The Maine course
My son, Jay, his beautiful bride, Ashley, and my delightful five-year old step-granddaughter, Hannah, just returned home to Florida after what Jay tells me had been a marvelous one-week vacation spent in the great State of Maine. During their stay, though, Jay would sometimes send me photos of his meals via text messages. This practice of sharing the visual delights of a well-presented entree seems to have become customary nowadays, and I readily admit to doing the same from time to time. But, importantly, I could not help but notice that those photos featured, among other things, fresh Maine lobster.
I recently viewed a television documentary on the American bald eagle (Haliaeetus Leucocephalus). This majestic raptor, which gets its name from the old English term “balde,” meaning “white headed,” was designated the official bird and animal of the U.S. in 1782. In that year, it was estimated there were 25,000 to 75,000 of these magnificent creatures in what is now known as the lower 48 states alone. But as the country’s human population began migrating in the direction of the setting sun, many of the eagles’ nesting territories and food sources were taken over by people. On top of that, farmers at the time considered the birds to be vermin and were inclined to shoot them at every opportunity. By the turn of the 19th century, eagles were becoming increasingly rare.
I happened to have my driver’s license out for some reason earlier this week and, upon looking at it, was reminded that I have elected to be an organ donor. Oh my. Given the dilapidated condition of my organs, I pity anyone who is so in need of a replacement to opt for one of mine. I am doubtful as to how much further they are going to carry me, much less anyone else. They will probably end up in the trash when I am finished with them.
My Dad loved music. When he was a boy, my grandfather bought him an accordion. He took lessons. He got, well, so-so good at it. We have a photo. Standing in the backyard with that contraption strapped to his chest: skinny, hair slicked back, and a big toothy smile. 1938.
Pennies and nickels and dimes and quarters. No more Canadian pennies out there with the little maple leaf, though – they quit making them long ago. Same with our fifty-cent piece. The coins that remain in our financial system are a pain in the neck. At the grocery store: “That’ll be four dollars and seven cents, sir.” Dang. Forgot to stuff any change in my jeans. Now I have three more quarters, a dime, a nickel and three pennies to add to my swelling collection of bits of metal.