[Above photo:  Center Harbor at Sunset. Red sun at night, sailor’s delight.]

27 September 2024

At 7AM on a cool, overcast morning a week ago, I launched my kayak into glass-calm water and paddled north, into the estuary for the Presumpscot River. I initially was set for exercise, heading briskly to the Presumpscot Falls and return. In the estuary I saw a number of white objects in a tree that was on the shore of the Audubon Society sanctuary. On closer inspection, it was a tree ornamented with 16 Common Egrets. Another 8 were perched on a log nearby.

I spotted a shallow, winding stream leading into the marsh—grass, then cattails—which I followed. A Belted Kingfisher scolded me fiercely, swooshing back and forth. A Great Blue Heron flapped slowly away into the trees. Two large hawks, which I couldn’t identify, were sitting together on a branch, chatting no doubt. They spotted me and flew off in different directions, their conversation interrupted. 4 ducks, perhaps Black Ducks, flushed and fled. I turned my 17’ kayak awkwardly, backing and filling in a small space, and as I returned to the estuary I saw a flock of turkeys feeding on the shore.

Back in deeper water, I heard and saw loons and admired another stranded log with a host of cormorants sunning on it. Then a pair of osprey, cheeping at the violation of their space, flew by, hunting fish. A mature bald eagle chased another osprey; this is common at our island where the eagles attempt to steal the smaller bird’s mackerel. But the osprey himself was the object of the eagle’s animus—or at least hunger—and s/he seemed to know it, dodging and swerving so often that the pursuer tired and flew off.   Then one of the hawks I had seen flew across the estuary carrying a fat rodent of some sort in its claws. Finally, flock of Canada geese honked southward in their ragged v-formation, in anticipation of cold weather’s approach. All within half an hour’s paddle of my launch point below the Eastern Promenade. And there was no one else around, excepting two jet skis that briefly, and loudly, zipped into and out of the estuary.

I’ve just spent 4 days Down East. One afternoon I visited a dear friend, Kate, in Stonington. We go back to 1969 when we both worked in a Community Health Center in Alviso, a tiny hamlet of Mexican-American (and Mexican) farmworkers. It is situated between San Jose and the tip of San Francisco Bay. San Jose repeatedly tried to raze it and put its airport there. Kate has had quite a career as a Nurse Educator, based as faculty at Stanford but working all over the world. She gets a week in at Stonington every year. It was wonderful to see her, and note that we both are vertical and largely cognitively intact.

Then I was at the Island for 3 days, finishing tasks, cleaning up construction debris, and closing for the season. Ari, her friend Sierra, and I, together with Pearl and Storm (border collies, one 9 years old, one 9 weeks old), rode there on a clear and smooth sea. Both of them had brought a lot of good food and we ate like kings. Sierra brought 100 oysters, for example. We ate about 50; they can be a bear to shuck.  However, some give up immediately. I don’t understand how they can be so different and I don’t think I’m finding the G-spot on one and not on the other!  They were delicious: no messing with mignonette, just plain or a little squeezed lemon.

The puppy was a high point, of course. She’s brilliant, like anyone shortly after birth. She is exploring the world with her mouth, as infants do, but she has the sharpest little teeth, snagging pants, sweaters, and, even, a nose! Incredibly cute.  The other stars of the show were the 12 sheep that Ari brought out earlier in the month, which seem to be gaining weight and wool. They are on the shore, in the meadows, along the trails, and generally have made themselves at home in a few weeks. After Michael, the caretaker, leaves today they’ll have the island to themselves, predator-free.

Our construction project, replacing the T-111siding which was deteriorating on the south-facing wall of our cabin, was a bit fraught. A friend, a contractor and very skilled cabinet-maker, judged it was far gone and needed replacement. So we bought pump-jacks and set up scaffolding—-quite a trick in itself, the first time—and ripped off 3 4×8 sections, as well as the skirt. All was dry as a bone inside. It was really hard work and I began to worry as I was falling asleep on the 3^rd day of work that we couldn’t do it.

That night I had a dream I was driving my little electric Leaf in a village in rural Italy. I didn’t know where I was going, the hills were steep, the streets very narrow and cobbled, and I was running out of electrical charge with no idea where to get more. Eventually I was lost, perched on top of a dirt hill. I awoke and wondered what my mind was telling me. Aha, we’re going in the wrong direction. When Ari awoke, I told her that instead of ripping it all off, we would buy 4 new sheets of T-111, replace the 3 and the skirt, and ask her friend, Derrick, shingle it all. When he was re-shingling the Baptist church in Sedgewick, working with his shirt off, young women in the area would come just to stare at his muscles, as they imagined making babies! He’s a really nice guy and wanted to come out in his own boat, to boot.

Meanwhile, having been told by several carpenters that the current crop of Eastern White Cedar shingles at Hammond, Viking, and Home Depot were all from a Canadian supplier and were of poor quality, I set about to find a different source. Tammy at Longfellow’s in Windsor, 1 ½ hours away, was happy to help. I drove there and met the proprietor and yes, he’s a 5^th generation descendent of “Uncle Henry”.  He had quite an operation and huge piles of cedar logs stacked along the property. I loaded 800# of shingles into Ari’s truck, drove them carefully to S. Brooksville, and loaded them onto Stella, our powerboat. By now it is 8:30PM and quite dark.  A woman getting into her dingy at the float, planning to row out to her husband’s 44foot sloop, somehow ended up in the drink. So I helped her out, trying to diminish her embarrassment with a swimming tale of my own. [Last summer while towing my kayak down a steep ramp at the Brooklin boatyard, it got away from me and I went into the water. Surprise! I bought the boatyard a case of IPA for good measure. I want to be in their good graces.] After a 40 minute run in the dark, trying to avoid running over lobster buoy lines, and I was moored at the island.  We moved the shingles ashore the next day and Derrick, on a ladder with a bucket of shingles and a nail gun, did a fine and prompt job. The only problem is that the shingled part of the house now looks so good that the other three sides look cheap. So we’ll gradually shingle them.

I’ve gone on too long. I’ve discovered rot and termites in my Portland house, which is a story for next month. I’ll also include a trip in two weeks to Cape Breton Island for a Celtic music festival with my friend John Croizat and his partner, Linda. In November I’ll visit my nephews and sister-in-law in Portugal to which they have emigrated. And my Myanmar students in Thailand are urging me to do a workshop for them again. Not so sure I’ll do that but it is tempting!

[Above photo: One of the “simpler” Jeremy Frey baskets, woven of ash and sweet grass. His is the first exhibit of a Wabanaki basket-maker in a major museum. It was stunning, enriched by the video which shows the entire process from selecting the ash tree to fell to the completion of a beautiful basket. ]

10 August 2024

I’ve spent most of the summer on the Island. One high point was a visit to Vinal Haven.

I set out alone on a sunny day in Tern, our 19foot Seaway skiff with a 70hp Yamaha, running east past Butter Island, cutting south between Butter and Eagle islands and then heading southeast across open ocean for the long run to Carver’s Harbor on Vinalhaven.

The occasion was a 3 day weekend gathering that Lindsey cooked up, with several planning suppers in Hallowell, for us to visit his colleague, Sarah, and her husband, Matt, at their 1830’s Cape in Vinal Haven. It was built by her great grandfather, a fisherman, and has been maintained by successive generations. The plan evolved into spending two nights there, with a visit on the middle day to Beach Island for lunch and exploring.

Once out of Eagle Island’s protective shores, I was into ocean swell. It was a pretty and lonely ride, meaning that if I got in a pinch, I’d have to solve the issue myself. Rounding the bottom of Vinal Haven, there were some lobstermen and a choppy sea stretching directly to Ireland. I suddenly realized it was foolhardy to come here in a small open boat, but there I was.

The town harbor is dotted with ledges and the direction I should take was not entirely clear as I approached but just at the right moment the ferry from Rockland appeared and I followed it in. The harbor is amazingly protected, sheltering the 2^nd largest lobster fleet in Maine.

I asked a boater and, subsequently, a worker on shore about a mooring. Each suggested that if I circled the harbor, I would find buoys with cans on top into which I could put $, renting it by the night. After carefully circling twice I found none. I landed at the float for Hopkins Boat Yard but, it being a Saturday, no one was home. Nor did the Harbormaster return my call. With gradually increasing concern, I finally found a fellow from North Carolina rowing to his boat who gave me the correct number for the Harbormaster. Jim answered promptly, despite being on holiday in Portland, and grudgingly—“I’m not supposed to do this.”—gave me permission to tie up at the town dock for 2 nights. It was crowded and after improvising extra fenders from seat cushions, I left the boat and met my friends up the street.

The weekend was such easy fun, getting to know them and two of their 4 daughters. The eldest is a nurse at Boston Children’s Hospital.  She, her boyfriend, and her bestie with her guy and the 4 of us, along with the youngest girl and a regular summer tag-along drove to the head of the island, ferried across the Fox Island Thorofare to North Haven Island, and met Lindsey’s son, Sam and his recently affianced girlfriend, Alex, at a pizza joint. Sam has a place in Pulpit Harbor on North Haven. By the time we were served, it was especially delicious pizza.

After returning to their home, we played “Silent Hitler” until 11:30PM, 3 rounds. Basically, 3 of the players are secretly Fascists and one of them is Hitler.  The rest of the group are Liberals. Through a series of questions the Fascists try to disguise their identities and the Liberals try to suss out the Baddies. It’s much more subtle than the sides currently lined up in our country. It was fun.

The next day was a ride to Beach Island where I fed them lobster salad before we hiked around the perimeter. Given my apprehension about a small boat on open water, I decided to take Stella, our larger diesel powerboat, for the ride back.  The last morning on Vinalhaven we went for a swim in one of the two granite quarries the town has acquired. The place was deserted, the water clear and warm, and the shelves of granite fringed with spruce, an inviting backdrop.

The only discordant note for me in the entire weekend, for I enjoyed each of the people I met, was my swim across the quarry. Because of missing my right upper lobe, I sink even more easily than before. Also, with strenuous exercise my O2 saturation drops from 99% to 91%. In the middle of the swim I was gasping and pretty concerned; I had carried a foam noodle which would likely have kept my head above water if I stopped to rest. But I didn’t stop and made it to the far shore, exiting the water and walking back after a catching my breath. It’s a good thing to know about my limited ability to swim, as my reflex, having grown up swimming off our dock every day each summer in Seattle, is that I am part fish. No longer so.

The rest of the summer has been spent kayaking, socializing, and planning for a construction project on the house. The T-111 siding on the south side has deteriorated and moisture is getting in so it needs to come off and be replaced. I have the scaffolding system—it is a two story affair: pump jacks—which Ari and I will assemble and erect tomorrow. Then demolition, Zipboard, and cedar shakes, cleaning up the mess as well. She has recruited a carpenter to join us for a week. After the transom repair, I didn’t think we’d undertake another major construction project but with a cabin on a Maine coastal island, the weather wreaks havoc.

I hosted a 4^th of July barbeque, followed by a stroll to the Eastern Prom where we watched Portland’s glorious fireworks display, musing on our country’s uptick contribution to global climate change on each 4^th. Maybe we should settle for sparklers. Then, again, perhaps a unifying celebration will allow us to come together in other ways, like recognizing and combating our contribution to atmospheric (and oceanic) pollution.

I also spent a 10 day stretch with my 95yo sister, extending her stay on the island. She loves it here. It is the site of many of her happiest memories from early girlhood.  As she says now, “My memory is shot.”, which it surely is. But we had a good time together and I marvel at her spunk and ability to get about.

We’ll have a memorial service, as we do the summer following any Islander’s death, for Anadine Luyster. She was beloved by many and we’re running numerous boat trips, as well as hiring a private ferry, to bring a host of people here for the day.   The island definitely feels different, less, without her presence.

As I type this, I am looking at our harbor where Michael Morse is sailing his sunfish, The Blue Onion, back and forth. He often puts Gaby, his wife, and their two dogs aboard and they set out for a long sail. It is remarkable to me, knowing how small and tippy the boat is. But it’s fun and Beach Island is, among other things, for fun.

Time for lunch and then I’ll run a departing group ashore, 40 minutes each way. Island rhythms.

[Above photo: Harriman Point Preserve, Brooklin, ME]

28 June 2024

I sit alone in my nephew’s lovely country house on Salt Pond outside of Blue Hill, ME, looking through a grove of birch and spruce at the tidal Blue Hills Falls.  Salt Pond flushes itself through the channel beneath the bridge. It is a sparkling day, with 10 knots of breeze, temperatures in the low 70’s, and blue, blue sky and water.

My friend, Lindsey, will join me shortly, driving here after work in Augusta. He runs the largest pediatric mental health service in the state at Maine General Hospital. The bean counters there are threatening and decimating the program; treating mentally ill children and their families is not “a procedure” and, thus, is not a money-maker. They just fired 2 of their 6 psychologists and are talking of downsizing more. Their short-sighted thinking doesn’t take into account the long-term costs of not engaging with and treating children, many who have been traumatized, and their families. Thus, the juvenile and adult justice systems will know them, the substance-abuse treatment centers will know them, the adult mental health treatment programs will know them, and, if you happen to pay attention to the medical literature, you’ll recognized that the adult health care systems, including SSI and medical services will be needed. This is not to consider the sheer lack of humanity, of human compassion, in denying needed services to youth and families in pain. What a country!

Last night’s encounter between two old men—one decent and kind with a remarkable track record, one delusional, self-serving and endlessly dishonest—seemed like the eventual penalty we must pay for our way of life and our election system. The almighty dollar—and I don’t mean enough to live comfortably: we have enough so everyone could if we had a more equitable distribution of our wealth—and its corollaries of power and possessions rate so much higher in the American imagination than satisfying human relationships. 

I immediately wrote a letter to the NYTimes and one to Joe, encouraging him to accept congratulations for a difficult job extremely well done, if imperfectly, and to step aside for a younger, more vigorous politician, equally kind, smart, and principled. Many of us fear the demise of democracy—No, I’m not Chicken Little. But DT has shown and told us as much.—if Joe doesn’t make room for a younger face.  

After 5 weeks or so in Ari’s barn slaving away with respirators, epoxy, plywood, fiberglass, Proset, fairing compound, gel-coat, primer and paint, we launched her boat, and ran the 12 miles out to Beach Island. I’ve been out again since and the boat is dry, fast, and stable in rough chop. I feel much better about her safety in it than in her little older one. Weather changes quickly here and it can “blow up ugly” in short order.  The best, I guess, is that we had a good time on the rebuild and learned a lot about each other and our relationship. She has qualities of perfection that serve well in boat repair, putting a brake on my “let’s just get it done” rather than doing it the right way. Her brother was the same and they take after their mother in that way, which quality I admire.

Poki and I are talking, have dined together a couple of times, and, basically, have buried our respective hatchets. I am certain it is a great relief to Ari. I know that I wonder at how different we are and how/why we got together and stayed together for 47 years. I suspect she feels the same. But that was then and now is now and I’m just happy we can talk easily.

Back to the immediate now, Lindsey and I shall spend tonight at the house on Salt Pond and tomorrow night at Ari’s in Brooklin. We’re taking a kayak capsize, rescue, and rolling course tomorrow out of Stonington with an instructor we hired. Originally, back in March, we planned to do both days but given the 58 degree water temperature and our ages decided that one day of immersion might be sufficient.

—–Days later—

The course was wonderful. Stonington is a charming town from which to embark into its adjacent magical archipelago of small islands. Home to the largest lobster fleet in Maine, the evidence of its history as a major source of granite for the nation is everywhere.

The weather was ideal for a rescue class: 20 knot winds and hefty chop. We never got to rolling but capsized plenty and each did at least one self-rescue and one assisted rescue. He also worked on our strokes and braces, as well. I got chilled after 4 immersions, as I hadn’t worn enough layers beneath the drysuit.

Our instructor, Dan, was a large redhead who was calm and induced confidence—in him and in ourselves. He is a transplant, with his wife, from rural North Carolina. He grew up in a Christian family of 5 boys and was home-schooled.  He obtained his bogus college degree by passing tests at an online diploma mill at 18yo. “I regret never really going to college.”. But he is smart and kind and loves teaching, at which he is very good. We’ll hire him again in a few months after we’ve practiced his lessons.

Back to “The Debate”. It was hardly such, a display of what our great country can anticipate: a raving self-interested confabulator and conspiracy generator bound for vengeance vs. a decent but doddering old man who “has his good days and bad”.  We need neither as our leader in these precarious times of global climate change and AI, with both Russia and China seeking worldwide hegemony with their own brands of dictatorship. Despite Joe’s comfort surrounding himself with smart people and somehow having managed to accomplish an astonishing amount of good for our country—serious climate change legislation, infrastructure building, attempting to lessen the wealth gap and bring order to the border (both measures blocked by the GOP), strengthening our relationships with allies worldwide, and helping to tame inflation—he isn’t up to it anymore. This was not “a poor debate night”, as some have charitably labelled it. This is another point in his ageing process we all should live to be so lucky to experience. “Oh, to be bitten by next year’s mosquito.” He’s gradually coming apart, returning to clay.

By the way, I fail to understand why no one says the obvious when people complain about the inflation and blame it on Joe. It wasn’t primarily caused by this Administration. The entire world saw inflation after Covid, as surging demand met diminished supply and compromised supply chains. We tamed the inflation much more rapidly than any of our allies through our fiscal policy.

I hope Joe can gracefully exit and make way for one of the smart, decent, vigorous Dems in the wings. I like a Gretchen Whitmer/Cory Booker or Pete Buttigieg ticket. I think voters will sigh with relief and come out of the woodwork in droves to elect them. It could be a very exciting time and Uncle Joe could be a formal senior advisor.  It seems an excellent choice to me, certainly better than either of the ancients running at the moment. Imagine recognizing a woman president and a gay or black VP as being the best suited for the job. Even the possiblity suggests hope for our parochial, pinched society.

As to the Supremes, they are beyond the Pale: dishonest, corrupt, and disconnected from our Constitution, legal precedent, popular sentiment, and decency.

Meanwhile, Beryl has barreled through the Caribbean, shredding Grenada and Jamaica as it heads for the Caymans, the Yucatan peninsula, Belize, and possibly southern Texas, the earliest category 4/5 hurricane in history.

We are in for some fierce times.  We also have formidable resources. We’ve succeeded—prevailed—before.

[Above photo: Last month in the Eastern Promenade Park. That storm knocked out the electricity for 40% of Maine households. My brother was without for 4 days.]

13 May 2024

Everything is in bloom in Portland. It began with crocuses and forsythia but has spread to all the flowering trees—magnolia, apple, cherry, plum—and bulbs. Blue bells, daffodils, hyacinth, and tulips. The less-flamboyant trees are fledging, as well. Ah, yes, tulips. I now have two years worth of bulbs blooming in my back yard but—-Sound a loud discordant note.—someone is eating all the blossoms. Many of them each night. I imagine it is a squirrel, as nothing else can get past my fence into the yard. This is the final stroke for me—well, for him. I cannot outwit him at my suet feeder and now this. Mr. Victor to the rescue. [“Victor” is the brand name of the old-fashioned rat traps that will fracture your finger if you aren’t careful.]  I hate to do it and wouldn’t if it were only the suet but my tulip blossoms, as well? It isn’t easy emotionally, as he is smart, persistent, and courageous. These are all qualities of character which I admire. Yes, even smart. There are plenty of intelligent people out there who aren’t very smart.  He is also well-fed and very handsome.

Inflation hit home, once again, as I was walking back from lunch downtown with a friend. A fairly obviously homeless man in his late 20’s asked in a lilting voice as I walked past where he was sitting on Commercial Street, “Do you have a few extra dollars?”

My life is more full than I might wish at the moment. I just returned from 5 days dismantling the somewhat rotten transom on Ari’s new (38yo) boat. It has been a bear, requiring the use of a Fein tool, a chainsaw blade on a grinder, and a hammer and chisel. It is quite the project and we are close to completing the prep stage. Next will be to replace the old plywood with new marine ply or Coosa board (an expensive but strong composite that won’t rot) and closing it all up. It sounds easier than it is. I’ve been reading about various polymers, supportive sewn and woven fiberglass, etc. It has been fun working with Ari and she has proven very skilled and persistent in the process. I am impressed with her thoughtfulness and drive. I want to get it done by June so we can use it all summer. She has friends at the Brooklin Boat Yard who will sell her the materials for 35% off, as well!

I also was at a 4 day writer’s retreat at the Schoodic Institute in Acadia. The memoir section—for there were poetry and fiction, as well—included 11 of us, as well as the instructor, Phuc Tran. We all bonded, as one does if sharing painful intimacies.I f you haven’t read Phuc’s memoir, Sigh Gone, it is a pretty amazing glimpse into the world of a brilliant immigrant kid. He came to Carlisle, PA at 5yo with his parents and extended family at the end of the American War in Vietnam. He was a voraciously literate punk rocker as a teen and a classics major at Bard College.  He has been teaching high school Latin for 20 years, as well as developing a reputation as a highly-sought tatoo artist (Tsunami Tatoo in Portland). Mostly, he’s is a lovely man, a father of 2 little girls, and a fabulously well-read teacher of literature. Immigrant hunger, we called it when we’d interview those most amazing of kids for a spot at Harvard. Nothing like a wolf snarling at your heels and the recognition that education is a ticket out of that predicament.  Plus, a love of words and learning.

I am in near-heaven right now as I just secured a spot in a kayak storage rack at the East End launching site. It is directly below my home, at the bottom of the Eastern prom. I can leave my kayak there until November and it is only 75 feet from the beach where I can launch. It’s a lot cheaper than buying a home on the water but feels nearly as wonderful.  From there I can explore the waterfront, several coastal estuaries, and the islands of Casco Bay.

As to politics, I feel like half the population has lost their mind. DT had a group of oil executives to Mar-a-Lago and told them that if they gave him $1b for his campaign, he’d lift all restrictions on fossil fuels: drilling, extracting, refining, and using.  He’s asking for a bribe and is willing to sacrifice the world (its climate) for his own power and aggrandizement. Doesn’t this strike fear into people’s hearts? Not some, I guess. He defines malignant narcissist, which isn’t easily separated from sociopath.

I took my brother and sister-in-law to a concert by a branch of Classical Uprising yesterday. It was held at the new Freeport Community Performing Arts Center.  The house was packed on a sunny Sunday afternoon. First up was a group of 30 7yos and 9yos. After they sang several sweet numbers, accompanied by a pianist, they exited and in came 25 12yos. After their performance, entered the 16-17yos. They were joined by a man with a stand-up base. When they sang “Bridge Over Troubled Water” the tears flooded my cheeks. The conductor brought all 3 groups together for a medley at the end. It was wonderful to hear children’s voices in harmony, to see them dressed up and fidgeting. And all singing their hearts out.

On a similar cheery note, as I was walking along the waterfront two days ago a cuckoo was going nuts, loudly mimicking all the other bird sounds it has ever heard. It was a stunning display of virtuosity and exhibitionism. The earnest effort made me break up in laughter. Music may be the only common language capable of drawing us all together.

I’m off to bait my rat (squirrel) traps. This old timer may be too canny to fall for my ruse, however, which wouldn’t make me altogether unhappy.

[Above Photo: The flanks of Mt. Washington in Winter]

28 March 2024

I doubt it would have changed the outcome if Hillary had named certain behaviors as “deplorable” rather than certain people as “deplorables”.   It still puzzles me why I didn’t like her more—and why so many others didn’t. I did vote for her. She was so smart and experienced. I feel somewhat similarly about Kamala. She is also smart and experienced  but there is some “genuineness” disconnect, especially when she is strongly trying to make a case. I grew up with a strong, smart mother and my wife was similarly endowed; I admired them and didn’t feel threatened by their strength, so I don’t think that old saw, so readily offered by Hillary devotees, explains it. For me, even though I know their hearts are in the right place, both Kamala and Hillary have a quality in their  stridency that feels disingenuous to me. I so much want to feel strongly positive about our Vice-President but I find it difficult. Now, Shirley Chisholm, Nancy Pelosi, Barbara Boxer, Elizabeth Warren, AOC—even Bella Abzug!—I feel kindred to.

Lindsey and I spent two nights at the AMC Joe Dodge Lodge at the base of Mt. Washington.  We were prepared to ski, snowshoe, or snow hike, depending on the conditions. It was cold, windy, and too icy, albeit beautiful and clear, so we put on our spikes and hiked. One day we hiked 2000+feet up the base of Mt. Washington. At the summit the temperature was 0 degrees F, the wind 40mph with gusts to 65mph, and the resultant windchill factor a nose-numbing -50 degrees. There were two parties who passed us on the trail who planned to summit that day. We ascended past the Hermit Lake Hut and up a very steep pitch, taking us above timberline. We’d mused about hiking to the very base of Tuckerman’s Ravine but the cold and wind were ominous. A sprained ankle, or worse, could have turned a glorious outing into a very dangerous situation. So we enjoyed the view and retreated to the hut, eating our lunch with others out of the wind on the porch in the sun. Most hiked the trail with skins on their skis, to enjoy a downhill run on a wider trail parallel to the one we ascended. Mt. Washington has the highest recorded winds on the planet—235mph!

Oh, I forgot the most dramatic moment. About 2/3 of the way to the hut, something I had eaten passed remarkably rapidly through my digestive system and demanded an exit. In my desperation, I hiked away from the trail for a little privacy, finding myself over my waist in untrammeled snow. Without pursuing the details, I 1) managed my task tidily and, 2) discovered that snow doesn’t function well to scour a body part. I sacrificed a cotton handkerchief which will naturally, non-toxically decompose over the next year or two. It wasn’t as unpleasant as it reads and there was a certain sense of accomplishment.

As happens with us at this age, the trip recalled two from my past. One was accompanying my brother, Chas, when he skied in the annual Harvard-Dartmouth slalom race down Tuckerman’s. I was stunned at the verticality of the slope and only skied the bottom part. If you fell, you’d bang your way non-stop down the entire slope. It is a several mile long strenuous hike and about a 2500ft elevation gain to the very base of the Ravine. I couldn’t recall hiking there, carrying skis, boots, and poles; I must have been pretty fit.

On another occasion, my college friend, Tom Glick, and I went to the Harvard Outings Cabin nearby. There was a sauna separate from the cabin and we fired up the stove and alternated between plunging into the frigid stream nearby and soaking in the intense heat. We couldn’t remember if you were to stop after hot or cold, so we chose the latter. I got pneumonia and was hospitalized at Mt. Auburn Hospital a few days later, so maybe you stop after the heat. Or perhaps they aren’t related.

I recall the famous Salisbury (England) Cold Study where they had people sitting on blocks of ice in the rain in pastures and a control group in a cosy, warm, and dry setting, with plenty of hot tea. There were no differences in the incidence of catching a cold. Likely, it was folk wisdom that if you get chilled and wet, “You’ll catch your death.”  Pneumonia, pre-antibiotics, was the major killer and, as Sir William Osler noted, “a friend of the aged”. Having no effective means of treating it—-cupping, leaches, and blood-letting only help so much!—our ancestors calmed their fears by asserting some sense of control over it. Don’t get wet or chilled, a preventive fantasy.

We had 6-8” of snow, followed immediately by sleet, then rain. Then a huge freeze. Branches tore and whole trees collapsed under the weight of the ice. 14% of Mainer’s lost their power, many for days. Chas and Susan were among them but they know how to manage. With a small generator for lights and their fridge, they fired up their two large Jøtl wood stoves, cooked with an old single burner backpacking stove, and did just fine. Chas had laid in supplies for Y2K, preserving them in special oxygen-free containers, so he can ride out the End Times, I think. We laughed all December 1999, but he may have the last laugh when the rest of us are eating bark!  And I don’t mean Fido.

I’ve been taking a bridge class and it is great for the brain, if not for the self-esteem. It’s an entirely new language, how you can (and can’t) communicate with your partner, but considerably easier for me than Burmese. I’m getting a little better, but I see how people get hooked on online puzzles and games. Just Play Bridge, a free online game offered by the American Contract Bridge League, is addictive so I limit myself.

My daughter and I have been searching for a more capable boat for her local use and her trips to and from the Island. She found one on Facebook and inspected it in Belfast. I joined her a few days later to look it over. As we turned into the driveway of a typical Maine workingman’s yard, 800 lobster traps were stacked along one side of the driveway. A lobsterman owned the boat; it had belonged to [a, his?] grandfather, was used for fishing only in fresh water, and was undercover in the winters. It is a 19 foot Seaway, just the boat and length we wanted, and it was in prime condition. The price was right so we didn’t haggle. He and his sternman shared its history. They asked, “What will you name it, deah?” She replied, “I was going to name it “Stugots”, the name of Tony Soprano’s boat. But I can’t because I found out it is Italian slang for male genitalia.” The two lobstermen cracked up. We attached its trailer to Ari’s truck and hauled it home.  I am relieved, as her little 16 footer was too wet and not adequately seaworthy for Penobscot Bay.

When I exercise vigorously on a treadmill, my Oxygen saturation drops from 99% to 91%, accounting for my breathlessness on rapid ascents. I doubt I’ll be up for trekking at 12,000ft in the Himalayas next October, but we are continuing to assess the issue with a CT scan in 3 days. Likely it is a result of having lost my right upper lobe, which is 15% of lung volume, with my cancer surgery. Still, I’m puzzled that it didn’t bother me hiking the Haute Route with Linda in 2015. I am older, I suppose. No, definitely.

Gradually the vultures are returning to their roost and Mr. Grandiose is nearing comeuppance. Damn, but he is wily. Even at this moment he is worth $4.8 billion more this week because of his Truth Social merger. Puzzling, as it made $1 million last year and lost $48 million. The mysteries of Wall Street! It seems like his options diminish daily. Along those lines, I watched the Netflix documentary demonstrating how Rudi Giuliani as the head of the Southern District of NY used RICO to bring down all 5 Mafia families in NY—what an irony! I don’t know if Rudy has kids but I wonder what they thought when they saw him falling into the Borat spoof, lying back on a bed with his hands down his pants talking with a pretty, clothed young woman. As he said in the Netflix film, “I could have been one of them.”, a fighter growing up poor in a tough neighborhood. Law enforcement or gangster.

I’ve finished reading and scoring 30 applications for college scholarships (11 this year) submitted by high school seniors. It is the second round of scoring for Mainely Character, a 20yo non-profit whose board I’ve joined. We’ll have one more round to select the winners. It is work but fun, as it is based not on sports, grades, or need but solely on evidence of character. There are a lot of kids from tiny rural towns who live amazing lives. There are the hardship cases—coming from abusive families, impoverished families, parents have died or run off—-, the immigrants—largely from Africa—, and the regular middle-class kids. They start volunteer organizations, care for their demented grandparents or disabled mothers, work 2 or three jobs, are leaders in their schools, etc. and exhibit the qualities we assess: Concern, Responsibility, Integrity, and Courage. I have pretty good values and character, I think, but I wouldn’t have scored high as a kid using our rubric. I note that Harvard accepted 3% of applicants this year.

There is hope in the world, the Rudi Giulianis, John Gottis, Paul Castellanos, and Trumps aside. King was right, it’s a constant fight but it is arcing towards justice, gradually. At least slavery is outlawed in the US, a low bar, admittedly. Although I heard yesterday an amazing tale of a man who escaped China, flew to Ecuador, crossed the Darien Gap, traversed Central America, was granted asylum in the US, and was reruited to “grow plants” (He understood it to be farming.) by Chinese contractors who then enslaved him and other Chinese immigrants on a pot farm in New Mexico. Human depravity is unbounded.

[Above photo: Old generals and their soldiers along the Portland foreside.]

10 February 2024

I realized this morning that I have missed a month of writing my blog. I began it in 2016, writing weekly, and continued at that pace until last summer, when it tapered off. I want to reassure myself, and others who might care, that it isn’t a reflection of my approaching senility. It is coming soon, no doubt. I have been writing—and re-writing— like crazy, but memoir, often for courses on the same. I’m loathe to abandon this little record just yet, especially as it helps me to feel connected to my friends in California (most of whom likely no longer read my ramblings).

I have a clown show—no, a circus—in front of me right now. 6 feet from where I am sitting 8 Starlings are acrobatically battling for eminent domain of my suet feeder. The arrival of a newcomer generally causes the others to flap to nearby branches. They are “nuisance” birds, I know, but are beautiful and athletic. Often 3 or even 4 will be hanging on the feeder, pecking at the suet. This is a tiny wire box, suspended 3 feet beneath a small tree branch, 20 feet above the sidewalk. They often will hold on with their feet upside down, flapping their wings to get a little lift, and craning their necks to feed. My male Downy Woodpecker, considerably smaller than the Starlings has just arrived. Let’s see what he does. Ha, he chased a Starling away! But now he has retreated to a limb of the tree, looking surprised. Next, he has the feeder to himself and is pecking like crazy.  His black and white markings, capped by a bright red streak on the crown of his head, are handsome in this sparklingly sunny Maine morning.

I read Seiji Ozawa’s obituary in the NYTimes today. What a force! Some people are so endowed with multiple types of intelligence and, at least as important, are freely able to use them. Genetics, childhood relationships, exposure and education, and circumstance all played a role in giving us this giant of a conductor whose brilliance and work ethic impressed so many in the European world, leading us to abandon our stupid prejudices that Asians couldn’t possibly grasp and express the depths of feeling embedded in Bach, Beethoven, or Brahms, our Western composers. Did this come from Hollywood WW2 movies showing the eye-glint of fanaticism of the kamikaze pilots? Now look at how many amazing Asian musicians are celebrated in the very top rank of performers. From Pablo Cassals to YoYo Ma, both own the Bach Cello Suites with their own powerfully moving interpretations.  I was pleased to learn that my mother and father-in-law, Mineko and Johsel Namkung, both studied at the same conservatory in Tokyo, Toho, as Ozawa. Six degrees of separation by marriage!

God, the Trumpist trumpets blare the same destructive and boring tune. It is tiresome. Yes, Joe is old, as is Donald. Who looks healthier, however? Who eats only cheeseburgers? Yes, he makes some errors with his speech; but nothing compared with the Donald, who confuses Nikki Haley with Nancy Pelosi, Biden with Obama, Putin with a friend, etc. So do we all, even ironically the newsperson who was interviewing a Democratic congressman and reversed the subject and object in her statement—-I can’t find it but she said something like, “Yes, but he (Joe) occupies the most powerful land in our office.”  

If we step back from ad hominem attacks, cruel or crude nicknames, and look at policy achievements for the current and past presidential terms, we can see whose administration has been transformative in moving us toward a fairer, safer and more equitable realization of our stated and written national aspirations. Trump inherited a great economy and his only significant achievement, other than minimizing Covid and angering all our allies, was to increase the national debt massively via a tax cut for the wealthy and corporations. I won’t recite the Biden administrations many and very significant accomplishments achieved in ¾ of the time.

Now, after demanding immigration reform and achieving a bipartisan compromise, Donald instructs his party to sink it since he wants to deprive Joe of a victory and attempt to use immigration as a cudgel in the upcoming election. Note his focus on his own victory, not the welfare of our country or the migrants. Most worrisome is that most of the GOP cowers before his mad selfishness, which includes cozening up to Vladimir Putin. And he continues to advocate violence for “revenge” or in order to silence people.

The above rant reminds me of many a dinner party in Malawi ruined by impassioned talk of Brexit or Trump.

I had a wonderful two days of skiing at Medawisla, the Appalachian Mountain Club lodge many hours north and west of here. It was cold and had just snowed, so conditions were perfect. Those staying there, as always, were fun; cross country skiing is a pretty good filter, like kayaking or backpacking, for compatibles. As we pulled into the lodge at 11PM, Lindsey noted that he forgot his ski boots. I quickly realized that I forgot to transfer mine to his car. We could have snowshoed but luckily the manager had two pairs to lend which fit us and our bindings perfectly. Lindsey also forgot the battery for his c-pap machine; the bunkhouses have electric lights but no outlets for charging. He slept on a comfortable couch in the main lodge; everyone went to bed by 9:30PM. It all worked out.

The lodges generally try to have a certified naturalist to give talks over the weekends. Two women this time talked about the night sky and animal tracks, and, on the second night, foraging for mushrooms in Maine. As a result, I purchased a mushroom book and joined the Maine Mycological Society for outings in the summer. This year, as I previously have noted, was banner for mushrooms because it was wet until mid-July. Glasses are always both half-full and half-empty! My quest is for black trumpets: delicious, abundant, and easily identified (ie, safe). Remarkably, the naturalists had reconstructed an entire vole skeleton which they found in an owl pellet and glued it to a posterboard. It makes sense that the owl would consume its entire small prey at a single setting. It gave me a new interest in owl pellets.

Life hums along. A few health concerns seem minor at present and are under investigation. I took supper to the neighbors, who I like a lot, last night, including his sister from SF and their elderly aunt from Cambridge, who is failing and needs care. She erupts into intense screams inexplicably at times. Her husband was an academic astronomer. When I mentioned that my Harvard roommate, Peter, had taken a course in his freshman year with the eminent astronomer, Madame Payne-Gaposchkin, who encouraged him to go into astronomy, she waxed eloquently and extensively, rising to the moment. She knew her and was once tapped to type the manuscript for a book by Madame’s husband, Sergei, also an astronomer.

Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin completed studies at Cambridge but wasn’t awarded a degree; women had to wait until 1948 for that. Realizing her opportunities in England were limited, she came to the US and was awarded the first PhD in astronomy for a woman at Harvard. Her thesis has been considered the most brilliant and important PhD thesis in astronomy and is foundational to modern astro physics. Later, she was the first woman promoted as a full professor from Harvard’s Faculty of Arts and Science and also was the first woman appointed as a department chair at Harvard. A remarkable woman and scientist. I digress.

After supper, and it was superb if I say so, 4 of us hiked to the State Theatre to watch night one of the Banff Mountain Film Festival.  There were pretty remarkable stories told, like the 35yo with cystic fibrosis who recovered from Hodgkins Disease and developed technical climbing accomplishments which were world-class. There was a pair who ascended and then base-jumped off a terrifying and remote granite pillar, whose face was the height of El Capitan, in the Hindu Kush.  I most enjoyed the humorous antics of two characters who entered the largest cross country ski race in the US while skiing tandem—two sets of bindings on one pair of skis—in an act of revenge and justice. It was done very well. They placed pretty high, certainly first in their division of 1.

Life ain’t bad. I still teach regularly by Zoom in Myanmar. My roommate there and his girlfriend, now in Laos, have asked me to join them trekking in Nepal next October. If I can work it in around a trip with another friend-couple to a week-long music festival in Cape Breton, I’m inclined to do it. Depending on how my trip up Mount Katahdin goes this summer.

I hope anyone reading this is in good health and not having to hang upside down and flap in order to get a meal.

[Above photo: The aftermath of a storm with 60 knot gusts, viewed from the cliffs at Two Lights State Park in Cape Elizabeth.]

23 December 2023

It’s the eve before Christmas Eve. Who knew I’d live so long?! Who knew in 1991 when the Soviet Union collapsed that the anticipated Peace Dividend wouldn’t materialize and that we’d be in the state we are in. I spoke too soon in my last post about the impending victory against the forces of evil in Myanmar, although it continues to seem likely.

It is difficult to see our shrinking from supporting Ukraine against Russia. The GOP, in tying an extremist immigration agenda to continuing aid for Ukraine and Israel, is once again befouling their own nest. The immigration issue has been with us for many decades, Republican and Democratic leadership alike.

History can help, I think. We used cheap Mexican labor for many years—and continue to—in our agriculture and other unskilled industries. We allowed them to come to the US, work like dogs for minimal pay, and then grant them nothing like residency or citizenship. Cesar Chavez let us know, lest we forget, that farmworkers were the only large labor group excluded from labor laws, which attempt to provide for safe working conditions and a minimum wage and benefits. George W. Bush tried to resolve it but couldn’t, as have many others failed.

My point is, immigration has increased as global warming and violence/corruption in their home countries has worsened. It is not a new issue. Separating children from their parents isn’t an answer, no more than is a wall. As we have seen with Israel and with our 50 year “War On Drugs”, physical blockade won’t stop determined and/or desperate people. Mass migrations are going to happen. Unless we descend into killing migrants, as if they were zombies or “rapists and murderers”, they will continue to come. How best can we protect them and our own humanity? Certainly, choking funds for Ukraine and allowing Putin to triumph is unacceptable. Lord, we are a flawed species!

I saw a Finnish film, “Fallen Leaves”, that is exceptionally engaging, moving, funny, etc. Wonderfully, wryly human. The Portland Museum of Art has a continuous film series that is fabulous, like a mini-Film Forum in NY. $7/ticket for a member.  And it’s ½ hour walk each way, so no struggle parking. I saw “Maestro” and enjoyed it but the above film was outstanding. I’m also a bit weary of watching brilliant, gifted narcissists, in film or on the news, parade their stuff, trampling others with little, or only episodic, regard.

We’ve not had a real snow, which worries me. I have at least two weekends booked for cross-country skiing, but I guess we can do winter hiking if there isn’t snow.

News alert: I finally finished the bottle of Trader Joe hair conditioner! The shampoo ended months ago. This was like that fable of the magic porridge pot, which kept churning out more and more and more until it flowed out the door and into the streets. It was good enough for my hair; I just got tired of it. Speaking of narcissim, I’m sure this is fascinating reading.

I’m making gravlax which I’ll take, with a fresh loaf of dense Danish rye (Zu bakery) and a mustard sauce, to my brother and sister-in-law’s home for the morning after Christmas. Their son and his wife are visiting from N. Carolina and it promises to be a good time. I’ll bring oysters with mignonette and shrimp for appetizers on the 25^th.  I plan to go with my friend, Polly, to her daughter’s home on Christmas Eve for that family’s traditional Chinese feast.   

I finished giving a third coat of paint to a large bookcase I built in the basement. I waited until Ari was passing through on her way to Florida and we carried it up the stairs. It turned out well and there is now plenty of room for books but it didn’t miraculously straighten up the rest of my house, as I had fantasized it would.

I walk, including a hill, every day.   A recent outing in Western Maine led us up a small mountain, a 1560ft ascent, which I managed with ease. Katahdin is in my sights for next summer. I have to take my time on the ups, but I’m rather pleased I still have it in me. And that I love it.

My nephews have moved, with their mom, to a lovely place in Portugal. It is rural with lots of nut and fruit trees and three houses, including a gorgeous renovated stone house from 1825.  They are a short drive from a village which is a brief train ride to Porto. I want to visit them this Spring. Ari is interested in going with me.  One of my students from Myanmar is now working for the UN in Geneva, so we may enjoy a European rail trip there.

Not a lot else happening here. I’ve joined the board of a non-profit that gives college scholarships to high school seniors based solely on evidence of their character. I think it will be interesting, even if it’s a small sample size, to do a long-term f/u study.  It would be a good screening filter for our politicians. What a place to start—Character.

I wish anyone who still reads this all the best in the coming year.

[Above photo: Lobster boats in Pulpit Harbor on North Haven Island: a view from the deck.]

26 November 2023

[I noticed that I haven’t posted an entry since October. My blog is definitely winding down, although I’ll keep it going, at least monthly, as a reminder for myself of where I’ve been!]

The National Unity Government, the Civil Disobedience Movement, the People’s Defense Force, and other elements of the Opposition to the military coup in Myanmar are seeing remarkable success, with battalions of malnourished, dispirited Tatmadaw soldiers surrendering and towns and military posts falling.  The PDF has now acquired significant weaponry. The Military Government, in desperation, told government employees they must sign a paper agreeing to join the military, whereupon 8000 retired from government service. It is a thrilling time and while more blood will be needlessly shed before the civil war ends, the momentum is clear. Even China is apparently shifting sides, principals be damned, always wanting to bet on a winning horse.

My students and I are already talking about the aftermath. It began with one psychiatrist relaying the content of a group meeting with 7 PDF fighters.  One of them feels he has been so changed by the war that he’ll be unable to fit into society when the fighting stops. It was an opener to talk about what happens after a civil war, with a populace divided and fighting. We then moved to their feelings about their colleagues who didn’t resign from government service (CDM) and their anger and bitterness towards them.

I fell back on S. Africa’s transition from white to black rule and Desmond Tutu’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission. There has to be a public airing of feelings. The country will obviously benefit if everyone can work together to rebuild it and will suffer if the rage and alienation continue. If you haven’t seen “A Long Night’s Journey into Day” about the experience in S. Africa, I recommend it. A terrific and moving film, especially the part where the parents of a young American peace worker (their daughter) who was killed by a black mob forgive her killers.

There will be such celebrations, not the least because, once again, Russian belligerence is defeated. Russia has supplied arms to the military and has likely supplied the pilots who have repeatedly and intentionally bombed civilian targets. I am drawn to return after a cease-fire and to help with the healing.

My Thanksgiving was on North Haven Island at the house of a friend’s son. My friend, his two sons, and their partners welcomed me. They had forgotten a meat dish, somehow, so being in Portland I was able to supply a large leg of lamb. I haven’t had roast lamb since…..college?  Mom used to cook a roast every Sunday supper when I was young. Generally, it was pork or lamb. Pork was laced with garlic and accompanied by Worcestershire and apple sauce.  Lamb was liberally seasoned with garlic and rosemary and complemented by mint sauce, which Mom created with mint, vinegar, and sugar. How we all eyed the crisp when Dad began to carve it! Being a surgeon, he was skilled at separating the meat from the bone in lovely even slices.  A psychiatrist (me) carved our lamb this year. I don’t know about eating roast lamb, a traditional dish at Easter, to commemorate the death of Christ (the Lamb).  Speaking of a god, I highly recommend a short story in the recent New Yorker AI issue. It is hilarious. Written with AI responses to questions.

Lindsey and I drove to the proximal end of the White Mountains and had a steep but easy and very scenic hike up Blueberry Mountain.  As you can imagine, there are likely 35 or 45 Blueberry Mountains in this area; ours was off of Stone House Road.  At the summit, after 1160ft in elevation gain, we ate lunch on a huge granite ledge overlooking a small lake in a bowl surrounded by mountains. It will be the perfect spot from which to view the Fall colors next year. 

It has cooled off, in the high 30’s during the day and mid-20’s at night. We had a little snow flurry last week and another at the top of Blueberry Mountain. I thrill each time those white flakes fall from the sky. Although I look forward to winter sports—snow shoeing and cross country skiing—my excitement is mostly from the aesthetic experience, the simple beauty. I’m sure it is also colored by the joy of sledding and skiing in childhood, the former on days when there would be a snow-closure of my elementary school (double the fun!).

I expect that the Trumpers, if he isn’t already in an orange jumpsuit, will launch AI-generated images of Joe Biden taking an envelope with cash spilling out of it from Hunter, as they snort coke and make misogynistic and racial jokes a couple of days before the election. Steve Bannon is your guy for that sort of thing. He mostly needs someone to shampoo his hair and introduce him, gently, to basic principles of hygiene. A mommy. Remember the Crest ad about bad breath—“Halitosis. Even your best friends won’t tell you.”

Speaking of that, we would do very well to have a weekly TV show facilitating talk between opposite sides of our political spectrum.  It would attract all sorts of viewers and ad revenue. Too bad I’m not more telegenic!  It could help to bring out the underlying convictions and grievances, valid all in some way. We need healing here.

[Above photo: The lovely 141 foot gaff-rigged schooner, Columbia on the Portland waterfront. She was built by the owner of Eastern Boatyard in Panama City, FL. as a replica of a 1923 Gloucester-built fishing schooner. The original was the only American vessel to give serious competition to the Bluenose, a famed Nova Scotia schooner of similar purpose. They would race back to Halifax from the Grand Banks full of fish each season.]

30 October 2023

The lovely young couple across the street have led a block party for the past 3 years. It is geared, and rightly so, toward children, with face-painting and t-shirt printing. This year one highlight was the pie contest—wonderful entries, including a delicious cranberry-apple by my friend and neighbor, Gail. The winner was a lemon curd pie with a fabulously flaky crust, large slices of cooked lemon, and not too much sugar.  The husband of the couple, Jerome, volunteered to sit on a bench underneath an apparatus which dumped a bucket of water on him when a rubber ball was thrown and struck a target. No adults were allowed to try, but several of the 8-10yo children soaked him. Finally, his tender and understanding wife kissed him and announced that he’d retire this employment after one more soaking.

I met a couple of neighbors and with one of them talked (rather, I listened) for a good while. He runs an organic soil company but his love is sailing. He owned a Lyle Hess-designed 28’ Bristol Channel Cutter, the most glorious and capable of traditional sailboats and now has a cold-molded one-off gaff-rigged cutter. He showed me pictures of it under sail—what a dream! Among other voyages, he did an 8000 mile loop around the Atlantic, gunk-holing in Portugal. Much of it was solo sailing. It fulfilled a dream of mine. However, the reality is that halfway across the ocean I’d wonder “And why am I doing this?” and how I’d managed to shed companionship so completely. Still, a romantic fantasy. I mentioned that if he needed crew I was available. I suspect he has his regular crew.

Look online for the yacht, Columbia, pictured above. She has a terrific back-story and videos of her under sail are breathtaking. She’s for sale, a steal at under $12 million. The builder-owner is reportedly at work on a replica! As a high school student he’d determined to build her.

The shifts in our weather continue to amaze me. The recent high was 72 on the day of our block party; the next day the high was 46.  Today is cool and rainy. I must get bulbs in the ground for next spring soon, before the earth freezes.

My nephews and their mother, my sister-in-law, will move permanently to Portugal in 3 weeks. They have bought a place in the countryside, a 20 minute train ride east of Porto, on 2.68 acres with grapes, olives, fruit trees, an 1827 stone cottage, another stone cottage, and a newer, more modern home, all beautifully maintained. For a remarkably reasonable price. I admire their persistence, looking at many places throughout the country for over a year before buying. And waiting for the many layers of bureaucracy to approve their move and residency; it must have felt like pouring cold molasses or watching your lawn grow. I cannot wait to visit.

There are matsutake mushrooms in Maine. They are the treasured Japanese Pine Mushrooms. Poki’s parents would forage them in the Fall on the slopes of Mt. Ranier. We’d get a call in the evening from the United Airlines freight office at the San Francisco International Airport and know what awaited us. They are heavenly sauteed in butter with a little salt, although Ari likes to do them with butter, soya sauce, and a touch of mirin. Apparently, they are so valuable that Asian gangs, armed, have staked out productive territories in the Pacific Northwest. 20 years ago they sold for $34 a pound. Attempts at cultivating them have, so far, been unsuccessful.

Ari and I met at a lake, which-shall-remain-unnamed, launched our kayaks on a cloudy day, and paddled to a distant shore. Disembarking, we scoured the woods and harvested a good number of matsutake. Next September I plan to travel to various lakes, paddle to inaccessible second-growth hemlock forests, and identify more spots. They are easily distinguished from other mushrooms, looking for all the world like the penis of one’s dreams, if one dreamed of such things.

I am writing, both tales for my fiction course and memoir sketches for my writing group (The latter sounds grand but includes only two ladies beside myself. They are fun and interesting, write well, and I enjoy their company.). I’ve had some fun with the fiction course but it really isn’t my deal. I write to sort myself out and do that better with “fact”, at least what I perceive and recall to be fact. Memory is surprisingly fungible, I discover, let alone faulty as I gradually lose the names, or struggle for them, of people I have known.  My sister, being 11 years older than me, is further along that path and it gripes her mightily.

I saw a wonderful film—“The Origin of Evil” (L’Origine du mal)—at the Portland Museum of Art’s film series. I forced myself to go, based on the reviews, even though it was a glorious, warm day when I could have hiked or kayaked or whatever outdoors—BEFORE WINTER SETS IN.  I’ll say nothing of the plot but it is entertaining, full of surprises, and well-done.

I’m finishing Elizabeth Strout’s The Burgess Boys.  Can she write! Olive Kittridge is her most famous but I prefer this, digging as it does into the struggles some in Maine have with wanting it to remain white and unchanged, despite the inevitability, necessity, and benefits of newcomers from other lands.  Also, she examines the conflict between staying home vs. exiting for the bright lights of a metropolitan area, New York City in this case. She reminds me of my favorite, Alice Munro in her perceptiveness and character development.

I had a small dinner party with two couples, all of whom are published authors. I experienced untoward anxiety about the menu. I eagerly tried out the dish I selected to cook—-Caldo Verde, the national dish of Portugal—and found it less than appealing. Recalibrate. I settled on a slow-roasted piripiri chicken with tiny Yukon gold potatoes with aioli, an arugula-radicchio salad with a Cesar dressing, and a pear-apple-cherry crumble topped with ginger ice cream for dessert. It took a hell of a lot of work and time, but all emerged as planned. One of the guests said, “That is the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”  And I learned to make aioli and Cesar dressing along the way.   I think I need a small stable of recipes I can rotate so that each time it doesn’t feel like free-climbing El Capitan, never knowing the outcome!  I like cooking; my anxiety diminishes the pleasure, however.

The killing continues in Myanmar and Ukraine and, now, in the Middle East.  The most recent eruption—Hamas terrorists slaughtering and kidnapping unarmed Israeli women, children, the aged, etc. and, in turn, Israel’s reprisal, killing 5x (so far) as many Palestinian civilians in a desperate fury to destroy Hamas’ massive underground tunnel system in Gaza—is terrible beyond words. What soils it all even more, if possible, is the exploitation of it for political gain by many, often using disinformation. It was predictable that sometime the radical Palestinian factions would explode in violence, the populace being as suppressed and ill-treated as they have been. It doesn’t do to say “God promised this land to the Jews.” Even if it were so, a displaced people will fight back, because they likely think that their god promised the land to them. In such a complex situation involving two groups of people, both of whom have been persecuted and reviled, it behooves all of us to contain our emotions.

I was in Boston for a few days with a friend and wandered on my own to the Harvard Yard where I enjoyed a cappuccino at a group of small café tables and chairs on the patio in front of Memorial Chapel. Across the yard from me was gathered a large group of people at the base and on the steps of Widener Library. There were placards and intensely impassioned speakers, pleading the Palestinian cause.  And well they might, as the Palestinians, most would agree, have been treated shabbily by the Israeli government. However, Israel had just suffered a terrible terrorist attack by Hamas, a Palestinian (and Iranian) organization dedicated to the eradication of Israel. And so it goes, endlessly. I think one terrible tragedy is the missed opportunity of the Oslo Accords, for which we can blame—Yassir Arafat, perhaps?  But then Bibi forced a dramatic expansion of settlements in the West Bank. In such a sad and confused situation, it seems to me that, especially those of us not in battle, must hold our passions—Yeats’ “blood-dimmed tide”—, think about the innocent and vulnerable, and attempt to promote a measured response. Simply pummeling Hamas, with the concomitant civilian casualties, will only ensure that the conflict continues to erupt.

Our leaders, dependent on popular support to retain their power, rarely have the will to address the root causes of problems. Ironically, Joe Biden is effectively trying to shift things in a fairer direction in our country, diminishing our massive wealth and income disparities, but he remains remarkably unpopular for reasons unclear to me, even as the GOP continues to try to stymy his efforts.

[Above photo:  Super Blue Moon, dreamy in clouds.]

5 October 2023

There are so many ways to experience the water here.  One would be aboard the 1049ft-long 20 deck Norwegian Dancer which was in port as I took my daily walk down to, along, and up from the waterfront the other day.   A young woman jogger passing me said to her friends, “I don’t get it. Who’d want to be in a mall in the middle of the ocean?” Cruise ships apparently emit 4 times the amount of greenhouse gasses per person over a given distance travelled as do airplanes. And, outside of US territorial waters, they discharge tons of garbage and chemicals. Must have a strong lobby.

Then, there is the flock of little sailboats—Lazers, perhaps?—from Sail Maine, flitting about the harbor like terns, rounding buoys and giving experience to young sailors who may fall in love with wind over water and move to larger boats and longer distances as they can afford to.

I’ve had a number of fun experiences with my kayak, the one I got for $150 and have rehabbed. I built a seatback out of very lightweight closed-cell foam that works like a charm and can’t weigh more than 1 pound.

Lindsey and I practiced self- and 2-person rescues in front of his house on Webber Pond. The water was warm and the whole experience increased my confidence at surviving a capsize. I tried to roll, but, unfortunately, I reflexively blow the air out of my nose quickly.   Not yet being at the surface, I then gasp, struggle, exit the kayak, and have felt the terror of drowning. Ugh. I think I need to practice blowing very gradually to keep the water out of my nose.  In any case, it’s good to know I cannot depend, as yet, on a reliable roll to rescue myself.

I launched on the incoming tide at Clay Pits Road, midway up the Nonesuch River in the Scarborough Marsh. With tide and paddle, I moved swiftly up its very serpentine course, ducking under the Amtrak trestle, gliding beneath the Blackpoint Road bridge, and scooting around a couple of fallen trees that obstructed most of the waterway. The water was calm and the air warm. I travelled further upstream where there were no houses as the river would twist past the edge of the marsh. I saw gatherings of Common Egrets, a Great Blue Heron, a murder of Crows, a Cooper’s hawk, a Bald Eagle, and various ducks. The birdlife is better viewed earlier in the day—-and earlier in the summer.  After an hour or so, I turned and paddled back against the current until the latter lay slack. It began to ebb just as I approached my take-out spot.

I spoke with two fishermen along the way. Apparently, it is wonderful striper fishing from May through August, so I may try it next year.

Lindsey and I put in at the East End launch site down the hill from my house a week ago and paddled to Little Diamond Island, up one side of Great Diamond, and over to Cow Island. There we disembarked and hiked about. While there were some boats moored offshore with people enjoying the late summer day, the island was deserted and fun to explore. We launched again and completed circumnavigating Great Diamond, landing back in Portland just before sunset.

Finally, I paddled with Jon and Ari out to Ft. Gorges, in the middle of the harbor. We landed and entered the fort, whose guns were never fired. It is skillfully built of Maine granite, with keystone arches and keyhole gun ports.  We continued over to Little Diamond, then to Peaks Island and along its western shore. Rounding the southern end, we entered the pass between Peaks and Cushing islands and encountered swell from the open ocean. The outgoing tide met the incoming swell and, where they crossed a shoal, large breakers formed. We avoided them, as we avoided the busy boat traffic, including a ferry, when we crossed the harbor on our return.

All in all, I was impressed at how quickly and effortlessly my boat, at 17 ½ feet long, can travel. It is a very lightly built fiberglass boat, which makes it wonderful to lift onto a roof rack. As Jon noted, “It is really good until it isn’t.” So I bought a roll of Flextape, a strong, adherent, waterproof tape, to carry in case I hit a rock and the hull is punctured. These little precautions can mean a lot at sea.  I now feel comfortable kayaking around Casco Bay, watching the water and the weather.  I look about me and cannot believe that I live in such a lovely place. And it is beyond my ability to express the pleasure I feel being so close to the water and yet so safe and contained.

Just as I am not posting frequently to my blog, I am paying less attention to the nail-on-blackboard sounds emanating from our country’s political class.  There is so much that is pathetic, regressive, and mendacious about it all, driven by he-who-has-been-wronged. Impeached twice, indicted 4 times (or is it more?), convicted once (Sexual assault), having to pay reparations for his Trump University scandal and his “charitable trust” scandal, he continues to point his finger at others. It reminds me of Bobby Spoon in 5^th grade. He once farted loudly, then quickly pointed to the girl sitting at the desk in front of him. That level of dissimulation.

We need Democratic control of the White House and Congress so that we can begin to comprehensively address the astounding income inequality in this country. Trump’s only significant piece of legislation increased that inequality and the GOP in the House crushed Biden’s attempt to increase the tax rate on income over $400,000/ year, which would have been a good start. It seems the GOP pols aren’t really interested in lowering the national debt or assisting the working poor. Big surprise! Maybe in 2024 we can do it. The current mudwrestling in the GOP section of the House would be amusing if it weren’t so destructive. And most of the vocal minority have no legislation attached to their names.  Perhaps a street or post office naming. Some just want to break things, it appears.

I read a gripping non-fiction adventure story—-a shipwreck in the 1700’s off the southern coast of Chile, murder, mutiny, cannibalism—The Wager by David Grann. I had to vacate it for a week; their plight was so skillfully recreated that I couldn’t bear to continue.  Then I read The Bird Artist by Howard Norman, a beautifully written tale of the doings in a small community, Witless Bay, on the coast of Newfoundland. It also contained adultery, murder, suicide, and other desperate acts which enlivened it. It reminded me a little of Shipping News, so well did he capture the humor, irony, and tone of the place.

I think I’ll put my suet feeder out again and hope I attract just the downy woodpecker pair, not the starlings. I miss their company.