April 22, 2020--Our Friend Ken Longe

We had been having coffee at the diner in Bristol, Maine with Ken Longe for the longest time before he began to show inordinate interest in our fireplace.

"You have a fireplace, don't you?" he said.

The first time he asked we didn't pay much attention. We were still sharing growing-up stories--his in Andover, Massachusetts ours in Brooklyn. Though we had been renting a place for the season in Pemaquid and had known Ken for three or four months and a friendship was emerging, there was a lot remaining to share.

"Is it a big one?" He spread his arms to indicate the fireplace's possible width. 

"That's about right," Rona said.

"And does it draw good?" Ken asked.

"Yes," I said, "We can make quite a fire."

We moved on to other subjects. Labor Day was approaching. 

"We're starting to get ready to leave," Rona said. "You know how much there is to do. Though we're just renters and since we've been here three or four months we really got settled in and now have to restore the house to the way we found it."

"It's been cold," Ken said. "Have you been comfortable?

"We have a couple of electric heaters and as I mentioned we get pretty good heat from the fireplace. It warms most of the living room. So we're OK."

"Why then don't you stay a little longer? Though you might not be able to make it all the way to Thanksgiving, it would get to be pretty cold, that would be nice. You could do fine the month of September and even October. It's my favorite time of year. The leaf-peppers show up but otherwise its real quiet. And it's interesting to watch the seasons change."

"Maybe if we come back next year," Rona said. "I wouldn't mind being here to observe that." The house was for sale and we were thinking seriously about trying to buy it.

We drifted on to other subjects. That morning might have been the one when we had our first tentative discussion about political things. It was well before there was Trump to talk about. It was more than ten years ago and Obama was president. From some earlier tentative probings we all knew we weren't on the same page about him and politics more generally. Without discussing it we knew to stay off the subject. At least for a time.

A few mornings later, at about 5:30, with the sun in pastels rising over Johns Bay, with Rona still sleeping and me reading about Abraham Lincoln and the history of slavery in the  U.S., I was startled to hear what sounded like serious thumping on the roadside porch. I thought it must be some large animal. We had seen deer on the water side of the cottage. Could it be that one was wandering around probing to see if there was anything in the vicinity good to eat. 

Or, was it an intruder? We rarely locked any of our doors even when sleeping and so the big-city boy in me tensely began to make plans to scare away or perhaps confront whoever or whatever it was. 

I debated if I should wake Rona and get her to a secure place before dealing with what was going on out there. I made enough noise putting on my pants and shoes to wake her. In an instant she too was alert and on guard. This was not what we wanted to be happening a few days before leaving and while simultaneously negotiating a potential sale price with the owner. 

If we were in some sort of danger there is no way we would be comfortable being in the house, even with the doors locked. We had enough anxiety living in New York's City. We were thinking about the possibility that Maine could be an alternative to that. With someone perhaps about to break into what would be our hideaway house, that sense of refuge was evaporating.

Rona whispered that I should back off and let the situation resolve itself. But recklessly oblivious to the danger, I ignored her, thinking I could scare away the deer or whatever by just making enough noise from inside the house.

So I stomped down the hall to where a window looks out over the front porch. Perhaps I could catch a glimpse of what was going on and raise a protective clamor. 

In the car park area there was an unfamiliar pickup truck. At least it wasn't a bear, I thought, and continued to made enough of a ruckus to be heard outside. I thought, hopefully, that would scare away the intruder. 

Rona in the meantime was moving to dial 911.

With that I saw someone, a tall, slender man in a blue windbreaker, trudging up the front steps. It was still half light and I couldn't make out who it was or what he was carrying. Though it was clearly something quite large.

It was Ken I then realized with a bundle of firewood cradled in his arms.

Relieved, I raced to the front door.

"Ken," I half-shouted, all excited and breathing again, "What are you doing? Let me help you." I saw firewood in the bed of his truck.

He waved me off. "I'm almost done," he said.

"Done with what?" I said.

He had already stacked what looked like half  a cord on the deck and neatly added those he was carrying to the pile.

"The other morning at the diner," he said, "I was asking you about why you were going back to New York so soon."

"I remember that," I said.

"Well you told me you had a big fireplace and I thought if you had enough firewood to keep things cozy you might stay longer." He said this, avoiding eye contact.

"That is incredibly generous," I finally said, "You've been so--" I didn't finish the thought.

"You can help me with the rest of the load," he said. With the two us working side-by-side we were done in five minutes.

"Can I at least get you a you cup of coffee?" I said.

By then Rona had joined us and she gestured toward the house. "I'll have some brewed in a moment."

"Better yet," he said, "Meet me later at the diner and buy me a cup," he winked, "I want to talk about that Obama fellow." 

Some months later, after completing the purchase of the house, when a few of our New York friends asked what motivated us to do so I told them this story. 

Some got it. Others, didn't. It nonetheless is the truth.

Ken Longe

April 9, 2020--Birds Behind the Barn

My friend John Allan, from up in Bristol Maine, sent me this after a long call Tuesday morning--

Glad to hear you're settled in and prepared for the duration. 

I've assembled a library of books "to read sometime" and so has Boodie. We're set for months. 

Not set so much on squaring our time with daily news. 

Mask? No mask? Schoolwork for grandchildren or not to worry? 

Hoping I don't forget to listen to the birds behind the barn when the sun rises.

And how about that full moon last night! It was so impressive I took a selfie of me with it over my shoulder in the back field. 

OK, so I'm stretching my desire for some normalcy but can 

you blame me? 

What do I tell these grandkids when they look at me with concern about this unsettling turn of events. I can see the fear in their faces. I wonder, despite offering comforting words of assurance, whether I have won any confidence with them at all. 

So, on a brighter note, the granddaughters and I went to Pemaquid Point Lighthouse after our phone call and collected flat, smooth rocks to paint in cheerful colors which we'll bring back there and hide hoping to surprise and delight someone. You just never know what might bring someone solace and comfort in these crazy times. 

Hope your friend has a successful recovery from surgery. 

Sorry we missed speaking with Rona.

Stay safe.

John

April 7, 2020--A Dog's Life

This came from good friend George Lindberg after I asked how his Labradoodle, Sven, is faring.

Quite well, it appears--

Like you and I Sven is well cared for and all decisions are made for him.   

He owns nothing and thinks “the king has no clothes “ is about him.   

He doesn’t know who Donnie J is and could care less.   

He lives a fairly simple life and pays no taxes.   

Except for a $6 a year license.   

He uses no TP just ambles off into the woods.  Scratches when he itches and licks where he chooses.   

A dog’s life is one to be envious of.   

The down side is if all goes well it may end in fifteen people years.   

I used to be stationed with this old salt from Louisville, KY.  He would too often say-- 

“What you make on the popcorn you lose on the peanuts."   

Stay well and enjoy your extend stress-filled people years.   

You could have been a dog.  

September 26, 2019: Colonoscopies

Someone asked me to repost this. It's from June 2017--

It used to take at least a half hour before any of us would mention colonoscopes. Now we get to it right away. Even before we are served our first cup of coffee.

Just yesterday we not only talked about them but also bladder infections, melanoma, detached retinas, atrial fibrillation, shingles, abscessed molars, Hashimoto's Disease, and kidney stones.

And of course we share health insurance, doctor, and hospital stories. Few of them good.

My colonoscopy story was about my recent visit to a new internist. After taking my medical history and giving me a thorough examination, including a cardiogram, when he was done, he told me things look pretty good except for a heart murmur and my right hand tremors.

Ignoring that for a moment, I asked him about a colonoscopy. "I haven't had one in a few years," I said, "So maybe it's time . . ."

Before I could complete my thought, he said, "At your age we no longer recommend colonoscopies (he's a gastroenterologist no less) because no matter what we might find, at your age, you'll die of something else."

In a way that sounded good, but in truth, on reflection, not really.

I said, "I guess that gives me something to look forward to. Dying soon."

He doesn't have much of a sense of humor, or maybe his waiting room was full of patients and he didn't have time to schmooze, and so he barely smiled.

The cardiologist and neurologist he referred me too said pretty much the same thing--about the murmur, something else will get me before it becomes a problem; and the same for the tremor--"I'll write you a prescription for L-Dopa," he said, "And we'll hope for the best." He hardly needed to add, "that you'll die before . . ."

I stopped listening.

When I told the story to friends at the diner yesterday, one said, "This reminds me of a joke." We all groaned. Lou is not known to be a good joke teller. Undeterred though, he began, "Morty goes to his doctor who gives him his annual physical. When he's done, Morty asks, 'So how did I do?'

"The doctor says, 'Ten.'

 Confused, Morty asks, "'Ten what?' Years? Months? Days?'

"The doctor says, 'Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . .'"

Not that bad a joke from Lou.

And of course everyone either has a new set of hearing aids or is about to get them. And so there's a lot of breakfast talk about that.

"Why do we always seem to be talking about medical issues?" Rona wondered. We were driving to the pharmacy to get my L-Dopa prescription refilled.

"Isn't it obvious?" I said. "We're all getting on in years and stuff happens."

"Wouldn't you think . . ." she began.

"And don't forget that Maine has the oldest population of all the 50 states. And our county, Lincoln, demographically, has the nation's oldest residents."

The next time we were at Deb's Bristol Diner, when even before the waitress arrived to take our order, Jim began to talk about his diabetes numbers, I said, "Not to sound unsympathetic, but maybe we should try to talk about something not medical."

Jim who is not the sensitive type, without attitude, said, "What would you recommend?"

"A book, gardening, or maybe Donald Trump."

He said, "I rather have a colonoscopy."

September 18, 2019--The Man Who Mistook a Chipmunk for His Wife

A friend asked me to repost this. So here it is. It first appeared in June, 2018--

Neurologist and author Oliver Sacks was an acquaintance who wrote widely for lay readers about the complex world of mental "disorders." 

I put disorders in quotation marks since in his writing he challenges many of the traditional paradigms that classify many mental conditions as abnormal and as cognitive deficits. 

In my favorite of his books, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, in four sections Sacks presents a series of brief case studies focused on aspects of neurology. 

In the first part he discusses neurological conditions that are usually construed to be deficits in normal brain function. Taking a very different tack, he argues that the medical community tends to define almost all divergent neurological conditions as some kind of deficit.

But, he claims, this paradigm is too narrow because it marginalizes these conditions, making it difficult to understand their full range of function, and that the traditional medical classification system also underestimates individuals' abilities to find ways of compensating for atypical mental function. 

In other words, the deficit model often leads to a lack of empathy and nuance and gets in the way of a full understanding of what is almost always characterized as illness and thus impedes effective ways of working with individuals who present unusual behaviors. Including behavior experienced by Dr. P., someone Sacks worked with for a number of years who had a rare form of "face blindness" that left him unable to distinguish between his wife's face and his hat. The man who mistook . . .

I thought about Sacks and the book late last week while standing in the road with George Lindberg, a close friend, who was asking me how my Parkinson's is progressing.

"The meds seem to relieve much of the tremor in my right hand," I said, "It's my only symptom thus far. So I'm feeling optimistic about the situation."

I extended my hand to show him. "That looks pretty good," he said, "Do you notice any things that cause increased tremoring?"

"When I have any anxiety, which I am prone to have, it does increase the tremor. In fact, it's happening right now. Maybe because we're talking about it." 

To show him I extended my arm again and my right hand was shaking quite visibly. "It stops right away if I tell myself to calm down." I showed him how that works. In a few seconds my hand completely calmed down.

"Does your neurologist say what might be in the offing?"

"In fact the last time I saw him I asked about that--'How long will it be before I'm like Michael J. Fox?'"

"I like that and I like Michael J. Fox," George said.

"I do as well. The doctor asked again how old I am and when I reminded him he said, 'In your case you'll be long gone before that happens.'" Liking how that sounded he smiled. Which is unusual for him.

"So I have something to look forward to," I said.

"What's that?" he asked.

"I said, also smiling, 'Being dead.'"

"That sounds good to me," George said, playfully referring to me.

"One thing, though," I added, "There's this commercial on TV for a med that claims it can lessen the delusions and hallucinations that supposedly 50 percent of people with PD will experience. That doesn't sound so good to me."

"Again," George said,"before that happens maybe you'll be fortunate enough to be long gone." He's a good kidder, which I like about him.

"What's that?" I said to him with my hand flapping.

"What are you pointing at?"

"Down the road, all the rustling in those bushes." I indicated where with my steady hand.

"I can't see what you're referring to," he said, "It would be strange since there's no wind."

"Rona's doing a lot of pruning. Maybe that's her in those bushes." I pointed again down the road where it looked to me like she was working. "But that would be unusual since that's really not on our property, though the owner of the log cabin, who's rarely here, likes it when Rona neatens things up."

George and I stood there peering at the bushes that were in rapid motion. At least they looked that way to me.

"Maybe it's a bear," Kidding, George said.

"Do we have bears here?" I asked taking him seriously.

"Not usually" he said, "Though strange things happen all the time. The berries are starting to set so bears could be lurking."

With that there was increased movement in the bushes. I clutched the shovel I had with me, getting ready for I knew not what.

And just as quickly, all movement ceased and popping out from the bushes was not Rona or a bear but a chipmunk that preceded to bounce across the road.

I'm not sure what George made of all this, but I was thinking about Oliver.

August 28, 2019--The Spiders of Pemaquid Point

A friend asked me to repost this. It is from August 14, 2009 A little more than ten years ago--

There’s not much opportunity here to see big game. Rarely if ever are there any moose to be spotted along the coast of Maine. Wildlife action of that kind tends to occur inland. So here near Pemaquid Point, in compensation, I have taken to watching the many spiders that are especially hard at work this year because all the spring rain has spawned an unusual number of mosquitoes. And though they dive-bomb us at dawn and dusk, for spiders they are a delicacy. Rich in the protein that they need to sustain themselves and out of which the silken material from which they spin their webs is composed, the oversupply of these pests has kept the local spiders working overtime.

If you are skeptical, I can assure you that I do have some experience as a very amateur naturalist. One time, in South Africa for example, after the work I was engaged is was completed, Rona and I trekked out to a game camp near Kruger National Park. A very expensive one. At first, all poshly accommodated—we were met at the entrance by a post-Apartheid black man in a crisply starched White Hunter’s outfit who offered us a frosted glass of something orange, which tasted like a mimosa, to help us relax and compensate us for the bumpy flight in on a six-seater—I was immediately suspicious about the authenticity of the experience that awaited us. Mimosas and stalking big game somehow didn’t go together even blended in a rich imagination. I, after all, had grown up reading Jungle Book stories and spending time at this Ngala Game Lodge promised to be very different than squeezing under a mosquito net in a tent in the bush.

And so, as I usually do in these circumstances, I behaved dismissively, of course blaming Rona for dragging me to this expensive Disneyland version of the Veldt, and immediately began to make cynical fun of the guide’s cheerful promise that during our three days there we would be certain to see the Big Five, which he informed us, since this was the first we had heard of this notion, were the five most desirable animals to encounter—the lion; the African elephant; the cape buffalo; the leopard; and rarest of all, the black rhinoceros.

And with that he had one of his “boys” whisk us to our hut (some hut with a marble and slate bathroom about the size of our one-bedroom apartment back in Manhattan) and told us not to be late for dinner, which that evening was to be served by a roaring fire on which various slabs of game meat were to be roasted. “Be sure to have the impala steak,” he said, smacking his lips, “It is very special.”

The next day, on the first of our six game drives—one each morning just before dawn and another every evening prior to sunset—we spotted two cheetah within a hundred yards of our camp, which, rather than pleasing me, only made me more cynical. I think I said sotto voce to Rona, “I’ll bet the reason these cheetahs are right here is because they lure them close by putting out food.” And to the guide, who did not deserve my sarcasm, I added, “They don’t count toward the Big Five, do they? Maybe the Big Six?” He simply smiled back at me, undoubtedly having had, through the years, to endure this and worse from rich tourists.

And then within the first hour, after spotting a pride of lions at a watering hole and learning all about how it is lionesses who do all the cub rearing and hunting while the males hang around sleeping their way through the sultry days—it was clear that women’s liberation as well as freedom and democracy had arrived in South Africa—suspecting that the hotel owners had dug and kept the water hole full so that their pampered guests would not have to drive around all day in dusty futilely chasing after the first of the Big Five, restraining from allowing myself to be overly impressed, I came up with what I thought to be a witty counter to the traditional way of keeping score while on this version of safari—the obverse of the Big Five, the Tiny Five. “Maybe we should keep that list too,” I said to no one in particular, “You know, the termite—see all those termite mounds—the tsetse fly, the mosquito, the African Mantid [I had done my homework to come up with this voracious creature], and of course, my favorite, the dung beetle.”

I chuckled at my own cleverness; but when Daktari, our driver stopped suddenly with no big game in sight and directed us to get out of the Land Rover, I thought perhaps to change a tire, saying nothing, he pointed at the ground near where we were standing. There was nothing noteworthy to be seen—just a few pebbles and rocks. “There!” he pointed again, insisting, “Right there!” We bent closer to the ground, following the direction of his finger and indeed right there was one of my Tiny Five. “A dung beetle,” he chortled, “Just what you came all this way from America to see.” With that he knew he had me and his face exploded into a brilliant grin.

And there it was, about three-quarters of an inch in size, reared back on its hind legs and with its front legs rolling ahead of it what could only be a ball of dung at least twice its size. “You can put that on your list,” Daktari said. And I did because that amazing beetle was as interesting as any of the Big Five which, over the days, we accumulated. And to tell the truth, all my cynicism quickly faded and I had the time of my life.

Which brings me back to the spiders of our back porch—after close observing I discovered an ideal location for them not only because of the airborne protein supply but also since the spaces between the vertical posts that support the porch railing are an ideal distance apart for the construction of their so-called orb webs. Bear with me.

Much of this work occurs just before dawn, which is an ideal time for me to get distracted in observing natural phenomena, which is good for my mental health since I am a notoriously poor sleeper; and if it were not for my writing, and the chance to get lost in things such as spiders’ projects, I would be left desperately groping for ways to fill the time and push back, always unsuccessfully, against the tremors of non-specific anxiety that prior to sunrise invade my unprotected mind and sabotage any possibility of morning tranquility or a smooth transition to consciousness.

If the breeze is just right for web-building—not too fresh, not too indifferent--I notice that my spider companion from one rail post begin by extruding a foot-long silky adhesive thread which it leaves to hang unfettered in the air, knowing—if it knows--that it will then begin to float gently, carried on the breath of these pre-dawn zephyrs. With just the right amount of wafting this initial strand is lifted higher and higher until it appears to reach across toward the opposite post, in my case just an eight-inch span. And if there is then a slight additional uplift to the breeze it, miraculously, adheres to the adjacent post and what remains is a single, fragile swaying strand which bridges the gap and begins to shed a silken glow in the first light of the day.

My spider then puts on display its extraordinary tightrope walking skills—no less remarkable than those of the legendary Philippe Petit who pranced on a wire that spanned the two World Trade Center towers. As I raptly watch it carefully walk along that slender thread it extrudes another, strengthening strand of silk. It works its way back and forth, back and forth until these repeated passes and deposits have thickened that first precarious filament. Not unlike the way suspension bridge builders spin the cables that reach from anchor tower to anchor tower and then support the roadway. From Manhattan to Brooklyn, from Brooklyn to Manhattan, from Manhattan to Brooklyn, from Brooklyn to . . .

With this horizontal element now securely in place, and strong enough to support the rest of the web that will be suspended from it and anything it may eventually entrap—including the full weight of the spider which ingests its victims while clinging to the web itself--this aerialist architect is next ready to begin to fill in the rest of the vertical structure.

It does this, I observe, the way climbers lower themselves by ropes from the cliffs they have conquered—in their case by repelling themselves against the rock face as they drop toward the ground where they began; while in the spider’s case by again producing a silken rope at the end of which it dangles—again swinging in the breeze until it simultaneously is pitched to precisely the midpoint between the posts and, when thus positioned, rapidly drops the last few inches to the lower horizontal cross piece where it affixes its silken thread. It then ascends, again strengthening this first angled vertical line, as it laboriously hoists itself back up to the top rung, all along the way extruding another thread. And once there, it skirts to the other side and immediately lowers itself again, as before waiting until the wind catches it just right and swings it, dangling, to the center of that lower span and when positioned at that precise spot again plummets so it can affix its strand.

If one were to stand back at this point—as I wondrously do, distracted and thus no longer ensnared by fears—one sees the Y-shaped framework, which will contain the eventual web itself. All the heavy structural work has now been completed—it is time to apply the finishing touches, to fill in the details. The radials and the circular threads that might be thought of as the web loom’s warp and weft, which together will form the final cobweb fabric.

The radials bridge the center of the Y-armature and the concentric circular threads give the web its distinctive Halloween look. Typically, my spider mate constructs at least half a dozen radials and at least that many circular loops; and when they are sketched in, it spends quite a bit of time strengthening the webs center with at least five final circular strands. This is obviously where the real action will occur.

By the third morning I am beginning to notice something else: it appears that the spaces between each spiral are proportional to the size of the spider itself—specifically the distance between the tip of its back legs and its spinners. It is using itself, its own body as a measuring device! But before I got too carried away in the rapture of this back-porch discovery, I quickly realized that this technique must be hard-wired into many animal species. Including humans. After all where did we come up with a yard as a unit of measurement? Or and inch? Or, more obviously, a foot? Welcome to my world spider cousins! Or is it that is offering the greeting?

And then, hopefully it will be the spider’s breakfast time. It has put in a full morning’s work and deserves something nutritious and savory. I still have two hours to wait until Rona rises before I can get my less-wholesome blueberry pancakes. So with nothing better to do, to kill some more time, I wait along with it.

After about a half an hour, a frisky, early-rising mosquito begins to buzz about. Perhaps it too is a troubled sleeper. If it sleeps at all. Not wanting to interfere with the natural forces at work I do not swat at it as it dives toward my uncovered head. If it is to pay a price for what it attempts to inflict on me it will not be by my hand. I therefore do not choose to wave it off as I in compensation take malicious pleasure in noticing my spider friend waiting, patiently immobile off to the side of its web. It and I know what awaits.

The mosquito, which as a result of its first pass left a swelling and itchy welt on my neck, circles lower, seeking a second helping, moving closer, circling the warm veins throbbing in my ankle. To it irresistible. Sensing its approach I shift a bit—I confess with retributive intent since my foot is not more than a foot from the web—perhaps to help divert it toward its fate. And for once, man interfering with Nature yields a sustainable ecological result. No inconvenient truths. My mosquito tormentor, diverted in its flight path by me uncrossing my legs and thereby forced into a stall by a sudden downdraft is swept right into the center of the waiting web.

The spider, sensing the impact and the struggle of its prey by the vibrations transmitted through the web, begins to stir. It lifts itself, seemingly to me to stretch its legs and even yawn, and begins its slow ascent toward the middle of the web where the mosquito, as it squirms to free itself only, as if in a straight jacket, further entangles itself. Then, just as the spider approaches close to its prey, an exact body-length away, all struggles cease; and, I believe, if I had a magnifying glass, I would be able to see my spider companion licking the equivalent of its chops.

June 7, 2019--Once Again: The Rhumb Line

A number of people asked me to repost this. It first appeared July 27, 2016. The "George" is George Lindberg. He's always good for a story.

It was a hot morning and George took a break from mowing our lawn.

"I hear from your missus that you're looking for a new place to have lunch on Wednesday."

"Yes, a cousin is going to be in the area. In Rockland."

"I know you like the Slipway in Thomaston. The same owner now has a place on the harbor in Camden, the Rhumb Line."

"That's exciting," I said, "He had one of our favorite places in Port Clyde. Until Linda Bean of the LL family bought the property. He couldn't stand her because of her homophobic politics and refused to remain as chef. That's when he opened the place in Thomaston."

"The one in Port Clyde was called the Dip Net."

"In addition to being such a good restauranteur," I said, "he comes up with great names for his places."

"What do you think about Rhumb Line?" George asked.

"We haven't been there yet," Rona said.

"I mean the name."

"I know what a dip net is--a long-handled net used to land fish--and a slipway is a boat launching ramp. But a rhumb line? That's a new one for me. It sounds nautical."

"It's a navigation term," George said, "If you don't know what it is I think you'll like it."

"I'm eager to hear."

He let go of his lawnmower and with a sweeping gesture, using both hands, created in the air the shape of a large sphere. "Make believe this is the earth," he said, "In three dimensions."

"I got you. I loved solid geometry in high school. Especially how to think about and understand how lines on a solid three-dimensional globe work. Arcs and such."

"Exactly. So if you, for example, head east from here across the Atlantic and don't change course--in effect, go straight--the shortest distance from point to point is not a straight line, as it is in two-dimensional plain geometry, but an arc, a circle. Thus ships or airplanes follow the Great Circle Route to get to England most directly."

"And a rhumb line?" I asked.

"I'm getting to it." George likes to take his time when explaining concepts to be sure you're following him. He's really good at this. Particularly if the concept is complex or full of ambiguity. His favorite type. He also likes telling stories of all sorts. The shaggier the better.

And so, again with a gesture, maintaining the outline of the globe with one hand while with the other, where the Equator would be, he traced a spiral in the air, up from the Equator toward the North Pole.

"A rhumb line is a line on a globe that as it moves forward crosses all lines of longitudes at the same angle. That's the key--the same angle. Longitude, as you know, being the way on a globe that we map north-south slices of space and location."

"I think I'm beginning to get it," I said, "To trace a great circle on a sphere one moves along in a three-dimensional arced line, not changing course because the distance between lines of latitude are constant."

"Exactly."

"But with a rhumb line, to cross longitudes at the same angle one has to constantly change one's course."

"And thus a spiral is traced on the globe because as you head north--or south for that matter--as one approaches a pole the separation between the lines of longitude get narrower and narrower. If you will, compressed closer and closer together so it's necessary to constantly adjust your heading."

"And?" I said.

"And what?" George said.

"Whenever you get into these kind of things you always have another meaning or two to offer."

"Me?" he said with a shrug, trying to hide a smile.

"Please proceed."

"I know how you like to go round in circles. I mean," he quickly added, "not in a bad way, but metaphorically to see what you might stumble onto that's interesting."


"Could be true," I conceded. "And so?"

"With great circles and now rhumb lines you have more circles and spirals within which to go round." George winked.

I tried to get us back to basics, asking, "But is it a good restaurant?" I thought I had cleverly circled around to where we began.

He smiled and, ignoring me, said, "According to the theory, no matter what course you set we all end at the same place."

As I pondered that, he said, "But be sure not to forget to order the fried oysters."

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."

September 13, 2018--Lobsta Rolls

Here's the first of the Midcoast stories. From 10 years ago--

Sharon said, when you get to Maine, be sure to look for those hidden-away lobster shacks. You’ll find them in most harbors in unexpected places. Not the fancy versions for tourists passing through or just there for a weekend, but the places the locals go to during the summer. To get away from the tourists.

That turned out to be good advice since this was the first time we were taking up residence in Maine, albeit for just three weeks, but we certainly didn’t want to either act like or look like tourists. In fact, even before settling in in the house we rented on Clark Island, not far from Thomaston, we drove around looking for the place the locals were likely to go to in the morning for coffee, a place not far from the lobster boats in the Thomaston and Rockland harbors which opened at 6:00 a.m., a sure sign, even though we would not be up and out at anything like that hour, that there we would be not be mixed in with the latte and cappuccino set.

We did in fact find what we thought was such a breakfast place but wouldn’t you know it that when we went there at 8:00 a.m. the next morning we wound up sitting at a table right next to Brian Lamb, C-SPAN’s founder and host of “Booknotes.” So instead of listening in on how the lobsters were running this summer (if this is the correct way to put it), I couldn’t resist pushing my way into his conversation about the future of books. What, he was wondering, would be their fate now that Amazon has come out with Kindle, its version of an online electronic book. 

I thought I was being quite clever when I said Kindle might be a convenience when traveling in that you wouldn’t have to schlep along a bag of books (though I didn’t use schlep with Brain Lamb—I was trying to blend in) without real books how would it be to take a nap with a Kindle on your chest. His wife quipped that the battery would run out. A bookbinder friend of his said that without walls of books insulating one’s house heating bills up here would double.

So you see, we quickly have found a version of a place for us to fit into. Until I meet some real fishermen, Brian Lamb will just have to do.

But back to the advice Sharon gave us: how to find the freshest, most authentically prepared and served lobsters.

It seems this will turn out not to be so difficult. This whole coast is of course lined with rock-bound bays and coves and harbors. It is Maine after all and that’s what the coast of Maine is all about. No such fishing harbors, no Maine. And yes situated in literally every one of them there are lobster shacks and places called Fishermen’s Co-Ops where local lobstermen bring their catch and I presume the women members of their families boil them up and serve them on paper plates on weather-battered picnic tables. They do include melted butter for dipping the delectable meat but no nutcrackers to shatter the shells. In their place, we discovered by observing a couple of regulars at the next table at Millers, they provide a rock. A hunk of Maine granite to smash the claws. 

With the lobster juice dripping out of our mouths and through the seams in the cobbled-together table and onto our pants, who cares? It doesn’t get any better than this. And the sunset over Norton Island quickly wipes out memories of the endless seven-hour drive from New York.

                                                        * * *

By the next day we quickly noticed that travelers who want the true Maine experience, the culinary part of which of course centers around lobsters, do not have to look far. Yes, getting off the main roads, such as they are, leads one to Millers here on Clark Island or Cod’s End on the wharf in Tenants Harbor or the Dip Net in Port Clyde, but if while inching your way up Route 1, the same one that passes near us down south in Delray Beach, Florida, you can get your lobster, usually in the form of lobster rolls, almost anywhere and in the most unexpected places.

For example, in almost any convenience store. Or, no kidding, in the place where you have your hair done. For that matter, the sign at a nearby wine shop advertises a good deal on Maine wines, there are quite a few wineries here, and also for $11.95 lobster rolls. And if you are willing to shell out $4,19 for regular gas at the local Exxon station, you can get lobsta (sic) rolls there for only $10.99.

As a kid I always wondered why on its license plates the state of Idaho emblazoned Famous Potatoes. That is until I finally got there. Or why Florida, the Sunshine State, had an orange on its. But now, after just three days here, I know about the Vacationland state and why on its license plates a lobster is so prominently embossed.

September 11, 2018--Midcoast: The Lindbergs

Another Midcoast story. This one 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 think 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."

"They are quiet experienced," Rona said, "They gave us a bottle of their honey last year and it was so delicious I finished it in 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.