This 1946 Dodge truck is being restored by the vocational program at Machias Memorial High School. The truck was originally owned by a Shell service station, which only became apparent when layers of paint were sanded away. What a treasure! I'd like to have the door to hang on my wall; I was afraid to ask whether it would be painted over, especially since the plan is to drive the thing and there is therefore no real alternative--so far as I know.

I recently read Shop Class as Soulcraft, a book about the virtues of real work--as opposed to the smoke and mirror shenanigans of Goldman Sachs--where the end result is something that works. Unfortunately vocational programs across the country have been gutted. Matthew Crawford, the book's author, wonders why we are training kids to work in cubicles when it is the trades (such as plumbing) that can't be outsourced.

Well, I'm not doing the book justice; read it if you get the chance.

5:30 a.m.
This is my work-out buddy Corey who I've strong-armed into being the illustrious follower #20. Let's see if he comes through and fills the void left vacant by so many others. We used to go to the gym together, but the fresh air and rustic setting can't be beat for getting the blood moving in the morning.
And there's yours truly: refusing to act his rickety age. Oh wait, I'm not THAT old, though the hair does seem to grow faster in my ears than on my head--and I know that's a sign of something.

I am reading a fantastic but disturbing book called Lost Mountain. It chronicles a year in which a mountaintop in Kentucky is obliterated for coal. The author points out that our electricity usage has skyrocketed over the last 20 years. I'm not surprised because as I sit here lamenting nature's destruction on the internets, Cara sits on one side of me talking on the landline, Jessie is in her room talking to a friend on Skype and the satellite radio plays in the background. And of course, nothing is ever completely off these days. Our cable box hums even though we haven't watched TV since the Super Bowl.

Today I tromped through the woods in the mist thinking, "this must be the feeling the makers of Valium are shooting for." But you can't bottle nature, so there's no profit in it. You know what, I'm going to have to end this. I'm getting kind of dizzy up here on this old soapbox.

Well, actually, perhaps there's just a bit more I can share from the hypocrisy files. When I was doing a bit of clean-up in my woodlot, I was reflecting on how initially I hoped to do everything manually, using an ax and saw and pack basket. But as it turns out I'm always gassing up a chainsaw, splitter or 4-wheeler. So not only am I using gasoline to harvest my renewable heat source, but loud engines are busting up my peace.

And I'm sure the birds aren't diggin' it too much either.

The bird in the bush...

and the rusty bolt I can't take home.

As she heads off to her job at the U.S. Census Bureau, Jessie continues a long-standing family tradition. I worked for the Census in 1980, my mother in 1970. Count 'em: three generations of weak-kneed service to the government. It's funny, Jessie thinks it's such great money for a job while in high school, which is exactly what I thought back in the day. Another similarity: we were both bored to tears by the training.

Of course, this is not Jessie's first go-round as a federal employee, as she previously served as a Senate Page (according to her grandfather she was actually a Senator, or she ran the entire U.S. Senate--though I'm not sure anybody would want credit for THAT.) Anyway, she finally dipped into the money she earned while in D.C. and bought a car, which means her mother gets to be a grown-up again and have her own car.

The car, in case you're wondering, is a 1994 Volvo. Jessie points out that Jake, who was born in 1990, has a '92 Volvo, so each of them owns a Swedish car sold during their terrible twos (though neither has been terrible a day in their lives). By this logic, Evie will need to purchase a '95 Volvo--though I see her more in a F-150. Good thing because that was the last year of Ford's square-nosed beauties.

As many of you know, I've owned more trucks than Carter has pills; so Evie, you go girl!!!!!!

Sunshine...

... and shelter.

This chirper was waiting for me when I returned from driving Max to Bangor. Nothing like a long walk in the fresh after a prolonged confinement in the rolling iron. I used to have this irrational fantasy about being a long haul trucker (seriously, but ha!), mostly, I think, just because I so much value my solitude. But really, all that exhaust and concrete is a fate worse than I don't know what. I once heard a trucker on the radio refer to trucking as a "prison on wheels"; then again, what about all that business about the open road? And, come to think of it, a kid I used to work with told me that his father couldn't believe they paid him to drive his rig he loved it so much. Where am I going with all this: nowhere; you see, it's just like driving.

Tonight, on this familiar dirt road, I thought about how very happy I was with every step I took. It's true, what they say, life is best when lived in the moment.

Yeah, so, furthermore, what's wrong with the modern world? While Mom & Dad work the splitter to guarantee warmth and comfort next winter, the Colby Girl (hint, hint) works her cellphone. And here I thought she was a nature lover like her Dad. At least she's outside; her cousin Emma, while visiting one summer, didn't seem to want to leave the camp to go down to the lake. I said, "Emma, don't you like nature?" She said, "Yeah, I like nature... when it's on television."

This has been one great weekend, with my brother Max being up for a visit and all. He took this picture of me and my sliver of maple tree trunk as I took a break from the splitter. I learned a lot about myself when my mother joined us for dinner and she, Max and Cara shared stories of my sleep talking and walking. My mother said that when I was a kid I would sleepwalk (apparently looking for places to pee other than the bathroom) and that I would talk to her as though I were awake, though it was clear to her that I was asleep. Max still remembers me talking about chickens in my sleep, though he didn't know where it came from because at that point he didn't think we'd ever actually even seen a chicken (deprived urban dwellers that we were). But Cara's story was probably the best. She said that when we were first married (well, living in sin, if you want the truth) and living in Brooklyn that I sang the national anthem in my sleep--in a foreign language. Hey, if that's not keeping the troops entertained, there's not much more I can do.

Picked up an anthology of Maine poetry at the Porter Memorial Library and came across a poem that's set in Machias and mentions the A&P that used to be on Main Street. The sign pictured above had been tossed out at the dump. A friend of ours retrieved it quite a few years ago, then gave it to us when he realized it would always gather dust in his barn whereas we always hang our junk on the walls. At the risk of imminent arrest by the copyright police (remember the library cop in that Seinfeld episode?), I thought I'd share the poem.

Bluefish Run, Machias, Maine

by Paul Nelson

As if the banks were lined by spiders

tossing long, shimmering filaments

the river crawls along like prey.

I've come, parked with the rest,

all our radios on the local station

for news of ourselves, in between the music

hard people are soft on. Cut-bait, treble-hook plugs,

wobbling spoons, plop among the frantic menhaden.

Cars jam the A&P lot, the store so empty

Fred and the butcher stand in their aprons,

arms folded in the big glass doors.

The Georgia Pacific, humped with pulp logs,

pulls up at the crossing, diesels wheezing,

drumming while men climb up

to see from the piles.

There is a flush of small fish, as if a wind

frittered the surface, or someone

blasted it with birdshot.

Then another.

They wheel the old folks down from the manor.

They sit in a row like dental work. No kids in school

but here with their battered rods, freshly taped.

Teachers are seen, pushing off in their skiffs.

Big hats down over their eyes. Someone says

the postmaster is having a fit,

who won the Six Mile Lake Fishing Derby twice.

A reporter goes from elder to elder.

Not one of them remembers anything like it,

bluefish down from the west, chasing "pogies"

clear under the falls in a thrash of blood,

under the stilted balcony of Helen's Restaurant.

Next morning the river has died, badly bitten.

Gulls wander overhead.

Blown with trash, the banks recede like gums.

Skiffs are hauled, turned over,

shells the crabs eat out.

Over coffee at Mac's, people count.

Some have caught a fish. Four crescent tails

are nailed to my woodshed door.

For summers to come

they will draw the iridescent flies.

This is my open invitation to come, sit and talk for awhile. Been a whirlwind last couple days, my excuse for not tending to the Birch Wisdom community. Yeah, but somehow I'm sitting here feeling the love. Thanks for that.

I'm on pins and needles. Will Jessie be a Colby girl? She says she'll know tomorrow. Apparently she's the type who likes to think things through. Where'd she get that from? Not from me: Impulsivity is my middle name. Actually my middle name is Generosity Modesty, which is why people call me Michael G.M. Rottersman--but that's an old story, not worth re-visiting at the current time. I wonder, though, why such pertinent information didn't make it into Jessie's essay????

American Tao -- no. 17

Politics

the subject of the disheartened

bereft

of poetic license;

nothing

but a license to steal.

Turn off the Fox television

let the wolves howl

into the night

of their own desperation.

I don't need it

the talking heads

who are just plain rude

and give us neither food

nor shelter nor solace.

Put the world

into the hands

of the mechanic

who fixes the gears

without speaking.

Our fine young man Jake is home for the weekend. We went for a walk on the Stairway to Heaven. Naturally I forgot the camera, missed some great photo opportunities of the fog and the gloam. Enjoyed the walk and talk to the maximum, then got home and took the camera into the woods. I felt immediately hopeful due to the birdsong; yes, the wildlife was awaiting. But you can't get a picture under that kind of pressure, and then I got drenched in a downpour. The photo above was taken from the deck of the sugar shack. Nevertheless, sitting here now in my comfy loungewear, I think I might be the luckiest man.

Love and family: Is that all there is, or is that all we need?

Today Birch Wisdom is proud to present the work of guest author Jessie Rottersman. Yes, I've reached that stage in life where my children can prove to the world how this crazy thing isn't just an act. But seriously, foolish as I might appear, I got choked up when Jessie gave me this essay (which she had written for a class at UMM) and the Mallo Cups for my birthday (47!). And as far as the frugality thing goes, she made her mother proud--a bit deceptive though since she had put the candy in a fancy-looking gift bag.

Jessie's Essay:

My father loves to sing. My father also has a terrible voice. Not only did I grow up with the privilege of hearing him belt out random tidbits of Bruce Springsteen, George Thorogood, and Wyclef Jean, but I also got to hear the lyrics of his own imagination. From “Cool Bloods”, to “4-Wheeler Banana Peeler”, to “Peanut Butter Mallo Cups”, my fathers singing brings back some of my most vivid childhood memories.
Still squinting against the light on a dark winter morning, I wander into our kitchen, “Here's another country heard from.” It's the voice of my mother, repeating the same thing she repeats every other morning. Dad comes dancing into the room, doing his best to mimic Michael Jackson's moonwalk. I automatically begin to giggle as I'm swept off my own feet. Dad is almost always in a great mood, but some mornings he just gets extra joyful. I don't think I've ever met more of a morning person. Next thing I know he's singing his latest jingle. “I'm cool cool blooded! Mr. Cool Blooded!” The next line, as we will later learn is the line we're supposed to chant back, “Johnny Cool Blooded!!” For the rest of the day I had a smile that was impossible to wipe from my face as my father's lyrics continued to drift back into my head.
Just as much as my father was a morning person, my sister was not; and so the 4-Wheeling song was made especially for her. My brother was always perfectly content to stay holed up in his room reading a book and seemed to somehow skip the phase of the “kids table” at family gatherings. All of this led him and my father to bond through the stock market and politics rather than tossing a ball around in the backyard. And I was into shopping, beads, and barbies, all your typical little girl stuff, but my sister, Eve was a different matter completely. She would do anything to throw herself in some mud. So when Dad bought his first 4-wheeler (and made a new song) she was ecstatic. Every night they'd come home, covered in mud and smiles. Dad would start, “4-wheeler, banana peeler,” then Eve, “heart stealer, tire squealer.” And in the mornings, when Eve wouldn't smile for anyone, Dad would sing and sing, until she would finally break and mumble back her part.
My personal favorite was created when my Dad first introduced me to Mallo Cups. They're like a peanut butter cup, except instead of peanut butter the chocolate is filled with gushy marshmallow filling. It started out as a song and evolved into just a saying between the two of us. Instead of an “I love you,” my dad and I talk about candy. As always, he goes first: “I love you the most with the toast,” me: “the butter and the jam,” and then in unison: “and the mallo cups!” You can only find Mallo Cups at so many places, so the gas stations that carried them became our regular stopping points. And even now, we'll occasionally surprise each other with a package.
Whether they are his, or other artists, the songs I sang with my Dad always spark a memory. We'd create new titles for the songs other people sang and were entertained on countless car rides and long rainy afternoons. And Dad had a different song for everyone. If I woke up early in the morning, I could hear his crazy chanting as he sang to my mother, and then his automatic switch in songs as I came down the stairs. What the lyrics mean is beyond me, since Dad doesn't even have a clue, all that matters is our family singing and dancing in the kitchen, to our new one-hit wonder.

This is the stove that will allow us to boil off the maple sap at absolutely no cost. Of course, if you're interested in receiving a quart of Birch Wisdom Maple Syrup, shipping and handling is $19.95.

I brought the chipper down to the woodlot, so now it's time to ramp up production of Mike's Mulch. If you're into gardening, I can send you a 20 lb. bag at no charge (S&H $49.95).

The Gilkster made me these nifty boxes for hauling firewood out of the rough spots. This wood makes a beautiful addition to any hearth. If you wish I'll send a trial bundle free-of-charge--though you might want to pass along a gratuity of $99.99 to my shipping agent.

The birds are back, but still no luck in tracking down the pileated woodpecker. The weather today was a bit too wonderful to describe, though the morning unfolded in a deep fog. That's the thing with Downeast Maine, you've got to earn the nice day as the sun burns through the huff and puff of the ocean. Meant to go for a long walk, but got hung up in the woods as I prepped for the big wood haul. I got the four-wheeler stuck in the mud, tipped a load of wood off the box on the rack, then had to deal with a runaway splitter as it careened down the ramp. A comedy of errors, but of course I wasn't laughing. Thankfully, there is always tomorrow.

Actually, it's more than that. When things don't go your way, you get to test your problem-solving skills; when life is a breeze you get to thank the heavens. But hey, graveyard posts notwithstanding: we're alive! So everyday is a good day.

P.S. Thank you Camille and Kevin for your comments. We used to watch Six Foot Under, but didn't see the episode Camille referenced--though I think I would completely relate.

Tomorrow I pick up a woodstove in Lubec that my friend Stan is gifting me. I'll put it in the woodshed which henceforth very well might be known as the sugar shack. At any rate, it's barrel-shaped and looks perfect for the job. Free stuff that I can actually put to use--nice!

Straight after getting home from work Cara and I started our spring clean-up in the yard. Gives you a good feeling to get a handle on stuff like that, though perhaps not so good as it's going to be to eat the steaks Cara is frying up as we speak. I do remember, even as a kid, feeling so much better after I cleaned my room, though that act was nevertheless on the infrequent side.

The only sense I can make of this post is that I'm trying to prove how truly hum-drum a life I lead; yet that makes me so happy. After two weekends away, it is just so darn nice to be home. So, that's about it I guess. Have a great weekend... and clean your room!

When I was 20-something I wrote a collection of poems that I stapled together into a little booklet called The Squeaky Wheel. I don't know if I still have a copy of those youthful yearnings, but I do remember that one poem had a line about my eventual death that said: Sprinkle me from the Staten Island Ferry. I still wish to be cremated, but I certainly don't want to be floating around in New York Harbor (yuck!!!). No, I think I'd be happier out in the back forty.

Nevertheless, being frugal-minded as we now are, Cara thinks we should consider plots in the above-pictured cemetery--they go for about $200 a pop. It's a good deal, I've got to admit, and I walk up that way frequently. It's at the entrance to what's known as the Eldon Lyons Road (Eldon is the gentleman who owns the property--but not the graveyard). Oddly enough, I've also heard that road referred to as the Stairway to Heaven. I've encountered moose, deer, bears and beavers, so it's quite the natural habitat.

Have you heard of the Orthodox Jewish rapper from Brooklyn who goes by the name Matisyahu? He has a new CD out called Light that is worth a listen. There's one song--On Nature--that talks about coming from nature and returning to the dirt. A+ stuff.

I love all you people, so I hope the end isn't near, but I'd sure prefer the dirt to a mahogany box.