Moronic doin's

  Coming back from a pleasant walk in the Hamilton Sanctuary (q.v.), we noted that State Road is in terrible shape. In fact, much of Maine's infrastructure is dangerous, badly needing repair. For this reason, the legislature has proposed a bond issue for construction, which of course would bring work to Maine, too. Generally this is the way Maine has dealt with its road and bridge problems: the state's credit rating is good, and paying back the money over time has worked well. Not this time, though. The Blaine House Bozo has wheezed that he will not sign any bond bill until the welfare costs are reduced. As soon as the poor are on the streets, he will consider it. Meanwhile, who would want to move a company to a state that is falling apart?
  This situation is a microcosm of the damage that the Grand Old Party would like to visit upon the whole country. Let it fall apart while we balance the budget. You would think someone in that weird organization would understand something about economics, and about the need for cash infusion to keep capitalism healthy. Ah, Grover, you know a moron when you see one. Here, sign this pledge, doofus.

The  Hamilton Sanctuary  is in West Bath, at the end of Foster's Point Road. It is managed by the Maine Audubon Society, the good folks who are going to save all the lil birdies from the horrible windmills. Over the 15 or so years it has been going, the preserve has grown even more beautiful, and the trails are well maintained, especially if you like roots. Nice views of Back Cove (although it was low tide and there was no water when we were there). Haven't been there since right after it opened, but we'll be going back.

Just wild out there

We were invited for a ride on Chaika with Em and Gregg on this beautiful, crisp, windy day. They picked us up at the Mere Point boat launch, and we had a good tour of the local waters in the new custodians' first real outing in the boat. April 29, holy mackerel! And was it ever cold out there. We all shipped some water, but Chaika handled the waters well, and the skipper, Em, did a great job. And under Gregg's care, the craft is soignée. (Not, of course, that it was ill cared-for before.)  It appears that Chaika is in good hands. It also appears that I am not going boating again on a cold windy day in April.

Don't press your luck

As the verdant spring continues to unfold, let us count our many blessings and not overreach. As you see from the illustration, a furry fellow has cast aside his fears of human furniture and is plotting a way to sack the bird feeder. Oh, no, Nutkin.  Papa has a BB gun.

Take care, everyone.

Happy Birthday, Jonas!

Jonas turned 6 today. The party Molly set up for him at home was just family, and low key. The birthday boy was calm, and his brother did a great job of bringing presents at spaced intervals for the celebrator to open.  I can see that Santa will have a good helper when next he leaves stuff under the tree. If you are into boogeying, you may pick up some pointers here: Get on Down!

We are in a stretch of cool, clear days and I am on a diet.

Ogunquit and back

Two Lights

Following the departure of our young friends, we slipped away for a night in Ogunquit. Although the predictions were iffy, the rain held off and we had a brisk walk around Marginal Way, noting that the tourist season seemed to be starting early. The Post Road Tavern provided an excellent dinner, and the motel we stayed at (the Milestone) was very near the footbridge to the beach, a pleasant walk to a long, deserted strand.
On the way home, we detoured to Two Lights State Park, which is glorious, especially on a crisp day with a good wind blowing the surf into pounding froth. Lunch in Portland, and home.

Rain and Youth

After so much dry weather, we have buckets of rain. We also have two lads, who have been excellent, charming and very active. Today Jonas goes back to school. Owen has an insatiable desire for "pictures": family images, or better, videos, on the computer. No repetition is too much. And hockey on YouTube.

These days with the boys have been a treasure. On the other hand, we are off to Ogunquit for a night tomorrow.

Passages

Last night I had a dream about playing football. I never did it that well. Thinking about it, though, led me back through many years to my freshman year at Moorestown High School. I was the right end, and on offense I had either to block, or (only very seldom) to go out to receive a jump pass from Billy Laubenstein, our quarterback. The right tackle was Ricardo Sharpe, known as Tickle, and I had known him since fifth grade. In fifth grade, Tickle and I were the big fat boys, called upon by Grover Wearshing, lengendary Moorestown baseball coach and in his declining years our PE person, as captains of gym teams during the gym period. Only later did I come to believe that Mr. Wearshing was hoping for our improvement, and perhaps even respecting our prowess, rather than making fun of us. I'm not sure, still, and I'll not find out from Tickle. When I Googled him tonight, I found he had died in 2009, leaving a wife, three children, five grandchildren, six sisters, and more He spent his life in Moorestown, retiring several years ago from the Department of Public Works.
When we played together, as freshmen, on the right side of the offensive line, we would often be called upon to cross-block, when that call happened, Tickle would grin, because he loved to ambush the other team's defensive end. Tickle was bigger than I was, especially around the middle, but he had tiny ankles. When he got down in a lineman's stance, he was unique and uncoached. "You look like you're taking a craaap," said the assistant coach one day to him. But he made the block, always.
I grew up in a town that was integrated. Its history was Quaker, and I went to First Day School each Sunday for years. Tickle was black, as were others on our team, and that certainly did not matter at school, or when we were playing sports. But we lived in different parts of town. In fifth grade I did not understand what that meant, although by ninth grade I had an intimation. Things have changed, but not enough.