What Maine Does

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING ENTRY DEALS WITH GOLF. EVEN WORSE, THE FOLLOWING ENTRY IS NOTHING MORE THAN A GOLFER BOASTING ABOUT HIS LATEST ROUND. PLEASE FEEL FREE TO DELETE AND SPARE YOURSELF THE TIME. OTHERWISE, YOU'LL NEVER GET THESE 5 MINUTES BACK. Today, June 6, 2024, I, Joel A. Getman, shot my age. Actually, in the interests of accuracy and boastfulness, I shot one less than my age. The fact that this feat occurred 80 years to the day after the glorious D-Day Invasion of Normandy is fitting. Both events took years of planning and much failure. Both events involved going over water. Finally, both events changed the course of  human history. As you can tell from the last sentence, shooting my age means quite a lot to me. I am composing this entry in the hopes that shooting my age means quite a lot to you. Probably a reach but, hey, it's my blog. You shoot your age and I promise to read all about it in your blog!  I have been obsessed with this accomplishment for at least seven y...

  In the fall of 1958 I was sitting in my seventh grade science class at Boston Latin School when Mr. Thompson, my kindly, elderly science teacher, told me and the class, that "water seeks its own level." I nodded and wrote that tidbit down in my l'il science notebook. Yup. "Water seeks its own level," I dutifully wrote. That was 66 years ago. People, believe me when I tell you that for those 66 years I have had no freaking idea what "water seeks its own level" actually means. No idea whatsoever. Until last week. Now I know. And sure as you're born you can bet that water sure does seek its own damn level. As far as things you can count on, it's right up there with Newton's First Law of Motion and how much the Yankees suck. It's a doggone law of nature is what it is. My new appreciation for what water is capable of seeking is the direct result of something that happened in Unit 440 at the Grand Harbor condominiums last Thursday sometime ...

  ...Sunset Strip. Ironically, you'd have to be 77 to get the reference. For you younger kids, 77 Sunset Strip was a late '50's ABC detective show starring, among others, Edd Kookie Byrnes.  The photo above reflects a moment in a man's life when he realizes that today he is turning 77. Don't get me wrong. Some people I loved dearly never got a chance to turn 77. I'm actually grateful to be 77, sharing life with a beautiful companion, spending the year in two magnificent parts of the country, playing a fair bit of golf with good friends, and, most days, solving Wordle, Connections, and Final Jeopardy in grand style. So, yes I'm grateful. Grateful and old. Oh, if you're wondering about the scar, it's actually a funny story. To celebrate the recent $83.3 million verdict against Trump, I walked into a local bar, viewed a sea of red MAGA hats, and offered up a toast to Jack Smith and E. Jean Carroll. I don't remember much after that.  Ed. note: Obvio...

  Traditionally the most effective way to petition Santa regarding one's Christmas and/or Channukah wishes was to accompany one's mother to Jordan Marsh, Filene's, or Kennedy's, make one's way to the Enchanted Village or North Pole or Toyland, get in an impossibly long line, and eventually hop onto Santa's lap and tell the ol' coot which Revell model one was hoping to snag. Using this method, your lame blogger was able to score the U.S.S. Missouri and a  Bradley Tank in successive years. Not a bad haul. And to be clear it wasn't Santa's fault that I shmeared model glue all over the tank's turret rendering it completely immobile, thereby leaving the unfortunate crew at the mercy of some nasty Panzer Division. Oh well. C'est la guerre. But that was then and this is now. I don't need WWII models, or Miles Davis albums, or blue button down Oxford shirts from Filene's; however, Dear Santa, with all due respect I REALLY need any or all of ...

  I gazed out my window as our Boeing 767 made its way westward over the Atlantic toward home. TLOTH and I had just spent two glorious weeks discovering Lisbon, the Douro River, and Madrid. Now it was time to return to Destin. Still, one thought kept plaguing me. Why didn't I eat that last Pasteis de Nata offered to me by one of the waiters on the  Andorinha, our beautiful Tauck riverboat? For almost two weeks I had been consuming these delightful little custard tarts by the bushel. They're kind of a national treasure. You'll find them everywhere in Portugal. For two weeks I never missed an opportunity to eat one..or seven. Their simplicity is their secret sauce: some flaky pastry filled with a beautiful custard. That's it. No frosting. No decoration. No cake flavors. Pastry and custard all over Portugal. What a country! Why did I decline this one last Pasteis? I suppose we'll never know, but take it from this custard-loving chubby wanderer: If you ever have the goo...

  This is the inspiring and unforgettable story of two people who had a dream. That dream was to host good friends at their Maine townhouse for 47 nights over the summer and then to somehow muster enough energy to drive to Moosehead Lake and pay someone to show them where a moose was. Granted, it was a very specific dream. What follows are the details of those 47 guest-nights and the harrowing quest to see a Maine moose in the wild.  Some of what follows is true. TLOTH and I are blessed with many fabulous friends and relatives. Each of us managed to garner a gaggle of wonderful friends during our prior lives. We added numerous friends to our collection during our seven years together. Once we knew we'd be spending our summers in Maine, we decided that our vacationland was too good not to share with all those friends. "But what if they actually show up?" I warned. "Some will; most won't," blithely offered Nan.  Most did. To the tune of 47 nights between June ...