We got Jake bumper plates (Olympic weightlifting equipment) for Christmas. He doesn't usually ask for anything, so it was exciting to be able to buy something for him that we knew would make him happy. There was no way to make it a surprise, however, since when the UPS man delivered the gift, Jake was the only one home and had the honor of carrying the stuff into the house (a workout in itself). But we did have one surprise for him: grass fed beef from Tide Mill Farm. As you can see, he's not too sad about a night off from the plant-eater menu. Plus, now you know that Cara and I are not complete killjoys.

The beautiful Cashmere Twins! Merry Christmas and a happy, happy...

This morning I woke with the notion that I'd squeeze every ounce I could out of the solstice, the shortest day of the year. Now, here I sit and it's only 8:28 a.m. and I can report that I have already experienced feelings of joy and elation. A bit much? But it's true. Hiking first thing after a night of rain, with mist rising from the ground and every tree glistening, just puts you in a most spiritual frame of mind. Don't worry though, I'm sure I'll come back down to earth right quick when Cara and I go to Ellsworth to finish up our x-mas shopping. In the meantime, get outside and enjoy the sensory pleasures of our beautiful Mother Earth.

Think I was going to let her get away with not throwing a couple of decorations on the tree? I don't think so! I'll tell you what, keeping up with Birch Wisdom and Facebook, it's not easy. Too much cross-pollination. But hey, tech savvy (ha!) guy such as myself cannot be held back. Hope you're all feeling in the spirit of love and wonder. Happy winter days...

Turns out that I was wrong. To wit: the Winter Solstice, the most important day of the year, is not on the 21st; this year the shortest day of the year is the 22nd. It's just a day, you say, but when somebody is hanging from a cliff do you say, "it's just another minute?" I jest--sort of--because as I've reported, I've been doing just fine with these godawful short days. In fact, I'm quite happy. But, you know how it is, I worry...
This morning we had our first single-digit temperature workout of the season. The good thing about the cold is that you get right to it and keep up a good pace because it's not the devil that messes with idle hands; no, it's the witch of winter who has sadistic fun with fingers and toes.
Yet this afternoon it was close to 40 degrees (just like Costa Rica, Pop) and Jake and I had to take off a couple of layers in the outdoor exercise emporium. Today was the first time I did the workout program Jake's been on and all I can say is that it's harder than it looks.
He's got a new guru who seems to think you judge a good workout by whether you can get out of bed in the morning. But don't worry, I amended it to middle-aged man walking status.

4:44 is my lucky time, but usually it's not in the a.m.

Truth is, I look at these photos from Sunday and I wonder how I can ever live anyplace else. Reminds me of years ago when we were still living in NY and I was leading therapy groups at an outpatient program. One day a group member said, "I want to live in a cabin in the woods... though of course I'd want a 7/Eleven nearby." Sort of sums it up, I'd say.

Will you look at that: sheer beauty in the wilderness. I dug those comments! Thank you Jessie and Pop. But don't be too literal. I'm living in my dream house--no problem there; it's just that sometimes I long a bit for the maelstrom of human life in the city.

I believe it's the Japanese who say that "when your house is finished, you're dead." Or something to that effect. Recently I heard a quotation attributed to nomads that goes along the lines of "a house is a coffin for the living." Interesting stuff, because though a house is the place where we find solace, it can also lead you to feel trapped. I don't mean the house itself so much as the great many worldly possessions we amass over a lifetime. A nomad, of course, does not have this option for he must travel light. Both views resonate for me because I enjoy feathering the lair, but I have a restless soul.

Ice on the rocks high above Tunk Lake. So much natural wonder, so close to home. It felt so good to hike again, and got me to thinking that if you were going to thru-hike the AT, starting in October and going southbound would work quite nicely. You'd avoid the bugs, have cool hiking weather, and, as Ernie pointed out, not have to fight for space in the shelters. You could probably even forgo carrying a tent. That pesky little problem I'd have with homesickness, there's only one way to cure that (Cara, pack your pack!). Well, I guess there's one other issue as well, but let's not talk of it here--the weekend isn't over yet!

I've got the "before" picture over on Facebook, so I figured I'd put the "after" shot up over here on Birch Wisdom. The brussel sprouts are the last harvest of our garden. I fried them up like we had them at the Green Elephant. Not bad. I'm in the mood to get back into the wood harvesting, but the shoulder says NO. I contented myself today by prowling around the woods for a x-mas tree, and I think I found a winner.

After injuring my shoulder trying to keep up with Jake with the weightlifting, I decided to take up swimming. Jessie was home for Thanksgiving from Colby, and she agreed to join me at the pool. We each took our lanes and commenced to swimming. When I reached the wall the lane next to me was empty, so, seeing as how I'd put in an all-out effort, I figured Jessie was a few strokes behind me. As it turned out she was a few strokes from the wall--at the other end of the pool. She had swum two lengths of the pool in the time it took me to swim one. Anyway, tonight I went to the pool with the idea of swimming a mile, which I was proud to accomplish. Problem is, when I got home Jake straightened me out on the math and, naturally, I'd swum something less than that magic number. But at least now I have a new goal.

People tell me things. Now when I say "people," I mean my wife. For instance, people tell me that I am highly disciplined; so why do I feel like a sloth? You see, you can't trust people. You can say you're a people person, but what does that mean, you prefer people to being thrown in the tiger cage? By the way, I do trust my wife. She has hit me up with nothing but love and devotion for a quarter of a century or something. But in the end, she's what? People. And people, you know, they're not to be trusted. I mean, I trust my wife, I already said that, but how do I know she's not just buttering me up so I'll give her a back rub? Or using some sort of insidious female trick to get me to clean the house. Like, "I know, I won't tell him what a lazy slug he is so that he'll go and get the vacuum cleaner and straighten up a little bit." Wives, family members, friends, work mates--they're all people! Where can you turn for the truth? And don't bother looking at yourself in the mirror, because, you yourself, you're people of the worst lying kind.

This is the breakdown of practically every conference I attend: 97 women, 3 men (at least one of whom has a pony-tail). Then they talk about how important it is for young boys to have good role models. Yet since I became a social worker, the number of men in helping professions has actually diminished. Yeah, we're going backwards.
It was fun being in Portland, I'll tell you that. We so enjoyed just walking around, popping into a couple of stores and eating at the Green Elephant, an awesome vegan restaurant. Even before I became a plant eater I loved brussel sprouts, and they made them fried with tamari sauce. Delicious.
We also got to see Pop and Debbie, who introduced us to a man named Michael who has owned 35 cars. That's more than me, people. I don't hold the world record after all.
My Jessie Sweets has written a short story about a political aide who's facing up to the fact that his life is empty. I can't even imagine how a 19 year-old could fathom the depth of feeling that is evoked by the main character, but I guess you can do anything when you're brilliant and beautiful.
Lucky for me, my heart is bursting full of love and purpose. After all, I'm a role model!

Hey Pop, thought you might like this photo of your favorite grandson working on his Olympic lifts. The picture was taken yesterday; today we went to the pool and I noticed that Jake is taking on the shape of a V. Now, about this meat chart--I've seen neither hide nor hair. Are we talking, "you're fat and forty, but Lordy, you're my meat." Or the meat on the hoof, as in NFL linebacker. Or, something to do with, "I'm not visiting those dang vegans unless I can bring my own meat!"

Evening sets in Marshfield--though in other parts of the world it is more (4:00 P.M.) commonly known as afternoon. Listen, if I don't get a comment soon I'm going to do nothing but talk about the weather. This morning I was about to head out for my workout and clicked on Intellicast to see if I should put on another layer. I tapped in 04654 and the temperature reading was 62 degrees. I figured I must have typed in an incorrect digit and I was getting the weather for Atlanta or some place. But on closer inspection I see that I really did hit on Machias, ME. Turns out we had the highest morning temperature of any place in the continental U.S. So I ask you again, Global Weirding or what?

You know how I was talking about S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder) up in this blog? Well it occurred to me that not only am I completely symptom-free, but part of the reason for that is my approach to the other SAD (Standard American Diet). When you keep your system fueled and running clean with God's perfect foods (fruits and veggies!) you almost can't help but feel happy.

Ironic, I guess, that I've never considered myself a person much interested in small talk, yet every time I do a post, if I don't have a poem or event I want to talk about, my inclination is to comment on the weather. You know, like how we got a foot of snow a few days ago, then this morning the snow was melting into a tropical fog. Is it Spring, is it Winter? Or some neverworld in between?

Our very first very vegan Thanksgiving was a smashing success. My plan going forward? I'm going to be a freak for the Quinoa. That's right, I'm taking it to a new level, giving up the processed flour for the whole grain. But did you know that Quinoa is not actually a grain? Look it up on Wikipedia if you get a chance. Those Incas were onto something.

This morning when I walked out to the workout shed there was less than an inch of snow crunching under foot. Now, just a couple of hours later, the friendly deer has to dig her snout into a few inches of fluff to root out her berries. What a wonderful day for a wood-fire and a snuggle-wuggle with our children. Then we prep for what is sure to be a most vegalicious Thanksgiving.

Self-portrait in the boonies. Finally I threw in the towel and got with the Facebook. Old high school friends, seeing a picture of Jake which I posted, say he's a dead ringer for me in my younger years. But look at that mug--I'm all nose. Jake, the lucky devil, has a perfect little pug nose. He's a kinder and gentler version of me, too, but I guess that's another story. So what have we established in my time doing this blog? I can't sing, I'm a mechanical nit-wit, and my nose is threatening to swallow my face. It's a wonder that I function at all...

This is the Machias River as viewed from the old railroad bridge in Whitneyville. I thought it went well with the following haiku, penned by my wonderful mother-in-law, Judy Cirillo:

River nature's gift
Again you are unsullied
Shimmer with sheer joy

All submissions are welcome, people, so send me something.

The Last Bastion

The pitbull barks
in Long Island City
back in the day
talkin' round about
hmmm... 1986.

This place is
the last bastion
tucked behind the
chain-link fence
under the tracks
no glimmering light
nothing but
darkness and shadows.

Long gone
I am gone
beyond anger
and sentimentality.

But then why
do you keep
stepping in
and stepping out
of my dreams.

Never Mind

Never mind
the rainy day
Hey ho let's go
we're moving
into the basement

Dregs and drivel
clean me free

This time
is the only time
different from the rest

Nah,
scratch that
tell me true
the clouds
won't stop skidding
across the sky

Years ago I drank Yogi tea, which was great because you got free spiritual guidance with each tea bag. My favorite was this: To be calm is the highest achievement of the self. Having just received a shipment of Yogi tea, I can now rest easy in the knowledge that I'll always have some words of wisdom, even when I'm drawing a blank.

Yesterday we had a little old neighborhood confab in the sunroom. If you enlarge the photo you'll see a deer right outside the window. She visited with her mother and her sister while the partridge family hung out in the cherry tree. It was great entertainment while we enjoyed a bit of conversation and a treat from the wine & cheese shop. Hope you enjoyed some SERENITY! over the weekend.

What a sweet morning. No work. No need to move too fast. Nothing to do but enjoy the morning tea while the rain makes its music on the metal roof. But now, it's off to Bangor to drop Alice off at the bus depot. It was such an awesome help to have Alice up here, but sadly we hardly got to see her. But in the lemonade department, our car ride will be a time to visit and catch up. I was going to sign off with some wise words on making your weekend filled with peace and calm but for some reason what pops into my mind is George Costanza's father shouting, "Serenity now! Serenity now!"

Last night I had an argument with Max on the phone about whether Margin Call is a better movie than Wall Street. It reminded me of the days we spent sharing a small bedroom with our twin beds (AKA mattresses on the floor) only a few feet apart. We'd get into these discussions that morphed into arguments where I'd become apoplectic. Then Max, in an insidiously soothing voice would say, "You see, you've lost your cool. You're yelling. That means I win." Now of course we've matured since then, so last night there were no raised voices. But clearly, and especially since this is my blog, I was right: Margin Call is a far superior movie. I mean, how can you even defend a movie that has a young guy standing on his balcony, speaking to the Manhattan skyline: "Who am I?" Everybody in the theatre where I saw Wall Street laughed when Charlie Sheen said that. (Funny how nothing has changed; people are still laughing at Charlie Sheen--and not in a good way). So you see, my brother: I won, I won, I won.

Something about my mother being in the hospital has put me out of the mood to post here on Birch Wisdom. But there is a story in connection with her trip to Bangor that I would be remiss to not share. This past Sunday we brought my mother to Downeast Community Hospital, where it was decided that she'd be transferred to EMMC. First, as they're carting her out to the ambulance she says, "I thought I'd get a helicopter." That was kind of funny, but her true wit really shined as the gurney was wheeled into the ambulance. She looked at me and said, "How come you don't have your camera? This is a perfect picture for your blog."
Well, Mom, I missed the photo op, but I'm thinking of you all the time. And I actually have had a great time with Lucy. She's really been enjoying the nice weather, so today we took her on one of her "long walks" where she did a complete olfactory study of Machias.
The doctors have still been unable to identify the root cause of my mother's symptoms. So at this point we're going to welcome all spells, finger-crossing and prayers.

Moments away from a walk with my honey on this perfectly crisp, clear Fall day, I thought I'd drop a bit of my exuberance on you. It's the simple things, it truly is, because nothing could be better than to wake up with those warm little feet brushed up against me, come downstairs for a cup of early morning nectar--mint green tea with raw honey--and then head outdoors to take a snort of fresh air and a gander at nature's beauty. Yes, this weekend is shaping up to be one of various little delights, and to top it off, we have one even more significant pleasure on tap: a week-long visit with fabulous sister Alice.

While I was out toiling away at the gym, Cara got a nice shot of one of our regular backyard visitors. It's hunting season--in fact I heard a rifle shot just as I started writing this sentence--but the deer no doubt relax at our house knowing that we're plant-eaters. Still, I have to say, from a health perspective venison is probably a best bet. I was about to say that a wildlife diet probably hasn't been studied, but then I sort of remember reading about the long life-span of native Alaskans who eat nothing but seal meat. Once again, in my opinion, it's not about whether it's meat or vegetable; it's processed food that's the real killer. Well, sorry for the rant. I guess it's on my mind since this Thanksgiving will be our first truly vegan affair.

That pin-point of light is the 5:00 P.M. sun. I snapped this shot moments ago as Jake and I finished up our work-out. We're trying to teach ourselves the Olympic lifts, and tonight focused on the clean & jerk. It's fun stuff, but I wish we had a coach rather than relying on You-Tube. But I digress: my real point is that come Monday the sun will be falling out of the sky at 4:00 P.M. Ouch! But hey, I'm fighting the S.A.D. and winning! Sun-lamp, exercise, healthy food, 8 hours of sleep and a smooch with the wifey! That's the ticket! No gloom! No doom! Boom boom boom!!!

Birch Wisdom Cafe
Fitness Menu

Appetizers

Push-ups
Pull-ups
Sit-ups
Toes to bar

Entrees

Back squat
Overhead squat
Front squat
Bench press
Snatch
Clean & Jerk
Rope climb
Ring dip
Farmer's carry
Burpees
Heavy rope
Double unders
Kettlebell Swing
Sumo deadlift
Wall balls

Dessert

Walk
Swim
Row
Elliptical

Choose any options at any time, but see if you can indulge yourself in the entire menu in a week's time. That's my plan anyway. Something to do, as they say.

Time for an episode of the Cara Cooking Chronicles. Last night we enjoyed bruschetta with spinach on Italian bread along with some crummy food I had made (but we won't talk about that, because this is my blog, so it would be better if I just made fun of my wife). Anyway, since we got home rather late from Bangor today, we went straight for the leftovers. Cara decided to heat up the bruschetta. But of course "heat up" is a language she doesn't really understand. When I said, "oh, you burned the bruschetta," she said, "no, it's not really burned." You be the judge: is it burned or is it "blackened" in a downtown bistro sort of way?

As a sufferer of S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder), I found myself getting nervous about the shortening days. I reviewed what's worked for me in the past, which basically amounts to less isolation and more exercise. I remembered that when I used to go to the gym at UMM it essentially killed two birds with one stone. The days felt longer by virtue of working out under the bright lights of the gym, not to mention the fact of there being other people doing the same. So even though I love my work-out shed like nobody's business, today we joined the gym. Jake and I even got Cara to come along with us and we had quite the uplifting family workout. Yay! This is not to say I'm abandoning my beloved woods. Far from it. Tomorrow at 5:30 A.M. Ernie and I will be out there with our headlamps, keeping up our long-standing happy routine.

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,

may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

This traditional Gaelic blessing was sung at the end of every Washington County Children's Chorus concert. Jessie was a member from the age of six until she graduated from high school. She sings like an angel, you know, no lie. I'll never forget the time I was driving the kids somewhere in the minivan and Jessie was singing along to a pop song on the radio. It was the first time I'd ever noticed her doing this; she was probably in first or second grade; and when I looked back at her in the rearview mirror her eyes looked like liquid pools of blue. Oh, so beautiful, and constantly just stealing my heart.
So Jessie Sweet, in answer to your question, yes your comments are at a professional level and mean ever so much to your dear old Dad.

As Cara and I drove home from a little evening stroll Imagine by John Lennon came on the radio. Man, if that doesn't bring out the weep in you, what will? But not a depressed sort of cry, more like a bittersweet life is so short and so beautiful. Am I laying it on too thick? Well, I can't help that because I am all about the syrup. You know that. And by the way, those pancakes I talked about, they were everything I said they'd be and more. I got to watch Max polish off about a half dozen of those suckers, then put down his fork in defeat. No mas, he said, no mas.

This marker sits at the eastern end of the Base Line, a 5.4 mile perfectly straight surveyed line finished in 1857 and used for triangulation to map the North Atlantic. It was done by hand (cutting down trees, etc.) without the benefit of GPS and Google Earth but is somehow only off by 2 inches. It's mind boggling, really, but perhaps you have to be there to appreciate it. Next time you're visiting up this way we can walk it, seeing as how it's incredibly scenic (as I pointed out in my last post), and you can see first-hand what I'm talking about. Jefferson Davis stayed in Cherryfield when he came up to inspect the completed project when he was Secretary of War. Who knew that a few short years later he would be the President of the Confederate States. That's how life goes, I suppose--filled with twists and turns we can't even begin to imagine.

This is reality, not a dream, and the inspiration for a verse of America the Beautiful: "For purple mountain majesties. Above the fruited plain..." Right here in Downeast Maine, the blueberry capital of the world. So be a patriot, and eat your blueberries. Maybe this weekend, while Max and Alice and Chris are visiting, we'll have Cara's super duper pancakes with Mike's maple syrup--piled high with blueberries, of course. Hope your weekend will be similarly filled with sweetness and togetherness.

Today there was an article in the NYT about the Republican debate as reality show. Either I'm ahead of my time (by a day) or I'm not much of an original thinker. Well, it's always been my goal to be an average guy, so I suppose I am succeeding. How about you, are you reaching your goals and achieving your dreams?

Normally I don't go in for reality TV, but there's a new show I just can't get enough of--the Republican debates. Last night was a real barnburner. I mean, when you have one politician call another politician a "hypocrite" you have had a genuine moment. Reminds me of that little ditty about the guy who passes by a church and says, "I'd never go in there, too many hypocrites." A parishioner responds, "Oh, come inside, we always have room for one more."
By the way, I am not picking on Republicans--no bias here. I find Democratic debates equally foolish and amusing. "You're likeable enough"--anybody remember that one. Then again, a 40-minute conversation about "9-9-9" might be singularly stupid. Well, you don't need me to tell you about stuff that's already in the newspaper. But take my word for it, if you're looking for some good entertainment, tune in the next time these illustrious contenders square off.

Born in confusion, Rosa Rugosa blooms in a fake-out Spring. But the days, they're getting shorter; where once, at this moment I'd be enjoying the sunrise, now I see the reflection of my ugly mug in the darkened window. Yet I'm content, knowing I have a full plate of novels, Netflix and snuggling with my loved one this Winter.

A nice walk on a crisp Autumn day and suddenly everything seems right with the world.

A while back I ordered some shoes from Zappos. They're grey suede Pumas that appealed to me because they reminded me of happy days running the streets of Staten Island back in the 70's. But once they came in the mail I had a moment of worry. I wondered if the shoes would make it look like I was trying to look young and hip when we all know I'm anything but. But, as luck would have it, like most worries in life this one was completely misplaced. I'll tell you how I know this to be true. On a recent casual Friday at work I was sporting my new Pumas, hanging out in my office with a couple of kids (being that that's my job and all), when one of them looks at my feet and says, "Are those old man sneakers?"

That girl in the photo above orders lots of shoes from Zappos--that's how I'm tying her into this story. She learned from her mother that it's OK to order as many pairs of shoes as you please, since you can always send them back (free returns!). Seems a bit sketchy, but what the heck do I know?

Oh, I do know that one certain thing. That girl sure is pretty!

Moments ago I had a brainstorm. We should have a National Lottery, but with a catch. You see, if your number comes up your prize would not be money, but a meeting with the president. It seems to me that, regardless of party, our presidents only meet with the elite. Think about it, the Bushes had never even gone grocery shopping; Clinton "rented out" bedrooms at the White House for monster campaign contributions; Obama acknowledges being in a "bubble." Elizabeth Warren, the consumer protection crusader, said that Obama made time for bankers, but never for her. Yet his whole deal is supposedly to be an advocate for the common man. That's what they all say--on the campaign trail. But once elected, forget it. So I say let's require the president to meet once a week with half a dozen lottery winners. Let him (or her, please!) hear how things are going for real people.

Who's the cutie in the straw hat?

We decided to take advantage of the sunshine by preparing for winter. In other words, loading up the basement with firewood. But then it hit 86 degrees (I don't know if it was ever even that hot in August), so we decided to hit the beach. Beautiful, of course.

Even though we didn't have to get up for work today, I was "out like a light" at 9 P.M. I had this vivid dream that I was on Staten Island, showing my kids Curtis High School. When we got inside I was thrown for a loop--it was so much nicer than I remembered it. I sort of scolded myself for not remembering my childhood as fondly as it deserved. The student body was so diverse and engaged in learning. There was just this all-are-welcome vibe. So welcoming, in fact, that when I went into the library there were all these homeless men sleeping on the floor (I think I might have been confused as to whether they were backpackers or homeless, but then I reminded myself that I was in NYC). And this is what I mean when I say the dream was vivid, I could actually smell their pungent body odor. I wondered how they got away with camping out in a school library, figuring they had just been undetected. But then a librarian came up, spoke to one of them by name, and started talking about some sort of help that she could provide.

What does it mean? Seems like an odd time for me to be summing up or reconsidering my past. Also, I've been a bit downhearted about the world, figuring that greed is killing both the environment and our spirits. Yet, somewhere, even if only in the Twilight Zone, there is a kind librarian.

Counting my blessings on the actual perfect Sunday...

Recently I developed what I thought was a new vice, then tonight discovered that it is in fact a virtue. If only life were filled with such easy redemption. Me, no, usually I feel guilty about my missteps basically forever. I mean it's not all that unusual for me to cringe thinking of an unkind word I said to somebody 30+ years ago. What gives? Is it that my childhood home was wedged between a couple of Catholic schools? Was it the dirty looks the nuns gave me when I went to meet my girlfriend Lucille at St. Peter's? Did they put the hex on me? Well, nothing's going to alter my conscience now, so I guess I just have to make decisions I can live with in peace.
Now, onto my discovery. I have been enjoying honey in my green tea. It worried me that maybe I was imbibing too much of the sweet stuff, but tonight my mother brought over a book of Vermont folk remedies where the author (a medical doctor who wrote the book in 1956) states unequivocally that honey has more health benefits than Carter has pills. Sweet redemption!

Guess who's home for the weekend? Happy happy joy joy. And, stating the obvious for the zillionth time: dang I got good-looking kids. I know, I know, they take right after their mother!

That there is Jack in the Pulpit. I once thought of being a preacher, seeing as how in addition to pontificating to a captive audience you get free housing. Problem is, I can't sing. Can you imagine the embarrassment of not being able to carry a tune during all those hymns? So it was just one more dream denied, because back when I was in 8th grade I dreamed of being a Broadway star (odd since I seriously detest show tunes). What happened was I got cast in the lead role of the I.S. 61 production of Grease. That's right, I was Danny Zuko. Problem was that you didn't have to sing at the audition, so the drama teacher had no idea that I'm basically tone deaf. I guess my permanent record wasn't forwarded from P.S. 40 where I was literally the only child not accepted into chorus. Well, anyway, it took about one rehearsal for Mrs. Bochetti to realize that I might kill some audience members via my many solos. Her ingenious solution was to have the rest of the kids sing incredibly loudly along with my so-called solos. But of course this didn't completely solve the problem. No, she had to pull out the big guns. Sadly, it wasn't until adulthood that I realized it wasn't just a coincidence that I had the only malfunctioning microphone.

OK, twist my arm: here's a picture of Jessie inside her new dorm. Speaking of arms, Jake had his prison tattoo re-worked by a Friend of Richard, who is an actual artist. She did a beautiful job--I'll have to take a picture of it and put it up here on the blog. Speaking of Richard, and speaking of blogs, I posted my own comment because Richard called on the phone and said his comment wouldn't post. Others have complained of the same thing. Maybe my brother Max can set up a blog for me that doesn't run through blogger. In the meantime, and I don't mean to suggest that I can read the man's mind, but I think Richard wanted to say something to the effect that Jessie is the most beautiful girl in all creation. Well, I can read my own mind, and that's what I'm thinking...

The Sweet has a suite in her new dorm. I don't know that I've ever known a person so enthralled by college life. Yeah, we've all known students who love the party scene, but Jessie loves her classes, the professors--she even likes the homework. Although she is a biology major (with a concentration in neuroscience), she is taking a couple of English classes which she considers to be the cat's pajamas. Who knows, maybe someday she'll write the great American novel we've all been meaning to write. It's always been a bit of a disappointment to me that my sister Alice didn't pursue a career in writing (she wrote some short stories in college that clearly demonstrated that she had the talent), but maybe she's sort of passed something along to her namesake (Jessie Alice).
We had a weekend of cultural splendor at Colby. First we went to the American Modern exhibit at the museum, which is a moving collection of photographs (by Walker Evans and others) from the Great Depression, then we enjoyed the ballet performance of Kathleen Breen Combes and Yury Yanowsky of the Boston Ballet. To top it off, the woman in the room next to us at the hotel sang arias late into the night. She had a beautiful voice, too, but what she was doing in Waterville, Me, we'll never know.

Friday afternoons have become a fun-filled time in our little town; but then, for us, it's all about life's little pleasures. Today was Farmer Ted's last day of the season down on the dike. Seeing as how we're some of his "best" customers, he gave us a bushel-load of free veggies. I fired up the juicer as soon as we got home, because we'll have to work to make it through the bounty. But that's not all! After leaving Ted we went to pick up some tomatoes at Mack's Greenhouse (Mack is 93 and going strong) and corn, beets, eggplant and olives from Joe the Sausage Man. For some reason he too insisted on giving us a whole bunch of free stuff (do we look like we're in need, or are these old gents just groovin' off our love?). From there we hit the wine & cheese shop and then, finally, the library, to stock up on some good reading, because what goes better with a tasty smorgasbord than a witty novel?