Lighthouse blitz: Three in a day

If you want to see several lighthouses in one manageable afternoon excursion, South Portland and Cape Elizabeth, Maine, is a good place to start. (Monmouth County, New Jersey, is as well, but I've already done that one.)

After catching a glimpse of Mt. Washington from the seventh-floor elevator lobby at our hotel, we drove down to Portland Head Light, perched along the rocky shore at Fort Williams Park. The location reminded me of Sandy Hook, with the lighthouse nestled in among the crumbling ruins of the former gunneries and batteries of an early-century military installation. With so many recreational options within the rather compact park -- vast lawns for frolicking, sunning or kiting; an inlet for mild water play; the lighthouse for nautical interest; the fort remains for military buffs -- there wasn't one part that was overly crowded. We encountered more people at the lighthouse than any other part of the park, but I suppose that's to be expected. It wasn't crowded in any sense, either.

Most intriguing was the hulking frame of Goddard Mansion, an 1858 estate built on a hill overlooking the sea and the lighthouse. Trees now shield the remains from a wide-open view of the horizon, but it's hard to miss the site upon entering the park. All that remains is the stone shell of the building, the windows and doors merely open frames (with those at ground level fenced off to prevent entry). It's a stark contrast to what it once was more than a hundred years ago.

History of the mansion (beyond what is written on that plaque at the site) seems scattered and limited, but until 1981, there was more there. On March 11 of that year, the Cape Fire Dept. burned the interior, presumably to remove the dangers inherent in a neglected, crumbling 123-year-old structure. Stripped as it is, it looks smaller, not quite a "mansion," but the potential is certainly there. Or was.

We cruised northward again, back toward Portland (into South Portland) and found the Breakwater Lighthouse, or Bug Light. It sits closer to downtown Portland than the others, a last warning for ships rounding the point on their way into the harbor. Despite the modest park and vast parking lot, it was still a rather quiet, serene spot. No ships came through and the folks who were on hand sat quietly in their cars or along the waterfront. I found that throughout the day -- despite not going anywhere remote or being truly alone, these ventures were generally peaceful, solitary explorations for us. Perhaps a post-Memorial Day Thursday isn't such a hot time for tourists in southern Maine.

The final stop -- and the point at which I realized I was probably getting a bit of a pinkish hue on my arms, neck and the tops of my flip-flopped adorned feet -- was the Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse, propped up at the end of a long jetty resting atop the Spring Point Ledge, which claimed many a ship in the 19th Century. The jetty -- or breakwater -- wasn't always there. It was added in 1951 (so says an online history).

Not knowing when I'd have this chance again, I had to make the trek out to the light itself. Had I known I'd be crossing the rocky equivalent of nearly three football fields -- with large gaps between the hunks of granite and a stiff wind blowing across the water -- when I got dressed in the morning, I would've worn socks and sneakers instead of flip-flops. As a result, I spent the trip out there focused on my footing and refusing to look to either side, or even back to Casey. "You had the car keys," she pointed out later, "so I'm glad you didn't fall in."

At the end, I felt alone, abandoned, marooned. Sure, the hopscotch path of rocks connected me to the mainland, but when I stepped beneath the lighthouse's overhang and behind it, I had nothing but Casco Bay in front of me and the black base of the light behind me. The route I had just traversed was no longer visible and, because of my focus, not too fresh in my mind. By putting blinders on to watch my footing, I didn't take in my surroundings, so in a way it was as if I'd transported myself to the light without making the long, windy walk. My nerves got the best of me, though, when I tried to complete the circuit around the base and I chickened out when I came upon the largest gap I'd encountered on the breakwater. With my camera around my neck and the backpack slung over my shoulders, I didn't feel confidence in my balance should I attempt the short leap -- in flip-flops, with the swirling wind. I managed to get far enough around to see the speck of Casey sitting on the shore, so I visually completed the circuit, but I was OK with the fact that I didn't make it those last 10 feet to make the imaginary red line of my route meet in a lasso around the light.

Before returning across the breakwater, I put my camera back in its bag and bounded like Q-bert back across the granite. Casey and I got back in the car and returned to Portland, taking a quick walk around the neighborhood and taking showers before heading off for drinks and dinner (chauffeured, again, by the hotel).

We, of course, made it back to our room in time for the season finale of Lost. Well worth it, too.

From country mice to city mice

Binghamton Mets @ Portland Sea Dogs, 5/28/08

We left Whitefield in the morning to make our way down to Portland in a very meticulously planned day. The first stop was 45 minutes down Route 1 in Brunswick, to see the refurbished art museum at Bowdoin College.

(I guess, technically, the first stop was somewhere on Route 218, when a duck crossing the road forced Casey to pause. "It looks like it's carrying something," I said. But Casey noticed first: "No!" she said. "Those are ducklings! I just made way for ducklings!")

After visiting the museum and a few other campus buildings, we had lunch in Brunswick and then departed for Freeport in an effort to boost the economy at the L.L. Bean Factory Outlet and flagship store, plus a quick look at the J. Crew outlet that resulted in my purchase of a linen suit. Bring on the August weddings now, bitches!

We arrived in Portland a little after 4 p.m., checked into the Eastland Park Hotel and soon made our way to Hadlock Field for a minor league ballgame. (I won't bore you with the details, but if you're interested, apparate here.)

With first pitch at 6:05 p.m., we were out of there by 8:30 and on our way down to J's Oyster Bar on the waterfront for a late snack. In what seemed like a bit of New England hospitality, we were chauffeured there by a hotel bellboy. When Casey asked at the front desk if they could call a cab for us, the woman said, "I can take you." At first I took her literally, thinking she was about to finish her shift and would drive us down there herself. What she meant was that she'd check to see if one of the drivers was available, and he was. He took us down there and, after Casey called the desk when we were finished, he came back to pick us up. I tipped him five bucks each time, figuring that was both sufficient enough for him and still a bit of a discount for us had we taken a cab, which would've been fare plus tip. And he deserved it, having chosen to go to school at Vanderbilt instead of following his siblings to Boston College.

Back at the point

After our second breakfast in as many days at Two Cats, we drove into Bar Harbor to do some quick shopping -- mainly beer at Bar Harbor Brewing Co. -- and made the scenic, meandering, mostly coastal drive from Mount Desert Island to Pemaquid Point.


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The beauty of the drive was that it rained. It rained while we were in the car, not on the rocks at Pemaquid, not in the morning in Bar Harbor, and not at any other point during the trip, except for when we tried to get from the vans into the reception after the wedding, but that story will come later.

We had no specific plans for this day, and my uncle and family wouldn't be home until the early evening, so Casey and I made Pemaquid our time-killing stopover. I must've shot this lighthouse more than any other, with every camera I've ever owned, beginning with my first -- a Kodak disk point-and-shoot. It may be 500 miles from where I grew up, I have to have photographed it more than Twin Lights or Sandy Hook, only minutes from home. But those, I'd visit on a whim, not always with a camera, and I always knew I could go back at any time to shoot them.

Pemaquid is always a planned visit, an outing on its own. On weekends in the height of summer -- and with calmer seas -- the rocks would be teeming with visitors. But none on this day. The sea was so violent (I should've pulled out my video camera, but neglected to) that many rocks I've ventured to or sat on pondering calmer waters were completely submerged.

We'd come and stayed for hours, splitting up to explore on our own time, at our own pace, setting a time and place to meet for a picnic or to head back to Damariscotta. I'd go from the rocks on the east side of the point and make my way around to the west side; I'd bound down to the end of a chain-link fence separating the park from a souvenir shop and restaurant next door and climb the steps to peruse the trinkets that way, rather than going around from the entrance to the parking lot.

On days the sea isn't so active, we'd sit near the edge, on sun-dried metamorphic bedrock, and look down into the calm, clear water and marvel at how far down we could see. I'd take routes less traveled, those not necessarily given over to walking, but areas where I'd need to find footholds and maybe reach up for a crack to grab for leverage, imagining myself a chalk-dusted free climber on the face of El Capitan. I'd spread myself out across the point and come across one family member or another, popping up beside them unnoticed, prompting a, "Where did you come from?" reaction.

Pemaquid without people is an eerie place. It was strange to hear nothing but the waves crashing into the earth, unnatural to see the rocks in such an unadorned, natural state. Thinking back to it now, it's my most unique Pemaquid visit, perhaps my most memorable. Yet at the time, I spent as long as I could sitting on the rocks, watching the frothing sea, bearing the cold May wind. I waited as long as I could before I had to get up again and start moving; now I wish I'd stayed five minutes longer to take it in just a little more.

After a few photos of the lighthouse with the rocks in the foreground, I noticed something unusual in the light tower: movement. A blue jacket moving. Someone was up there! I'd never seen anyone up there -- the light itself had never been opened in all those years of visiting -- so I immediately assumed what I would find out momentarily, that the tower itself was indeed open for exploration. Casey and I went in and listened as the volunteer explained the light's history to two older men, and then the four of us climbed the spiral staircase together. There was just enough room at the top for the four of us, but Casey got her 360-degree view and carefully descended. I remained to get the photos I wanted, then shuffled around to trade places with the two other men and see the view on the other side of the lens. Then I waited them out, letting them get their fill and start the climb down so I could have a minute to myself at the top. If I looked to the southeast, all I could see were the rocks and the small red shack perched atop them -- a view that had to be similar to that seen by the long list of keepers who served at Pemaquid Point.

We made our way back up to Route 1 and headed east a few miles to Round Top, darting between the raindrops for the best ice cream north of Four Seas. (I can't decide which I like better.) We stood at the window to the patio, watching the rain fall on the rolling hills that lead down to the Damariscotta River, out of sight from our vantage point. Years ago, my uncle has told me, those fields were home to the cows that provided the milk from which the ice cream was made -- truly a Maine touch.

From there, I took us to my uncle's through Head Tide, a cluster of 19th-century buildings along the Sheepscot River, just a few miles downstream from my uncle's property. Back in college, Bryan and I canoed from their house down through Head Tide (portaging around the dam) and a few miles beyond the village. I noticed a sign indicating some of the historic buildings were for sale -- or had been sold. Alas, if only I'd known (and had the money).

Uncle Johnny arrived home shortly after we pulled into the driveway (and sat in the car during the downpour, rather than making a dash for the porch), and we spent the evening eating and talking. With the soaking grass, I skipped my ritual walk through the woods down to the river, and when I walked out to the car to retrieve my camera just before bed, I took a few minutes to stare up at the sky. The clouds had cleared away and left only star-speckled space. I couldn't make out the Milky Way -- either because I didn't allow my eyes to adjust fully or the lights from the house washed it out -- but I did see a shooting star in the short time I stood there with my head cocked all the way back. I considered for only a moment setting up the tripod to attempt some star trails photos, but I was tired and not up for the work that would have been necessary -- finding a flashlight, putting on my hiking boots because of the wet grass, tromping across the field to get enough distance from the house and finding just the right spot. I regret the lack of ideal conditions, not the choice I made, and it only has me itching to go back. Soon.

Acadian drifting

Acadia is the first national park east of the Mississippi River and is the only national park in the Northeast. There are dozens of places under the National Park Service's jurisdiction, but they're all National Historic Sites, National Historical Parks, and National Seashores, Recreation Areas, Monuments and the like. If you're looking for a vast, protected, wild and remote park along the lines of Yellowstone, Yosemite, Big Bend or Great Smoky Mountains, Acadia is it in the Northeast. (The NPS includes Virginia in the Northeast Region, but when most people say "northeast," they're not thinking of anything south of Maryland -- if that. Personally, I'd put Virginia in the mid-Atlantic region.)

It's also probably the first national park I visited. Somewhere along the way, on one of those childhood Augusts in Maine, Mom and Dad decided to make the long drive there and back in a day. They probably still have a picture of my sister and me along that rocky coast. I remember the stop at Thunder Hole, too, which, in my mind, was active that day. Johnny, despite his 30-something years living in Maine, doesn't think he's ever seen it crashing and frothing the way it does at its peak.

My last visit there was four or five years ago, when my sister, our cousin Christine and I drove up there and hiked the 3-mile trail around Jordan Pond. We also took the short but steep path up The Bubbles, which took our breath away on the climb -- as I was on all fours, reaching for a handhold on a rock on a particularly vertical part of the path, I wondered if I was really in such terrible physical shape -- and then again at the top. While Casey and I repeated the Jordan Pond hike, I wasn't about to force her up there (and I wasn't so excited about it myself), so we continued around the pond, covering the 3.2 miles in about 90 minutes.

We skipped the drive up Cadillac Mountain to see if Thunder Hold was active, but it was anything but. The sea was quite calm and a dozen people stood along the rail looking down into the hole, perhaps wondering what it was they were supposed to be seeing. We continued around the park loop road and made our way to Bass Harbor.

I've seen dozens of pictures of the Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse and always wanted to see it for myself. It didn't disappoint -- a small, sturdy sentinel set in a remote point at the southernmost point of Mt. Desert Island. I only disappointed myself, not noticing the path at the eastern end of the parking lot that would've taken us to the east side of the light to get the view that is seen in many of the photos of the point that have been published. It reminded me of the Cape Meares Lighthouse in Oregon, which Matt, Dave and I visited on a quiet, calm August evening several years ago -- before any of us were married or even knew our current wives (at least that way, since Dave had known Mandy, but hadn't dated her yet). It would've been another quiet seaside visit to a remote outpost were it not for the obnoxious teens who were blatantly ignoring the signs about keeping off the grass and screaming and laughing as if it were their backyard. (And if, by chance, one of them is the spawn of the current inhabitants of the living quarters, then damn, I'm jealous.)

Bass Harbor Light became the beginning of a lighthouse odyssey I did not foresee becoming a chapter of this trip. I figured we'd get to Bass Harbor, Pemaquid and Portland Head. But in researching Portland Head (myself) and lobster rolls (Casey), we discovered three others that we incorporated into the trip. The final tally after five mornings in Maine was six lighthouses: one each on Monday and Tuesday, three on Thursday and another on Friday. (Not counting the one in the lobby of Portland's Eastland Park Hotel and the two or three others we saw scattered around Portland. Or the Lighthouse Depot in Wells.)

That evening, we walked into town, exploring Bar Harbor beyond the Thirsty Whale. We sampled the Bar Harbor Brewing Co.'s concoctions (not to be confused with the larger Atlantic Brewing Co., also on Mt. Desert Island) and added it to our itinerary for the next morning, when we'd be stopping at a few stores to pick up some things we didn't want to lug around with us the rest of the night. We got ice cream and explored Geddy's kitsch (buying a few license plates and reigniting the collecting bug in me; I'm now scouring eBay for any plates depicting lighthouses) in the basement shop before going upstairs to eat at the bar. Fabulous pizzas -- ricotta, pesto, onion and garlic for me; clam pizza (actually better than Frank Pepe's in New Haven) for Casey -- and a bathroom designation to remember.

We adored Bar Harbor. A town compact enough to be traversable without wearing yourself out, it still provides plenty of variety in shops, restaurants and bars. There was lodging aplenty, and I'd go back every May if I could, beating the crowds and enjoying the idyllic town on the cusp of the high season, rather than in the midst of it. We were also early enough -- or coastal enough -- to not even think of the black flies. If there were any, they didn't find us. From what the bartenders told us, mid-June is when the pace starts to pick up, and the Fourth of July is the true start of their summer season. New Jersey's tourist season runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day; Maine's starts around the Fourth and -- my guess is -- finishes up around Columbus Day, after the leaf peepers have departed to chase the color south.


Mt. Desert Island isn't far from the Maineland (get it?), and if not for the name, you might not even notice it is an island. Yet with Bar Harbor as its hub -- capital, county seat, etc. -- the protected wilderness at its center and some of the far reaches, and the scenic coast encompassing it all, it reminded me a bit of Nantucket. MDI is far enough up there (nine hours from NYC, after all) to be as remote as the island two hours by ferry (well, car ferry) off of Cape Cod. And I love Nantucket. If I had the money for my own plane, I'd park it at Teterboro and jet up to MDI once a month, using it as a vacation getaway the way the Rockefellers, Astors and the like did in the 1800s.

Or so I like to think.

Up to Maine

Google Maps said our 499-mile drive up to Bar Harbor, Maine, would take 8 hours, 49 minutes. We left the house just before 9 a.m., topped off the gas tank -- worried about what kind of prices we'd find in New England -- and got on the road in earnest at 9:01 a.m. After a smooth ride across the Tappan Zee, up the Merritt, through Massachusetts and up the Maine Turnpike, we exited to more local roads at Bangor and headed for the coast. We skirted the northeast side of Mt. Desert Island and pulled into the Bar Harbor Manor Inn at 5:50 p.m.

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That's 8 hours, 49 minutes for those of you keeping score at home. And that map up there is the route from the police station in our town, which is close enough.

In an effort to conserve fuel, I stayed close to the speed limit and we were fortunate to remain at a comfortable cruising speed throughout the drive -- no traffic hiccups whatsoever -- and after filling up in Freeport, I had Casey do the quick math: We got 32 miles per gallon on the first 350 miles or thereabouts, a great number for my eight-year-old Grand Am.

I could do the drive without maps, even though it's been a few years since I'd been to Maine. Every August for 10 or 15 years, we'd spend a week to 10 days at my uncle's. Our trips would be a mix of the familiar and the new -- every year, without fail, we'd have the checklist of places we had to get to before the visit was up. Damariscotta Lake, Pemaquid Point, Wiscassett, Freeport, Elmer's Barn. Dad would get up early in the mornings and go fishing, and I'd try to get a ride in on the tractor (I think my aunt and uncle liked having someone else mow the expansive lawn for them) and we'd swim in the river. And each year, we'd add a new side trip or an every-other year destination to mix things up. Camden/Lincolnville, a county fair, Augusta, Portland, Boothbay Harbor, Acadia National Park.

This trip was to be a lot of the new and a touch of the familiar. Casey and I started with two nights in Bar Harbor, a chance to see the town and explore Acadia at a more leisurely pace (instead of the harried day trips sandwiched between a 2 1/2 or 3-hour drive from my uncle's and back). From there it would be on to Whitefield for a night with the family, then down to Portland for two more nights before moving on to the Massachusetts countryside for a wedding.

By lunchtime -- that is, the time we were hungry enough for lunch -- we were in Massachusetts (turkey chortle), so I suggested another old DC family favorite: Skip's Diner in Chelmsford. (And we stopped having no idea that it's been sold and will be gone before the end of the year.) Casey had a hot turkey sandwich with gravy and mashed potatoes and I deviated from my childhood standby -- grilled cheese and french fries -- for baked manicotti. Still damn good. And even with a 30-45-minute lunch break, we still made it to Bar Harbor in Google Maps' predicted time.

Casey drove after lunch, so I slept for a little, but I was awake as we crossed the Piscataqua River and entered Maine. Rolling north, I scanned the roadside for yet another landmark I recalled from those childhood summers: a small cluster of gravestones seemingly in the middle of nowhere, other than a few dozen feet from the Maine Turnpike macadam. I had my camera ready in case I anticipated it correctly so that I could capture it, but it wouldn't have mattered.

As I wrote in my road trip journal:

The small cemetery along the Turnpike in Maine is two miles before the Kennebunk service area, or just befor emile marker 24. It's much closer to the highway than I remember and, well, cleaner. Not as colonial and rustic as I'd pictured. It sits directly on the other side of the guardrail, its markers a brilliant white and a flag or bouquet or two. In my mind, it sat back from the road, among the trees, its stones grimy and gray, the grass high, no flowers or flags to bring a shot of color to the grays, greens and browns around it.

After the Freeport fill-up, I got back behind the wheel because I simply love driving the hills and curves of Maine and we made it to Bar Harbor before 6 p.m., passing Pirate's Cove miniature golf on the way. After checking in, that's right where we headed to spend an hour not sitting. And we weren't hungry for dinner, yet. On the way, my new Maine playlist for the trip was fortuitously timed right to play Howie Day as we left Bangor, his hometown.

Bar Harbor Manor is in a great location on the edge of town near Acadia, close enough to walk into the heart of the village and drink to our hearts' content. Which we did at the Thirsty Whale after mini-golf. But after a long day of driving behind us and a long day of exploring ahead of us, we didn't stay much past one post-dinner beer. We headed back to the Manor satisfied and eager for the start of our vacation in earnest.

I know I say this all the time, but ...

Another vacation is upon us. For the first time in nearly two years since working here, I'm taking an extended vacation. Essentially nine days will pass after I walk out of the office early Saturday morning until I walk back in on the evening of June 1. Not counting the week off we get for Christmas/New Year's, this is my first vacation since Bryan and I went out West to drive around the Rockies.

(And sadly, I've yet to write about that trip, despite a yearning to do so.)

The trip is simple enough: Sunday to Sunday, Maine and Massachusetts. Two familiar states, though we'll be in less-familiar areas. And so, with this combination of the known and the new, I can feel the urges -- to photograph, to ruminate, to carry around and pull out that Moleskin notebook -- pushing to the fore. It's a road trip -- yes, a road trip in tough economic, oil-driven times -- so that will allow for a little over-packing in the form of the laptop, the tripod, etc. Who knows how much I'll actually use it on the road (our first hotel does have WiFi), but at least it will allow me to upload photos daily and not have to worry about conserving memory card space.

I'm stoked to get away, though. The long break will be nice; getting back to Maine will be wonderful. Exploring Bar Harbor and Acadia more closely will be an adventure, seeing my family in Wiscasset will be fun and a couple of nights in Portland -- with trips to Freeport and a Sea Dogs game -- will complete the exploration of Maine's mid-coast. I've wanted to see Portland's Hadlock Field for seven years, ever since Derrick Lankford told me he loved traveling there and heading down to the harbor.

After Maine, we head to Amherst, Massachusetts, for a wedding -- and surely a lot of drinking. But the best part will simply be getting away. I've taken on more responsibilities at work in the past few months, so that even when I'm off, I kind of have to be paying attention to what's going on in baseball. But next week, I'm free to ignore all that.

I can't wait.

Elevator music x3

The iPod sense the moment again -- playing Beck's "Elevator Music" as I'm reading Nick Paumgarten's elevator feature in The New Yorker -- and waiting for the elevator on my way up to the office.

Shakin' at the Shack on a rainy afternoon

So maybe it was a little rainy out on Friday afternoon. And maybe I didn't need to head into work an hour early so that I could stand in Madison Square Park and eat a double cheeseburger ... then go back for a cone of the custard flavor of the day, red velvet.

But it was RED VELVET. Chunks of the best cake around mixed into Shake Shack's soft-serve vanilla. Available only on Fridays in May, and I don't work again on Fridays in May.

I went back and forth with the decision all afternoon. I could've used the extra hour at home to read or knock another show off the DVR, but when it looked like I might hit a pocket without rain -- or, at worst, a light drizzle -- by the time I got to the park, I decided to forge on. Once there, I got what I'd hoped for: no line and a quick order and dinner. With no place to sit (it did rain throughout the afternoon), I skipped the fries and allowed myself the extra patty on the burger.

Afterward, my intention was to take the M23 bus west to either Eighth Ave. (to take the subway down to 14th) or Ninth (and walk to Chelsea Market), but with no sign of the bus, the rain picking up and the ice cream making me cold, I decided to take another $2 off my Metrocard and take the R train down to Union Square, then hop the L over to Eighth Ave. Only, in my food coma I didn't think as I turned and descended the nearest stairs to the subway. It was only as I was finishing the swipe through the turnstile that I realized that this station has no access between uptown and downtown trains -- and I was on the uptown side, needing to go downtown.

But I wasn't about to waste the two bucks, so I took the W up to 42nd St., walked the stank tunnel over to the A/C/E line at the Port Authority, and took the E down to 14th and walked the block over to Ninth Ave. as on any other day.

Completely worth it, too. Looking at the photo now, I'm craving another burger.

On the corner of 15th and 8th

A chocolate lab with a light square patch of fur barks excitedly as he meets a long-haired, shaggy golden retriever before crossing 8th Avenue.

A man sits on a step outside the corner branch of a Washington Mutual talking into the headset of his iPhone (sigh, New York) as people emerge from the subway.

A cool breeze blows east from the Hudson as the Cowboy Junkies' "River Song Triology, Part 1" plays a soundtrack dichotomous to rush-hour dusk in the city.

'Not in the car, sweetheart'

Stuck in the inevitable Sunday-morning traffic in front of Marquee, the front passenger door of a Town Car beside us opens and a girl leans down to avoid puking in the front seat. When she sits up and closes the door, she sees me as I notice the amusement on the driver's face.

My drivers' luck

Am I bad luck for the drivers? Tonight's -- Car 137 -- told me how last time he took me home (March 25), he stopped for coffee at the Dunkin' Donuts down the street from the house. Just before pulling out of his parking space, a woman crashed into him. When police arrived, she said he had backed up, and her insurance refuses to pay for the repairs.

I've also been in a car hit head-on by a drunk driver, one rear-ended by an 18-wheeler (a tap that was brushed off), and in at least two stopped by cops (one got a speeding ticket, the other was questioned because another driver called to report him when he alternated between driving too slow, too fast and weaving between lanes -- including a stop at a light at which he straddled the lanes).

Lincoln crash

Bound to happen one night -- despite the cones placed in front of the truck blocking the right access/approach tube to the Lincoln Tunnel, someone plowed his car into the empty truck and was shit outta luck.

Traffic to the tunnel

The problem with being done with work "early" on a Saturday night/Sunday morning? We find ourselves stuck in the slow crawl approaching the Lincoln Tunnel.

Ah, thankfully I spoke -- wrote, rather -- too soon, for once we're in the tunnel proper, we're sailing.

Getting to know the morning commute

On the train already at this hour -- certainly not used to this. At least it was cool this morning, making for a brisk walk and getting the blood flowing. (Well, once I put the camera away.) Not used to the 7:14 train, but it didn't fill out too much. Other than the hour, it may be the best commute of the day. I'm just glad I don't have to do it regularly. It'd be one thing if I was guaranteed a 5 p.m. release from my desk, but that's far from a certainty.

The 7:39 actually left Secaucus at 7:39. I knew something was up when I walked through the concourse at 7:37 and the board flipped to remove the 7:39. The trains are not quite as crowded at this time as they are when I take the 7:58 from Clifton -- and, as a result, they run on time more regularly, I suppose.

In the end, taking the 7:14 made me super early for work (I was due at 8:30), but this way I could take my time through Penn Station (which, again, not as crowded as it would be half an hour, 40 minutes later) and get a bagel before going up to the office. Of course, moments after writing that, we slowed to a stop outside Secaucus to let another train pass. But at least I had a seat.

7:08 p.m., on the way home
Spring is here! Sitting outside their hall in Lyndhurst, the vets are enjoying their cigars.

Rummaging through the past

In cleaning out a box of stuff -- exactly that, "stuff" -- that had been stored somewhere damp and musty in my parents' house for what I can guess was about 10 years, I came across a varied cross-section of papers, documents, clippings and souvenirs from college.

Packed in a Compaq computer box -- from my first laptop, you see -- old folders (from Trapper Keeper colors to Notre Dame-issued Bookstore filers) contained items from freshman year all the way to senior year. Following are some of the "treasures" that were quickly shifted to a recycling or trash pile, on account of being one of or a combination of the following: moldy, dated, rusted (from staples), superfulous or clearly the possessions of a male college student. I've got a few more things that seemed keepable that are now in a bag in the office, but I just went back to them, and they still seem a bit musty, so I might not hold onto them indefinitely. But I do want to go through them further before discarding, so I'll catalog them later, similar to Heather's ongoing My Little Pony process.

*A picture of a then-sexy (at least I thought) Helen Hunt in jeans and a white button-down, with only about two buttons in the middle fastened, leaving her belly button exposed.

*An application, printed out from the web site, to join the Society of American Baseball Research (SABR).

*A guide for the huge, groundbreaking Monet exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago in the fall of 1994 or 95.

*A book of Walt Whitman poetry that I would've kept (and probably never read), had it not been disgusting.

*A series of New Hampshire postcards, one of which was written out to Pat and Bill as a thank-you note, but clearly never sent. Whoops.

*Various e-mail printouts, usually of jokes and other such forwards. I wish I could've looked through them, just to see what I thought funny then and to see who I corresponded with and when. I did catch Becky Robbins' e-mail address. Wonder where she is these days.

*A letter and poem -- well, song lyrics -- from an old girlfriend, sent after I'd dumped her. Somehow, these two pieces of paper (the lyrics were written on tracing paper) were among the most pristine and well-preserved pieces in the entire box. And they are now among the most pristine and well-preserved pieces of paper in the dumpster at the Clifton recycling center.

*All kinds of newspaper and magazine clippings, including Notre Dame sports stories, baseball pieces, Newsweek pages and Dave Barry columns.

*Flight stubs and receipts for trips home for various breaks during and between semesters. Clearly those were from freshman and sophomore years, because I had a car for junior and senior years.

And, finally, a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Desk Diary (free with subscription, natch; it's not like I'd buy such a thing) from 1997. It was in pretty decent shape, though it did have that musty smell to it, so I brought it inside only long enough to flip through the pages and see what I felt important enough to write down that spring semester (my junior year, when Bryan was abroad in London). It was the semester I came into my own, I suppose, when I was on my own to make plans and find parties and decide what to do on the weekends. I learned that some of Bryan's friends were indeed my friends, too, and that some of my best and lasting friendships were building at The Observer, and I'd still be close with some of them 11 years later.

Everything is quoted as I wrote it on that day(s).

Friday, Jan. 24 to Saturday, Jan. 25: "ND Student Film Festival." This may have been the year I went, probably with Mia, who as a Film, Television and Theater major was way into the student productions.

Monday, Jan. 27: "Ready to Wear." Must've been a showing of Robert Altman's film somewhere on campus (I didn't note the building). Because it was a Monday, it would've been in some Arts & Letters lecture hall. The more mainstream, popular campus-wide movies were Friday and Saturday nights in Cushing Hall.

Friday, Jan. 31 to Saturday, Feb. 1: "Romeo & Juliet." Campus production, I presume.

Tuesday, Feb. 4: "Suzanne." The birthday of a friend of a friend, Greg. A year behind me, Greg lived in my section his freshman/my sophomore year, and following the lead of the sophomores in my section my freshman year, my roommates and I took them under our wing. I still hear from one of them, Marc, every now and then, and I'm sure Greg would return an e-mail if I wrote him. He's is now a priest -- full-on Catholic brother or father, I presume. We should've known during his freshman year when, for Lent, he announced he was giving up, um, gratifying himself, and then continued it well beyond Easter Sunday -- and probably to this day.

Tuesday, Feb. 18: "The Maltese Falcon." As with Ready to Wear, I know I've seen it, but I can't be sure I went to this showing. Now that I think of it, this may have been the viewing schedule for a class Mia was taking, and I probably attended a handful of these with her.

Thursday, Feb. 27: "The Challenge (play)." No clue.

Friday, Feb. 28: "Inside Column." It was my day to write the page 2, open-topic opinion piece in The Observer. Somewhere, either in a box here or in one stowed away somewhere (probably damp) in my parents' house, lies a stack of Observers, nearly all of them there because I have a byline in them. Someday I want to find all the Inside Columns I wrote just to have them in one place. They were often the most enjoyable pieces to write and represented some of my best (and most "popular," in the sense that I got feedback) work.

Feb. 28-Saturday, March 1: "The English Patient." This would've been the bigger showing, at Cushing Hall. I believe I saw this at home over a break, possibly Christmas, in New Jersey. I was a big fan of it back then. I bought a copy of the double-VHS from Blockbuster, but I don't think I ever opened it. The love of the film died quickly, I think. I probably haven't seen it since one of these showings.

Monday, March 3: "Citizen Kane." I'm sure I went, because of what it is. So iconic. Loved it, too.

Thursday, March 6: "West paper." This was written in upper/lowercase, which wasn't (and still isn't) my prefered form of writing. I'm a SMALL CAPS guy; in fact, all of the entries I'm quoting from this calendar were written as such. I may have carried this desk diary in my bag and scribbled this due date in a class. Can't recall which one, or what I ultimately wrote for the paper.

Friday, March 7: "Spring Break. O'Hare 7:15 --> 4:00 bus." This was an evening flight, to San Antonio, and not an absurd morning flight that would've required me to take a 4 a.m. bus to Chicago. I remember packing in my dorm room that afternoon. A group of us flew to San Antonio, where Jen K. lived, then drove down to South Padre Island for a week. It was fun at times, particularly when we were able to get into clubs and drink (only three of the five or six of us were 21, and I wasn't one of them). At one, which may have been Charlie's (and from which I may still have a plastic cup somewhere in this house, though it's now used for cleaning chemicals), we went back several times and saw, on one night, Vanilla Ice in concert and, on another, a bikini contest. I also recall this being the Spring Break of "Wannabe," and to this day, the Spice Girls still make me think of South Padre.

Sunday, March 16: "Pop." Dad's birthday. I never call him "Pop," though.

Monday, March 17: "Vertigo." Hmm ... St. Patrick's Day. At Notre Dame. Not during Spring Break (which it was my first two years at school). I don't think I went to this showing.

Thursday, March 20: "Meet with Haugh, 2:00" and "Read Billy the Kid." The first was an appointment with an instructor/sports columnist, then for the South Bend Tribune, now for the Chicago Tribune. Good guy. Definitely helped with my development as a sportswriter. Not quite sure which class Billy the Kid was for, but it was a fun read. I wonder if I still have it somewhere. It would've come in handy during the summer of '98, when I spent some time during my road trip in Silver City, N.M., where he spent a lot of time.

Friday, March 21: "Column for Haugh - 5 p.m." and "My Antonia." Not sure what topic I chose for that column. I don't know why I would've written down "My Antonia" for a Saturday. Maybe it was a showing of the TV movie from two years earlier, which starred Doogie -- er, Neil Patrick Harris.

Monday, March 24: "I.C. - ND baseball." This is the beginning of a busy week in the planner. This must've been Notre Dame's home opener for baseball, and I'm sure I wrote a column saying, "Go out and watch!" I wonder if I was able to do that myself. And I wonder if I froze my toes.

Tuesday, March 25: "American West Midterm"; "2:00 Schmuhl"; "Meet w/ Tomasula 2:30"; "Call Larry Benjamin w/ start for internship (tell Powers)." Woah, busy day. That midterm may have involved both the aforementioned Billy the Kid and My Antonia. I don't remember Tomasula. Larry Benjamin was the internship coordinator at the Asbury Park Press. Jack Powers was a journalism professor and retired former editor-in-chief of the South Bend Tribune. He taught a great class, and I was among those he loved having, because I was really into the craft, not just into a relatively easy class (if you knew what you were doing). He passed away several years ago, sadly, though not after a long and fruitful life that included military service (I believe he was actually a parachuter, but I may be totally making that up) and about 10 kids.

Thursday, March 27: "My Antonia paper due." OK, so clearly I had a paper due on this, and the note on the 22nd may have been to make sure I finished reading it by then to give myself a few days to organize my plan of attack for the paper -- and to give me at least one weekend day to write it.

Friday, March 28 to Monday, March 31: "Easter Break." I drove home for this one, leaving sometime on Thursday afternoon and getting into Little Silver way late at night. I only told my mother about it and surprised my dad and sister. I'd wanted to surprise everyone, but I was bringing Colleen along with me (shudder) and figured I should announce that, in part because we were having dinner at Grandma's condo. It was the last time I saw my grandmother; she died in early May, during finals week. I think I moved up my last one a day so that I could fly home for the funeral, then fly back to spend Senior Week working on the final edition of The Observer before driving home for the summer.

Tuesday, April 1: "Nature in America - 'Country' - 8:30" and "Natural Born Killers." I remember reading Bill McKibbin's Nature in America (I think I even took it and a blanket out to the hills beside one of the lakes to read it out in nature, because I was in college, and you do stuff like that in college -- especially when you just spent an entire locked in dorms and class buildings and freezing your ass off on the wind-swept quads in South Bend), but I don't remember what "Country" was about. Maybe a movie. And Natural Born Killers was, I'm pretty sure now, a showing for Mia's class. I do remember watching it in some basement lecture hall.

Wednesday, April 2: "AMST Internship Due" and "2 films 7:30 Snite." This day was the deadline to submit paperwork for a fall internship with the South Bend Tribune for course credit. I got it, in the sports department, and covered mostly Notre Dame soccer, plus a swim meet or two and a fencing tournament downtown one Saturday. I don't remember what the two films were, though they started at 7:30 at the Snite Museum of Art on campus.

Thursday, April 3: "Lecture 1:30" and "Movie Lecture 5:00 126 DBRT." No idea what these were about, and it would take me a while to find room 126 in DeBartolo Hall now. I'm sure at the time, I could find it with my eyes closed.

Friday, April 4: "Dickinson Lecture 3:00 DBRT 126"; "Budget Due"; "Oil Change ICPA 3:30." I think this was the week of the Notre Dame Literary Festival, hence the Emily Dickinson lecture. The budget was for The Observer's Viewpoint department, for which I was the editor this semester. (But not come the fall, as would normally be the case, because the assistant managing editor didn't return from her summer internship in Washington -- nothing tawdry or salacious; she just got an opportunity she didn't want to pass up -- and I got that job, which is what I'd wanted all along. I still tease Brad about giving it to Maureen, even though we kind of knew there was the possibility she wouldn't be there in the fall.) I don't know what "ICPA" was, but it might've been the dealership where I took the Volvo for its oil change once or twice, until I realized that the cost of a dealership oil change wasn't worth the free car wash.

Saturday, April 5: "Poetry Reading 7:30 Hesburgh" and "Watch A League ... Death ..." The poetry reading may have been Galway Kinnel, who I remember seeing in a room at the Hesburgh Library. I think I saw Sharon Olds, too, so it could've been her. The movies may have been A League of Their Own and Death of a Salesman.

Friday, April 4 to Saturday, April 6: "The People vs. Larry Flint." I think I went.

Also, beneath the dates on this page, I wrote "Change Tires," a reminder to finally take the snow tires off the Volvo and put the summer ones back on. Or, more specifically, take it to the Sears Auto Department at the mall in Mishawaka and spend two hours wandering the stores while the car is in their care.

Sunday, April 6: "Inside Column."

Monday, April 7: "Powers Story Due" and "Career & Placement." I'm sure I got the story in on time, but I don't know what I did at Career & Placement. Lord knows they never did anything for me.

Tuesday, April 8: "Holtz Roast"; "Death of a Salesman essay due" and "Call Kate." I'm sure I got the essay in before going to cover the roast of Lou Holtz at the Joyce Center on campus. Heather and I joined forces on that one -- our first, and I think only, joint byline -- and were in The Observer offices until about 4 a.m. writing the story (and bullshitting). I just brought this up to her parents at her book release party a few weeks ago. I don't think I ever called my cousin on her birthday.

Wednesday, April 9: "DART 11 a.m."; "Davie lecture"; "Finish Antonia, read other stuff." Ah, DART. That was our automated course selection process. We had a guide with course code numbers and our assigned times, and we had to call in to select our classes. I'm sure it's all done online now. This would've been to sign up for the fall semester of my senior year, when I took only four classes because of the South Bend Trib internship. If I recall correctly, I had one class on Mondays and Wednesdays for 80 minutes (or however long two-days-a-week courses were) and three on Tuesdays and Thursdays for the same length, leaving my Fridays free and clear. I spent many a Friday both fall and spring semester senior year sleeping off hangovers while Bryan had to go to class or work in the university's public relations department.

The Bob Davie lecture was a "get to know the coach" sort of deal for the new football coach. Ironically, it came the day after the Holtz roast, which had been planned even before he "resigned" as coach.

Thursday, April 10: "Capital Expenditures Meeting 8:00"; "Fiction: Paragraph from last story." The capital expenditures meeting must've had something to do with being Viewpoint editor. The fiction paragraph was an assignment for my fiction writing class.

Friday, April 11: "Payroll due"; "Bookstore 4:00"; "Braves/Cubs; Matt's 10:30/11." Payroll was for the Viewpoint staff. Bookstore might've been the first game of the annual basketball tournament for my team, though I don't know if that was really the case, because I had tickets for a Braves/Cubs game at Wrigley Field that afternoon. We were all excited to go because Greg Maddux was schedule to pitch for Atlanta ... and the game got snowed out -- after we'd driven the two hours to Chicago. So we went to some wings place in Evanston and then drove home.

Friday, April 11 to Saturday, April 12: "Shine." I guess this was on campus, but I do remember seeing it in the theater in South Bend.

In the margin next to the previous dates I wrote, "Call Bryan." His birthday is the 18th, so I don't know why I didn't wait until the next week to call him, unless he was on a break and traveling then. I would call him from The Observer offices, because I was often there at varying hours (when he might be at his flat) -- and because I could call London for free.

Monday, April 14: "Powers editing due"; "Monk lunch 12:15." Monk was the president of the university, Edward A. Malloy. He hosted a lunch every spring for the new editorial staff at The Observer. It was the only time I met him, I believe.

Tuesday, April 15: "Fiction story due"; "Lonely Are the Brave 8:45 a.m." Who shows a movie at 8:45 a.m.?

Wednesday, April 16: "4 2-paragraph ledes for Haugh"; "Grapes of Wrath (play)." I don't recall seeing a stage production of Grapes, so maybe I just had to read one? A mystery 11 years after the fact.

Thursday, April 17: "My Antonia paper due." That was crossed out, though. "Make up columnists' [illegible]"; "Call Chicago Cubs." Even though I can't read it, I probably had to make a schedule for the Viewpoint columnists for the fall semester. And maybe I was in charge of calling the Cubs to find out about our refund for the snow-out.

Friday, April 18: "Yanks/Sox 7:05 - Leave 4 p.m." Brad, Jamie, Colleen and I went to the game at Comiskey Park (the new one, and still called Comiskey then). It was cold.

Saturday, April 19: "Chicago." Went to the Art Institute and had lunch somewhere, I think. I remember driving back that afternoon.

Friday, April 18 to Saturday, April 19: "Mars Attacks!" I didn't go.

Sunday, April 20: "Write Antonia paper"; "Read Desert Solitaire." Wow, I loved Desert Solitaire. I haven't re-read it in about eight years, so I'm overdue. Though it always makes me long for the Southwest. That last reading came when I was going out to Arizona for the Fiesta Bowl in 2001.

Monday, April 21: "Powers rewrite due"; "Some Like It Hot"; "Sign lease 1:00." With Bryan in London, I was in charge of securing our apartment for the fall.

Tuesday, April 22: "Desert Solitaire essay."

Wednesday, April 23: "SB Trib 10 a.m." I think there was an interview before getting any kind of internship. It was with a woman who'd graduated from Notre Dame, Margaret Fosmoe. I ate at Taco Bell in downtown South Bend afterwards.

Saturday, April 26: "Elizabeth Dole." On-campus lecture. Maybe I was covering it? Or had to assign someone to cover it? (In addition to being Viewpoint editor, I seem to recall now that I was an assistant News editor as well.) I wouldn't have wanted to go on my own time.

Wednesday, April 30: "Payroll due."

Thursday, May 1: "Volvo 9 a.m." Oil change or tuneup in preparation for the drive home, I'm sure.

Friday, May 2: "Haugh profile story due"; "Dole story." OK, so I guess I had to go to the lecture. For a class? Was this my profile? I certainly didn't interview Elizabeth Dole personally, and any coverage of her lecture would've run the following Monday, not nearly a week later on Friday.

Sunday, May 4: "Powers' house 4:00." Professor Powers always had his classes over for an afternoon dinner at the end of the semester. It was a good time.

Monday, May 5: "Nature final 10:30 same room." I think I took a nature in literature course. In any case, the final was in the same room in which the class met, which wasn't always the case with final exams.

Wednesday, May 7: "11:20 a.m. - Tomasula - 350 DBRT." That must've been the final for his/her class.

Friday, May 9: "West final 10:30." This is the one I had to move up a day in order to fly home for Grandma's funeral.

Saturday, May 10: "Last day of finals." I didn't have one this day regardless.

Friday, May 16: "Senior Issue Out." And with that, so were we. This put a cap on junior year. After picking up a few copies of the senior issue on campus, my car was packed and I was on the road home. I did the drive by myself, stopping, I think, in DuBois, Pa. I'd thought of trying to get to Pittsburgh for the Pirates game that night, but I didn't leave early enough and listened to the first few innings on the radio. This might've been the night of that famous fight in the Knicks playoff game that got Patrick Ewing and other players suspended for the next game, which the Knicks lost on their way to losing the series. I remember watching the game -- or at least the highlights and the aftermath -- on ESPN in a hotel room.

Sunday, May 18: "Graduation." Not mine.

Wednesday, May 21: "Victor/Victoria." Jess and I had tickets for a matinee to see Julie Andrews, but she wasn't in the matinee, so we were able to exchange the tickets for the evening performance. It was her last week in the show, so they were understanding, realizing that people were coming to see her. We killed the afternoon by getting lunch and going to a movie (I think it was Murder at 1600, the political/presidential murder thriller ... starring Dennis Miller). When we returned for the evening performance, we were told Julie Andrews was out of this one, too, and got a cash refund for our tickets. On the way back to Port Authority (we'd driven and parked there, rather than taking the train), we passed the Nederlander Theater on 40th St. -- where Rent had opened earlier in the year. We'd read all about it and knew it was next-to-impossible to get tickets. But the standby line was pretty short, so we waited, figuring it couldn't hurt. It was about 7:45. In five minutes, someone came down the line looking for a pair of standby customers. The two groups in front of us were three or four people, so we got the two tickets -- fifth row center. And they cost exactly as much as our Victor/Victoria tickets did, so it was no skin off our backs (or money out of our pockets). I still haven't seen Julie Andrews in person (not that she has returned to Broadway).

And that's where it ends. I obviously didn't use a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Desk Diary to keep track of assignments and appointments during my summer internship at the Asbury Park Press, and I may not have even brought it back with me for the fall. But now I know why I keep all my old calendars. Too bad I hardly ever use them religiously.

Hudson Moon

At the end of 15th St., the Moon hangs low over New Jersey and the Hudson. Picturesque, a perfect backdrop to the small park and the old piers.

Drunk hipsters hailing cabs

Riding in Car 158 -- the same number as the bus route we used to take home to Edgewater.

It's the warmest night of the year -- or the warmest Saturday night. The crowds were out on 10th and 17th by Red Rocks and The Park next door and up at Marquee, the drunk hipsters hailing cabs in the middle of the avenue.

On Route 3 in New Jersey, the Moon became visible, hanging just over the horizon like a torch, so low in the sky it looked like a brilliant flame burning over the modest ridgeline. I'm not sure I've ever seen a horizon Moon so low and large or so deeply orange.

All-time, top five hangover foods

1.) McDonald's french fries
2.) Nachos
3.) Annie's mac & cheese
4.) Pizza
5.) Advil LiquiGels

So the last one's not a food, per se, but you ingest it and it makes you feel better on the Day After.

I had three of the five today. My friend Dave got married on Friday in the biggest wedding I've ever attended -- 250 people, held in a large church with a runway for an aisle, with a reception at a hanger of a banquet hall. Dave's the closest thing to a brother to me, and he's the kind of guy who gets along with everyone. Nearly everyone he meets becomes a close friend. It's no wonder there were so many people at the wedding, with five tables -- so 40 people worth -- near mine filled with friends and family members of those friends stretching all the way back to grade school.

Here's all you need to know about Dave and his friendships: two guys I went to college with were invited simply because we've all been in the same fantasy baseball league for nine years now. He invited the parents and siblings of most of the groomsmen, including a few he's only known for the last six or eight years or so.

The wedding was a three-day celebration, beginning Thursday when we began convening in South Jersey and held the rehearsal and dinner. The church ceremony was Friday afternoon -- confusing many of us up through tonight about what day it actually is -- with the reception lasting until 11 and the afterparty until 2 a.m. Saturday, several dozen of us -- Dave might've even said it was up to 100 -- were back together at his parents' house for a Vietnamese gathering. This last ceremony also provided us with a chance to decorate his car, which we couldn't do on Friday night with the rain. So while he and his wife ate from the enormous Vietnamese buffet, a dozen of us gooped up our hands with finger paint and put our own artistic visions onto his recently washed-and-waxed BMW M5. But with Dave, it's ALWAYS a recently washed-and-waxed car.

The friends checklist is filling up, with just a few single souls remaining. These celebrations are becoming more rare and less frequent. It's an easier pace to maintain, though it makes for more carefree celebrating, as indicated by our necessity to stop beneath the golden arches on our way from the South Jersey hotel to Dave's parents' this morning. Those fries did wonders for Casey and me, as I'm sure they will again someday after another long, enjoyable night.

The final descent into irrelevance

I just saw a cell phone commercial -- Cingular, maybe? I think there was orange involved -- in which Meatloaf plays a father working in a garage and sings the tune to "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," but with new lyrics about wireless plans. Come ON. That's ridonkulous.

Bike guy is back

The bike guy -- Passaic to Hoboken -- is back (well, his bike is back; he's been here, mostly, through the winter) and I picked up a tip from (watching) him -- he carries his iPod Nano and earbuds in a metal tin to protect them. Useful.

Not useful: The train's jostling as I try to write.

Out past Kingsland, just beyond the tunnel on the edge of the landfills that transition into the Meadowlands (the ecosystem, not the sports complex), work has resumed on a group of ballfields. It used to be open space of graded dirt, with a few fences and small, bunker-like concrete fortifications. I could see the baseball diamonds in the future, but Casey once asked me what that space was. That's when it occurred to me that it wasn't so obvious to everyone -- or the non-obsessed.

Now the machinery has returned, lights are installed, scoreboards are up and boxes have been built to hold the dirt around home plate and the bases -- either these fields will have grass infields or artificial turf of some kind. Fancy.