Again on Bald Mountain

Ellie, Hannah, Margaret and Mark on Bald in Camden

Margaret has been looking for a job for so long and so fruitlessly, that I avoid the subject entirely when I talk to her.  Eliza said last week that Margaret had a "prospect" and I was hoping she would have good news for us when we met for the hike.  Her "kids" scooped her announcement, by giving us the news while she was out in the woods answering a call of nature.  She has a job, only an ed tech, but full-time and in the South Portland School District-- her top choice and an easy commute for her.  John and I were gratified to know that the contacts she made while substitute teaching were helpful in the interview process-- we had often assured her that this would be the case EVENTUALLY! but she was dubious.  She is in a special ed resource room and mandatory training starts on Monday.  

The kids were great and enjoyed the hike with virtually no whining.  They apparently found it very strange that I put small pieces of sweet gherkins in both the tuna and egg salad sandwiches but tolerated the oddity very well and made short work of the chocolate wafer cookies that we had for dessert.  They came up to our house after the hike and had ice cream before heading back to Yarmouth.  

The kids and Margaret on the trail-- a lot of work has been done to make a stony staircase.

I started listening to In One Person by John Irving but I HATED it and for the first time took advantage of Audible's offer to exchange titles.  The book was like an unpleasant return to John Wheelwright's family in A Prayer for Owen Meany:  the fatherless boy, the pretty mother, the strident aunt, the private prep school, the theme of amateur theatricals, the obsession with breasts, the great stepfather and in one case a good grandmother (PFOM) and in the other a good grandfather (IOP) but there was so much masturbation and transgender stuff that I found myself repelled by the whole thing.  So now I have Pillars of the Earth instead.  I read it years ago but since I liked Giants of the Earth so well, I am looking forward to the audio experience of POTE.  In the meantime I am enthralled with the audio version of Jonathan Franzen's Freedom.    I have read that in bound book form as well but we are doing it for the book club in September and I really couldn't remember much about it.

Volunteer Squash

Volunteer Squash 21 Verona Street

This is an acorn squash that came up from compost.  By chance it is in a reasonably good location although John's desire to have a perfect lawn gene is frustrated by not being able to mow.  Since much of the lawn is now brown and weedy, however, the squash is the least of it.  Behind it are two very nice volunteer tomatoes and there are more volunteers in the actual garden.  This is the first year that we have had a bountiful tomato crop-- I often say that I haven't had a decent tomato since my father died but this year we are approaching decent.  Nothing will ever be better than a tomato my father sliced for me with the same jackknife he had just used to take a sliver out of my foot. Marshall was a gentle expert at sliver extraction using a pocket knife and I was always brave about it.  This memorable tomato experience must have taken place when I was older than four because it was in the South Hill Jamaica house.  

On Monday I drove Chip Curry as he went knocking on doors.  I am not a devoted political volunteer but since I absolutely refuse to make phone calls (and do not think they are useful), I volunteer to drive when campaigns get underway.  Two years ago I drove for John Piotti and for Erin Herbig and it seemed like a good way to give more than lip service to my support.

Yesterday I finished listening to Gone Girl and finished reading Susan Hill's Pure of Heart.  Gone Girl seemed just brilliant to me-- witty and creatively plotted.  Some reviewers have felt it was uneven-- the first part better than the second (and just as many feeling that the book only picked up in the second part) but since I was listening to it, I never lost momentum.  Listening to a book is so very different from reading.  Because one is usually doing something else simultaneously-- in my case, sewing, gardening or cleaning-- my attention does not lag and if the action or writing slows down, I don't seem to notice it.  Pure of Heart is the second of five Simon Serailleur mysteries and because I discovered them through the donated books I read the fourth one first, third one second, fifth one third, etc.  So now I have started reading the first of the series and feel I need to reread all the rest.

Babs Whitaker: 19 August 1927 - 12 May 2012

Babs hated to have her picture taken-- this time she was caught unaware.  It is a beautiful picture of her in the living room in West Whately.  Babs was almost exactly twenty years older than I am and I met her when she was 43 years old.  Marshall brought her to see me where I was working at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Mental Health Center.  I had coffee with them in the cafeteria on the ground floor.  She moved to West Whately in the fall of 1973, shortly after I moved down from Hanover.  I had been reluctant to leave my widowed father on his own, so left my job at Dartmouth and took one at Hampshire College.  As it turned out, I needn't have worried but it was all for the best that I left the Upper Valley for the Pioneer Valley.  My romantic entanglements had no possible good ending so moving allowed things to taper off slowly.

Babs was one of the greatest cooks I have known.  Nearly forty years later I remember the first meal I had at her farmhouse up in Charlemont.  It was her pot roast with onions cooked in beer, mashed potatoes, peas and salad.  She loved to cook and entertain and it was only when she became nearly incapacitated in her final illness that she reluctantly gave up cooking for us when we visited.  Babs was a wonderful stepmother, a wonderful grandmother and a wonderful friend.  She was an over-indulgent mother, whose children did not benefit from that approach.   Babs and Marshall had a passionate relationship in their early years.  They were both enthusiastic travelers and did a great deal of gadding about, both in the U.S. and internationally.  Their marriage, after eleven years together, suggests that they had achieved an amicable and mostly stable companionship that lasted until he died in 1993.  Us "Smiths" were always grateful to her for loving Marshall-- he was not a man to live alone and none of us resented her in any way (although I think she sometimes thought we did!)

I knew Babs much longer than I knew my own mother.  I loved her and believe she loved me in return.

Finally! A long lovely rainy day.

My sister Tamar was here for a few days last week and we pulled out a box of memorabilia about my father.  I have been thinking about him since and because our latest genealogy group meeting was about scanning old pictures, I remembered the one below and pulled it out.

This is the observatory staff on Mt. Washington, circa 1946.  My father, Marshall Smith,  is second from the left, holding the cat.  I don't think he was ever without a cat in his adult life, except perhaps when he was working as a sailor in the merchant marine.  Vince Schaefer is in this picture as well.  Marshall made several trips to Central America on the S.S. Mayari, a United Fruit Company "banana boat".

S.S. Mayari

These trips sometimes ended in Boston and the sailors rapidly made their way to the nearest bar.  In the bar, after what turned out to be his last trip, Marshall met a man who said he had been working at the weather station on Mt. Washington, was on his leave days, and didn't intend to return.  He thought that if Marshall presented himself there, they might give him the job.  This is exactly what did happen.  Money that he earned up there enabled him to buy the farm in Pikes Falls where I was born.

Marshall told us two stories about his time on the mountain-- home of the "worst weather in the world".  In one case he was descending one of the Ravine's in winter-- perhaps Tuckermans.  He slipped and began sliding downhill over icy crusted snow.  He managed to turn himself onto his back and use his hands to guide himself between obstacles.  While he eventually was able to stop, his clothes were shredded and his leather gloves worn to nothing.  The other story made it into Nicholas Howe's book Not Without Peril.  This occurred on February 19, 1946.  Marshall descended to meet a new scientist who was climbing up.  Although the weather had been "exceptionally" fine, a sudden cold front came in and Marshall and Vernon Humphrey retreated a half mile to the 6 Mile Refuge.   The emergency food with which the refuge had been stocked was gone but there was a heater and a phone.  They contacted the summit and set up an hourly phone schedule of contact.  They were finally rescued about noon on the third day-- that is about 68 hours later.  Marshall told me that one of them had to be awake to make the hourly phone call for the entire time-- Nicholas Howe says "two men from the observatory arrived with hot tea and soup, then they escorted Vernon and Marshall the rest of the way to the summit and set a meal before them that was entirely adequate to their great need".

After days, no weeks, of little rain we have been rewarded  with a nice soaking one today.  Our Friendship Sampler "picnic" was held at a member's lakeside home in Palermo and everyone felt  blessed by the rainfall.  The number of people in the group was just perfect to fit in her large open kitchen, and we had a wonderful time drawing crayons for a "crayon challenge" and doing our usual show and tell.  After we broke for food (lots and lots of food!) (note to self:  buy that self hypnosis CD  for weight loss) we ended the day with a "UFO" swap and gales of  laughter.  Talk about making lemonade-- the fact that we couldn't spread out on the deck, the shore and in the water, made for togetherness and a day that we will remember with smiles.  

Smoked Salt

This is the pizza I made for dinner.  The crust was Portland Pie Wheat and John tortured it into fitting the pan-- there was cursing.  I brushed it with olive oil and layered on the potatoes (beautifully cut by my very simple Swiss mandoline).  I crushed five cloves of garlic together with Salish smoked salt, using my Alaskan cutter thing (an uloo?), sprinkled that over the potatoes and added chopped fresh rosemary.  It cooked about fifteen minutes and tasted great.

This is the first time I have used smoked salt.  John said that it smelled like the house was burning down.  From what I have read on the internet, smoked salt is very useful in dishes like vegetarian bean soup where the salt replaces the flavor meat might otherwise give.

It has been an adventuresome week foodwise.  I finally prepared fresh fava beans for the quinoa, roasted cauliflower and fava bean salad recommended by Martha Rose Shulman and I also baked four beautiful cippolini onions.  Last night I made a mushroom, green pea and basil risotto and I liked it much better than the tomato and eggplant one I made last week.

My day felt unproductive because I twice drove my neighbor, Wayne, on his errands.  Firstly I took him to the town hall because there was a mix-up with his tax bill-- something outlandish like their thinking he had land in Florida-- John and I both told him to stay calm about it but calm is not in his nature.  Then we had to make his customary round of Hannaford, Dollar Store, Key Bank and Jack's Grocery.  Fortunately I also dashed into Hannaford and mailed an Amazon book at the post office so I made the most of doing my good deed.  It occurs to me to wonder if I drive him because I am a nice and kind person or because I am unable to refuse.  But why should I refuse?  He has no car, poor health, few resources and the need to go places.  I have a car, enough money, "free" time and a desire to earn good karma.  That being said, I AM unable to refuse.  The other morning I was deep into the garden, wet from a drizzling rain and covered with dirt.  I said "I really don't want to stop and go uptown-- I would need to change my clothes, etc."  He responded, that I didn't even need to get out of the car.  As always he insisted that he "wouldn't hold me up"-- just wanted to go to Hannaford, etc.

R.I.P. John Humphrey

John T. Humphrey died 12 August 2012

This picture of John might have been taken 100 years ago-- he could easily pass for one of his own ancestors.  My memory of him is much less formal-- blue jeans and a sweater.   John was a sweet and gentle man and very capable both in his genealogical work and with his hands.  My husband, John Langhans, worked with John H. to make bookshelves for me at NGS and I remember that we once met him running on the bicycle path along the Potomac.  He was the same age as I and certainly seemed the picture of health and vitality.  It is my understanding that he had no warning of the stroke that would take his life.  While we lost touch after I left NGS and Arlington, I thought of him from time to time and was much saddened to learn of his unexpected death yesterday. 

My brother, Brian Smith: 1949 - 2004

An early picture of Brian with Lois - taken by Rebecca Lepkoff

Brian wall boarding the guest hosue at Tucker Hill Road Norwich

The last picture of Brian and Dereka together - June 2004

Brian with his two children - he was in his last days

Brian died eight years ago today and my heart still aches.  Life ends but love lasts forever.  

On the bicycle again, finally

Haven't ridden for weeks-- before Cold River Camp Joan and I were walking the trail along the lower reservoir in Belfast-- it is only two miles out and back but there are several short steep ups and downs.  Now we are planning a multi-day ride in northern Maine and I need to harden up my butt.  So today I did what John and I call "the classic".  It is about 21 miles, and goes Perkins, Woods, Route 52, Edgecomb, Tufts, Jesse Robbins, Pitcher, Poors Mill, Shepard, Head of Tide, Kaler, through Belfast and home on Route 1.  It is finally cooler today and I had no trouble with it.

Stopped in Belfast on my way home to take a look at the HMS Bounty, now visiting town.  The mist makes it look particularly wonderful-- it is a replica built in 1962 for a remake of the movie and is much larger than the original.  John and I thought of taking a tour but it was $10.00 each and we decided against it.  This misty picture is more evocative for me than trudging around the ship with a mob of people-- and it surely was a mob-- Belfast looks like Bar Harbor these days with the streets full of tourists.

This is the eggplant and tomato risotto I made for dinner-- actually this is what is leftover from what I made.  The recipe is from Martha Rose Shulman and the New York Times.  I am devoted to the gorgonzola and walnut one that I have been making so it is hard to adjust to something less kick ass but John and I agreed this was very good.  Not so beautiful, however-- for beauty it would be hard to do better than this salade nicoise made by Liz Fitzsimmons on Monday last.

A Day of Elvis

Under the auspices of Senior College, Neil Harkness presented an all day program on Elvis-- I was troubled lest I feel drowsy as I so often do at lectures but I needn't have worried this time-- between the songs, video clips and photos, I was riveted.  I was about 9 years old in 1956 when Elvis came into focus for me-- I often stopped at "Bunny" and "Ginger" Knight's home on South Hill on my way home from school, and there I could watch American Bandstand.  It was through bandstand that I learned his birthday-- January 8th-- and I thought of it every year thereafter, most particularly the year that my daughter Margaret was born on that same date-- Nothing that I planned, I hasten to add-- she was due to be born on March 15th!  Later I remember the teen trauma that surrounded his induction into the Army and the great romance with Priscilla Beaulieu.

I might have been hard pressed to list a dozen Elvis songs, so I astonished myself as I remembered the words of piece after piece-- it was like some kind of muscle memory-- the first few notes brought the memories flooding back.  Like my week at Cold River Camp, the experience was bittersweet, the years  fading away until I realized that I am now one of the "middle aged matrons" and blue-haired grandmothers" who formed his fan base in his last years.

I listened to one disc of Adam's Curse but decided that Sykes was providing more detail that I need so I switched to The Hypnotist's Lover.  Finally had a success with fava beans.  Got them fresh at Chase's Daily and followed the many steps necessary to get them ready for a salad.  Time consuming but as most people say, they were worth the trouble.

Catching Up - Again

Eliza and William in Belfast

Catching up not really possible...a week with Eliza, Michael and William here in Maine.  A week in Greenfield with Eliza and William.  A week at Cold River Camp with John and the Merritt/Langhans'.  A camera that under exposed all the pictures.

William at 85 Harrison Ave, Greenfield

The complete grandmother-- body and soul.  "Gaga" loves "Wilkie" and he loves her back.  Being around a nineteen month old changes everything but we had a very good week in Greenfield while Michael was in Maine teaching at the Maine Media Workshops.  William spent three days at his day care while I gallivanted around western Massachusetts and on the Saturday off we went to New Hampshire. 

In the meantime, John had a nice week in Maine eating the luscious raspberries on whose behalf we have been waging war on japanese beetles.  We seem to have been the victors in the struggle.

Despite my feeling that I had no time for myself recently I did manage to read a good number of books.  In my quest to read all of  Ruth Rendell/Barbara Vine, I listened to Asta's Book and reread A Sight for Sore Eyes".  That means I have read or reread 19 of her books (not counting any Inspector Wexford) and have about the same number left to read.  Rendell started publishing in 1965 and is going strong.  She has published a novel under each of her names in 2012 and a Wexford in 2011.


I also finished, finally, Dicken's Our Mutual Friend.  Thus far I have read eight of Dicken's major novels and have six to go.  I read three Susan Hill Simon Serailleur mysteries, and  Karin Slaughter's Fractured.  Climate seems to have a big effect on whether I like a book-- Karin Slaughter writes about Atlanta and her characters are always dripping sweat and chafing miserably in the heat.  Susan Hill's books are set in England where it is usually cold and rainy and I feel much more comfortable.

William was the youngest camper but not by much.  The camp was full of three generation families and that meant lots of children-- there was a just two, a nearly two and a four year old and lots and lots older.  I wanted desperately to hike the Baldface Circle but it was hot and humid every day and the 3-4 mile hikes we did seemed like plenty to me.  The Maine Chapter of the AMC plans a fall weekend at CRC and I will have a much better chance of making the hike in cooler weather.  John did it and was the oldest of the group--- he had no problem.

The hike I did not take

My hikes with Eliza and family were the Deer Hills, Mt. Crag, Blueberry, Black Top, Sabattus and the Deer Hill Spring.  CRC is unsettling to me-- Our first year there was 1982-- 30 years ago--  Eliza was not quite one, I was young and relatively slender.   Admittedly the chamber pots with which we were supplied in the first couple of years have disappeared, as have the old fashioned bowl and pitcher washing sets, but otherwise CRC has changed little in the intervening years-- the lodge, the dining hall, the bathrooms, and the cabins are much the same.  Now I am stout and matronly and fit nicely into the group of grandmothers sitting on the porch knitting-- the passage of years is tough to take.

Perhaps it was a desperate grab for youth that made me participate in a contest to guess the number of items in this candy jar.  My guess of 213 was the nearest to the correct count of 217 and the booty was mine.  Another highlight of the week-- thankfully there are no pictures-- were my several trips down the rock slides in the Cold River.  I had done it years ago but the river is aptly named and I was certain that my days of sliding were long gone-- seized by reckless impulse, however,I plopped in with my clothes on and had a wonderful half hour.

William's idea of a toy is an iPhone, an iPad, an iPod, a camera or my headlight-- any of which he invariably prefers to the kind of toy tractor visibly neglected on the porch behind him.  Of great interest to me is that he clearly understands the different purposes for which those items are used-- never confuses a camera with a phone for example, or a phone with a remote.  He can activate the iPad, swipe to unlock and select a game icon flawlessly-- and he knows how to go to the Netflix icon and watch a video to his taste.  Scary.