Bites of Spring

We all have various signs that tell us spring is here.
The tax deadline looms, the Red Sox are sputtering out of the gate and the Bruins are wrapping up another early exit. Notice I didn’t mention the Celtics. Apparently they’re going to be visible this spring.
I know it is spring when I’m actually working outside again. Now standing on the side of a snow-covered mountain at the U.S. Alpine Ski Championships at Sugarloaf earlier this month doesn’t quite count. I’ve already covered two softball games outside in the last week and have another today. After existing in stale, stifling basketball gyms or frigid hockey rinks over the winter months, it is nice to see the light of day again. Granted, it can be a bit like roulette. I never know what kind of weather I might get at these early spring games. That’s why I have a whole arsenal of coats in my car. I’m ready for just about any situation. I even have my plastic bag at the ready, which I use to cover my scorebook while covering a game in the rain. Hopefully, I’ll have nothing more than these 70-degree temperatures for the rest of the softball season. I can live with that.
All that aside, the real signs of spring to me isn’t the IRS, the Red Sox or another softball season in Maine. It is the osprey that has returned to Maine and has nested back on Spaulding Island in our cove. It is the eider ducks that swim by, replacing the harlequin ducks that have headed back to New Foundland. It is the ability to drive my car with the window open and the radio cranked. It is my version of driving with the top down.
Then there is Dorman’s. This is the ice cream place in Thomaston. It is a place I’ve gone since I was a kid. The place is even older than me. Yes, it is THAT old. When it opens for the season in mid-April that tells me that it is spring for sure. There have been years where I’ve stood in its gravel parking lot, shivering from the cold April temperatures and ordering ice cream. It was anything but ice cream weather, but Dorman’s was open. Spring had arrived.
I made my first trip back to Dorman’s last week. It is really the only ice cream place I ever go to. I’ll hit DQ once in awhile for a slush on a really hot day, but that may be the lone exception. There are a number of dairy places around home, yet I can count on one hand the total that I’ve been to in two decades here.
Dorman’s is the place that was always a treat to go to as a kid. One trip we’d be allowed to get whatever we wanted (within reason), but the next trip we’d have to settle for an ice cream sandwich or something like it. It is nice to be all grown up (yes, I know it’s a stretch for me to say that) and discard those rules and buy whatever I want. When I won a bet that the Red Sox would be in first place by July 4, the prize was a sundae at Dorman’s. I was young and naïve in those days and would actually bet with my heart rather than my head. Not sure I’d even bet the Sox will be in first this July, but it is looking good. When I injured my knee and couldn’t drive for two months, I celebrated my return to the road with a trip to Dorman’s (after a quick stop at Wasses' hot dogs). My Dad used to pull his car right up to the front of the building. I’d explain to him that the place was not a drive-through. He’d explain that he wanted to see what the flavors were. “Dad, they’ve been serving the same flavors for 50 years!” I’d tell him.
These days, Dorman’s is getting a bit squeezed out by big business, but it still thrives. That strip of Route One is starting to resemble the corporate corridor you see everywhere. The diner (where I ate my first whole pizza solo) that used to be across the street is now a hotel with a movie theater and chain eatery next door. A Lowe's is being built next to them. There’s a new development moving in right next to Dorman’s. They apparently tried to buy Dorman’s out, but Dorman’s held firm. The little shack that has served up ice cream is still going strong after 50-plus years.
Today, I’ve got a softball game in the warm spring sun. I’ll probably drive with my car window down and the tunes arockin’. And, just to make sure it is spring, I’ll stop at Dorman’s on my arrival in the Midcoast.
After all, we should support these small businesses and fight the corporate takeover of our traditions. I’m ready for that battle, with nuts and whipped cream on top.

A Cackling Tonya Harding In A Pantsuit

When Tonya Harding realized she couldn’t beat her competition to achieve her Olympic dreams, she congratulated her foe and showed tremendous sportsmanship and class in defeat.
Okay, not exactly. Because her skills couldn’t overcome her competition, she resorted to nefarious means. She “allegedly” hired a get-a-life hitman-wanna-be to lay the smack down on Nancy Kerrigan. As Kerrigan lay dazed, confused and wounded from an assault, Harding appeared charming and innocent and poised to take advantage of Kerrigan’s unfortunate downfall.
I bring up that story to preface my thoughts about Hillary Clinton. She’s a cackling Tonya Harding in a pantsuit. Though Harding came from white trash sleaze, Hillary is resorting to such. She’s slinging as much mud as she does the suds while pandering to blue-collar bar patrons.
The former First Lady has reached the point where she can’t win the Democratic nomination on her own merits. All she has left is to degrade, lie and smear her way, hoping that Barack Obama suffers some “unfortunate” mishap that allows her the chance at the Presidency. Too bad Bubba didn’t pardon Shane Stant (Kerrigan’s assailant) just so he’d be available.
Hillary and her husband, the former Pervert in Chief, have proven to be hypocrites, shameless liars and classless candidates that have resorted to the same fear mongering the last eight years of dictatorship have given us. The Clinton’s attitude of winning at all costs is truly scary. It is the same unwavering and unyielding stubbornness (and incompetence) that Tweedle Bush and Tweedle Cheney have given us.
We actually shouldn’t be surprised. I’m certainly not. I vowed long before the 2008 race began that I would never vote for Hillary Clinton. While the Clinton administration had some positive economical results (how couldn’t it after Bush was too busy looking at his watch to see a recession coming? – guess that runs in the family). But who could forget the scandals and the twisting of truth during Clinton’s eight years. Just the mention of scandal has to bring to mind Bubba’s finger wave and his vehement denial. All of which were lies. I actually wanted the bum impeached and booted back to the Arkansas swamp he slithered out of. The only way to prove the Clinton's are telling the truth is to have video footage (like in Bosnia) or a stained dress.
So why should we trust them now or put them in power again? I certainly had no intention of doing so, even though I figured the Democrats would be so stupidly smitten that they’d nominate Billary anyway.
Of course, something happened on the way to the Clinton coronation. She ran a lousy campaign. She assumed she was the front-runner and ran like an heir apparent. Meanwhile, Obama roared right past her and captivated voters with a message of hope and change. Clinton ran on her name and her husband’s career while Obama ran on a belief that we can get away from the spin politics of the last two decades.
Now Clinton has found herself in a dire situation. She’s losing the delegate count. She’s losing the popular vote. Mathematically, she’s got little to no chance of overtaking Obama. All that is left is for her to hope she or somebody else can deliver the right kind of hit job and take him down.
It’s kind of like the losing team in a basketball game. All they’ve got left is to foul and foul and hope somehow they can win. Sometimes it works. Just ask the NCAA National Champions from Kansas.
The Clinton’s have been playing this game all along. They haven’t been trying to sell themselves but convince voters it is better to go with the devil you know. They’ve lied about Obama’s record. They’ve changed their tune on Michigan and Florida, now that they need them to win. They’ve pandered shamelessly. They’ve played the race card and tried to exploit gender issues. They’ve simply done everything and anything possible to besmirch Obama and said whatever necessary to win. Their actions have been laughable at times but much more deplorable and disgusting.
Unfortunately, that kind of politics works. Look at the ads that are on television. Look at the most popular shows. They all cater to the lowest common denominator. As I watch these commercials or hear about these shows, I often wonder "How stupid do they think we all are?". Pretty stupid is the answer. Since politicians know that Americans can be idiots, they exploit those that are more interested in what’s going on with Brittany Spears than Iraq. Voting is one of our most precious rights. People have fought and died for it, yet it is often sullied by people who are too apathetic or too distracted by anything to be bothered. Politicians know this all too well and seize the opportunity against a hapless electorate. Because the media gets bored with the policy speeches, they thrive off the white noise that candidates hope distract and influence the voter. You are left with Willie Horton, Swift Boat ads and Shrillary's 3 a.m. phone call.
As much as I love politics, it often sickens me. I recently saw a movie about Robert Kennedy and a documentary about Martin Luther King Jr. Both gave me a glimpse of a time and a spirit of hope that existed. I can honestly say, I haven’t seen many people provide such optimism and a hint that things actually could change for the better. Obama, in my opinion, is somebody that does just that. Yet, Hillary Clinton is more concerned about her own ego, her own power that she is willing to take this nomination to where, I thought, only Republicans go.
I have already decided that if, somehow, Hillary Clinton gets the nomination, I will leave the Democratic Party for good and become an Independent. I certainly will not vote for her in the fall.
I don’t think she will get the nomination, but desperate times produce desperate measures. And the Clinton’s have already proven they have no shame and no conscience. They’ll do anything to get elected and damn the consequences. Who knows how much lower they’re willing to stoop.
Of course, Tonya Harding did get to the Olympics. Kerrigan won a medal. Harding broke a lace early in her routine and had to start over. She failed miserably and was an embarrassment. All she had left was a sex tape and her celebrity boxing. She hasn’t been heard from since. If only the Clinton’s could suffer the same fate.

Moose Meet

Have you ever had someone just give you a look of contempt? Ever been flashed a glare of annoyance and dismay?

I got that look the other night - from a moose.

I was settling in to watch the evening news the other evening while in Owls Head. Looking through my windows and across the cove, I could see the front yard of one of the neighbors in the left corner of the cove. I just happened to catch sight of something out of the ordinary from across the water. I grabbed the binoculars and confirmed my suspicions.

"Holy Bullwinkle, it's a moose," I thought to myself.

I grabbed the camera and hoofed it down the road like a teeny bopper at a New Kids On The Block reunion appearance.

Seeing wildlife is nothing new around our cove. I've seen osprey, eagles, deer, raccoons, seals, ducks, geese, foxes and even a waddling porcupine or two. I even spotted two moose cross the cove from the island at low tide one morning. I tried chasing them down, but they ducked for cover fasther than Hillary Clinton facing sniper fire.


That's the only time I've seen a moose other than at Baxter State Park. The closest I've been to a moose lately has been by walking past the moose drop earings at L.L. Bean.


So by the time I reached the end of the road the other night. The moose was still standing down by the shore. I tried to move stealthfully - or at least as stealthfully as guy built like a retired out-of-shape linebacker can.


When the moose became aware of my presence, it didn't really seem to care. It first made a move toward the woods but then continued up the road. I crossed over to the opposite side of the paved road from it. I was probably 2o or 30 yards away. I began to try recalling the signs of when a moose is about to charge.


"He shakes his head and wiggles his ears," I thought. "No, that's an elephant."


I realized I didn't know what a moose does just before it charges. Even worse, I couldn't remember what to do if it does charge. Do I run, play dead or pray? Maybe I just step up and deliver a roundhouse right into the snout, just like John Candy did when he popped Marty Moose at Wally World in the movie Vacation. I could see the headlines. "Award-winning journalist KO's Moose."

After looking me over and giving me a look like I wasn't worth bothering with, it turned and headed into the brush. Of course, that meant it was headed for our dirt road. So I walked up with the intent of take pictures of it as it crossed.

The moose didn't look to pleased to realize he hadn't rid itself of me. I moved on down the road, like I was heading home, and waited. Sure enough, the moose came out of the woods and started down the road, as if he was following me. ("Look what I found Mom, can I keep it?").


He stopped and looked me over a bit. I wasn't too worried about it charging anymore. It had long skinny legs like a few seven-foot-six NBA postplayers - all limbs and no skills. It seemed to be a bit disgusted that everywhere it turned, there I was. Apparently, it doesn't like the paparazzi treatment anymore than Brittney Spears.

It turned away and began walking away. He returned to the main road and headed across the field. I continued to following, talking to it all the way, but it just ignored me.

When another person with a dog came out of the woods on the other side of the field, the moose showed just how spry it was. It took off with a gallop, looking a bit like a horse I once bet on (and lost). Finally, the moose had ditched me and taken off up the road to continue his early evening saunter.

While I recant my tale of meeting a moose to others, I can only imagine what it is telling its friends about me.

Two-Wheel Time Machine

I hadn’t gotten more than 50 yards when doubt crept in.
The hamstrings started to ache. The biting, chilly wind blew through my body. I quickly began to assign blame for this predicament.
“Who’s dumb idea was this,” I pondered.
Being a master of stupid choices, the blame quickly settled in familiar territory. It was supposed to be a simple bike ride around Lewiston. Having been to the workout room at the Sun Journal the day before, I was looking for an easy day of it. Of course, I always say that and end up working harder and more sore than the day before.
My backpack was loaded with my keys and a couple of Ronnie James Dio CD’s. I’d do a quick ride around town and make my way to the SJ and finish my workout there on the treadmill and elliptical.
Of course, the sunny skies that appeared through my windows from the inside looking out didn’t forecast chilly temperatures or the brisk wind. Here I was wearing shorts and trying to end the revolt of my muscles in mass protest to activity.
As I cycled past Bates College and made my way toward Lewiston High School and the Colisee, I settled in and couldn’t help but be reminded how biking always reminds me of my childhood.
Maybe it is the feeling of getting on a bike and a few simple leg movements and you’re in motion. It almost seems magical. The air is rushing by. You’re balancing on the edge of these two tires. You’d think the simple task of turning the car key and stepping on the gas would provide the same thrill. Sometimes it does – at least until somebody has to buy the gas.
Granted, I don’t have to travel far to find the juvenile in me. I was voted “Best Kid” in our family by one of my nephews, and he was about four or five at the time. But as I continued my ride I continued thinking how it reinvigorates the kid in me. I almost tried to bike through the handicap parking signs at the Colisee like a slalom course but thought better of it.
I’ve only had this bike for about nine months. I probably wouldn’t have it at all except the SJ’s wellness program contributes to such purchases, and I find any way possible to make the SJ give me more money. I’ve even contemplated taking up smoking just so I can quit and get the SJ’s allowance for those that give up the habit. Too bad they don’t have allowances for all my bad habits.
Anyway, today was just the second time I’ve had the bike out since last fall. There were still some snow banks out there, and I even steered clear of the Colisee, even though it looks like all the snow on the roof is gone. A hockey referee from Canada parked inside the barriers and too close to the building a month or two ago. When the snow on the roof let loose, it came roaring down and crushed his SUV. How do you say, “Look out below” in French?
With each trip on my two-wheeler, I can’t help but think back on the days when I used to ride my bike as a kid. We’d ride our bikes everywhere. I know some of the roads in Gorham better by bike than I do by car. We’d cover miles and miles in one day.
I didn’t have my bike down in Owls Head for more than one summer, but now when I ride up there I can’t help but reminisce about those days. I’d ride it over to the peninsula to see a girl. I even rode it into Rockland to see her at work, only to discover she wasn’t working that day. I learned not to assume at an early age.
She and I, along with another friend, even rode our bikes from Owls Head to Rockport to spend the day with another friend. I still wonder who conned me into that trip. That was probably my my first experiences that a pretty girl can convince me to do just about anything.
I rode my bike by her house last fall on a trip to Owls Head Lighthouse. At least I wasn’t riding with a boom box in my hand and a basketball under my arm like I did back then when I’d go shoot hoops at another friend’s house.

Today, riding a bike feels a little bit more like work. It’s kind of like kayaking. It’s fun and a great chance to enjoy the outdoors, but if you’re not careful, you might accidentally get a lot of exercise.
I tell people that I’m a triathlete. I’ll take out my kayak. Then I’ll ride my bike. Then I’ll sit on my butt and read the rest of the day because I can’t move because my muscles are on strike.
But as much as it makes my muscles revolt, it makes my spirits soar. It’s the same thrill and enjoyment I had when I’d ride my bike anywhere and everywhere as a kid.
So next time I head out and start to second-guess my bike ride, the kid in me will tell the old timer to shut up and ride.

Dawning of a New Blog

I’m not exactly a model of conformity.

I’m far from a go-with-the-flow kind of guy.

If it is the rave of the nation and more popular than white bread (which I don’t eat), I typically avoid it.

I’ve never watched one episode of American Idol or Dancing with the Stars or the Apprentice. I’ve never used an ATM and don’t have a cell phone (of course, if someone would like to donate an Iphone, I’d gladly cross that one off the list.) I don't have a daily appointment with Dr. Phil, and I haven’t even been in a week-long funk just because Oprah’s dog died.

If I’m wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day, that means I forgot that it was St. Patrick’s Day. If I’m wearing Christmas colors at Christmas, it is purely an accident. If it were "Spirit Day" in high school, the last thing I'd do is wear maroon and white, our school colors. Most of my favorite bands (Bodeans, Smithereens, Social Distortion, Levellers) are ones most people have never heard of.

With all that said, starting a blog isn’t exactly going against the tide. Seing as I’m currently employed in a dying industry, I can attest to the popularity of what W calls the Internets.

Blogging has semi-literate people all over the world sharing their thoughts and opinions - even if they don’t have thoughts or opinions worth sharing. Being the marching-to-the-beat- of- a different- drum type, you’d think I wouldn’t want any part of adding to the white noise of blogmania.

In most cases, one might be right. The last thing I want to do is follow in the path of what everybody else is doing.

However, I do like to write. It might be the one God-given gift that is marketable - even though I've yet to make it truly profitable. Some people actually think I’m kind of good at it. I also have a variety of interests (pick a topic - music, sports, history, politics), and plenty of knowledge about them. I can also be a bit opinionated, just a little. I’m kind of like a line in a Mark Heard (bet you’ve never heard of him) song “Don’t ask me my opinion, because I like to talk and I might tell you.”

So if a blog isn’t tailored-made for a smart-aleck, never wrong, know it all like myself than what did Al Gore invent the internet for anyway?

So, here I am. Welcome to Notes from SquigNation.

My ancestors provided glimpses of their life through diaries. I have a diary from 1883 while my great grandfather sailed on a coastal schooner. I also have various diaries that my grandfather kept during his lifetime. My father even chronicled his life with his own memoirs. I remember him reading them over at our cottage in Owls Head the summer after he had given us all copies. He was pretty captivated as he read his own life story even though I told him “Dad, you already know how it ends.”

I can’t promise my blog will be that captivating. I think it’s a safe bet that it might be informative, interesting, controversial, funny and unpredictable. Kind of like me.

Like the diaries of my ancestors and my father’s memoirs, my blog should provide a glimpse of the world from my slightly near-sighted eyes. The way my mind works, who knows what that might produce. Just sit back and enjoy the show.

I’ll post periodic entries about various topics whenever the spirit moves me - or whenever I have an idea in my head that needs to come out. I might even post some of the early chapters of my novel, "Sons and Daughters of the Ocean". I might even explain SquigNation, for those who don’t know. Your participation, input and interest is certainly welcome. Feel free to pass the link along to friends (or enemies).

One of my favorite remarks/joke, which would make my Dad laugh every time (even though it took him a second to get it) is “I’ve always wanted to write an autobiography, but I don’t know anything about cars.”

This might be the closest I get to some sort of an autobiography. I don’t know whether it will be a Yugo, a Lexus or a Lemon, but it could be a pretty good joy ride. So let’s step on the gas and go, driving cautiously through Dixfield, of course ...