The Shoes

It all started with a new pair of shoes.

It took me about 3 years to wear out my old pair of shoes, but about a month ago it seemed time to get a new pair. I liked my old shoes, except for one thing – they have a little “loop tag” on the heel of each shoe. I never use the tab, and I’m not positive what’s it’s there for. I wear only “loafer-style” shoes – no shoe strings or velcro straps – so it might be to help you pull up your shoe over your heel. Whatever the reason, I don’t use the tabs, and I don’t like them.

When my partner, Beth, drove me to the shoe store in downtown Belfast, Maine, I told her I didn’t want any shoes with “tabs” on them. When I got to the shoe store (Colburn’s Shoe Store – the oldest shoe store in America – and one of the few that gives you personal service)… I checked out all the shoes and picked out the ones without “tabs”.

The sales clerk helped me try them on, but I didn’t really like any of them. None of them fit that well, but mostly, I didn’t like the colors they came in. I asked “How come you don’t have any slate colored shoes?” They replied they had some in the back, brought out a pair, and I tried them on. They fit like a molded glove. I said, “I’ll take these”, at which time Beth said, “Why are you buying them?” I told her it was because I liked them. She nodded.

All went well until last Monday, and here is where this story gets embarrassing for me.

Monday is my bowling night, and our team was the last team to finish. I packed away my bowling balls, and bowling shoes. When I approached the “street shoe” rack I exclaimed, “Where are my shoes?” There was only one pair of shoes left, and they looked a lot like my shoes, but they had “tabs” on the heel, so I knew they weren’t mine.

Someone thought they knew who took my shoes because he had shoes that looked a lot like mine. He had left already, and they couldn’t reach him on the phone, but he bowled in a Tuesday night league, so he would be back the next night.

Meanwhile, how do I get home? I bought a pair of those “over-slippers” that you put on your bowling shoes when you leave the bowling area to go get food, or to use the rest room. I wore my bowling shoes home, with my special “slippers”, and resolved to call the next night and find out who had my shoes.

Well, the “Tuesday bowler” didn’t have my shoes… in fact his shoes really looked nothing like mine. Since there is a Team Captain’s meeting coming up next Monday, I suggested we ask each Captain to poll their team members and see who had my shoes. The proprietor agreed.

When Wednesday rolled around, Beth’s brother arrived for a week long stay and in talking about “what’s new”. I mentioned my lost shoes. I mentioned the “tabs”, and Beth said, “You’re new shoes HAVE tabs… I saw them.” That’s why she asked me why I was buying them... I had said I didn’t want “tabs”, yet I was buying shoes with “tabs”. I had to admit she could be right, so the next day we stopped by the bowling alley and sure enough, Beth was correct. (AGAIN!   …  LOL)

The shoes fit just as perfectly as they did in the shoe store, so I knew they really were mine. Then I began the endless apologizing to everyone who had been part of this “drama”. Fortunately, nobody took a picture of me with all that egg on my face.

When I mentioned the outcome of the story to a friend of mine, she wisely replied, “That’s why we need a partner to grow old with”… and she is so correct.

As we age, the body breaks down, and our memory fades, and we forget things, or fail to notice ordinary stuff. Hopefully it will not fade enough to become Alzheimer’s, but along the “aging” journey, the path is made gentler if you have a partner to be a “safety” net. We can’t stop the aging process, but we can make the journey more pleasant.

So this year, I have added to my Christmas Wish List…. May everyone have a partner, or special person to grow old with.

Meanwhile, if your spouse, partner, or significant other, ever asks you, “How much do you love me?,  you can always reply, “Well, I know what your shoes look like.”

In The Good Old Summertime

Well, the summer flew by, as most of them tend to do. This year we had an abundance of visitors, and we enjoyed each and every one of them. In August, I took a trip to Iowa to visit my son and his family, and that was a 2-for-1 vacation… we took a side trip to St. Louis to see a Red Sox game in the new Busch Stadium, and camped out in a log cabin for a few days of sightseeing.

In Searsport the coffee shop opened under new management, and that is going very well. Tourism was way up, but despite more folks to meet and talk with, nobody really stood out as someone I’d write an entire blog post about. Overall, it was a very eclectic group of visitors to Searsport this summer.

This past week, two gentlemen came in who live in Atlanta. They were in Maine on a scavenger hunt of sorts. They were antique dealers. One of them used to work for the American Pickers TV show, and he “scouted’ out interesting articles for the show. They were fans of the TV show, Downeast Dickerers, and that’s how they discovered “Uncle Henry’s”.

Uncle Henry’s is a weekly publication in Maine. It’s like a state-wide printing of classified ads. Anything and everything can be found for sale, or barter, and these gentlemen had the latest copy in their hot little hands… scouring it for possible bargains.

They expected to be in Maine for about a month. They rent a storage “pod”, drive all over Maine buying and dickering for antiques to put into the pod. When the pod is full they ship it to Georgia and use that merchandise for their antique store. Interesting way to make a living, huh?

Earlier in the summer. we had two families show up one morning, and one was sporting a “Clemson” t-shirt. The family at the next table spook up immediately… “Are you from South Carolina? We are too?”

It’s always interesting to me how you can travel a tad under 1,200 miles and meet someone who lives just 30 minutes of your home. As it turned out, one family were all graduates of the University of South Carolina, and the other family was from their arch-rival – Clemson. They needled each other over the merits (and demerits) of each other’s chosen school, and the coffee shop was filled with laughter during the entire banter. They did unite over one thing, however… their mutual revulsion of Florida State.

Then there was the day an older couple came in and the gentleman was wearing an “Iowa Hawkeye” sweatshirt. Well, my son, Robert, lives within shouting distance of the Iowa campus, and his family often attends Iowa sporting events.

Naturally, I asked him if he lived in Iowa, but he did not. He grew up in Waterloo, IA, and graduated from the University of Iowa, where he met his wife. After working in several places through the Midwest, he and his wife retired to Tennessee.

As it turns out, while I was camping with my son, my granddaughter met a playmate at the campground we were staying at, who lives in Waterloo, IA… which is just a hop, skip, and a jump north of Cedar Rapids…. so only a week after coming home to Searsport from that trip, and hearing my granddaughter and her new friend chatter about how they will be pen pals when they get back home, I meet someone who grew up in Waterloo, IA. It’s a small world.

That was my biggest surprise of the summer…. How many people I met who were connected to me, or connected to someone I knew, by only a “few degrees of separation”.

Just last week, my former wife’s sister-in-law contacted me via Facebook to ask if I knew someone who said he used to work with me at Xerox Corporation, back in the early 1970’s. I did remember him, and she and her husband had met him on a Viking River Cruise.

That’s what struck me…

This summer, (and most summers, really) I meet so many different types of people, from all sorts of places, and I frequently connect in some semi-obscure way to so many of them. Someone told me that everyone on earth can be connected to someone else on earth in less than “six degrees of separation”. We are so close to one another, and yet, we don’t realize it.

Hmmm, if we are so close to each other, you’d think we could treat each other a lot better.

Open Mouth - Insert Foot

Last week, metaphorically speaking, I needed to have my foot surgically removed from my mouth.

As I entered the coffee shop, I noticed only two cars parked outside… one, a nice, sedate, dark-colored sedan, and the other, one of those mini-SUV’s with two GORGEOUS kayaks attached to a roof rack.

Inside were two couples. A young couple… each eyeing their cell phones as they ate their breakfast, and an older couple pouring over a couple of maps.

I “opened” my mouth – I spoke to the young couple and complimented them on their choice of kayaks.

I inserted my foot - “Oh”, they replied, “those aren’t our kayaks, they belong to them”, pointing to the older couple.

It turns out the older couple have been married for 51 years, and both are 73 - she being two months older than he. When they both turned 70, three years ago, they decided to try something new in honor of their “milestone” birthday. They chose kayaking.

Neither had ever done it before. They live in Rhode Island, but drove all the way up to Freeport, ME, and took a 1-day course at the nationally known outfitter – L.L. Bean - about how to select and handle a kayak. They LOVED it, and bought their kayaks on the spot.

That year, and every year since, they have taken two, week-long vacations during the summer months and traveled to a New England state, and kayaked in a different body of water each day of the week.

So far that week they had kayaked the Kennebec River in Waterville; Damariscotta Lake in Jefferson; the Passagassawakeag River in Belfast; and today they were deciding between Penobscot Bay in Sandy Point, or Swan Lake in Swanville.

They didn’t really know how to pronounce the river they had been on the day before, so I helped them with that. At the end of their meal they decided on going to Swan Lake. Sandy Point opens into Penobscot Bay, which is really the Atlantic Ocean, and it was, in their words, “a mite choppy” that day. At age 73 it’s probably wise to avoid a body of water that’s “a mite choppy”.

We all bid them “bonne chance” as they headed outside. The other couple lingered a bit longer, and I managed to coerce them into playing a 3-handed game of cribbage before they departed.

As I sat alone sipping the last of my coffee, I mused that at age 72 I could no longer do something “adventurous” for my 70^th milestone birthday, but I certainly had time to do something for “numero 75”.

I googled “adventure” and “daring” and “bucket list” in various combinations and came upon a multitude of suggestions. Some of them were WAY too daring and bold for me.

Skydiving is definitely OUT… as is, running with the bulls in Pamplona. For my taste, it has to be something a lot more staid and sedate….

Like bungee jumping over Niagara Falls. 

The Yard Sale

Some people are born to thrive in a yard sale environment, and some are not. My partner, Beth, is not. That’s why the “laws of the universe” allow her to have only one yard sale per century… and that was this weekend.

Why are you having a yard sale, you ask?

Last year Beth’s father passed away and her mother needed to be transferred to an assisted-living facility, so the attached apartment they both lived in for 7 years became empty. Needless to say, Beth had a lot of “stuff” from the apartment that she needed to find new homes for.

How did it turn out? Overall, it was a success, but it was a 2-day sale, and it was exhausting.

There was so much merchandise that Beth had to hire folks to come by every day the week before the sale and help take stuff out of the apartment, down from the loft in the barn, and arrange it for the sale. Beth and her minions worked HARD.

One thing we didn’t count on is how resourceful folks are about straying outside the “boundaries” of the stuff that was for sale. Things were pretty well delineated… on the lawn, inside the barn, and inside Beth’s small art studio cabin….or so we thought. It was not easy to stray from the “assigned” area, but they did. 

Every now and then you’d here a voice from the dark corner of the barn… “There’s no tag on these tires”… “That’s because they aren’t for sale”. At times it was like trying to herd a hundred kittens, all mewing loudly, searching for a hidden stash of catnip that they are SURE is hidden somewhere on the property. Maybe if we had used some razor wire… LOL

The biggest fear never came true – the early birds. Everyone kept telling Beth… be ready for the folks who come several hours early. They will have all sorts of excuses like… they are shipping out to Iraq later that morning… they have a wedding / funeral / bar mitzvah to go to, etc. The best excuse happened to a friend of Beth’s. At her yard sale a lady showed up at the door at 6:00 am for a 9:00 am start, and said, “I’m on my way to Portland for a surgical procedure.” The hostess said, “Have a safe trip”, and closed the door.

I’m working on a permanent cure for the “early birds” at a yard sale. They have robots nowadays that vacuum your carpets, and mow your lawn. I’m building a robot pit bull. 

It will have a bear trap for teeth. Inside will be a timer so that when the yard sale begins, it will stop working and go to sleep. It will also have a GPS device so you can program in the dimensions of your yard. Anyone who shows up before the allotted time, will be attacked by the robo-pit bull. 

I’m thinking of adding a voice sensor, so if it detects someone uttering a fabrication like, “Oh, I didn’t know it hadn’t started yet”, it will unleash a flamethrower at their legs. Then you will be able to actually see…. a liar with their pants on fire.

When my patent is approved, I’ll start working on the franchise agreement.

How To Be A Mainer

Every summer I conduct a class for tourists entitled, “How To Be A Mainer”. It’s a short class, and I conduct it in a variety of places – the local coffee shop, down at the local park overlooking the ocean, just about anywhere I encounter the nice people taking a vacation in Maine.

Last weekend, I held the class in the Concord Coach bus coming up the coast from Portland. I had gone to Portland to watch a minor league baseball game, and met the nicest folks on the trip back home… but they sure needed to know how to be a Mainer, and I was delighted to oblige them. They all “oohed” and ”aahed” in the right places, and laughed heartily at all my jokes, so they each received a passing grade.

It started when a middle aged gentleman from Kentucky asked if the waiting line we were in was for the bus to Damariscotta. I assured him it was, but informed him he was mispronouncing the name. I explained to him that it was really a simple name to say…. put all the emphasis on the first syllable, drop the second “a”, and you have it – DAM-ris-cotta. He thanked me, and asked, why do they have that extra “a” in the town name?

I looked him straight in the eye, and with a serious face, told him, “Well, life can be tough in Maine, so if that first letter “a” dies off ,by freezing to death, or by being eaten by a bear, then there’s another “a” right there to take over.” There was a moment of silence, and his face seemed to be saying what his mind was thinking – boy, these Maine people really ARE a little weird.

A lot of the class is just answering questions, and this year we have a new category of questions… How can I get to see some Down East dickering?

Now, if you watch the History Channel (Wed – 10:00pm), you know that “Down East Dickering” is their newest and best rated show. It’s a show about Maine bargain hunters (with heavy Maine accents, of course) who buy, sell, and swap stuff, using a local publication called “Uncle Henry’s”. “Uncle Henry’s” is a weekly publication that is really a state-wide collection of “folksy” classified ads.

I told them that all Mainers don’t talk like the guys on “Down East Dickering”, and even though not all Mainers are into dickering, you don’t have to go far to find some. I suggested they hang out at a convenience store, or a coffee shop, and keep their ears open. It shouldn’t take long before someone swaps a sturdy, wooden extension ladder for a days’ worth of labor, cleaning out an old barn… stuff like that.

They were so excited about the possibility of hearing some real dickering, I didn’t have to heart to tell them that “Down East” in Maine is not the entire state, but only Hancock and Washington Counties. I also didn’t tell them that the TV dickerers… Nate, Codfish, Turtle, Mitch, and the gang… don’t come from anywhere near Hancock or Washington counties. It would have broken their hearts if they knew that Yummy (another cast member) actually lives in Vermont.

The most fun came when someone asked me if the bus still made a stop at the Maine State Prison in Thomaston. I told them it did not, since the prison has been torn down and was moved to Warren, ME about 12 years ago. “Oh my”, the traveler from Sun Valley, Idaho replied, “I guess I’d forgotten how long it’s been since I’ve visited Maine.”

Instantly, another passenger asked, “Oh, I have a friend who lives in Warren. How far is that from Thomaston?” It’s about 4 “fers”, I told him. In unison, they all inquired, “What’s a “fer”? “Well”, I said, “It’s a form of distance measurement that’s sorta unique to Maine. First, you go to Thomaston. Then, you face to the west. Now, go as “fer” as you can see. Do that 4 times and you’re in Warren.” They LOVED it.

So, the classes are open to anyone. If you want to join us, my next class will be on July 14^th, when I travel to Portland for another minor league baseball game. If you want to join us, just be at the Concord Coach Bus Terminal at 7:00pm, and off we’ll go.

By the way, if you do come along, and want to assure yourself of a good grade, bring an apple for the teacher. I LOVE apples!

The Rites of Spring

Spring has sprung in Maine, and everyone is happy about it. Each year, there are certain “rites” of spring that we all look forward to – warmer weather is the “biggie”, but there are lots of other things we expect to happen. Seed catalogs have arrived, and gardens are being prepped for planting. Lines are re-painted on the roadways in anticipation of the summer visitors, and in our little village of Searsport, the coffee shop re-opens for the season.

This year the shop has re-opened with new owners. They are a young couple in their early 30’s, and they have all the zestful enthusiasm of new entrepreneurs, and I think they will do very well (and, hopefully, will do it for a long time). As the “regulars” start to wander in and notice the subtle changes (new paint on the walls, new menu, condiments moved to the other side of the room, etc.) we “ooh” and “ahh” and rejoice to each other that the shop is open again.

Today, I noticed a rite of spring that I feel goes unnoticed… the “Rite of Reconnection”.

Winters in Maine are cold and snowy, (no kidding, right?... LOL) so we tend to hibernate. When it’s snowing out you tend to stay indoors until everything is plowed and shoveled, and you spend as little time as possible in the “elements”. When we finally start venturing out in the spring, we need to catch up on what went on during our social dormancy.

As folks came into the shop we find out all the news we’ve missed out on for several months – some of it good, and some not-so-good. We hear about the vacation in Florida, the cruise through the Panama Canal, and the surprise visit from Aunt so-and-so over Christmas. We also hear about the knee replacement that had to be done sooner than expected, and the snow blower that broke down right after the biggest snow storm of the winter. It’s definitely “catch-up” time, and it no longer surprises me, how long we can miss seeing each other and yet take such a short time to get caught up again.

I think we need to do this “re-connecting” because, whether we like to admit it or not, we all depend on each other, and deep down I think we yearn for relationships with others.

Native Americans believe the year actually begins with winter, not spring. They feel the earth is rejuvenating itself during the winter, a lot like our bodies are rejuvenating themselves when we are asleep at night. When we awake in the morning, we are refreshed and ready to face the day (after a good cup of coffee, of course), and in the spring “Mother Earth” is ready to perform another cycle of growing, after “resting” during the winter.

On my way home from the coffee shop, it occurred to me that this need for the “Rite of Reconnection” is not restricted to humans, but perhaps is inherent in all mammals.

As I passed my neighbor’s yard I heard some squeaky noises. I stopped, and noticed three squirrels facing each other, chattering away in their tiny voices. They weren’t fighting or chasing each other… they were just looking at each other and chattering. I wondered what they were saying to each other in their squirrelly voices…

“All your nuts were stolen?”

“How awful”

“Did you call the squirrel police?”

“Do they have any suspects?”

“You must be STARVED!”

Spring time… They’re reconnecting after a cold winter. I guess we all do it.

What's In A Name

I love a good story, especially the ones about real people, and real situations. Those are pretty hard to come by during the winter in Maine because the entire state hibernates from December to May.

So, until the snow birds wend their way back to our lovely coast, and the summer tourists arrive to entertain us during the warmer months, here is a short piece of ficton that I hope amuses you until the “real stories” arrive in a few weeks.       I'm calling it “What's In A Name”.

I have a friend who travels a lot for his work, and he endulges himself in an unusual hobby while traveling. He likes to go to the local post office and view the “Wanted” posters to get a feel for the local constabulary.

On a recent trip to Haifa, Israel, he came upon a rather peculair name – Jose Cohen. Wondering how the match of a beautiful Spanish name became connected to a wonderful, Israeli clan stymied him, so he dig into it further.

It seems Jose was the illegitimate son of an Israeli salesman, who during a business trip to Madrid, Spain, spent a perfect evening with a lovely Spanish maiden. Several weeks later, the Spanish senorita realized that her dalliance with the handsome Israeli would produce a forthcoming child in a little less than 9 months.

Not wanting to trouble him for his evening of fun and frolic, but feeling very ashamed, she left Madrid and joined a convent in Barcelona, where she became a nun as a token of her atonement, and raised her son in the friendly confines of the nunnery.

Upon reaching the age of 18, young Jose wanted to find out more about his father so he immigrated to Israel, where he got a part-time job as a farmer's assistant on a kibbutz near Kiryat Shmona. Before leaving Spain Jose became an accomplished musician, and when he wasn't plowing and tending fields he had an evening gig as the 2^nd flutist in the Nathania Symphony.

The Heifa police posted his picture in the post office because he was a “Person of Interest” in a series of recent break-ins at local houses.

My friend finally realized he had come upon......

The Haifa-lootin, flutin-tootin, son-of-a-nun, from Barcelona, part-time plow boy, Joe.

How Long Have You Lived In Maine?

Native Mainers often look askance at those of us “from away”... not in a malicious way, but more like a friendly rivalry. It's akin to the feeling I had last summer when a visitor came into the coffee shop and I found out the lady of the duo was an alumnae of my university. She graduated 11 years after I did, and she did have the wisdom to pick such a great school, but after all, my graduating class WAS better than hers... that sort of thing.

Since we don't go around with name badges hanging around our neck displaying the year we moved to Maine, if you want to find out if someone is a “native” or “from away”, you have to ask them... which is why I'm frequently asked, “How long have you lived in Maine?”

I think I've found a way to eliminate this question. It all started a while ago at our local used book and knitting shop – “WORKS”.

A delightful lady came in on a Sunday afternoon, and some idle chit-chat ensued. During the course of our dialogue she mentioned that she and her partner lived in Brooklin, Maine (about an hour's drive from Searsport), and they had been cooped up inside their home for 3 days due the harsh winter, and HAD to get out-and-about. They decided to head towards Belfast (the next town over from Searsport), and see what stores were still open for the winter. That's how they ended up at “WORKS”.

I idly asked, “How long have you lived in Maine?”, to which she replied, “5 years”. This is key, so hold onto this information.

Later in the week, I called some friends of mine to see if they were going to be at the weekly “coffee klatch” at the local Dunkin Donuts shop. They replied they would, since they had been cooped up for 5 days inside their house, and that was long enough and they needed to get out. They have lived in Maine for 2 years. Another piece of relevant information.

Finally, a week or so before all of this, I was taking my dogs out to do their daily “chores” in the midst of a snow storm. A neighbor walked by, bucking the wind and snow, and toting a couple of grocery bags. I yelled to her that it was a nasty time to be going to the grocery store. She replied, “Hey, why let a little winter weather hold you back.” She was born and raised in Maine.

I've been here for 40 years, and I go outside the next day after a snow storm.

So here's the correlation... the longer you've lived in Maine, the quicker you go outside after a winter storm.

If you're born and raised in Maine, you go out IN the storm. If you've been here a long time, you go out the day AFTER the storm. If you've been here for 5 years, you wait 3 days... only a couple of years, you wait 5 days.

So, I concluded, all you have to do is ask a person how long they've been cooped up inside their home, and you can tell how long they've lived in Maine. Pretty good, huh?

I mentioned this clever theory to a friend of mine, who is a native Mainer. After I finished my story he looked at me for a few moments, and said quizzically, “So let me see if I've got this straight. You've developed a way to stop asking someone a question, by asking them a different question?”

Hmmm, I thought to myself. He may have something there. “Yes”, I meekly replied.

He immediately quipped... “Ayuh, you're definitely from away.”