Green thumbs up

AUBURN, Maine — A sunny forecast means all systems are go to plant my garden this Memorial Day weekend.

I am giddy just thinking about it because Mother Nature has given me the green light to get down and dirty with the rich soil in my well-groomed backyard.

I have an old beat-up radio on standby for that afternoon. Listening to the Red Sox, no matter how pathetic they might be, is a glorious way to spend an afternoon planting a garden. And then there is the option of imbibing a dark beer brewed right here in the Pine Tree State.

Sure, Mother Nature is an old fuss and quite sassy, but according to our local weathermen, the sun will burn brightly in the sky. If our weathermen screw up, I will know who to blame, and I will become as nasty as Mother Nature. I will show up with the rest of the farmers bearing sickles and torches, calling the weathermen out.

I know how these town folk can be when the weather lets them down.

Of course, we are talking about an extended forecast that can change on a dime in New England. Weather is fickle up here in north country. Never ever take your eye off the forecast — especially if you are a serious gardener like me. It is like taking your eye off a Clemens fastball that can peel away your skin with its velocity.

All gardeners mean business even though they understand they are at the mercy of the elements.

But if Mother Nature delivers this weekend, I am weeks away from eating fresh fruit and vegetables. It also means I won't be handing over my money to grocery stores to purchase expensive produce that is anything but organic.

Here on the Ponderous, we don't use chemicals and other crap to grow vegetables. It is verboten. I am like a damn hippy when it comes to going all natural to raise stuff you can eat without getting poisoned. I know Little Joe, Hoss, Adam and the patriarch of the family — Ben Cartwright — would agree with me.

Sure, I use fertilizer to get the ball rolling, but it is all natural compost. No dam chemicals.

I ran the tiller over my garden a second time last weekend, and since it is nothing more than one giant compost pile, the soil is looking real good.

So it is off to Farmer Whitings to purchase seedlings and to visit with fellow gardeners who also like to see things grow.

The rest is up to nature.

Another friend departs

"Why does it take a minute to say hello and forever to say goodbye?" — Author Unknown

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together?　 I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave.　 Someone always leaves.Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos." — Charles M. Schulz

AUBURN, Maine — The corner deli was a hangout for lifelong gamblers, sports fanatics, coffee lovers and loyal customers who purchased  top-shelf salami or ham.

Conversation was just as important as making money at one of the best delis in the Greater Boston area.

The older gentlemen met at the corner of Broadway and Revere Street to sip a strong cup of Joe on Sunday mornings — and buy a pound of mortadella. 

The usual customers lingered long after they bought their meat to sound off about the Red Sox or Celtics. They were all arm-chair prognosticators and self-proclaimed experts on the future of Boston sports teams. 

But gambling was always the hottest topic of the morning. Everybody had a tip on a horse or dog in the ninth race. They talked about laying down their  bets at Wonderland or Suffolk Downs. I often referred to Suffolk as Suffering Downs, where hard-luck gamblers emptied their wallets looking for that one big score. The cliental at the Wonderland dog track was no different.

My father was the big draw at DiPietro's Deli. He was the high school baseball coach who  also served as  a spokesman for this unofficial brotherhood of sports nuts and gamblers. He would carry on in-depth conversations about the Patriots or that horse in the eighth race in between slicing meat and ringing up purchases

Of course, the owner, Carl DiPietro, would, on some occasions, make an appearance on Sunday mornings. Carl was a big man who could handle himself, but he was also a kind and trusted human being with integrity. He had the instincts of a  boxer and the brains of a college professor.  He was no stranger to colorful language , but the use of his ear-splitting adjectives made him one of the boys. 

Carl fit right in with the rest of the Sunday bunch. Like all of them, he loved to gamble and was regular at Wonderland. Revere is that kind of town where the action can be seductive.

I respected him for the respect he gave my father and me. He was a generous employer who took care of his help during the Christmas onslaught when hundreds of customers stopped in to buy expensive prosciutto for their pizza gainers. Old ladies would vie for the prosciutto bones to make their Italian soups.

When I worked with him, Carl would regale me with his exploits on the strip at Revere Beach. He was a regular at some pubs and enjoyed the Boston nightlife. He was not one to hold back or keep his opinions to himself. He was an avid listener of Elvis Presley and remained loyal to the King long after Presley was laid to rest in Memphis. Carl was also a fan of Roy Orbison and the Beatles because the guy really had good taste in music.

He also had a big smile and loved good jokes, and he was not shy about telling a few naughty ones when he was in the company of his trusted friends. I was  lucky  to be  included in his inner circle.

When I needed of $700 to pay off a student loan, and I didn't want to bother my dad, I turned to Carl for a loan. I was apprehensive, but Carl turned to me and said, "Just keep track of your hours and work it off." That was it. The deal was done. But I was always grateful to this man for that generous act of kindness and understanding.

Carl once told me this: "Don't ever steal from me. Eat anything you want, and take a sandwich to school if you would like. But just don't steal from me."

I never did.  Betraying this man's trust was simply out of the question.

But Carl was stolen from all our hearts when he died this week at 64 years old  — way too young for man who still had a lot of living to do.

English poet and priest John Donne once wrote, "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind."

Carl took an interest in me and played an important role in my youth, and in doing so, he became a friend for life

  He will eventually become a treasured memory of my past, but that's just not good enough for me.

A piece of the past

AUBURN, Maine — To many of you, this is an ash stump that should have met its end in the fires of my ancient wood stove.

To me, this heavy lump of rock-solid ash, which I rescued from the wood pile, is another masterpiece produced by the creative genius and earth's resident artist - Mother Nature, who continues to amaze us all.

This stump is from an ash tree that has been around for about 100 years. It has weathered numerous storms as it slowly stretched its long limbs toward the sky. But my neighbors had it removed after its size posed a threat to their home. 

The 50-pound log was used as a chopping block for nearly a year. It served me well as I split hundreds of pieces of wood with a 15-pound maul. It survived the elements and the constant pounding of my devastating blows. We got to know each other well, and I found the stump to be a trustworthy companion in the summer heat and winter's numbing cold.

With nearly all the wood gone, I was about break apart this two-foot chopping block, which would have provided four to five hours of warmth on a cold spring day. But I recently ran across an article about converting quality stumps into tables. And the more I looked at the log, and the way it was cut, I knew that this piece was candidate to become a rustic table. It is a really unique stump with a beautiful top and would look good outside or inside my home.

It will become a lasting tribute to my indomitable spirit and soar back. I removed nearly 4,000 pounds of solid ash from my neighbor's property in the searing heat. I chopped wood for most of the year. I figured I had two cords of wood at my disposal. That would have cost me nearly $400.00.

I tackled this uncomplicated project with zeal.

I peeled away the thick bark with a heavy-duty wood chisel. I scraped it all off while my orbital sander was waiting in the bullpen. I began with a medium coarse of sandpaper and finished off my sanding using a more fine brand.

The whole project will take about eight hours to complete.

During the sanding phase, I discovered tiny lead pellets on embedded in the face of the stump. I am assuming these minute chards came from a shotgun blast, which would not be out of the question. Before dozens of homes were built, this was the perfect hunting ground. I sanded over the pellets and made them shine.

I am at the point where I will apply at least three coats of varnish to make the stump stand out. When the varnish dries, I will sand by hand with fine wet-and-dry sandpaper to smooth out the rough finish.

Next comes the furniture polish, which should add a nice sheen to the wood.

My new table will serve as a conversation piece, a spot to place my hot coffee, and a fond memory of summer and winter spent chopping wood.