September 5, 2019--At Moody's Diner

A friend asked me to repost this. It appeared first on May 31, 2016 and is set in one of Maine's iconic diners.

Down at the end there were two seats at Moody's counter. Moody's in Waldoboro is a Maine diner legend. In season, a slice of their blueberry pie is worth a detour.

And so is the turkey salad, at least according to Rona. I agree as long as we also order some well-done French fries.

It was perfect timing, therefore, to find ourselves in the vicinity when in the mood for a turkey salad on rye and maybe a slice of pie.

"Let me make room for yuh," a bulky man who looked about 45 said, "I'll move down one seat and cozy with Shauna here. My lady," he winked.

Excited just to be there, I uncharacteristically said, "No need for that. It's chilly out and you look like someone good to cozy with."

"You mean I'm fat?" he said, pretending, I happily saw, to be offended.

"No, only . . ."

"It's OK. I just playin' with yuh," he said to assure me, deciding to stay perched on the stool next to where I lowered myself. "Truth is, I am fat and a lot older than I look." He pulled his tee shirt up to show me his considerable belly. "Shouldn't be eatin' this corn bread." He held it up for me to see, crumbles falling onto the countertop. "But they give it to yuh if you order the chili. Which I recommend."

"We're here for the turkey salad," Rona joined in with an extra-friendly smile.

"And the French fries," I said, "Well done."

"And a slice of blueberry pie," Rona added to make sure he understood we weren't dieting and that he wasn't the only one eating a lot.

"I know what you're thinking," he paused then added, "A grease monkey."

"No, I . . ."

"That's OK. No need to pretend with me. 'Cause that's what I am. No shame in that." He held up his hands so I could see the full extent of the grease that covered his hands and forearms like a second skin.

"Workin' on his transmission," he said nodding toward another over-size person at the very end of the counter. He too was woofing down a huge bowl of chili and didn't look up in acknowledgment. He kept stirring the bowl to distribute the corn bread he had crumbled on the chili as a topping.

"Where you guys from?"

"From three places really," I said. But for the next five months we have a place down at the Point, Pemaqud Point."

"Nice out there," he said, "What about the other two?"

Rona looked at me as if to say, "You need to be talking about this over-privileged lifestyle to someone who's an auto mechanic?"

Picking that up, I stammered, "Well we . . . I mean . . ."

"I'm cool with that," he said with a wave, "Shauna and me are thinkin' about our version of the same thing. I'm doin' pretty well and we have a nice house here in Nobleboro and a little place not far from the water--a lake actually--in Kissimmee."

"Florida?" I said, "Not that far from Orlando?"

"Right you are," he said, and slapped me hard on the back. "For the winters. It gets real cold up here and I have no love for snow. Never did, never will. But all my family's here. Been here nine generations. One of the first families. I mean of white people. When my great, great, great whatever showed up from England there were plenty of other families around. But not white ones, if you get my meaning."

"I do," I said, "There were lots of Indians around. From what I've read, they had no problem with feeding themselves what with giant oysters that you needed two hands to lift and, standing on the shore, fish you could scoop up out of the water. No need for nets or anything."

"There are lots of stories about that that were passed down in my family. Some been written down in dairies from the early 1600s. One so extensive and detailed that it's down there in the Smithsonian collection."

"Wow," Rona said.

"Pretty good for a grease monkey," he said thumping his now puffed-out chest. "And if you're wonderin', there are two governors, Maine governors in my family--Benjamin Ames and Joshua Chamberlain. You wouldna guessed that about me, would yuh?"

"I wouldn't have thought that about anyone," I said, feeling good about taking what he said in stride and not stereotyping him. "I mean, how many people have two governors in their families?"

"Mitt Romney's kids, for example," he said, "And to be fair and balanced, Mario Cuomo's."

"And that dopey Brown family in California," the fellow at the end of the counter mumbled, still shoveling in his chili. "Governor Moonbeam."

"I guess it's not so rare," I said.

"You're being silly," Rona said, "Even though these are good examples it's still very unusual."

"No need to give him a hard time, ma'am. We're just getting to know each other. By the way, my name's Dana," he said, thrusting his right hand at me. As I reached to take it, he pulled it back, "Look at me, covered all in transmission fluid and I'm thinkin' to shake hands with you who are about to eat a sandwich." He began to wipe his hand on his shirt. I kept my hand extended toward him and finally he took it and we shook hands, smiling broadly at each other.

"I guess that makes us friends," he said looking me straight in the eye.

"I'm Steve," I said, "And this is Rona."

She reached across my chest with an extended hand and without hesitating Dana took it, saying, "Nice to be your friend, Ro, Ro . . ."

"Na, Rona," she said.

"Like Jaffe and Barrett?" he asked.

"Yes, but hardly anyone knows those Ronas anymore," Rona said.

"The novelist and gossip columnist," he said. "I seem to remember readin' some of her stuff. Rona Jaffe, I mean. Wasn't she ahead of her time? Wrote a lot of racy stuff from a female perspective?"

"I'm ashamed to say," Rona said, looking down, "that I've never read anything of hers. But, yes, I think you're right. Sort of a Helen Gurley Brown type."

"I think better than that," he said, "She was a real writer. More like an Erica Jong."

"Sounds right," Rona said.

"Changin' the subject," he said, "You folks followin' the election?"

By then our sandwiches and fries had arrived and rather than risk spoiling our lunch and the thus-far warm conversation, not wanting to get into a harangue or argument, we both took big bites to fill our mouths so we couldn't be expected to talk.

"Minimally, whatever you think, it's been entertainin'. Seems these days no one pays attention to anythin' serious unless it's entertainin'. I mean Trump, hate 'em or love 'em, is fun to follow. I mean, to tell you the truth, I'm more in the 'hate 'em category,' but almost every night when I tune in to Fox and MSNBC he's good for some laughs."

Releived, still with a full mouth, I nodded.

"He's like one of those fools in Shakespeare. He speaks his mind and because no one in the media at least takes him seriously but  have to admit that some of what he says is true, politically incorrect, he gives folks permission to laugh at things they don't feel comfortable saying out loud or in public. It's kind of embarrassed laughter. You feel a little guilty admitting you are paying any serious attention to him but can't help yourself and laugh at what he has to say. Which I suppose is what a lot of entertainment is about. Comedy at least."

"I agree with all of that," I said after swallowing my half-chewed turkey salad, "So, who . . ."

"Can't say I have a dog in that fight. At least not yet. Maybe never will. Sad, but I'm feelin' I don't trust any of 'em. I mean, you can't believe a word Trump says. He sometimes contradicts himself twice in the same sentence. I've seen him do that. And, he's not wrong to call her Crooked Hillary 'cause that's what she is. I mean she's smart and all that and has a big resumé but tell me one thing she's said about herself that you believe?"

"She does have that problem," Rona said.

"Forget all the stuff when she was the First Lady. That's old news, though there's plenty of smoke from that time. I'm talking about where her and Bill's money comes from. Goldman Sachs? Give me a break. And all that hanky-panky with their foundation--forget her continuing to put up with his philandering--and the email business. To me that's a big deal. A very big deal. Everyone knows she's lyin' about that. She knew what she was doin' and put a whole lot a people at big risk. Then I fear if she wins she'd be looking' for an opportunity to show how macho she is once she's commander in chief. I have problems with all of that. Also what Trump would do with the military really scares me. So . . ."

"So what about Bernie?"

"Another liar. Different kind. I agree with him about the rigged economy and government but the lies he tells are about being able to carry out any of his policies if by some miracle he gets nominated or, God help us, wins. He knows practically nothin' about the world. Only a little more than Trump, and there is no chance of getting Medicare for all through Congress much less free college tuition. First of all the federal government doesn't have any power to tell the Univeristy of Maine what to do and even if he could get all he wants it would, what, double the deficit. I'm not antigovernment like most of the knuckleheads around here, like old Jim over there, but I do care about controlling spending and worry about the deficit. What is it, 19 trillion?"

Jim had finished his chili and was now listening to what Dana had to say.

"So, like I say, I have no one to vote for. If Ralph Nader was running' maybe . . . But he's a jerk. 'Cause of him we got George Bush. W, not HW. That puppy has a lot to atone for."

"At the moment, I'm with you," I said with a shrug and sigh, "At the moment, I'm considering not voting in November. Maybe that'll change. Maybe there'll be a real miracle and Hillary will be indicted and someone like Joe Biden would get in the mix and somehow get nominated and . . ."

"Now you're talkin'," Dana said, "He's my man! Flaws and all. He can also be a jerk. But that sort of makes him authentic. And wasn't he right about the Middle East? Iraq for example? Let it become three separate countries? But that's for another day. Got to get back to Jim's transmission. Next time we're all here, I'll tell you about my meetin' Ronald Reagan."

"Really? Where?" I really wanted to hear about that.

"At the White House."

"Fantastic!"

"I was among a group invited there to get our Silver Stars from the president. I told you I'm older than I look. It was one of the highlights of my life. Not that I thought that much about Reagan. Irangate and all that. Hey, I'd love to hang out more with you guys but a transmission awaits. I'm here with Shauna every day. Down at the end of the counter. So if you and Miss Rona want to stay friends, you know where to find me."

With that, he hoisted his considerable body off the stool and shuffled toward the cashier. Rona and I got up as well and followed after him so we could get in a couple of more handshakes.

August 31, 2018--Midcoast: Bucket List

"I'm 51 years old and afraid I don't have enough saved to retire before I'm at least 90."

A crew of arborists were at our place to remove eight dead and dying pine trees. They arrived with what seemed like an army of heavy equipment, including a huge tractor, a cherry picker, and a chipper.

"Really, it scares me. I thought for awhile that I'd be OK, but what with the cost of things going up by the day, I don't know."

This was Walt whose responsibility was to drive the tractor, especially to scoop up the chain-sawed tree parts that he then would then stack in towering piles.

"First of all," I said, "We're both much older than you, I really mean  I'm much older, not Rona, and we worked hard for many years and were careful savers. And we more or less followed my father's advice. He used to say that there's no freedom without economic freedom and so, he advised, earn as much as you can for as long as you can, save as much as possible, and live below your means. That is, until you retire."

"That sounds pretty smart," Walt said, "You did that? I mean, follow his advice?"

"Pretty much," I said, "And so now we're fortunate to be comfortable. We still watch our spending and Rona has been a smart money manager."

"I don't know," he said, "I pay into Social Security, my wife works three jobs, and driving heavy equipment pays pretty decent. But I worry."

"You're still young," I said, "There's a lot of time left for you to increase your savings. Even a few hundred dollars more a month, over time if you don't touch it, can make a big difference. But I get your point. We know a lot of people in their mid-sixties who had good careers but didn't save enough and now feel vulnerable. So it isn't easy, considering the rising cost of things, to feel secure. But, again, whatever you're doing now, like everyone else, you can do better."

"Enough about this depressing subject," Walt said, "Let's talk about how you guys live. I see you have a nice house here and a great garden, that I'm sure takes a lot of work to maintain, but it feels like you have a good lifestyle."

"We do," I said, "We're very fortunate."

"May I ask if you have a bucket list? Things you want to do before you can't do them any more? I hate to sound morbid." He shrugged.

"That's OK," I said, "I don't have that kind of list. I prefer to let things happen and to keep everything on the simple, spontaneous side."

"I have a thought," Walt said, smiling broadly, "See that cherry picker over there? With Mike in the bucket--that's what we call it, the bucket. It can raise him to 70 feet, high enough to get to the top of most trees, though you have here a few as high as, I'd estimate, maybe 90, 100 feet. Those suckers are pretty tall. I think one even has an eagle nest in it." He pointed to the top of a towering spruce.

"It's quite a contraption," I said.

"So how'd you like to take a ride in it? It could be on your bucket list, pardon the pun, even though you don't have one." He winked.

"I think I'd like that," I said, "I love heights and from the bucket I could probably have a view of the entire Point, including the Pemaquid lighthouse."

"Let's make it happen! Don't forget to take your camera."

With that he shouted to Mike to lower the bucket. Mike waved to signal he would bring it down to ground level. Its long extension arms telescoped into one another and then the two bulging arms folded one atop the other.

"Hop right in." Mike said, a little breathlessly, "Walt'll help you. It's a little tricky even for someone half your age." 

I thought he too was thinking bucket list. "Grab hold of him, Walt," which he proceeded to do, almost lifting me off the ground by holding onto my belt and easing me into the bucket. 

I'm not as balanced or steady on my feet as I used to be and having this sure-handed help made me feel secure and provided just the assistance I needed to finally tumble into the bucket.

"Good job," Mike said while at the same time getting the arm of the hoist mechanism to unfold and extend itself as we rapidly ascended. 

I looked down to where Rona stood, sensing she thought the three of us were crazy. Maybe a little, I thought, just a little.

Up in the air to the full 70 feet of the extended arm I could indeed see all the nearby houses, including ours, and off in the distance, about half a mile south, there in fact was the lighthouse. I'm not much for taking photos but this time I did to share what I was seeing with Rona and as evidence that I really did this.

After about 15 minutes of rotating the bucket as much as possible so I could get good views in all directions, Mike, with visible reluctance (he too was having fun) began to lower the contraption. 

On the ground, Walt moved quickly to help me get my quivering legs out of the bucket and then back on my own two feet.

"That was amazing," I said, "So much fun."

"Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to have a bucket list after all," Walt said. "Like maybe including skydiving?"

"That actually does interest me," I said, "Maybe for my upcoming birthday. It's a big one. I remember President Bush doing that up here in Maine, a few years ago. Maybe when he turned 90. I have a ways to go before that. But maybe you're right--I should make a list. In truth, it would be a list of things I probably won't get around to doing."

"Now you're sounding morbid," he said, But back to what we were talking about earlier," bringing me back to reality, "About retiring."

"I remember that," I said, truthfully not wanting to bring myself down from feeling so exhilarated and full of life.

"If all else fails my plan is to die on the job."

"What?"

"One day, a beautiful day just like today, I plan to keel over into a pile of brush. Simple as that."

September 30, 2015--Spiders of Pemaquid Point

After a fierce winter, everything here is late this year--spring flowers, lilacs, and now our local spiders. Finally, they are hard at work. An especially wonderful web is right outside our bedroom window. A close look at the upper right hand corner of the window in the photo below shows it bejeweled by moisture from the morning fog.

And so I thought to reprint this from September 1, 2010--

There is not much opportunity here to observe big game. Rarely if ever are there any moose to be spotted along the coast. Wildlife action of that kind occurs inland. So near Pemaquid Point, in compensation, I have taken to watching the many spiders that are especially hard at work because of the mosquitoes that spawned after last week's rain. And though they attack us at dawn and dusk, for spiders they are a delicacy. Rich in the protein they need to sustain themselves and out of which the silken material from which they spin their webs is composed, the new supply 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. At first, 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 did not go together even blended by a rich imagination. I, after all, had grown up reading Jungle Book stories and spending time at this N'gala 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, 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 entire one-bedroom apartment back in Manhattan. Our guide 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 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 safariers.

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 the first 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 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 seaside 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 deck 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 a fine time for me to get distracted in observing 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 spider 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 an eight-inch span. And if there is then a slight additional uplift to the breeze the strand miraculously adheres to the adjacent post and what results is a single, fragile swaying strand which bridges the gap and begins to emit a silken glow in the first light of 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 ready to begin to fill in the rest of the vertical structure.

It does this next, 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 sticky 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 wake-up fears—one sees the Y-shaped framework, which will contain the eventual web itself. All the heavy structural work having 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 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-deck 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 or measurement? Or and inch? Or, more obviously, a foot? Welcome to my world spider cousins! Or is it you 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 but delicious 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. 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 potentially 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 in 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. 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 descent 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.

September 16, 2015--Tomatoes

Coming home after an early morning walk on the rocks circling Pemaquid Point, on the front porch Rona, seeing something, asked, What's that?"

"What's what?" I said.

"That bag," she pointed,"Over by the front door."

"I have no idea. Pick it up," which she did, "What's in it?"

Peering into the bag Rona said, "Tomatoes. A bag of tomatoes. And look, a few green peppers." She held one up for me to see.

"Tomatoes? Peppers? The peppers especially look wonderful." I smelled one, "Right from the garden. Who do you think left them here?"

"I have no idea," Rona said.