Walking off and away from Trump

"There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more."

Lord Byron

LISBON, Maine — We needed to take a long walk in the woods after watching Donald Trump say nothing and loom over Hillary Rodham Clinton like a stalker in a dark alley in Sunday’s debate.

Civility was not on Sunday night’s agenda when the two competitors went head to head for 90 painful minutes. As a family, we are appalled that the man with his filthy mouth and lack of substance is still in the running for president.

I have no confidence in a presidential candidate who has no respect for the opposite sex and no concept of the greater good.

Yeah, I am a liberal democrat who will support Mrs. Clinton despite the email controversy.

Why? None of your damn business! Let’s just say you can’t reason with a narcissist — ever! After all, I am originally from from Massachusetts — and that’s Kennedy country.

Watch PBS' Frontline episode called "The Choice" and you will get the big picture of this horse race.

I voted once for a GOP candidate — and I still regret it. But this candidate might just tear apart the Republican Party with his senseless tirades.

While Republicans spent the weekend abandoning the Donald like passengers on the sinking Titanic, we decided to cleanse our souls of the exasperating Mr. Vile and drove to a place where the soothing waters  of the rambling Sabattus River washed away our disgust of a man who treats the Oval Office like a big joke.

My son was home for college and a long walk on the Paper Mill Trail was the right prescription to clear our heads of the traumatic experience of watching another round inanity from the overbearing GOP contender.

The Paper Mill Trail is our favorite haunt. It is paved, safe and the sound of the river’s waters can wipe away anxiety from stressed-out voters who experienced PTSD after Sunday's debate.

The walk is easy and the inclines give you a good workout. Right now, the colors of the foliage are brilliant on the trail and the stunning shades made the three off us feel pretty damn good on a chilly autumn day.

The cool air and the sweet sound of fast-moving water put a spring in our step on the trail where many other walkers had the same idea.

We felt refreshed after our two-mile walk in the sunshine and hopeful that the citizens of this nation will make an informed decision.

But then again, stranger things have happened in politics and some voters are easily swayed by a candidate's empty promises and antics.

Bringing up the rear

"Take care of your body. It's the only place you have to live."

—Jim Rohn

I can smile after under going a medical procedure that makes everybody squirm.

LEWISTON, Maine —When you turn 50, your concerned, family doctor taps you on the shoulder and says: "It is time to get this done."

You might react like Robert De Niro in "Taxi Driver" and shout: "Are you talkin' to me!" You could go off the deep end, pull an Anthony Soprano and scream: "Forget you!"

But deep down, you know your doctor's wisdom and expertise in the medical field are unquestionable. You pause for a moment and tell the good doc you will schedule an appointment in the near future.

The hell you will! 

You will procrastinate and find any excuse to avoid having a colonoscopy. 

Here is what you are really thinking behind a masked smile as this moment of cooperation with your physician disappears.

Hey doc, I refuse to wear a johnny and spend the next 24 hours reading "War and Peace" in the bathroom after drinking a gallon of bilge water that will keep me running to the head and cursing my existence.

I waited four years before I reluctantly gave the green light to undergo a colonoscopy — a pain-in-the-ass procedure that saves lives. 

Of course, people, who have undergone the procedure, giggle when they learn it's your turn on the table. They remind you that your colon will be on parade in front of a handful of medical personnel in a cold operating room.

Then comes a cavalcade of jokes about your exposed derriere and the crap you must drink that strips away your insides like the Rotor Rooter man does to your home's pipes with an iron snake.

I made the appointment two weeks ago.

Preparation begins five days before your insides go on display. You stop eating certain kinds of foods before you get to that day — a day that lives in infamy.

When you begin gulping the stuff, there are moments when you wish you weren't born. The liquid is flavored, but I think a mixture of gin and Vodka might have made this medicine palatable. 

Beginning at midnight on the day before ground zero, you can't eat. You are allowed to suck on Popsicles, sip chicken broth (yum) or drink Gatorade. By the time you force yourself to drink the medicine, you want to eat your table. The hunger pangs are so intense that I wanted kill the ground hog eating my garden and have it for dinner.

Before ingesting an entire gallon of medicine, you must imbibe a 10-ounce bottle of magnesium citrate. You might be fooled that 10 ounces of this effervescent mix sounds refreshing — that's what the label says, anyway. After a few gulps, you start thinking of the word "vomit." It takes an hour to get this down. 

Trust me on this one.

Around 7 p.m., you are required to consume a half gallon of medicine. In no time at all, the stuff kicks in and you become intimate with your bathroom. Fortunately, we have two toilets in the house. You should be finished with it at around 9 p.m. At 3 a.m., Round 2 begins. You arise out of your stupor with an empty stomach and go to work polishing off the rest of medicine. 

The obscenities grow louder with each gulp.

You visit the bathroom in your home at least several times before you think it is safe to head to the hospital without attaching a Porta Potty to your car.

Check-in time is 7 a.m. You wait until you are summoned to the pre-op room where several nurses hand you a Johnny and stick things in your arm while trying to make you comfortable, which will never happen.

The cheerful anesthesia guy visits and explains these wonderful drugs will lull you into a deep sleep while your colon in on a lift undergoing an inspection.

You don't want to be conscious for this procedure. Take the drugs while the good doctor goes about his business examining your colon on the Silver Screen.

While laying on the table dreaming of a roast-beef sandwich and a tall, sudsy beverage, the medical staff inflates your stomach like a rubber tube inside a bicycle tire. Your ballooning abdomen allows the doctor to observe your colon without the rest of your organs getting in the way of his line of vision. When you awake, your guts are pressurized. I will spare readers the grisly details what happens as you recover in a bloated, wonderful haze.

The entire procedure takes about two hours. Those wonderful drugs wear off quick and you spend the  afternoon sleeping it off like some drunk in Central Park.

Was it worth feeling like the Goodyear blimp for an hour and drinking medicine that could wear down an elephant?

Absolutely!

My doctor, who was quite thorough, was impressed at how serious I took the preparation and gave my colon a clean bill of heath. I told him the medicine tasted like crap. He shook his head and agreed with me.

There was a 50-50 chance the doctor might have discovered a cancerous polyp, which could be removed on the spot.

The decision to undergo a colonoscopy is a no-brainer unless you enjoy playing Russian roulette with your health.

In a way, I feel like a new man, lighter on my feet and can boast that I have the cleanest colon this side of the Mississippi.

Weather not a garden survives

"The trouble with weather forecasting is that it's right too often for us to ignore it and wrong too often for us to rely on it."  

— Patrick Young

AUBURN, Maine — Perhaps I should change the dateline of my blog to Seattle or Miami.

Maine is quickly becoming a rain forest or an Everglades. Soon, crocodiles and discarded pythons will roam Maine's streams and threaten the state's wildlife. Bugs will grow larger and more annoying, and sand traps will become quicksand as golf courses turn into raging rapids.

The rest of the nation is bone dry, and yet my yard resembles a rice patty or the Mekong Delta in Vietnam. I mowed my lawn, or should I say a wetlands where standing water is now home to one of the most  pathetic creatures in the world — the disease-carrying mosquito.

I never thought Maine had a monsoon season. Pine Tree inhabitants are waterlogged and the tips of their fingers look like prunes. The air is disgustingly humid and everybody feels like taking a shower every five minutes, and if you don't bath in this heat stay far away from me.

People in the Northeast are looking pale because the sun is shrouded by thick, water-soaked clouds. My Italian tan continues to fade away in the misty fog that blankets most of Maine.

And every night, when devastating thunderstorms roll around, I watch helplessly as buckets of water fall from the sky and inundate my garden, which is fast becoming a swamp.

For Maine, this is the seventh wettest June on record. For the state's sweaty and clammy residents, we are all playing cat and mouse with the weather as we try to get yard work done in between each soaking.

A Bermuda high is to blame for making life miserable in this part of the world. This pain-in-the-ass weather system has parked its rump off the East Coast, sucking up tropical weather  from the South that continues to drench New England. But in the Southwest, Americans are cooking eggs and cookies on scorched sidewalks in triple-digit temperatures. 

There are two hideous weather extremes at work in this great nation. Conspiracy freaks could have a field day with these screwy weather patterns. Ricky Nelson would have to change the lyrics to his "Garden Party" medley if he was caught in this weeklong downpour.

There is no question the lack of sun and torrential rain has stunted my garden's growth. Last year, I needed a wheelbarrow to bring all those succulent vegetables into the house each day. If our gardens don't see the light of day, then I am afraid this year's growing season is a washout.

But any farmer or gardener knows, we are all at the whim of nature, and it doesn't give a damn about any of us.

And that explains why growing vegetables will always remain a difficult challenge to those who work with soil and get their hands dirty every summer. 

One flush away from insanity

“A hundred years from now it will not matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or the kind of car I drove...but the world may be different because I was important in the life of a child.”

 Forest E. Witcraft quote

AUBURN — It was the only way I could rebuild my confidence and stop the madness. I refused to turn to anyone else. I decided to go it alone before it ruined our lives.

    Thus, I began my miserable descent into the dark bowels of my leaky toilet.

    Sure, I am handy and somewhat of an artist when it comes to woodworking, but I know I am no Bob Villa. And I am certainly not qualified to join the cast of "This Old House." 

    Those guys make it look oh so easy when they dismantle an old porch and build a 40-foot addition in its place in less than hour. Tearing up sub-flooring in a run-down kitchen and replacing it with fine solid wood is no problem for the "Old House" gang. They get the job done in days. I would be there for weeks, filling my old fu*&%ing house with obscenities which would make my cringing neighbors shut their windows.

    I put all trepidation aside and decided to tackle a plumbing project, knowing all too well I might be in over my head. Still, I figured if I screwed up, and that was certainly not out of the question, I had my go-to plumber on standby. Mike can run rings around the "Old House" bunch. Ever watch this guy replace a faucet? He's like a surgeon, and he can do it in a heartbeat. It was like he was never there.

    He's that good.

    But knowing Mike was waiting in the wings, and that I had another bathroom at my disposal, gave me the courage to plunge my hands into the cold, disgusting waters of my toilet. I had to work fast in this repugnant environment.

    I wiped the sweat from my brow with a facecloth and grimaced as I worked feverishly to remove the culprit — a leaky flap — which caused me to lose sleep each night. Every moment counted. A good night's sleep was riding on my every move.

    Listening to a leaky toilet can drive anyone insane. Running water was a good excuse for Green Peace to pay me a visit with some guy named Rocky.


   Now that I was inside the messy tank, I decided to remove the corroded arm with the broken handle, too. I don't know how I did it, but I unscrewed the nut holding the arm that was attached to the leaky flap.

    Done! I was out in five minutes, with hours to spare.

    That was not a close call, but it sure was gross.

    Once I was inside toilet, there was no going back. It was imperative that the toilet was working again, because living without two bathrooms would be a damn major inconvenience to a family with a strapping teen-age son.

     After the removal of the dirty rotten flap, I made an urgent call to my local hardware store. Those guys really understand a frantic homeowner. They told me they had the goods and gave me the support I needed to finish this stressful job.

    I raced down Minot Ave, hoping I would find the right flap or it could be curtains for my beloved toilet.

    The hardware salesman knew his plumbing products and I was relieved to find both parts for my toilet. It helped that I brought the dirty, rotten flap with me to find the right piece.

   

    I raced back to the bathroom, read the directions carefully and began attaching the flap. This was a delicate procedure that took a minute or two, but I was too far along to quit. With the flap in place, my apprehension eased. Now came the new arm and the attachment of the chain to the flap. Everything fell into place, including the new flap.

    I stepped back and sighed. I turned the water back on and watched the rushing waters engulf the new flap. All I could do was wait as the water filled the tank. I stood there in silence, listening for any leaking. The minutes seemed like hours. Failure was not an option.

I decided to give the new arm a test run. I flushed the toilet again and again, and still there was no leaking.

    Bravo! The leaking had stopped and I felt good about myself and looking forward to a good night's sleep, knowing I would not have to replace the entire toilet.

    After all, it is still the best seat in the house!

Tidal wave of changes

Popham Beach's landscape has taken a beating thanks to the Morse River, punishing winter storms and global warming.

The beach's nemsis: Erosion

"Just as the wave cannot exist for itself, but is ever a part of the heaving surface of the ocean, so must I never live my life for itself, but always in the experience which is going on around me."                                                                                             -  Albert Schweitzer

PHIPPSBURG, Maine - There has been several tense moments when I was bushwhacked by Popham Beach's shifting landscape, rough surf and dangerous undertow and riptide.

Right now, this spectacular shoreline has taken a beating thanks to punishing winter storms and the meandering Morse River, putting beachgoers at risk during high tide. If you don't respect Popham's overpowering surf, then you might find yourself in harm's way.

According to a friendly officer on beach patrol, a woman was recently swept out to sea in July, and a helicopter was summoned from Cape Cod to rescue her. But she was lucky: The tide swept her back to shore.

We usually visit Popham twice during the summer to take on this beach's battering waves and visit its two historic forts, Popham and Baldwin. There is also a small island that is accessible when the tide recedes. It is a challenging and precarious climb to the top, but the view of the entire beach is simply awesome. But one slip on the backside of this island means a 30-foot plunge into turbulent waters and certain peril. Waves are constantly slapping the island, and I believe it would be impossible to survive the surf.

The wild waves are enticing to two surfer dudes like my son and me. We prefer low tide and a mile walk to the water that is usually shrouded in a morning fog. We trudge through the soft and sinking sand and eventually disappear into the mist. The water is usually cold, not like the tepid waters at Old Orchard Beach.

For the next couple of hours, Anthony and I are swept away by powerful waves. We notice hundreds of small fish darting around our legs, but we quickly figure out what is driving the tiny creatures toward the shallow water. Large stripers, which are feeding on the smaller creatures, make their presence known when they dive out the water. It is spectacular sight to see these big fish launching themselves in the air.

There are two instances where I found myself in a dangerous predicament at Popham. Anthony was just six when I stopped paying attention to the rising tide. We had a boogie board with us. I rushed back to shore, but the water was already waste high for my 6-foot-3 frame and over Anthony's head. 

We were in trouble. 

I told Anthony to climb on top of the board and I dragged both of us to safety despite a riptide and undertow that almost caused me to go dead in the water. When he was a toddler, I carried him off the island when the tied started coming in, making it an arduous trek back to the beach.

That is the danger with Popham Beach. The tides can sneak in and trap you from behind as the water fills the deep gullies chiseled out by storms and the Morse River.

Those treacherous moments with my son occurred a decade ago when the landscape was easy to navigate as a swimmer. Today, Popham's shoreline has changed dramatically thanks to the Morse River, which has cut closer to the shoreline over the years, wiping out defensive dunes and threatening the new bathhouse installed next to the beach. Coastal storms and global warming also chewed up Popham, but the Morse River has rerouted itself away from the spectacular beach, preventing further erosion, which is great news for beach lovers.

But whatever treacherous changes have taken place at Popham, Anthony and I will always return to visit and traverse the beach's hacked-up landscape to take a crack at Popham's uncompromising waves.