May 8, 2019--Welcome Back

After 10 years in Maine we have come to know quite a few people. Some have become close friends.

Whenever we return for the long season in Bristol, we informally keep a list of who, among these wonderful people, we have seen--often casually run into in the diner or supermarket--and how long, how many days it takes to see most everyone we know.

This year we arrived on Sunday afternoon and by Tuesday morning had encountered twelve of our friends.

The first was Deb who owns and runs the diner. Among many things, she filled us in about what one of her daughters had done over the winter in a new restaurant or her own. Things were quiet, as is to be expected, but to push the bottom line and provide a community service, she served dinner Friday and Saturday nights. It was not a surprise, she is very talented, that it was welcomed and she did very well.

John was next. He came to the diner, among other things to see if we were there. He looked very well and has been busy after returning from a month in the Florida Keys at his globally-competitive steel fabrication business. He was happy to report that all in his large immediate and extended families were doing well. Especially his mother-in-law who had not been herself at the beginning of winter.

Al drifted in, also thinking he might find us. It was his birthday and he was happy to let Rona buy him a cup of coffee. She tried to treat him to a full breakfast but he had had something already and was wanting to control his eating and continue to lose weight. He looked slim and fit but wanted to keep it that way. So coffee was all he wanted, though he promised to let Rona pay for his biscuits and gravy (a dietary splurge) when he and Mary join us for breakfast on Sunday. We tend to meet them Sunday mornings for a week of catch-up news. Much of it this time I am sure, will be political as they are both politically engaged. In fact, Mary is a County Commissioner and prior to that had been Lincoln County's first female detective.

Barbara and Barrett were making their way to a booth when they spotted us and came to visit at our table. As with our other friends who we were seeing for the first time in six months they filled us in about how they have been (exceeding well) and how their children and grandchildren were faring. Again, we were happy to hear only good news. They were in for a quick bite as they had a tee time set at the local golf course. Though they have lived in Phoenix for 31 years they are as intrepid as if they were real Mainers.

We saw Phyllis and Danny as we were leaving. Always, generous, Phyllis told me she follows my writing and generally likes what I have to say. She is all graciousness and has the capacity to make me feel appreciated. She also reported that she and Bobby had had a good winter. 

Phil is quiet, perhaps a bit shy, but he did smile and wave when he noticed us as he headed toward the door. He did look exactly as we last saw him back in October, which in itself is good news.

Outside, Danny was all smiles and his dog Coco almost jumped out of the car window when he spotted Rona. She pretty much every day has a treat for him but even without one he is quite smitten by her.

Back in the car, sounding concerned, Rona said, "I wonder where Ken is. Don't you think he would have stopped by by now?"

"You know he doesn't come in every morning. I'm sure he's fine. If he wasn't I'm sure we would have known about it."

We headed to Hanniford's supermarket to begin the process of restocking the house. We needed at least one item from every aisle since when we leave in the fall we empty the house of anything that might freeze or otherwise spoil.

Before we could put anything in the shopping cart, from over by the organic vegetables, waving and smiling, were Deb and Mike. They moved from Virginia to Maine full time three years ago and last season bought a new house. We were happy to see them and eager to know how their first winter in the new place had been. Fine, they reported. They too have quickly become Mainers in spirit and vigor if not genealogy.

By the time we were finished shopping it was nearly 2:00 and we we looking forward to being back at the house and perhaps stealing a nap.

"Isn't it amazing," Rona said, "how whenever we arrive it only takes a day or two for us to see so many of our friends."

"Small town reality," I said. "I do love it."

Early the next morning, when we arrived at the diner John was already there and was holding two seats for us. He always makes us feel welcomed. We slid in across from him, but before we could even say hello, Deb the Waitress (as distinct from Deb, the Owner), who had overwintered in her mobile home in Florida, still full of boundless energy, raced to where the three of us were and in less than five minutes offered a summary of all the many things she had been involved with in Naples since we last saw her, including her work with organ donor organizations. She has boundless energy and enthusiasm for the many things with which she is involved. In earlier years, for example, she had been chief administrator for Portland's special needs children's' educational programs and is about the biggest hearted person anyone is likely to encounter.

And then Tuesday afternoon we ran into Joey, who had been a drawbridge tender and painting contractor for a number of years before meeting and marrying Jen. He was looking fit, having lost some weight over the winter and was feeling good about that. We agreed that having dinner together was long overdue and promised to do better this year than last.

As he was leaving (we were in the Dollar Store) he turned back to us and said, "I forget to mention that I ran into Ken the other and he's doing well. He knew you were back in Maine and said he'd be looking for you later this week."

December 18, 2017--Snowbirding: Coke Whore (Originally Posted February 21, 2013)

“She’s such a coke whore.” 

“A what?” Charlie asked. 

We were hanging out with him at the Boynton Beach Coffee Shop, bantering with the parade of customers buying papers, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. 

“Coke whore. That's who. You're with her and all she wants is something to put up her nose. Such a slut. She’ll have sex with anyone who’ll give her any or the time of day. I mean anything. She’ll get high on a Popsicle if you give her one. Her mother? That’s a whole 'nother story. With dinner. You know what she did the other night? Not that she ever eats anything. But talk, talk, talk. That’s her middle name.  About this. About that. Really nothing. Just thinks about getting high. There’s this guy who wants to have sex with me. All day, all night. Afternoons too. Tells me how cute I am. Not that he’s that bad. But I’m not into that. Don’t get me wrong—I like sex as much as any other guy. Not that I’m a guy. It’s just an expression. I know I’m cute. But not that cute. I can see you agree with me. The cute part I mean. But like I was saying, she’s such a slut. Really, a coke whore. I don’t know where this came from. I know her too long, if you ask me. Not that you did. But last year, who knows why, this person she knows showed up and the next thing you know she was willing to, well, you know. Use your imagination. Not that you need much. Imagination, I mean. Just think about it a minute. Where do you think this is headed? No place good. How old is she after all? Not your spring chicken. But still pretty cute. Cute enough, considering. Which I’m not interested in doing. Considering. But it’s better than the other thing. If you know what I mean. The other things happening. All too much. Too, too much. I tell you. Which I know I’m doing. Not that you asked, did you? You can tell me and I’ll stop. I just came in to get some smokes. You have those unfiltered Camels today? You were out the other day. I know I shouldn’t, but at least I know my limits and when to say stop. Can't say the same for her. Just stop. Stop cold. It would do her good. There’s always time for that. To say no. First of all, does she really need this? Her mother isn’t helping. Not that she could. Help, I mean. All she wants to do is stuff food into her. I understand. She’s like a twig. You can see right through her. And you know what that means. Nothing good. Nothing good about anything. Can you think what might be? Anything good? I can’t. I’m out of time. Out of gas. Out of everything. But she’s my friend and should want to try. Or did. Not really, to tell you the truth. How can I be at the end of my rope and still want to try? But I do. Makes no sense, but still I do. Not that you can believe what I’m saying. Does any of this make sense? I can tell from the way you’re looking at me that you agree. To what I can’t be sure. But that’s the way it is. Sad, no? But she seems happy. If that’s possible. You should see the last one. Most recent one. I wouldn’t let him within ten feet of me. But what are you going to do. He keeps her happy. If you can call it that. I don’t. But that’s me. What you see, as they say. Is this ticket a winner? ‘Cause if it is, I’m outta here. I’ll probably take her along. I shouldn’t but knowing me. What can I say? But if she keeps chasing after these guys, that’s it for me. Case closed. Hasta la vista amigo.  If you ask me, that’s what I have to say. All of it. Said and done. I’ve got my life too. Get my point? One and only one so I should be moving on. Nice day out there, right? How many more of these are there gonna be? Just the cards they deal you. You get one play. One shot. One swing. Then it's nada. Over. I’m not putting that stuff up my nose. But like I said, she a coke whatever. Not that that’s the nicest thing to say about anyone. Your so-called friend. But the truth’s the truth. That’s my final word. About the truth being true. So slip me the smokes and one of those Lotto thingies and I'll be on my way. I need to go home and think about the money I’ll be winning on Saturday. I’ll be sure to come in to say goodbye. And then I'm off. Who knows where. Some place good, I hope. That would be nice. Nice. I could use some nice.” 

And with that she was gone.

October 26, 2015--Take Them A Meal

The daughter of a friend required emergency surgery. For a time it was looking as if she might not make it. But she is young and strong and optimistic and is now home and recovering.

She is a nurse and it was clear that she would not be able to come to work for more days than would be covered by her accumulated sick leave and she would thus lose income in addition to having to deal with the aftermath of major surgery.

So her colleagues at the hospital contributed some of their own sick and personal days so that her absence from work would not cause her or her family undue financial hardship.

"That's about the nicest story I've ever heard," I said to her father. "Typical, though, of how people here seem to take care of one another."

"Yes," he said, "That's what we do. If a carpenter has a serious accident, friends will organize a benefit dinner or auction to help out him and his family."

"And I know from a few years ago," Rona said, "when someone we know was seriously burned on the job friends and neighbors, since winter was approaching, raised money to help them pay for heating oil."

A few days later, Ellie's father said, "Remember how the other day we were talking about how people here help each other out?" We did remember. "Take a look at this."

He slid a printout from a website across the breakfast table."

"What is it?" I said.

Rona who was looking at it, said, "I don't believe this. It's amazing."

"What is it?" I said again, feeling a little left out of the conversation.

"Give me a minute. Ellie's friends organized this?" Her father didn't say anything. He sat there smiling across the table at Rona.

"It looks like they're preparing food for Ellie and her family and bringing it over to them."

"That's right," he said. "See how it's organized? Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday the person who signed up for that day fixes a dinner for the four of them and brings it over to their house."

Rona was reading down the list for next week. "On Monday one of her friends is making American chop suey and apple pie. Wednesday someone else is making a homemade pizza with bacon. And . . ."

"Please, let me see that," I said, reaching across the table.

Rona passed it to me. "This really is amazing. Actually, wonderful." I looked at the list and saw that on Friday a friend is planning to make meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and squash. "Probably squash from your garden!" I said, looking at Ellie's father.

"Could be," he said, again smiling.

"I think I'll invite myself over for dinner on November 2nd when the meal of the day will be lasagna, garlic bread, and a veggie."

"Is this something Ellie's friends organized on their own?"

"I'm not sure about that. One friend I know is taking the lead. This came off the computer so when you get home you can look up how it works."

We did and found that Take Them A Meal is a nationally organized effort. They say they prepare 1.2 million meals a year. People can simply use their website to organize things. There is no charge and there do not seem to be any ads on the website.

"They even offer recipes for dinners they say transport well and reheat easily. Things like crock pot honey sesame chicken and blackened chicken and cilantro-lime quinoa."

"What day are they bringing the sesame chicken to the house?" I asked, "That sounds delicious."

"Rather than inviting yourself," Rona said, why don't you instead sign up to make the blackened chicken.'

"I was just kidding," I said, "But maybe I will."

September 24, 2014--New Friends

I've envied friends who are so much better than I at remaining close to people they know from college and even childhood.

I have felt there is something missing within me because I have maintained so few friendships from those times. How could I, I chastise myself, have seemingly intense, meaningful  relationships that span years and even decades and then distance myself to the point that they becoming attenuated and then ultimately end.

I rationalize--

At first we had so much in common but then life intervened: they moved, I moved--distance did not make our hearts fonder; they married people with whom I was not compatible, I did a version of the same thing; they had children, I never did; they developed extravagant tastes, I didn't; they drifted to the political right, I became more progressive; they found God, I was unable to.

So it was understandable, I justified to myself, that I would move on from generation to generation of friends. Different kinds of friends for different stages of life, I would say to myself. But it always sounded hollow.

And, I confess, I pulled back from some friends who I prefer to keep frozen in time.

Yeas ago I worked closely with a colleague, Flash was his street name, who at about 40 began to change in ways that upset and distanced me, including becoming attracted to orthodox Judaism and conservative Republican politics.

I wanted to remember him as the audacious and activist "Flash" and did not want to follow along his evolving journey to places I didn't understand or respect and, after that, into old age. Another issue.

So to me, though he is no longer an active friend, I will remember and cherish him as always youthful, unshaven, with shoulder-length hair, over-size lumberjack shirt, and battered construction boots, tirelessly working all day every day to help bring about social justice.

"Yes," a current friend says, "as you suspect about yourself, there is something missing within you; but since that may be true for me as well, I suppose this making and letting go of friends across a lifetime helps make us compatible. It's just who you are. Who I am as well."

But still I give myself grief about this since this also sounds like more rationalizing.

"Look," my friend presses on, "we met only, what, three, four years ago and don't you consider me a friend? A close friend? As close as I consider you?"

"Indeed," I say. "A friend, yes, and a very close one. What do you make of that? How could that possibly be? At this age?" I am genuinely perplexed.

"We enjoy each other. We need each other," he added almost in a whisper as if he didn't want me to hear. "And since we have experienced many similar things, including some sad and some tragic, and have gravitated to a range of common understandings, we have found many ways to enjoy each other's company and have come to care deeply about each other. Even this quickly. Limitations and imperfections aside, we are two reasonably fully-formed people. And that helps."

While taking this in, while I ruminated, he added, "Part of it is at this time of life many things are behind us which, if present, could, do get in the way of true and deep friendships."

"Like what?"

"Ambition, for one. And how we are now less about gathering and accumulating, engage in less pretending, have less fire in the belly, are less competitive, share aches and pains and worse, experience diminished hormone flow, less--"

"I get your point, and it's a good one" I said, cutting him off with a laugh. I was not wanting to get that intimate. But what he said made sense. And, if true, helped me understand why later in life it is possible to make new friends and gather them close. Perhaps as important--friendships that may last for the rest of our attenuated lifetimes.

I have been thinking about the nature of my experiences with friends, especially reflecting on some that are recent but powerful, since one of them, Steve Gerson (Dr. Stephen Gerson), died, to me, unexpectedly on Sunday. Yesterday was his funeral.

How could it be that since Sunday morning he has not been out of my thoughts?

He was anything but a lifelong friend--perhaps we saw each other during two, three years twenty times--and yet I despair that we will not have more time together. It is not just because, in spite of being chronically ill, he was so inspirationally full of life and interests and joy and work and memories and stories and insights and fun and optimism that I will miss him, but because there was an instantaneous intimacy that sparked between us and connected us deeper than understanding, seemingly for life. An anticipated much longer life, thwarted now, which also revealed that the magic potential of friendship does not end with age and it can come in stages.

Sad, I'll take what I got. It was a gift.

September 1, 2104--Midcoast: Too Much Nice

Again yesterday morning when we pulled up to our house, hanging from the latch on the shed door was a bulging plastic shopping bag.

"Ken," Rona said. I knew what she meant.

Peering into it, Rona said, "This time it's full of peaches, broccoli, and zucchini. Ken is amazing."

"Indeed he is," I said, feeling Ken's affection.

He has a large vegetable garden and we are beneficiaries.

Rhubarb comes early, shortly after we arrive for the season, and then, not long after, are his wonderful squash and string beans; and next, after the peaches and zuccs, another round of rhubarb and then giant butternut squash, which we use to make a hearty soup that is perfect when the fall weather sets in.

Usually when we are done with coffee at the diner, on Rona's seat, there's a bag from Ken. If we skip breakfast, Ken comes by and quietly hangs a bag on the shed door.

And occasionally, from our up-the-road neighbor, Jill--a very talented gardener--there might be a package waiting on the front deck with all the ingredients but olive oil that we need to make pesto--the basil and garlic right out of her overflowing garden.

"You know it's about to be September 1st," I pointed out with a shrug of resignation.

"September 1st? You're losing me. I thought we were talking about Ken."

"We were but it also means we only have about two months left before we need to head for the city. Before long it'll be too cold for us to stay here without the cottage being insulated."

"I know. But why does Ken's bag of veggies make you think about that? It's supposed to make us happy, not depressed."

"It does make me happy, and though all his and other's niceness is half the reason we want to be here, getting used to too much niceness will disarm us for when we'll be back in New York. One can't expect that there. Nice is not much of a virtue in the city. And unless we get used to less nice we'll be at a disadvantage back in town because it will make us vulnerable. Still needing things to be nice."

"You amaze me sometimes."

"Amaze you?"

"All the things you come up with to make you feel bad."

"I don't . . ."

"Yes, you do. You're very creative when it comes to anticipating in advance everything that can go wrong." I shrugged again. This time with a hint of apology. "You go from Ken's vegetables, which is such a wonderful thing, to worrying that his being giving leads to your imagining, anxisizing about how his generosity is a bad thing." She sighed. "Sometimes you are just too much."

"I just think I'm trying to be honest about my feelings. Isn't that something you always tell me you want me to do?""

"Yes, yes. But soon you'll again be telling me how Ken keeps bringing us firewood so we can keep the place warm so we won't have to leave so soon also upsets you."

"Not upsets me, but has the effect of disarming me emotionally. I mean I love it, but aren't you afraid that this kind of generous friendship can have some negative consequences when we're back in our dog-eat-dog environment?"

"I don't want to allow myself to think that way. I'd rather live taking things as they come. Enjoying the wonderful way life is here and then doing the same thing in the city. Which has other virtues. I mean we do enjoy being there, right?" She paused as I didn't respond immediately. "You do, don't you? I mean want to spend time there?"

"Yes, yes."

"And soon, closer to the time when we have to leave, you'll be reminding me about how during the winter many of our friends walk by our place after a storm to see how the house fared, letting us know not to worry. They even . . ."

"I know, send us photos to reassure us that all is well."

"And that presents problems for you?"

"It shouldn't, right? And all the other nice things that are too numerous to mention."

"I'm not going to tell you how to feel. I'm out of that business."

"And I'm glad for it."

I looked out over the bay. The tide was running in as if there were rapids in the water. It was another glorious day.

"Maybe," I said, "I should put all this on hold--my obsessing about niceness--until at least the end of the month. When we'd have only a month to go."

"How about holding off until mid-October? After your birthday. Better, until late in the month. After our anniversary."

"I can't commit to that, but I think I can hold out until I'm officially a year older." I smiled.

"That would be a nice present . . . to me."

"In the meantime, what should we do with Ken's broccoli?"

July 14, 2014--Vixens

I have no idea how we go to talking about plurals.

Sometimes, always at the best dinner parties (and this one was the best) conversations wander. In this case from world religions to education reform to caring for aging mothers.

But with a stretch, all three are related.

In most belief systems one is taught to honor parents and care for them in old age while looking back on how mothers were our first educators. And if one's mother, as in my case, was also professionally a teacher, well, you see, subjects can wander but they are usually free-associatively connected.

But how we got to plurals is another matter.

I think it began when a guest mentioned that earlier in the day he had seen a fox sniffing across our hosts' rolling lawn. "Two, in fact," he said, "Two foxes."

I don't know what possessed me to suggest, "Not foxes," I smiled, "but two fox."

He looked at me skeptically. He is well educated and knowledgable about many things, including the arcane. "I think," he said gently (he's from Kentucky where disagreements can range from dangerous to gentlemanly), "I think the plural is foxes." I was happy to see that he continued to smile.

I say this about disagreements because earlier in the evening someone had reminded me that officials in Kentucky may still be asked if they ever engaged in a dual. And with a tall glass of superb bourbon in my system, knowing that, I was taking no chances.

"I'm glad no one here is bonded to a smart phone," another guest said, "We'd be tempted to look it up and that would be the end of this interesting discussion." I wasn't sure if he was teasing me. That's Kentuckian too--teasing so subtly that it's hard to know.

"Sometimes I like to wallow in uncertainty," I said, attempting to sound metaphysical since one of the dinner guests, a great person, is a leading authority on the metaphysical and mystical. Not the same thing, she and I had earlier agreed.

"I think the foxes I saw," he emphasized the plural, "were a mother and a baby."

"You mean a vixen and her kit, cub, or pup," someone else suggested.

"A what?" I blurted, the bourbon circulating.

"Vixen."

"Vixen?"

"Yes, that's the name for female foxes." That plural again.

"And so fox babies are called kits, cubs, or pups?" I managed to work in my version of the plural, the singular, suggesting it is also the plural--like moose.

"That's right," he said with a sense of triumph. "Just like male ferrets are hobs, females jills, and babies are also kits--like foxes.

His wife showed some signs of impatience but Rona, totally intrigued, asked, "So you too must do crossword puzzles?"

"In fact, he's addicted to them," his wife said.

"Keeps the mind young," he said. Which his is.

And so it went until my dinner partner and I returned to talking about how Joseph Campbell had influenced our lives through his lectures and writings about world religions, seeking, searching for, and ferreting out (sorry) their histories and interconnections.

"And there's Jessie Weston," I said.

"From Ritual to Romance," she said, "I too love that book. It had a profound influence on me in college. About pagan influences on Christianity. If we read it now we might find it a little simplistic but back then . . ."

"For me that was a hundred years ago," I said.

"Maybe only half that," she said, making me immediately feel better. Which she is quite expert at.

Early the next morning, without needing to make a quip about not wanting to be connected to too much connectivity, I googled "names of male, female, and baby animals?"

When Rona woke, after coffee and listening to the recently-deceased Paul Horn on Pandora, I could no longer contain my enthusiasm about what I had been learning.

"Did you ever wonder," I asked, why in so many languages people have assigned specific names to male and female animals?"

Rona squinted at me, still in a state on endorphins from Horn's new-age sound. I raced on, "Take hawks for example. We have lots of them circling here. Males are called tiercels, females hens, and babies eyas."

"E-what's?"

"Eyas, if I'm pronouncing it correctly."

She shrugged. "And squirrels," I said, "also many here--are unlikely called bucks, does, and kits."

"Squirrels and deer have the same names? Sounds crazy." I was pleased to see that Rona was starting to get into it. "At least they don't call squirrel kits fawns."

"You see what I mean?"

"What you mean? No, I don't."

"How all this is really unnecessary. Why not just call a male ferret that--a male ferret--and not a, what was it?"

"A hob." It was now Rona's turn to smile. "I'll bet it's in Sunday's crossword puzzle."

"For humans it's just men or males or women or females. And all babies are children and maybe kids."

"Like goats," Rona said. "Kids," she added in case I missed her jab.

"And billies," I said, "Also a name for goat babies."

"Maybe there are all these names to torment crossword-puzzlers."

"Or just, in language-building terms, out of a sense of play."

"Could be because we're animals too. And many animals just seem to want to have fun."