June 1, 2018--Jack: Base-Ball

"I don't want to talk about politics," Jack said, waving us off before we could even say hello after running into him in on a perfect morning in downtown Damariscotta.

"I unfriended half my Facebook friends because of politics," he said. I suspected that included me since I haven't seen any postings from him for at least two months. 

"I'm just trying to get the renovation work done on my house and want to lead a calm life. The politics talk has been making me crazy."

I said, "I understand, but you know it's your own fault." He looked at me skeptically and tried to walk on. I trailed after him. "How can you literally run away from the discussions you initiated for months? Years?"

"Like I said," he said with his back half turned away, "I'm through with talking. I want to concentrate on living."

"I'm not blaming Trump's election of you," I said, "But you bear some responsibility. You talked him up for months before he ran and after he beat the odds and won the nomination, all you wanted to talk about was Trump, Trump, Trump. You remember--'your boy?'"

"I need to get back to work," he said but stopped racing ahead and turned toward me, slowing down so I could keep up with him. I'm a little wobbly on me feet, he's full of energy.

"So are you having a bit of a change of heart?" I suspected this might be why he didn't want to talk and had unfriended so many people. Avoidance. Feeling, perhaps, that he was in fact partly responsible for Trump's election but was feeling some disenchantment.

"I don't agree with everything he says or does. Nobody does. But I do agree with some of his issues."

"Some? That surprises me. I would have thought from our conversations that you'd be a happy camper. But give me some examples of things with which you agree and especially those with which you disagree."

"I believe in the tariffs. All around the world they're taking advantage of us. Even our so-called friends  Europe, Canada, and of course Mexico. They're killing us. Especially the Chinese. So he's right now moving, in fact today, to impose them. On steel and aluminum. He promised to do that during the campaign. And by the way, one thing you'll have to agree about--he is good at keeping his campaign promises."

"Even the crazy ones like tariffs. Most Republicans don't agree with them," Rona said. She had caught up with us. "They believe in the free market. That it will take care of everything, including inequality, if the government stops trying to manage the economy. Conservative politicians and economists say this. For every job saved by these kinds of tariffs three down the supply chain are lost."

"We'll see how it works out," Jack said, avoiding eye contact. But he made no effort to move on.

"You really want a trade war with China just when we need them to help us with North Korea?"

"The Chinese are smart. That can do two things at at the same time. Like walk and chew gum. As long as they see it to be in their best interest."

"Speaking of the Chinese," Rona pressed on, "How are you feeling about all those million-dollar trademarks the Chinese recently awarded First Daughter Ivanka? Just days before Trump went against all advise to prop up that Chinese telecommunications firm, ZTE, that everyone, including Republicans, say is a threat to our national security. This feels like play for pay to me."

"Not my favorite thing," Jack mumbled.

"Anything else not your favorite thing?" I poked him, "You said that there are things Trump is doing that you disagree with."

"I'm not sure he should be meeting with the North Koreans. I mean, do you think they're going to give up their nuclear bombs just because Trump acts nice to them and agrees to meet? I doubt it. I think Kim and his henchmen are very smart and are looking to buy time while finishing the work to build missiles that can reach America. They did the same thing with Clinton, Bush, and Obama. Our presidents thought they were making progress with the current Kim's father all the while they cheated and perfected their nukes and missiles."

"So why do you think Trump seems so eager to take a deal?"

"You mean other than winning the Peace Prize?" I nodded. "It's all about his base. People like me," Jack fessed up, "To appeal to them, us, by moving down the checklist of his campaign promises. We talked about that already. He's doing everything he can to get his people to turn out in November and vote. To try to keep the majority in Congress. Especially the House because if he can turn that tide or blue wave around he won't be impeached."

"I agree with that," I said. "You might think about it as base-ball."

Jack moaned, "What a terrible pun. But I do agree. It's all about them. And me. At the moment I've had it about up to here. I'm focused on getting my house painted."

"A lot of people on both sides are concentrating on their houses. On their lives. They, we, are also fed up with everything political. We need a break. Distractions," Rona said, "But those of us who want to see things change in Washington had better not be passive and withdraw from the battle. Tending to our gardens. Our future is at stake."

"I would agree with that," Jack said, "But about the specifics we still disagree. Though I'm not happy with everything. That I'll admit. I'm not in the same place I was 18 months ago. Maybe one day we'll meet in the middle."

"As long as it's my side of the middle," Rona said.

Jack reached out to hug her and then ran off.

Damariscotta 

July 19, 2016--Midcoast: Incognito

"What are you doing here?" It was John.

"Having breakfast. What we do every morning." He knows that. I thought he was putting us on.

"Here?"

"Where else? We're at the diner at about this time, what, four, five mornings a week."

"You can't be."

"What do you mean we can't be?" I knocked on the tabletop to assert our material existence. "Here we are. I'm beginning to think I'm in a Pirandello play."

"What's going on with you?" Rona asked, "Is everything all right?"

"How did you get here?" John said, ignoring her.

"We drove of course. How else would we have gotten here?"

"But where's your car?"

"Outside. Where it always is."

"I didn't see it," John said.  "I thought maybe you went to town and were at Crissy's"

"No. Here we are. We . . ." I finally realized that John didn't see our car because the one we're driving is a loner from Volkswagen. "Ours is being repaired and they gave us this one until Monday when it's supposed to be fixed."

"It's a clunker," Rona said. "Twelve years old with about 150,000 miles."

"Only 42,000 more than ours which is only seven years old."

"This makes me realize," John said, "that around here, and I'll bet in any small town, people know everyone's car."

"I've noticed that," I said. "Why do you suppose?"

"I suspect for at least two reasons. If you're driving around, say passing by the diner, and see your car, if I have the time and the inclination, I might pull over and come in to join you for a cup of coffee."

"That I get," Rona said, "But what's the other reason?"

"Don't take it personally," John said, smiling, "But I might be driving by and see your car and if I'm not in the mood to hang out, if I want some time alone, I pass by. Looking straight ahead, of course."

"To tell you the truth," I said, "we do the same thing. For example, twice last week we had breakfast with Jim. I like Jim but not enough to want to see him every day. So when we were about to pull up to the diner and saw his car we hotfooted by. With him twice in a week is fine. Three times is pushing it."

"That's my point," John said, "And why we all know everyone's car. That helps us decide what to do. To stop or keep on going."

Rona, who always urges people to be honest about what's on their minds, has for some time argued that as hard as it is to do we all should figure out ways to indicate what we do and do not want to do."

She said, "For example, you pop in after seeing our car and have an inclination to join us."

"I think I know where this is going."

"But if we're in the mood to be alone, why is it so difficult to say that without your feeling rejected?"

"Good question," John said, "Because to tell the truth, I probably would feel at least a bit rejected. Do you want me to . . . ?"

"No, no. Stay," Rona said, reaching out to him. "You're much more than a two-times-a-week person."

We all laughed at that. I said, "Maybe you're a three-times-a weeker."

John knew I was fooling with him. "But," he said, "there is something nice about having a loner for a few days and driving around sort of incognito."

"If you're inclined to want to have an affair, do a little fooling around, it could be a good way to do it."

"That's what my motorcycle's for," John said with a wink to make sure we knew he was just, well, fooling around.

"I wondered about you and your bike," Rona said.

"I recently got rid of it. With my retina problem I don't want to tempt fate. But, maybe rather than return the loaner you could pass it along to me. Being a little incognito once in a while isn't such a bad thing."

June 26, 2014--Midcoast: Change

I asked the previous owners of our cottage, who live in Sarasota, why they had a place so far north. If it was to be a getaway from the heat and humidity of Florida summers, why not have a place much closer, say, in the mountains of North Carolina.

"Well," he said, "we came to the Midcoast of Maine right after we got married--that was more than 40 years ago--and liked what we saw. There is of course the natural beauty but then there is also the slowed-down lifestyle and all the local history which people respect and remain true to. We thought about how nice it would be to be able to visit regularly, but we had various obligations and a business in Florida that we needed to tend to and didn't get back here for many years."

"I understand," I said, "This really is a special place. But how . . ."

"I'm getting to that. About 15 years ago we came back for a vacation and loved it all over again. You know what especially appealed to us? The fact that so little had changed. There were no new houses, many of the businesses were owned by the same people from 30 years before, and we even recognized some we had met during our first visit. And amazingly, so did they! I mean, remember us. So we impulsively bought a place and never looked back."

Rona and I have been here now for only five years and like some of the same things. Though not much has changed during that time, it's not as if everything stands still, nor does it feel like people are stuck in place. Even those who have to struggle don't whine about it and find ways to enjoy life.

So when two Sundays ago, on the day we arrived for the season, we turned off US 1, and then drove south on Route 129, and as usual slowed down and held our breathes out of concern that some of the familiar places had been transformed or were no longer there.

We slipped through Damariscotta happy to see all the shops intact and everything seeming familiar. "That's good," Rona said, with a sigh of relief, "Nothing's changed. Just how I like it."

Ever pessimistic, I said, "Don't get too excited, we still have ten miles to go."

And we ticked them off one-by-one, now on the Bristol Road, feeling assured, as we crept along, that things were as we had left them six months ago.

"That's what I love about this place," Rona said, "They know what to value. It's not all churn, churn, churn or getting, getting, getting. Back in the city after being away for only a few months our shoe repair shop was gone as was our dry cleaners and a lot of restaurants."

"And don't forget all the new banks, drug stores, and coffee places. But here . . ."

Rona cut me off, "Slow down, stop, look, look over there."

I hit the breaks afraid there was an animal in the road. "At what?"

At that." She was pointing at something on her side of the car.

I pulled over onto the margin. "I don't see what you're seeing."

"Over there. By Farmhouse Lane."

"It looks the same to me. Just like in November."

"You're not looking at the right place. Bend down so you can see out my window. Next to the street sign."

"Oh my, I see what you mean."

"That's different, right? That wasn't there last year."

"I think you're right."

"It's a little tacky, don't you think?"

"I agree," I said, "Very."

"I know people like to name their houses. Like our place is called the Lilac Cottage because of all the lilac bushes. So I'm OK with them calling this place The Nuthatch's Nest. Nice alliterative name. But the sign!"

"That's my point," Rona said.  "The name's fine, the sign's fine, but the little painting on it is another story."

"Yeah, of the nest with three cute little eggs in it."

"At least there's no mother nuthatch."

"You know," I said, "to me we're sounding a little spoiled. This is a live-and-let-live place so who are we to complain about something like this."

"It's just that we were talking about how we like the changelessness here and how something this innocuous stands out and . . . but," she caught herself, "But I think you're right. Actually, we're sounding more than a little spoiled."

"I think we need to calm down," I said, swinging back onto the road, "and count our many blessings."

Rona reached over, smiled, and kissed me softly. "Many."

October 11, 2013--Midcoast: Basic Food Groups

Donuts for us are one of the three basic food groups.

They are, we have convinced ourselves, an excellent source of carbohydrates and so, to get off to a nutritious start Wednesday, we drove nearly 40 miles to Brunswick to have a tray full at Frosty's.

Forsty's is a local institution and so popular that it's essential to get there early in order to find more than a few crumbs remaining. Did I mention that they open at four? Four in the morning. This is not the time they mix the batter and preheat the ovens but when they open for business.

Since they close when they run out of donuts--which can be by as early as 9:30--to have a semblance of a selection, we determined the night before to be on the road no later than 6:30.

It was a magical drive. It had cooled down over night and there was hoar frost crusting the fields and the ponds were steaming with ground fog. Thinking about the land being crusted was yet another inducement to think about donuts and seeing the ponds steaming reminded us that Frosty's also has excellent coffee. All just 50 minutes away.

"This is crazy," Rona said, "You know how I hate to get up so early. I'm still half asleep."

"Close your eyes," I said, "As long as Sirius continues to play Beethoven quartets I'm good to drive."

"But it's so beautiful out. I should train myself to get up and out earlier."

"It makes it special, though, to have to make an effort to get to Frosty's. In many ways it's better to have them so far away. Think about what it would be like if they were in Damariscotta."

"I'd weigh 25 pound more." And with that, Rona nodded off, dreaming, I was sure, about her favorite Boston creams.

When we arrived, though we were sixth in line and I was worried they would sell all our favorites by the time we got to the counter--almost everyone ahead of us was buying at least a dozen (one person bought eight dozen--I assume for a business meeting, though up here where people can really eat, I may have been mistaken), they still had a few left of all those we had been thinking about since earlier in the week--Rona's Boston creams and my favorite glazed twists. And since we had made such an effort to get there and rationalized that we wanted to secure our full quotient of carbs, we also got a chocolate glazed, a toasted coconut, a chocolate maple glazed (with real Maine maple syrup), and, to honor the season, a pumpkin spice donut.

With tea for Rona and French roast coffee for me, the bill totaled $7.00 and we happily slipped into one of Frosty's old-fashioned wooden booths, breathed deeply, and plunged in. Literally.

We didn't speak a word to each other for at least 10 minutes, which is unusual for us. Though being at Frosty's with a tray of melt-in-yor-mouth donuts was also unusual for us--we only do this two or three times a year.

In the adjacent booth there was a couple with a box of "ten mixed," who looked, how else to put this, beatific. When I had sampled all six of ours, I couldn't resist asking which were their favorites. I needed to ask three times as they were so engrossed in their donuts.

Without taking her eyes off her donut, our neighbor, as if in a trance, said, "The glazed twists."

"Mine too," I exclaimed. "What a coincidence."

"What about others?" Rona asked, coming up for air.

"I love them all," she said. "We're from Ohio, Columbus. We've been in the area for five days and we've been to Frosty's every day. We always have a box of ten." She smiled as if in a daze.

"Pants don't fit."

"What?" Her husband had finally roused.

"Pants don't fit," he mumbled.

"Who cares," she chirped.

"I sure don't," he said.

Later that day, after doing a little antiquing at Cabot Mills and visiting the Maurice Prendergast show at the Bowdoin Art gallery, Rona said, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm feeling a little hungry."

"Frotsy's is just like proverbial Chinese food--you eat it and are hungry an hour later."

"It's four hours later and I admit I have an appetite."

"I'm game for anything. Do you have something in mind?"

"What about that drive-in along the Bath Road? We've noticed it before and thought to try it. I think it's appropriately called Fat Boys. They supposedly have the best BLT in Maine. I think they make it with Canadian bacon."

Indeed they do. And indeed it is noteworthy.

"Isn't bacon also one of the basic food groups?" Rona smiled, looking up blissfully from her BLT, as if to make us feel better about ourselves.

"With pizza," I noted, "being the last of them."

Later that evening, after devouring two delicious single-serving-sized Rosario's pizzas (made locally), Rona said, "Tomorrow, and for the rest of the week, we eat fish. Right? We have to G-tox."

"As I said, I'm game for anything."

September 20, 2013--Midcoast: Power Washer (Concluded)

Back at the house I took the AR 142 power washer still in its box out to the shed where, I was certain, I had all the tools needed to assemble it. Just like in the old days in Brooklyn.

"It should take me maybe 30 minutes," all puffed up, I said to Rona. "Then we can give it a test on the front steps. You know, start small."

Rona stared in my direction, studiously ignoring me.

About 20 pieces tumbled out of the box mainly, it looked to me, more hoses, scrubbing brushes, and vacuum-cleaner-like wands than mechanical and plumbing components. Too bad, I thought, it would be a better challenge, and thus additionally enjoyable and satisfying, if I needed to snap the wheels on and secure them with cotter pins or, even better, have to do some wiring since the washer was electric powered.

Two or three pieces looked familiar from my memory of the fully-assembled model in the store--the body of the washer and the handle, which I knew, without even a glance at the instruction booklet, would affix to the top of the body.

I quickly found the two screws included, aligned the handle with the body, snapped it in place, and then secured it with the Phillips-head screws. Of course I had at least a half dozen Phillips screwdrivers in the shed, found just the right one, and stepped back to look at what I had accomplished, feeling I was off to a good start.

All the remaining parts, however, looked unfamiliar, or at least did not immediately suggest to me how they would be used or where they should be attached to the body, which now, at least, had its handle securely affixed. Good, I thought, more to learn about, more assembly problems to solve. Just like in the old days with my Erector set.

So I turned to the rather skimpy instruction booklet. Its apparent brevity another sign that the rest of the assembly would be a piece of cake and I would be able to get it all done in less than the 30 minutes I had indicated to Rona.

In fact, there were only three or four pages in English, the rest in Spanish and French. And at least half the English pages were devoted to various WARNINGs and CAUTIONs.

Too bad, I thought, that the lawyers are running everything. Why does this power washer and everything else come plastered with warning labels? Are we that stupid and litigious? No need to answer. On the other hand, at times they do add an element of unintentional humor when buying a step ladder or electric drill. My favorite recently was for a steam iron--"Do not iron garments when wearing them."

Those in the power washer booklet hardly needed stating--

WARNING--Risk of Electrocution

• Do not touch plug with wet hands
• Do not spray electrical apparatus and wiring

WARNING--Risk of Explosion

• Do not spray flammable liquids
• Never use in areas containing combustible dust, liquids, or vapors

Electrocution and explosions aside, I concentrated on the assembly tasks at hand--

(1) Attach swivel adapter to pump water inlet, if not already attached. 

I rummaged among the parts on my workbench and nothing looked like anything resembling a swivel adapter, whatever a swivel adapter in fact was. So I looked in the booklet at drawings of the parts but didn't find anything labeled "swivel adapter." And nothing that could be described as such was already attached to the washer body or to the the protruding two inches of threaded pipe that I assumed was for water intake.

I read--

Notice the swivel adapter is marked with the words "pump" and "hose."

Good, I thought, all I have to do is find something, anything thus marked. Should be no problem. 

But I found nothing close. Beginning to feel frustrated, I even looked at the two brushes, knowing in advance that that was clearly a distraction--the real challenge was getting the power washer itself assembled. 

Maybe, I began to think, some parts are missing. Worst case scenario, we bring everything back to the hardware story and they'll give us replacements for the swivel adapter and anything else that turns up missing. 

Before coming to that conclusion, I reached for the empty box, thinking maybe something looking how a swivel adapter should look was lurking in the bottom among the discarded wrappings. 

But I found nothing there except a large card on which, in two-inch high red letters, was printed--

UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES TAKE THE POWER WASHER BACK TO THE STORE WHERE IT WAS PURCHASED. 

IF THERE ARE ANY QUESTIONS, PARTS MISSING, OR IF THE PURCHASER INTENDS TO RETURN THE POWER WASHER SEEKING A REFUND IT MUST BE TO THE AR COMPANY IN FRIDLEY, MINNESOTA.

I felt the onset of an anxiety attack and needed to sit down to catch my breath and allow my heart to calm down. 

I also noticed I had been in the shed for half an hour--the time I had boasted to Rona it would take me to complete the assembly. Thus far, I had only managed to attach the handle to the body with the two screws provided.

Thus, in spite of myself, I turned my attention to the brushes, thinking that dealing with them should, by comparison, be rather straightforward and give me a sense of accomplishment.

In fact the brushes were easy to deal with because included in the assembly manual there was a two-page insert with very detailed drawings about the parts needed to make the round Twister (or "large-surface brush") and it's companion, the Turbo or oval-shaped brush, operational. Operational, of course, if I could manage to get the power washer itself operational. I was still far from that, having, confessedly, only having managed to attach the handle to the washer body.

After about an hour Rona came looking for me. She discovered me huddled on the floor of the shed with the doors closed. Worried, she asked, "Is everything all right?"

I mumbled something incomprehensible.

"I was concerned about you. You said it would take maybe half an hour and here it is nearly two hours later."

"No need to exaggerate," I muttered, "An hour's bad enough."

"'Bad enough'? What are you talking about? And could you speak up, I can hardly hear you."

I curled up into an even tighter ball.

"Do I need to call 911? Did you injure yourself, or something? Though I can't imagine your doing that while assembling something as simple as a power washer. The smallest 1,600 PSI one at that."

"No need to make me feel worse than I do," I said, and with that, what I had been struggling with, including all my frustrations, came spilling out.

"Slow down, slow down. There's no need to make yourself crazy. I'm sure, as you say, that the instructions are confusing and that there are all sorts of parts missing. Also, in spite of that card warning not to bring the machine back to the store and how we need to mail if to Minnesota, I'm sure Nate at the hardware store will be willing to help us. This is Maine, after all. Not New York City."

I grunted, "That makes sense."

"Let me take a look at it," Rona suggested. "Maybe I can figure something out." She had picked up the instruction booklet.

"You're right about all the ridiculous warnings. But let me see," she was thumbing through the pages. "Did you notice the French and Spanish versions of the instructions? Maybe if I read them we'll be able to figure out what to do. Perhaps they contain additional information."

She read, "'Attacher l'adaptateur pivotant à pomper l'eau d'entrée, si ce n'est déjà attaché.' Now where is that adaptateur pivotant? Is that the one you were having trouble finding and think may be missing?"

C'est vrai," I said, beginning to feel a little better.

"This looks like it," Rona said, holding it up so I could see it from the floor where I was still squatting. It doesn't say 'pump' and 'hose' as the instructions indicate, but there's an arrow on it that probably shows which way the water is pumped in."

With that insight, one-two-three, Rona attached the adapter to the the screw-threaded intake pipe that protruded from the body of the pump.

But, even reading all the French and then turning to the Spanish instructions, Rona could progress no further. We had the handle attached (I had accomplished that the first minute) and Rona had screwed the adaptateur pivotant to the pump, but no more. We were both stymied.

"I guess we should go back to Nate tomorrow," Rona said, "and see if he can help us. The assembled version of the AR 142 should still be there. Worse-comes-to-worse, we can use it as a model to guide us in assembling ours."

"But what about having to send it to Fridley, Minnesota? You saw that card that . . ."

Again, Rona insisted, "Nate will help us. Remember, this is Maine."

The next morning, sheepishly, we slinked back to Damariscotta Hardware and looked in the back for Nate.

"It's his day off," a salesman said. "But I can help you. Just what is it you have there?"

I made myself small and attempted to hide behind Rona. "We bought this power washer the other day," Rona said, "Nate helped us and . . ."

"And even thought it says we have to send it to Minnesota," I found my voice, "we thought that maybe . . ."

"That maybe Nate or someone else might be willing to help us figure out how to assemble it."

"The instructions are really terrible," I held the brochure out to him. He waved it off.

"We thought that if no one can help us and we really do have to send it to Fridley, we can look at the floor model and use it as . . ."

"It's not there," I whispered to Rona.

"What's that?" the salesman asked.

"It's not on the shelf." I stammered, "The AR 142. Maybe it was sold. Nate said they were going fast. We got the next to last one. It was quite a good price. But we can't . . ."

I had to stop myself from sounding as if I were whimpering. I wasn't feeling very good about my non-Maine-like behavior. After all, we were talking about a $66 power washer. Not that a storm blew out all our windows and we have a flood in the house. Something worthy of causing agita.

"Let me take a look," he offered.

I asked if he wanted to see the instructions.

"Naw," he said. "I don't think it will be too much of a problem."

"I guess not," I said. "You must have to assemble them every day. Considering how incomprehensible the instructions are."

"Actually, you guys are the first to bring one in needing help. Which," he quickly added, "is not a problem. Not at all. I'm happy to try to help."

And help indeed he did. While we were talking he had shaken all the parts out onto the counter and before he had finished telling us how happy he was to try to help he had all of them connected and told us where to attach the garden hose and how to use the water gun.

"That about does it," he said. "Is there anything else I can help with?" He was all charm and friendly smiles.

On the drive home Rona sensed that I might be sulking. "I know how hard it is for you to feel that as you are growing older you are losing some of your powers. That when you were ten and had that Erector set and built that Ferris wheel you thought you'd be able to build and fix things forever."

"I now know better," I sighed.

"And it's OK. You're still my sweet boy," she reached over to touch me. "You always will be. And, you know, though it's true you're not as adept as you once were, you're much smarter than when I met you and that for me is what's most important."

I felt I was beginning to tear up and pulled over so I could give Rona a hug.

"And when we get home," she said, clinging to me, "as you suggested, let's start small and test the washer on the front steps."

September 19, 2013--Midcoast: Power Washer

Our front deck is looking awful.

Is it acid rain from Canada or the spruce tree that hovers above that's causing the discoloration?  We suspect it's the tree because out back, on the water side, where the deck is roofed over, the blue-gray stain is looking as fresh as when Joey Jacobs applied it this past spring.

He said, "Get it power-washed. If I wasn't so busy with other jobs I'd come by myself and get it done."

So we hired Armando, who didn't power wash it but scrubbed it down with a stiff mop. It took him the better part of an hour but it turned out well, quite fresh. But then, within a month, it was again looking all scuffed up.

Feeling frustrated, Rona said, "Let's go to Damariscotta Hardware. I think they rent power washers. We can do this ourselves. It looks like a chronic problem and, while we're there,  maybe let's see how much they cost to buy. Renting isn't cheap. I think it's $40 for a minimum of four hours."

We got a lesson in power washers. The store was quiet and one of the salesmen, Nate, back in the rental section, was happy to have customers wanting to learn about PSI (pounds per square inch of water pressure) and how, since at 3,200 PSI the force of the water is so strong it'll strip the paint off the wood decking, for our needs, we should look for a model that either has a way to adjust the power or find one where the PSI is 1,600.

Nate said, "That's the right power for your type of deck-cleaning work."

"If we get one," Rona thought out loud, "maybe we should go for the adjustable version. At 1,600 we could wash our decks and then there might be times we'd like to do some paint-stripping. On the shed, for example. It's looking kind of shabby."

"I don't know," I said. "Look at the more powerful one. It's about the size of a compact car. There wouldn't be room in the shed for it. Even in an unpainted, shabby-looking one." I smiled in her direction.

"And it does cost $40 to rent one," Rona noticed, "for the huge one, though."

"Which we really don't need," I added. "And besides, it wouldn't fit in the car. Do you rent 1,600s?" I asked Nate.

"Unfortunately, only the jumbo ones." He had us sized up correctly--do-it-yourselfers, not pretending to be contractors. "My advice is that you guys take a look at these." He pointed high up on the shelf where there was something that looked much like a stand-up vacuum cleaner. "That baby there, which by the way is on sale, is a power washer that tops out at 1,600 PSI, and for less than the price of two rentals it can be yours. We have just two left and they've been going fast. So I recommend if you want one, you don't hesitate."

"It looks kind of small for real power washing," Rona said, feeling more and more comfortable speaking Nate's language.

"That's the beauty of it. It's highly rated, very compact and light-weight--just 16 pounds--and you can't beat the sale price. I think it goes for $66 plus tax. You won't find a better price on the Internet, even without having to pay tax and shipping."

"It's times like this that I wish we had a smart phone," Rona sighed.

"We both hate them," I reminded her, "Maybe we should go home, check out the Internet, and then decide."

"Here, use my phone," Nate offered. "See what you can find."

"I don't know how to use one," I said with an embarrassed shrug.

"Nor do I," Rona confessed. "All I know is that I don't like them."

"No problem," Nate said with understanding, "Folks just like you come in every day and I let them use my phone to comparison-shop right here in the store. If our price passes muster, I'd rather them buy from us on the spot rather than go home and decide to order on line or go to Home Depot.

By then he had found the North American AR 142 on his phone and slid it over to us. "You look, Rona," I said. "If I touch it I know I'll mess it up," wondering what Nate meant when he said, "folks like you." I decided not to pursue it since I knew it wouldn't be flattering.

"Can't seem to do better than $66," Rona found after searching for a few minutes. "You know this little thing," she waved the phone in my direction, "is pretty useful. Maybe we should . . ."

I cut her off, "Let's focus on one thing at a time--in this case the AR 142." Using just the model number, I was hoping to counter how Nate had stereotyped us. Or, more likely, me.

"That's what I'd recommend," he said, sounding encouraging. "You know it comes in that box," he pointed to a box much smaller than the AR 142 on display.

"And that means," I winked at him, "it needs some assembly."

He nodded, "Think you're up to that?" I was hoping we--actually, I-- had impressed him enough so he wouldn't be thinking about those folks just like us.

"As a matter of fact," I pulled myself up straight as I could, "I happen to be real good at assembly. Wouldn't you agree, Rona?" She was making an effort to ignore me and had already moved on to look at pruning shears.

So to Nate I continued, "When I was just 10 years-old, for my birthday, my Aunt Madeline bought me the largest Gilbert Erector set they made. With it, using girders, angle brackets, screws, nuts, bolts, pulleys, and gears, all with the screwdriver and wrench included, I made bridges and tunnels and even a huge motorized Ferris wheel just like the one in Coney Island." I grinned broadly, remembering those sweet days and feeling proud of myself and also hoping to impress Nate with my mechanical dexterity. "So with the assembly we should be fine, just fine."

Back at the house I took the AR 142, still in its box, out to the shed where, I was certain, I had all the tools required to put it together. Just like in the old days in Brooklyn. "It should take me maybe 20 minutes," all puffed up I said to Rona. "Then we can give it a test on the front steps. You know, start small."

Rona stared in my direction, studiously ignoring me.

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

July 9, 2013--Midcoast: Little Old Ladies

The morning had not gotten off to a good start and the highlight, by 11:00, was finding a parking place right in front of the Maine Coast Bookstore where we had gone to buy a copy of the New York Times.

When we emerged, grumbling that we had arrived too late and all the copies had been sold, a woman approached us with brochures in hand, looking as if she wanted to sell us tickets for a Puffin cruise or a half-off special for a twin lobster dinner.

"Do you know about Frances Perkins?" she asked. We tried to ignore her. She persisted, "There's an exhibit about her inside." She pointed toward a path through a lush garden that led to what looked like a small store adjacent to Maine Coast.

She smiled at us, undoubtedly picking up our out-or-sortness. "It's free and will only take a few minutes. You have the perfect parking spot for both the bookstore and the Frances Perkins exhibit."

"Maybe we should," I mumbled to Rona. "Lately, I've been reading a lot about the New Deal and Frances Perkins played a big part in it. Especially when it came to figuring out how to conceptualize the Social Security program."

"Wasn't she the first female cabinet member?" Rona recalled.

"Indeed she was," the woman with the brochures bubbled. "And do you know, she summered in Newcastle, at her grandmother's place right across the bridge from here." She gestured up Main Street. "She's buried there. Frances. At the old Glidden Cemetery. Between her husband and grandmother, Cynthia Otis." She looked around and whispered conspiratorially, "They say it's haunted."

"This is right down your alley," Rona said to me, still smarting about not being able to get the Times, especially its crossword puzzle. "You love old cemeteries. You never seem to get enough of them. So maybe we should go inside and learn a little more about Frances Perkins so when we visit the cemetery you'll know who's who."

The docent, that is what she turned out to be, was enjoying our spatting. "Come inside with me. It's cool and I have ice water for visitors."

We followed her and she directed us toward the corner of the room where the exhibit started with information about Fannie's childhood. "She was named Fannie Perkins but later, after college--she went to Mount Holyoke--she became Frances Perkins, thinking it would be a more fitting name for someone wanting a career. She felt there were enough barriers at the time to women's advancement that she didn't want to be stuck with, to her, an unserious-sounding name such as Fannie."

"Just like your Aunt Fannie," Rona remembered, "who worked in a sweatshop, became a suffragette, was about as old as Frances Perkins, and wanted us to call her Fay."

"Which my father, to needle her, always refused to do."

Being surrounded by history, the aura of the remarkable Frances Perkins, and recalling my Aunt Fay begin to pull us out of our funk. The ice water on the very hot and humid morning also helped.

It was indeed a small exhibit and we had worked our way through it in less than half an hour, though we enjoyed the docent's chattering.

As we turned to leave, a group of four clearly very elderly women walked haltingly up the garden path. When they finally made it to the door I held it open for them and Rona rushed over to help one, who was using a walker, up the single step into the room.

After they caught their breath and soaked up some of the air-conditioned air, the docent welcomed them and, as with us, told them where it was best to begin. Rather than follow that suggestion they shuffled toward that part of the exhibit that had information about Secretary of Labor Perkins' role in 1935 in establishing Social Security.

Though the docent, Alice, continued to point to other parts of the exhibit, the women seemed only interested in Social Security. I assumed that was because all of them must receive it. Perhaps depend on it. Also, I confess, I thought maybe they were a little past their prime and not following what Alice was suggesting. So I drifted over to them to see if I too might be able to help orient them to where they were and what surrounded them. It could easily be that at their age they could be quite confused.

"You know if it weren't for that," the woman who seemed oldest said, pointed with a trembling hand toward the section of the exhibit devoted to Social Security, "it would be so difficult for Henry and me. He's gone, wouldn't you know," she said wistfully to no in particular, "I don't know how we'd get by. Even heat our house. It gets so cold here." She shivered as if to demonstrate how frigid it gets during Maine winters.

"Do you remember the time," I asked, "before there was Social Security?"

"What did you say, son?" She cupped her ear toward me.

"I was asking about Social Security."

"Oh, that. Social Security." I waited for her to continue, which she didn't. She appeared to stare blankly ahead.

But she continued, "I remember back in, what was it, 1930 or so when it was approved." I didn't correct her recollection of the actual date. "How old was I then? About your age," she said with a full smile. When I shrugged, with a twinkle, she said, "I'm just having some fun with you, dear."

"I too am old enough to collect it," I said, returning her smile, "For a number of years now. Though I appreciate your flattering me. On these days when I'm all aches and pains I can use whatever encouragement comes my way."

"Did you know my father knew Eleanor Roosevelt?"

"No, I didn't." This seemed like a non sequitur.

"You know about My Day?"

"I sure do. It was the newspaper column she wrote, I think, six days a week. For many years."

"For more than 25 years. It was published in 90 papers around the country. She wrote about family matters but also about workers and women and how badly Negros were treated. To some, it was very controversial. Well, my father worked for United Press, actually United Features, and he was her editor and responsible for syndicating it."

"That's amazing," I said, truly amazed at who one from time-to-time encounters.

"They were so close that my family, including me, spent a weekend in the White House and then many times we went to Hyde Park and stayed in Mrs. Roosevelt's cottage. I forget the name. It's something like Overkill."

"Val-kill," I said. "I think that was its name."

"That's right. It so frustrating when you get to be my age how much you forget."

"You're doing just fine," I said, meaning every word of it.

"And Ernie Pyle as well."

"Who?" Rona asked.

"You're not old enough, darling, to remember; but I'm sure your uncle does." I held back from telling her that we are married. This happens all the time.

"Wasn't he," I said, "the war correspondent? During the Second World War? As we would describe it today, he was embedded with the troops, even on D Day."

"The very same. It was my father, also, who suggested to him that he become a war correspondent. I remember him too. He asked me to call him 'Ernie.' Such a sweet man. But he was killed in the pacific after the German's surrendered. My father was so upset, believing it was his fault that he died in combat."

She sighed deeply, thinking back over all those years and the events of her life.

The docent, Alice, was hovering in the background and to lift everyone's spirits and bring us back to Frances Perkins, said, "Do you know about her contributions to the Social Security Act? How, if it weren't for her, after it was passed by Congress, it likely would have been declared unconstitutional by the Supreme Court?"

"Indeed I do," one of the other women said. "At the time they were overturning all sorts of programs. The National Recovery Act and many of the minimum wage laws. I remember that as if it were yesterday. So when they were working on Social Security, Frances Perkins said it was important that they think about how to protect it from the Court. She came up with the idea not to call it insurance, thinking it would be found to be unconstitutional if it was presented that way. She suggested--and this is what they did--that it be considered a tax program. And she was right--the Supreme Court upheld it."

"Not unlike what just happened with Obamacare," one of the other women added with a wink.

"Time for us to go," the first woman announced. "We have to get home before the temperature hits 100. We all have weak hearts," she whispered to me.

"I don't know what your doctors think," I leaned close to her, "but your hearts seem pretty strong to me."

After they left, Rona said, "Who needs the newspaper anyway when were surrounded by so much richness. The crossword puzzle, on the other hand . . ."