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.