Jim Baumer's Blog, page 26

Keeping Both Hands on the Wheel

I’m no fan of our governor, Paul LePage. I guess most of you knew that. My dislike of our perpetually-angry governor is less about his politics (I find them abhorrent), and more about his lack of evolution as a human being.

I can’t recall if I ever shared my “three personal experiences” with Paul LePage story. Here’s one of them.

Back in the day when I was still rolling up my sleeves and doing yeoman’s duty in Maine’s workforce development community, I tried to reach out to the governor (back before he was the governor). He was at Marden’s and I was hoping the company might step-up and support our efforts to improve the skills of Maine’s workforce at the time by lending something tangible to the WorkReady program I was tasked to shepherd along.

Like he’s done countless times since becoming governor, he attacked me (on the phone), literally ranting and raving like a mad man, accusing me of not returning his phone calls. Actually, this was my first phone call to him on the matter at hand—inquiring about getting some Marden’s management and hiring decision-makers to come out and help with mock interviews. Instead, he continued his tirade, with me attempting to get a word in edgewise. Finally, I’d had enough and I said, “will you just shut up for a minute!” That stopped him in his tracks. Word to the wise, when dealing with a bully, you have to mirror their behavior to get noticed.

He finally calmed down, and we had a conversation where he promised me that he’d help us and grant me my request. He of course dropped the ball, and I had to start the process over again when he left the company to run for governor.

Tracking the current news cycle in Maine, I noticed that Mr. LePage is vetoing a ban on handheld devices (namely smartphones) while driving. Apparently, he thinks mandating that people focus on driving rather than everything else in the car amounts to “social engineering.” He even went on to say that cell phone use while behind the wheel is not as big an issue as putting on makeup or eating a sandwich. I’m guessing that like me, you’ve not seen anyone applying mascara or eating a foot-long sandwich while navigating Maine’s roadways. I am willing to bet a $20 bill that you’ve noticed a shitload of fellow travelers talking on their phones, however.

Eye-lining while driving.

I’ll make an assumption about our governor, based upon a similar trait possessed by someone I know who works for him. Mr. LePage doesn’t read much, or widely. He’s admitted that he doesn’t read newspapers. Even the masses who admit to not reading books will tell you that they occasionally read a magazine or newspaper.

Consequently, it’s unlikely that our governor (or any of his advisors) would have had any cause to read this provocative article via Treehugger, conflating that “cars are like guns.” The article takes data and research compiled by Tara Goddard, on drivers and their deadly tendencies relative to sharing the road with bicyclists and pedestrians.

That study, along with my own anecdotal observations raise concerns about our governor’s misguided priorities. I also believe that his own personal political ideology makes him blind to doing all that’s possible in keeping his constituents safe. So, on the personal front, I’ve noticed an alarming trend lately of drivers not yielding or stopping for pedestrians in crosswalks in the town where I live (Brunswick) as well as other places I have visited lately (Portland and Yarmouth). Stopping for walkers seems to be low on the list of priorities for drivers—lower than say, talking and texting while driving—both of these behaviors I’ve witnessed, as I was attempting to enter the crosswalk without being run over by them. I’ve never noted one of these drivers applying eye liner, or chomping on a Dagwood prior to nearly running me down.

Stopping for pedestrians in the crosswalk is the law in Maine.

If social engineering is what it takes to keep people from being killed on the highways and byways of our land—like our son was back in January—then I say, “bring it on!”

And btw Mr. LePage, while I think this is yet another case of you not knowing what the hell your talking about, I do agree that keeping” both hands on the wheel” isn’t a bad thing to practice while driving. You are wrong, however, with your assessment that technology will “solve the cellphone issue.” Technology is what continues exacerbating it.

Waiting and Listening

Mark was wise beyond his 33 years. Since he was killed in January, I’ve often reflected on his wisdom—where he gathered it from—and maybe more important, his ongoing commitment to cultivate it.

He reminded me time and time again of the efficacy of stepping back from something that I lacked perspective on. Often, this “thing” would be (at the time) a source of dissonance and more often than not, causing me to get tangled up in anger, frustration, and anxiety.

I believe that Mark’s daily discipline of meditation was teaching him the need (and importance) of creating space from those things that create emotional “white noise” in our lives. Sadly, I no longer get to bounce things his way. Maybe that’s why I’ve been finding myself getting “stuck” in spaces that I should know intellectually are not worth occupying.

Last week, I spent far too much of my time fixated on a moneymaking proposition that I recognize (now) isn’t a good fit. Not a get-rich-quick scheme—but a career maneuver that had me twisting towards something that I’m probably not really invested in. Instead of trusting my instincts, I rushed foolishly ahead and ran into a wall. After a couple of days given to beating myself up about it, I am now able to see some humor in it. I’m also reminded of the scene in Animal House, the one where Stork (played by Douglas Kenney) knocks down the drum major and leads the marching band off the parade route and down a dead-end alley.

That sound of the crunching slide trombones was me, last week.

In the midst of my own stupidity and lack of perspective, glimmers of light flicker. Seeing old high school classmates Saturday night was wonderful. It didn’t feel like 37 years had passed since we were marching across the high school football field gathering our diplomas. The kind words and hugs received made me realize that people care and that I am still tethered to many of my former classmates.

Kayaking out from Sebasco Harbor Resort on Sunday and the amazing scenery and wildlife-viewing offered up by Maine’s rocky coast was pretty damn close to being perfect.

On Monday I celebrated 35 years of marriage to the best partner I ever could have found to go through this life with.

A week later, I feel like I’ve righted the ship and managed to get it pointed in the right direction.

Finding the Bridge

Sleep and sleep patterns have always intrigued (and affected) me. As in, I don’t always sleep as soundly as some. Basically, I wake up in the middle of the night more often, than not. This has been especially true since Mark’s death.

Several years ago, new information about the history of sleep came across my desk and it helped me recognize that eight hours of uninterrupted sleep wasn’t necessarily the norm, at least until marketers seized upon another way to deepen their pockets—by pushing the idea, along with a host of sleep aids and other pharmaceuticals.

According to Roger Ekirch, a history professor at Virginia Tech, people slept in “shifts,” basically, or twice per night.

His research conducted over 16 years found that we didn’t always sleep in one eight-hour chunk, but instead, sleep came in two shorter periods, but over a longer range of night, with the range being about 12 hours long. He later wrote a book about it.

When I wake up and can’t fall back asleep, I get up, go downstairs and attend to some task for about an hour. Then, I get drowsy and often, go back to bed and sleep for 45 to 90 minutes. I generally wake up refreshed and ready for my day.

These nocturnal interludes between sleep shifts are when I discover interesting things, or do some quick research on something I’ve jotted down the previous day or prior week.

Last night, I got fixated on song structure and what constitutes a bridge in a song. For anyone not versed in songwriting or who may have never considered doing so, a bridge is basically that mechanism and tool in a songwriter’s arsenal that moves a song between the verse and chorus. Perhaps one of the best examples of this is found in the Beach Boys’ song, “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” penned by the amazing musical genius, Brian Wilson. The song, all 2:20 of its amazing pop glory, might be one of the top ten songs of all time, at least in terms of popular music. The song is also on Pet Sounds, one of rock’s top albums of all time.

The bridge in the song begins at the lyric, “maybe if we think and wish and hope…” (at 1:07).

The Beach Boys’ (Brian Wilson) masterpiece.

The song also reminded me of high school, when I’d say to Mary, “wouldn’t it be nice if we could be together all the time?” And of course that’s what ended up happening.

As I wrote to her in an email (I’ve started sending my wife occasional emails to capture a thought or idea during the day [or night] so that I don’t lose it),

What strikes me about the song, especially listening with fresh ears, is how this could have been us in high school, thinking, “wouldn’t it be nice” if we could be together all the time, and lo and behold, we got our wish.

  We crafted a life together, found happiness (and struggles), but we had a good life.

Then, “bang,” we have this “bridge” in our life that carries us out from Mark’s death to whatever is next.

  Anyways, probably too much for you at 6:00 in the morning or whenever you read this…

Life, like songs, are full of bridges. They help us transition to whatever’s next in our lives.

Let’s go out to this one, which ends with Robert Plant asking the question, “where’s that confounded bridge.”

 

On Tuesday, I Hit Some Tennis Balls

The last time I played tennis, Mark was three. That was 30 years ago. We were living in Chesterton, Indiana. One Saturday morning, Mary and I drove down to the public courts and hit the ball around for an hour or so.

Our brand of tennis back then was less about developing our games and more about finding a family activity that offered the adults some entertainment, while affording Mark the chance to romp around. The fenced-in nature of our venue wasn’t lost on us.

Like so many activities that drop away, life, parenthood, and moving back to Maine pushed tennis out of our lives. I’d eventually dust off my baseball glove and find out I could still pitch competitively. We sold our racquets.

In May, I saw a small ad in The Notes, a long-standing free weekly classified paper that I enjoy perusing whenever I pick it up. Foreside Fitness & Tennis in Falmouth was offering a 4-week Beginner’s Tennis Program in July.

Tuesday, I hit some tennis balls-Lesson#1.

At a certain stage in life, you discover that some fitness activities enhance having a quality life, and some just lead to injuries and frustration. The key to remaining active seems to lie in maximizing the former. Adding a bit of variety to your training now and then may even keep you fit as a fiddle—or in some proximity to being fit after 50.

I had contacted Coach Karen a few weeks after I cut out the ad and pinned it to my bulletin board in my office. I received an enthusiastic response back. No worries or obligation. She had a spot for me in the evening program if I wanted it.

Later, my part-time job went away. I emailed her and mentioned I no longer was working part-time and could I switch to the morning session? She emailed me back saying “yes,” and that “tennis was way better than work.” I’d never met her, but I liked her already.

Last week, I ran into Dick’s in Topsham to see if they had any tennis shoes. They had one pair of size 13s, and they happened to be made by Nike, always a good omen for me. I was committed to at least four weeks of tennis. I didn’t even need a racquet to start, as Karen said she had an extra one I could borrow.

I am preternaturally punctual. Often, I’m the first one showing up for whatever I’m attending—concerts, parties, a new job, funerals—tennis lessons are no different. Checking in at the desk, I learned my coach wasn’t even there, yet. I sat and read a pro tennis magazine. Sitting there, I realized that the last time I was in this building was in 2006. Mark was home after hitchhiking across the country and prior to his moving to Boston. He was working the front desk and we met one night after I got out of work to play racquetball.

A slight, athletic woman who looked like a tennis coach carrying a bag that was nearly as big as she was, headed for court #4 where we were supposed to be meeting. I entered the large fabricated metal part of the building that housed the tennis courts and introduced myself.

Five minutes ensued, while me and my fellow tennis newbies completed while the person at the desk processed payments. It was now time to hit some balls, at least I hoped we would.

Coach Karen introduced us, and we quickly said why we were there. Like me, most of the others had played some tennis, got away from the game, and decided now was a good time for a refresher.

After a quick overview, a review of grips, and her plan for the next four weeks, Karen had us line up at the center mark on the baseline and began sending soft shots over the net with the instruction for us to return it. It felt great making solid contact with the green ball that very first time, sending it spinning back over the net into the opposite service box, then sprinting back to the end of the line. We continued doing that for five minutes with all of us making some solid shots, while also mishitting a few into the net. We then paired up and practiced hitting some balls back and forth across the net on our half of the court for a bit. Fifteen minutes into our first lesson, the four of us were beginning to work up a lather. This was fun and it was also a workout.

Coach Karen showing us how it’s done.

The hour-long first lesson flew by. Instead of feeling like perhaps I’d made a mistake thinking I could play tennis again, I was disappointed when the hour came to an end.

Next week, we’ll learn the fine art of the backhand shot. At the end of our four weeks we’ll be ready to keep score and play some matches.

I just learned that there’s an app that marries tennis with technology, allowing you to find fellow tennis players in your area and invite them to play. Fitness, plus a social component might be why this study indicates there are substantial benefits associated with hitting a ball with a racquet.

I Fell Off My Paddleboard

According to this website, Stand up paddle boards (SUP) offer a fun, relaxing way to play on the water. With a minimum of gear, you can paddle ocean surf or placid lakes and rivers.

Paddle boarding delivers a full-body workout and thus has become a popular cross-training activity. And since you stand at your full height, you can enjoy unique views of everything from sea creatures to what’s on the horizon.

That might be the case. However, five minutes into the on-the-water portion of my Sunday foray into the sport, I was in the water, I’d lost my Solar Shield sunglasses, and thinking, “what the hell had I allowed Mrs. B. to talk me into?”

Stand Up Paddleboarding looks easy–it’s not!

We’d both discussed trying to get out and “do some new things” this summer. Like summers past, umpiring and once Mary returned to work—Saturday’s and Sundays often were “catch up around the house days.” Not too much new happening with the Baumers.

I’m not complaining about umpiring. Save for some reservations during my first week back on the field, baseball has been an adequate tonic for dealing with the loss of Mark. I say “adequate” because nothing—not even learning to walk on water if that was possible—will take away the deep emotional pain that we’re both feeling and will continue dealing with for a long, long time.

Sea Spray Kayaking & Paddleboarding in West Bath, offered a 3 ½ hour learn-to-paddleboard clinic on Sunday. We met up with their instructor, Scott, at Mailly Waterfront Park, in Bowdoinham. Being able to do this on a fairly mellow body of water, like the Cathance River, just 20 minutes from our house seemed like a no-brainer. It was convenient and of course, Mary thought it might be fun. I went along with it, knowing that I’ve never had much success standing on boards of any kind.

When Mark was younger, in his pre-teens and even into high school, he went through a skateboarding phase. I recall trying his board and feeling like I had little to no balance. While paddleboarding seems easy when you watch people doing it, so did surfing, while watching the surfers in Malibu when we were there in late April. I didn’t think I’d become a world-class surfer watching them.

I guess remaining forever young involves some measure of taking risks (short of injuring yourself).  When I was struggling to remain upright on my paddleboard, that sentiment eluded me. In fact, I got pissed and yelled at Mary, “thanks for signing us up for this.” I know, I can be a dick at times—what’s new?

We both managed to make it through the session. Mary actually enjoyed it. for me, fun was absent while I was tolerating being wet (and a bit embarrassed, if I was being totally honest), but today, I’m laughing about it, or at least not grimacing. And while I didn’t enjoy paddleboarding, Scott and Sea Spray were awesome. He’s a great guide for anyone trying something new. And his company seems to have thought about everything so that basically, all you have to do is show up at wherever they are putting one of their numerous clinics. Our group of fellow newbies were friendly and spirited.

I replaced my Solar Shield sunglasses for $19.95—another reason why these slip-over-your-glasses sun blockers are the best—and I’ve got some Monday morning blog fodder to post. Mary is even talking about wanting to go out with a friend who’s into paddleboarding. Going out with someone experienced and not so grumpy is probably a good thing.

Next Sunday we’re heading to Sebasco Harbor Resort for kayaking. I think this will go much better. Plus, it’s our anniversary weekend.

Oh, and tomorrow, I start a four-week beginner’s tennis program. Who knows, maybe I’ll be joining the senior circuit, soon!

Saturday and Moxie

In a land built on “the pitch,” not the baseball kind, but the one that marketing is known for, having your elevator speech ready to go is essential. Given that this is Moxie weekend in Lisbon Falls, the epicenter of Moxie’s universe, feel free to use some of these tips to frame your parade-viewing and other conversations while taking in the town’s sights and sounds. Before long, people will start coming to you as their resident “Moxie expert.”

Be on the lookout for the Moxie Horsemobile.

What is Moxie?

Moxie is an iconic soft drink. Invented by Augustin Thompson, a Maine native, who was living in Lowell, Mass. at the time, Moxie is the oldest, commercially-bottled soft drink in the U.S., being marketed and sold since 1884.

I’ve written two books about Moxie. There are a host of stories, some true, and some somewhat apocryphal.

For instance, back in 1982, the late Frank Anicetti, owner of Kennebec Fruit Co. (aka, the Moxie Store) sent out 13 post cards for a book signing he was hosting for Frank Potter. Potter, who at that time had written some of the quintessential books about Moxie, including The Moxie Mystique, managed to draw a a crowd that Anicetti claims (in an interview I did with him in 2008) was close to 500 people. While the actual number’s never been confirmed, it was a sizable turnout. The next year, Lisbon’s summer festival, Frontier Days, became the Moxie Festival and we’ve been at it in Lisbon Falls now for 35 years.

Where does Moxie get its distincty-different taste?

Moxie’s distinctive taste comes from Gentian Root, a medicinal herb.

Prior to the Food and Drug Act, which limited claims made about products, Moxie, then marketed as a “nerve food” was said to cure anything from blindness and paralysis, to the “loss of manhood,” making it America’s first Viagra.

Back to the marketing of Moxie, the brand’s chief spokesman during the 1950s was Red Sox star and Hall of Famer, Ted Williams, a huge fan of the soft drink. Maybe It was Moxie that helped Williams hit .406 in 1941, making him the last MLB hitter to bat over .400. That was 76 years ago!

I believe that Moxie’s staying power is first and foremost the result of one Frank Archer, a marketing genius. There are a host of items that collector’s treasure, developed by Archer, to market Moxie. Things like thermometers, a Moxie board game, the various signs featuring the “Moxie Boy,” and others.

While some of Moxie’s 20th century ambassadors like Archer, Williams, Potter, and Anicetti have passed from the stage, Moxie continues to confound critics. The brand, now back in New England where it belongs, has taken to social media and the digital landscape in marketing its magic to a whole new generation. You’ll see plenty of the younger set in Lisbon Falls today, interspersed with those of us who have known about Moxie’s magic for decades.

Enjoy the festival and parade!!

Cover Letter Writing

Mark was a content-creation machine. Just look at all the fucking stuff he’s posted on the feeds since 2006!! He puts most of us who call ourselves creatives (and writers) to shame.

I wrote about our last in-person visit with him. The week following that visit, we had this exchange via email about blogging and a post about creepy clowns that he liked.

I’m glad you are enjoying the Jeff Buckley book.

I liked your blogpost today. Have you ever thought of returning to the blog daily? I know you have a lot going on, but I really like what you wrote today. Especially the paragraph linking the governor to a creepy clown. I think sometimes you put pressure on yourself to create these fully formed blogposts of a certain length. If you were to do a daily blog again I think maybe you should abandon the notion of word count and focus on observing/saying one thing once a day. When you feel inspired to go long then definitely still go long. Maybe keep the same schedule of Tuesday and Friday to go long, but fill the other days with smaller things. Anyway, it’s just a thought.

  I hope the repairs are going well. 

Oh and here’s a neat tweak on cooking sweet potatoes that looks good: 

I’m not committing to any kind of schedule for blogging or anything else for that matter (at least remaining somewhat in charge, as is humanly possible in money-driven America), but I think I can blog more often, even if it’s following Mark’s prescription to riff on something observed or some other element of living.

Today, in addition to blogging, I’m intent on finishing a lengthy package for a freelance writing gig that matches much of what I’ve been doing for the past 10 years. No matter what kind of skills you have, however, there’s no guarantee you’ll get noticed.

I was thinking about that along with something that a Brown MFA colleague of Mark’s, Darren Angle, shared via Quora. Darren who I’d describe as a life coach for people who think life coaching is a crock of shit, uses this tagline describing what he does—I help people quit their jobs (and do work they love). Sign me up!!

Darren offered the most unique response to the Quora question, “What is important to include on [sic] a cover letter? Please read it now—do not pass Go until you do!

It was Darren’s reality-based advice that made me decide to change my own approach to cover letter writing. Why the hell not? What do I have to lose at this point—grief and loss, if anything is freeing and it helps you to feel like Teflon.

I’ve included my “new” cover letter that I plan to continue using. Key details like employer name and contact person have been redacted. My approach is the “getting real” method. Your own cover letter may likely contain something slightly different.

While preparing to post this, I was also reminded of Mark’s calls to agents. Oh Mark, you were a one-of-a-kind soul and I miss you each and every day (and all the moments in-between).

A real, live draft of my cover letter, with edits.

July 7, 2017

Monique Xxxx, Director of Xxxxxxxxx 

The Axxxx Fxxxxx

One Dxxxxx Cxxxxx, NW

Suite XXX

Washington, DC 20036-1133

Dear Monique,

Let me first dispense with the perfunctory types of things that most people include in any type of personal statement or introduction.

I have been a freelance writer/consultant for the past four years. I’ve supplemented my writing through a host of part-time endeavors; some of them have included project management, baseball umpiring (still doing this), and most recently, serving as a financial coordinator for a credit union.

Prior to this period of freelancing, I held several key, public-outfacing leadership positions requiring the kinds of communications skills you have detailed in your posting. Appropriate messaging and targeting specific audiences are thing I have considerable experience doing, as well as an intimacy with the nonprofit landscape.

My track record demonstrates success building partnerships and intentionally cultivating relationships with key stakeholders in a number of Maine communities. My statewide work as a community collaborator was recognized by Coastal Enterprises, Inc. (CEI) with one of their Annual Partnership Awards in 2011.

Here’s where this letter gets real:

On January 21, my 33-year-old son was killed while walking along Highway 90 in Florida’s Panhandle region. Mark was on a cross-country trek, mainly to raise awareness about climate change. He was an award-winning poet, a graduate of Brown’s MFA in Literary Arts program, and worked as a web content specialist for the university’s Science Library. His goal was to walk to the west coast while taking a six-month unpaid sabbatical from Brown. You may have read about his death as it was a national and international story. Just Google, “Mark Baumer.” This was Mark’s second walk across America. He completed his first one in 2010, in 81 days!

As you can imagine, this has been devastating for both my wife and I. But life doesn’t stop and let you off. Work and paying bills continues—we’re certainly not immune to that even in the midst of dealing with our grief and loss.

Mark was also a committed activist. I was proud of his commitment to the causes he believed in. This included putting himself at personal and financial risk when he was arrested protesting the manufacture of cluster bombs at Textron in Providence, RI. The company no longer manufactures these devastating weapons in the U.S.

In many ways, his death helps me refocus on what’s important and that’s another reason why your position is attractive—the Axxxx Fxxxx is engaged in work that matters and is making a difference. In fact, if Mark was still alive and I told him I was applying for this position, he’d say, “sounds like a good fit for you, dad.”

The role’s part-time nature fits well with the freelance assignments I currently have with two trade magazines each month. The commitment of 20 hours a week is an ideal commitment.

I am a storyteller at heart. I think that I understand the role of story and narrative and how to integrate these into the framework of an organization like yours, especially given my nonprofit background.

This role actually parallels one that I was contracted to fulfill back in 2012, working with Procter & Gamble (P&G), supporting their efforts in capturing the particulars of a unique pilot program they’d launched at their Auburn, Maine manufacturing facility. At the time, I was serving as the director of a statewide initiative called the Maine Business Leadership (Maine BLN) Network. This was a partnership with the Maine State Chamber of Commerce and affiliated with the USBLN, a national nonprofit that helps business drive performance by leveraging disability inclusion in the workplace.

P&G had arranged to have a team from Cornell University’s Institute on Employment and Disability compile a report capturing their efforts with a pilot project they’d initiated, documenting what worked and what didn’t. For some reason, this didn’t happen. Because of my role with Maine’s BLN and P&G being one of our partner employers—plus, they were aware that I was a writer—they convened a meeting to gauge my interest in developing a proposal to take over the project.

I developed and created A Report on Key Learnings, along with a toolkit for them. I also subcontracted with a filmmaker and delivered a video of their efforts. This was all part of a six-month project, one that demonstrates my ability to capture information and then, turn it into a narrative targeting a specific audience.

Not to be too maudlin, but Mark—who was immensely talented as a designer, handled the report’s layout. He often worked with me on various projects, including doing the layout and design for my publishing endeavors (I am also a small press publisher).

If I haven’t freaked you out or scared you off, I’d welcome the opportunity to discuss what I can bring to this position as a talented writer who has been able to produce specific outcomes and I’m confident that I can do the same for the Axxxx Fxxxx in developing messaging that promotes your community-wide solutions to specific issues.

In closing, may I direct you to my website? I have posted representative samples of my writing and there is a portfolio page, also, which provides a bit more narrative context for these selections. http://www.jimbaumer.com/

Respectfully,

James P. Baumer

All I can say is thank you, Mark, with gratitude to you, too, Darren!

Finishing the Walk

I haven’t thought a lot about Mark’s walk for a few months. That’s not to say that I haven’t thought about Mark. A day, nary an hour passes when I don’t think of him, especially when I see a picture of him somewhere in the house.

On Sunday, I was working the bases during a Twilight League game and I looked up and saw the moon, pre-dusk. I thought of a tune I’ve heard countless times by Xian rockers, The Violent Burning. The chorus line, “if you ever reach the moon before I do, wave goodbye.” I imagined Mark waving to me planted on the grass of a baseball infield. It was hard not to tear-up and hold it together. I had to because that’s just life—plus, “there’s no crying in baseball,” at least according to Tom Hanks.

Holidays without Mark are tough. Monday and Tuesday were rough days for Mary and me. They always will be.

Today, after completing my tasks for the day around noon and dreading waiting around ‘til tonight’s umpiring assignment, I dug out my 2017 Rand McNally Road Atlas. For some reason, I take comfort looking at the map of where Mark walked and then, projecting the potential route he would have taken west from where he was killed.

Since I haven’t been doing my post-Mark math for awhile, I didn’t realize that he likely would have been done with his walk in June. He would have probably have been home with us over the 4th, joining us as we did our first open water swim. We donned our wetsuits, but Mary went back in afterwards without hers so I’m guessing Mark would have been fun in just his swim trunks.

So if my calculations are right—using a fairly conservative 14 miles per day average for walking and plugging that  info into Google Maps, Mark would have likely have ended his walk on June 20 or June 21 on Day 250 or so, probably somewhere near where he completed the First Crossing back in 2010, at Santa Monica Beach. We hadn’t talked about those particulars prior to his death.

A stretch of road Mark might have crossed.

He’d probably have stopped to visit a few people before returning to Providence. He’d have been home to tend to matters at his house. And then we’d have coaxed him to come up to Maine for a visit and a feast worthy of the vegan superhero he was and a grand reunion at Woodward Cove.

Instead, I’m sitting here at my laptop, banging this out and feeling totally lost, like most afternoons. Then, I have to reel myself back in and get my shit organized to do a baseball game. Calling balls and strikes might be the best therapy I have right now.

That’s my summer, folks. It ain’t often pretty, but I’m just keeping it real.

 

Remembering Others

I’ve written tributes about people in my life who were special to me. I think it’s important to discharge our debts of gratitude personally, and in some cases, publicly. I’ve tried to walk that out in my own life.

Having written two books about Moxie, the distinctly-different regional soft drink that has developed a cult following in parts of my native New England, I know a bit about the elixir’s history. I also recognize that there have been figures in that history that were essential in keeping Moxie’s brand alive.

If your curiosity about Moxie’s been piqued, I’d point you to a couple of blog posts. This one about Sue Conroy is one I’d highly recommend. Sue got me excited about Moxie and forced me to dig into the drink’s past. And then if you think you are good at math, there’s nothing quite like a little Moxie math.

My second book (which captures much of the first one, now out-of-print) is still available.

If you live in Maine within the circulation of the Lewiston Sun-Journal, you’ll also find my feature story on the front page of the paper’s Sunday magazine b-section. It’s a tribute of sorts to Frank Anicetti, Mr. Moxie, or “the Mayor of Moxietown” as I dubbed him a few years back.

Tribute to Frank Anicetti/Lewiston Sun Journal

When you write a book about a subject, sometimes you grow tired of talking about it, time after time. With Moxie (I wrote my first book in 2008), I’d grown weary of rehashing the same story, over and over.

. I began thinking about him and his life. Perhaps the grief and loss associated with the death of my own son, Mark, softened me a bit towards Moxie and the abundant memories I had and countless conversations with Frank.

I’ve always enjoyed working with Mark Mogensen at the Sun-Journal. He is an editor’s editor. By that I mean that he always brings out the best in a writer and their story, at least that’s been my experience. I pitched him an idea about Moxie and Frank and he was game. I was pleased that he honored the space that I composed my tribute in, and save for a few minor changes, the story is virtually what I sent him.

I know I’ll miss seeing Frank this year. My habit of visiting him at his store the Friday afternoon of Moxie Fest weekend won’t take place.

As a writer, you should enjoy and savor what you write. I learned from my son, a beautiful writer that we should “write for ourselves, first.” I enjoyed this section of my story quite a bit:

Getting to know him [Frank] as well as I did over the course of the last decade, I learned that obtaining information about Moxie also entailed listening to the latest theory that Frank had on whatever subject he’d become interested in at the time. He was loquacious if he was anything. Holding court daily in his store, he might be waxing philosophical about UFOs, the Lincoln assassination or aspects of local town politics or gossip. I leaned to plan for an hour-long visit at least.

  Considering society’s instant-communication ways—we now have a president who blurts out whatever’s on his mind via Twitter—Frank was the anti-Twitter, and never really grasped the ways of social media in a world gone mad with it. Not being rushed allowed me to come to appreciate that he was first and foremost a storyteller. I’m sure his love of story is what forged our bond over the years.

I miss you Frank in all your uniquely, quirky (and even, irritating) ways. I’ll think about you this Moxie season and I’m grateful for your encouragement to take on Moxie and the need to update its canon just slightly, bringing it into the 21st century.

Death Don’t Have No Mercy

Some friends have heard my Jorma Kaukonen story. It was years ago when I was much younger and less well-versed about the personal effects of one particular song he covered frequently (don’t remember if he played it that night, or not).

Kaukonen was an idol of mine, a member of a personal shortlist of musicians that I’ve never grown tired of listening to, reading about, or contemplating their body of work. And in Kaukonen’s case, I’ve had the privilege of hearing him live, too.

My story centers on Raoul’s Roadside Attraction, a small, intimate club on Forest Avenue, the kind of place that was a bit larger than your living room, but not so big that the music and performer got lost in the space. “Intimate” comes to mind as a descriptor. It was likely 1989.

Old high school buddy Dave Craig (a name that is almost always associated with good music and good times in my life) and I were excited to catch Kaukonen’s solo show at Raoul’s. It was my first time seeing him. I think Dave had seen him (and probably Hot Tuna, his band) before.

I don’t remember all the particulars of the night other than prior than to the show, Kaukonen showed up and was standing in the back of the room, chatting with the sound man. We both noticed him. At that time of his life, he was still rock-star thin, with that lean angular build that came from lifting weights and slinging a guitar around for marathon electric shows that Hot Tuna were still putting on. On this night, however, it would be simply Kaukonen and his acoustic, which was an anticipated treat, in and of itself.

Dave said to me, “you should go up and talk to Jorma.” Not sure why he thought I should, but I was game. I figured I’d stammer something semi-coherent and he’d be polite and that would be it.

Instead, I went up, waited until he’d finished talking with the board engineer and turned my way. I introduced myself as a longtime fan. I mentioned I’d just started learning the guitar without much success.

While Kaukonen was obviously a shy and retiring person (probably until he got to know you), he was generous enough to share a few tips with me, including one that his brother, Peter, found success with—learn to play songs. I was grateful that he didn’t brush me off and actually treated me like a gracious human being is apt to do.

A huge influence on Kaukonen’s acoustic work and catalog of old blues tunes he has continued covering over the years was the Reverend Gary Davis. Davis, a blues and gospel singer who was in the prime of his career in the 1920s and 1930s, and early 1940s (the folk revival of the mid-1960s allowed a whole new generation of guitar players to discover his work, and led to Davis landing a slot at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965).

Davis’s “Death Don’t Have No Mercy” ended up on Hot Tuna, the self-titled debut record of what began as a duo of Kaukonen and Jefferson Airplane bandmate, Jack Casady. Hot Tuna was a way for the two to relax and perform music that wasn’t part of the Airplane’s arsenal.

I always loved the tune and the message, despite its dark and obvious reference about death’s sometimes sudden onset. Like so many songs that I listened to from Kaukonen dating back to my high school years, I never grew tired of hearing it.

In my current state of grief and loss, hearing the song played this morning on WMPG driving home from swimming at the Bath Y was interesting. I heard the first chords and the finger-picking style and immediately thought of Kaukonen, but could tell by the sound quality that it was an older original recording. While Kaukonen covered these blues standards true to their original manner, there were obvious variations, too.

First, check out this rare video of Davis playing it, and then, a live version of Kaukonen, from 1976.