get out of bed. We had to call the ambulance
again. Now the knights and bishops were being eliminated. The progress of the dementia
was slow but unfaltering. He tried smoking and burned his clothes. The
state finally took away his driver’s license. There goes the queen. He
collapsed again and went to the hospital. For a while they had him on death
watch. He was comatose, but he revived and the question was what to do
now? He couldn’t return home. That was out of the question. Check.
His needs were beyond what his family could provide. Check again. He
needed nursing care throughout the day. He needed a safe environment. He
needed help with simple daily tasks. He couldn’t dress himself. His needs were
so great he didn’t even qualify for assisted living. They discharged him to
the Veteran’s Home. And that was checkmate. Nowhere else to go. No
other options. No new ideas. No hope of recovery. The king is defeated.
As I said, chess and life can both be very cruel. And right now I’m not
enjoying the game.

Memorial Day at the Maine Veterans' Home

Well it's been a while. Lots going on of course, but nothing directly to do with the book. Mostly marina stuff. Putting the docks and moorings in the river, getting the place up and running for the summer. The big project was choosing and then installing a wi-fi system for our customers. That has been successful by the way, but that's not what caused me to open this screen and begin typing. No, what I would like to record is what happened a week ago at the Maine Veteran's Home. Dad now lives there. He has been there since New Years Day 2010. On Monday we were invited as family to come take part in the Memorial Day festivities. When we arrived the staff and nurses were just beginning to wheel many of the old vets out of the home into the parking lot. Those who are mobile like Dad shuffled along with their walkers. It was a sunny warm summer day on the Maine coast. Before long the sidewalk was filled with about 100 assorted old veterans and their families. When I scanned the crowd I saw caps with gold gilt names on the hat band: Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, Merchant Marine, Coast Guard. They were all there. And then we heard the parade. The Scarboro Memorial Day Parade was marching down US Route 1 and turned up the driveway to the veteran's home. The Vet's home was the last stop for the parade and the site for the town's memorial service. All the veterans got to see the entire Memorial Day Parade pass in review. The high school band, the color guard, the girl scouts and boy scouts, the old cars
and tractors and the fire engine. All traveled around the circle of the parking lot and then stopped. The services began with the pledge of allegiance. That's when I heard a stirring and all about us these old old soldiers and sailors struggled to their feet. Those who could stood up and faced the flag, flapping proudly there in the light breeze from the coast. Some saluted, others placed their hands over their hearts and in voices barely audible recited the oath. It took a few minutes to get them all seated and comfortable again. The band played, the bag pipers squealed, the drums beat and the guest general gave a nice short speech. The ceremony honoring those who had given the last full measure of devotion to their country, and their buddies who had made it home was almost over. The high school band members stood up from their seats and raised their horns. They began playing the national anthem. One by one, the veterans rose one more time to stand and gaze at their flag flying in the morning sun. They remained standing while the VFW color guard fired a gun salute and then off to the side of the parking lot a high schooler played taps. The aching notes echoed off the sides of the Veterans' Home. the last note faded to silence and Memorial Day was done. Family and staff began to circulate and assist the aged vets with their wheelchairs and walkers and guided them back toward the open doors of the building. I'm not sure all knew or remembered why their nurses had brought them outside that day. But some did. Dad knew. He said it was a great time. It reminded him of Memorial Days gone by when it was called Decoration Day. I kept thinking to myself, "its so little", to recognize these veterans for what they did on just one day. And now here they are, many of them infirmed and unable any longer to care for themselves. I thought, we forget too soon. I honored the day by wearing my Vietnam Service Medal. Once a year I find that token and wear it for the day. We were together helping Dad to his feet when a stranger asked if we were a family. I said yes and she asked to take our picture. Jean and me and USN Shipfitter First Class Bob Randall, age 87 years, stood in the sun and smiled at the camera. Dad was tired and ready to return to his room. It seems to me at least this is one holiday the stores and merchants will not be able to commercialize. I hope people will keep the day pure and solemn and that at least once each year we all take time to remember and say Thanks. Its the least we can do.

Gaffett's Town

Whenever we visit Dad at the nursing home, I come away discouraged. Oh don't get me wrong, the Veteran's Home is a nice facility and the staff are as nice as possible. We think Dad is getting excellent care there. But when all is said and done its still a nursing home and after a number of visits the place seems rather bleak to me. As we walk the halls and skirt the various vets in their wheelchairs and scurry past the open doors to the rooms that hold bed ridden elderly, I can't put out of my mind the elephant in the room. That elephant we all know is there lurking, but no one acknowledges its presence. That elephant that hangs over all the activities and daily routine. That unspoken elephant that says almost everyone has come there to die. For most, not all, but most of these folks this facility is their last stop before they die and move on. Even Dad remarks how almost every week they wheel someone out and then the next day a new person comes to occupy that room. Sort of like a train station where people wait, often not all that patiently, for their train. When the train stops they present their ticket and get on board and their seat at the station is taken by another traveler. I began to think along these lines and I remembered Captain Littlepage's sea story in Country of the Pointed Firs written by Sarah Jewett. In the book Capt. Littlepage spins his yarn about being shipwrecked on the coast of Greenland. While the survivors waited for rescue, Capt. Littlepage befriended another lost mariner and its from him the captain got his story called The Waiting Place. The man Gaffett told about his ship and crew being lost in the Artic, further north then any ship had ever sailed before and how they came upon this town. Gaffett went on to explain how the sailors were amazed to find an occupied town so far north and yet the people they saw on shore were - insubstantial. They were ghostly and flitted about. When a sailor would try to approach one of these souls they would vanish. Gaffett went on at great length about how they saw groups of these wraith-like people and individuals but were never able to speak to any of them. In the end they decided these creatures were neither living or dead. Gaffett told Captain Littlepage the strange town they had stumbled upon was a sort of waiting place between this world and the next. Capt. Littlepage was not at all sure about the weird town so high in the latitudes but as he grew older he wondered more and now in the book he repeated Gaffett's story, as if it might have been true. Who could say? I know the story's true. Gaffett town and the people in it are not far away in the Artic, they're just up the road in the "B" wing of the Veteran's Home.

Striking a chord

You never know when you might strike a chord that reverberates with many others. Its something many writers hope to achieve, but then we never really know because there's little feedback. Some of us might get an occasional email saying I read your piece and I liked it. That's always encouraging, even if there's only one. Or then we may bump into a friend in the grocery checkout and she'll say hey I read your book. I never knew you were so talented. And we mutter Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it. So bit by bit, with drips and drabs we suck up little hints that insinuate what we have written is not trash and that once in a while someone really enjoys our stuff. For amateurs like myself we live for these little morsels of encouragement and praise. But I was not expecting the wave of feedback I got from a little piece I wrote about my dad. Dad is now living at the Maine Veterans' Home where he is getting the care that he needs, but at the time I wrote the essay Dad has just lost his driver's license. He had been flirting with loosing the license for a couple of years. Dad's dementia had progressed to a point where the neurologist reported him to the state as a driving risk. Dad received notice he was to appear for a road test and don't you know, the wily old fox charmed the examiner and passed. As the months went by though he did drive less and less and we did not encourage it. Then he passed out in his home and we called the ambulance and he went to the hospital. His license was automatically suspended. I remember the day I slipped the dirty plastic license out from the pocket of his wallet and put it in an envelope and sent it back to the state. I knew that was the end of driving for Dad and that's what prompted me to write the essay. I called it "A Man Without His Horse" and it appeared soon after in the Wolf Moon Journal. Here's the link: http://www.wolfmoonjournal.com/2010/02/a-man-without-his-horse/ Writing the piece had been helpful for me in that it let me get out some of the angst and pent up emotion I felt at having to be a party to my Dad's driving suspension. Little did I realize how many other folks would read the essay and be affected by it. I did after all strike a chord. People sent me notes and caught me on the street and either told me similar stories about their parents, or about how they themselves feared facing this reality when they became elderly. The idea of loosing your drivers license seemed to strike at the very heart of people's self image and brought to light many other issues related to aging and independence. I even had one request to re-print the article for a local 55 Plus newsletter. You can read the essay yourself and see what ideas or feelings it might engender. What pleases me the most though is how it has sparked stories and thoughts from so many others. I suppose its not unlike a minister who delivers an exceptionally insightful sermon and hears about it as parishioners file out of the sanctuary. I didn't intend it that way, but it is gratifying when you write something and every once in a while strike that chord that reverberates with readers and gives them pause and causes them the think and to reflect. In many ways I think that's part of what being a good story teller is all about.

Sleeping with your dog.

Did you sleep with your dog? It seems to me one of my most cherished childhood memories is having my dog sleep on my bed with me. I wonder how many kids enjoy that experience today? Not many I'd guess. Today we know too much and are too wary of all the bad things that might happen if a child were to share the bed with his dog. But we lived on an old run down farm and our farm collie was just part of the family. I don't recall we every thought too much about "Digger". He was just always there. When we kids went outside to play, Digger was always there with us. And when we were in school Digger patrolled the worn out farm fields and encroaching woods. Somehow he knew when the rural school bus was due to stop at the end of our dirt road and drop off my sister and me and the neighbor kids and Digger would be there waiting. We'd all come trooping down the road toward our homes with Digger somewhere beside us. We never knew anything different. In the evening when Mom called us to come eat supper, Digger would position himself under the kitchen table. My sister and I could rest our feet on his furry back while we ate Mom's clam casserole. And when we went to sleep, Digger would jump up and lay across the foot of my bed. I could feel the weight of his body pressing against my feet. And that's just how it was. Our parents didn't think it was strange that the dog should sleep with us, or think it was dangerous. . That is until we moved. Life on the old farm changed and Mom and Dad bought my uncle's house in town and we moved. Mother was delighted to begin housekeeping in a nice house with some conveniences. And she intended to keep it nice and clean and respectable. As soon as we moved in she declared that dogs slept in the basement not in bedrooms. Digger was banned to the cellar. My sister and I made our way upstairs to our new bedrooms and the dog was ushered downstairs to the basement and Mom closed the door. Digger had a way of moaning and sounding a little bit like a lonesome loon. We could hear him whimpering down there in the dark. This went on for a couple of nights. But then one evening after supper when we were all in the livingroom watching Milton Beryl on the old Emerson TV, Ruthie and I saw Digger get up and every so quietly nuzzle the door open and slip upstairs. We didn't say a thing. When I went up to bed and into my room there was Digger lying under the bed. You're not supposed to be here, I told the dog. But that was all. I climbed in under the covers and Digger jumped up on the foot of the bed. Just like old times. When Mom made her rounds and opened our bedroom doors to say good night, she discovered the dog curled up with me, and she did nothing. I think maybe she knew there were some things she couldn't change even when living in a new house. Or maybe she thought the change in life style was hard on my sister and me and that some things however small should remain the same. At least Digger was allowed to sleep with us from then on. I remember all that now and wonder at how intelligent or clever that collie dog was. We have a little niece who for some strange reason has a fear of dogs. She cowers and retreats and begins to cry whenever she is near a dog. She's only nine. When I see her act this way I think of my own childhood and how our dog slept with us. I hope other kids have the same experience although I'm not so sure. Today we seem so overprotective and paranoid about things that might happen, even though they seldom do. Sleeping with my dog just seemed natural and correct. I know its one of my fondest childhood memories and makes me miss that old farm collie.

Deer Camp

Deer camp is over for another year. This time we only had three days, but we crammed a lot into those few days. Of course the object isn't so much to shoot a deer as it is to hang out together at the cabin and revert to pioneer life and mountain man ways. If we had a drum, we'd have beat on it, but instead JT brought his guitar. We had some strangers though. When you broadcast an open invitation to your buddies to come join us at the camp, you don't always know who's going to show up. This time one friend brought along two of his friends. They were welcome of course. Always glad to have a few more hunters stay at the old cabin, but within a few hours it became clear they had come to actually hunt. We didn't have the heart to tell them there were no deer in the neighborhood, but by the end of the day Saturday they'd come to that conclusion on their own. The three of them came driving down the driveway in the monster four wheel drive Chevy with the dual exhaust, and piled out of the truck and declared in no uncertain terms, "there ain't no f....g deer within twenty miles of this camp!" Well I knew that, but I asked them if they'd had a good day? Had they seen some nice country? Had they enjoyed being out in the woods? My questions fell on deaf ears. Without pausing too long they announced they were going back home where they might at least "see a deer." It took less then an hour for them to pack up and shove off into the dark. We heard the dual exhausts rubble into the distance as they drove out the camp road. Inside the cabin the gas lights gave off a friendly glow and the old woodstove radiated heat. Too much heat really. Thousands of hibernating house flies had been tricked into thinking it was June and they had invaded the cabin. Flies were everywhere buzzing against the windows and the screens. Falling into our hair. One fell into the bowl of popcorn. Soon it was all out war. We sprayed and sprayed and the flies were dropping like....well...flies. It took two hours to kill, sweep and discard the plague of flies. As the evening drew on we four enjoyed playing cards and knocking back a few brews and stirring up noble hearty meals on the stove. We sang a few songs and read a few stories and later in the evening we began to recall other "deer camps" and days gone by, and past hunts and past meals and history making cribbage hands. By midnight we were all snugged into sleeping bags watching the woodfire flicker through the grate of the stove. Ben yawned and said in a loud voice, too bad those fellers took off. Yeah, we said, they missed the best part of deer camp.

Buried treasure

We introduced our friends to geocaching and they loved it. It was our annual autumn get away in the western Maine mountains with dear dear friends. Before going I download
the coordinates for several geocaches in the Sugarloaf area. In case you don't know (and our friends did not know either) geocaching is a game played by people around the world. Geocachers hide things in likely outdoor places and then publish the latitude and longtitude coordinates for the site on the geocaching.com website. Other geocachers look at these caches and attempt to find them by using their handheld GPS. Often going after a geocache is just an excuse for a hike or a road trip, but seeking the treasure is a lot fun...as our friends found out. We began with three caches that were supposed to be hidden along the trails of the Maine Huts and Trails association. The friends did not know what to expect. The gps will usually get you within ten feet of the cache but then you must scouer the ground and the trees and rocks searching for the elusive hiding place. Some caches are very cleverly hidden. The first one was hidden in a stump and when we pulled it out everyone laughed and smiled. That only whetted their appetite and enthusiasm. where's the next one? they all wanted to know? This time the box was hidden under a rock. We prowled around the brookside turning over logs and bending down to peer under boulders. Here it is! one of the friends shouted. I found it! I found it! Usually a geocache contains trinkets and small items for trading as well as a small log book for recording your "find". The idea is to take an item and replace it with something you brought And so the game goes on. The ones I had downloaded into my handheld were not high on the difficulty scale. But it didn't matter. Hiking together along the trails and then scattering around in the woods to find the cache was huge fun. The last one was near the road and hidden inside the guard rail. We walked right past it but the gps pointed us back to the location. When we returned to the cabin all the talk was about the morning hunting geocaches, and how this one was obvious and this one was hard to find, and this one was hidden so well and on and on. Who'd have thought six adults would have had so much fun chasing after hidden treasures? But after all its not the cache itself that creates the fun but the searching, and puzzle solving and the sweet feeling of success when you reach under a root and feel the tupperware box. Plus it was a group effort. Working together to unravel clues and then sharing insights on where the "cacher" might have hidden their
stash only added to the fun and feeling of accomplishment. I wasnt' sure they'd even be interested in the sport but now their asking about which devices to buy so they can take their grandkids out in the woods and search for more buried treasure. But as we all found out, the treasure is not in what we found, but in the journey we all took to get to the cache. Happy geocaching. the public site that controls caching around the world is geocaching.com.

MIlestones

In olden days the distances along the old Boston Post Road were marked at every mile by a stone post. These were usually chipped out of granite and stood upright in a post hole to mark the progress along the road. They were called "Milestones."It seems I've
been thinking about various milestones in my life of late. For one the editor for my book is hosting a signing and meet 'n greet next month, but I won't be there. Unfortunately her open house conflicts with "deer camp" so I was forced to make a tough choice. Whether to spend the time in the woods with my sons or join a few other authors for a couple of hours when we might meet two or three patrons of the bookshop. I had participated in a similar affair two years ago when the editor had a booth at the local craft trade show. That was fun. But again the traffic on my afternoon was rather thin. Besides "deer camp" is a family tradition and I don't plan to miss out as long as I'm able and healthy enough. Fact is there'll be a day not all that far in the future when I may not be able to go. So this is kind of a milestone, much as I'd like to publicize the book, I'm choosing another route. We passed a milestone too with our 18 month old grandson when he had his first haircut. We were a little surprised we had grown so fond of his longish hair and curls. But his mom was under pressure because people were mistaken him for a baby girl, so off to the barbershop they went. Another milestone of sorts. Its amazing to me how we reach and then pass these significant and not-so-significant events in our lives. In his case its things like taking the first steps (he's a very good walker these days), sleeping through the night, drinking from a cup, his first words, his first haircut, boarding that big yellow school bus for the first time. Oh the immensity of it all! Its a wonder we ever make it to adulthood and beyond. But we hurtle along life's path passing first one milestone then another and before we know it we pass the "last" milestone and disappear around a bend in the road and those left behind us cannot see beyond. I guess what intrigues me the most about all this is the inevitability of it. No matter what we may do, most of these events are going to transpire in our lives. We are going to change and things are going to happen and then we're going to move on to something else. All of which reminds me that the joy is in the journey and so we should enjoy the trip and savor each milestone we reach. Even a first haircut.

FLATTERY IS ALWAYS APPRECIATED

Good things come to those who wait...or so they say. Well in this case the results were well worth waiting for. Back in the middle of this rainy wet summer, Carol Standish from Points East magazine paid me a call and we spent part of the morning together discussing the book and life in general. We had a great time thoroughly enjoying each other's company. From that interview Carol wrote a review of the book as well as a description of who I am, and both are published in the September 2009 issue of Points East. You know it is always a thrill for a writer to see his or her name in print, so I'm grateful to Carol for having been so generous and sincere in her remarks. Points East is a local boating and cruising magazine. Usually people on summer cruises have a bookshelf in the cabin of their boat stocked with a variety of books. Some to wyle away a summer afternoon while anchored in some remote picturesque island cove, or to help maintain sanity when becalmed with day after gloomy day of fog. Carol advises that my book might be a surprising addition to any boat library. Actually its been a slow summer for the book. We've been preoccupied with so many other things it seems that selling and promoting the book has taken a back seat. We did enlist the aid of a computer literate friend to help prepare the text for eventual uploading to Amazon's Kindle. This is still a work in progress which we hope we will have to complete this fall. Also the writing goes on and the volume of stories continues to grow. We have the material for a second book, but now we need to find a publisher. Having been turned down by a few here in Maine it might be time to cast our net further afield and see what might come up. I hate to do that as my stories are so closely associated with Maine and our life here, but the impulse to be published again may overcome any allegence to publishers here in the state. So we'll see. But in the meantime go find a copy of the September issue of Points East and read what Carol had to say about the book and about me. It's pretty good reading.

Radio Spot

Well, that was fun. A while back an editor had offered a chance for us to talk on his weekly radio show. It took a month or so before we could both show up at the same time, but last weekend we made it. He was in the studio with two other authors and I was 180 miles away on the other end of the telephone. The engineer called me during the commercial break and when the last strains of the car jingle faded away I was "ON THE AIR." The idea was to talk about my book and so we did in a conversational way. Pretty laid back actually. But we hit some of the key points like the name of the book and where you can buy it. We had fifteen minutes and that was it. On to the next writer and goodbye to me. Good thing I hadn't driven three hours to get to the station. Who knows how far the station reaches or what the listening audience might be? But as I say it was fun nevertheless and one more experience to chock up with publicity for the book. There's another editor who has asked for an interview. She's planning on a book review, so that too will probably be fun. The one I did last year for the newspaper was enjoyable and resulted in a nice complimentary article. Book sales are dragging though. Without being proactive about the selling effort, there's little chance people will just happen onto the new book. Now I'm struggling with Amazon and formatting the book for Kindle. The more I have read and heard, the more difficult the whole process sounds and it seems as if Amazon might have misjudged the computer expertise of many amateur writers. HTML is not something I speak or what's more even care to speak, but evidently its somehow important to getting your book uploaded and looking correct for the Kindle crowd. I think I'll chicken out and call for some help. Years and years ago I remember taking a tour, probably with my Cub Scout Den, of the composition room for the local paper. I'll never forget the formidable type setting machines that clanked
and banged and spit out out lead. The type setter asked each of us our name and then he poked the keys and explained how the type faces were dropped into a tray and then how hot lead was drizzled over them and out came a shiney lead slug with our name neatly spelled upside down and backwards. I'm sure those old guys pounding on the linotype keys would have no problem formatting my book so it would look just great.

Facebook - the experience

Well it's not good. So far at least. We finally got around to trying Facebook and fell flat on our ...face. I guess. It sounded like a good idea. People had suggested we create a page for the book, so we thought we'd give it a go. We went to Facebook and found a invitation that asked if we were creating a page for a band or product or art. Hmmm, we thought. I guess writing is an art, so we clicked on that and sure enough we were allowed to choose "writer" as one of the categories. I thought well this makes sense so far. Next we were asked to upload a picture and write a little something. I wrote that I was creating this page to publicize my book...which was true. It took a while but eventually the picture popped up. So far so good. I wanted to include a link to the Youtube clip and tried that and it also worked. I was feeling better about things and my mind was busy thinking of other things I might add that would let people know about my book. I thought of the book cover and uploaded that too. I had to create a photo album to do that. I wasn't sure why, but that seemed to be how it worked. So bit by bit I was getting there - I thought. Hovering off to the side was this ominous message that reminded me I had not published this page. I figured eventually the chance would present itself for me to "publish" what I'd done so far but it never happened. I clicked on the next choice and was told I needed to create a profile. It was all down hill from there. What high school did I graduate from? What college did I attend? I wondered what those questions had to do with my book but I filled in the choices and that was the last I saw of my book. Gone! I tried everything to return to my book page. I knew I'd uploaded those pictures and entered
those links, but no, I was stuck in a profile somewhere. OK, so I missed a step I thought. I'll bomb out and try again. After all I had created an email and password.
Click. Facebook disappeared and was back at the internet screen. I quickly typed in
Facebook and....I was right back at the profile business. What had happened to my book? Where had my pictures gone? Why couldn't I find my pictures? Oh boy. Talk about frustration. Click click click. I tried every option on the screen. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. No pictures and no evidence of my book. I logged out and returned two or three times. No change. I always ended up at the same old place. I even tried finding some FAQ's that might give me a hint. I knew enough to do that. But even then every time I went to Facebook I ended up in that profile section. Finally I quit. Geesh I thought. This website is one of the most popular in the world. Bazillions of people use the thing, and I can't. Go figure. Now I'm afraid to try again. What do I need another identity? Maybe I should go in the witness protection program? I think now Facebook knows about me and won't allow me to proceed or go back. Years ago the Kingston Trio had a hit folk song "Charlie on the MTA". It was about a poor rider on the Boston subway who didn't have the dime that was demanded for him to get off the train. In the 1940's the fare structure for the MTA was so complicated it was laughable and one piece of it demanded you pay a fee to exit the car! Poor Charlie didn't have the dime he needed to get off so he would ride forever on the MTA. I guess that's me and Facebook. There's got to be some toll or trick or bribe that will
get me started again or get my pictures back, but I don't know it, so like Poor Charlie I guess I'm doomed to forever be stuck on a profile screen. I need somebody to slip me the extra "fare" so I can get off. I guess when friends ask me how the Facebook thing is going I'll just have to say "Not so good. Not so good."

Just Showing Up

Occasionally I've been asked to read a book and write a review about it Whenever that happens I'm flattered, but also a little hesitant. I have this feeling readers appreciate a book review when it finds fault with the writer and what he or she has created. It seems to me, sometimes, that a reviewer is not doing critical thinking about the book at hand, unless he can somehow find fault with it or at least make suggestions for improvement. I think I've done maybe six or eight reviews and I can't recall finding anything to publicly complain about in any of those books. In the first place I don't feel as though I have the right to criticize another writer's creation. His world and my world are different and there's no way I'm going to be able to put myself inside his head and have different thoughts. For me writing a review is a chance to tell what the book is about and indicate why someone besides me might want to make the effort to read it. Usually there are some good reasons. I'm especially fond of reviewing a new writer's first book. I see it as a chance to be encouraging and perhaps draw some readers to the new book. We joke around these days about some of the lousy work ethics we experience in the market place, and we note that ninety percent of succeeding at a job is just in showing up. For that reason alone the new writer deserves to hear some priase, because he has "showed up." And when your writing fiction, poetry, history, and non-fiction just showing up takes courage. Courage and persistance and determination. I know because I've done it. I was very lucky when someone reviewed my book and wrote favorably about it. They were kind with their remarks and gave the book a nice endorsement. Now I try to return that favor. I've reviewed other books that are antiques. Books that have gathered dust for years on a shelf or in a cardboard box and its been my good fortune to unearth the book and discover it again. That's fun also. To write a review about some long forgotten or minor book and try to convince people it might be worth reading again. Sometimes its surprising how current some old works are and how they too have something valuable to say about our lives today. There's more then enough angst, anger and rage in the world these days. Popular TV "reality" shows make a virtue out of voting people "off the island." Drivers honk their horns and flash hand singles at other drivers out of some mistaken idea that they may be better drivers or know more then the person in front. Audiences shout cat calls and hoots when a non-descript person steps out on to the glaring stage. People have drawn an impression of that person before they've even heard her speak or sing. I think that's as true in entertainment as it is in schools and in business. So you won't read any critical rants or diatribes about books from me. I figure we're all in this together and there's room in the lifeboat for everyone.

Facebook

"Facebook" everyone says. You got to be on Facebook. Do I? I replied somewhat cynically. How come? Everybody's there, they tell me. You should be too. It's the latest thing. Oh Really? Hmmm. Well maybe they're right. After all I am a computer neanderthal. I thought figuring out how to post this blog was pretty advanced. Well, lets see. I guess if I go on Facebook lots of people will be able to see me and and then I'll be able to see them. It's Social networking, they say. I suppose so. But when I was boy social networking would have been the local Grange and the party telephone line. Everyone knew everyone else's "ring" and would listen in. The soaps were on the radio so the party line provided another form of entertainment especially for the farm wife having a little rest and a cup of tea after putting up her jellies. When a child came up missing at supper time it was an easy matter to pick up the phone and ask if anyone had seen the boy and if they had to send him home. Uncle Mont and Mr. Towle both raised some cattle and they shared vet expenses when it came time for insemination. Sometimes this took a little bit of coordination to set the right day and time and where would the vet go first, so Mont would ring up Mr. Towle to talk about the cattle business. But before launching into the matter at hand, Mont would clear his throat and loudly announce into the mouthpiece that he and Mr. Towle were about to discuss breeding, and maybe the ladies would like to hang up. Mont would have a satisfied look on his face as he would hear the various clicks on the line as the prim farm wives hung up and left him and Mr. Towle to discuss the finer aspects of cattle breeding. I don't know how we did it so many years ago, but people knew their neighbors even those a few miles away. And they knew who had which jobs and where they worked and who their kids were. We recognized everyone's car or truck when we passed
them on the road. Grandfather ran a successful service station and towing business
in town and he used the one telephone in their house. There was no phone in the shop. But somehow he got by. He received the calls he needed to get, he had plenty of cars to work on, and he made a living. Heck even when I was at the university the dorms were so decedent as to have a pay phone on every floor. Imagine. Usually down at one end of the hall. There were no phones in the rooms. Nor TV's or computers for that matter. When the phone rang someone nearby would pick it up and then yell out "Hey Bud its for you." Somehow we lived and prospered and I don't think the quality of our education suffered much. Social networking on campus meant hanging out at the student union. So I don't know. Is Facebook something new and different? Or is it just another incarnation of what we've always done? If Facebook weren't here would we still be listening in on the party line and would we know our neighbors just as well?