Cheap Grills for Cheap Thrills
I finally had to pull out the waterline and drain the cabin. This time of year, I stay in tune with the ten-day forecast. My belief that I could make it to November with hot indoor showers was shattered when I saw the trend toward below-freezing morning temperatures.
My limit on downside trends is twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit. That’s the spot where the outside water pump starts making slush inside the impellers, causing internal mayhem and making sounds that indicate a new pump is in order.
I shot down mid-week, grabbed my tractor, drained the camp and fixtures, and reattached a tarp to my fresh split woodpile. I also recharged my portable shower sprayer, which I used in a bucket of tepid water to spray off the residue from other chores. I still have some periods of sleep ahead with woodstove fires and silent nights, but they are few and far between after mid-November.
So, I took a road trip that had nothing to do with camp on Saturday; I’m weaning myself off the constant travel back and forth for the upcoming winter. I’ve had some withdrawal symptoms, but I’m learning to deal. I had to pick up a snowmobile part that I ordered last winter. It had been on the shelves at the dealer’s, and the pleasant lady from the desk called to see if I still wanted it. Of course, I did. I’d paid for it, but I had yet to hear it was there before the call.
Driving south of Bangor about thirty miles was a good substitute for traveling to the east. While there, I went to the local Walmart to buy some charcoal briquettes, trying to stock up for snowstorm smoking sessions on the back deck.
I’m not smoking cigarettes, just meat—mostly chicken now. I remain an avid tiny Weber kettle grill fan, so I bought two portables at Target this week. They were marked down from almost fifty bucks to thirteen dollars. I could get more than that back in scrap metal pricing. Sure, I’m trying to buy happiness, but when it’s that cheap, the smiles start at the cash register.
Even a good kid at the register, a tall lad with the personality of a happy CEO, agreed with my decision. “Wow, that’s really cheap,” he said as he ran his scanner pistol over the SKU number.
I said, “It’s cheaper than the chicken thighs I’m going to grill on it this weekend!” He liked that one. He confided that they’d been selling a lot of them; for some reason, it’s been the talk on some Facebook pages I follow. I explained that a secret society of old-school mopes, such as myself, have fled using propane to feel our inner caveman while cooking with scalded wood chunks and fire. He liked that, too.
On my way out, he said, “Hey, have fun with that. I might have to try it myself!”
That’s how you bring youngsters around to the ways of our forefathers. Don’t drive it down their throat. Suggest a change of pace, a slow down, as it were.
Now, you say, “Why two tiny grills?” Well, first of all, thirteen bucks.
Secondly, my kid, who I turned on to charcoal with taste testing and conversation this summer, would probably like to have one stored in his barn for grilling something or other.
Thirdly, if I drop one off the back deck, I won’t have to go to Amazon mid-winter to try to buy a second one for fifty bucks.
I’m pragmatic and cheap. I’ll give him one, but he has to prove he will be a good steward with it, not leaving it outside to rust, collect dust, and bust. It’s thirteen bucks for crying out loud.
As you can imagine, I am trying to wean myself from cabin thoughts. I’ll be candid with you: I don’t do all that well when I don’t have a chance to get to the camp. My partner in detectives used to explain to people when I was a big grumpy that they should leave me alone in my cubicle because I’d not been to the cabin much throughout the winter.
“Just leave him alone. You don’t know how he might react,” he’d say. Somewhat jokingly, but on another level, very serious. “He will be better in the spring,” he’d holler if interactions were less than pleasing. I’ll admit, I can get truculent without a fix of camp life. It’s ingrained in me, and I don’t care a bit what people think about using an outhouse. It’s my happy place.
The funny thing is, he bought land and built a camp north of here years later. He’s relayed to me that he now understands my former grouchy state. So much of that rubbed off on him, and he was lucky enough to move into his cabin permanently this year. My dirt road is not quite as well maintained as his, so getting in and out in the winter is much more difficult. Also, I must be close to the airport much of the winter to avoid making the Uber trips for the S.O. into a house and tax payment.
You do what you have to do to get by; if I get grouchy, you’ll most likely never notice.
Today, I am smoothing Sammy’s driveway with implements dragged behind my tractor. In turn, we will do a full service on the old girl. She needs fluids, filters, and a little greasing.
But, then again, don’t we all this time of year?
Be well.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
Thanks for all your support through Buy Me A Coffee. That’s how we pay the bills and keep stocked up in cheap grills. Seriously though—I appreciate all of you. Thanks for reading the stuff. Tim Cotton
I’m Doing Fine Now—without you, Baby
You can imagine how music impacts me as an old (and former) radio guy. I have some friends who need no music; they don’t desire to take a drive or give themselves time to stop and take pictures of the clouds when they align themselves in unique ways.
That sums up why solo road trips don’t bring me down (Yes, I heard ELO, when I wrote that sentence).
While Ellie doesn’t complain, she is vocal when I pull over onto the gravel shoulder and bail out without proper warning. She throws a fit, and the crying from the truck can be offputting. You can’t tell from her pictures, but that girl is loud. I’m quick to flick, capture, and then jump back in, continuing where I left off to complete the mission at hand.
I’m just as excited to leave my house in the morning as I am to jump back in after a day in the woods to go home. I simply like driving and listening to music.
In the day, while traveling around Maine and other states with my former partner in crime (but we were cops), we both lamented over many coffees that we really should have been over-the-road truck drivers. For a time, we both were going to get our CDLs to hit the open road when we retired from solving homicides and child abuse cases.
Driving for hours was our dream job; go figure.
We were fans of Will and Sonny on “Movin’ On,” but never “BJ and the Bear.” And, sure, we both wanted a Kenworth—long nose.
I digress.
What a day I had. Sun, wind, clouds, and, at one point, sleet coming down, hitting me in the face while the sun lit up the yellowing green beech tree leaves in the canopy above me.
And I was the lucky one who got to cut up deadfall trees and occasionally sip from a bottle of Coca-Cola I set on a nearby rock.
I can’t tell you how many times I put the chainsaw down and turned toward the lake, thinking, “I’m so lucky to be able to do this here today.”
So this is not about griping about my backache—but I have one. I’m grateful I can do anything here in Maine. Remaining upright for another morning is an incredible gift that I don’t take for granted.
I’m a sap.
The rediscovery of “I’m Doing Fine Now” from the band New York City led me down a rabbit hole of music last night after a shower and wardrobe change into softer clothes with no embedded woodchips. I heard it on satellite radio when I was motoring back home in some township or another as the sun set before me.
I marveled how the clouds’ edges were outlined in bright silver, as if the maker had done it just for me, for this trip. I know that’s not the case, but the feeling was prominent within this insignificant being piloting a sleeping dog while the stereo blared.
“I’m Doing Fine Now” isn’t about anything other than surviving and thriving after an unexpected breakup with a lady friend; I love music with that Philadelphia sound from the early to mid-seventies. But as a simple man, you can make any song fit your circumstances; do you do that? I wonder.
I whistled the tune in my after-dark shower at Chez Timmaay, and then set out to find it for an add to my iTunes account because I want to play it again, and, most likely, again.
Then, of course, I found Pasadena’s 1991 or ’92 remake. I added that, too.
As I shut my computer, I surmised that Pasadena would probably be the last remake of that song. For some reason, I found that depressing enough to allow me to fall asleep, but I’m doing fine now.
I’ll add both songs to the comments. Please just listen if you like. If you see me driving by you today, you’ll probably be able to hear it anyway; I like it loud. Ellie, not so much.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain a writer of unimportant topics. Thanks for taking the time to read them.
TC
Thank you to all who have become members at BuyMeACoffee. Your support keeps this train rolling, allowing us to maintain the website, web guy, and TC in coffee and gasoline. Becoming a regular monthly member is easy and reasonable (Royal Order of Dooryard Visitors). However, the blog will always remain free to read because we want all of you to show up. Follow us on Facebook, too—of course. Thanks for the support by buying my books and the kind notes and smiles. TC
Autumn Conversations
The sojourn to camp was a last-minute decision. My whole intention was to yard a couple of logs out of the woods for a camp neighbor, but I determined there was not enough weight on the back of the tractor to avoid the teeter-totter effect, so I’ll tackle that task in the next couple of weeks.
Instead, we started a stupendous blaze in the woodstove to drive out the damp, then used the neighbor’s washer to agitate a load of sheets and pillowcases. The window of delight is closing, and soon, no one but me will want to sleep at camp. Fires go out overnight, and floors are cold in the morning. And it’s OK—for me.
It’s the progression of seasons: summer being perfect, early autumn kicking summer in the shins and sending it home to collect a new batch of mosquitoes, then mid-autumn sending us gray sky warnings that she can’t stay forever.
It’s a time for a little less Stephen Wilson Jr. music and more Dan Fogleberg, maybe some Glen Campbell and Tony Bennett—indeed, there will be an uptick of Sinatra and Peggy Lee. It’s autumn, and the soundtrack cannot be the same as summer, at least not for me.
Even the food is different. Skip the cheeseburgers and find the meatloaf pan. Secure a bowl of hot oatmeal and push Cap’n Crunch to the back of the cereal cupboard. Oh, and look for Mama’s recipe for baked beans—she gave me her beanpot when she moved to the island after Daddy passed.
“Honey, do we have any yellow eyes? I thought there were two bags in the drawer with the pasta and rice?”
“I thought we did. You’d better add it to your list. And get some molasses.”
Even the conversations are different in the late fall.
“Do I need a warmer jacket?”
“You might, but I left a vest in the truck.”
“Is it windy?” or “I think I’ll make an apple pie.”
My job is to agree it’s a good idea—I support both pumpkin and apple. And, yes, it’s windy.
The S.O. is only here a week at a time, so usually, she leaves at least one slice of pie behind, so I get to clean the Pyrex. I’ll eat it for breakfast on one of those mornings when the cast iron is still carboned up from hot dogs the night before.
No one is looking for their sneakers; quarter-height leather boots keep out the leaves and allow you to walk through puddles with abandon.
Fall is different; adjust accordingly. If you are looking, your sweaters are in the bin stacked in the basement.
Today’s photo, a new favorite, was stolen from Shirley, a twin who outfishes all of us on the peninsula. She said she captured it while the dog was peeing.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
Route Nine Reunion
We loaded up the truck, intending to make no stops along the way—camp-bound we were.
The Significant One had an autumn fixation, freaking out photographically speaking while watching for various and varying colors, capturing the same in the memory bank of an iPhone while hanging out the window at times, much to my chagrin.
I lamented more than once or twice that the sun hid behind the clouds, but the colors were bright nonetheless. It’s peak, give or take a day.
I pulled into a favorite scenic overlook on the Whalesback, a staple of the limited number of roadside gawking sites on “The Airline,” a road running crookedly from Bangor to Calais. The byway crosses immense tracts of land covered with deciduous hardwoods in full bloom.
“That would be wonderful,” she said.
We had the spot to ourselves, and most traffic was traveling too fast to slow down in time to pull into the pit-stop-like turnout without some prior knowledge of where it might be.
The S.O. is shorter than I remember, and this caused her vantage point for photography to be lower than it should be for an optimum view overlooking the meandering stream and colorful backdrop.
“Here, I’ll put you up on the tailgate of the truck, remembering that I bought Ol’ Blue with the optional stairway to the stars, or in this case, to a bed full of trashbags that I forgot to drop at the dump on the way out of town.
She climbed up and stood tall, shooting photographs with every mode her phone offered, leaving me on the ground to wait for the clicking to stop.
That’s when another leaf peeper pulled in, exiting her van with the same intention; I could tell because her phone was in her hand as she sauntered toward me. She was trying to find a break in the trees to take photos of her own.
While I am almost unrecognizable and try to be, Ms. Deb Bennett appears to have known me from somewhere. I think she said, “I can’t believe this,” but not in the way someone who hates you might say it—so I felt safe to approach. My S.O. was still clicking away at a ridiculous rate high above us on the tailgate.
She explained that she’d met me at my book signing in Machias last year and possibly at another location where I spoke on some subject; she followed the page and read the books.
Ms. Bennett had the same height affliction, so in the interest of customer relations, we offered her the same vantage point, and up she went. It’s a precarious climb, but she mastered the art of the scramble in record time.
Once she got her photos, we chatted for a few and then decided to take a picture of our own with my S.O. pulling camera duty for the first annual Route Nine Reunion Commemorative plaque.
Maine is a vast state with a small-town feel—Ms. Bennett moved here from Illinois because she liked that feel. She never complained about the garbage bags, so she’ll fit in perfectly.
We are glad we could elevate her to fulfill her higher calling, which, in this case, was great autumn pictures from the bed of my pickup truck.
Thanks for saying hello.
You never know who you’ll run into on Rt. 9.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
Camp—Day Three
Success is a word that is personally defined. If my supposition is correct, yesterday, I met the criteria.
I rose, but the shining took a concerted effort—two cups, full. The chores were standard; none were completed at a record pace.
Several stacks of shingles left over from the roofing job had to be stored away or at least out of sight. They found their way to the lumber pile, where they would wane away the days holding down the tarp.
Everything has a place.
Even though the stacks of moisture-holding shingles would have provided better service to the several salamanders who had taken up residence beneath them, I moved my amphibious friends to new homes without charging a fee.
In the interest of the lungless little rascals, four (in total) Eastern red-backed salamanders were transported— by hand— to several rocky outcroppings near the shore. They slithered away, pleased for more moisture, safety, and, hopefully, a better selection of the creatures they consume to keep up their strength.
I am not a botanist, biologist, or neophyte fan of slithering stuff. Still, I knew where salamanders lived and moved them near the comrades I’d recently seen living in similar conditions while I moved a few rocks to support my waterline. I hope they all can get along; Lord knows the rest of us cannot.
I filled the wood box with split hardwood for my imminent return in the coming days, and not unlike MacArthur, the cuffs of my jeans appeared soaked from the recent rehoming project. I suspect the water here is colder than in the Philippines. I shall return.
I digress.
I unlawfully burned a couple of bales of straw that I’d raked up from my neverending lawn rejuvenation project. My sister, Google, advised that the new seeds needed to find their way into direct contact with the dry, lifeless soil where the previously sown seeds had sadly sat in sunshine but no rain, but I already knew that. I sought her advice because it made her feel like she was involved.
I watered it again, hoping the cold nights, warm days, and increasing moisture in the form of fog would light this horticultural candle by next spring. Snow is coming, so I expect no miracles before May. The falling leaves will provide plenty of coverage as they dampen and adhere to the earth until spring removal.
By dinner, I checked my pile of thawed goods and found softened steak and scallops, both very old but soon cooked over charcoal.
The seafood came out better than expected, as I used my mid-20s-derived Griswold #3 cast iron skillet on the cooler side of the charcoal. I don’t know if the scallops appreciated the cooking method, but I did.
I love dainty cast iron skillets. I don’t know why. They feel more personal, like those pan pizzas we all lauded in the eighties. It was as if we were kings being personally served by the pizza princes in the Hut’s kitchen, making us something special.
When I felt too full to eat another bite, the lovely Anna from Tan Gables stopped by with homemade macaroni and cheese in Pyrex. She’s been threatening to bake some for me, and she came through.
Last night, at eight o’clock, in defiance of dietary concerns, I removed the cover to check if it had cooled enough to have a taste. It had. I did.
It was elegant.
I’ll finish it before I pack up the truck and head home later today. I still have some steak and it’ll be a fine finish to a few days at camp.
I took several photos, none remarkable, but worthy of drawing attention from the masses who still read the ‘Facebooks.’ I’ll make sure to leave them below.
No, I am not asking Anna for her recipe; I don’t believe it’s written down. Maine girls are like that.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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Son of a Preacher Man
Being the son of a preacher man tops my list of things to be proud of.
In my sixty years on Earth, my experience with organized and unorganized worship differs from that in televised megachurches, big-money donors, and twenty-thousand-seat auditoriums. It’s all foreign to me, and I keep it that way by choice.
I spent my life in the back pews of country churches that couldn’t find a pastor—usually because they didn’t have enough membership to keep the lights and the heat on. That’s where my father found his congregations; it was always clear that he was called to the ministry, but it wasn’t for money, cars, big houses, or accolades—a good suit for my father came from Pennys, and the pay he received went by the same moniker.
The janitorial staff at these white-clapboarded buildings often included my mother and her kids. She was also the cook for church suppers, side-by-side with ladies with similar beliefs, and a counselor to many because the pastor’s wife was often sought for consolation and wisdom when serious family matters reared their head within the congregation. Coffee was always on at our house, and there were enough chairs and mugs for everyone who showed up.
For a long time, I felt that our frequent moves, almost twenty before I was eighteen, were detrimental, but the more I reviewed my life experiences, the more I realized that I was a benefactor of the logistical mayhem.
I make friends quickly, I can talk to anyone about their chosen topic, and I know when to leave. I learned all these things from my father.
For a time, we were in Washington County, Maine. My Dad was an associate pastor in Machias for a short time and then found churches in Buck’s Harbor and Larrabee, Maine, without a minister. He took them both on. Buck’s Harbor on Sunday mornings and at the tiny Larrabee church on Sunday nights.
You can try to keep one church open, but keeping two houses of worship running with endless internal parishioner-raised concerns is a feat of strength. The fact that my father also held another full-time job to feed his family makes it even more impressive, especially to me.
Most folks here know my Dad passed away this past February, but he left us with his most significant asset, my Mama.
On our last evening in the woods, Mom and I took the all-terrain vehicle into town from the camp. She had some trepidation, and I did offer her a boat cushion for more luxurious accommodation. Still, she eschewed the comfort, trading it for the bumps, dust, and views of the river—I left the windshield down so she had a clear view when we looked for wildlife, birds, and seals.
We had fish chowder and ran into an old friend, Chris, and his wife, Lauren. I’ve known them both for years and went to high school with Lauren for a while. Chris and I were friends when we were kids, and I moved away—again— just before we hit our teens. I still run into him occasionally, always getting a good laugh from Chris’s stories of life Downeast.
Chris knew my Dad, and while my mother slipped away to the restroom to get ready for the trip back to the camp as the sun dropped, he approached me to ask if that was my Mom.
“I don’t think I’ve seen your Mom in fifty years,” he said. “I saw your father’s obituary in the paper last winter; I always liked him, Tim. He was a good man. Before you leave, I’d like to tell your mother what your father said to me when I was just a kid. It’s stuck with me forever.”
Chris ran into another one of his many friends on the restaurant’s concrete steps, so I loaded my mother into the rig, seatbelted her in, and we waited.
“Who is that again?”
“It’s Chris Sprague. You remember his parents (J and C). It’s just been a long time. He wants to tell you something that Daddy told him years ago.” I shared Chris’s parents’ names again, and the picture became evident in her head.
“Oh, okay. I think I do remember.”
Chris came down to the door, reintroduced himself to my mother, added his kind condolences to his gentle handshake, and said that when Dad was here in Machias, he said something that stuck with him forever. Chris explained that during a break in the youth group gathering, my father had told him a simple strategy for true joy in his life.
Chris listened and said he recalls it to this day.
Dad explained to him, as pastors do, that one easy way to live life with true joy is to put Jesus first, others second, and yourself third.
“J-O-Y,” Chris said, reiterating it as if he was hearing it for the first time. “Pastor Cotton told me that, and I’ve tried to do that my whole life. It meant a lot to me, and I’ve shared it with others, too.”
My mother smiled; Chris and I got a bit of moisture in our eyes, maybe for different reasons, but possibly the same; I don’t read minds.
It meant a lot to my Mama; I know that for sure.
I wanted to grab a photo of my mother with Chris, but, being the buffoon that I am, I realized the only sticker on my ATV was adhered to the windshield right in front of my mother, near where Chris was leaning. The decal is large and has always been a good conversation starter. Not as good as Chris is, but still.
The sticker says, “I love Pooping in the Woods.”
Chris and I would have found it funny, and Mother would, too, but it was better to leave the poop out of the special moment.
On the way back to camp, my mother asked me to repeat what Chris said, as she sometimes has difficulty hearing everything and forgets the little details.
I repeated it, mentioning that, back in the day, we sang a Sunday School chorus and used JOY as a similar acronym.
Mama shook her head. “That is something Daddy would say, I remember now. Chris is nice, isn’t he.”
“He is,” I said as we motored on, looking for deer, seals, and wildlife. Oh, and joy, naturally.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
TC
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I’ll Always Be Andy
“What others think of us only matters if it’s more positive than we believe ourselves to be.” TC-2024
I’d never of heard him, but I was Andy Etchebarren for a while. I was seven or eight, and Andy Etchebarren never heard of me either. No one in the major leagues knew who I was—at least, not yet. But there was hope because my father said so.
We’d been to Western Auto in Bridgton, Maine. My new Rawlings glove was stiff, smelled terrific, and was the color of butter—with rawhide lacings and Tom Seaver’s signature. I didn’t know who he was, either.
I got a new baseball. It, too, was a Rawlings. My father rubbed that baseball for half an hour, explaining that the sweat and oil from his skin would rough it up a bit. He added some dirt from our yard on Upper Ridge Road; I was alarmed that my new ball was covered in grime before I even got a chance to play with it.
We started with a game of toss. Dad caught my best stuff barehanded, and I dropped every second or third ball with ridiculous regularity. But he saw me as gifted, worthy of a second look, and a serious contender for the MVP of whatever team picked me up for the spring Little League season.
“Nice catch, Andy,” he’d say. I thought he was using the short version of my middle name. Andy rolled off his tongue a couple of times before he shared with me that I was catching like Andy Etchebarren, and he was good, real good.
I had no way of knowing if I was good; I was as interested in playing baseball as my sisters were in fishing for brook trout.
I knew my father had been a standout. I’d seen the roof of his high school, which Art pointed out a few times as where a couple of his home runs had landed; the crowd was in awe. I knew he tried out for the Yankees in college. They gave him a shot at playing in the minors, but that wasn’t to be for reasons I’ve gone over before.
Dad believed I might have his skills, but I showed him—early—that I didn’t.
Still, I played, hoping his athletic prowess would show up like bad company does when you are getting ready to go to bed.
Oh, sure. I was okay. I played in Little League for a couple of seasons, trying to get noticed by the scouts. I had a decent arm and could hit a solid single, but it never showed that I had the timing of Ted Williams or the brute strength of other ball players I didn’t care about.
I played in other towns, too. We moved a lot. I played, still hitting the occasional single or catching an infield fly ball. Still, no one was talking about me during after-game ice cream unless it was because I’d told a good joke in the dugout or bragged about catching a twenty-one-inch pickerel on my favorite red & white daredevle lure. And, yup, that’s how you spell it, I know fishing. Dad took me there, too. It was not his favorite thing, but he knew what I liked. Like any good coach, he paid attention, watching me play and keeping track of my strengths and weaknesses.
Other than wrecking a couple of cars, smoking cigarettes for a whole week while I was in high school, and sometimes picking him up a couple of minutes late for breakfast at Denny’s near the end of his life, Dad never acted disappointed in what I’d done or become.
Regardless of how my sports career unfolded, I was always Andy Etchebarren, and he had a good run.
I’d never heard him, but I was Andy Etchebarren for a while. I was seven or eight, and Andy Etchebarren never heard of me either. No one in the major leagues knew who I was—at least, not yet. But there was hope because my father said so.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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“72 and 42—Musings for a Saturday Morning”
Contemplative and reflective, I let my mind slip into neutral even though the motorized conveyance’s gear selector was in the drive position.
I was driving in a cocktail of weather perfection, stirred, not shaken—but just my soul, which incidentally had a BAC of .000, not counting the possibility that my breakfast orange juice was teetering on, but not beyond, its use-by-date.
Seventy-two degrees has settled into a special place in my heart as the perfect temperature. Yes, I like it cooler, but seventy-two is the temperature at which even the most spleeny among us can admit that they don’t need a sweater or want to go home to change into short sleeves if longer had already been selected.
There was a time when I rode motorcycles— good times, long before texting appeared to be the primary focus of fifty percent of the drivers on the road. I won’t get into it, but being run off the road or setting yourself up as a target within most intersections got old for me, taking the joy from cycling.
During those years, I determined that the perfect speed on a motorcycle was forty-two miles per hour. I know Ronnie Racer and Biff Fifthgear will argue that you are not feeling alive if the bike’s tach needle isn’t tickling the redline, but this is my column, and my opinions do take precedence here.
Straddling a Harley-Davidson Evolution engine, the powerplant that saved the Motor Company from an almost inevitable demise, there was a sweet spot in fifth gear when the motor settled into the perfect cadence. Whatever those RPMs were, and there was no tachometer, lulled me into a state of euphoria, feeling like Bob Seger was singing “Roll Me Away” as I motored westbound toward mountains, eagles, and brunettes with very few visible tattoos who accepted a single ride from the faceless driver at a nameless diner, roadside, in middle America.
It was numbing and invigorating all at the same time, and that’s a dangerous and illegal feeling if one were to have ingested a substance to gain that kind of clarity.
Forty-two miles per hour was it. I do miss that. And, yes, I have been looking for a pre-1999 big twin for a very long time, but for some reason, everyone else enjoyed forty-two miles-per-hour as much as I did, and they have priced adequate examples at levels that I find to be prohibitive to trying to get that feeling again—shout out to Manilow.
I digress.
All that deep thought washed over me because I’d been out to care for a cat—not my primary job title but merely an ancillary side hustle.
I’ve noted in Interweb-based scrolling that notifications pop up within every block of stories I read in my phone’s Flipboard feed; these ads beckon me to read more about the four biggest side hustles that will allow me to quit my job sooner.
I don’t have a job, so this is obviously more than a side hustle. Cat care is a calling. I am an unpaid manservant to a cat I have only once seen. He is feral, you see. And when it’s seventy-two degrees, and I am driving at forty-two miles per hour, I wish I was too.
Back to reality, we had slowed to forty-two and far below because the driver of a pristine late-80s LTD found twenty-seven to be his optimum speed. We were all captives within his perfect day.
I just ran with it.
Roll me away.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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I Can’t See Them, But I Can Hear Them Walking
My ant stopped by with friends. She’s a pest.
Before you get all worked up over the spelling of ant, go back to memorizing your Chicago Manual of Style—I have no aunts in the area.
It’s been a summer for ants on the Jagged Edge, and it was dry for a spell. I thought I had won the war, using a bit of peppermint and some white vinegar and keeping all the food closed up tightly, but still, I captured and killed a couple per day.
For some reason, being withheld from me, they gathered together last night, waiting for me to get up. And, yup, they are carpenters—several wore tool belts. They’d only just begun.
There were a few in the bathroom near the shower and about fifty reinforcements waiting at the transition between the porch and the tiny sitting area where I do most of my writing.
I turned the light out to avoid upsetting them, rummaging through the various cans of wasp spray, ant traps, bug repellent, and sunscreen in a basket on the fridge. There was nothing to kill ants immediately, so I’m going to town again today before I head home.
I can’t leave them here to rearrange the furniture while I am gone, so killing it is— them or me.
I did what any intuitive victim would do; I grabbed the spray bottle of Windex.
I snuck up to the pods and got to them before they could pass around weapons and receive marching orders from the bigger ants. I sprayed them down. I know that the ammonia in Windex kills mosquitoes in the air, but I’d never employed the spray-and-pray method on ants. Some were uncles, but I didn’t have time to ask them for identification. It didn’t kill them immediately, but I can assure you that it slowed them down enough that I could find my shoes and do an ant dance on their heaving corpses.
I killed over one hundred, and I’d never seen these numbers in a daytime raid.
While it was still dark, I reconnoitered the camp from the outside, looking for escapees so I could mark their path of retreat and subsequent return.
Internet advisors find solace in writing that you can always find their path by looking outside for a line of ants coming and going—don’t trust them. That’s not how it works. They are reading what other Internet advisors wrote before them, regurgitating the pablum so that you feel like you received adequate advice; You didn’t.
Yes, it was true in Looney Tunes, but not in real life.
I am crawling under today after replenishing the Windex or finding something better. I’m kidding. I know that the ant-repellent pellets I often sprinkle around the edge of the property were old and probably lost their luster (read luster as the ability to kill), but waste not, want not. I will buy a fresh bag, probably some spray, and possibly an ant suit to infiltrate the intelligence network; I watched “Hogan’s Heroes.”
Woods surround me, trees alive and dead. Deadfalls are common, and there are plenty of places for them to live in harmony with me. I leave them alone when they remain in the hills, and it’s unclear why they selected last night for a raid of this magnitude. They probably knew I was alone. There have been no tattletale signs of sawdust, so these rascals came for food and water, showing up just before the rain.
The good news is that I have easy access to all the underpinnings of the camp. Sure, it was easier when I was young, thin, and full of promise, but I can still crawl on my belly to get a command (See quotes from “Patton” starring George C. Scott to understand some of these references). This is a war, after all.
Lessons learned—
Windex slows them down, Merrell hikers kill them, and Ellie is absolutely useless, sleeping through all of it until I grab the vacuum to pick up the dead.
My Uncle Alan and my father used to joke around together, saying things to each other that made them laugh. They both had infectious laughs and we kids relished being around all my uncles, who were funny men.
In about 1970, while watching a ball game, my dad said to Uncle Alan, “Hey, Alan, can you see that ant over there on the baseboard?”
Alan said, “No, Art, but I can hear him walking.” They both cracked up, laughing in a way that made everyone around them do the same. It’s a ridiculous premise, but it’s hilarious at the same time.
That came to me this morning as I picked up rugs, couches, tables, and chairs to ensure no hidden squads.
I laughed; that’s an excellent way to perk up in the morning.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I can hear them walking.
Be well.
TC
I laughed; that’s an excellent way to perk up in the morning.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
And, Dad, if you read this stuff, I can hear them walking.
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Late Summer
As the summer wanes, the camps nearby are empty from the giggles, music, and loud, late-night UNO games. Chainsaws are silent until cooler weather, but the bass along the shore chime in with a splash now and then.
Chirping crickets overpower the buzz of mosquitoes, and the crows become more brazen in their hollering from nests in the pines along the shore. At this time of year, I become part of the landscape, just listening and making very little noise of my own. I am guilty of utilizing my Bluetooth speaker, but I keep the volume down unless “Sister Golden Hair” from America surprises me. I always turn it up.
The raspberries are gone now; we had our fill, so walks in the woods don’t come with complimentary traveling snacks. The blueberries all around me look great, but most are not mine, and I don’t take berries that belong to someone else; the bears do enough of that. I’ll grab a pint today from one of the easily accessible roadside, serve-yourself kiosks made from old lumber and leftover metal roofing. The honor system still works here.
Four bucks for the berries and a buck for a pint of half-and-half make late-night snacking seem like a healthful proposition.
Since my youth, I’ve always found myself a little bummed out when school starts. I know it isn’t starting for me, but I carry the mood for all those kids who must go back. It was always my saddest time, leaving summer behind for a tiny desk, an uncomfortable chair, and grocery bag book covers. My sisters usually helped me cover my books; I wonder if kids do that anymore.
I get some grief from readers who try to give me a pep talk when I write about feelings of late summer: “TC, there’s all kinds of summer left.” Then, they recite the number of days between here and autumn. I can look at a calendar, too, but I judge time internally with assistance from sounds and not numbers on paper.
I don’t relish pep talks. There are times when it’s better to embrace sadness; melancholy moods are part of our journey. Being happy all the time would be so boring; kids need to know that. Don’t lead them to believe that joy is the only emotion to be embraced.
For me, seasons are internal, based on feelings and overnight temperatures. I consider the breeze’s direction and whether or not it makes my nose feel cold. Seasons have a particular sound and feeling underfoot. I can’t put a date on it. Seasons are within me.
It’s late summer in Maine, so don’t try to tell me anything different.
On our walk last night, Ellie agreed to pose for her late-summer portrait near the bones of a decaying homebuilt rowboat in the backyard of one of my camp neighbor’s places. I cut through the old tote road behind it, but I have permission. I do not cut through the yard when he’s here because privacy means something. He tells me to, but I can’t.
It’s late summer in Maine, and I’m the only one who embraces the opportunity to admit it.
From the Jagged Edge of America, we remain,
TC
&
Ellie
Thank you for all your support for keeping the blog and me up and running. The kindness of my readers using BuyMeACoffee app is a boost to a man believing that writing for a living is possible without national tours and huge advances. Thanks to those who joined and to those who will join. I appreciate you so much
Tim Cotton