June 28, 2021--Malthusianism

 

A very smart friend, when we were talking about climate change, said--"Though I like the idea of all electric cars, and though I wish this wasn't true, while good in itself, is not going to get the job done.

"What will?" I said? "Do you have other, better solutions?"

"Population growth."

"You mean what Malthus said about this centuries ago?"

"Yes," he said, "Excessive population growth, which we've had for decades, is threatening to overwhelm the food supply which will eventually cause a global population die-off."

"Are we seeing any of that now?" I asked.

"Definitely." he said.

"Why isn't anyone talking about this?"

"You want to go after the religious right who are opposed even to contraception?"

"Not until I've had a few drinks," I said.

You're old enough," he said, "to have lived long enough to see the population of the United States nearly triple from about 130 million when you were born to the current 330 million."

"I'm old enough?"

"That's the good news and the bad news," he said. And smiled.

"Malthusianism, right?"

"Yup," he said.

"I remember from reading him when I was in college about his overlapping graphs, which showed population growth becoming exponential, while . . . I forgot."

"While food supply and other resources grow at a much slower rate--linear," he said. "That's when your die-off occurs."

I said, "We'd better start talking about this, right?"

"First another drink?" And again smiled.

June 22, 2021--The Dems Are At It Again

My beloved Dems are about to do it again. 

Something at which we are quite expert--shooting ourselves in the foot.

This time, a number of Democratic Senate leaders besotted by their influence and power are contemplating ending the Biden presidency before it gets started and thereby assuring that Republicans will be returned to power no later than the 2024 election.  Even sooner, it is possible the GOP will recapture both houses of Congress after the Democrats lose the 2022 midterms. 

If the GOP takes over Congress say goodbye to American democracy.

Bernie Sanders announced yesterday he will not support Biden's domestic agenda unless it includes a massive tax hike. And Joe Manchin says he's also not on board because he's against the voting rights bill.

If I were Mitch McConnell, these days I'd be feeling pretty good.

June 18, 2021--Jack Is Back

 "So here's the deal--I know you hate me."

"True."

"I know you don't want to talk to me."

"Also true."

"So set a kitchen timer for five minutes and just listen while I do all the talking. I have something I want to tell you."

"Um."

"Deal?"

"Um."

Jack proceeded as if I agreed. I should have hung up but I confess to being curious about what he had to say after the January insurrection and Joe Biden becoming president. 

He said, "At times I hate myself as much as you hate me."

That surprised me and aroused my interest. Jack had never shown any signs of being interested in anything resembling introspection. Actually, quite the opposite. He is the most unexamined person I know.

"You know I love this country. I enlisted in the Marines when I was 18 and spent more than a year in Vietnam. Saw a lot of action and was wounded twice.

I knew all this which was half the reason over the years I listened to his Trump rants. Unlike me he paid his dues and I thought was entitled to a certain amount of respect for that alone. But for me he crossed the line too frequently after he became a Trumper. More than anything I couldn't stand to listen to his smug cynicism. Not quite a white supremicist, he came pretty close. So at some point I cut him off. I gave up on any possibility that he would mend his ways. And he didn't.

"I know you're thinking I want to chime in on the insurrection. That like a lot of white guys from my generation I've been signed up with QAnon.

"To tell you the truth I flirted around with them for more than a year. Went to their rallies--I was in Charlottsville--and thought long and hard about going to DC for the Trump rally before the inauguration. I believed the election was stolen by Biden's people

"I know none of this is a surprise to you. I bought pretty much the whole ticket."

It was hard to just listen to Jack without responding, but I didn't want to reengage with him. I paid those dues. I had tried that before but always came away in a rage, disappointed in myself for being susceptible to him. And so I kept my eye on the five-minute timer.

"Then things began to change." He was whispering as if he believed someone was listening in. 

"The antisemitism on display in Charlottsville about how the Jews will not replace us made me crazy. One thing I'm not is a bigot. I make friends with everyone. Close friends. I don't want to get into 'some-of-my-best-friends-are' . . . But it's true. 

"That decided me not to go to Washington. I didn't want to be in the same place with these racists. And didn't I make the right decision. I can't stand most of those Democrats in Congress. Like Bernie or AOCC, or whatever she's called. But like I told you I'm a patriot. I love this country. I was willing to give up my life for it. But I watched on TV what was happening in the Capital. That wasn't love of country. That was pure violence. Not love but fear and hate and racism.  Including insurrectionists attacking DC police with American flag-polls.

"That did it for me. To use our flag as a weapon against American citizens.

"It took me a few days to digest what I saw January 6th and decided I wanted to back away. I didn't want to do anything to encourage or support these people. I'm not ready for Kumbia or anything like that. But it's time to figure out ways we can at least talk with each other. Before it's too late."

There was a burst of static on the line. 

"Jack, Jack are you there?"

He had hung up well before the end of the five minutes.

June 14, 2021---No More Skunks

"Enough with the skunks already," George complained. 

"How many times have you posted and reposted that story about the guy who cleans up the road whenever a skunk becomes roadkill?"

"A few times," I said averting my eyes.

"I get it. It's a good story, and you're having trouble coming up with new material. But skunks? Surely you can do better than that. If you're going to repeat stuff why don't you post the story about the local Maine dump or the one about you and Babe Ruth. Those are great stories and can stand to be republished."

"I think I posted them five times each. But you're right I'm a bit out of material since Trump became an ex-president. And then I have this tremor that makes it hard for me to type."

"Whatever you do, stay away from skunks. You know I read all your stuff. As a result Fran says I'm even beginning to smell like one and . . . You get my point."

"I was thinking of conjuring Jack for a piece I'm tentatively calling 'Jack May Be Back.'" I smiled at George.

"More Jack? God help us. Between Jack or skunks. I think I prefer cyanide." 

June 3, 2021--Skunk Patrol

So, I lied. This is the third and final reprieve of a Midcoast story from five years ago--

We had just dropped off a load at the dump, and with windows open to let the smell dissipate, we turned up the Bristol Road, heading for the diner where we hoped to run into a friend or two.

About a quarter mile north, half off the road on the right side, a car had pulled over and its four-way flashers were winking. Not unusual as there are some mailboxes there and people frequently pull over to empty them. But what was unusual was the sight of what looked like quite an old man seemingly staggering in the middle of the road, straddling both lanes.

For as far as I could see in the rearview mirror, there were no cars in sight so I moved toward the center of the road to provide at least some protection. Cars along that stretch often race along at 60 mph or more.

As we crept closer, not wanting to startle him, I saw he was carrying what looked like a long-handled tool. Perhaps a rake or shovel. Strange, I thought. Perhaps to use as a sort of crutch to steady himself as he was clearly wobbling.

"I wonder if he's sick or something," I said.

"Slow down even more," Rona said, "And watch out for oncoming traffic. Maybe pass him and pull over to the left side so with your flashers on there'll be warning lights on both sides of the road. Maybe we can help him get to the other side where he'll be safer than wandering in the middle of the highway."

"And we'll see what's going on with him. Maybe help get him to the hospital if he's having some sort of medical or neurological problem."

So I drove past him, going very slowly, and as we did I saw that he was pulling a shovel behind him. Still moving slowly with effort.

We got out of the car and approached carefully since he was not paying attention to us and we didn't want to startle him.

When ten feet away, I asked, "You OK?" He didn't respond so again I called out to him, "Are you all right?"

"Be with you in a minute," he said, sounding fully compos mentis and formal. "Just doin' what I have to."

We then noticed he was shoveling up a dead animal, roadkill, that had been squashed flat. "Looks like a skunk," Rona said. She is hypersensitive to smells in general and dead skunks are among her least  favorite. Seeing he was not in danger and didn't need any form of help, she turned toward the car but hesitated, thinking, as I was, that something unusual was going on with him and the dead skunk.

"I think we saw him in the diner yesterday," Rona whispered, "We were sitting with Ken and he came over to say hello."

That occurred to him at the same moment. "You're the New York folks from the diner."

"We were there yesterday and you introduced yourself. When we saw your car pulled over and you on the road we though to stop to see if you were OK."

"That was nice of you folks. I 'preciate that."

Traffic in both directions was light so we stepped fully off the road to talk with him. "You said you were doing what you 'have to' do," I said.

"That's what I said," he said with a shrug.

"I don't mean to pry," I said, "But you have to do this?"

"Not exactly," he said, laughing.

"Do you mind my . . . ?"

"Perfectly fine. Understandable," he said. "It's what I do. Don't really have to so I guess I mislead you. Didn't mean to. But I take care of the road. This part of it anyways. North from the dump up far as the diner. 'Bout three miles. Other folks work the road down to the lighthouse and others all the way into town. To Damariscota. Do it every morning. Lots of roadkill this time of year. Days getting shorter so animals are thinking where to settle in when it gets cold and there's less for them to forage. And there's more traffic as we get closer to Labor Day. Makes more for me to do," he smiled, "I mean taking care of the road. Keeping things here the way they should be."

"You just do this?" Rona asked.

"Don't get paid for, if that's what you mean. Just do it. I don't know how I got started but I've been doin' it for long as I can remember. My father before me."

"I have trouble with skunk odors," Rona said, "So I really appreciate you're doing this."

"I get used to it. Come to sort of like the stink, tell you the truth. So . . ."

Clearly he was ready to move on. To see what he would find further along on his was up to Bristol.

"My name's Bob by the way. Maybe," he winked, "I'll see you later at the diner."

June 2, 2021--The Lindbergs

One more from the midcoast of Maine. This from three years ago--

"But you are the Linddbergs," she insisted.

We were having dinner at the Anchor Restaurant in Round Pond. It was Rona's birthday and we were celebrating, well into a bottle of sparkling rosé.

"I'm sorry to be interrupting your dinner."

To this I mumbled something.

"But you look like them to me."

"Well, we're not," I said, not looking up.

"What you're eating looks delicious," she said, leaning closer to get a better look at Rona's soft shell clam appetizer. "But, again, I'm sorry to be interrupting."

"In truth you . . ." I trailed off.

"I need to find the Lindbergs," she pressed on. "I met them, I mean you, a couple of times. Once at a tag sale at our house. We're the ones who used to own the Bristol barn. Do you remember that?"

"I think I remember," Rona said, friendlier and more welcoming than I.

"And then at a concert. I think the DaPonte String Quartet. At the Walpole Meeting House. Where they perform in candlelight."

"We're really not . . ."

"It's OK," Rona said, hushing me.

"We're really not them," I said, hoping Rita--she had by then introduced herself--would return to her table and let us enjoy the food, the view of the harbor, and the occasion.

"How could that be?" she said. "I met you at least twice."

"That may be true," I said, trying not to sound exasperated, "But that doesn't make us the Lindbergs."

"We actually know them," Rona said, "Which makes this quite a coincidence. To be confused for them, I mean."

"If you're not them, then who are you?"

Rona gave her our names and reached across the table to take her extended hand. "I'm so mixed up," Rita said.

"Tell me about it," I said under my breath.

"I need to find them," she paused, smiling. She shrugged, indeed looking mixed up.

"Did you make arrangements to meet them here?" Feeling badly for her now, I was trying to be helpful.

"No. But I thought I would run into them here or somewhere else. This is such a small town." Her smile now fading.

"If it's important to see them, meet with them, why don't you call them and arrange something?"

"I could do that," she said. "If you're not them, I guess that's what I should do. They're supposed to mentor me."

I looked at her skeptically since she appeared to be about 60 and wondered what would constitute mentoring for a 60 year-old.

"What would they do with you. I mean, help you with?" I said.

"Bees."

"Bees?"

"Yes, they agreed to help me get started. With a hive of my own."

"The Lindbergs are quite experienced," Rona said, "They gave us a bottle of their honey last year and it was so delicious I finished it in less than a month."

"So that's why I have to find them."

I nodded, now empathetically.

"I wish you were them," she said with an edge of sadness.

"I understand," Rona siad.

By then our entrées had arrived, and noticing that, she said, "I'm so sorry to be interrupting you." Then, perking up and, more playfully, added, "But you really are the Lindbergs, aren't you?"

From her renewed smile I knew she was having fun with us. An unexpected birthday treat.