What Maine Does

  It's not often that I feel overly intelligent. Oh sure I do pretty well playing Couch Jeopardy most nights, unless the category is "Construction Techniques" or "Automobile Maintenance." And, yes, I do have sufficient math skills to determine exactly when I have no chance to beat Nan in one of our golf matches. (Usually around the 12th hole) But the idea of yours truly, Joel A. Getman, of the Dorchester Getmans, being able to successfully complete a 2022 online federal income tax form, submit it electronically, and have it accepted by the I.R.S. was beyond my wildest dreams.  You might as well ask me to build an attic or repair a Ferrari. Impossible. But guess what! This morning at approximately 8:00 am I clicked on the button labeled "Transmit Electronically," waited about 10 minutes, and received the following message from the I.R.S.:   Dear Brilliant Joel, In over 150 years of dealing with income tax filings, never have we come across  a submission...

   ...which is of course a little of this and a little of that. Warning: Do not attempt to find any cohesive theme or point to these seemingly unrelated tidbits. They seem unrelated because they are unrelated in every way but one: I thunk 'em all up. Wordle Woes  I start off every morning with a loss. I am down one by 7 am each day. It's very humbling and not a little depressing. The reason for this is Wordle, the enchanting word puzzle published each morning by the New York Times. I discovered Wordle about a year ago and have become an avid fan. I know I'm not alone. The game is elegant in its simplicity. No clues. No help. Just five blank spaces that require filling to make a common five-letter word. The only help you can muster is your own knowledge of the English language and the way letters work together. I solve Wordle virtually every day. You are given six tries and I get the answer usually by the fourth try. Sometimes I need a fifth try. Very rarely do I have to g...

  I had a great day today. A truly great day. So great I had to share it with you, the followers of these lame entries. I only hope that I am a skilled enough writer to make it clear to you why this day was so friggin' great. If you read this and aren't convinced that this day was simply wonderful for me, then I have failed as a writer. It's OK. It's happened before. So I guess we should begin with an examination of what exactly makes a "very special wonderful day." After all, your idea of a wonderful day may be quite different from mine. Your wonderful day might require extraordinary experiences, new people or places, bucket list items, or unforgettable events. As you will soon see, my idea of a wonderful day requires none of the above. Imaginary Faithful Reader : Joel, this is nonsense. How can you call something wonderful and special if there is nothing extraordinary about it? You've created an oxymoron.  Imaginary Joel : Who are you calling a moron? Ju...

  Ed. note: Avid readers of these lame posts may recall a recent entry entitled "Thanksgiving 2023"... This post was an attempt by your disturbed author to predict a disastrous first Thanksgiving in TLOTH's lovely Stockton Springs, Maine townhouse. It was ill-conceived, poorly executed, and almost unintelligible. Kind of like a Trump press conference. What follows is the actual account of a lovely 2022 Thanksgiving dinner. For what it's worth, the author hopes your Thanksgiving was lovely as well. The glorious sunrise pictured above greeted us on our first morning in Stockton Springs. It was Tuesday, November 22. Thanksgiving was rapidly approaching. We had two days to make this a Thanksgiving that didn't suck. We had flown from Ft. Walton to Boston the day before. I came close to ruining Thanksgiving before it had even begun. I had placed my suitcase and knapsack on the shuttle bus luggage rack as we headed from Terminal A to the Logan rental car center. I was ea...

  The photo above is for comparative purposes only. The actual subject of this entry looked more like this: ...or perhaps this: At any rate, what follows is hardly true other than to say that we had a stray cat problem and now we don't. I shall never forget the haunting sound that stirred Nan (aka TLOTH, The Lady of Two Harbors) and me from our slumber one night last week. It was an eery combination of high-pitched moaning and guttural gurgling. It was loud enough to wake the dead. And Buddy. "There are only two creatures on Earth capable of making that horrible sound," I whispered to a terrified Nan. "What are they?" she asked, the panic rising in her throat. "Me after a three-putt and a stray cat," I answered confidently. "And I never golf in my pajamas so I think we have our answer." I was already transforming from my preferred persona of a mild-mannered gentleman golfer to the steely-eyed, deadly calculating big game hunter, a role I have...

  Well, here we are, about to celebrate another joyous Thanksgiving in 2023. It seems like just yesterday we were celebrating Thanksgiving, 2022. It certainly doesn't feel like 400+ years since we celebrated that first Thanksgiving in Plymouth. Time just flies when there's turkey and stuffing involved. So much has happened since last Thanksgiving, it's hard to know where to begin. Let's leave aside Trump's five indictments and examine the infamous Stockton Springs Thanksgiving of 2022. Warning: this is a painful event to revisit. Faithful (and most likely bored) readers will recall that in August of 2022 Nan, aka TLOTH (The Lady of Two Harbors) purchased a lovely townhouse in the village of Stockton Springs, Maine. You couldn't find a more perfect Maine summer getaway if you tried. Sitting atop a 150 foot cliff overlooking mighty Penobscot Bay, the townhouse spoke to Nan's generous heart. "You should come here in November for Thanksgiving," the tow...

  We've only been at our new digs in Stockton Springs, Maine for a week or so but already we've become enchanted with the Downeast life where mighty Penobscot Bay meets the Penobscot River as it winds its way on up to Bangor. (pronounced Bang-gore, not Bang-gah in case you were wondering) The eagles pictured above (mom and adolescent I believe) were photographed from our deck one gray morning a few days ago. Here's the thing: I have been obsessed with being able to view and photograph eagles in the wild for a million years. The closest I ever came was the sight of a large sooty seagull at Nantasket Beach in Hull, MA in 1963. It had a white head. Ironically, Nan and I had planned to travel to Alaska's inner passage on a small ship cruise this past June but Nan's mild case of Covid knocked us off the tour. The sight of hundreds of eagles and a chance to spend some time with good friends were the primary motivations for the trip. Our friends saw the eagles. We saw Covi...