Tickets!

I surprised Sally today with two tickets to see A Prairie Home Companion LIVE next May at the Bangor Auditorium (no Dad, its not near Millonocket). They don't come this way often, so we are so elated to go see the show!

Listening to "A Prairie Home Companion" is one of the things Amanda and I fell in love over--countless Saturday nights in Mount Vernon, drinking Sangria and eating brie and crackers, having the show on in the background, hanging out with Lynne and George, quieting down completely for the "news from Lake Wobegon . . ."

The show is one of our favorite things in the world, and for a while, we seriously contemplated moving to Minnesota even---not joking. In addition, Garrison Keillor, in my estimation, is not only the most underrated entertainer alive today, but also THE best speaker--and one of the best writers--I have ever heard of. His voice is absolutely the perfect balance of power and gentleness, and when he speaks, he literally has you in the palm of his hand, bringing you on a rollercoaster ride through a myriad of emotions; one minute you are laughing out loud, and 20 seconds later you are near nostalgic tears.

For those who don't know, "Prairie" is a program on National Public Radio (WMEA, WGBH, etc). The show is a classic "old time radio" variety show, consisting of singers and bands, sketch comedy, and plenty of jokes. The "coup de grace" (I just got finished reading a French novel . . excuse me!!!) is "the news from Lake Wobegon." Lake Wobegon is a mythical, semi-autobiographical town in Minnesota that Keillor "made up." The "news" usually revolves around a story of the "town" and its people--mostly consisting of "slice of life" episodes to which the listener can surely relate, but with a funny twist. We hear about Norwegian Bachelor Farmers, lunch at the "Sidetrack Tap," and and gossip at the "Chatterbox Cafe." The show truly is original, and if you have never checked it out, you should, and see for yourself how good radio can sometimes be over television

FYI-The show is next May 3 in Bangor. Tickets are still available (25 or 60 dollars). It is on a Saturday night. If anyone wants to join us, they are welcome to stay with us in Fairfield, about 45 minutes from Bangor . . .

North Pond Trip

Tonight Amanda, Dave, and I went out for a short little jaunt on North Pond in Smithfield for some after-dinner fishing. It was actually a really nice evening weatherwise--you could actually breathe without an oxygen tube, for example. Plus, Dave just got his new propeller installed, so all was right for some angling . . .

We ended up trolling a little bit around the big island of the pond, and then we went farther out towards Pine Tree Camp for some spin casting, and then we made our way back in towards the boat launch, taking our time to troll and cast some more. North Pond, being a pretty shallow lake, has a bunch of smallmouth bass and Pike, but White Perch was the fish du jour for Dave and I (Amanda alternated between reading her Jodi Picoulet book--which, by the way Mel, she LOVES--and taking pictures. Oh yeah . . . she also spent a lot of time grimacing at all of Dave and I's "that's what she said" remarks). Dave "cast-a-way" Lachapelle was the champion, pulling in something like over ten perch. I was a little behind, landing maybe 5 or 6. They are fun little fish to catch, and supposedly good eating. One even made me draw blood-- the fish are pretty innocuous, except for a little barb-thing on their back tail. One thwashed (is that a word?) around while I was trying to take the hook out, and cut me on my left bicep. I am surprised there was blood under that skin . . .I thought it was all SOLID MUSCLE . . .ha ha. We were skunked on bass and pike, but maybe next time. It was just so great to be out on the water, having some laughs, and taking in some fish . . . .

Oh yeah, Amanda just reminded me, we saw a bunch of loons as well--one right on the boat's starboard side. Also saw a few cormorants and a sea gull with a HUGE fish in its gullet.

Meanderings 5

1. Don't you hate it when you are wicked thirsty, so you fill up a glass with ice, and then pour some iced tea, water, root beer, or what have you into a glass, and then when you go to drink it, you want to take a huge gulp, because you are so thirsty after all, but one of the ice cubes "dams" up against your top lip, and you can't get the deluge of iced tea, water, root beer, or what have you down your throat?

2. When did "BACK TO SCHOOL" become a holiday? They sure treat it like one. If you think about it, stores have sales for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Presidents Day, Memorial Day, St Patricks Day, Labor Day, and more. So where does Back to School Day fit in to this? They have big sales with "back to school" savings. Kind of weird. Time to slow down. Take it easy.

3. Since 6pm this evening, Amanda has been watching a "special" on QVC about "Bare Escentuals" makeup. It is 7:30 right now. So, basically, she has been watching a two hour commercial. On purpose.

4. Coors Light has this new gimmick super-stupid can out: you put the beer in the fridge, and when the beer reaches the perfect cold temperature, the "mountains" in back of the logo turn blue. Is that what has happened to us? Do we need someone to tell us when our beer is cold enough? Is it getting too stressful for people to do THIS. I'm not a smart man, but it seems to me that if you can't tell when you're beer is cold, you're probably not responsible enough to be drinking it.

5. In a few years, the words iPod, iPhone, and iMac will all be in the dictionary, and this will be pretty momentous, since they will be the first "proper nouns" without a capital letter. Betcha didnt think of that, huh? And this will piss off a whole generation of English teachers, who will most likely lobby for it to be IPod or IPhone, which is also cool, because then they will be the first proper nouns with TWO capital letters.

6. Its funny how we Americans can't understand why other countries laugh at us.

7. The Secret Service isn't really that "secret" anymore. I think the cat's out of the bag boys . . .sorry. Just because we can't see your eyes through your aviator glasses doesn't make you all that "secret."

8. I've got a great idea for a new cereal: Oatmeal-Cream-Pie mini's. Little pies in cereal form. Breakfast is fun again. And kids everywhere can say "why not Mom? Its made with OATMEAL!"

Highway 93 Revisited . . .

As a young man, during my high school years and my early college breaks, my summers and weekends would be filled with trips into Braintree and Boston, to roam the streets of Harvard Square, Downtown Crossing, and Newbury Street, and peruse the shelves of Barnes and Noble and Newbury Comics. Usually accompanied by the Reverend Johnny Crockett, Pontocekki, and the Greek, these were some memorable times for sure.

This weekend, I had the chance to revisit these old haunts of mine, this time accompanied by my lovely wife (with whom I have been to Boston many times) and our dear friends the Pelottes. Amanda and I, along with Mandy, Tony, and Griffin, stayed in Braintree at a really great Marriot on the Wood Road right next to Konidor Meister Pastry Shop (where birthday cakes cost 100 dollars PLUS) and definitely had time for some great pool lounging and hot-tub marinating.

We took the red line into Harvard Square and checked out Amanda and I's favorite bookstore--The Curious George Bookstore. We could literally stay hours in there, just checking out YA fiction, picture books, graphic novels, and cool toys and puzzles; it really is an unusually original and imaginative place. Next was lunch at the always fantastic Border Cafe--for my money the best Mexican Food you can find around these parts (at this point, I dont even count Craparitas as Mexican Food . . .but rather McDonalds with red sauce poured all over it) Personally, I have fond memories of this Border Cafe, as I have been there a couple of times with my mom and sister during the late summer before school and football started. Plus, it was the site of an early date between me and my then hot girlfriend Amanda (there I go with the misplaced modifier again . . .you figure it out . . .) This restaurant makes EVERYTHING homemade . . .even the tortilla chips are hand cut and fried fresh. In addition, the salsa is made fresh in house in a 40 gallon plastic trash barrel where ingredients are added, and then "pureed" with a boat oar. Amanda and I have seen this firsthand. . . .

Tony and I had took some time Saturday night to perform a ritual I know all too well: Newbury Comics and Barnes and Noble. Where else can you get 3 CDs, 2 five-disc compilations, and 2 DVDs for 33 bucks? Well Tony P. did it!! I was excited to discover a new band called "Maserati," who are an instrumental band from Georgia. Their music was awesome and you'll hear the full album review soon . . .

Today, we left the hotel after checkout and parked at Quincy Market so Mandy and Tony could take the Griffin to the Aquarium. While they were inside, Amanda and I mosied over to the Seal tank and discussed how it could be possible for us to keep a seal as a pet (Thomas is part seal you know). Then, we hit St. Arbucks for some iced tea and coffee, and found a cool spot in Christopher Columbus Park where we sat and read our books for an hour or so. Before we hit Route 93 North, our time in Boston was closed by a short walk into the North End and a visit to the ever popular Mike's Pastry for the ladies to enjoy some creamy cannolis.

We've gotten to travel quite a bit this summer--we feel very fortunate--and we still have a week in New Jersey to go! We love coming home to see our little guy Thomas P, whom was so well taken care of by little Jackson across the street while we were away.

Oh, I almost forgot, Amanda got me a really great Guinness pint glass with all Gaelic writing on it, and I got her some beautiful stationery at Bob Slate Stationer on Church Street in Harvard Square--this is the coolest stationery store I have ever seen . . .actually, its the only one I have ever seen. How cool can a stationer be?

A great trip with great friends. I hope Sally and I get to go with Mom to Border Cafe soon . . .I just love Harvard Square . . .especially with family and friends. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am off to try to get the "Fisher Price Learning Favorites" out of my head--but only because Amanda tells me too; I think "the ants go marching" and "I'm a little acorn" and "I like to eat, eat, eat, eeples and baneenies" are great songs--for little Griffin AND for me!

I Hate The Summer

We both do actually. We hate the summer weather. I cannot stand the heat. I love the winter and can't wait until we have three feet of snow and minus zero temps. I dont know why, we just like that better. . . .

Today being so hot, I decided to work out early this morning. Did you ever notice that when you WORK OUT, it is two words, but if you refer to it as a noun, it is one word? Today I am going to WORK OUT on the bike. Yes, I had a terrific WORKOUT this morning. I think about these things.

Anyway, I biked about 16 miles this morning, through the backcountry of Winslow and Benton, and I stopped at Krazy Karl's house to say hi and get some cold water. We walked around in his terrific garden, and then strolled down to the banks of the Sebasticook (he has a beautiful piece of property). Since he helped me so much with the sheetrocking, I am going to help him repair the steps that go down the steep bank to the river's edge. This will make a better canoe and kayak launch . . . .

Two funny things happened today:

1. I saw a hitchhiker get picked up for the first time ever (I saw it happen for this first time . . .I don't know if it was the hitchhikers first time getting picked up . . .here I go again with the dangling modifiers! Yeay grammar). Anyway, it was classic 50's movie style. Guy walking shirtless, smoking a cigarette, wearing blue jeans. Farmer in red Chevy pickup truck pulling a hay baler pulls up beside him. He says "where ya' goin' son?" The shirtless man replies, "well, I need to get to Vassalboro, but I'll take whatever I can get sir." "Okay . . .suits me fine (he really said that!) Get in." I wonder if one of those men is dead now . . . .

2. I went to the Hannaford to cash in our change at the Coinstar machine. For those not familiar with the machine, you dump your change in, it sorts it all for you, adds it up, and gives you a voucher to use at one of the cash register lines. Coinstar keeps a commission of 8 cents per dollar, which is fine so long as I dont have to roll anything. We had about $44.00 in change, and when the lady behind the register gave me my cash, she handed me two 20's, two singles, and then stated, "I'm out of singles . . .do you mind two dollars in quarters?" So I got change in exchange for the change I just cashed in. I thought that was cutely ironic. Do you?

From there, off to the Hargroves, for a quick dip with my favorite liberal, Jesse the body Hargrove. It was great to see Jesse and Ciara, and we got to catch up for a bit while lounging in the pool

Smiggles McPiggles and her little dog wiggles (Sally Piles' nickname du jour) and I went to Readfield to dine with G-mom, G-pop, Lynne, George, Sport Jonathan, and Melsie tonight. We finally got to show people our vacation pictures, as well as the ones from CT. Now we are packing, as tomorrow morning, we head down to Boston with Mandy, Tony, and baby Griffin for a weekend in the city. Maybe some swan boats . . .maybe Curious George bookstore . . .maybe aQUEERium . . .maybe a love fest with Tony in the Back Bay. Only time will tell. See you on Sunday . . .

Book Reaction: 15 MONTHS IN SOG

"SOG," as its called in the U.S. Army, stands for "studies and observations group," and was probably the most covert, secretive, and effective group of soldiers the Army had during the Iraq . . .I mean Vietnam War. The soldiers who made up this unit were all Army Special Forces troops--"special forces" referred to, essentially, the "Green Beret's," or, as we know them today, the Rangers. The Navy SEALS, in my opinion America's elite fighting force, had just begun to materialize . . .

Retired Colonel Thom Nicholson narrates the collection of stories recollected from his second tour in Vietnam, when he was a young Captain commanding the "Raider Company"--about 200 troops--in some of the war's most deadly missions. The pros of the book, I guess, is that it is real, honest to goodness recounting of war stories--the kind you would expect to hear around a campfire or a kitchen table mottled with empty cans of Miller Light. "Nick," as he's called in the book, pulls no punches, and employs no rhetoric devices like pathos in order to create a certain feeling or mood. He just tells it like it is, and thats it. This can have its pros and its cons. As a huge fan of Tim O'Brien's THE THINGS THEY CARRIED (one of the two or three books that made me cry) I like to see the intimate part of war (as if one exists) where we truly get into the soldiers psyche and "feel" their sense of grief, loss, and pain. I think I like the intimate stories O'Brien tells, mostly, because I am the type of guy who brings "Buttershots" and "Hot Damn" liquor to camping trips.

The biggest con of the story, was, frankly, that Nicholson is a terrible writer. In fact, I dont know when I've read worse writing. But is this okay? Should war stories such as these BE blended and construed with all kinds of sappy, emotional gobblygook? Am I spoiled--and are we all spoiled--by the way war is "glamorized" in Hollywood? Nicholson doesn't "waste" any time reflecting on the bad losses he accumulated while serving; when a fellow Captain covers his "Recon Duty" one particular night, and ends up getting shot by VC troops, Nicholson makes an ineffective, generic "his imprint is in my heart always" kind of saying. Actually, thats exactly what he said. But, again, is it okay that he doesnt get too soft? Assumedly, this would be tough for a lean, mean, special ops killing machine (or am I stereotyping?)

The bad imagery and poor attempts at creating good writing fizzle like a rice cake under the Vietnamese sun. Describing a fellow NCO from Georgia, Nicholson writes: "his skin was as black as night, and his smile as warm as the hot Georgia sunshine of his youth." Stuff like that kept occurring, and it was sort of annoying. Another difficult thing was the incessant "techno-speak." You know how Rachel Ray does that things where she says she is going to add some "E-V-O-O to her seared boy, and then explains "that's extra virgin olive oil?" That is what Nicholson does. Again, very impersonal and overly technical with things like SOG, CCN, ARVN, MAC, and S1-5 for describing officer's ranks. Everything in his ultra trained and disciplined mind has an acronym or abbreviation. RON, for example, stands for nothing for than "remain overnight," to designate where a Recon team would camp when out in the bush.

If you are looking for a detailed, authentic, unadorned war story, then I think you'd like it. I enjoyed the information and the point of view very much--very fresh to read something so "non attached" and un-emotional in this day and age! Meanwhile, I am going to go hide, since I did say some negative things about the book, and Col. Nicholson might already be hiding in my room, waiting to kill me . . . .

"Where I lived and what I lived for"--who can tell me where this is from?

I have always had a difficult time understanding my friend Johnny Crockett. After college, he quickly moved out to the Lake Tahoe regions of California and Nevada. He is thousands of miles away from his family and friends, only getting to see them maybe once or twice a year at that. Yet, he has been out there for something like five years, and doesn’t seem to mind the sacrifice he has made (at least I haven never heard any negativity). But, lately, I feel as though I am beginning to understand his logic.

Amanda and I made a lot of sacrifices when we moved to Fairfield, Maine. Obviously, we are 200 miles away from family and friends—not 3,000—but in a lot of ways, its not the number of miles which divide us. First, I left behind my family and close friends from home when I decided to “stay” at UNH and continue dating this funny little girl from Mount Vernon, Maine, leaving behind regular Saturday lunches with my dad, the opportunity to take care of my mom while dealing with breast cancer, and the chance to get to know my godson J.J. and his dirtbag father the way I want to. Second, Amanda and I left behind tons when we moved from the seacoast NH area up to central Maine so I could join the faculty at Winslow. Nothing can replace gourmet dinners and Fort McClary walks with the Strazzes. It would be fantastic to share a few pints of Newcastle and beautiful music with Craig and Liz Werth. We often reflect about hikes up Mt. Blue Jobe with the Clauss-Veals to procure hoards of Tupperware containers filled with blueberries. Sadly, some dear friends from our “former life” in the Portsmouth area have become a thing of the past, never to be heard from again.

Why did we do this? What makes Johnny Crockett live his life so ferociously in Nevada, having daily adventures that make most people jealous? What makes the Goldsmiths leave behind such dear friends and family just to start something completely new up in Fairfield, Maine? I think, in many ways, the answer is unknown even to the people living the life—questions are aplenty as to what we are doing here, or why we moved so far away, etc. I have no idea what we are doing up here, except that it just feels right. We love our home, we love our town, we love our woodstove, and we love Hillman’s Bakery. I have found great ponds for trout, and great rivers for paddling. I know where to buy the best organic homegrown tomatoes, and we have discovered the best fried oysters in the world. I guess you find things that you make intrinsically YOURS, and you create home all over again.

We get to see these friends and family to the extent of afternoons in Portland, or a day in Massachusetts, but its hardly enough. The thing we miss the most is the great gift of calling these wonderful people, and planning something completely random and impromptu—dare I say that is where you make the most memorable moments. Its funny, it really is. I thought about this over the past weekend, when we were down in CT, and had the pleasure of seeing my parents—Mom on Saturday, and Dad and Babs on Sunday. Its sad limiting these visits to 4 or 5 hours, and then having them leave, but I guess that’s just the way it is—Amanda and I just enjoy the time we have, and continue to hope that Mom and Bob come up for a visit soon, and Dad and Barbara really do come to their senses and move to Maine. These are things Amanda and I reflect on while we make the long drive back up route 95. But we have no longstanding regrets. We still rejoice when we cross the beautiful bridge leading us over the Pisquatiqua River, over the place we once both lived and loved so deeply, and back into Maine. And we smile lightheartedly when we pull into our driveway, beforehand waving to our neighbor Bill, who is the unofficial “neighborhood captain,” and could tell you just about anything you ever wanted to know about anyone on Military Ave. Its unexplainable why we left so much behind. But I hope my parents, sister, and brother-in-law know how much we love them, and how things like wheelbarrow fires, “Philadelphia at ease,” “Movie Stars . . .WHAT?,” gyrating Chinese women, black leather stools, and digital head shots—things that the average reader to this blog wouldn’t understand—are so meaningful and lovely to us. And Sarah, (who I know reads this even though she never calls me back) I hope you know how much you and Timmer are loved and missed, and how Baxter State Park, Michael Moore, goat cheese, stories of Tim’s conception, hitting my head on street signs while running, and drowning will never be the same with anyone else. . . .

Meanderings 4/Connecticut Pictures

Some fun pictures from this weekend. Our flaming wheelbarrow, the little baby pet kids and Aunt Kristie, Johnny Rockets (for Jay and the Reverend), and the largest blown glass sculpture in the world--taken at Mohegan

1. Why are there all kinds of fancy, medical words for perfectly fine words like "poop," "pee," and spit. Respectively, in the medical community, they are called defecate, urinate, and expectorate. Is this so the doctors can throw their degrees around and belittle the common folk who say poop? Its funny too when they ask a question about a bowel movement or something and they know its wicked funny, but they have to be all professional and use a big word--"Now . . .do you notice any runniness when Thomas defecates into his litter box?" "Expectorate" is one that kills me. It just means spit. Just say spit. When I was younger and had braces, I had a special cinnamon flavored rinse I was supposed to use to prevent cavities. On the prescription label it said "swish around mouth for 30 seconds and then expectorate." I had no idea what that meant, and for the first two weeks I thought I was doing it wrong. Yes, I was too lazy to go look it up.

2. Remember Minnie Driver from GOOD WILL HUNTING? I almost forgot her. She has a new album out. Or, should I say, she has an album out. She is one of those rare people who walk a very fine line between being very ugly and very good beautiful. And I can't figure out which. Do you know what I mean?

3. We were all in Yankee Candle at Mohegan Sun this past weekend. Aren't they eventually going to run out of scents? I don't think so, since what is hot lately is combining east/west smells together to make "fusion smells." "Green Tea Cactus" and "Lotus Cranberry" and crap like that. They can go on forever . . .darn!!

4. They have tried to replicate the best smell in the world---wood fire. It doesnt smell anything like it. Why? Its called "Fireside." I want to know when they are going to make an "Unleaded Gas Fume" candle that smells like it does when you get gas pumped at Mobil or Irving. You all know what I mean . . .don't deny it. Funny thing about gas--it smells so much different when you get it pumped than it does when you pour it over your hands and smell it

5. I walked into a Shell station to pay for gas the other day, and on the door, taking up WELL over half of the glass space, was a huge sign that read "No shirts, no shoes, no service." Why do gas stations get so bent out of shape about this when no one else seems to mind? You don't see these signs anywhere else than on gas station doors and windows. I've never seen one on a restaurant. And I've never even seen one in the mall. Are there really that many people walking around in the world without shirts on that need mentos? And who the heck walks around barefoot anyway?

And furthermore, when did gas stations become these "pillars of ethics, cleanliness, and manners"--attributes their sign suggests? Inside these places, one can purchase "Hustler," "Colt 45," rolling papers, and tiny women's thongs rolled up and put on top of a plastic green stem so that the whole thing looks like a "rose" (ask Johnny Crockett). Not to mention, the employees of these establishments rape hundreds upon hundreds people per day when they take money from customers paying for gas . . . .

6. I am surprised their aren't any Canadian terrorists---or just really pissed off Canadians. Everything costs more there, and publishers, shopowners, and manufacturers really rub it in their faces. On just about every book you buy, it gives a price of, lets say $5.95, and then, right under it, it says $6.95 in Canada. If I was a rebellious teen who thought they knew about politics, and I lived in Canada, this would really start to get me down, and I'd protest. Its like they have to rub in just-how-much-little-better it is in the USA. I bet it gets really depressing for the Canadians to see how they're always paying "just a little" more.

7. Sometimes during the course of sports seasons, teams have "throwback days" where they wear these archaic team colors and jerseys from an era gone buy. The same is true for things like Irish festivals and the Scottish Highland Games--they preserve their heritage.

I think countries fighting in wars should have "throwback week" where we stop with the "smart bombs" and the C-130s, and the "RPGs," and just have good old fashioned war fighting. Ya know . . .just to spice it up a bit and get some positive publicity and such and such. Middle Eastern countries could use chariots, hot tar, catapults, and spears, and we Americans could use bow and arrows, tomahawks, and single shot black powder muzzle loaded muskets. Heck, even give some of the younger recruits a slingshot. I think this would be good for morale for everyone.

Mohegan Sun Adventures

Today Amanda and I joined mom, Kristin, and Anthony for a trip over to Mohegan Sun for a late lunch, a look at the casino, and some hardcore people watching.

The whole idea of the Indian Casino is so beautifully ironic; its an English teacher's dream. First of all, they are not "Native Americans" as all the liberals like to call them. The reason for this is because they are not "native" to "America." "America" was named by the rich white guys who came hundreds of years after the Indians had already been here, so technically, they aren't native to the land "they" named. I am sure the Mohegan tribe had a different name for it. It would be like me moving to Connecticut and changing the name to "Dirkadirkastan" and then calling all the people who lived in Connecticut "Native Dirkans."

The reason the whole idea of a casino is so ironic is because of the twisted logic of the whole thing. First, Indians lived on the land we know as the USA. Then, the DWG's (dead white guys) kick them off the land they knew. Then, the DWG's ruined the beautiful landscape and natural beauty of the USA by building disgusting factories that polluted rivers, lakes, and oceans. They built up huge cities and suburbs after destroying trees and natural areas. Then, they made tons of money off of all this, which made them selfish, greedy, and conniving with money.

Fast forward two hundred-plus years. The Indians, using their "reservation" to their advantage, have done the EXACT same thing. They have destroyed beautiful land in the back-country of Connecticut so they could build these ostentatious hotels and casinos that completely stand out from the otherwise natural landscape. They have created buildings with toilets that have automatic sanitary seat covers (Amanda told me). They have created fake natural scenarios with fake trees and fake animals. Then, as a final "screw you" to the government, they have put gambling halls there--where the whole intent is for them to be conniving, deceitful, and "trick-prone" with their money (the advantage ALWAYS goes to the house) People are cheated each and every day. And, to put the icing on the cake, they are making BILLIONS of dollars that the government CANNOT TOUCH! I love it . . . .go Indians!

This is not to be racist or discriminatory in any way--so let me say that right off before people get mad. This is a purely objective statement. I would say the majority of the "patrons" of the casino are of Asian descent--particularly Chinese. This is largely due to the fact that a Wun Fat chartered bus leaves directly from Chinatown in Boston and heads down to Mohegan and Foxwoods daily. Evidently, Asians like to gamble so much that Mohegan has at least THREE "all Asian" casinos. Supposedly they are high rollers. Who knew.

We walked around the "mall" of Mohegan Sun, and went into Brookstone, that really cool store with the really cool stuff that defies any sort of of classification or genre. The store looked like a Chinese rest area. LITERALLY every chair massager, neck massager, foot massager, hand massager, and lung massager was occupied by virtually sleeping Chinese casino-goers. Except for one. Brookstone has this machine that essentially mimics riding a horse; you sit on it, and it basically jostles you around like crazy--legs flailing, hips gyrating, chest bounching. Now I am not sure for what reason anyone would ever NEED to simulate this, but I guess there are some. I dont know. But . . .there was a diminutive Chinese woman atop of this great machine, RIDING THE CRAP out of it . . . .completely expressionless. Beside her, her equally lanky husband tried out a "zero gravity" stairclimber, and the two of them had the whole store in hysterics. But the funniest part was that they had no idea everyone was laughing at them. My mom had to leave the store because she thought she would wet herself. I really wanted to hang out with this woman--I really did. Of course, after she was done, I got on this worthless piece of crap and went to town on it myself . . . .also completely expressionless . . . .

A good day though. The casino is beautiful, and the buffet consisting of all kinds of fresh fish, prime rib, lobster bisque, mussels, and bacon-macaroni and cheese was delightful. It was great to see Mom, whom Amanda and I have not seen since Mother's Day. And it was another great afternoon of hanging out at Kris and Anthony's after, tossing the frisbee and playing with the kids (Thomas and Chelsea, of course). Pictures of the casino, etc will come as soon as we are home and can upload them . . . .

The Flaming Wheelbarrow

Sorry for the lack of a blog yesterday---we were out at Craparitas pretty late with Amanda's family, and by the time we got home, we had to pack, since we left this morning to make our way down to Connecticut to stay with Kristin and Anthony. Our laptop gets no internet access down here because we dont know the Favry WEP key, so I am using their computer--thus, no funny pictures of our adventure so far. But we DID have a very white trash campfire tonight . . .in the hull of Antwon's wheel barow. It was funny because every ten minutes or so we had to roll the wheelbarrow around because the cute little tire was starting to melt from the heat. It was great to have an easily transportable fire. Having the fire in the wheel barrow was a last resort, since none of the stores we checked down here had firepits, and it was such a beautiful, cool night.

On our way back from the grocery store, we mosied into "Lee's Toy and Hobby Shop," which was the discovery of the month for me! The store had everything from our generation (Jared, Amanda, Twon, and Kristin) that made being a kid when we were kids so great. And, consequently, these things cannot be found anymore in most places. What originally caused us to gravitate towards the store in the first place was that I noticed they had Kristin's childhood dollhouse (okay . . .mine too!!!) in the window. It brought back memories. See if you remember: Smurfs, Lincoln Logs, Breyer Horses, Lionel Trains, "Skip It," "Connex" (sp??), Playmobil stuff, and models. Remember models? Do kids even do models anymore? Now I sound like my grandparents--"when I was a kid, kids used their minds and did models and problem-solved." I think I would like to get a model and do it. Some were really neat--GTO's, Sherman Tanks, F-14 Tomcats, '57 Chevys. And some were not--Chevy Novas, Cutlass Sierras, and Plymouth Reliants. Who in their right mind would want to spend good time and energy on a beautiful summer or winter day putting together a model of a Cutlass Sierra or Reliant? Do these cars have a "following" of which I am unaware? Anyway, I digress.

Very good to be here in Ledyard finally. We tried a back-way (thats what she . . .) and got a bit lost in an effort to save some time off our trip. But we did find a fantastic farm stand in Preston CT where a kind farmer gave us directions, offered us her phone, AND sold us some great sweet corn (in Maine, the sweet corn isnt even up to my knees yet). This is the third time in two days when random people have showed us random acts of kindness. The sheetrock drill I mentioned the other day was one, the farmer was another, and the third happened this morning while I was getting Amanda's oil changed: As I left the garage, I somehow dropped 40 dollars in cash out of my pocket. Another woman in the waiting room SPRINTED up to me as I started to roll away, and gave me my money back. That's three really nice people in this world! More tomorrow, as Mom is coming down to Ledyard to visit as well. . . .

Drywall, Wet Grass, and Ferret Freaks

We got some much needed rain today . . .it was humid and muggy out though, which I hate. Today both of us overslept because the alarm didn't go off, plus we had the air conditioner on, which meant we had to close our door, which meant that Thomas couldn't come in and wake us up as usual (he gets his medicine . . .and then treats . . .at 6:30 every morning).

My colleague and friend Karl "Senor" Andresen came over this morning, and we got set to work sheetrocking the new room. If you are good at geometry, like jigsaw puzzles, and enjoy being covered in a fine white anthrax-like powder all day, then drywall might be for you!

I enjoy very much working with Senor, as he is both very patient, and a great teacher--not to mention he is an artist with sheetrock and "mud." When Violette Hardware Store down the street didn't have the right bit I needed for my drill, Andy, the manager, let me borrow the company's very own drywall drill, citing the "good neighbor policy." That is one of the many reasons we enjoy living in Maine so much--where else would a construction company let you borrow their own tools for free when they could try to sell you something else.

The sheetrock is all hung, and tomorrow will be a mudding and taping day. This little room is keeping me busy this summer, that's for sure. Thomas was kind of a pain the butt today though, as he was in and out like a fiddler's elbow (props to Nana Courtney for that one) and was constantly trekking fine white dust into the house. However, as you can see from the photo, he has found a new favorite space in the garage, where he can dream about paddling the mighty Kennebec . . .

On a final, bizarre note, Amanda and I watched tonight this program on PBS about Ferrets and Ferret owners. These people are not right!! I can't write it to explain it and do it justice, but you have to understand these eccentric individuals, who may have 20 ferrets at once--they are obsessed. One woman "kicked" her family out of the first floor of their house, and moved everything upstairs, so she could let her little ferrets have the first floor. We can't see the logic in owning 20 + things that thrive on getting into your crap and exploring the nooks and crevices of your house and crawl around in heating ducts and the like. These things are essentially rodents, aren't they? One of the weirdos spends her time producing records featuring ferret songs she's written, and another idiot teaches her ferrets sign language. I wonder is she realizes FERRETS DONT HAVE HANDS.

If you are dropping by to read this, please leave a comment and say hi . . .we want to know who checks out this blog. Please bring a canned good and post that too . . .it goes to a needy ferret owner

All Creatures Great and Small - A program you should watch!

When Amanda first brought home season 1 of All Creatures Great and Small via Netflix, I thought I was going to kill her. A show about country people and animals, set in Yorkshire, England in the 1940's? You've got to be kidding! Reluctantly, I sat on the couch with my arms folded in disgust, while on screen Dr. Herriot was first introduced to his new veterinary practice in the Darrowby, Yorkshire.

Then I fell in love with the show.

Amanda always loved the program, as she has fond memories of reading the books and watching the Maine Public Television specials with her parents on Sunday nights--after her bed time. But I was a tougher sell. The program is semi-autobiographical, chronicling the story of Dr. James Herriot, a young Scotsman fresh out of vet school, who goes to work for a practice headed by Dr. Siegfried Farnon. (played by the legendary Robert Hardy, who is by far my favorite actor--he is fantastic) By episode two, Herriot has surpassed all expectations, and is offered a partnership in the practice. And the adventure begins there.

I love the show for the same reasons I love "A Prairie Home Companion"--it gently mixes outrageous humorous scenarios (and not just British ones) with completely heartwarming and sentimental storylines. I will admit that even I have become teary eyed during some moments (Amanda gets teary eyes over everything, so she doesn't count). The program follows Herriot, played by Christopher Timothy, enmesh himself in a life in which he is not accustomed--coming from "urban" Edinburgh of the late 1930's, he finds himself dealing with ultra rural, uneducated folks who don't have phones, auto's baths, and the like--not to add what they lack in social skill or an understandable vocabulary. But they do have cows-- plenty of them-- and Herriot is constantly jamming his hand up their hindparts, birthing a breached calf. To add to this stress, Herriot finds that life as a "country vet" means that sleep is more a rare luxury than a nightly habit, as he is awakened at all the hours of the night to go on calls for cows with mastitis, pigs with goiters, and sheep with . ..well . . .sheep problems.

The program switches between two scenes--one being "field shots," where James, Siegfried, or Sigfried's brother Tristan (a lazy, party-obsessed playboy) are out in the beautiful country of the "dales" on calls. Surprisingly for the 1980's when most of these were filmed, the footage is actually quite graphic; you see James with his hand up a cow's anus . . .you watch lambs being actually born. The "country people" add to the dark humor in this. The second scene is the "house scene," where the three vets, accompanied by James' wife Helen, and the ever stern housekeeper Mrs. Hall, reflect on the day, usually in front of a roaring fire, playing chess, drinking tea or whiskey. Surprisingly, these moments aren't "haughty Britishers" saying "oooohhhhh . . . . . .deeeeeyah" repeatedly while their pinky finger extends from their tea mug. Conversely, the conversations and moments they share are, like I mentioned before, very heartwarming and funny.

In the Goldsmith house, "All Creatures" has become more than just a show . . . .Amanda and I look forward to each episode as a "date" we keep together. I even have a special dance I do to the theme song. I can't believe I just wrote that. I swear, my clothes stay on. We absolutely love it for its simple purity. It is SO well written, something that, as and English teacher, I am cognizant of. Even though I just ended a sentence with a preposition. We love it particularly during the winter when we stoke the fire, put on tea, and sit in front of the television indulging in a well spent hour. The show ran on PBS from the late 70's to mid 80's, and then went on hiatus. Then, in the early 90's, they reunited for a few more seasons. There are seven seasons, total, of the program, and we are sad to think that we are through season four, and only have three to go--especially for me, the guy who checks ebaumsworld.com just as regularly as he puts on deodorant. But no matter . . .we look forward to watching them all again when we introduce the show to our kids . . . .and the Favry children as well.

Back To Work

A busy Monday as Amanda and I were both back to "work," so to speak; Amanda went to real work, and I started in on some work to be done around the house. After a 7:30 chiropractor appointment (an old college rugby injury comes back to haunt me now and again), it was home where I basically tore off aluminum flashing from doors before lunch, and installed insulation inside the new room until Amanda got home. The insulation was a huge pain in the butt, since a lot of the studs were not the standard 16 inches apart, so just about every piece had to be custom cut. And that stuff makes you itch. We are trying to get the final prep work done, since Karl and I will begin sheet rocking on Wednesday--it shouldn't take too long. While I worked, I listened to a really great program on NPR where they broadcasted a pre-recorded speech and Q&A President Clinton delivered last week at the Big Ideas Festival in Aspen. We truly were spoiled to have him as our president, and I think I forget that sometimes. For one, he isn't the antichrist, nor does he have some huge insecurity issue thing to prove to his father. But two, he simply is a fantastic speaker--very lucid, articulate, and accessible. I won't bore you (or myself) with the details, but suffice to say I wish he could be president again. Both Amanda and I are looking forward to our trip to the Kranthony's this weekend, down in Ledyard CT; its only Monday, but we're looking toward the weekend. The two pictures included today are the outside of the finished breezeway (w/0 doorknobs cuz I'm stupid), a shot of the inside, taken from just inside the garage . . .

Meanderings 3

This is what I do during some of my down time on summer vacation . . .

1. Remember taking music class in like third and fourth grade? That is a pretty big year in a general music student's life, because that is the year that they trust you with "the recorder." Besides getting your license when you are sixteen (and maybe your own phone line if you were rich like some of my friends) this is pretty much one of the biggest childhood acquisitions--your own "recorder." My mom and dad let me buy my own from Mrs. Elson, the music teacher at Center School. It came with a nice plastic case and everything. I never understood what was with the name "recorder." I hope no one did any real recording with them, because those recordings probably suck hard. A more appropriate name for the instrument would have been "scathing swamp death horn." Proudly presented by Yamaha.

2. Some individuals were unable to let go, and thus pursued a career out of playing the recorder. I have checked, and there ARE real live recorder players out there. Remember, I have the time to do these kind of things. Who the heck wants to, of their own volition, listen to the recorder? In concert? On a CD? Plus, I bet professional recorder players are all kinds of cocky, since "those damn Philistines don't understand our art" and all that nonsense. And the recorders are probably gold plated.

3. One more music note (no pun intended): The "greatest hits" of general music class--"Hot Cross Buns" and "Three Blind Mice"--have the same chord structure. Are the written by the same brilliant composer, or was there a law suit over the plagiarism implications?

4. Where do we get the names for meats? Some of them make sense, and some don't. For example, the meat we get from a chicken is, well, "chicken." And the meat consumed from a duck is called "duck." But who decided that there should be variations? Why do we eat beef, venison, and pork, respectively, and not "cow," "deer," and "pig?" Am I right? No wonder foreigners think its so hard to learn English. First you've got to master read, red, and read, not to mention there, their, and they're. Then, if you want to eat, there's a whole bunch of other needless words to learn.

5. On a related note, as a child, I thought a "bologna" was a type of animal in its own right. Imagine a bologna-animal if you can, and try not to at least crack a smile. Picture it with its squat little cylindrical legs made of bolognas . . .a cute little bologna button nose . . .a thin little tail made of bologna. I hope someday my children can truly know a real bologna.

6. When did "razors" become the standard for sharpness in our modern world? Is there really nothing sharper than a razor? Are we complacent in not inventing anything better? Seemingly, the mark of a good knife is that it is "razor sharp." Well what about "knife sharp?" I know some knives that are pretty darn sharp. If you need a knife that is "razor sharp," then skip paying hundreds of dollars for that tool at Linens and Things and go to True Value and buy a box of razors. Or get them from my dad . . .he gets all the crap for free anyway.

7. One sad sign of our progress from small town village to larger urban metropolis is the endangerment of the town drunk. Towns don't seem to have town drunks anymore, and this is too bad. I'm too young to remember REAL town drunks, but they seemed harmless--cute almost--as they were depicted as sorry souls passed out on the ground, leaning on an oaken barrel, at two in the afternoon on any given week day, or staggering by at 11 a.m., perfectly willing to tell you a good joke. It was something that seemed to foster community, and I wish they would bring them back. "Hey . . .old man Peabody is the town drunk" and such and such. Today, "town drunks" have been replaced with buzz words like "white trash" and "domestic violence offenders," which doesn't sound as romantic.

Walking the Mud Flats

One thing I won't do anymore is complain about the price of steamers. 3-5 dollars a pound seems like a totally fair price for something that is itself tedious, filthy, and backbreaking to do. For me anyway, there is this sort of "romantic" New England charm about going "clamming"--carrying a rake and a bucket down to the sands at low tide, digging up some big soft shelled clams, and steaming them up with some nice smoked sausage and corn. This romanticism exists in the same way that people from Mass (like myself) must think that dairy farming is such a great way to make a living.



Cobscook Bay State Park allows its campers to "rake" 1 peck (about two gallons) of clams per day, per person. As long as you are within the park boundaries, you don't need a license, and they are happy to lend you both the rake and the peck container. The best time to go, the ranger gregariously told me, was at roughly 2:47, when the tide was at its lowest. Then, she said excitedly, knowing I was a virgin clammer, you start raking about six inches in front of where you see little holes popping out of the sand. She wished me luck, and I was on my way.



I was like a little kid whose dad had just removed his training wheels. Amanda couldn't drive me fast enough to the particular flats we chose after looking at the map. I bounced up and down with excitement as she struggled to put sunscreen on my back. I trounced down the rocky ledges to get on the sand to get onto the flats of mud. "Come back and get your hat," she admonished. This is cutting into my clamming time, I thought. My watch said 2:38, and I knew the best time was coming up just minutes away.



And then, motionlessness.



I found myself up to mid thigh in mud. But it wasn't mud. I think it was fossil fuel. Or silt mixed with algae mixed with decomposed rockweed. This is where clams live. Underneath inches and inches of something that made me nostalgic for the stuff on a basement floor the morning after a fraternity party. I tried wearing my "crocs" as I walked along the flats, closer to the where the water met the sand (just like she's walking on a wire in a circus), but that proved futile, as the plastic clogs created a vacuum with the sludge, and I lost both shoes in about 8 inches of guck. I'll find them later, I thought, I've got clams to rake. Moving slowly, bringing my knees to my chest with calculated, barefooted steps to avoid broken crab and mussel shells, I made my way along the flats, ubiquitous with small, round air pockets that resembled ant hills--only they were like ant hills with little swirls of sludge on top from where something excreted as they burrowed their way down into the guck. I sliced my foot open about 21-26 seconds later on half of a clam shell a few inches down.



Persevering through the pain (upon later examination, I really should have gotten stitches) I dug and raked, just like Ranger Ramona instructed. Nothing. Actually I found a dead worm once. And a whole clam that was dead. And there was that human finger. But after that, nothing. This went on for about 30 minutes. Now, I mentioned before how clamming is backbreaking work, and it is, since the rake itself has a short handle and must be done in a bent over position. To add insult to injury, this is not like raking through fine sand--this sludge is heavy, wet, and stinky. You really need to use both hands (That's what she . . .). Enough is enough, I said aloud. My lower half absolutely covered in the muck, my foot bleeding and aching, and my peck crate absolutely void of clams, I began the 200 yard trek back to my wife, who smiled her perpetually supportive, at-least-you-tried sort of smile. I get that look a lot, actually, Hmm.



Fast forward 24 hours. We are in downtown Lubec on a raw and foggy afternoon talking to the proprietor of Bayside Chocolates--a charming little candy shop where the owner makes everything homemade, and is elated to give you samples of everything he has. The people in Lubec, from our brief observation, are probably as bright, resourceful, and savvy as people you will find anywhere. Ephram, the owner of the shop, has made a living like most people in Lubec, he tells us. Lobstering. Bluberrying. Commercial Fishing. And in his younger days, clamming. I tell him of my recent adventure, and he regrets not being there yesterday with me, as he could have "broken me in." He asks if I might go tomorrow, and I say no, referring to my bandaged foot. This is what people are like up there. Amazing. I tell him of my struggles in the mud flats, and being up to my thighs in muck. He looks at me concernedly. "Don't eat any clams you find out there anyway," he says, "they'll all taste crummy. The good steamer clams are in the sandy zone, farthest away from where the water meets the sand." Refreshing to know. As he speaks to me, he is gripping a Mead pencil, drawing something directly on the white counter by the cash register. "And one more thing," he says, motioning to the completed drawing on the counter, "see this rectangular looking hole I've drawn? That's where you know you've got clams. A nice clean rectangular hole. If you see the hundreds of round holes with the swirls of sand next to them, stay the heck away--you're in a flat infested with nothing but blood worms."

The Year of the Pig

A great day for a pig roast! The Hargrove and Fahey parents threw a surprise pig roast for Jesse and Ciara, as they will be married this August. Since they are getting married way up in Montauck in Long Island, and since a lot of us cannot make it, they thought it would be nice to have everyone over, locally, for a pig roast. It was a good chance to drink some good soda and beer, indulge in fantastic app's (Sarah), and catch up with Jesse and Ciara, who we haven't seen for a while. Amanda and I got there at 2 (when the invitation said to get there!), but no one else came until like 4, so we hung around and enjoyed both each other's company, as well as the smell of the slow roasting pig--it was near torture to have to wait until almost 7 to eat it.

The pig--a 110 pounder--was cooked by two enormous black men, both laconic in their nature. If they weren't cooking a delicious pig, I would probably think they were there to kill me if I misbehaved. One of the men's necklaces weighed more than Amanda. In fact, he did yell at Jesse's little 16 year old punk cousin who was . . .um . . .violating the pig. "People gotsta eat that, man," he said in an authoritative voice. I think the punk kid soiled his hindparts shortly thereafter. But a delicious meal of pig, smoked chicken breast, baked beans, salad, and crescent rolls. And we got to see our good old friend Mike Martin, who is home on leave from Seattle; we got to toss the frisbee around a bit, which is always a good time. Great to see the Hargroves, who we miss, and we hope to see them more.

Jared vs. the Squirrels

What a fantastic, yet funny trip we had to the easternmost part of the United States of America. The first two pictures are of our beautiful campsite. The second two are of the Lubec--the harbor, and the downtown.

Amanda and I got home last night from our trip up to Cobscook State Park--a day earlier than we planned. The reason, as curious as it may sound, was squirrels. Yes, squirrels. These little effers are not afraid of people whatsoever. You can essentially pet them. The come up on the picnic table while you eat. They walk all over your tent while you sleep. They deficate on just about everything--food, shoes, rope, tarps, water bottles, cast iron skillets, you name it. They have been spoiled by people feeding them (probably people from mass or ct saying "oh they are so cute!!). Anyway, it got to the point where we couldnt stand them crapping on everything (squirrel poop smells awful--not like cow poop or people poop) and it smears over everything--especially in the soupy, damp, fog-laden land of downeast Maine. Oh yeah . . .and they chewed three big holes in our tent while looking for food. So we had to use duct tape (we are in Maine after all) to temporarily fill the holes from the mosquitoes and the pelting seascape rain.

All that aside, we had a great time. We got to explore some of the most beautiful parts of the country, go to Canada across a bridge in the fog, talk to local "downeasta's" whom we could barely understand because of their . . . .um . . .accent/drawl/dialect (I dont know . .what is it?), and enjoy an absolutely pristine campsite (sans squirrels) that was, literally, right on the Cobscook Bay. Over the next couple of days, we will share some of our adventures, from my introduction to clamming, to our visit to Campabello Island in New Brunswick, and more.

Some of the hilights from our trip include:

FORT OBRIEN: This fort, in Machiasport, was host to the very first naval battle of the Revolutionary War (over tea, not oil) two days before the Battle of Bunker Hill, which, consequently, is Ponticekki's favorite battle, mostly because of the phallic obelisk it rendered the public centuries after. A really neat place, except for the lack of anything to look at. All that is left--the Brits burned it. Twice--are mounds of earth where artillery and cannons were kept.

ROQUE BLUFFS STATE PARK: A beautiful park in Roque Bluffs, past Machiasport. Here, we were able to do some neat hiking through some buggy bogs and rocky shoreline. A great place to see seals, but it was very very foggy. A cute old Mainer who sort of looked like Dr. Bunson Honeydew was cleaning the bathroom. Good times all around.

REVERSING FALLS NATURAL AREA: This was in Pembroke. "Cobscook," in Pasamaquady Indian language, means "boiling tides" because you have tides rushing in from the bay of Fundy (Provincetown, consquently, is called the "bay of undies") Whiting Bay, Cobscook Bay, and the Machias River. The tides around here are astronomical, literally. They rise 24 feet in an 8 hour period. In some places, the tide rises 10 feet in an hour. At Reversing Falls is where all the tides meet together and form an amazing natural whirlpool. The mothers who live on Reversing Falls love this, since the dirt from the bottom of the ocean around here all makes a nice neat pile right in the middle of the bay, which can then be picked up with the skimmer before the filter is shut off for the night.

LUBEC: The hometown of our very own Barbara Goldsmith. Amanda and I fell in love with downtown Lubec, for its traditional "downeast feel" and lack of ostentatious commercialism like one finds in other coastal places. A town very rich in its fishing tradition--salty, seasoned buildings with weathered cedar shakes, old decrepit piers with crooked footings, vintage signs for stores advertising "dry goods" and "herring smoking" that aren't so vintage after all, because those things really happened in this town, they weren't just made to be sold at "Cape Cod Crafters" (no offense Mom). Two of our favorite places were the Atlantic House coffee shop and deli, where one can sit and watch seals and harbor porpoises while drinking good coffee. If, not for the fog, that is. (The fog was on the ocean, not in the coffee, for all you misplaced modifier grammar fans). The second place we loved was "Bayside Chocolates," which I will write about more later.

We're glad to be home, sleeping on level ground, taking hot showers, and hanging out with Thomas. This trip really was "roughing it" in a lot of senses. Cobscook is a VERY secluded and almost lonely place. There is NOTHING around there, which is at the same time both beautiful and inviting, but also eerie and strange. Our camp site was SILENT, except for the sounds of tides rushing in and the squirrels hissing at me while taking refuge in a tree after I chased them with my camp axe or threw rocks at them. Beautiful drives as well. On the way there, we passed through nothingness, but on the way home yesterday, we went down the coast, through Machias, Jonesport, Beals Island, Gouldsboro, Winter and Birch Harbor, and eventually Ellsworth (right by Acadia National Park). Sorry for the long post--been away for a week, and lots to tell. Stay tuned.

Busy, Bustling Saturday!

A very busy day today, starting at 8 this morning, when Rod and Derrick came to finish off the breezeway. Not sure what we will call it now (mudroom, breezeway, porch, Mulva?) Amanda and I were off at about 9:30 to Echo Lake in Fayette for Emily and Duncan's wedding. Steve and Roberta (Em's mom and step father) have an unbelievable place on the point of Echo Lake. It is one of the nicer pieces of waterfront property I have ever seen, in fact. Amanda was able to reconnect with some of her old Maranacrook (no I didnt spell it wrong) friends, and I was able to drink PBR from a can. Everyone got what they wanted.

Jon and Mel came over tonight for a bit to have pizza and take Thomas with them--Thomas is going for a bye-bye trip with his Uncle Jon and Aunt Melsie while Amanda and I get ready to leave tomorrow morning for Cobscook Bay State Park, which is just shy of East Japeepie and just south of East Bum. But really, it is the easternmost point of the United States--up by Lubec (where the sun first hits the US each day) and Campobello Island (where Roosevelt had a camp. We'll be back Friday, so, for this week, we'll be doing "The best of Goldsmith" on our blog--kind of like Howard Stern does when he goes away.

Will write more on Friday. Have a great week everyone