September Mourning

 

"But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness.  The sun warms my back instead of beating on my head ... The harvest has dwindled, and I have grown apart from the intense midsummer relationship that brought it on."
-  Robert Finch 

"'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone."
-   Thomas Moore, The Last Rose of Summer, 1830

LEWISTON — We have only so many summers to spend with our son before he sets out on his own, leaving us with hundreds of pictures and dozens of home-made movies of our moments with him.

Time does this to all parents, and it explains why September gets a bad rap from me.

I can smell September at the end of every August. 

It is like a damn prowler lurking in the shrubs, and I am the one who gets mugged every fall.

September's distinct odor emanates from grass covered in a dewy glaze and drifts through the cool nights as the days grow shorter.

If you can't detect September's cruel presence during August's last gasp, then you are suffering from allergies or are oblivious to the world.

September acts as a sign post for autumn — a season that quietly shoves summer aside and subtly prepares us for Old Man Winter's arrival.

September is deceptive and messes with our minds with Indian summers and cool nights. It tries to persuade us to let go of summer and move on to winter.

I am never sold!

I have always dreaded September's entrance. My abhorrence for the ninth month of our calendar began as a child, who spent most of his youth at Revere Beach during long, hot summers.

September's appearance meant summer was about to get the heave-ho, and its arrival added up to fewer trips to the beach thanks to the opening of another school year. 

Every time September tapped me on the shoulder to remind me summer was finished, my siblings grew older, and we would eventually be dispersed throughout the world. No longer would all four of us be together on those sandy shores, eating pizza in the boiling sun. 

It was September's fault and its appearance always made me depressed. Oh sure, I got over summer's abrupt end by November, but it doesn't make it any easier each August.

But if it means I have to suffer through another September to spend another glorious summer with my son and wife, then I will withstand the pain of a heavy heart and be grateful there is a May, June, July and August.

My dislike for the month grew during long high school football practices in August's stifling heat. September's repugnant odor was at its strongest on the practice field, and after running wind sprints for 20 minutes, all I could think about was a dip in the cold ocean — and of course, girls.

And now I lament as another summer passes and my son is a year older and an inch taller. But I am fortunate he still makes time for his mom and dad and enjoys trips to the ocean with both us. He is a low-maintenance young man with high aspirations, and there is not a day I am not proud of him.

Then September comes along and spoils our fun in the sun.

My wife and son are back at school and the house suddenly becomes empty. Not good for a guy suffering from mood swings at the hands of September.

For the last 19 years, the L-A Balloon festival has become another one of September's  reminders that summer is on the way out. We have watched the launches nearly every year at Railroad park in Lewiston. The three-day event is worth getting up at 5 a.m., especially when about two dozen balloons of all sizes and colors are launched into the sky.

It is a sight to behold as these unique balloons disappear into the heavens — along with another wonderful summer and all its splendid moments.

Meeting on the mountain

Climb every mountain!

Imagine having this for view while enjoying your morning coffee

Some where out there lies Ichabod Ricker. 

It is not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something.  ~ Charles Dickens

BROWNFIELD - Terry Blake's homestead sits on the side of a ben that puts Waltons' Mountain to shame.

John Boy and the rest of the Walton clan from Virginia would feel right at home at a landscape that would make any tired soul bow to nature. An outdoors photographer might be tempted to pay good money to turn his camera loose on this place.

We took a long drive through winding roads that are sprinkled with amazing views of lush green mountains and pristine lakes to visit the quiet New England town of Brownfield - population of about 1,300.

The Blake Reunion was being held at Terry's home, which is located in Maine's version of the Swiss Alps, and with free food and drink on the menu, well, it was worth the hour-long ride through Casco, Mechanic Falls, Poland, Naples, Bridgton and Denmark on a bright and warm August day.

Long rides through the backroads of Maine are simply delightful. I not only find the drive restful, but the sharp turns and bone-jarring bumps make me feel like I am competing in the Baja 500. And with the entire family on board, there was good conversation and music during our trip through central Maine.

There are no TVs or portable DVD players to kill time in our family vehicle. The cell phone is off and technology takes a backseat to our journey through the Pine Tree State.

I will never understand why some parents install a TV screen in a van. Is it just another way to ignore their children? I would rather hear what is on my son's mind. And I am afraid I am going to miss something on our short journeys.

We drove up the long rode to Terry's ranch when we were stopped by a pair of dogs that wouldn't budge. It was interesting standoff for a few moments.

Those Blakes are good people. They are from Terri's mother's side of the family. And it was certainly kind of Terri to open his home to all of us.

As we roamed around Terry Blake's vast property, which includes about 400 acres of open meadows nestled in between large, rolling hills, we caught a glimpse of his three majestic horses. These are well-fed and kept animals. Watching them prance around makes anyone appreciate their beauty.

Anthony and I went out on the back porch to enjoy the view when Anthony noticed a lone tombstone sitting in the middle of a manicured meadow about 150 yards away. 

Imagine having an entire meadow all to yourself for all of eternity. 

My son spotted the lone grave. Anthony's discovery sparked insatiable curiosity. We were compelled to inquire about the gravesite' occupant. Terry was happy to reveal that Ichabod Ricker has been resting in peace since his death in the 1880s.

Well, we had our fill of good food and rich conversation before we said our goodbyes.

I enjoy sitting around and chewing the fat with relatives. No texting, chatting online or emails - just face-to-face conversation with real, live people.

Look, reunions are a great way to stay in touch and trade old memories with relatives, but they also remind us of  loved ones who can no longer attend these get-togethers for the living.

I am sure old Ichabod Ricker would agree, although he is not saying much these days.

I can't sea clearly now

"To myself I am only a child playing on the beach, while vast oceans of truth lie undiscovered before me."

                                                                                                         Isaac Newton

PHIPPSBURG — Some where hidden in all this fog lay the Atlantic Ocean. 

I could hear the loud rumble of waves, but no beachgoer could see the huge body of water from the shoreline. 

No sun, no ocean, just thick fog that you remember in old horror flicks. The fog would have made an excellent backdrop for the 1940s movie, "The Uninvited." 

If fishermen were at sea, I don't see how any skipper could navigate in that thick soup that hung around at Popham Beach. 

We were all in a fog on Sunday.

An obscuring haze covered the beach, lowering visibility to about 35 yards. 

The misty and pasty stuff snuffed out the sun, but the oppressive humidity hung around to make everybody feel uncomfortable. You didn't have to go swimming to cool off. Beachgoers got drenched just sitting in the warm sand as the low-flying cloud of vapor left us all feeling damp. There was a sheen of moisture covering the hair on my head and arms.  

I would wipe away the water, but minutes later, I was covered with murky film.  

Anthony and I watched as dozens of swimmers disappeared into the mist as they headed toward the choppy ocean. 

We joined them, hoping to latch on to a few giant waves. After a quarter mile walk, the soothing water stood at our feet. The water was warm, but when I looked back toward the beach, it vanished into the white haze. 

There were no signs of life beyond 50 yards. 

Walking back to the sandy beach would put our navigation skills to the test.

The water was unusually warm and I started thinking about sharks — really big dangerous sharks. Several days ago, a swimmer was bit by a great white off Cape Cod's Ballston Beach in Truro, Mass. 

There is nothing great about a great white sharks. They might look awesome on a nature show, but getting up close and personal doesn't appeal to me. 

Popham's cold waters do warm up in August, but the tepid water felt like I was taking a swim in a neighbor's pool.

My fear didn't stop me from diving into the surf, but I would quickly surface, see if Anthony was topside and quickly scan the water for a dorsal fin cutting through warm sea.  

I didn't like it, and I didn't like these bastards hanging around the New England coast.

Let them eat other fish and lay off the human flesh, I say. 

Thanks to changing temperatures in the world's oceans, great whites are paying more visits to our shorelines and sharp attention to unknowing tourists flopping around in the surf. 

Motion in the water is like signaling a shark that dinner is ready. 

I grew up a couple of miles from the ocean. Revere Beach was my second home as child, and I was like Jacques Cousteau enjoying its vastness. I couldn't get enough of the salt water or air, Kelly's Roast Beef, Bianchi's Pizza and foot-long hot dogs. That was our diet during summer months.

My mother ordered all four of us to the beach on those sweltering days. 

It was years ago, but shark warnings went up along the Massachusetts coast. I was 10 or 11 and didn't concern myself with sharks. 

I ventured 80 yards as the tide was going out when I heard yelling from the beach. 

At first, I thought everybody was waving at me. I waved back. I blamed the hot sun on their peculiar behavior.  

Then I heard the word, "Shark," from the shore and I got a little nervous. They were telling me to come in due to shark warnings, and I was floating target

I looked side to side as I trudged through the surf, fearing I was about to be cut in two by a shark with a voracious appetite.  

Terror can act like springboard when you are swimming for your life. I trembled as I safely rushed to shore. 

That was years ago. 

All I had to contend with was annoying fog and a warm ocean on a quiet Sunday afternoon at Popham Beach.  

And that was just fine with me.

Good show, England

"Democracy no longer works for the poor if politicians treat them as a separate race."

                                         Frank Field, British Labour Party politician

Dear good citizens of the United Kingdom,

Pay no attention to an American from across the way.

Mitt Romney's critical comments were uncalled for and unfortunately became a small distraction to a world-class event — the London Olympics.


Romney, who desperately wants to be the next resident in the White House, was trying to prove he is an authority on foreign policy and belongs on the world stage, but his visit hardly won the hearts and minds of the British people. Insulting one of America's staunchest allies didn't help persuade the world that he has honed his diplomatic skills.


I can see why Brits might be offended when the GOP's presidential hopeful questioned London's handling of the Olympics. The British government doesn't need an arm-chair critic to conduct its affairs.


After all, England is a nation that gave us Winston Churchill, World War II General Bernard Law Montgomery, William Shakespeare, Henry Purcell, Charles Darwin, Ernest Shackleton, Charles Dickens (one of my favorite writers), Masterpiece Theater and most importantly — the Beatles.

By the way, chaps, Prince Charles and I share a common bond - we are avid environmentalists who love gardening.

Despite a world economy that remains fragile at best and the constant threat of terrorism, Great Britain forged ahead to gather athletes from across the globe to compete in London.

Pulling off such a succesful extravaganza in these tumultuous times is a Herculean task for any free nation. I am also convinced that the British government has taken every precaution to insure the safety of athletes and spectators.

I know a majority of Americans believe Brits are a splendid people who have done a bang-up job when it came to organizing such a spectacle.

Look half of America has trouble taking this presidential candidate seriously. I urge Londoners to dismiss his comments and enjoy your moments in the sun for the next two weeks.

By the way, England, good show!

Blanching the morning away; Hair we go

"You must give to get, You must sow the seed, before you can reap the harvest."
                                                                                                                                  -  Scott Reed

And there is more on the way.

AUBURN — When the blanching process was first explained to me, my thoughts turned to cryogenics and all those poor souls entombed in canisters like bags of frozen broccoli in an ice box.

Talk about freezer burn!

I didn't consider blanching vegetables for the winter until I extended the width of our garden this season. I was counting on a larger harvest, which seems to be coming to fruition. In the last few weeks, I have harvested nearly two dozen of summer squash, zucchini and cucumbers, and the vegetables keep on coming in spite of the persistent forces of Mother Nature. 

We just can't get enough of the green stuff that grows in my pristine soil.

Blanching vegetables is not a difficult process. You simply plunge fresh-picked vegetables into steaming water for several minutes, remove them and plunge them into ice water for another several minutes. The shocked vegetables are dried and packed into a freezer bag. Before you shove the bag in a freezer, the air must be sucked out of the bag with a straw to vacuum seal the contents.

This method of preserving vegetables keeps the stuff fresh for months.

A couple of mornings ago, Terri researched the art of blanching on the Net. She really did her homework because I was not in the "know" even though I am a master gardener.

She persuaded me to give it a try even though I wasn't sure if I had the patience to spend a morning freezing vegetables. But my stack of zucchini and summer squash was piling up on the kitchen counter, and I wasn't about to let it rot. I put too much time into a garden to watch my vegetables go bad.

We set up kind of a conveyor belt and agreed to work together. We got into a groove and completed the task in an hour.

I did all the cutting — because I am really good with a sharp knife — in the kitchen, off course. I sliced and diced nearly two dozen summer squash and zucchini in minutes without cutting off a finger.

The large steaming pot was in place and another pan of ice water was on stand-by

We lowered a pile of summer squash into the boiling pot and stared at the clock for three minutes.

Now I knew how Mission Control felt when the Apollo astronauts returned to earth after each mission. It was our first time out blanching and we were a bit apprehensive. 

We quickly scooped up the hot vegetables and dropped them in the freezing water and waited another five minutes.

Terri got the freezer bags ready after the vegetables cooled. She held each bag open and I tossed them inside, but before they were sealed, I stuck a straw in the bag and used my mighty lungs to suck out the air.

By the time we finished we had four huge freezer bags loaded with vegetables.

And the harvest will continue until October - weather permitting — of course.

Hair we go

Gimme head with hair
Long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming,
Streaming, flaxen, waxen

- Hair, the musical

Whenever Terri announces she is getting a haircut, I usually don't get that excited. To me, getting a haircut is like brushing my teeth.

I do it because I don't like long hair. Some men can get away with long hair. I look ridiculous. And I am not a big fan of facial hair. Clean cut always works for me. It makes my hair more bouncy and manageable.

I know I would have never made it as a hippy. 

Over the years, Terri has tried many hairdos, and although I am biased, I never saw her with a bad haircut.

So when Terri returned from the haircutters, I had my usual comments ready when she presented herself.

"Well, what do you think," said Terri, just outside the door.

When I looked through the screen, I didn't move. My eyes snapped wide open and a devilish grin slowly appeared.


Her new-look was stunning.  The usual comments wouldn't work here.


"Oh wow," I said! "You look great."


The truth was she didn't look great. She looked unbelievable in her new do.


And my devilish grin still hasn't gone away.

Leading you down the garden path

My garden made it through the rain I kept my garden protected My garden made it through the rain And found my garden was respected By the other gardeners who Got rained on too And made it through "I made it through the rain" - Barry Manilow

AUBURN, Maine - There is nothing like a Barry Manilow song to put gardening in perspective.

All farmers and master gardeners face an endless battle with the elements. Daily tussles with Mother Nature are part of the deal when you break ground and attempt to raise vegetables or flowers.

There is no luck involved when you count on good soil to bring delicious, pesticide-free vegetables to life. Knowledge has a lot to do with putting organic vegetables on the table.

Since May, I have watched a week's worth of rain batter my small plot of land, and later came the god damn bugs. Cucumber beetles began their assault and aphids joined the fray to ravage my plants.

I was reluctant to turn to pesticides, but expert Paul Parent, a gardener who also hosts a syndicated radio show about gardening, suggested using Garden 8. I haven't tried it yet, because I used something else, along with an organic soap that knocked off the bugs.

There was no way I would win this fight without turning to a pesticide or a soap to save my plants. And I was victorious, losing only one zucchini plant in my small war with the little critters.

I am looking at a bumper crop of summer squash, tomatoes, lettuce, broccoli, cucumbers, carrots, Swiss chard and zucchinis.

But there are no guarantees that I will reap what I sow, especially when confronting Mother Nature's whims.

A visit from the Mothman

We have made the other part of our home a refuge from the humidity and steamy temperatures. The air conditioner makes us feel human on those hot days.

I was in my room laying down to avoid the heat when something big, really big flew over my head. I thought it might be a bat. I reached for the light when I saw a lunar moth, which should have its own landing strip. These guys are huge.

This big boy had a wing span of about five inches and made a loud buzz when it strafed me.

I carefully captured the big fella and cut it loose just outside our front door. Remember, I am friend to all bugs - even the ones I bump off. It hung around for a while before heading for another destination. 

I could not help but wonder if I had just met a miniature version of Indrid Cold. If you don't know the name, sit through the terrifying movie, "The Monthman Prophecies."

A quiet celebration

Sure, we had the traditional cake to celebrate Anthony's birthday on Sunday, but while some families head to a restaurant, we went hiking along the coast and had a barbecue at a state park - Wolfe's Neck in Freeport.

The park features trails that line an inlet and an opportunity to watch nesting osprey at a nearby island, which is off limits to human beings. The views of the ocean are incredible.

When we do barbecue at Wolfe's Neck, our portable grill draws comments from other hikers. We picked it up at a yard sale.

A model of inspiration

Anthony's only request for his birthday was to build a model of the "Olympia," Admiral Dewey's flagship during the Spanish-American War.

It is an impressive warship that remains docked in Philadelphia. And there has been talk about scraping the old workhorse because it is expensive to maintain. Another sign of a nation that continues to wallow in a the throes of an economic debacle. We can't even send a man to the space station, and now we are talking about junking a national treasure.

There is plenty of blame to go around in Congress.

Anthony discovered the kit on Amazon. It was expensive, but it was a project that I knew would continue to fuel his passion for naval warships and expand his knowledge of history.

It took him four days to complete this difficult model. He is indeed a master builder.

Lawnmower man

Ever go running with your lawnmower?

I do every time I cut the lawn. I don't need a partner or leave my street. I just pull the cord on this self-propelled, gas-powered Sherman tank and cut grass. No matter how high the green stuff is, this tank makes mince meat out of grass. 

This beast is sold at Sears. It has rear-wheel drive and could drag me down the street when I put it in motion. This thing doesn't lose power even when the rear bag is full of clippings. 

I thought when I purchased this four-wheel machine it would make mowing easier. But now I get to go running on straight aways. The engine is American made courtesy of Briggs and Stratton.

Well, I've got to run - after my lawnmower.

Turning 16, a visit to Boothbay, and few odds and ends

BOOTHBAY, Maine — My son, an avid map reader who has no use for GPS, called the shots from the back seat of our Ford Escape and kept his old man from driving his rig into the Atlantic Ocean.

Boothbay Harbor is connected by a hub of winding, snug roads that surround cozy coves, which offer panoramic views of the ocean. It is a great destination to visit if you want to leave the real world behind for a day or two. 

Sure, the specialty shops are special, and yes, we bought shirts with Boothbay plastered on them and a magnet to join the rest of our rag-tag collection on the refrigerator, but the area's beauty and sweet-smelling sea breezes rejuvenate the soul.

The big draw for us was a book store and a coffee cafe located in the center of town. We don't own E-readers. We enlighten ourselves the old fashion way by reading books. Anthony found the section about Maine's coast and purchased "Storms and Shipwrecks of New England." His passion for ships and New England's coastline began long ago and continues to this day. Our passion for coffee, especially dark roast, never wanes.

I was fortunate to be at the helm with a capable co-pilot, Terri, and our young navigator as I maneuvered our wagon through those charming, narrow streets. My son has been reading maps ever since he opened a book, and he doesn't depend on a computer to find his way in the world.

Anthony turns 16 on Sunday. That's a big deal for all of us who love him. 

That's why heading to Boothbay to celebrate his birthday was a treat for all of us.

At this point in his life, he is right on target to make something of himself in this upside-down world. He has made it easy for us — so far — and I am proud of him for being a great student and a kind and caring human being.

And we are lucky he still wants to hang around with his parents on long trips. But we do make a good team on those endless drives to somewhere.

After trudging through downtown and weaving in and out of stores, we had enough and wanted to see those out-of-the way places where the crowds don't go.

We took a breather at the Flagship Inn's pool to unwind from our journey before Anthony, guide and adventurer, got a hold of a map and planned our itinerary.

Of course, hunger was at the top of our to-do list. Restaurants are expensive, but I had a hankering for fresh haddock. Anthony called out directions as I kept my eyes on these narrow avenues. We arrived at Robinson's Wharf - a seafood restaurant, pub and a fish market all rolled into one location. It is a spacious eatery that offers indoor and outdoor seating, and of course, fresh fish. The huge widows offer a spectacular view of an inlet. We chose to sit inside after noticing a huge thunderstorm was about to batter the tiny cove. Nature's fireworks outside the big picture windows provided the entertainment to go along with our small talk at the dinner table.

We all had haddock sandwiches and tasty fries before heading for another destination - Bartlett Park on the other side of Boothbay. It is another one of Boothbay's many gems that is next to, you guessed it, another cove. The park is a spacious sanctuary that provides visitors with breathtaking views of the ocean. It is quiet, clean and great place to read a book.

I wanted to pitch a tent, put up a hammock and become a squatter for life

But we had to return to Auburn because I don't own a bank (license to steal). But there was another reason to return home - Anthony's birthday.

Terri and I can't believe this 6-foot-1 monster, who consumes gallons of milk each week and has the undying gratitude of dairy farmers across New England, is about to celebrate his 16th birthday.

Just another milestone for a son who, like all teens, is a work in progress.

But aren't we all at any age?

Going to the Dogs

PORTLAND, Maine -- Actor Humphrey Bogart once said that: "A hot dog at the ball park tastes better than a steak at the Ritz."

There's a lot of truth in Bogie's homespun philosophy. No matter if you are attending a game at Fenway Park or Hadlock Field, hot dogs are a sumptuous treat behind home plate.

Last Saturday, the Sea Dogs, Maine's finest, pulled out a 4-3 victory against the Trenton Thunder. 

My wife celebrated with a hot dog. Anthony chose pizza. My, my, my, how times have changed. Pizza at a ball park!

What would Bogie say?

No secret to his success

Anthony made honors, copped the freshmen Citizen's Award at Edward Little and passed his Outdoor Emergency Care course to inch closer to becoming a member of the Ski Patrol Team at Lost Valley in Auburn.

All I can do now is just stay out of his way as he moves through this world with courage, grace and humility.

Another friend leaves us

Quentin Curtis was a gentle and thoughtful neighbor who took a sincere interest in our son. Seven years ago, we lived on Coburn Street when Quentin introduced himself. He served his country, and like many military men, he joined the U.S. Post Office after his stint in the service.

He loved the game of baseball and often visited the Red Sox during spring training. I still have a signed autographed picture from Bob Feller. The late, great pitcher addressed a photo depicting Babe Ruth holding Feller's bat to my son. 

Mr. Curtis was always looking out for my boy, and to this day the guitar given to my son by Quentin sits in our picture room and a toddler's chair is still in our cellar.

Two treasured possessions I will never give up. They will always remind me of a kind man who had it right when it comes to being a genuine human being.

Burn factor

We were heading home through Lewiston when I thought I saw a dark storm cloud off in the distance. But it proved to be thick smoke billowing from a fire ravaging a huge apartment building located in the Little Canada section of Lewiston.

We took a few detours to get home, but I couldn't help think about the unfortunate souls who lost everything in the fire.

It also reminded me of just how lucky I am.

B