Friends... Just a Click (and 10,000 miles) Away

If you follow Grumbles and Grins, then you know about Jack Ramsay, my Scotsman pal who lives Down Under. You know what a great friend he is, and what a colossal pain in the neck he can be. You know Jack proof-reads my writing and gives me (really sad, pathetic) advice. You know he makes me laugh. Makes me mad. And then...makes me laugh, again.

You might remember that I performed a comedy show last year to raise money to donate to charity in his and his wife Alison’s names. Many of you even autographed the poster I had printed of him, which is now on display at Frog Hollow, Karana Downs, Queensland. At least, it had better be on display… That was artwork at its finest!

You also know about my buddy Larry, who traveled 10,000 miles north to Maine last summer for a month-long visit. It just so happens that he lives on Russell Island-- off the coast of Brisbane, and only one hour away from Jack and Ali’s mainland home.


My two friends had never met. They’d never heard of each other until I talked to one about the other, and to the other about the one. It only seemed natural that the two should meet. I mean… if I love them both, then surely, they would love each other!

So, when Larry left Maine, he had Jack’s phone number and address in his possession, and he promised to look Jack up when he got home. I didn’t really hold out a lot of hope that my two friends would make a connection, though. Larry Gilles is as laid-back a man as I’ve ever known. Totally self-confident and completely calm and peaceful. He does things at his own pace.

Much like that of a turtle.

And speaking of turtles, I’ve rarely laughed as hard as I did the night that Larry told me how a turtle broke his foot. It’s true. If ever you think, “Gee… I’d better stay away from _______ or I might break my foot!”…. well, I’ll bet the image of a turtle was not what popped into your head!

I’m not talking big turtles, here, either. Not like a Galapagos Turtle--which can weigh up to 400 pounds! Or even the North American Alligator Snapper, which can grow to 100 pounds at maturity. Nope… I’m talking normal-sized turtles. They kind you keep for pets when you’re a kid. Benign, plodding--and known more for retreating into their shells than for their aggressive, bone-crushing behavior.

Yep. A normal sized turtle broke the foot of strapping, six-foot-three-inch tall Larry.


But see, this was an extraordinary turtle—even though it was tiny in comparison to my Aussie mate. The turtle which snapped his bone in two was a FLYING turtle. I know, I know… I was a tad incredulous, myself. I mean, really! How naïve did this man think I was?

However, as accomplished a story-teller as Larry is, he doesn’t exaggerate. He doesn’t fib. The man is so bloody honest it’s scary. If you don’t think you can handle a truthful answer, you do NOT want to ask that man a question. Nope.

Larry was riding his motorcycle cross-county one night when he saw the headlights of a car traveling at speed towards him. Seconds before the bike and auto met, the car’s tire barely grazed the edge of the shell of a turtle who’d been hurrying across the road since sunrise of the previous day. Pinched between bitumen and rubber, the turtle was launched into the air… catapulted to connect solidly with the top of Larry’s boot-clad foot.

There are many more details to this legend than what I’m able to repeat. That’s because I was doubled over, laughing so hard I couldn’t hear his narrative. It’s always been a failing of mine…this propensity I have to get hysterical over silly accidents. It’s not that I didn’t feel bad for my friend. I’m sure getting a tarsal bone busted by the armor of a terrapin was terribly painful.


Ah, but the images! A big bruiser of a biker… a mean, sexy machine… both brought low by a wee little turtle. Did the poor tortoise have time to pull himself inside his shell before he struck leather-coated flesh? Or were his scaly little arms and legs flapping wildly as he tried to ascertain his natural aerodynamics so that he could come in for a smooth landing? What expression was on Larry’s face in that split second prior to impact, when he realized he was about to be undone by one of the most benign reptiles on the planet?

Did he have time to articulate his impression of the event about to take place? Truth be told, there probably wasn’t time enough for words which contained more than… oh, maybe four letters, or so.

Months later, I’m still giggling. My son Guy once had his big toe broken by a lake trout from West Carry Pond… but I’d never heard of a man getting his foot busted by a flying turtle. Those Aussie men! Always gotta get one up on us Yanks!

Anyway, I digress. To my delight, Larry really did call Jack and Ali when he returned to Australia in August. Tickled pink to make the connection, the Ramsays invited him to their home for the weekend, and the three of them bonded instantly and had a grand time. And, I dare say, they consumed enough alcohol to pickle a pig.

Larry and Jack share the same core values, and they both have an excellent sense of humor. They are both brutally honest—and I have the scars and the laugh lines to prove it. But more than anything, Jack and Larry are both very dear friends of mine—and knowing that Jack, Ali and Larry truly liked each other gives me a warm glow, way up here on the 45th N latitude..


This weekend, Jack and Ali are traveling to Russell Island, where—I have no doubt--Larry will be the ‘host with the most’. In some small way, I’ve helped enrich the lives of these three folks Down Under, simply by being the first of many things they have in common. I’m grinning ear to ear as I think of the fun they’re going to have with each other.

And I’ll admit-- since I share that propensity for being honest—I’m a little bit envious, too.

Graciously Accepting a Compliment

I was asked to speak on a panel at a forum in the town of Rumford a couple of weeks ago. Of course, I said, “Sure thing… just tell me how to get there!”

Naturally, I’ve been to Rumford in the past. But it’s been years since the zoo closed and even more years since I foreclosed on a property in that town. And I’d never, ever been to the high school, before-- so directions were in order.

Not that I ever get lost, or anything.

The instructions provided me were poorly written—not very practical, at all--and due to that fact, I had to stop several times to ask for directions. At the Gulf convenience store by the bridge. Beside the man who was power-washing his cabin cruiser in his driveway. And next to the father and his two little boys who were unloading groceries from their car.

Who knew Rumford was a city? Seriously, who knew? I never would have guessed… until I came upon that dreaded phenomenon (and misconceived brainstorm) called a ‘rotary’.

A ROTARY! In RUMFORD!

Judas Priest on a pony. I should never leave my dirt roads…

The day after the forum, I received an email from the moderator of the event; a well-mannered man from a prestigious law firm in Portland. I assume the firm is prestigious, anyway. They have their name on the side of a high-rise (okay… ten story!) office building. That’s gotta count for something, right? His written message was to me, but he “carbon-copied” a half-dozen others—kindly wanting them to hear his few words of praise, I suppose.

“Kaz! You were AWESOME last night!”

I have never learned how to graciously accept a compliment. Oh, man… what AILS me?

What did I say when I got that short note of approval? Oh, come on! Just guess!

Yep. When I read “Kaz! You were AWESOME last night!” I responded, “Mr. Pease says that all the time. Except… he calls me ‘Poopsie’.”

And-- I just hit ‘send’. To the moderator--and to all the others--in a boneheaded ‘Reply To All’ move.

Seriously…what AILS me???

So…my response went sailing through the ether of the internet. And I worked away at my computer, glancing up every so often for some response. ANY response!


Nothing. Zilch, nada, zip. Not from the moderator, and not from any of the others who were privy to our exchange. Complete silence. No emails being highlighted in my ‘INBOX’.

Holy cow.

I agonized about it all night long. Had I offended this man? He didn’t really ‘know’ me… didn’t understand my warped sense of humor or my propensity to say and do the DUMBEST things imaginable in any given situation. My friends and family ‘get’ me… but would this fellow? Would the others? I pictured him fretting and stewing… imagined him worrying that I was trying to hatch some scheme for a sexual harassment suit, or some other ridiculous scenario…

And so, the next morning, I sent him a written apology. For trying to be cute and funny—and for failing to be either.

You can imagine my relief when I received a reply.

“You’re a NUT! I love yer ass… and the water it walks on!”

Well, now-- that’s more like it! (Okay, so I practically sobbed as I thanked the Powers That Be for my reprieve! But that’s irrelevant to the story, isn’t it?)

The next morning over a game of cribbage with Mr. Pease, I told him about my stupid Bonehead Moment. He paused as he dealt out the hand.

“I don’t call you ‘Poopsie’,” he said. Is it possible that my own husband still doesn’t ‘get me’ after seventeen years of marriage? I sighed.

“I know, honey. It was a joke! You also don’t say ‘Kaz, you were AWESOME last night!’”

He set the deck down at the end of the cribbage board and nodded his head somberly.

“True,” he said.

Nope, I never have learned how to take a compliment graciously. And really….is it any wonder?

Sheesh…

Destination: COOL (Lord, have Mercy on us all...)

If I’m not careful, I just might wind up being cool.

Writing that made me giggle and blush as I sit here all alone in my bedroom. Because I know for a fact that ‘being cool’ isn’t something I’ll ever have to worry about. I say and do too many inane, boneheaded things to compete in the ‘chill zone’, and if I haven’t learned how to exercise a little self-control by the age of 47, there’s really not much hope for me.

Still…


I DID just win the FIRST PLACE award for Weekly Column in the Maine Press Association’s Better Newspaper Contest. I mean, really… how cool is that?

Pretty danged cool.

Last year, I won the third place prize. I didn’t even know my publisher had entered me in the contest-- or that I’d won anything-- until I read it in the newspaper. Heh… that was kind of weird. I sat in my office at work, newspaper in hand, and muttered a feeble, “Yay, me!”

“Woo-hoo???” Anyone???

Aw, shucks.

I called my publisher just to make sure it wasn’t a typo. After all, I didn’t want to accept the accolades of my fans under false pretenses, did I? Heidi assured me that I had, indeed, won third place—and that she had a certificate for me to prove it. If she could just find the bloody envelope…

Well, I’m an impatient woman. I want instant gratification. No climbing the ranks step by plodding step for me, no sirree! This year, I skipped right over second place and snagged the big one. FIRST PLACE.

Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-HUH!

Of course, I didn’t know I’d been entered this year, either. That’s probably a good thing, because as impatient as I am, I would have fretted and stewed, wondering who’d won, wondering how talented my competition was… wondering WHY IT WAS TAKING THEM SO LONG TO CHOOSE A WINNER!!! The difference this time was that when I won first place, Heidi actually emailed me and told me so. AND, she invited me to the awards banquet and ceremony, where I would accept my prize.


Yep, I got a free dinner out of the deal… and so did Mr. Grumbles. Once in awhile, it’s good to remind the "man of the house" that he shares his abode with a one-of-a-kind woman. While I’m quite sure that he thanks God for that every day, I’ve never determined whether he gives thanks for the fact that he lives with me, or that there’s only one like me. Some things are best left to the imagination of an optimistic woman.

I know that this award isn’t a huge deal… not really anything to write home about. (Instead, I had to call! Instant gratification, remember? I wanted to crow to my mother and father and hear them say, “That’s GREAT! We are so proud of you!" I am such a child…) But seriously, it’s not like I won a Pulitzer Prize, or anything like that...

Still… it’s obvious. I’m slowly creeping ever closer to ‘cool’.

What a disaster in the making.


*****************************************

P.S. Isn't that a gorgeous bathroom? This, and others like it, can be found at Point Lookout, Northport, Maine-- home of the 2010 Maine Press Association's Award Ceremony.

P.P.S. Where I won first place...

P.P.P.S. The top photo is one of several paintings of the Maine coast which were displayed at Point Lookout. I fell completely in love with their beauty and detail. And with Point Lookout's bathrooms, too...

P.P.P.P.S. The best thing about the bathrooms? The toilets did NOT flush by themselves. The water in the sinks had to be turned on by moving a 'cold' or 'hot' lever. The soap wasn't mounted in a wall dispenser. The paper towels were in a neat stack on the counter, and didn't spit at me from an automatic machine on the wall as I walked by. AND!! And the last stall in the room (each of which which had a normal wooden door with a real doorknob)contained a swivel rocker! How cool is THAT!? (I've simply GOT to know the story behind that, but everyone I asked that might was as mystified as I was. Still, a swivel rocker...heh.)

A Week in the World of Wind

There’s been a lot happening in the world of ‘wind’ here in the state of Maine. I wish I had more time to write it down and post it to GAG, but the fact that I haven’t been able to is a symptom of the viral spread of industrial wind.

I am more convinced than ever that we, the PEOPLE, have to stop this at the state level, and then--at the national one. There are a dozen small citizens’ groups across Maine battling their own individual projects, and we are each standing up to--and facing down--very rich and powerful (and sometimes multi-national) entities. These industrial developers have the backing of our current administration, too, so the battle is far more difficult than if we had a level playing field.

This week alone, the Friends of the Highland Mountains were involved in opposing three different industrial wind companies here in the western mountains. We voiced our opposition to a request regarding a development on the other side of the famed Kennebec River, proposed by First Wind, who has asked for a TIF (tax incremental financing) from our county government. Among the many other wind developments they have in the works, First Wind is proposing to line the mountains of Bingham and Mayfield with 400 foot tall turbines. That they should request a TIF is brassy, to say the least. TIFs were designed as a way for municipalities to entice businesses to their locale, in the hopes that those businesses would bring enough jobs and economic development to offset the tax revenue lost by a TIF. However, wind developers are BEGGING for permission to despoil Maine’s mountains—and if they are successful in obtaining their permits, approximately 60% of the cost of their projects is ALREADY paid for by American tax payers. TIFs should not be granted to these companies when they are asking US for permission to come here, and when they bring few full time jobs. In addition, a good percentage of the part time jobs don’t originate in the towns where the projects are proposed, but are given to companies from elsewhere which are already contracting to the wind developers and which have the expertise to build these mountaintop developments.

We also had an opportunity on Wednesday to make clear before Maine’s Land Use Regulation Commission our future opposition to Iberdrola’s plans to place grid-scale wind turbines on the ridges of Lexington and Concord Township. I had the opportunity to speak to four representatives of Iberdrola in the lobby outside the LURC commissioners’ meeting room after our appearance and I did my best to politely but unambiguously make plain to the developer that they are not and will not be welcome here. This particular battle is going to be monumental, unless the people of Maine stand together and let this conglomerate know that we are hostile to their plans—that we are not willing to be their next conquest. Iberdrola, partnered with Abu Dhabi National Energy Company, a government controlled entity of the United Arab Emirates, is the world’s leader in wind power. After exhausting the subsidy resources and imperiling the job market in their home country of Spain, Iberdrola set its sights on other European countries, as well as North Africa and North America. The U.S. government has made it clear that American taxpayers will foot the bill for any ‘renewable energy’ company which wants to develop our wind resources, and Iberdrola heard the clarion call and rushed to our shores. Shame on us. The government and the wind industry use the lure of ‘getting America off foreign oil’ as one of the scare tactics to entice citizens to comply with their plans to industrialize our mountains. Once Iberdrola gets a toe hold here, we will be beholden to the Middle East for our very own wind.

As an aside, less than 2% of Maine’s electricity is generated by oil-fired plants--and then, only on those few days of peak demand which we might have during a heat wave. Our dependence on ‘foreign oil’, which we obtain from Canada, is due to our need to heat our homes and power our automobiles—neither of which are done by electricity.

In addition to dealing with First Wind and Iberdrola, we also had a ‘wind event’ closer to home. On Saturday, Highland Wind LLC held an open house at the Highland Plantation fire house. Angus King and Rob Gardiner came with a host of ‘experts’ to try to convince Highlanders that supporting their project was a good thing for the wallets of those living in the Plantation, as well as being beneficial to our environment. These developers have gone to extraordinary lengths to sweet-talk the locals. Considering the fact that they do not need the approval of the Plantation, since it is our LURC commissioners who will decide whether or not to approve their application, their actions speak volumes.

We Mainers who are exercising our rights and ‘having a say’ are making these developers very nervous.

Most of us chose not to attend the open house, even though there was a ‘curiosity factor’ involved. But we didn’t want to ignore the affair, either, as we thought perhaps that would be seen as indifference. And so… we did something guaranteed us by the Constitution. We staged a peaceful demonstration.

Ever mindful of our community, which is trying very hard to stay ‘together’, we decided to wait until after the start of the open house to assemble. And we limited our demonstration to one hour, as well. There are still a few who support the project due to Mr. King’s and Mr. Gardiner’s promises of economic gain, and it is important to us that we find a way to disagree with our neighbors without being disagreeable. And while our opposition to the project is an adamant one, we wanted to be mindful of those who decided to avail themselves of another opportunity to hear those promises made by the developers. We know those ‘promises’ to be a sales pitch, and a flimsy one, at that. But just as we have the right to lawful assembly, so, too, do others have the right to attend a program which was open to the public.

As always, I was extremely proud of the people who gave up their Saturday morning to stand out in the cold and stand up for what they believe in.

Before I close, I’d like to add something in response to a question my aunt asked me yesterday. My aunt doesn’t support mountaintop industrial wind. But the same question gets posed to her as gets asked of other Mainers who are opposing this misguided plan, and she wondered what my answer was.

“If not ‘wind’, then what? What is the alternative, if we want ‘green’ energy?”

I’ve written several times in the past about wind power’s very questionable ‘green-ness’. About the fact that, due to its intermittent and undependable nature, back-up generators must always be kept online for those times when the wind doesn’t blow. And in their ramped-back state, those generators burn less efficiently and pollute more. One needs only to look at countries in Europe which have relied heavily on wind energy for the last decade or two to see the evidence… these same countries have some of the highest emissions ratings on the continent. Included in the ‘green’ factor are many other parts to the equation, including one of the most important, as pertains to industrial wind in forested, mountainous regions like Maine. The amount of deforestation which happens as a result of building the roads and clearing the turbine sites removes precious vegetation which is vital to capturing carbon and cooling this state. Those same slope-side roads fragment wildlife habitat. Those spinning turbines kill migratory birds, and the changes in pressure created by those massive blades cutting through different atmospheres creates barotrauma in bats flying in the vicinity, causing their lungs to explode. Runoff from erosion affects water quality, as does the herbicides sprayed to keep the transmission corridors and roadsides from re-vegetating—and that doesn’t even take into account what those herbicides do to our animals which hunt and forage in those areas. This list of environmental impacts goes on and on.

Taken individually, those environmental effects are bad enough. But add them together and the cumulative impacts are enormous. I’d like to paste in a quick synopsis written by a friend which explains better than I can the quality of this wind power which the developers are trying so hard to sell us on-- this ‘renewable’ and ‘clean’ energy which is so wonderful that we must sacrifice a great deal, including our unique quality of place and quality of life. I hope this helps my aunt to better understand why her niece is committed to stopping mountaintop industrial wind in Maine. This wind power scheme asks too much, and delivers far, far too little.

“Wind never replaces any generation. It can never be counted on, so as the demand forecasts are looked at for the following day--with great accuracy--when (grid operators) need to buy additional power in the day-ahead electricity market, wind cannot be considered. Even with a forecast of 100% wind, it cannot be counted on. So when (operators) have to beef up (supply) in advance of anticipated heightened demand, they must buy something else like natural gas in the day-ahead market so that an adequate reserve is in place. When wind electricity simply 'happens' the following day, it always is an unnecessary add-on, a veritable poster child for 'too little, too late'. But it is an expensive one, because the ratepayer is nevertheless required to fund it, although it was not needed. The wind industry's implementation plans rely upon citizen ignorance…”

“Citizen ignorance”…my friend does not mean that Mainers are stupid. Certainly not. But most of us have no idea how our energy supply is anticipated or how our demand is met. We leave that to those whose job it is to know such things. However, that paragraph is an important one. Wind is being sold to the citizens of this state by those who stand to profit from it, but we are only hearing one biased side of the story. Wind is always an ‘extra’. It cannot and will not ever be a primary, dependable source of power unless the day comes when scientists figure out how to store it. But because citizens’ support is needed, it is better for those with a stake in the game to keep those facts about this energy source to themselves.

It’s time we learned the truth. As I read and listen and learn, I am more convinced than ever that we are being taken for the biggest ‘ride’ of our lives. And the stakes are as high as they’ve ever been. I didn’t go looking for this fight… it came to me. It’s coming to all of us. As I look at a map of Maine, dotted with pins to show each met tower, each wind development already built or in the stages of being built, and all those developments which are currently proposed, my heart flip-flops. None of us are immune to the viral spread of wind. Very few of our peaks and ridges are safe. Unless we start paying attention, unless we become informed individuals, and until we stand together and demand that our leaders learn the facts and act on them according to the rules of ethics, we are going to see this state fall. Very soon, our mountains will be littered with massive machines which produce a power which is not ‘green’, is not needed, and cannot easily be integrated into our grid. And for what? The high costs come in the form of our hard-earned money, environmental degradation, and Maine’s unique quality of place.

I’ve never been a fan of ‘hype’. I have always considered myself to be a voice of reason and of reasonableness. I certainly never, ever imagined I would hold a sign and stand with others at an organized protest. It’s one of those many things which are outside my comfort zone--acts which, until recently, were beyond the scope of what I could imagine myself doing. But dammit, this is wrong! I truly believe that. And I also believe that we Americans and Mainers have been too content inside our comfort zones… so content that we’ve ignored what’s been going on all around us. We are being exploited, as are the natural resources of which we are all stewards.

I’m forty-seven years old and I never thought I’d march in a picket line. But then, I never thought I’d need to.

I guess a woman does what a woman’s got to do. As long as industrial wind is knocking on Maine’s door and trying to push its way inside, any ‘comfort zone’ I might have stayed inside is a thing of the past.

Fifty Years is Golden

I love my parents. Dearly. Desperately. And have loved them, for forty-seven years and ten days.

Their names are Chuck and Jo Bessey, for those of you who don’t know that, already. And tomorrow, October 1, 2010, is their 50th wedding anniversary.

Wow.

Yes, I love Mum and Dad. That’s not to say that they don’t drive me nuts, sometimes. They do. And… I return the favor. In spades.

That’s not to say they don’t have their faults. They do. But so does their middle dotter.

That middle dotter is me.

How do I adequately express all that these two people have done for me? All that they mean to me?

I don’t think I can.



They were both from poor, working class families. Families which were proud. Families that stayed together. Both Mum’s and Dad’s parents also celebrated more than fifty years of marriage. That’s a heritage of which to be proud, in my book. (Well, not in my BOOK. Mum and Dad aren’t in my book. Because my book is fiction, after all, and my folks are very, very real. Perhaps ‘by my estimation’, is what I should have said…)


Anyway… I’m proud of my heritage. I’m very, very proud of my parents. They’ve hung in there. They’ve survived. They even enjoy one another’s company.

Most days.

And isn’t that what ‘real life’ is like? Nothing is ever rosy and bright all the time. No one and nothing is perfect.



But there are people who are loyal. People who are honorable and trustworthy. People who stand beside each other no matter what, and take their promises seriously. People who put aside their own ‘wants’ and look out for the best interests of the other. Their partners. Their mates. Their spouses.

People like Chuck and Jo Bessey. My parents.

My heroes.

Happy 50th anniversary, Mum and Dad. I love you. Always and forever.



**************************
Top: Mum and Dad at the Piscatiquis County Fair in 1961. Mum was eight months pregnant with my big sister Chris.
Second: Bami and Bappa (Thelma and Arthur Bessey) on their 50th anniversary, December 5, 1975
Third: Mammy and Grankie (Ruth and Milton [Mike] Dolley), August 15, 1981
Fourth: Mum and Dad posing for me in 1980
Fifth: Mum and Dad on Eli's 13th birthday, October 13, 2009

120 Miles, 10 Stories, and 47 Years...

Monday, September 20th, was my 47th birthday. In typical fashion, I spent the day indulging myself… I worked at the office until noon, ran around Kingfield doing errands, flew home to take care of groceries and check emails, and then drove to Portland for a five p.m. meeting.

You’d think, by now, that I would be an accomplished city driver, wouldn’t you? After all, in the past ten months I’ve made no less than two dozen trips to places such as Bangor, Augusta, Freeport, Brunswick and Portland. In addition to those cities, I’ve driven to smaller Maine burgs like Greenville, Dixfield, Carthage, Bingham, Brighton and Jackson. Dover, Togus, Shirley and Blanchard. Rockwood, Waterville and Vienna (pronounced VYE-enna for those of you ‘from away’…)

Yep, I’ve done more highway driving this year than at any time in my life, so you’d think I’d have a handle on the intricacies of maneuvering in multi-laned traffic, wouldn’t you?

Wouldn’t you think?

Shouldn’t I have?

Sigh…

My meeting was in the office of a Portland attorney. When I asked for directions, he sent me a map of his parking garage. That’s not quite what I was looking for.

I explained to him that I was a country girl, and that I couldn’t find his parking garage without more explicit directions. In typical rural fashion, I expected written directions including easily recognizable landmarks… a big oak tree with a tire swing in it, a cemetery with an iron fence—that type of thing. And each landmark with exact mileage between them. Because--as hard as this is to believe—I get lost easily.

My friend took pity on me and ‘Google-mapped’ it… an online service which I never think of using. It looked NOTHING like the map of The FARM (seen here, and google-earthed by my pal Jack...)... still, I was grateful. I printed off the map and directions and went on my way after skimming down through the fifteen commands. Being a world-class traveler, I didn’t need the first eleven individual directions, since I knew how to take highway 295 South to Portland. Number twelve said “Take exit 7 for Franklin St/U.S. 1A.” No prob.

No problem except for the road construction that began between exits nine and eight. I was funneled left through cement barriers set apart at approximately the same width as exists between the driver’s side and passenger’s side doors of my truck. With maybe twelve inches to spare. I was beginning to understand why all the tractor-trailers had been re-routed back at exit ten… The barriers changed to cones immediately before the Franklin Street exit, and I hauled on the steering wheel and got off the freeway.

On the exit ramp I pulled out my printed directions and read number thirteen. “Merge onto Franklin Art/US-1 Alt N.” It also said, “Go 144 feet” but I missed that little bit, since it was way over on the right hand side of the page, and of course, it’s established fact that I’m left-handed. Anyway, I was on Franklin Art, and all I had to do was obey the Fourteenth Directive: “Turn Right on Marginal Way”. In light gray letters below it read “Destination will be on the right. About 1 min.”

About One Minute? What the heck did THAT mean?? How far does one drive in a minute? On the interstate, I can drive one and a quarter miles in a minute. On my gravel country lane, a little over a half-mile. Downtown Portland? Who knows? Did that take into account stops at traffic lights? And I didn’t see a single speed limit sign. How fast were we going? Judging by the number of horns being beeped, tapped and rudely laid upon, everyone else wanted to drive faster than I was driving as I peered this way and that looking for a sign that said “Marginal Way”.

What kind of a name is that, anyway? Marginal Way. Marginal. Trivial. Insignificant. Minor. Well, that was just great. No wonder I couldn’t find the danged road… it was so unimportant, it must not have warranted a sign!

I knew by the time I’d reached the waterfront, I’d gone too far. (That’s because I ran out of road, there, due to the Atlantic Ocean being in the way.) I turned around and went back up Franklin Art, knowing that this time I would need to turn left onto Marginal Way. If I could find the Way, that was. At a stop light I pulled out the first map I’d received from my friend… the floor plan of the parking garage where I was to leave my truck if I ever found the blasted office building. Written on the top of that paper were the words, “The building is a brick, 10-story building…”

Oh, for crying out loud. I glanced at the tall brick building ahead and to my left. I started counting windows. Before I was finished, horns started blatting all around me. The light was green. I inched through the intersection, still counting. Thirteen windows… thirteen stories. Darn it.

No ten story brick buildings in sight. I turned left at the next intersection, five p.m. traffic surging all around me. The canyon was dark. I pulled over to the curb, rolled down my window and hailed a pedestrian. The young man came over to the truck. I asked him where Marginal Way was. He pointed me in the proper direction… one right turn, one traffic light (“not blinking, but normal” he said sagely) at which I should turn right, again. I thanked him and drove off. One right turn. The next traffic light was a blinking one. Well, for Pete’s sake. Was I supposed to ignore it and go find myself a “normal” light? And what was up with all these rude horn-honkers behind me, anyway? I turned right at the blinking light. No ten story brick buildings in view. I stopped in the middle of the street and hollered “Excuse me?” to a lady who was walking her dog. “Marginal Way?” I asked. She pointed at a great big church at the foot of the hill and told me that Marginal Way was the road directly in front of it. Whew! I could SEE the church. I thanked her and drove on.

But see…. The street directly in front of the church was Franklin Art. Gosh darn it! I’d been driving around for 20 minutes, and my appointment was in another 15. I turned right onto Franklin Art, looking for Marginal Way at every intersection. Once more, I was brought up sharp by a rather large body of water. I drove around through the ferry terminal and back to Franklin Art. While I waited for the longest red light in the state of Maine, I counted the number of stories on every building I saw, brick or not. I mean, so far the directions had stunk, big time. Chances were good that the building wasn’t brick at all, but stucco, or concrete block! And why would a set of directions include the number of stories in a building, anyway? Surely, folks can’t drive through the city every day counting how many levels of windows there are on each building! And what if some of them are like my doctor’s office in Waterville, where the ground floor is considered the second story, and the basement is the first? Did that same set of warped rules pertain to the buildings in every city in Maine? Oh, man…. I’d already passed a building with nine rows of windows…

I was almost back to the end of Franklin Art so I turned left and drove into a parking lot across from the Whole Foods store. This time, I’d get out and ask directions, and take my map with me. This time, I wouldn’t have to rush. I could listen patiently, and ask for clarification if I didn’t understand! I parked next to the low professional building and walked up to the glass door. It was locked, but it looked like a side entrance, anyway, so I didn’t give up hope. I could see that the lights were on inside… I walked around the building and spied another door. A door with no door knob, no handle, no window. What the heck? What good is a door you can’t open? I followed the concrete sidewalk and came to a third door. No door knob. No handle. No window.

Unbelievable.

Back in the truck I tried my darnedest not to cry. I had five minutes to go before I was late for my appointment. I dug out my cell phone and called the attorney’s office. His receptionist told me he couldn’t take my call because he was meeting with clients. I was pretty sure those clients were the others in my party, but I didn’t want to argue.

“Maybe you can help me… I’m sitting outside Whole Foods. How close am I to you?”

“Oh, quite close! You can see our building from Whole Foods!”

I started counting rows of windows on every building in my line of sight.

“Great! How do I get there?”

Let me simply say that we didn’t communicate very well. She said that how I got there depended on which direction I was pointed in. I told her I’d point in whatever direction she wanted me to, as long as it got me where I needed to go. She asked me the name of the street I was on. I told her I was in a parking lot and didn’t know the name of the street which ran along in front of it, but reiterated that I was directly across from the Whole Foods store, and that I’d just turned off Franklin Art. She said I should get back on Franklin Art and turn left at the next intersection. Easy Peasey.

Except that the next intersection WAS Franklin Art, and I turned left onto that, instead. And I had no choice but to go back up the ramp, merge with the traffic and travel south on Highway 295. Back into the cones. Headed towards Kittery. New Hampshire. And beyond.

It was my birthday. I didn’t want to cry on my birthday.

I made a quick plan. I would get off the next exit (I assumed it would be Exit Six, but I wasn’t betting on it.) Suddenly there loomed on my left a large office building. With the exact words blazoned across the top which were on my set of directions on how to find the parking garage! Holy guacamole… I was whizzing by my destination at 70 miles an hour! That solidified my decision… off at the next exit, and then…. back THATAWAY!

Things are never quite that easy… I made a turn onto a one way street. I’ve discovered that when one is on a one way street, one cannot simply pull into a driveway, put the truck in 'reverse', and go back the way from which one has come. No. Not in the city. In the city, one is lucky if one can even FIND a driveway, to say nothing about a road that goes in two directions! Who was in charge here, anyway!!!!!

My unerring sense of direction led me around something called a cul-de-sac, which confirmed my suspicions that an American had not mapped out the city of Portland. We’d never put 'cul' and 'sac' in the same phrase. No way, no how!

Well… once back out by the Exit 6 ramp, I turned right. I looked left. And low and behold… there was a GREAT BIG SIGN which said “Marginal Way”! I turned onto it, and several hundred feet along, I was sitting at another traffic light with the ten story brick building straight ahead and to my left. I was there. I only had to turn left through the intersection--aided by a blinking green arrow--enter the parking garage, find the designated ‘client parking’ on the third floor… and run like hell for the sixth floor, where my friends would surely be waiting in anticipation of my FIVE MINUTES LATE arrival. This--after landing in the neighborhood 45 minutes ahead of schedule.

Have you ever parked in a city parking garage? They aren’t like our country garages, where you hit the remote overhead door switch, pull in at ground-level, and park next to your work bench and your riding mower and your weed whacker. These city garages don’t have a nice side entrance door or an eight-to-twelve foot ceiling or a quietly mulling wood stove.

Oh, my God.

Row upon row of cars, arrows hanging from the ceiling and painted on the floors telling how to go UP. A car squealing around the corners in front of and behind me. I found myself crouching as I drove… claustrophobia rearing its ugly head. Following the arrows, I swung the truck to the left to go up to the next level… and there it was. A big, red banner draped across the entrance… CLEARANCE--SIX FEET.

Oh, my God.

There’s nothing quite as humiliating as having to back up in a parking garage with cars behind you. See… that means they have to back up, too. It’s a domino effect of emotion. I was deeply embarrassed. The guy in the Volvo behind me got peeved. The gent in the Saab behind him became irate. And the woman in the Fiat behind him grew enraged.

I prefer to spread the love around… It was the least I could do.

I asked two women in hospital scrubs if they could tell me if there was anywhere on the bottom levels where I could park without getting into trouble, and they pleasantly told me that since the day was over, I could park wherever I wanted to. Relieved, I turned into the first empty space I came to. Actually, I jigged back and forth several times in order to fit. There wasn’t enough room in the garage to make the wide swing which a truck with a long wheel base needs to take in order to fit square-on between two parked cars. My three friends behind me waited so quietly and patiently that I actually had the urge, for the first time in my life, to show them the longest digit on my left hand. But I didn’t. Instead, I giggled. Rather hysterically. And I swore I was never, ever, EVER going to drive to a city—or even to a big town with a traffic light—again! Never.

Never, EVER!

I grabbed my computer case-cum-carry-all. Slammed the truck door. Wiped the sweat off my face and strode to the door with the sign saying “Elevators”. I punched the “Up” button. The doors slid open and I stepped inside. All alone. No strangers to crowd me. Perfect. I pushed the button for the 6th floor and the doors closed. In the silence of my solitary conveyance, a woman’s voice said “Going up” and my heart staggered to a temporary halt.

Judas Priest on a Pony… it was a Talking Elevator! I turned my face into the corner, leaned my forehead against the wall and waited, trying to control my hysteria. I was almost at my destination, and it wouldn’t look good if I arrived in the attorney’s office all sweaty and hysterical and cackling like a lunatic.

Would it?

The elevator came to a gentle stop. The invisible, melodious and articulate woman spoke again. “Level Six”.

Jumping Jehosaphat.

I stepped into the lobby of the 6th floor suite. I’d arrived… and only ten minutes late, too! The receptionist directed me to the conference room and told me that my host was running a few minutes late, and that he would be along shortly. I’d been granted a reprieve, and I sighed in relief. I decided to take a minute to splash my face with water, calm down, get my bearings… restore the utter ‘cool’ that is Kazza BP. I pushed open the door to the ladies’ room and strode towards the marble sinks. As I did, the paper towel dispenser on the wall whined into gear and spit out a foot long piece of brown paper at me.

I hate crying on my birthday. So I laughed, instead.

First Quarter Moon... You Know How it Is

My husband was sitting on the edge of the bed, eating scrambled eggs and toast and watching TV. He’d arrived home before I did, and since the kids had already eaten, he fixed himself an easy supper and took it upstairs. I kicked off my heels, peeled off my jeans, pulled on some pajama bottoms and flopped down on the bed behind him, my face tucked into his hip pocket and hidden from view.

My butt got an absent-minded pat and that was the extent of our interaction as a forkful of egg went into his mouth and his eyes returned to “House Hunters”. I’ve never been able to compete with a well-built Victorian. A ranch or a saltbox--yes. But bring on some sharp peaks and exquisite trim, and I lose, every time.

I spoke into his jeans.

“I need something funny to write about.”

“Yeah?” He turned up the volume on the television.

“Yes. I’ve got a deadline for my column. I’ve got to write it tonight, but nothing funny ever happens anymore.” My self-pitying voice was muffled by patchwork quilt and denim.

“Huh!” He was totally engaged in the topic at hand.

“We’re not as funny as we used to be!” The whine sounded pathetic, even to my own ears, and I rolled over and started giggling. Steven took a bite of toast and looked down at me.

“What?”

The giggles turned to cackles and I lay there laughing all by myself while he looked on, mildly interested, but not overly so. The volume increased again. And I laughed some more.

I was tired. And… tonight is the first-quarter moon. Need I say more?

Sometimes—most times—humor finds ME. Sometimes it’s easy to see the ridiculous in the mundane or the comical in the monotonous. But at other times… it takes a lot of work to look at the bright side. Still, I’m game. I’m always willing to try to rearrange my view of the world until I can come up with a positive spin to put on the everyday occurrences of life.

So… what happened today? It was one of those days when I was right-out-straight. Up with the kids, showered, dressed, checked emails, fed pigs, ran to the office, stopped at the store, went to a quick meeting on my way back to The F.A.R.M., unloaded apple drops and rotten veggies and slop that I’d picked up on my way home for those same pigs I’d fed at seven a.m., put away a few groceries, ran upstairs to check emails, answered twelve of them, answered the phone twice, called each kids’ school to change their drop-off point, did some online banking, drove to a work appointment, took the kids to the exhibition hall so that Josie could enter five photos in the New Portland fair, drove home, fed the kids, built a fire, drove to North Anson with Eli for a required meeting, stopped for gas, drove home…

And took off my heels, peeled off my jeans, pulled on some pajama bottoms, and collapsed onto the bed.

Ho-hum! Blah.

However, as I wrote out the tasks of my humdrum, “blah” day, images flitted across my mind. The gentleman with whom I had my afternoon appointment was a virtual stranger to me. But I wasn’t a stranger to him. He’d heard me speak in public on a couple of occasions, and so he felt like we were old buddies. Before the hour-long meeting was over, we WERE, and he asked for—and got—a hug when we parted. That memory brings a smile, for it’s always nice to make a new friend. A girl can never have too many of those.

At the fairgrounds, I stood in the wings while Josie entered her photos, and I got one of those unique parental thrills as I listened to the compliments my daughter received from the attendant in the hall. And I felt pride when my daughter chose to have her pictures entered in the “adult” class rather than the “junior” category, even though she is young enough to be placed with the other entrants who are under the age of sixteen. She wanted to honestly compete with other photographers, and be judged on how professional and artistic her photos are, rather than simply get a blue ribbon for her efforts. She recognized that she might not win anything, this way… but still, she chose the tougher route.

Another smile.

And then, there was that hour and a half I spent with Eli. Did he do something to make me smile? Hmmm… Well, he aggravated the heck out of me by arguing with absolutely everything I said, tonight. Even if he agreed with me, he argued. Or ignored. Or rolled his eyes, which is worse than ignoring. No, I don’t recall doing much smiling while I went to and from school with my almost-fourteen-year-old son.

But as I think about it now, I’m grinning. He’s a teenage boy. He’s doing what he’s supposed to, and doing it well. My kids have always been good at what they do. No half-measures here. If one of them decides to be surly, they are the surliest of children. And that’s as it should be.

Maybe we aren’t very funny anymore. Maybe I have to work harder at first-quarter moon to find a laugh. Maybe I’m simply tired.

Or maybe, I just require a boost of self-confidence to make everything right in my world. Yep, I think this 1960’s hip-roofed split-level just might need to dive in and give that aging Victorian a run for her money.

A Gaping Hole

“I’m proud to be an American-- where at least, I know I’m free. And I won’t forget the men who died, who gave that right to me. And I’ll gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today. ‘Cause there ain’t no doubt, I love this land. God Bless the U.S.A.”

That is the chorus of a song that I love. Lee Greenwood made it a #1 hit during the summer of 1984, and I remember getting choked up the first few times I heard it. I was fighting for my life that summer, but I never paid the ultimate sacrifice. I was in a war but I’d enlisted, and I knew what I was up against. Those 2, 977 innocent victims of terrorism who died on September 11, 2001 did not enlist, and they did not suspect. They went to work or stepped onto an airplane, thinking the world was safe. Sane. Thinking that they would return home to their loved ones that evening.

How can we come to terms with what happened? How can we forgive? Can we ever forget?

Personally, I don’t WANT to forget. And truth be told, I am glad those 19 high-jackers died that day. For if they hadn’t... what would we have done? How long would we have had to look at them, and support them, and wrestle with what to do with them? How much longer would it have taken to heal our wounds, then? They may have firmly believed they were fighting for a good cause. That they were making the ultimate sacrifice to forward their sick and twisted agenda. Their campaign of hate against the western world. They might have truly believed there would be virgins awaiting them. Is it seven virgins? Nine? Nineteen? If I cared enough, I’d look it up. But I don’t care about them. They’re dead, and I’m glad. If that makes me a terrible person, then so be it.

They were wrong. Dead wrong. Violence is never the answer. And no god worth following would advocate the killing of innocent people. No god worth his or her salt would encourage a people to raise their children to hate.

I’m proud to be an American. For all my country’s faults, Americans’ hearts are in the right place. We’ve always tried to be accepting—often to the point of absurdity. We bend over backwards to make foreigners feel welcome. To give them the freedoms we’ve enjoyed… the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The freedom to worship whomever and however they choose. The right to speak out when they disagree with our policies. We haven’t been parsimonious… we’ve shared our privileges and our bounty with people the whole world over.

Some people don’t know a good thing when they see it.

Last year I visited the memorial at the World Trade Center. In the past, I’ve written about how that experience affected me. I’ll never forget the faces on the wall… the victims of terror’s power.

I’ll always remember the faces of the firefighters who backed the truck into the annex next door while I watched… the faces of those left behind to remember their fallen comrades. They confront that gaping hole every day. How do they do that? How do they survive?


I saw the twisted steel. The cell phone. The shoe. That steel couldn’t stand the inferno. The cell phone which was used to call for help. The shoe… just one lone shoe.

Someone’s shoe, for the love of God!

I didn’t lose a friend or family member that day, but I lost something essential, nonetheless. I’m a writer, but I can’t find the words to describe what was taken from me. What was stolen from good human beings across this country and around the world. You’ll understand though, won’t you? While I had it, I didn’t recognize it, but now that it is gone, I miss it terribly.

Nine years is a long time, and it’s naught but a heartbeat. My kids were little on that fateful day, now they’re almost grown. Life goes on, and time stands still.

I plan to stand still for a moment tomorrow morning. If you do the same, please remember those who fell and those who miss them. If you pray, pray to a god of love and not of hate, okay? And if you don’t pray, that’s all right, too. We all find our serenity in different ways, and we each have our own personal faiths. We each are free to practice those faiths in peace.

That’s just one of many things which are truly wonderful about this country. We’re allowed that.

God Bless the United States of America.

Civil but not Silent

When I began to research the topic of industrial wind on the mountaintops of Maine, it was with one purpose. Last fall, Angus King and Rob Gardiner came to Highland Plantation and told locals of their planned development for Highland’s five mountains. The largest proposal for the state at that time, I believed it warranted looking into, even though--to my uneducated mind--I supported the concept of producing electricity from something as benign as wind.

It did not take me long to realize that a grid-scale wind energy plant was not a good plan for these ridges, nor for any others in this state. The environmental consequences, the health risks, the questions surrounding decommissioning, and the ratios of benefits vs. negative impacts convinced me that the development was a disaster in the making. I, along with other concerned Mainers, formed a citizens’ group dedicated to opposing the Highland project.

We knew it was an uphill battle. We knew our opponents had power and influence and money--while we were a simple band of people who came together with nothing but a desire and a conviction to do what we believed was right. We also knew that to oppose the plan in light of the promises made to Highlanders by Mr. King and Mr. Gardiner might very well cause hard feelings in the community. The Plantation was hurting after suffering through years of incredibly high taxes. The ‘tangible benefits’ offered to tax-payers would be hard to refuse.

I’ve never been one to cause a fuss. I’ve always been a peacemaker--a woman who avoided conflict when possible and helped others do the same. In the early days of our opposition, I tried desperately to smooth the waters whipped up by industrial wind. I laid out my motives for opposing the project, and listed those reasons in a personal letter sent to Mr. King. I asked him to withdraw his permit application from LURC. Asked him to do the right thing, instead of the thing destined to earn him a plethora of hard-earned tax-payer subsidies.


In the weeks and months since that time, I have listened to Mr. King speak in public about this project. I was a guest during one of those forums, so I was compelled by a sense of propriety to remain quiet while he spoke. And one of those times, all non-Highlanders were asked at the beginning of the meeting to remain silent. I respected that request.


In both recorded meetings, Mr. King misled his audience. He knowingly or unwittingly made some grave misstatements. Either way, the choice is clear. If Highlanders put their faith in the owner of Independence Wind, they are choosing to trust a man who either knowing tells untruths, or who doesn’t know enough about his subject to speak with any degree of expertise.

It’s easy to spread misinformation when no one challenges you on it. It’s easy to spread feel-good propaganda when your listeners are easily led. But those days are over. The people of Maine are leaders, not lambs. The people of Maine are intelligent, hard-working, thrifty and proud. The facts about industrial wind are coming to light and citizens are working diligently to see that their neighbors are armed with the truth.

Wind turbine developments on the mountains of Maine? No. The negative impacts—and there are many—far outweigh the negligible benefits. It doesn’t make sense from a scientific or an economical standpoint. So, while I intend to remain respectful if possible, I won’t remain silent anymore. Bullies feed on those who appear powerless, but Mainers are arming themselves with facts. Mainers are regaining their authority to shape the destiny of this state. We won’t be lied to. We won’t be bullied.


We will try to be civil, but we won’t be silent anymore.

For factual information about mountaintop industrial wind, see www.highlandmts.org or www.windtaskforce.org

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Photos of Angus copyrighted by Kaz Pease.
Photo of sweaty, chubby Kaz hated with a passion. However, my point was that while I will try to be civil (notice the smile) I will NOT keep quiet (notice the microphone). Lordy, lordy... the things I put myself through...

All the World's a Stage and It's Curtains for Me

It’s desperation, I suppose. That’s all I can come up with for an explanation. Why else would a reasonable, somewhat intelligent woman put herself through such a thing? Again?!!

Yep. It’s gotta be Desperation, with a capital ‘D’.


Once more, I will be performing a comedy routine to benefit a good cause. Coming up in November (firm date to be announced soon) I will be standing up on a stage, microphone in hand, making a complete and total idiot of myself. A small part of me—a very small part—is looking forward to the event, for if I am successful, it will give me the best feeling in the world. If I am able to cause laughter--and lots of it--I will have eased someone’s burden for a short while. And if there is a sell-out, standing-room-only crowd, I will have also helped to fund a cause in which I believe, and which truly deserves support.

So, I feel a modicum of anticipation. After all, I’m a human being, and what living, breathing woman doesn’t like to know that she might actually be able to kill two birds with one stone? That she might be able to brighten someone’s day AND contribute to a worthwhile endeavor at the same time?

But…

What’s the opposite of ‘modicum’? How do I convey the awesome dread and nervousness that is the lion’s share of the sentiment felt when I think about doing live stand-up again? Every time I survive one of these events, I swear I will NEVER DO IT AGAIN. Never! Not for as long as I live, and probably not for a short while afterwards, either. Each time, as I’m driving home from a show, I say, “You couldn’t pay me enough to put myself through that again!” (A quick aside. I have never been paid for standing in front of a crowd and entertaining them. I’m pretty sure there’s a reason for that. It might very well be that I suck…) (Another quick aside. I hate the word ‘suck’ and won’t allow my kids to say it. However, I can’t seem to come up with another word that is quite as apropos…)

Aw, heck. Not only do I suck as a humorist, I am a sucky mother, too.

See? See what I mean? This stuff gets me all discombobulated. Out of sorts. And in the week preceding one of these affairs, I am NOT a pleasure to live with, either. Just ask Mr. Grumbles and the Grumblettes. Actually, scratch that. There’s really no sense in hearing their side of things, is there? After all, they’re biased. They think a wife and mother ought to be sweet and pleasant, and speak in something less than a snarl. They don’t understand why a woman might lock herself in her room as she paces and practices and tries to suck in her stomach while standing in front of a mirror which she swears she never gazes into. They still harbor the fantasy of a matriarch who cooks their meals, kisses them good night, and asks after their welfare. So in reality… asking for their opinion is pointless, wouldn’t you say?

Oh, man… what have I done?

Stay tuned, won’t you? You just might have a seat in the front row of history. You may actually watch a woman not only self-destruct, but take a whole organization of good people with her as she plummets to the ground in flames.

Each member of the Friends of the Highland Mountains has become a personal friend of mine. I can only hope I make them a little bit proud.

Failing that, I hope I can make them some money.