Spent last week in Maine at the summer home of friends Gloria and Ed. On the way in from the airport we snuck a peek at Stephen King's house and resisted the urge to knock and request entry for coffee and literary chit-chat. Once ensconced at "our" house (I take ownership quickly), enjoyed four acres of rolling coastline property, not far from the eastern-most point of the United States. Deer and bald eagles in the back lot. Lobster boats bobbing, lobster dinners succulent (four 1.5lb lobsters for $21), blueberry fields, blueberry pies, blueberry muffins, blueberry pancakes, blueberry pickers engaged in backbreaking work. Attended a lobster luncheon at the local historic society. Burly bearded guy dumping nets of lobsters into a giant steaming vat. Rosy-cheeked volunteers checking on corn-on-the-cob and fish stew while a lady plucked a dulcimer nearby. Sleeping late, sunset naps, no TV, only books and scrabble and puzzles and lovely conversation with old friends. A fine way to end the summer before fireplace season begins.
The lawn has grown to alarming proportions in my absence. I'm sure the neighbors are dismayed. I keep hoping the grass will stop already but...alas. I am over summer chores in spite of a few cuts yet required. I shall don sneakers and sweat pants in the hours ahead and handle it.
Two birds in the house tonight, both carted in by my cat, although I'm not sure it wasn't the same bird on a suicide mission. Little thing(s), sparrow(s) maybe. I managed to capture both (or the same one twice) and release. There's something spiritual about holding a bird in your hand and letting it soar off, miraculously uninjured by the feline. Ruby, the failed murderess, growled and hissed after the second bird was set free. Thank god Harry was upstairs somewhere or the family room would have been filled with dying tweets and flying feathers. His killing instinct, unlike the cat's, is expert.
The Republicans are at it at their convention, watched as much as I could stand before flipping to Project Runway. Plenty of rah-rahs, we'll bring America back from the brink and so on. American Idol Taylor Hicks in a too-snug suit gyrating and singing "Taking It To The Streets." And did I hear correctly? Was the background song to Paul Ryan's fact-questionable speech on Wednesday Dylan's "Everybody Must Get Stoned"? Speaking of stoned, Rush Limbaugh, who some describe as the mouthpiece of the Republican patriarchy in that he brays out loud what others in his party are thinking, said Tuesday about Hurricane Isaac: "It's the Democrats' wet dream that the thing hits New Orleans." The day before, on Monday, the insufferable gasbag suggested the National Hurricane Center, part of the Commerce Department, was manipulating Isaac forecasts to help Barack Obama.
Having just come from Maine, a state that feels strangely as though it belongs in another country with its serene lobster/blueberry people and fascinating Kate Hepburn accents ("Yes, Deah..."), I found Limbaugh's comments astonishing, especially in the event that anyone listens. If he is indeed a mouthpiece, it's time for the Republicans to straighten up and clean house. He is a madman, an embarrassment to the airwaves, and, most certainly, to any political party with a candidate in the 2012 presidential race. Perhaps those pesky prescription drugs have finally eaten away any sense this talking head might ever have had.