Monday, July 14, 2008

As promised ...

First and foremost, let's finally close the chapter on the birthday that ate two months shall we?

After much hemming and hawing and gnashing of teeth (not to mention trying to decipher the somewhat condescending responses to my internets plea for help from the experts as to how I could get my computer to play nice with my new camera) I was finally able to process the photographs from Silas’ second official first birthday party.

The fact that I am still able to function after the tiny ordeal, having stayed up well into the night, is a testament to the power of coffee.

So without further ado, here they are ... pictures from when Silas turned one year and one and a half weeks:


Not sure it was really worth the wait.

Ah well, moving on to the second thing: I will try and fulfill another promise I made to my flickr friends recently about telling the stories I have concerning a certain presidential family, which, during the past two decades, has become VERY familiar to the people of southern Maine.

I must first warn you that however much I would like them to, my stories DO NOT cast a dim light on the First and second First family. Yeah, I know. Shucks. Worst still: The jokes are usually on me.

Here we go ... part one:


Way back when George H. Walker Bush (that would be the former CIA man who was VP to Reagan and then a one-term president himself) was newly a former president was also about the time I got my very first almost-new car (NOT to be confused with my first nowhere-near-new car that I saved from the junk heap and spent all my part-time-job earnings trying to keep tooling down the highway).

So with this almost-new, mechanically perfect automobile in my possession I went where no one in their 20ish right mind would ever consider to go for a little weekend away: the southern coast of Maine.

Now Friends, I had never been there before on my own; didn't even know Jed from granola. All I knew was that there was a ocean and it was only four hours away.

I don't really remember much about that trip other than my almost-new car (a Honda Civic the size of a honeydew melon) gave me some trouble parking in a little tourist town called York. As it turns out I couldn’t seem to maneuver the little thing into a parking space big enough for a Mack truck without power steering. (Yes, I am a weak link.)

After a small gathering of tourists applauded when I finally managed to sidle up to the curb (pulling forward and back, this way or that, no fewer than 48 times) I got right back in my car and headed farther up the coast to Kennebunkport where, I hoped no one had seen the clown show I made of parrallel parking.

But I digress ...

Ah, was it pretty there.

Being a young and idealist photographer, not to mention a slight bit of a *cough-cough* romantic, the first night I was there I found myself lured to the Harvest moon hovering seemingly just inches over the water. I walked and it walked with me. Like a pet. ... only a pet that was obedient.

I digress again. ...

Anyway, I followed that moon - that crazy moon - up Ocean Avenue and out of town. Further and further away from the lights and the hubbub. Suddenly. A beach. A tiny public beach made of rock and boulder. I pulled my almost-new car over to the side, took my camera and tripod and hoofed it out to seaside.

Dang, that moon was pretty.

A few seconds after I’d set up my camera two white paneled vans skid to a stop near my car on the road; their lights glaring down onto me a few yards away.

They wait. And watch. No sound just blinding light.

I can’t get pictures of the moon with those lights.

I get back in my car and head back to town ... where I buy a map.

And learn I was here.

And Friends, somewhere in Washington enshrined in some little folder, is a piece of paper with my name on it (probably) ... and I never got that picture of the moon.

Click in next time (which may be days from now, who knows) when I reveal the second in this three-part harmony opus: ME and The BUSH FAMILY.

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