Coyotes at Christmas - December 25, 2007

"The strength of the wolf is in the pack." - Rudyard Kipling

"And the strength of the coyote is in the cocoa." - Daktari Mark

Calling the Coyotes for Christmas – December 25, 2007

It’s been a typical Jewish Christmas in Amesbury. The Powow River is frozen solid and the hills snow-covered. Rena and I go skating on the river in the morning and then off to see Juno, the movie, with our friends Carol and Katie. Very good flick! Afterwards we try a new Chinese restaurant in Topsfield. We have the restaurant all to ourselves! There aren’t many Jews in Topsfield, it seems.

Back at home Rena settles in with her crocheting to watch the Country Music Channel. “Where’s the adventure in that?” I think to myself. The nearly full moon rises over the white fields and sparkles off Lake Gardner. “Ah,” I think. “The Call of the Wild.”

I phone my good neighbor, Bruce. “Looks like a good night for an adventure. What do you think?”

“I’m way cool with that,” says Bruce. “Whazzup?”
(Bruce works from home. Too much jazz on the internet has affected his speech.)

I explain to Bruce that I was at the Whistling Kettle yesterday and Dean the pool guy was there. He was taking a break from snow-plowing. The breakfast conversation turned to coyotes. Dean claims the best way to find coyotes is to go out in the boonies and set off your car alarm for one minute. When you shut it off, all the coyotes for miles around will be howling. Then drive to where you think they are and repeat the process as necessary until you locate the pack.

“Count me in,” says Bruce.

We assemble at Bruce’s house. Bruce, Bruce’s son Luke and myself with the two dogs Panna and Brixton and our respective collections of coyote gear. I carry the binoculars and wear the official decoy hat. Bruce has a stout cudgel, rope, flashlight and camera. Luke thinks we are way over the top and settles for dog leashes and a Petzl with red filter for night vision. We are ready for whole packs of coyotes. If this were Transylvania, we could probably even take on werewolves or charge Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. But that, as they say, is another story.

We get in Bruce’s 4-WD Cherokee (the only vehicle with an alarm) and head out. Our ears are pricked and our tails (for those who have them) are wagging. As we head east on S. Hampton Road we pass a darkened cruiser parked at Syvinski’s farm, trolling for speeders and scoff-laws. Collectively we entertain the same thought at the same time: If coyotes can hear the car alarm, then so can Officer Krupke!
”What would you call our crime exactly,” asks Bruce.
“How about disturbing the peace on Christmas night,” I opine.
“Groovy,” says Bruce. On the way to Battis farm we rehearse our cover story:
“OK, when I went to unlock the car I pushed the panic button by mistake and the keys fell in the snow. We all had to hunt through the snow to find the keys,” says Bruce.
“Groovy,” I reply.
“Incidently, Mark, you should ditch the wolf hat, if we see the cruiser,” says Luke.
“Even Officer Krupke might tumble to that one!” I agree.

We stop the car and get out. Clear and cold with no wind at all and not another car in sight.
“Plunk your magic twanger, froggy.” Boiing-oing-oing.
Bruce presses the panic button for as long as he dares. In the dead silence that follows, we hear nary a coyote. We try again with a longer blast of the alarm.

“Maybe, it’s the wrong type of alarm,” I say. “Let’s go see if Officer Krupke will let us use his siren.”
I am outvoted 2 to 1. It would be better, we decide, to beard the wild coyote in her den.

We start hiking up Po Hill – at 331 feet above sea-level it’s the tallest hill in Amesbury. We tramp through the packed snow to the top. What a marvelous panorama – the great sweep of Atlantic shore from Cape Ann in the South to Mt. Agamenticus in the North. 'All is calm, all is bright.' Not one coyote yip intrudes on our silent night The stars in the sky look down where we lay, resting for the return tramp through the woods. The moon, herself, lights our way back to Bruce’s for a Rob Roy. Exertion and alcohol commingle nicely. Peaceful and pooped after a long day, I too will be soon be 'away in the manger asleep in the hay'. Peace on earth, goodwill to men -- and good night Officer Krupke, wherever you are!

On Another Hand - Connecticut Road Trip Dec 14, 2007

ON ANOTHER HAND – DECEMBER 14, 2007

Last week’s blog recounted an adventure with the 1000 year old hand of St. Stephen.
Little did I realize that another old hand would become fodder for this week’s blog!
Unfortunately I forgot to take photos! Read on MacDuff –

We are driving to New Haven in Ali & Chris’ 1998 Subaru Forester. I prefer a less antiquated set of wheels myself. However, the last time the kids visited Amesbury their Forester was acting up so we swapped cars.

Now the Subaru has a new water pump, timing belt and thermostat – (Happy Hanukah, Chris and Ali) – and Rena and I are delivering it back to them. Knowing something about 1.) bad cars and 2.) winter travel, I stop at the NAPA store on the way out of town to pick up a jug of windshield fluid and a gallon of pre-mix anti-freeze. The jumper cables, rope, baling wire and trusty roll of duck tape are already in the way-back.

Sure enough, we are just across the Connecticut border when a casual glance at the dashboard reveals trouble. Rena and I are going South in the Subaru on I-84 but the needle on the water temperature gauge is going North faster than Santa heading for home after a hard night. In about 5 seconds it pegs out in the red zone!

“Holy Thermometer, Batman!” I yell to my life partner as I careen across the highway, coming to a stop in the breakdown lane. As I switch on the emergency blinkers, I think to myself, “It’s time for another travel adventure.”

Rena is not too keen on this particular type of travel adventure. “I knew this was a bad idea,” she mutters as wisps of steam emerge from under the hood and the sweet, burnt-sugar smell of propylene glycol wafts gently through the open window. While the engine cools, Rena lets off steam by crocheting faster and faster.

“Buck up, sweetie,” I say, cautiously eyeing her speeding crochet hook. “Remember the movie ‘Apollo 13’ – they thought they were goners, too.”

“But they had Ed Harris at mission control in Houston,” wails Rena.

“True,” I respond. “But don’t forget that I have anti-freeze, duck tape and 20 years of listening to Click and Clack on the radio.” Rena groans. Why am I not inspiring confidence here? O ye of little faith!

I switch off the engine and turn the key to ‘accessories’. I turn on the heater & the fan & the A/C full-blast to cool the engine. Then I pop the hood on the gently steaming Subaru. Anti-freeze is everywhere except in the radiator where it belongs.

“It just needs some anti-freeze,” I call reassuringly to my crotchety, crocheting co-pilot. (Best not to alarm the passengers.)

While the engine cools, I meditate on the treachery of radiator caps and the physics of steam under great pressure. With trepidation, I don an insulated ski glove and lean my full weight on the heel of my hand, as I slowly un-screw the radiator cap. No burst of super-heated steam emerges! A quick fill-up of Prestone and we’re back on the highway.

We make it about three miles to Exit 71, coasting down the exit ramp and gliding to a stop as the temperature gauge pegs red once again. Lucky for us, we have arrived at a classic gas station owned by the three Canestrari brothers.

I explain the situation to the eldest brother, “Lefty”. (not his real first name) He listens to my tale of woe, opens the hood and gives the engine compartment a long, hard look. “Don’t know if I can help you folks,” Lefty opines. The steam from the radiator has barely dissipated. Deftly, Lefty palms the radiator cap and whips it off!

“OK fire it up,” orders Lefty. I start the engine. Sickly fluorescent green coolant bubbles up from the radiator’s core and pulses out the fill pipe. Quick as lightning, Lefty covers the open radiator pipe with his bare left hand and pushes down hard. Coolant squeezes around the edges of his palm. “OK shut her down,” he says.

I rush forward expecting to treat second-degree burns. Lefty is shaking his head slowly as he wipes his intact hand with the traditional greasy rag. “Nope, can’t help you,” says Lefty laconically. “Blown head gasket.”

“How can you tell?” I inquire.

“Coolant pressure much too high,” explains Lefty. “Gotta be a blown gasket.”

(Later, I figure out that high-pressure cylinder gas is escaping through the blown gasket and pressurizing the coolant in the water jacket. That pressure was what Crusty was feeling when he sealed off the radiator with his bare hand.)

“What’ll we do?” I ask.

“Plan A is get towed to the Subaru dealership in Vernon,” says Lefty.

“And what’s Plan B?” I inquire.

“Do you have fire insurance on this heap?” asks Lefty.

Being a true adventurer, I select Plan B, although not without more mutinous mutterings from the crew. “Come on,” I say. “It’s only 12 miles. We’ll keep her under 2000 RPM and I’ll watch the gauge like a hawk.”

It takes the better part of an hour and three stops for overheating to make it to the dealership using Plan B. Rena and I while away the hour discussing what items to grab while exiting the Subaru in case of fire. I’m down to my last pint of Prestone and Rena is half done with the afghan by the time we coast into Suburban Subaru in Vernon. But we’ve made it. The Eagle has Landed!

After about 90 minutes of computer analysis, engine scanning, and compression testing the consensus at Suburban Subaru is that we do indeed have a blown head gasket. However, I credit the correct diagnosis to the experienced left hand of our savior, ‘Lefty’ Canestrari. For me, it was the greatest left-hand maneuver since Diego Maradona’s “Hand of God” soccer goal against England in the quarter-finals of the 1986 World Cup. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hand_of_God_goal)
But that, as they say, is another story.

Daktari

The Holy Right Hand of Hungary - August 23, 2001

St. Stephen's Interior _______________________The Holy Right Hand

August 23, 2001 – The Basilica of the Holy Right Hand

After a short 2 1/2 hour flight Rena, Bernadette and I land at Ferency Airport in Hungary. Our captain, Nigel, is a bit eccentric. “We are now entering our final approach. I’ll just dangle the Dunlops. There we go. Now we’ll just put out the cat, land the plane and we’re there. You’re certain you want to go to Budapest are you?” This expostulation is accompanied by angry cat noises from the overhead speakers.

Our luggage arrives safely and we change our dollars for forints at the airport. Our cab driver, a reliable looking older Magyar with the unlikely name of Barney Farkas, gets us to the Hotel K + K Opera by noon. Unfortunately the room won’t be ready until 3 PM so we decide to take a hike round the town.

We walk just one block from the Opera to St. Stephen’s Basilica. Ol’ Steve was the first Christian King of Hungary and his actual hand is on display inside the basilica! On special days they parade it around town. This isn’t one of them so we are forced to go inside the cathedral. Generally, I am not big on going inside cathedrals. ‘You’ve seen one you’ve seen ‘em all,’ sort of thing. But since my first name is Steven and therefore he is my patron saint, I figure it’s a must see. We enter the cathedral.

The interior is your usual – high ornate ceilings, bad heat and lots of gilt (spelled without the ‘u’ between the ‘g’ and the ‘i’). Being the first Christian king of the Magyars qualified Stephen for Sainthood in the year 1083 CE. That was a long time ago and most of St. Stephen’s saintly remains have disappeared during succeeding centuries due to high demand from the ever-popular market in stolen Saint body-parts. (The sacred relics market has quieted down recently but during Medieval times it was bigger than Ebay.) Anyway, all that’s left of St. Stephen is his severed and pickled right hand which is preserved in the Basilica. Amazingly you don’t pay a single forint to see the famous fist! It has It’s own little gold dollhouse covered with frescoes, naked babies with wings and other catholic chazerai. Inside is the hallowed hand, which is shriveled, brown and rather small. I figure good King Stephen’s hat size couldn’t have been much either.

I will now write 100 times – “ I will not go into another cathedral again”. Sorry not my thing.

After shaking the dust of centuries from our Reebok’s, we exit St. Stephen’s and stroll through a small plaza. Here a visiting oompah band from Poland is playing polka’s while an authentic Hungarian mental patient beats time on the garbage cans with a couple of sticks.

Nearby we encounter the statue of “Anonymous”. He was the famous Hungarian philosopher and advisor to King Stephen (his left-hand man so-to-speak). “Anonymous” remained anonymous his whole life. Consequently he has no cathedral, basilica, chapel, boat-dock or other significant edifice to his memory anywhere in Hungary except the appropriately nondescript and obscure statue to him near St. Stephen’s church. What a find! We hurry back to the hotel through smallish spritzles of rain to take possession of our cozy hotel room for a nap and a shower.

For dinner we go to a restaurant in Pest which features a gypsy band playing violins, accordions, hammer dulcimer, a musical saw and other implements of the gypsy armamentarium. While they saw away at Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody #2, we saw away at paprika chicken, spatzles, and wild forest mushrooms. Yumm!. My favorite is the strudel sampler for dessert. We eat so much we decide to walk home, only to be caught in a Magyar downpour. The three of us escape to the shelter of the subway and are pleasantly surprised to find that music is indeed ubiquitous in Budapest. Gypsies again - only this time they are playing old Country and Western hits under the city streets. “The Tennessee Waltz” and “I Walk the Line” arranged for violin and accordion - most unusual. We catch a passing cab back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep.

Daktari

WORLD AIDS DAY - December 1, 2007

Samantha Gets Wrapped

AFA President Li in Kenya garb

Saturday was World AIDS Day and I was attending a course in “Fundamentals of Grant Writing” at North Essex Community College with my young friend Samantha.
That’s Sam getting wrapped in a Kanga during an opening day ceremony at the new Bailey/Whaley Health Clinic in Esabalu, Kenya. Sam turns 21 this week and last year she and her friends raised over $8000 to buy school uniforms for 400 AIDS orphans in Amesbury’s sister village of Esabalu. Then last January, Samantha, Jackie, Colleen and the others distributed the uniforms at three primary schools in Esabalu and at the Ebukuya Deaf School, where many of Esabalu’s deaf children attend special school. Even though primary education is free in Kenya, a child can’t attend if she doesn’t have a uniform to wear. Imagine what life would be like if you were that child with no parents. Every day you see the other kids on their way to school. How lonely and hopeless you feel. What can life possibly bring for you? Sam & Friends are changing lives from hopeless to hopeful one kid at a time.

“Hi Mark,” said Sam as we seated ourselves in the NECCO College classroom. “I brought you a present.” And she handed me an AIDS pin – made in Kenya by our friends in Esabalu. That flashed me back to January of 2007 when she and I and 13 other members of Amesbury for Africa were visiting Esabalu. So here is my story for AIDS Day 2007.

***************************


Through an organization called Sister Cities International our small town of Amesbury, Massachusetts (pop. 13,000) has been linked to the small farming community of Esabalu in Western Kenya since 1987. For the last 20 years New England Yankees have been exchanging home visits with Abaluhyia farmers in Esabalu and their husbands. Our visits are usually 2-4 weeks and promote individual friendship and cross-cultural understanding. We call this rather unique relationship “a friendship-based development partnership.”

Last January 15 of us including Sam and Amesbury for Africa President Li were in Esabalu at the opening of the new health center. Before the speeches, singing and dancing, Li and I were chatting and a woman of perhaps 40 years old approached. She looked me in the eye and addressed us in very good English.

“You don’t remember me do you?” she inquired.

I looked at her closely and all of a sudden I saw something familiar. “Nancy, is it you?” I flashed back even further to 18 months earlier – June 2005

It was my first visit to Esabalu in a year and I was spending my first two days visiting all the compounds where a family member had died. People of Esabalu bury their dead in the yards of their home compounds (shambas) and not in cemeteries. That way the deceased are still part of the family. Visitors stop first at the graves of the newly dead for half a minute to pay respects, before they move on to the front door and greet the living.

So I walked with some friends from shamba to shamba looking at fresh graves and having sad thoughts. It was painful to do it but very bad manners not to make these obligatory visits. There were so many calls to pay because of AIDS. People in the rural villages like Esabalu knew that there was now treatment for the disease but no one knew anyone who had received it yet.

Nancy Otwoma was still among the living but just barely. Nancy had been one of the founding members of the Esabalu Health group back in 1991. She was so energetic with loads of enthusiasm and had become a trained community health worker. Now it took two people to get Nancy out of her bed in the morning. She was short of breath with slight exertions. Her smile was as bright as ever but the rest of her was melting away. The HIV virus had changed her from a fat jolly sparkplug to a thin weak skeleton.

I thought at that time that this was the last time I would ever see Nancy. Before returning to the states, I left a card and some money with the family for the funeral. And now here she was greeting me at the dedication of the Health Center which had been her dream since she started the Health Group so many years ago. We hugged and laughed. “Mlembe mno, mno, mno, mno, mno,” is what you say in Kiluhyia. “Greetings again, again, again,again” We said it over and over.

It seems that shortly after I said my last goodby to Nancy in 2005, the Global Fund and the Gates Foundation in cooperation with the Govt. of Kenya had established a network of 400+ clinics in hospitals all over the country to diagnose and treat victims of HIV for free! Nancy had been one of the first. It was truly a miracle! Now thanks to their efforts everyone is under treatment at one of three hospital clinics near the village. More people know their HIV status then ever before and the rate of new infections is below 1% per year. Kenya is one of the 10 hardest hit countries in the world which are being targeted to roll out these programs for getting control of this horrible tragic epidemic. Fewer orphans, not more uniforms is the real solution to HIV!

So on this, the 20th World AIDS Day, I give thanks every night for Bill and Melinda and their family members; also for Bono, Nelson Mandela and Bill Clinton. They have brought new life to my friend Nancy Otwoma. Thanks also to Samantha, Colleen, Jackie, Irene, Annette and the Amesbury High School Interact Club for providing AIDS orphans in Esabalu with a uniform and hope for the future. Best wishes on World AIDS day,

Daktari

To see more about Esabalu go to the Internet at www.amesburyforafrica.org

Shark Bait - Gans Bae, S. Africa - Aug 13, 2007

Bye, Bye Tuna - Hello Jaws

Survived the Dive!

Hi everyone,

No travel this week. Stayed home and finished the turkey instead. I thought from time to time it might be fun to re-cycle some past travel yarns. Here's one from South Africa last summer (their winter).

DAKTARI

FEAR FACTOR PART II: SHARK BAIT!
The largest predators in Africa are not the lions of the Serengeti. They’re the great white sharks of Gans Bay, South Africa. Rafe from Rio, Colleen from Newburyport and I are shivering with cold and anticipation as we wait to be picked up at 5:30 AM to go cage-diving with the Great Whites. Nobody slept very well last night. What am I doing this for? Just nuts is all I can figure.
Klara from the Big Apple and spouse Rena will get up late and take their “shark money” and go shopping. Sure sounds good to me!
The White Shark Adventure van pulls up. This is it. We drive to Shark HQ where a hot breakfast awaits. I hope the sharks are having a good breakfast too. Maybe they won’t show up today! This must be how gentlemen of the last century felt while waiting in the morning mist for a duel to begin. It’s early, it’s surreal and it’s scary.
We embark on “The White Pointer” – a 55 foot specially outfitted shark hunting boat. It’s a 45 minute ride through rough seas to the set-up point. The cage is lowered into the water. Tuna heads are attached to ropes as we attempt to imitate a smelly dead seal. Six of us suit up and clamber one at a time down into the cage. “It’s a tourist six pack,” I think to myself. We wait for the sharks. In addition to the wetsuit, I’m wearing a weight belt and a snorkel mask.
“Here he comes,” the dive master announces. I let the weights drag me under and breathe through my snorkel. The biggest creature I’ve ever seen cruises slowly by. Gotta be less than a yard away! It’s big, it’s toothy and it’s grinning right at me. “Do prey pray?” I wonder. Philosophy is interrupted as a wave swamps my snorkel and my left lung exchanges a bubble of air for a mouthful of water. Gagging and coughing I claw my way to the surface. But the lure of the great white is on me – I submerge again. In twenty minutes I see two more great whites. The last is bigger than our dive cage. I decide to call it quits.
I stagger out of the cage, grinning and high-fiving. Suddenly it’s too much – I jump to the rail for a quick puke over the side. I don’t feel nauseated or seasick. Just way too much adrenaline. Afterward I’m cold shivers all over and my knees shake.
Rafe goes in group #2 and stays in the longest- about 45 minutes. Colleen suits up but after seeing me grinning and puking simultaneously, she decides to unzip. I must be a scary sight! Only 9 out of 17 adventurers actually make it into the cage. And nobody wants seconds!
The wind picks up and the boat ride back is incredibly rough. One particular giant wave bounces Rafe off his seat and onto the deck. Ouch! A hot spaghetti dinner is waiting for us at Shark Headquarters. Surprisingly I’m starving and eat everything in sight. The van takes us back while the monkeys get married (in South Africa they say that whenever sun is followed by rain and a nice rainbow – in Brazil they say the widows are getting married. Same weather but different nuptials.) Tomorrow an even scarier challenge awaits – driving a rental car on the left hand side. Are we having fun yet?

Thanksgiving - Mount Vernon, Maine - November 22, 2007

Kirstin, Courtney, Zaire & Andy watching TV

Zaire trys an oyster!

Our traditional Thanksgiving is in Mount Vernon, Maine. The food is great and the company is always interesting. This year we had three families. Our hosts were Bob and Vicki joined by their daughter Anna and new son-in-law Mike. Mike’s parents, Evgeny and Svetlana, and sister, Anna, were with them. Mike is the youngest and his family escaped from Russia when Mike was about 6. So half the table spoke Russian and the other half English. Anna’s Mom (Bob’s ex-wife Barbra) rounded out the set. This was the first time that Bob and Vicki invited his ex- and it seemed to go OK. Families these days make strange bedfellows. Or maybe it’s, ‘bedfellows make strange families’. Or could be ‘bedfellows make estranged families.’ Somehow it all works out.

The other guests were Andy and Jan and Jan’s daughter Jill with her husband Tim. Jill and Tim have just gotten pregnant for the first time and are a very happy pair. Andy always brings the Cherrystones and P.E.I. oysters which he shucks for appetizers. A few of those and a little bubbly sets up the feast nicely. (see above)


Finally there was our little group – Rena, myself and Courtney with her sister Kirstin and daughter Zaire. Courtney is like a daughter to us and has been part of our family since age 8 when she first came to stay for 2 weeks as a fresh air kid from Roxbury. That’s them in the photo-- sacked out on Bob’s couch watching their traditional post-prandial movie. This year it was ‘Ratatouille’, a pixar animation about rats cooking the meals at a fancy Parisian restaurant. We coulda’ used a few rats doing prep work in Bob’s kitchen! Or at the very least washing the dishes.


Bob is a great cook. He does everything from scratch. Example: making squash soup. Step 1 – Boil the chicken to make stock. Step 2- Saute the seeds and strings from the butternut squash in a stick and a half of butter. Step 3- strain the butter and throw away the strings and seeds. (which are just for flavor). Step 4, 5, etc …… Who else has the patience for this kind of cooking? After dinner we talked about how Bob and Vicki should retire from the newspaper business and open a restaurant in their barn. The food is really that good!


On the way home, poor Rena hit a deer with her new Suzuki. I wasn’t in the car. I was driving Zaire with the leftovers and the folding chairs in the old Pontiac. Rena was behind us and was only going about 30 MPH when the deer jumped in front of her car. Everyone was OK, the Suzuki was drive-able and nobody wanted to stop and see how the deer made out. It’s hunting season and according to Maine’s road-kill laws we get to keep the carcass. But not tonight deer! After dodging bullets all month, the poor critter gets run over by a carload of vegetarians. A definite case of bad deer karma. Best to leave well enough alone! Perhaps in a past life she/he/it was a Maine hunter. In that case, would he/she/it be caught in a karmic loop from hunter to hunted and back endlessly? Maybe Maine needs an experienced karma-kanic to sort out various repercussions of deer-hunting on the astral plane. I know Rena has a Suzuki that could use one to repair its front bumper.


Anyway, I wish good Karma to all those who read this blog and Happy Thanksgiving too! That’s all for now,
Daktari

Ogunquit, Maine November 17, 2007

Me and the Great Pumpkin

Rena at the Rockmere Lodge

Hi everyone. This is my first blog.
Hope you enjoy it!
Daktari

Ogunquit is the southernmost resort area on the Maine Coast with a significant sand beach. It's just 37 miles from our Amesbury, Massachusetts home but still qualifies as a target for a getaway weekend.


In the second week of August, Ogunquit is known to locals like us as "the Canadian Riviera". In sunny weather, bare chested French Canadian males stalk the shore in black speedos while their wives and girlfriends herd shoals of shivering 'enfants' into the waves. The water is very shallow, relatively warm and the sand is so soft it squeeks! Ici parlez Francais!


But in the second week of November, Rena and I are just thankful that the sun is shining and it's not snowing. It's only 40 degrees F. and the surf sparkles under a sky of crystal blue. Our destination is the Rockmere Lodge - a gambrel Victorian home converted to a delightful and quirky bed and breakfast by our hosts Doug and Andy. The place is chock-a-block with bric-a-brac. Even Queen Victoria would be amused!


Our room is the 'Anne Marie' decorated in yellow, green and salmon wallpaper with creamy French provincial furniture. Opening the door for the first time I exclaim, "Wow this is so ....." And I halt, at a loss for words.
"Over the top?" supplies Rena.
"That too!" I reply. " But you really gotta love a getaway retreat where even the wallpaper is busier than you are."


The Rockmere is situated on a beautiful walkway called the Marginal Way that hugs the rockbound coast for about 2 miles. Before dinner we stroll along it, taking in the sights and smells. Very bracing. We dine nearby at the Five-o Restaurant and then check out the Marginal Way by moonlight until our noses and toes are frozes. There's no fireplace or hot tub in the 'Anne Marie' but the room is as quiet as the wallpaper is loud, so we sleep exceptionally soundly.


The next morning, the sea air gives us an appetite and Andy and Doug give us fresh fruit, vanilla pancakes with cranberry marmalade and homemade blueberry muffin-ettes with unsalted local butter. Yummy!


A gentle post-prandial stroll takes us to downtown. Downtown Ogunquit is small and features friendly natives, scattered off-season tourists and a leftover display of very large Halloween pumpkins. I sit down with the largest - the so called Great Pumpkin - and wish for world peace and a hot cup of coffee. I settle for the coffee.


We also take in Kennebunkport - home of George I, the father of our current Bush. We fear at any moment we may be surrounded by Republicans and run out of town. (Rena's car sports a prominent Obama for President bumper sticker.) Our excuse is that the shops in Kennebunkport have more stuff. Also a Great Pumpkin prayer is maybe a little more efficacious if you say it in a seat of Presidential power like Kennebunkport. We drink some more hot coffee.


Ogunquit, small as it is, boasts one of the truly outstanding restaurants in the U.S.A. Arrows Restaurant on Berwick Road may just have the best food I've ever eaten. We meet our friends Bob and Vicki from Augusta at Arrows for the six o'clock seating. Rena has a main course that features halibut prepared three different ways - including a tomato lasagna. And I eat partridge for the first time - stewed in apples and fresh prunes and served with a spiced cranberry puree. If you've never had partridge, it tastes a lot like ostrich only smaller. Also, the 23 layer Napoleon crepe dessert is to die for!


Night life does not exist in Ogunquit in the winter. End paragraph.


Sunday morning we awaken to another bright blue, sunny day with the thermometer at 32F. The fountain in front of the Rockmere has sprayed the area with ice crystals. Our breakfast features Doug's special cheese omelet, fresh fruit with yogurt and pumpkin muffin-ettes.


After breakfast we skip the Marginal Way and proceed directly to the beach. We cover about 2 1/2 miles of the Canadian Riviera at a brisk pace. I do not wear a speedo. I wonder if George Bush, the elder, ever wears a speedo. I wonder what Barbara Bush wears to the beach. Why do I not like this picture?


We drive home by way of Mt. Agamenticus. This is the only real mountain in Southern Maine and was a holy place for the local Abenaki indians - who were known as the Pennacooks.
I believe the Pennacooks are now extinct. Needless to say, we didn't do any hiking. Not in Maine in November where the same people who extinguished the Pennacooks are still out in the woods trying to do the same thing for Bambi.


Happy Thanksgiving!



Daktari