THE GREAT CATCH, or
A SHORT HISTORY OF MY HONORS CAREER

In the summer of 1989, my unofficial part-time occupation was first baseman for Charlie & Doug Auto Service, in Norwich, Connecticut's "Jack Benny League." I had played on this team for many years, with several players having grown out of the crew at Grant City, where for a few years I was the Sporting Goods Manager. The store is gone now (company bankruptcy), but the memories of the crew linger on. After all, I met my wife there!

Before I get to the "great catch" part, I should briefly cover the few awards I ever received in my lifetime. The first were in the summer of 1962, the year after Mantle and Maris had their legendary pursuit of Babe Ruth's 60 home run record (Maris won, with 61, but is still not in the Baseball Hall of Fame!). I was one of the founders and star players of a ragged group of kids who called themselves the Whetstone Sluggers. My good friend Jim Harvey was the captain of the team, and he and I challenged each other to a home run race. Along with my cousins Bobby McLellan, Clive and Susan West, Stuart and Allan Perkins, Bobby Clemick, and the great Paul Just, we dug out a diamond in a field that belonged to fellow Whetstoner Mr. Mills. (Whetstone I should mention is a pond in central Maine.) That took up a big chunk of the first part of the summer. As our season progressed, cousin Bob suggested we keep track of batting averages, because (as he correctly realized) no one beyond Jim and myself had a shot at the home run title, as we were the oldest of the bunch.

Although these old guys are hard to read, they tell the tale of my incredible achievements in taking both the home run and batting titles. The wooden plaques were crafted by Jim's father, Lawris Harvey, one of our greatest supporters. They were presented to me at our end of summer awards ceremony. As I recall, I logged 52 homers, that crossed a fish line about 200 feet from home plate. At the time it seemed a great feat.

My next moment in the sun came in June of 1963 at my junior high graduation awards ceremony, where I took the "Excellence In History" medal from the Daughters of the American Revolution. I must admit the competition was not remarkable, as my classmates had ignored the rules of the contest, which stipulated that the essays had to cover famous events in Connecticut history. They decided to write about famous people, and were summarily disqualified. It's very possible that their essays were superior to mine (an uninspired treatise on the state's Charter Oak tree), but bottom line is I won! I also grabbed a couple of English prizes, but this great day would have to tide me through the next 8 years of my education, which were apparently not award worthy.

Okay, enough back story bragging. On to that great day in 1989 when I momentarily rose to the top of the Charlie & Doug hero list. Adding luster to the day was the fact that my parents were in the grandstand to observe my moment in the sun. Ironically, this was the one and only time they ever came to watch me play in any game. They had missed my childhood sports escapades and now had to settle for a 40 year old son obviously in the twilight of a less than spectacular softball career.
Here's a look at the team. Since I can only remember a few of the names, I will mention none.  Oh, all right, I will point out Charlie (front row, second from right) and Doug (back row, far right).

That's me: far left in the top row. Here's another shot of a younger team that features our cheerleaders.

That's  my wife, Lorie, front row, third in from the right. I am back row, second from right.
Anyway, at first base, I took note of an opposing player, a left hander, who seemed to enjoy smoking line drives down the right field line. I decided to lay in wait for him, and in the 5th inning he steamed one again, this time in foul territory. But because I was prepared, I lunged across the line and nabbed it. It was a great play, and right in front of my parents, who cheered. One of the few times in my life that I knew my father was proud of me. Here I'll re-enact my lunge for the camera.

Well, I guess you had to be there. Anyway, the game's announcer gave me some vocal praise, and he told us later that it was the finest fielding play he had ever seen. Which translated into my appearance at an end of season awards ceremony where they actually gave me a trophy that reads "outstanding fielding achievement." The other trophy was presented to each of us for our winning the Jack Benny League title. That one actually has my name on it, too. I should mention that my daughter was there to witness the award ceremony. It made the entire episode complete, with my parents there to witness the catch and my daughter there to witness my award.

Okay, that's more excitement than most of you can probably handle. I'll leave you with just one more shot of the glove that did the deed. I can barely get it on my hand today, but I will never part with it.

God bless Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris, who enlivened so many young boys' lives, including mine.

THE BOSTON WEEK

New England has had its share of misery in recent months. The April 15 attack on the Boston Marathon came as a total shock. We know there are terrorists and deranged individuals out there, but in our trusting hearts we still don't expect them to inflict injury and death on the innocent people next door. We don't expect them to be after us.

On that most New England of all holidays (yes, it's even dearer to most of us than Thanksgiving), Patriots' Day, we enjoy the arrival of spring by flocking to the great city of Boston, where the first American patriots rose up against the British Empire and started the American Revolution. Boston has never taken any crap from anybody. On April 19, 1775, members of the Massachusetts Militia, commanded by Captain John

Parker, attempted to halt the advance of British troops toward Concord by taking a stand at nearby Lexington. "Stand your ground. Don't fire unless fired upon, but if they mean to have a war, let it begin here." 8 of his men were killed, including his cousin, Jonas Parker. The British marched on to Concord. On their way back to Boston, they were ambushed by Captain Parker and his surviving soldiers in what is remembered as "Parker's Revenge." They later participated in the Siege of Boston. The enemy couldn't kill him, but tuberculosis did before the year was over. He was 46. A farmer and a mechanic, he was a native of Lexington, and a veteran of the French and Indian War. He was just an average Joe who put his life on the line for all those things he held dear. He was a patriot. The first Patriots' Day was celebrated in 1894, to honor the participants of the battles of Lexington and Concord, as well as the first bloodshed of the Civil War.

Patriots' Day 2013 started out in fine fashion, with a reenactment of the Battle of Lexington, and the traditional Patriots' Day baseball at historic Fenway Park. No, it hasn't been there since 1775, but it sure feels like it has! My daughter, Elizabeth, and her friends, went to enjoy the game. They could not have 

imagined what was to follow.

The quintessential Patriots' Day event is the annual running of the Boston Marathon, a tradition since 1897. Many thousands of runners from around the globe descend on Boston to participate. It was a men's event until women were officially allowed to enter in 1972. A push rim wheelchair division was started in 1975, and was followed by a blind/visually impaired division and a mobility impaired program shortly after. The 26-mile marathon course runs through the towns of Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, Newton, and Brookline, concluding at Copley Square in Boston. Over a half million spectators cheer the runners on each year, and this year was no different. The winners crossed the finish line by 1:00 PM, with Ethiopian Lelisa Desisa taking the men's honors with a time of 2:10:22, and Kenyan Rita Jeptoo leading the ladies with a 2:26:25 finish. The top American runners each finished in fourth place: Jason Hartmann at 2:12:12 and Shalane Flanagan at 2:27:08. Here's a photo of Jason and Shalane talking to the press after the race.

The reason for the lack of happiness on their faces was due to the fact that at 2:50 PM the joyous athletic event became a tragedy, as two explosive devices were detonated about 225 yards from the finish line. With thousands of runners yet to complete the course, the race had to be halted. Three spectators lost their lives and almost 200 others were injured. The fatalities included Krystle Campbell, 29, of Arlington, Massachusetts, Lu Lingzi, 23, of Shenyang, Liaoning, and Martin Richard, 8, of Dorchester, Massachusetts. They came to watch the world's most celebrated foot race and paid the supreme sacrifice for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The bombing scene was a state of chaos, but people helped each other until medical help arrived. Even without knowing if other bombs were about to go off, brave folks shook off their fears and pitched in to save others. As happens in most any place in America where nature or nut cases wreak havok, heroes are made. Boston was no exception, from the first responders on down the line.

The big questions began immediately. Were we under attack by terrorists? Was it 9/11 all over again? Who had done this, and why? So began the Boston week.

 People helping people.

I immediately called my daughter to make sure she was okay. The game had been over for awhile, but she and her friends were still in their seats, debating what to do next. They finally decided to walk out of Boston. The "T" (MBTA) was shut down, as were the cabs. Local authorities had virtually closed Boston, so that the perpetrators could not escape. No one was sure what other targets there might be, or where safety could be assured. She called me a couple of hours later to say they had safely made it to Watertown. 

The week continued with Boston Police, the F.B.I., and many other organizations focusing on finding out who the culprits were. President Obama made a public statement expressing America's condolences to the families of the victims. We learned more about each of them. This quickly became a national tragedy, much like the slayings of Newtown, Connecticut in December had become. The country was in mourning and shock. In New York City, the New York Yankees baseball team, long-time arch rivals of the Boston Red Sox, expressed their support of Boston by having fans sing the Sox's unofficial anthem "Sweet Caroline" at the next day's game. The gesture was genuine and much appreciated.

As the week moved on, the authorities uncovered video footage of the suspected bombers, walking calmly with bomb-filled backpacks and leaving them at the sight of the future carnage. They were able to trace cell phone usage and assemble other clues to narrow the search. Amazingly, they had not left the greater Boston area. They turned out to be two brothers, "local boys," although their connection to outside terrorist forces has yet to be disproved. They made their first big getaway mistake by shooting and killing police officer Sean Collier, 26, at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology early Friday morning, after which a car chase developed which ended in Boston Transit Police officer Richard Donohue, 33, being seriously wounded, and the older brother killed. The younger brother escaped on foot. As I awoke to this news on Friday, I called my daughter to tell her that several towns, including hers (Waltham) had been locked down. Schools and businesses closed. Everyone was asked to stay in their homes while a door-to-door search was conducted for the fugitive. As it turned out the search's area of concentration was in Watertown, the same "safe" place she had walked to on Monday! Everyone stayed inside until almost 9:00 PM, when officials concluded that the suspect had left the area. Within 15 minutes he was discovered hiding in a boat in Watertown by a homeowner walking his dog. Here's a link to the story from ABC News:

http://abcnews.go.com/blogs/headlines/2013/04/live-updates-boston-bombing-suspect-in-custody-day-2/

A feeling of relief and celebration filled the air as the suspect was carried away in an ambulance, and townspeople cheered and applauded the police.

The feeling carried over into Saturday and to Fenway Park, where the team and the fans were estatic.

Unannounced and unexpected, Neil Diamond walked on to the field to lead the singing of "Sweet Caroline."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=WqXyHon_hD8#
He later posed with the leaders of the manhunt for the bombers. His appearance was well-received by all.

 

"Boston Strong" became a national slogan by the end of the Boston week. The Boston Athletic Association, which has managed the Boston Marathon since its inception, created a special tee shirt to raise funds for the victims. Details on ordering can be found at: http://www.bostonmarathon.org

Now the long and careful process of trying to find out what the motive was for this murderous crime can begin in earnest. Is this a continuation of the 9/11 terrorism, or is this a new and even more ugly local terrorism carried out by citizens of this country? Brainwashed, filled with hatred for America, just plain crazy...who knows? Hopefully we will have the answers soon. But Patriots' Day and the Boston Marathon will never be the same again. Someone has tried to blacken a wonderful holiday and a wonderful athletic event. But we will not let them succeed. Daniel J. Flynn, writing for The American Spectator had these words for all of us to consider:

Spectators and first responders rushing into the danger zone to aid the bloodied and dismembered victims provoked thoughts of the events that defined the region 238 years earlier. The Minutemen grasped on April 19, 1775 that free isn't. Dozens paid dearly for it. Like the heroes of this Monday past, they didn't anticipate the dangers that enveloped them. A bad situation brought out the best in them. They rose to an occasion they didn't seek.

Certainly 80-year-old Samuel Whittenmore didn't expect a fight to the death when he awoke on April 19, 1775. Yet, before sunset he had killed three redcoats. The reward for his efforts included enduring repeated bayonet strikes and getting shot in the face. About a quarter mile and two centuries from the house in which I grew up, the left-for-dead octogenarian commando arose from a puddle of blood and began to reload his musket.

If you get knocked down, you have a choice: stay in the dirt or stand and fight. When duty calls, whether on the first or last Patriots' Day, patriots act. That's the lesson of April 19, 1775. That's the lesson of April 15, 2013.

At the end of the Boston week, we are Boston strong. That doesn't mean we are ready to gun down any stranger who doesn't look like Tom Cruise. We must not lose our humanity. We will let 8-year-old Martin Richard have the last word. May we all be so fortunate to have these be our last words.

INCH BY INCH, ROW BY ROW

In 1987, I began work on a book to be titled "I Hear New England Singing." It was to encompass as many of the region's singer/songwriters as I could interview. My good friend Jim Harvey would take the photos. For a variety of reasons, the book never got beyond chapter one! But that chapter began a long term admiration on my part for the subject and his amazing musical output. 25 years have passed, and David Mallett keeps turning out brilliantly crafted songs. I'll add an update at the end that will catch you up on what he's done since 1987, but right now (with only a few edits) here's that old chapter one. It was drawn from an October 3, 1987 interview in Dover-Foxcroft, Maine.

My father and I were working in the garden, when it fell out of the sky and landed right between us. I've always wondered what would have happened if Dad had picked it up instead of me. Probably would have thrown it out with the rest of the weeds.

From the stage of Foxcroft Academy, native son David Mallett is telling a packed house how songs are born.

Specifically, he is talking about a special day in the mid-1970s when he received the inspiration for Garden Song, his most widely-appreciated composition to date. And if you doubt that songs fall from the sky and land in gardens, then you have not conversed with enough songwriters. Before the concert, while attending to various details in the Academy locker room, the songwriter in question reflected upon some of the highlights of his career to that point. 

David Mallett, born March 21, 1952, in Dover-Foxcroft, Maine, has been creating words and music that amount to art on a steady basis since about 1972. He echoes the notion of many of his peers that the best songs write themselves. "The music is not me, it's beyond me, and I am fortunate enough to be attached to it."

Over the past decade, Mallett has shared nearly fifty of his songs with us on five well-crafted albums. It was the first of these, David Mallett (produced by fellow Mainer Noel Paul Stookey, who signed Dave to his

Neworld Media label in 1978), that stood the New England folk trust on its collective ear and sent a ripple along the entertainment world's grapevine that eventually reached Colorado's John Denver, then the country's hottest recording artist. Denver adored Mallett's songs and signed him to a publishing contract with Cherry Lane Music, and in 1979 Denver recorded Garden Song (followed by Ballad of the Saint Anne's Reel and You Say That the Battle Is Over in 1980), thus marking the arrival of David Mallett as a "legitimate" songwriter. Just about everyone has since recorded Garden Song, with Tommy Makem & Liam Clancy's rendition being Dave's personal favorite.

Inch by inch, row by row, gonna make this garden grow.

All it takes is a rake and a hoe and a piece of fertile ground.

Inch by inch, row by row, someone bless these seeds I sow.

Someone warm them from below till the rain comes tumblin' down.

David Mallet has lived in Maine all his life, most recently in an old farmhouse near Dixmont. His youth in the small town of Sebec was highlighted (not surprisingly) by music. The local movie house, the radio and the record player provided such lasting influences as Gene Autry, Johnny Cash, and the Kingston Trio. [Ironically, in 1985 Dave was invited to join a trio that included former Kingstons John Stewart and Nick Reynolds.] He cut his musical teeth performing with his older brother, Neil, in the early 1960s. Neil would later sing harmony on his little brother's first album. Remembers Dave: "He played guitar and I sang. And then I got a guitar and he sang harmony, and then we called ourselves the Mallett Brothers, and we toured throughout Maine, a little bit of New Hampshire and the Maritimes. Made a couple singles; had a TV show out of Bangor for a couple of years." 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nomqfR4a6Fk

He had added the influence of Bob Dylan and his contemporaries by the time he went off to the University of Maine, and it was there that Dave came into his own as a singer/songwriter.

Dave holds northern and central Maine dear to his heart and intends to grow old there, although his career ambitions have him heading south again this winter - and probably for many more to come. Nashville has welcomed Mallett with open arms, as it has other folk-style songwriters like Nanci Griffith (from Texas). Noted Country producer Jim Rooney took Dave under his Nashville wing in September of 1985, and the result was Mallett's first non-New England album, Vital Signs.  Will Folk's loss be 

Country's gain? "I've never liked the terms Folk Music, Country Music, Rock Music. I just like Music. And gradually I'm seeing a breaking down of the lines that separate us all, and everybody's influenced by everybody else. It's kinda nice."

Part of the reason for the Nashville move could have been the response to his 1983 album Open Doors & Windows, a brilliant collection of songs (recorded in Massachusetts) that failed to make any new inroads, saleswise. Popular throughout most of New England, Mallett seemed to encounter an invisible wall whenever he tried to gain a more national following. 

So now the bottom line is reaching a broader audience. Dave feels he has ridden the Folk train as far as it can go. "When you get a big campaign going for it, it's not Folk Music anymore. Folk Music likes to be kind of on the back porch, and unfortunately for those of us who make a living with it, that's a disadvantage." He loves Maine but feels impeded by its isolation from the current mainstream of popular culture, and Dave is hard pressed to name more than a few fellow New Englanders (Lui Collins, Patty Larkin, Bill Lauf) whose music he is knowledgeable enough about to comment on. He enjoys the healthy competition of Nashville's songwriting world. In "Music City" his is surrounded by old heroes (like Harlan Howard, John Prine, and Guy Clark), and there he can hopefully peddle songs to other performers as well as perfect his own recording skills. "There's nothing wrong with salesmanship and commerciality, because what I want to do is reach as many people as I can, because I feel like I have something to offer to everybody that listens, and I'm convinced of that just from what fans I do have and the feedback that I've had over the years; what I have given them and what they have given me. And I just feel that in hanging back and dragging your feet and saying 'Oh, I don't want to be commercial; I don't want to sell records,' and all that, you're not doing yourself or the music any good."

Part of the transformation from Folk to Country/Folk is superficial: he was "David" Mallett until Vital Signs, which signaled the official beginning of "Dave" Mallett. Another part may be more far-reaching: his approach to lyric writing is slowly changing, away from topical songs; no more whale saving from Dave Mallett, or at least not for the moment. But one gets the feeling that Country love songs do not flow as easily from his pen as he would like. While the likes of Red Red Rose and Dreamers are a cut above the ordinary, Vital Signs' crowning glories are (Coming Apart) At the Seams, an homage to a James Dean-like school chum who took one too many fast curves, and April, a remembrance of many fine springs as a child in Maine. Indeed, (Coming Apart) At the Seams turned out to be his first "covered" song in Nashville (recorded by Marty Stuart in 1986), and Mallett considers April to be his favorite composition to date. Like many of Dave's better lyrics, the song paints a picture that is intrinsically autobiographical.

April calls you loud and clear
From the middle of the coldest year
A frozen smile, a crystal tear
Are melting in the sun
Across the yard a sudden laugh
And an echo from the hidden path
And all the world's a muddy bath
When old man Winter's done 

I remember April days when a warm wind took the snow away
A robin did a bold display and a gentle crocus bloomed
I was a kicking child of spring
With a will to run and a gift to sing
And a heart that took to wandering
When it heard the wildwood tune 

There will be more great songs on future albums, to be sure. Light At the End of a Tunnel is one that Dave will preview for the home folks tonight. This weekend marks the 65th anniversary of the joining of the towns Dover and Foxcroft, and the song seems appropriate for the occasion, as it was inspired by Dave's grandfather, Will Towne. Will had a favorite workhorse named Blackie that he loved more dearly than just about anything, and Blackie's eventual demise hit the farmer hard. Years later when Will lay on his deathbed, one of Dave's cousins reportedly heard him say that he had seen Blackie at the window and knew that he had come to take him home. The song is about finding a glimmer of hope at death's door. Is is not your typical Country song anymore than Dave Mallett is your typical Country songwriter. One can only hope that the influx of Mallett and others as talented may have more of an influence on Nashville than Nashville will have on them.

Dave's accompanists for the evening's show are Chris Neville (from Boston) on keyboards and Mike Burd (from Maine) on bass, both of whom provided the same assistance on Vital Signs. Dave, as always, plays acoustic six and twelve string guitars, and sings up a storm. Surprisingly, his lyrics seem to come through clearer from the stage than they often do from his recordings.

Dave has lots of other new songs - recorded in Nashville last winter - that are basically ready to release, but he is hoping to sign with a major lable; one that will have the resources to help his songs reach that broader audience he seeks. For a man who is admittedly reclusive and anti-capitalistic, and who was formerly against advertising and hype when it came to his music, this was a difficult decision that took years to reach. But if the ends justify the means, then posterity will be well served. Asked how he would most like to be remembered, Mallett says he hopes he will earn at least a footnote as a "word man," a writer of  "popular music that has meat to it. And that's a tall order." This artist is sincerely serious about his music, and over the years that has translated into ambition.

Dave Mallett straddles the Foxcroft Academy locker room bench, working with a sort of nervous confidence on a set list for tonight's concert, with one foot pointing toward Nashville and the other firmly planted in the soil of his native Maine.

Pullin' weeds and pickin' stones, man is made of dreams and bones.

Feel the need to grow my own, 'cause the time is close at hand.

Grain for grain, sun and rain, find my way in nature's chain.

Tune my body and my brain to the music from the land. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2m0LewjkO4s

[Lyrics from Garden Song (c) 1977 Old Road Music and Cherry Lane Music Publishing Company, Inc. Lyrics from April (c) 1983 Cherry Lane Music Publishing Company, Inc., ASCAP.]

How did Dave's decade in Nashville work out for him? Well, he did more recording, although he never landed that major label he was aiming for. But his songs got noticed and recorded. Emmylou Harris covered one of his Vital Signs tunes, Red Red Rose.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nr2NRkguzKg

Dave's follow-up to Vital Signs was 1988's For a Lifetime, again produced by Jim Rooney (and again released on the Flying Fish label). It contained more great Mallett originals, including Summer of My Dreams, which was covered by Kathy Mattea.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJPk7ckkilo

In all, David Mallett has recorded fifteen albums so far in his career, seven of them since his return to Maine in 1997. From Flying Fish he went to the Vanguard label for awhile in the mid-1990s, then back to Flying Fish when he moved back home for the 1997 album Parallel Lives and 1999's Ambition. In 2003, he got smart and started his own label, North Road Records, based in his current home of Sebec, Maine. His first release was Artist In Me, one of the most acclaimed Folk albums of 2003. That was followed in 2006 by what could be called a "greatest hits: live" album, Midnight On the Water, which is a great place to begin if you are just getting into Mr. Mallett's work. 

Then Dave took a giant (and somewhat risky) leap into the spoken word recording genre with his 2007 album The Fable True: Stories From Thoreau's "The Maine Woods," for which he provided music and narration for Henry David Thoreau's classic book about his journeys in the Pine Tree State. All of the North Road recordings have featured what has become Dave's permanent band of Mike Burd on bass and Susan Ramsey on violin. Dave's guitar is now constantly accompanied by his wide assortment of harmonicas.

And if anyone thought David Mallett was running out of steam, 2009's release of Alright Now certainly put that to rest in a big way. This is the best album he's ever made, and he's even back to doing the occasional topical song again, with both North Meets South and Ten Men firmly in that category. New instant Mallett classics include Beautiful (written for his daughter), the haunting Dark Side of the Moon, and the slightly fabulous Innocent Time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MRsFVEio1jQ

After stating at a concert two years ago that his next album would be titled The Horse I Rode In On, a collection of covers of songs that inspired him to get into the music business (he previewed his excellent version of A Tombstone Every Mile by Dick Curless), he has put that on hold and instead recorded an album "in conjunction with the Maine Farmland Trust" titled Greenin' Up, "twelve songs that celebrate farming, the natural world and rural life." He's included a few new songs and fresh versions of some of his classics, like Garden Song, April, and Summer of My Dreams.

It's being released this week, just in time for Lorie and I to pick it up at his December 1 concert at Roaring Brook Nature Center in Canton, Connecticut. It's a yearly ritual that we always look forward to. I'm not sure exactly how many times we've enjoyed a David Mallett concert since 1987, but they've all been great, and he always comes out to shake hands and sign CDs for the faithful after the show. I'm sure it's going to be a first-rate album. Details on all things Mallett can be found on his website:

http://davidmallett.com/

Or his Facebook page:   http://www.facebook.com/pages/David-Mallett/43762629366?ref=ts&fref=ts

I'm sure Dave would want me to mention that his sons have a band that is really starting to take off with some great reviews and live performances: http://mallettbrothersband.com/

In their millenium edition, the Bangor Daily News listed the "most memorable Mainers of the Twentieth Century," and right there among the names of Andrew Wyeth, E. B. White, Stephen King, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, was... David Mallett!

Mr. Mallett is in a good place right now, creatively and personally. This statement on his website says it all: When he is not touring, the place where he makes his songs is in his writing room in an old farmhouse with a view across the field and a tintype of his great-great grandfather on the wall. "I like to keep reaching out to touch the past," he says, "to connect it with what's going on now. To me music is one of the few things that's timeless...human emotion is one continual chain."



Special thanks to David Mallett, Mike Burd, and Jim Harvey.

Portions of this blog originally appeared in The Piscataquis Observer.

 

 

 

ENDLESS SUMMER

Whetstone Pond

How much of summer can we hold,

Until we turn and find we're old?

- Rod McKuen

Someone once said that it's up to the poets to pose the questions and for the rest of us to spend our lives trying to find the answers.

The New Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines summer as:

"the season of the year in a region in which the sun shines most directly; the warmest period of the year."

To me that seems inadequate. Everyone's definition of summer is shaped by their own individual experiences, and by the way one's memory colors those experiences over the passage of the years. For me, the first definition of summer would be a single word: Maine. I spent a lot of summers in that northernmost of the New England states, and I remember them now as the happiest times of my life. A recent visit to the Pine Tree State with my wife, Lorie, and my mother, Dorothy, rekindled summer memories and added some new ones.

Our first stop was a visit with my cousin Susan West in Dover-Foxcroft, and a trip with her to Whetstone Pond, our old summer stomping ground, where we connected with my oldest friend from childhood, Jim Harvey, and his wife, Betty. Jim and I had been swapping letters and planned to revisit our old baseball field (see my earlier blog Once Around the Bases for more about our team, the Whetstone Sluggers), and we both packed our old gloves, but somehow forgot to pack a ball or bat! We stopped first at the cottage (we used to call them "camps") of old friend and early mentor, Paul Just, and did some great catching-up. We reminisced about all the fun we used to have at Aunt Myrtle's Bingo parties and the "record hops" we attended at each other's camps, out on the docks, under the stars, with those old 45s spinning. Paul, a retired school teacher, is now a member of one of the groups that cut some of those old 45s: the Crests!

Paul Just, Susan West, Ben Blake, Jim Harvey

We mentioned to Paul our desire to try and locate the old field, and he told us it had grown up to trees that were recently cleared for two building lots. Jim knew a way to reach it by car, and we were soon there. Jim picked out a few landmarks and determined where home plate used to be 50 years ago. Harvey and Blake "took the field" once more. For me, it was holy ground, and to be on it again with my old friend was super.

Harvey and Blake

Blake and Harvey

 I have no photos of the ball field from 50 years ago, but I dug out this one from 1965 of Jim and me on the Harvey's front lawn at Whetstone Pond. Haven't aged a whole lot, have we? A few more pounds and a lot less hair, but so it goes!

My second definition of summer would be the word "magic." In the conversations I had with Susan, Paul, and Jim, that word kept coming up. We came to the conclusion that Whetstone Pond was a magic place, and that nowhere since had measured up to it. Paul returned from Florida and built his summer home at the Pond. Susan and Jim both live within easy driving distance. Only I was separated from the magic by the miles. We all realized that we were blessed to have such a wonderful spot to share the summers of our youth. To be able to return to it and to enjoy once again the company of old friends and family, rekindling the joy of summers past, made the present summer glow.

David West and Ben Blake, circa 1960

To revisit Whetstone Pond also brings back memories of those we loved who are no longer with us. It's unnerving how many of the "big kids" (those of Paul Just's age and older) have passed away. And the younger kids have also suffered some major losses. Stuart Perkins (the subject of Once Around the Bases) left us last year, and my cousin David West (Susan's brother) checked out much too early, in 1983. And the ranks of the old folks, who fed and sheltered us, and made it possible for us to have all those magic summers, have thinned to almost nothing. Only Jim's father, Paul's mother, and my Aunt Ruth remain, and only Paul's mother still summers at the Pond. 

The Pond

I would like to believe that Whetstone's magic allows their spirits to remain there, or at least to visit in summer. Many fine ashes have been spread on that Pond.

From Whetstone, we headed north to my mother's hometown of Presque Isle. For Dorothy Scott Blake, childhood summers were filled with work on her parents' potato farm. But on this trip we learned that she had done something special in the summer of 1946.
Our visit to Aroostook County coincided with the annual Potato Blossom Festival, and Dorothy remembered that she had once competed, coming in second (to Patricia Marino) in the Miss Presque Isle portion of the contest. The year was 1946, three years after her graduation from Presque Isle High School. Here is her photo from the 1943 yearbook which the town historian (with some persuading from my Aunt Honey) was kind enough to locate for us. After looking at the photos of her other classmates, all prejudices aside, I have to say she was definitely the most beautiful, with an almost "Hollywood star" look.

She was mentioned a few times in the yearbook's pages: Dorothy Scott was known for her "flashy jackets" and wore one that belonged to a "special someone" (she's now uncertain who he was), and was basically "always turning boys' heads." Not a surprise!

Dorothy Scott Blake and Debbie Tracy Colby

After a very nice visit with Dorothy's youngest sister, Helen (the previously mentioned "Aunt Honey"), which included a visit to their parents' final resting place, we headed to the coast to Lincolnville for a visit with Helen's oldest daughter, Debbie, and her husband, Frank. Deb's brother, Dan, was also able to join us for a great afternoon of "cousin catch-up." Deb and Frank have acquired an impressive collection of artifacts from our grandparents' farm, including an old milking stool!

Mildred Hussey Scott, 1985

The conversation turned to age, as all of my cousins are now over 50. (We had a similar discussion with the group at Whetstone Pond.) Just what is "old," anyway? I won't bother you with another definition from Merriam-Webster. Our definition of what old means seems to differ as we age. Today, for Lorie, Deb, Frank, Dan, Paul, Susan, Jim, Betty, and me, 70 is "the new 50." For Dorothy, 90 is "the new 70." I'm sure for my daughter, Elizabeth, 40 is "the new 25." While writing these words it occurred to me that my grandmother, Mildred Hussey Scott, who lived to be over 100 (and loved to spend time in her flower garden each summer), would probably tell me not to sugar coat it: 100 is still 100!
After our return from Maine, our granddaughter, Megan, visited us for a week, which included a trip to a shopping mall. In a store she was drawn to a rack of merchandise featuring the currently-hot "boy band" One Direction. I had never heard of them but pointed out a rack of similar Justin Beiber items nearby. "I HATE Justin Beiber. He's so OLD!" Stunned, I asked how old Beiber was. "He's almost 20!"   I said I thought he was much younger, and she said "No, he's 16!" For Megan, 16 is apparently "the new 20." Age is relative, and it seems that time marches in many directions.

Keeping summer alive can keep us young for a while longer. Just ask The Beach Boys, who are my third definition of summer (I've written about them briefly in my earlier blog In My Room). It's been 50 years since they formed their band, considered by many to be America's greatest rock and roll group. They certainly have my vote! I can't think of anyone else whose music immediately conjures up an image of endless summer (the title of one of their many albums, which include All Summer Long, Summer Days and Summer Nights, and Keepin' the Summer Alive). They have reunited for a new album, That's Why God Made the Radio, and a 50th anniversary world tour this year. It seems impossible that it's been that long since I first heard Surfin' Safari on my parents' old AM radio. The Beach Boys have had an illustrious career, but also

Brian Wilson, Mike Love, Dennis Wilson, Carl Wilson, David Marks

a difficult one. Two of the Wilson brothers, Dennis and Carl, are no longer with us. Amazingly, after all the ups and downs he's endured, Brian Wilson is still with us, and is considered one of the true geniuses of the music business. (Paul McCartney has called Brian's God Only Knows "the greatest song ever written.") Brian famously left the touring aspect of the group's life in 1964 to concentrate on writing and producing the songs. He was replaced by Bruce Johnston (who later won a Grammy for writing Barry Manilow's hit I Write the Songs). Getting the reunion together was not an easy task, and it was Al Jardine (who replaced David Marks in 1963, after David replaced him in 1962) who convinced everyone that it was time, and the right thing to do. So this is the first Beach Boys lineup to include both Al and David. There is a certain positive vibe and (perhaps) a sense of closure to this tour and album.

Bruce Johnston, Al Jardine, Brian Wilson, Mike Love, David Marks

Here's a link to about 30 minutes of the group's June 19, 2012 concert in Toronto. Handheld camera from the audience, but decent audio, and it gives you an idea of how good they (still) sound. Followed by a couple of links to articles about the reunion.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LhUuHAPl2E

http://www.todayonline.com/CultureAndLifestyle/Music/EDC120803-0000022/Endless-summer

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-3445_162-57472457/the-beach-boys-back-catching-another-wave/?tag=nl.e884

Late breaking news: there will a 50th Anniversary DVD released shortly: 

http://lamusicblog.com/2012/08/news/new-dvd-the-beach-boys-doin-it-again-out-0828/ 

Among all their great surfing songs (which are summer songs by default), there are also some remarkable tunes that always mark the season: Keep An Eye On Summer, Your Summer Dream, Summer Means New Love, Girls On the Beach, The Warmth of the Sun, and Almost Summer (a minor 1978 hit by Mike and Brian's "side-project" group, Celebration; link below).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W7SmgdvPpQY 

I'm sure you all have your own definitions of summer, and hopefully a trunk load of summer memories. Hold those memories close. Maybe I've answered Mr. McKuen's question. Maybe not. I would guess that our memories die with us. Share as many as you can with those you love. Pass them on down. Our children and grandchildren and great grandchildren still have a lot of summer memories of their own to make. Let them know how important those memories will be to them.

So live as long as you can, and enjoy every summer of your life, including this one!

In My Room

The Blake homestead went on the market in December and was sold last month.

My Mom has moved to a senior apartment complex and loves it. It was a logical decision whose time had come. My wife, Lorie, and I enjoyed moving her belongings and helping her set up her new home. It was walking through the empty house with the realtor later that got to me.

All those memories! I only lived there for three years, but what amazing years they were. We moved there in 1965, when it was an 8' x 26' mobile home. I slept on the sofa that first winter, and space was at a premium. When the weather warmed up, Dad and I built on an addition that more than doubled the size of our home. There are nails there that I drove, and ceiling that I helped hang. Half of the addition became my room, and we finished that part first. I was eager to have my own space, and we ran a couple of extension cords out there, along with a space heater. With a light to read by, and a portable record player, I was in heaven.

That same year we added a fourth member to the Blake family, a black and white puppy that I named Seymour. We had lived in an apartment for several years, and I had not had a pet since I was a young boy in Maine. Seymour became my constant companion. He enjoyed rolling around in the leaves and chasing the neighborhood cats. Every morning Dad would wake me up by opening the door to my room and letting him jump on my bed. We all loved Seymour.

We eventually finished the addition properly with heat, electricity, and furniture. During my high school years that room became my after-school fortress, which I emerged from only for meals and television. I devoured the novels of Ray Bradbury, Robert A. Heinlein, Andre Norton, Arthur C. Clark, and Isaac Asimov. At my corner desk I wrote poetry. I worked late into the night assembling and painting Aurora monster model kits (the Bride of Frankenstein turned out especially well), and I'm sure inhaling all those glue and paint fumes did me a world of good. My cousin David West turned me on to scary old movies on Saturday night's Chillerama on channel 12 out of Providence. I would throw Star Trek parties on Friday nights and serve ice cream to my guests (other lonely guys without girlfriends). Shows like Gilligan's Island were the likely source of erotic dreams about Ginger and Mary Ann (and sometimes both!). My father had an old Hallicrafter radio with headphones that he gave to me, and I would fall asleep each night listening to stations like WKBW in Buffalo, New York. More than anything in those years, I loved music.

 In 1966, I purchased my first stereo record player at W. T. Grant's. I paid for it on what must have been the most lenient installment plan of all time: a dollar a week.  My room was always filled with music. My friends Dick Charron, Phil Beauchene, and Allen Beebe would visit, and we would jam along with bongos, badly-tuned guitars, and adolescent voices (I give my parents a lot of credit for suffering through that!) to the records of the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul & Mary, Donovan, and the Kingston Trio. And then there were the Beach Boys. Although I loved all of those gifted artists, I knew I could never be them. But the songs written by the Beach Boys' Brian Wilson spoke directly to me. I may not have been a surfer, but when the Boys sang about teen angst and not knowing what life was all about, I knew that Brian and I had caught the same incredible wave. He even knew about my room.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFS6C9OxNtM

There's a world where I can go and tell my secrets to

In my room, in my room

In this world I lock out all my worries and my fears

In my room, in my room

Do my dreaming and my scheming, lie awake and pray

Do my crying and my sighing, laugh at yesterday

Now it's dark and I'm alone, but I won't be afraid

In my room, in my room, in my room

[Copyright 1963, Irving Music, Inc., BMI]

Surrounded by woods, our yard was a great place to pretend I was the great Carl Yastrzemski, lefty-swinging my Wiffle bat and launching many home runs over the big rock at the end of the lawn. That rock was also an obvious spot to ponder the mysteries of the universe, and Seymour and I spent many an hour doing just that. On very rare occasions we would share our rock with special guests, like my cousin Bob McLellan.

After all those years in my room, I eventually went to college, got married, and moved into an apartment in town. But I still considered the "homestead" to be home. I visited often. Seymour did not make the move with me, as he had passed on by then. When I visited I almost always expected to see him come running to greet me.

Dick Charron and I started a band with a new college friend, Phil Marchesseault. Like everyone else, we wanted to be the Beatles, and like everyone else, we weren't the Beatles. But not for lack of trying! We decided that with a few alterations my parents' tool shed would make an ideal practice and recording studio. We enlisted the aid of my father-in-law, Dave Perotti, who was a great electrician, and we soundproofed the interior walls. From the outside today, it looks no different than it did in 1970. We kept calling it "The Shack," which is what we ended up naming our group. Our music was about as good as the name implies.

"The Shack"

Looking back on all of the years that these buildings and land were home, I find it hard to say goodbye to all of the memories (more good ones than bad, thankfully). There are ghosts of my Dad and my dog, movies in my head of family cookouts, and so much musical discovery. I never got to play for the Red Sox, or jam with the Beach Boys, and leaving this place for good feels like abandoning so many worthy dreams. My room will be no more. I wish I had some photos of what the room looked like when I lived there, but here it is today.

There is a rumor that the new owner plans to clear the land and build a new house. I will keep the image in my mind of what it looked like when I was a young man. The good old days, when all I really needed was a room to call my own, a big rock to think on, and a dog who thought I was all the things I could ever dream of being.

"Rock Dog"

The Cat Who Thought She Was a Dog

It was almost 17 years ago. I was making the customary after-hours bank drop on the way home from my part-time evening video rental clerk job. I got out of the truck and walked the few steps to the bank's lock box, dropped in the store's deposit pouch and headed back. It was then that I heard a small cry coming from one of the bank's decorative outdoor shrubs. There wasn't much light to see by, but I could make out a tiny face (the one you see above), and the small cry was repeated. I bent down, and from under the shrub a shivering kitten crawled into my hands, and into my heart.

As I drove home with this purring fur ball happily warming in my lap, I knew that adding another cat to our 4-cat home was not really an option. We would have to try and locate the owner or find it a good home. My wife, Lorie, agreed. We put up posters at the mobile home park near the bank. We asked around. No luck. We kept it in the garage because we didn't want to upset our other cats with this temporary interloper. We got to know her (yes, it was a her) a little better. We came to the conclusion that she must have spent her earliest weeks with puppies, as she exhibited the loving exuberance and playfulness usually attributed to dogs. She was a tortoiseshell (or "tortie") cat, named for the colorful markings on their coats and according to folklore a sign of good luck. After a couple of days I started calling her Marblecake. They say once you name them, they are yours. Or maybe it's really after they name you, you are theirs. They also say that dogs have masters, cats have staff. I would say that Marblecake met us halfway. She had a gleam in her eyes that I have only seen in the eyes of happy dogs.

Most of our cats found Lorie. Marblecake found me, as did our oldest, Floyd The Cat. He was the alpha cat and immediately took Marble under his wing. In my favorite photo of them, he seems to be showing her the outside world while generously sharing his window perch. I think he taught her how to be a cat, but she kept her dog vibe, too. She did a lot of things that dogs would do if they could.

Whether she was exploring the rafters of what eventually became our new master bedroom, or holding up the kitchen ceiling with the sheer strength of her paws, Marblecake was Supercat!

After only a short time with us, a visit to the vet and an X-ray disclosed that Marblecake had a congenital hip defect. We speculated that perhaps she had been abandoned for that reason, and perhaps left under that shrub by someone who hoped that someone with a weak spot for cats would find her. After the corrective surgery, her hip was fixed, but she lost her inner kitten. She was still happy and loving, but her seemingly unbounded energy was now politely contained and brought forth only on special occasions. Marble had stepped from childhood into middle age.

As happens with the passage of time, one by one, Marblecake's older housemates passed on. It seemed that almost every time one left us, another would appear at our door. Marble eventually became the alpha cat, a position that I think she always believed she owned after Floyd was gone. She enjoyed her position but did not abuse it.

We have been blessed with great cats and a great veterinarian. Todd Friedland has always been there for us, and (let's face it) we've returned the favor by helping put his children through college! He runs the North Windham Animal Hospital, which we highly recommend. The doctors and staff are gifted and caring people.

http://www.vetcor.com/northwindham/northwindham/veterinarians/ 

I guess you know where this is going. Over the past few months, we could see that Marblecake was winding down. She still loved to eat and sleep (always her two favorite pastimes), but she had lost a lot of weight and was not getting around as well. Instead of owning all three floors, she was staying on one and avoiding stairs. Dr. Friedland suspected cancer, but tests were inconclusive. He told us what he always tells us: "Take her home, and treat her like a queen. She'll let you know when it's time." That time came last Thursday. I think Lorie and I both knew it that morning, but we always hope for a miracle. We have learned over the years that keeping our furry friends alive when they are no longer enjoying life is a far worse fate than letting them go. Lorie called me from Dr. Friedland's office that evening, and I left work and joined her there. The joyful doggy gleam had left our dear cat's eyes. Tears were shed. We held her as Dr. Friedland sent Marblecake on her way.

Some believe in a "Rainbow Bridge" for animals to cross into heaven. I hope that's true, and that our Marblecake is reunited with Floyd and all those amazing pals of hers. I guess a cat who looked a little like a rainbow herself, and who thought she was a dog, will blend in well wherever she is. She always did.