Jess and Jerry Primo

It was a Halloween Theme
The couple before marriage on Friday nite.
Bride and Groom
Rocker and She Devil
Mom and Dad

Road Trip

Two cars, four friends (Malinda, Christy, Nancy and I) and five wrong turns later we made it to the hotel. The directions said one thing, road signs said something else (if they could be found)and between the four of us, it didn’t feel like we were headed south toward Nashua. Friday night, rush hour and the sun setting.

Suddenly, I felt directionally challenged, an experience that would plague five former Peace Corps volunteers throughout the entire weekend. No wonder the Peace Corps decided to put us on small islands in the Pacific.

On Saturday morning,sitting around the breakfast table, we decided traditional island mwarmwars were in order. After all, the groom is from the Federated States of Micronesia and we wanted him to honor him with a traditional head lei, and neck leis. But New England is short on coconut trees and tropical flowers, but this time of year it is rich in golden and red maple leaves and brilliant mums of many colors.

Brainstorming on a rainy fall morning some thought it was best not to raid the gardens surrounding the Marriott Courtyard (I was game). Instead, Malinda commanded the car and we headed out to find a Target. We needed plastic shipping bands from the back of the warehouse, to serve as the base for the mwarmwar (think mar-mar).
I convince Paul, a floor associate, to talk the store manager into giving us the warehouse trash. After a brief wait Paul retrieved fifteen feet of stripping from an overhead shelf in the warehouse. I had spotted it when Nancy and I were casually strolling through the tombs of Target like we owned the place. A quick stop at the florist and we were in business. Back at the hotel we constructed the head garlands while we commandeered the business center usually occupied by business and road warriors. You know, those guys who are as cool as the other side of the pillow. Later Nancy convinced the hotel staff to keep the flowers fresh in the kitchen’s refrigerator.
By then we had about thirty minutes before we needed to get in costume for the wedding. Not wanting to miss out on any of the hotel amenities, the five of us – Christy, Malinda, Amy, Nancy and I donned out bathing suits and hit the whirlpool. Unfortunately, my camera batteries were recharging-no photos. Nothing better than to bring old bones to a boil in the bubbling froth of jet streams while enjoying good company. Outside it was still raining.

Weeks ago Amy asked me if I would paint her for the party. Not having a better offer all year, I said yes, not knowing what body parts I might be applying brush tips to. Results were great, but her Trinidad Bound outfit will need a zipper repair.

So what was I? A Mardi Gras something or other. I was accused of being a pimp. Check out the 70's hat with cheetah print. Heck the costume was free compliments of Frank, Nancy’s son-in-law. Although the outfit was a little large and dancing required a constant readjustment to keep gravity from yanking my britches to the floor, I loved it.



Before, during and after. Completely sober.

Peace Corps - Micronesia 70 and 71

Once the flight attendant announced that in case the plane turned into a cruise ship and the life vests were under the seat, passengers decided it was a good idea to applaud the landing. My plane arrived on time in Manchester, New Hampshire. Actually five minutes early. Hurray for SouthWest Airline. I removed my seatbelt and moved freely about the airport for two hours waiting on Christy.

It’s going to be a great weekend visiting with Peace Corps friends. The occasion: Jess and Jerry’s wedding. Stay tuned

Photo Log

Jack Attack

I’m not a fisherman and can't tell the difference between a tuna and a chicken except by the label on the can. Ok, I’m not really that inept.

Let me introduce the lesser amberjack- olive green or brownish black and silver sides; dark band (variably present) extends upward from eye; juveniles have split or wavy bars on sides; proportionately larger eye and deeper body than greater amberjack. Affectionately known as “jacks” a lightening fast fish is known for a low leap out of the water in large schools. While kayaking I’ve startled many schools of jack. Or maybe they have startled me. It is pretty awesome to see them crowd out of the water.

This afternoon Chuck, Bob and I were kayaking the Anclote River. Low tide pushed us down the river toward the Gulf. Ahead of us, I saw a large school of jacks fly out of the water. They looked like gazelles sprinting across the Serengeti. In low arches the fish crossed the surface of the water, repeating the jump several times before disappearing beneath the water.

As we approached the spot where they had been we were talking. I had forgotten about the fish when Bob’s kayak caused the fish to jump out the water. The stampede began. They crossed in front of Chuck’s kayak, but they were on a crash course for my boat.

When in the thick of things, you sometimes miss the appreciation for what happens. All at once I was in the middle of a wall of fish leaping over the bow of my kayak and slamming into the side of the hull right below my paddle. They beat on the hull like a drum. Thump followed thump as the fish followed the leader like lemmings over a cliff. I raised my paddle expecting to get hit in the ribs by the flying fish. It was like being in an avalanche.

As suddenly as it happened, it was over. I inspected my boat amazed I wasn’t hit and that I had no flopping fish in the cockpit. Nor did I find any scales stuck to the bow, but there were several brown streaks left behind. No it didn’t belong to me.

Mary

Mary left a week ago on Saturday. She sold the double bed where she slept with her husband before he died. After she gave the bulk of her household goods to Goodwill, it took only boxes to pack her belongings into the back seat of her Toyota Camry. I gave her two books on tape to listen to on the drive through the Carolinas and the Middle Atlantic States. She was headed home to live with her sister in Rhodes Island. Just outside of Providence. Everything in Rhodes Island is just outside of Providence.

I said good-bye to her after church. We were pew mates, if there is such a thing. She reserved our seats with her Bible and a cup of coffee tucked under the pew while she served as a greeter. I wished her well. How did that get started?

And even though we exchanged email addresses, I know we won’t keep in contact. I don’t keep in contact with those who are closer to me, why would I email someone who I have known only on Sundays for the past five or six months? That’s the way it is.

Oddly, I’ve missed her. I pray she is well. Do we all end up going home?

Journal

If I was still in the Peace Corps, those of you who use to get the Journal would get a field entry sounding something like this.

Last night, I went to the theater to see Twelve Angry Men. Very enjoyable. I've seen the movie a couple of times and it is one of my favorites. John Boy Walton (Richard Thomas) played Juror #8, Fonda's role. Went with Russ, Master Electrican, who has worked for the government for the last 30 years. Currently he is learning Ballroom dancing. After the show, he walked me to my car. Kissed me goodnight. Since it was 9:45 on a Friday night and I found myself in Tampa, I hustled back across the Bay to a Mexican restaurant where Robert was finishing up his guitar gig. I bummed a 1/2 eaten burrito off of some woman, who had it in a to-go box. Her name PZ, never met her before. I loaded it with hot salsa and washed it down with a bummed margarita. Got kissed good night again, just before midnight.

Kissed goodnight by two guys on the same night. Don't think that ever happened before.

What is it?

Contest: Guess what this is a photo of?

Daytona - Part 1

If you found it impossible to schedule an MRI this past week, the reason might have been that the Who’s Who of Imagining Techs were in Daytona, Florida upgrading their certifications, know how and driving skills at the International Speedway. I couldn’t help but think of Dale Earnhardt as I drove past the famous raceway. I’m not a huge auto racing fan. Nevertheless, I can tell you where I was when I heard the news that Number 3 went into the wall.


I’m not an MRI tech either, but Robin is and she had been in Daytona since Sunday. Conference over on Wednesday at noon, I drove to the east coast and found the streets empty. If this was a town out west, sagebrush would have tumbled down the middle of Main Street. Life guards were all but sleep in their chairs as they watch a handful of tourist frolic in the warm waters of the Atlantic. God, how I miss the ocean.

I took a scenic route over on State Highway 50, cutting through the heart of Florida. Once I got to Clermont I thought I died and went to Heaven. As much as I love the oceans, I love the mountains and Florida doesn’t have any. In Clermont the earth rose to a staggering height so much so I could see the skyline of Orlando in the distance. I bet you can see Disney’s nightly fireworks in the town.

The highest place in Florida is — Britton Hill in Lakewood in Walton County, located in the Panhandle — is a mere 345 feet. Of the highest points in the 50 states, it is the lowest.

Robin tried to sneak up on me as I waited for her in the lobby of the Hilton. Nice hotel, of course, but subject to the city’s ability to maintain their water supply systems. Reminded of the fancy hotels I stayed at in Bangkok and Singapore where the water wasn’t potable. In the morning a notice had been slid under the door that the water wasn’t safe to drink. Suddenly, the $3.00 bottles of water staged in the rooms were complimentary! It was Aquafina. Where do you think that comes from? The tap.

Some things we did:

Walked on the beach and Robin got blisters. Stopped in at Starbuck’s for coffee and to ice the feet down. Then took off for the Ponce Inlet Light Station Got there right at closing, but we managed to buy a couple of t-shirts. Buy now, we were famished. Thought we would eat some fish, but not the one we found floating in the drink. Instead, we went to Aunt Catfish's. I had garlic scallops. Robin had shrimp, salmon and Dijon scallops. .

We debated the weight of the catfish and decided that if this fish did weight 435 pounds,
catfish could feed a lot of starving people. World hungry demolished. Maybe we had too many margaritas.

Cool beanereno, Jen. We were thinking of you.

To Serve

He said, “Let’s pray about it.”

I wondered if I held my flinch. I know I flinched on the inside. Praying is not one of my talents. Yes, I pray. I start conversations with God all the time. Before I go to sleep, I read the Bible and remember certain people in my prayers. Say thanks and praise God for all my blessings and fortune. I think of at least one event or thought of the day were I connected with God. Write it down.

But when Hal suggested we pray about conducting a Financial Peace University class at the church I flinched. I went to the 9:30 service thinking, “If I wanted to pray about something, I’d pray for something I want.” Like a pony.

Of course, I volunteered to teach the class. Worked up the nerve to do so. Or maybe had enough “conversations” with God about it. Got hit in the head with a few messages from the pulpit. Decided I could give to the church this way.

Now I have to pray about it. Guess, that was what I had been doing all along, so I wondered why we had to pray some more.

Wait.

Fresh Water Jellies

Here is an interesting link to a site about fresh water jellyfish. A friend of mine told me she had them in her pond...in New York. I looked up the site and discovered they are also in Lake George. Just another reason why I swim in a pool.

Ugh

I hadn’t been to the waterfront Tarpon Springs in a couple of months. It was early Saturday morning. Since the snowbirds and tourist haven’t returned in full bloom to the tiny Greek community it is still possible to wander aimlessly back and forth across the street and not get hit by a car. I had a mission of sorts: look for a wedding present, a Halloween costume and Christmas presents. Since I am not a shopper I’d combine the task into one recon to gift shops.

I had more success finding Halloween costumes if I wanted to be a Greek fisherman, gypsy or belly dancer.My stomach flab dances quite nicely on its own so I passed on the belly dancer and opted to let Nancy cover me with the Halloween costume needed for a wedding at the end of October. Yup, a wedding. I got a few Christmas ideas but didn’t have much luck with the wedding gift. But when Tina Caros gets married in May, well I’m loaded with ideas.

The stroll up and down the street and all that poking in and out of the shops, smiling at store clerks who for the most part were disinterested in engaging in conversation or commerce left me hungry. Time for Santorini’s a Greek restaurant on the Anclote River. I had in mind a Greek salad, but when the menu came I remembered a wonderful creation call Pasa Dava, a lamb dish. however, I wasn’t that hungry so I selected the Greek grouper sandwich.

Delicious, except before I got home my stomach was under revolt and the head didn't feel none too good either. Maybe it was the tartar sauce.

As I sat on the table overlooking the water I thought a lot about my life. (How many times have I sat looking at the surface of water and lost myself in thought?)The pondering was most likely spawned by the death of Murphy Lipai. Pohnpei and Peace Corps seemed so far way. I wanted to go back there for the first time since leaving but can't cough up $2700 for the airfare.

I picked up the salt and pepper shakers—both products imported from Greece. How come Micronesia doesn’t do this? How come I don’t do it? Suddenly I was thinking like a business person again, something I haven’t done in sometime. I liked it.

Too bad David, my business partner, doesn’t read my blogs…he is going to miss the opportunity of my weakness and the chance to lure me back to the real world.

Had to be the food, the bathroom is calling. It is a good reality check. Remember my first three months in Micronesia...daily diarrhea.

Murphy Lipai

To use absolutes is often too exaggerate, but in this case there is no exaggeration. Everyone knew Murphy Lipai and Murphy Lipai knew everyone. At least on Pohnpei, an island of 30,000 in the Western Pacific in a country known as The Federated States of Micronesia. He was my Mwoakillese host father, Pahpa. This afternoon, I learned that he had a heart attack and passed away. I cried and felt so far away from my family.

Memories rush over me as I wept for a man a few years older than me, but nevertheless my father. The care he and his wife, Marianna, gave me while I was a Peace Corps Volunteer was no less than what any parent would give their own child. Mom once told me that she believed if any of her kids came to America they would be treated the same way.

Some memories were poignant, others ordinary, but each special. In January 2004, Murphy came to the Peace Corps office, looking for me. My first family could no longer host me and I wanted to stay in the Mwoakillese community on Sokehs. After a couple of weeks trying to find another family without much success, I thought I would have to move to another village. Murphy asked if I would stay with his family. I forever became part of the Lipai family.

Murphy Lipai was a patriarch in every sense of the word. He gave respect and rightly earned it in return. A community leader he was involved in the local government on Pohnpei, in his community and on his native island of Mwoakil. He spoke often of his concern for the future of the large youth population that were at risk of losing their traditions and language, and had limited educational and employment opportunities. He envisioned a future, but saw the youth without focus, lost and bored. He expressed a concern for the corruption of traditional, elected and business leaders, yet he worked with all parties, believing it would yield a better life for all Micronesians. He was a minister. He delivered sermons in the local language I could never understand, but like a little kid I was so proud of my father standing behind the pulpit. Unlike many Micronesians he had a job and went to work, yet he gathered food from his land. He’d carry home papaya and bananas in one hand and a machete in the other. In the back yard he grew yams. But unlike many, he didn’t raise pigs.

Each morning he would wipe the dust and grime off the hood of his new Ford pickup. The meticulous care for the car was unusual, in a country that couldn’t seem to sustain anything on its own. But Murphy was like that—different than most. Murphy drove me to work most mornings and we talked about politics, religion, his family and his plans.

A tall skinny man (the whole family was skinny), he realized the importance of education even in a country where subsistence living was the way of life. His sons and daughters went to college or joined the US Army. At his passing only he and his wife remained in Micronesia, the rest had come to America.

He planned to retire in a couple of years, build a new house and start his own business. He and his wife would visit America, but he was a man of the land that sits in the middle of the ocean, a Micronesian who gave tomorrow to his family while he stayed on his land and kept the traditions.

There is a forty day funeral in Micronesia I wish I could attend.

Not Volkswagens

Finally, something worth writing about. I wasn’t going to waste anytime on them, but I couldn’t resist.

I had left the Jeep windows open (nothing to steal inside and once a thief saw the odometer reading over 320,000 miles, he wouldn’t steal the Jeep either) when I stopped at Publix for a quart of milk and a loaf of bread. Not really.

I must have been distracted by the Hispanic man who thought I was going to run over him or maybe it was the young guy wearing shorts and work boots while sitting on the curb in the handicap zone smoking a cigarette. Either reason, I didn’t notice. But I wasn’t distracted when I came out of the store with my bananas apples, milk and cream.

It was hard not to notice them. They were definitely back, but I would swear they only appear in the spring to splatter the front grille of cars from Daytona to Tarpon with their bodies.

Love Bugs, flying insects consisting of wings and sex organs. They are seen only when copulating. And they fly when they copulate landing indiscriminately on your head, your arms, your pants…

I carried six couples into the Jeep as I frantically jammed the key into the ignition to roll up the power windows. They were on the inside of the windshield, the front seat, the back seat and I didn’t look, but I bet they were in the back cargo area. I dared not yell in frustration for fear one would be sucked down the esophagus.

Feeling itchy? Yeah, me too.

Don't Forget

The initial numbers are indelible: 8:46 a.m. and 9:02 a.m. Time the burning towers stood: 56 minutes and 102 minutes. Time they took to fall: 12 seconds.

Total number killed in attacks (official figure as of 9/5/02): 2,819

Number of firefighters and paramedics killed: 343

Number of NYPD officers: 23

Number of Port Authority police officers: 37

Number of WTC companies that lost people: 60

Number of employees who died in Tower One: 1,402

Number of employees who died in Tower Two: 614

Number of employees lost at Cantor Fitzgerald: 658


Number of nations whose citizens were killed in attacks: 115

Ratio of men to women who died: 3:1

Age of the greatest number who died: between 35 and 39

Bodies found "intact": 289

Body parts found: 19,858

Number of families who got no remains: 1,717

Estimated units of blood donated to the New York Blood Center: 36,000

Total units of donated blood actually used: 258

Number of people who lost a spouse or partner in the attacks: 1,609

Estimated number of children who lost a parent: 3,051

Percentage of Americans who knew someone hurt or killed in the attacks: 20

FDNY retirements, January–July 2001: 274

FDNY retirements, January–July 2002: 661

Number of firefighters on leave for respiratory problems by January 2002: 300

Number of funerals attended by Rudy Giuliani in 2001: 200

Number of FDNY vehicles destroyed: 98

Tons of debris removed from site: 1,506,124

Days fires continued to burn after the attack: 99

Jobs lost in New York owing to the attacks: 146,100

Days the New York Stock Exchange was closed: 6

Point drop in the Dow Jones industrial average when the NYSE reopened: 684.81

Percentage increase in Peace Corps applications from 2001 to 2002: 40

Percentage increase in CIA applications from 2001 to 2002: 50

Estimated number of New Yorkers suffering from post-traumatic-stress disorder as a result of 9/11: 422,000

Tuesday

Do not forget. It is not over.

Welcome Home Committee

A few months ago, Diablo got a hold of the sizeable black snake that had been slithering outside, occasionally stopping on the concrete walk beneath the two cats' noses, but safely on the opposite side of the screened porch. Diablo’s reaction to this languid teasing was to drop into the hunting position while Phoenix, always the wiser of the two felines, flattened her ears and took more of a defensive posture.

One afternoon I let Diablo out for a supervised gecko patrol. Lounging beside the dock while she snooped under the bushes looking for GEICO representatives, my attention to her hunt relaxed until she took off after something. I figured it was a fat lizard. It turned out to be the black snake hell bent on escaping the fanged tabby’s pursuit.

She managed to yank its tail before I could snag the leash she wore. When I pulled her out of the bush, she brought the serpent with her. Fortunately, she dropped it and it coiled up into a tight ball of scales. I’ll this fieriness from a cat who is scared to death of Dad’s garden hose.

As I unloaded the Jeep I met the snake on the front sidewalk. He struck a pose as quickly as I did. I suggested he turn tail which he finally did after I faked a “shoo” at him. But when I returned with baggage in hand piled to my chin, I caught him making his way through the grass on his originally intended course. Bold.

Sixty laps in the pool under the Florida sun. Meeting with Tarpon Springs Writers Group. Lunch at Danny K's...life is coming back. And the good news was I only gain half a pound.

Phase II

“What’s in the refrigerator?” I asked. I opened the door to find a half a bottle of fruit punch Powerade. In the nearly empty refrigerator the red drink appeared as bright as a South Boston tavern’s neon light advertising Budweiser. In a thin jar five Calamata olives gently floated in the dark brown liquid as I inspected the contents. I wondered if they were still good. What had I used them in? And remembered a lime chicken dish I prepare for an Italian themed neighborhood picnic. How many ago months was that? I wrinkled up my nose and tighten the lid as a precaution. Mental note:toss them out. But for now I returned the jar to the shelf.

Next to the olives was a container of raw hemp protein, a left over from one of my recent health kick projects. I’ll experiment with just about anything to remedy hot flashes. The powdery substance tasted nutty, but the green color had been hardly visually appealing when mixed with yogurt or sprinkled on cantaloupe. Beyond the usual staples of mustard, mayo, a tub of butter and a couple packets of ketchup there wasn’t much else.

The items reminded me of a life I had six weeks ago, but it seemed a lot longer than that. Time and distance seemed a little warped after my three day drive south from New York.

I was reentering my Florida life. The next six months. Looking around the condo, nothing had changed. Nothing seemed different in the neighborhood either, but I had not given it a close inspection. I had been focused on driving as safely as I could with two cats sensing something was up. After 1500 miles and three days in the car, they were smart enough to know that the last fifteen minutes of driving was more herky-jerky, and slower as I thread the Jeep through traffic lights, right and left turns and over speed bumps. Both were alert and on the prowl. By the time I pulled in front of the condo, Diablo was on my lap head down into the doorwell trying to push the door open with her head and ready to leap out.

I carried her to the condo door, and tossed her into the hall way asking, “Look familiar?” She jumped when she saw her reflection in the hallway mirror and I remembered her first experience in the condo six months ago. I had carried her into the bedroom and put her on the bed. When I returned with Phoenix she was frozen, staring at the intimidating tabby cat she saw in the full length mirror on the closet door. “Diablo it is you,” I explained stepping between her and her image to make the other cat disappear.

The place smelled like new carpet, just as it had back in February, a smell that became so familiar I couldn't detect it any longer. Now it was fresh again, but filled with memories of a simple life I left...writing, kaykaing, running and swimming. It comforted me and the cats. I settled them in with their litter box, food bowls and water dish. I’m back to what I left behind six weeks ago. I pulled out my computer and began to write.

Phase two begins.

Tifton, Georgia

I’ve left behind the cooler temperatures of the North East and have driven south to slide under a hot heavy damp blanket of South Georgia. Tifton. The size of the phone book suggests a town of one horse, a boiled peanut stand and a factory outlet for towels and sheets. But at Exit 62 the double-laned road choked with tractor trailers and pick ups, lined with cheap chain hotels, gas stations, Americana fast food and the ubiquitous Wal-Mart, sprawls as an oasis of commerce for those who are just passing through. Could anyone live here?

This is day two of my long road trip to Florida. Traveling with cats is like getting your sea legs...a three day process. On day one the cats are shocked, and silently huddle in any little crack or crevasse, they can squeeze their little bodies into. On day two, they protest, wandering about, gazing out the windows, piling on my lap and for Phoenix yelling her head off. On day three, they settle in bored with watching telephone poles and white dotted line whiz by.

I've been juicing Phoenix up. Not an easy task.

Labor Day

It took me most of the morning to clean up all my project messes around the house, basement and garage. Rats, or something picked up the small bird skull and bill that I had left on the sill in the garage. Unbelievable. When I asked Dad if he had moved the skull, he said no, but he had found a dead chipmunk in the garage. No, he didn’t save the head for me. Well, one less thing to pack.

I cleaned paint brushes and dirt from a couple of pieces of wood I found interesting in shape. I packed up my books, some new and some old. Assembled an assortment of cat toys littered about the living room. Tossed a pile of dirty clothes in the washer. And wondered if I could get it all back into the Jeep.

Before going into town for some Vanilla Coke Zero and Saratoga Water for the trip, I snuck up on Phoenix, sleeping on Mom’s bed and injected her with 150 mil of solution. Pats on the back for the cat and for me. I hope I am so lucky at 4 AM when we launch for the voyage south. First day we hope to cover 825 miles to Bean Station. Yes, fourteen hours.
This afternoon, Dad and I hefted the kayak onto the car and headed to Moreau for a trial float around the lake. The boat appeared tight and sea worthy. We ended up ferrying two kids across the strait on the east shore when their adult companions were hell bent on crossing. I allowed one to paddle with Dad (not very often one gets to paddle a 70 year old boat) while I scoured the shore for driftwood. Found a huge spider. Huge.

This evening, I sat outside on the back steps and husked four ears of corn. Listened to a blue jay squabble in the bush. Heard the crickets chirp under the hedge. And watched a whisper of wind carry the day away to where the sun fell into the spruce, elm and butternut before dipping behind Hagadorn’s Mountain. Summer is over. Pool closed. Back to School.

Mt Joe

"Let's go to Mt. Joe," he said. And so we did, although I was a bit skeptical that Dad could make it up the 713 foot climb over .9 miles. Yes, not really a huge mountain, a mountain surrounded by the high peaks of the Adirondacks. Mt. Marcy a mere six miles away.
Nevertheless, on a crispy morning, we set off for the trailhead.

Unfortunately, so did a few hundred others, from US and Canada. Both countries are celebrating Labor Day and the parking lots were full. In order to begin a short hike, one had to take a long walk from the roadside about a mile down a hill...the only available parking, unless you were willing to wait for departing early bird hikers. We opted for this and twenty minutes later we were ready to begin the hike.

I let Dad set the pace. Drawing on my Outward Bound experience, I patiently fell in behind and took snaps. Many hikers, including a two year old "K-becker" passed us.
And the words of wisdom Dad offered, "You climb a mountain one step at a time," applied to every one who hoofed it to the summit.

Buck Mountain

After putting another coat of paint on the kayak, I headed up to Lake George's east shore and climbed Buck Mountain. A 2200 foot gain over 3.3 miles, it isn't a hard climb. Kept the pace for 1.5 hours to the summit. Beneath the canpoy of hardwoods and pines, it felt like fall. Tonight, the mercury is dipping to the forties. Flurries will be flying soon in the Big North Country. Time to head south.


Ra, I attempted to go down route 9 and ran into the same traffic problem we hit last weekend. After a U-turn, I had a chance to take a snap of MightMouse. I thought elephants were scared of mice.

NY 3166 BZ

It’s the New York State Boat registration number for the kayak. I had to write it down because I have been working on the kayak. During its voyage around Moreau the other day, Dad and I noticed a few leaks. The old canvas is a little brittle and frail in spots after sitting in the heat and cold of the garage for the past umpteen years. Dad thought a coating of water proof would do it, but the paint was flaking in too many places.

So we scraped away what we could, slapped a pint of Bondo on the surface, applied a dab or two of contact cememt where needed and then I went looking for marine paint. I found out later that the last time Dad painted the boat, which I vaguely remember as 1966, he used Benjamin Moore house paint. Marine primer and paint seemed like overkill at $90 for a quart of each. But the paint salesman whom I accidentally ran into at Saratoga BoatWorks, said it would last three times as long as “regular marine” paint. If it lasts as long as the Benjamin Moore paint, well won’t some heir be lucky.


The primer went on like soft butter on a warm biscuit. I could make a career out of painting boats if it wasn’t for all the brush cleaning. I put two coats on the old kayak before I applied the first topcoat, Mauritius Blue, a fine color indeed. Tomorrow I should finish the second coat. And if I am lucky, maybe I can take her out on a small voyage, just for the satisfaction of it all before I head back to Florida.

Now if we can get the old ¼ horse power Evinrude motor (vintage 1930’s) fired up…

For the Record

After studying the line on the ponies and not picking a winner all racing season, it is a good thing I scored two Saratoga chairs and six umbrellas. Dad picked two winners during my high school reunion outing at the track. Yeah, that was two weeks ago, but I just got the snaps.

To Mom

Weren’t you scared of dragonflies? That is what I remember, but I don’t remember why. They are harmless.

They are flying around the house. Strange. Where are the Lilly pads floating gently on a reflective glass surface? The pussy willows lining the edge of shallow ponds and bogs? The place where redwing blackbirds sit on cattails and bull frogs strum in low reverberating hum? That is where you find the twin winged creatures. They are harmless.

Were you really scared of dragonflies? I can’t remember. That is the worst. I use to think it was not being able to talk with you, or share a story. But the worst is forgetting what I should remember.

The School Teachers were here last week. Ginny said she heard your voice the other day. As she sat on her porch, she heard you calling for Manuel. She told me she could still hear your voice, your laughter. I can’t. It is part of not being able to remember. Somethings have faded, but not missing you.

You are gone. The days became weeks, then months and now a year. A year today.

I sat outside the house, listening. I didn’t hear the voice that Ginny did. I heard a chickadee and wondered why you were scared of dragonflies and wondered why they are here.

Total Eclipse

Some of us have nothing else to do in the early morning hours. That being my case, I set my alarm for 4:45 am to watch the earth’s shadow swallow the full moon. It was a bright moon illuminating the back yard with so much light I thought deer had tripped the floodlight. Not since I sailed the Cosmic Muffin, have I watched the moon for so long. A water backdrop would have made the eclipse a sight.

It hung low in the western sky and daybreak was only forty five minutes away. Peeking out from behind the trees, the moon soon would dip behind Hagadorn’s Mountain. Stars speckled the night’s canopy, Orion relaxed on the treetops to the east and wisps of clouds stretched across the north resembling an aurora borealis.

I drove down to Ballard School, where there would be an unobstructed view of the moon. Years ago the fields surrounding the school would have been perfect, but today Ace Hardware's distribution center and the State Police office take away from the ambiance. Still the show was incredible.

A thin cloud obscured the moon just before total, adding to the drama as the moon’s final smile of light seductively danced behind the veil. As the eastern sky brightened and the stars yielded their position to the sun, the moon disappeared behind the earth’s shadow. The process was slow. It is hard to imagine earth is traveling at 18.55 miles per second through space. Then the moon was gone, swallowed by the red dragons, blotted out by the spirit of the dead and stolen by demons of the night. No spell was cast. Birds did not fall from the sky. Dogs did not howl. Cows’ milk didn’t turn sour.

Instead, a state trooper left the barracks for his shift, a tow truck operator loaded a pallet of hammers into a tractor trailer and cars whizzed down Ballard Road-destination: Something Else To Do.

I was fortunate to see the rare event, (although this is the second one this year) but I only got to see the first half. The moon vanished. I waited to see if I might glimpse the reemerging light from the top of the orb, but the sun, a cloud and the mountain claimed the sight.

Now it is time to get at resealing the driveway. And you thought I was going back to bed!

Posting Number 200

Mom loved wood. Her love for fine grain and texture is reflected throughout the house my parents built. There is the hardwood floor in the living room and the master bedroom. She labored over the finish during a pregnancy with Mark. The pecky cypress paneling is a major feature of the house, every board cleaned and sanded by Mom’s hands, then coated with Waterlox. Every spring and fall the floors were paste waxed and buffed while the cracks and creases of the paneling were dusted and polished. And the dining room table – a huge slab of wood sanded to perfection before Mom applied nineteen coats to the high gloss surface.

As much as Mom loved wood, she loved trees. No wonder she gave Dad hell for chopping trees around the perimeter of the yard. Fortunately she didn’t see the elm die and Dad had it taken down this spring. When I came home in May the only thing left of the stately tree was a five foot piece of trunk—the piece that grew closest to the ground.

The base had a unique shape. Seventy-five rings recorded years of cold winters, wet springs, dry summers and splendid falls. And a twin heart was set off-center. It was destine to be cut up and rolled down the hill into the woods. (Dad has plenty of wood stacked around the house for the fireplace. We even gave away the two trees we took down a couple of weeks ago.)

I envisioned a wall piece, a thin slab cut from the irregular base shaped by the jutting arms that were once leads to roots. Robin and Dad using a chainsaw too small for the job managed to hack off a twelve inch piece. They set it up on its end to dry.

Mark and Dad loaded it into the wheelbarrow and carted it into the basement a few weeks ago. When Robin was here this past weekend, she discovered ants milling around the slab.

Dad and I wrestled the heavy block of wood outside so I could sand the surface and spray it for ants. They evacuated carrying eggs, but the poison kept them from getting too far. I spent most of the afternoon sanding the surface with my grandfather’s Craftman sander, a heavy duty machine that can’t be found in this day and age of blue and yellow tools from China. After I sanded out the ridges left by the chainsaw with 36 grit paper and I took 50 and 120 grit to smoothed the surface.

It is a handsome piece of wood that will make a fine coffee table in a place that MAYBE one day I might have. A complement to my buffalo skull and Navajo and Tibetan rugs.

Mom would have been happy to know that the dead elm tree didn’t end up as nothing more than firewood, or a termite and fungus haven. As I applied her father’s sander to the wood I thought she was smiling on my effort.

364 days without Mom.

An Old Toad

Farmer's Daughters

After some serious cool weather earlier this week where it felt like summer took a vacation, it returned with a hammer. 94 degrees, humid and time for ice cream at The Farmer's Daughters' Ice Cream Shoppe on route 29.

I'm riding the winner at the Traver's, or was that the rodeo pony at the Washington County Fair? Fifty cents for a good bucking ride.

Kayak '36

It hasn't been in the water since...well, I'm not sure. Dad seems to think he and Robin carried the boat down the hill to Moreau Lake, but after struggling to get it down from the rack in the garage, wrestling it to the roof of the car and dropping it off the car into the lake, he wasn't sure how he managed to lug it down the hill. A bit younger maybe?

I still wonder how two teenage boys hauled it from Lake Mohawk to Ogdensburg, a seven mile trip. That was in the 40's.I thought the last time the boat was out was when Mike and Andrew came to visit. Andrew was fourteen, I taught him to roll my kayak and there is a cool snap of dad and Mike paddling the boat hanging on dad's wall.

The hull needs a good Marine paint after some prep work, as there were a few leaks in the canvas bottom. Seems to be the project on the horizon this week, since Dad and I were unable to go to the Thousand Islands in the RV. The plan changed due to Phoenix's illness. She had a bad weekend of no eating, lots of drinking. Although she is only eight she is experiencing renal failure. It will be a tough trip back to Florida.

Class of ’72

The men were almost unrecognizable and attended in less numbers than the women. The women were full of energy, and although changed, the eyes, still bright and youthful, gave them away. Time erased who we were, fade what we did back then. Some memories remained as vivid as yesterday—a torn ligament in a basketball game, a case of mono, a teacher’s infectious laugh…and the rest we mercifully forgot—High School at Saratoga Springs Senior High.

Thirty five years passed by. Some years with meticulous planning and careful forethought, while others by whim and fancy, the luck of the draw or by the grace of our Lord. As one minute turned the page from day to night, from spring to fall, the journey shaped us. Cruel and harsh events carved deep canyons through the dreams and promises we held in the spring of 1972. Joys and triumphs reignited passion and hope. And without much reflection or thought the next chapter came and went as unnoticed as winter becomes after the first seven snowfalls.

We became a vessel of stories. Tales of thrills and adventure, of conquests and successes. Of miracles and redemption, of moments when we smirk and think, “Just like my mother; just like my father.” And we see who we are in our children and unbelievably in our grandchildren.

We reunited to celebrate and share our pasts. We went to school, went into the service, went to work, went to sea, went on an adventure, pursued a dream, a hope, a promise and tested life in our own way. We measured and compared, pondered and speculated. As if we sowed a quilt, our contribution a small piece to the entire project. Not yet finished, the delicate fabric of life spread before us: a divorce, a miscarriage, a death, a tumor, an accident, a disease, a rumor of witness protection. Yet, we were determined to continue to push the needle with thread through to the next patch. Heartache yielded to the chore of living, renewed by the echo of classmates' laughter in what must be known as The Spirit of Life, the symbol on our class ring.

At the end of the night, I sat with the yearbook and a list of those who are no longer with us. Classmate whose lives had been cut short. A stark reminder of my mortality. I turned the pages searching for their faces. Caught forever in the black and white photos was the sparkle of invincible youth. My memories were diluted by time. It was hard to remember them…some names I remembered, some faces looked familiar. A few I hardly knew. What could I recall? A shared English class. A study hall. A locker down the hall. A boyfriend's brother. Sadly, I didn't know their dreams. Did he want to become an actor?

The class of ‘72 vowed not to forget their classmates and established the Circle of Friends scholarship in their memory.

We became who we are. We did what every graduating class did. For better or worse, we lived. We loved. We honored those were once a part of us.

We acknowledged yesterday for its memories. When the party was over, we stepped off into the darkness with the confidence that the sun would rise in the morning, but wisely knew that the day’s promise is not a given.

Out About The Hood

Three sisters
Why did the turkeys cross the road?
Can you guess where?

Hot Peppers and Hot Sauce

Lightening streaked across the sky at dusk. Under the amphitheater muted notes from instruments being tuned for the night’s performance answered the thunder’s roll. Between the sources of the sounds an audience anxiously stirred anticipating both the rain and the music of Tchaikovsky. A night at Saratoga Springs Performing Arts Center, SPAC.

Catered dinner included a spicy hot asparagus pasta salad. Delicious. Served with a Napa wine called FreakOut. Jennifer gave me the recipe. I used all the crushed red peppers and hot sauce as called for. If I were to make it again, I’d use about ½ the olive oil and maybe add some pine nuts.

Desert was a cheesecake tart with homemade black raspberry sauce topped with fresh berries. I made that too. But dessert was 16 cannons during the SolemnOverture, 1812. Followed by fireworks.