What Winter ?

Thoughts While Enjoying A 2nd Cup of Coffee

Feb. 1st, 2016

“What Winter?”

My snowbird friends have been emailing me lately, and they’ve been asking, “How’s your winter going?” My reply has been, “What winter?”

So far (knock on wood) we’ve haven’t had very much to “crow about”. We’ve had only 15 inches of total snowfall (we usually have 41 inches by now), and our average weekly temperatures have been 10 degrees higher than normal. We wish all our winters could be this mild.

Not so for our friends in the Mid-Atlantic states. They got hit with Winter Storm Jonas, and it was officially recorded as a blizzard. Most major cities from Washington, DC to New York City had either their highest snowfall ever, or the 2^nd highest.

I feel very badly for them, but when we get that much snow here in Maine (which we did last winter), I have to admit we have two distinct advantages over them. 1) We have LOTS of equipment to plow and remove it. 2) We have the ROOM to put it somewhere.

In big cities, you certainly can’t drive with 24-30 inches of white stuff on your street. When the plow truck comes by, where does it go? Onto the sidewalk? You don’t really want it there. In everyone’s driveway? – nope, not there either. You get the idea. 

The good news is that eventually the temperatures will soar, and the snow will melt. Unfortunately, last year, Boston had so much snow that the last pile of snow didn’t melt until June… UGH!

Meanwhile, spring will eventually come,  and then summer will arrive. Along with summer will come a whole flock of tourists – some old, some new. This year, those vacationing in our fine state from New York to Washington will be telling us their stories about the harsh winter. Usually it’s the other way around.

This summer, if we Mainers try to play a game of “Can You Top This” with them, we will surely lose. For one summer, we will have to sit back and do the “listening”, instead of the reverse.

But…. I may be able to top them.

It didn’t happen to me, but it did to a radio technician for  “TheTony Kornheiser Show”.

Mr, Tony, as he is affectionately called, is a 67-year old former sportswriter for the Washington Post. He hosts his own radio show every weekday from 10:00 am to noon. Thanks to the wonders of internet radio, I’m able to listen to him every day on ESPN-980 in Washington.

When Kevin Sheehan, the weatherman for “The Tony Kornheiser Show”, forecast 30 inches of snow, Mr. Tony nervously told his DC audience, “Oh my God, we’re all going to die. We can’t handle that much snow.” Mr. Tony, however, mellowed out when he went off the air, calmly walked across the street and checked into the Mayflower Hotel for 4 days. Good move.

His radio technician, (I think it was Nigel), didn’t fare so well. In what should have been a smart move, Nigel arranged to car pool with a friend who had a 4-wheel drive, SUV. Upon leaving the studio on the day the storm began, he felt he was in good shape with only 3-4 inches on the ground at the time.

To get to Nigel’s house, you have to go down a hill, and then up another hill. When they reached the first hill, there was a car, broadside, at the bottom of the hill. They stopped, examined the situation, and concluded they had enough room to get around the car sitting broadside. 

They inched their way down the hill. Well, things didn’t go as planned, and as many Mainers have experienced, half-way down, ice took over, and the 4-wheel drive became useless. They began skidding broadside, down the hill. The women in the car at the bottom jumped out, put both hands in front of her and shouted, “Stop your car! Stop your car!”. Nigel, ever quick to respond, rolled down his window and shouted back, “We can’t stop. We can’t stop”.

As they neared the bottom, not going very fast because it was a small hill, they bumped the woman’s car and gave it a slight dent. She went ballistic. “You’ve ruined my car. I’ll have to get a new one. You awful person. Why didn’t you stop when I told you to?”

Well, Nigel and his friend remained cool, and ascertained the young woman was a consulate member from Ecuador. She had never seen snow in her lifetime.

They calmly explained the car was not badly damaged, and despite it being a pain-in-the-butt to go to a body shop for repairs, the dent would be easily taken care of. They then inquired how she became positioned, broadside, at the bottom of the hill.

“Well,” she replied, “it’s not my fault. The car broke. I was going up the hill, and half way up the car broke. It just stopped going. The engine was running, and I even had the gas pedal pressed all the way to the floor, but the car wasn’t moving”. She continued, “After a while the transmission broke, and the car slid backwards, down the hill.”.

Nigel then asked how far away she lived. She pointed to the driveway across the street. Nigel then asked for her keys, got into the car, started it up, turned it slowly around, and drove it into her driveway. “You fixed it”, she exclaimed. “How did you do that?”

Well, Nigel, and those of us who regularly drive in winter weather, know very well the car was never “broken”. Nobody is telling the consulate from Ecuador, because we are all trying too hard to keep from laughing. 

So, this summer, when the Mid-Atlantic folks start telling me their tales of woe for this winter, this will be my “Can You Top This” story.

I think I’ll win. Every time.

An Old Dog's New Trick

Thoughts While Enjoying A 2nd Cup of Coffee

Jan. 5^th, 2016

“An Old Dog’s New Trick”

I’m not afraid of dying, or how I die – what will happen, will happen. What I do dread is coming down with Alzheimer’s Disease. I’ve been close to several people who suffered from it, and not only is it awful for the sufferer, but more so, I think, for their loved ones.

I mentioned my concerns about Alzheimer’s  to my primary care physician, and she gave me a SAGE test from Ohio State University. It is meant to measure someone’s predisposition for developing Alzheimer’s. I got a score of 17 out of 22, which she said was quite good for a “man of my age”. Ugh – I’m now old enough to be classified as a “man of my age.”

Anyway, knowing of my dread, when I saw her for my quarterly visit, she gave me a magazine article that boasted a new activity that was supposed to help fend off memory loss – adult coloring books. This was NOT my cup of tea, but in deference to her concern, I read the article. Adult coloring books, it said, can activate different neuron “thingies” in your brain, which helps mitigate memory loss.

So, with no enthusiasm at all, I figured I could “tough it out” and do this activity a couple of times a week, in the name of “mental rehabilitation”. So I went to Amazon.com and ordered some stuff. Nothing elaborate – a box of 24 Crayola crayons and the first adult coloring book on the Amazon list.

When they arrived I set my alarm, so I didn’t have to exceed 20 minutes of “torture”, and opened everything up. WOW. This was NOT the coloring book of my youth, or my children’s, or grandchildren’s youth, either. This was a book of very intricate patterns. It was immediately obvious that crayons would not work – the points were too blunt. I quickly ordered some ink pens with fine points, and postponed my date with inevitability.

Well, when I finally got around to my “punishment”, I found I loved it. I went way past the 20 minutes in my first session, and could hardly wait for the next day to do it again. I was hooked. Staying inside the lines is not required, and neither is matching your colors – which is good, because I am not good at knowing which colors look good together. That’s why all my socks are black – everything goes with them.

I now have several adult coloring books, and several types of ink pens of different “fineness”.

Is it working? I don’t know, and I don’t really care. It’s fun – lots of fun. I find it very, very restful, and it’s a lot like knitting: you can do it almost anywhere, and anytime.

Are there any unforeseen consequences? Not that that I can see – well, maybe one.

Beth and I take the 45 minute trip to Bangor about 3-4 times a year to buy stuff we can’t get around Searsport. During those trips, Beth always stops at the art supply store and asks, “Are you coming in?” I always bring a book, and reply, “No, thanks, I’ll guard the car.” Now, if someone wants to steal the car with me in it, there’s not a lot I can do to stop them, but saying “I’ll guard the car” has a nice machismo ring to it – especially for a “man of my age.”

Now, I’ll leave the book at home, and go into the store with her to check out their supply of ink pens and coloring books. I suppose, God forbid, that someday we could come out and find that our car has been stolen.  If that ever happens, I’ll be completely honest with Beth. It’s the dog’s fault.

                                                 

The Kid

Thoughts While Enjoying A 2nd Cup of Coffee

Saturday, June 22, 2013

"The Kid"

William Bonney, notorious outlaw, better known as “Billy The Kid”, got his nickname because he killed his first man at the tender age of 17. Riley “The Kid” Colby got his moniker because he left a trail of moaning cribbage players in his wake before he graduated from junior high.

Our local summer cribbage tournament started today, and I went down to defeat at the hands of “The Kid”. I didn’t have to, mind you, but I chose my fate. I am the tournament director, so the first round matches are all my doing. I thought I was going to emerge as some kind of cribbage super-hero, by eliminating “The Kid” in the first match, but, alas, it didn’t happen.

When I was asking folks if they wanted to participate in the tournament, I frequently got… Sure, count me in, but not if I have to play “The Kid” in the first round. I’ll play anyone else, but not “The Kid”. Riley just graduated from the 7^th grade, and this is his third year of playing in our cribbage tournaments. I guess a lot of adults don’t like to lose to someone whose voice hasn’t changed. His reputation precedes him, and for good reason, as I found out today.

This all started when Riley’s grandfather, Rusty, decided to teach him how to play cribbage. (Hmm, remind me to take Rusty out of my will).  Anyway, Riley played lots and lots of cribbage games with whoever would play with him, and he soon became an above-average cribbage player. He entered his first tournament in 2011, and in prior matches his adult opponents would approach their match with “The Kid” as if it would be an easy victory. The majority of times, it was not. They came away with a puzzled look on their face, while “The Kid” had a big smile on his.

Well, enough time has passed that “The Kid” now has a “Rep”… and it’s a feared one. Well, I thought, I’m not easily shaken. I can look danger in the eye and not blink. He’s no better than I. “The Kid” puts his pants on one leg at a time, the same way I do. He drinks the same water I do… no problem. I was wrong. “The Kid” puts his pants on both legs at time and drinks some concoction of special brain-enhancing fluid. He beat me, two games to one.

He also has “roadies”.  People kept wandering in and out of the coffee shop to see how he was doing. Parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, his sister, a long lost cousin or two… I lost count. Everyone is cheering him on. About halfway through my match I realized that if I won, I would be looked on as if I had killed Bambi. 

Undaunted, I kept dealing, kept counting, kept pegging, but alas, I came up short in a tightly-fought, close match. Well, OK… not exactly tight… He skunked me in our first game… I squeaked out a win in game two… and then he got a decisive win in the final game.. 

I really enjoyed playing against “The Kid”. He was first and foremost, a kid. He would fidget in his seat sometimes… he’d lose his concentration at times… but best of all he had the “exuberance of youth” you always see whenever youngsters play anything. It was really refreshing, and that feeling was well worth all the ribbing I took for being another notch on “The Kid’s” cribbage board. 

As for the next tournament? Well, I’ll still be the director and I’m scheduling “The Kid” for me… a re-match… and you may be walking tall now, “Kid”, but next time…. You’re TOAST!

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.