Day 12 - Missing Gazebos, Giant Squids, and The Supreme Inadequacy of The Northern Lights

Day 12 dawned bright and sunny and I was eager to get in a lot of work.

And by work, naturally, I mean wandering around through the woods and looking for a gazebo and dipping my feet in the lake.

You will no doubt be delighted to hear that I achieved my goals and, in fact, exceeded them by putting my feet in the water more than once.

Three times. Because I am an overachiever, apparently.

Before heading down into the town square, I decided to find the last, most elusive gazebo in town. Being a hot-shot visiting artist guy, I have an in with Margaret, a town selectman, who sent me detailed direction to the hidden gazebo, which is apparently only known to a few people in the universe.

I followed her direction precisely–direction, which I feel I must say, included biking up a hill that was longer and steeper than Mt. Everest–and wound up here:

Private Property. Keep Out. We Mean It.

I gasped a bit, still catching my breath from the grueling bike ride up the hill, and poked around a bit, thinking that I may have overlooked the path somehow.

I followed one small trail a few dozen feet before it petered out. Not wishing to wander too far and wind up on the news (Stupid Artist Dies of Exposure 13 Feet From Huge House. And Gazebo), I grabbed my bike and headed back to the house to pack up my supplies for a few hours of work downtown.

Ready for action!

 It wasn't until I arrived in town that I thought that perhaps this was not the best way to bring my recycling to the recycling bins.

I stopped in the local bookstore and demanded to be allowed to sign books, whether they were mine or not. "I AM AN IMPORTANT PERSON! LET ME SIGN BOOKS!" I cried.

"Is that a bottle of wine in your backpack?" the kind lady behind the counter answered.

"I HAVE A PEN!" I bellowed.

It's lucky that they did have a delightful display of my books on hand, or I would have wound up signing some frightful diatribe by Rush Limbaugh or something.

After my grueling few minutes acting like a famous author, I spent a few hours alternately working and dangling my feet in the lake.

This is the dangling station. Please note the tragic lack of a message in a bottle on the raft. It is a loss that will haunt me forever. WHAT DID IT SAY?

This is my feet in the water. Because you needed to see that.

This is a close-up of my feet in the water because I have nothing else to write about or show you.

This is the water. At this particular location, it s full of weeds and probably 60 foot squid-like monsters, just waiting to drag me under and swallow me whole. Or not whole. It really doesn't make much difference at that point, does it?

A few people stopped and asked me about the boat rentals. I explained that I didn't actually work there, but when they kept asking, I offered to collect their money and send them off on the boats. Then they left me alone so I could work.

I was hard at work on my plans for starting a black-market boat rental business when Kerri called and said that she was coming up with the kids for the night so we could go see the northern lights.

I was, of course, delighted to have them come up, but obviously didn't give that impression. I may have stressed how easily I had adjusted to the life of a childless bachelor. I may have stressed it a few dozen times during dinner. Or a few hundred.

Despite my calloused disregard for the feelings of my nearest and dearest, they did not ditch me during the meal and we went off in search of a good place to view The Northern Lights or, as I now like to call them, The Whole Buncha Driving Around For Nothing Lights.

We did not locate them, although I did snap a few pictures of the night sky.

The night sky. Please note complete lack of beautiful lights.

For comparison, here is a photo I accidentally took of the inside of my pocket the other day.

My pocket. Please note spectacular display of colors.

Next time, I think I will just stick my head in my pocket and save the gas.

No matter how quickly I acclimated to childless bachelorhood, it was a great night with my family and I was delighted to have them join me even if they refused to put their heads in my pocket to see the awesome view.

Day 8 - A Concussion, A 12 Step Program for Plastic People, and A Badly Timed Walk in the Woods

This morning, as I sipped my coffee and considered the day that lay ahead, my wife, Kerri called to say that our daughter, Tori was on her way home from school. She had hit her head on a ride at the county fair a few nights ago and she had been spending an inordinate amount of time sleeping since then.
She was off to the emergency room. For some reason, that is her doctor's office's regular protocol - the doctors don't even bother to have you come in; they send to directly to the ER.
Worry shrouded the rest of my day as I waited for the call from Kerri with results.

I spent some time working on a few drawings and then headed off to the Rey Center where I had agreed to talk with a few kids from the school about what I had been doing during my residency (primarily hanging around in gazebos with my sketchbook and trying, heroically, to drink all the wine that people keep giving me).

It seemed judicious to focus on the sketching and downplay the wine a bit. I was looking for a seat downtown about a half hour before my talk was to start and noticed immediately that the mysterious letter in a bottle was still afloat on the raft in the pond.

It was just to chilly to go in there after it. I will get it, though. Perhaps it's a map to a lost treasure!

I considered stealing one of the boats in order to row out, but some genius had locked up all the oars.

I sighed and headed toward a seat so I could draw a bit before my talk and I came across this poor girl, sprawled out across a chair in the middle of town. She had evidently had a rough night and was sleeping it off.

It's sad, really. Poor Barbie just can't party like she used to.

I tip-toed off and settled in to work at my favorite table downtown. The one that isn't infested with hung-over party girls.

Another grueling day at the office.

I had hardly had time to get comfy and eat my pear when it was time to head up and talk to the kids from the school, who were on a field-trip to The Rey Center to learn about art from a cultured, suave, cosmopolitan artist.  Maryellen.

They were also being forced to listen to me, but still, it was probably better than a math test. I had just seen these kids a few days before and had unloaded all my best material on them then. While I had no idea what I was going to talk about today, I did have one trick up my sleeve.

I showed them a top-secret project I've been working on that is alarmingly fart-oriented. It is excessive, even to me.

When in doubt, show a drawing of somebody farting. Better still, show a half dozen drawings of people farting. Use the word "fart" copiously and gratuitously. Trust me.

I used the word "fart" about a dozen times and, sensing hostility arising in the teachers and administrators in attendance, thanked them all and turned their attention to Maryellen who would actually teach them something meaningful and, presumably, fart-free.

I slunk back into the town square to draw a bit more, but the sky looked threatening, so I opted to grab some lunch.

Clouds = Lunch

I considered grabbing a sandwich here, but when I went in and asked if the had a take-out menu, the guy said, "Nope."

You might consider a different sign, Mr. Potbelly.

 I headed home for some leftover pizza and a quart of wine.

When I arrived home, I tossed the pizza in the oven and cranked up my thrash metal on the stereo. I was sitting there, contemplating the infinite when a lady's head poked over the railing of the stairs in my living room and mouthed, "HELLO?"

I assume that she actually shouted, "HELLO?" but the leather-lunged gusto of the screaming vocalist blaring through the speakers effectively drowned her out.

I've been here for 8 days thus far and have yet to have a female head poke itself into my living quarters. I may have jumped and squealed a bit.

I snapped off the music and the head shouted "...TO CLEAN THE HOUSE!"

Of course. Chris and Len had asked someone to come in a clean the place. I knew that. I'm not used to having cleaning people come in, but I could get used to it.

Look what she did to the toilet paper!

It's pointy! Like a fancy hotel! I felt so important. Thanks!

 After lunch, I headed back down to the town common to do a bit more drawing and to search for one gazebo that I had still failed to locate. All I had seen of it were elusive flashes of white through the trees as I biked past.

As I walked over to my favorite chair and table to draw, I passed this tableau, set up under the large tent in the center of the square:

Barbie has, apparently, organized a 12-step meeting in the center of town. It's sad that so few of her friends chose to attend.

I swear I'm not making this up. I found her just like this. The poor dear needs help and I'm glad she's getting it.

I tip-toed past her sad meeting of one, overly-conscious of the wine on my breath, and found a seat on the dock alongside the pond. There, I found even more evidence of Barbie's wild night.

There, in the corner of the table.

Barbie's boot, abandoned like some plastic tribute to Cinderella during her bacchanal the previous night.

I also found this.

It looks like a teeny, tiny box of cereal, but it says Barbie on it. What would be in a box like this? Barbie Flakes? Barbie-Os? Some things are better if the remain a mystery.

I quietly returned Barbie's items to her as she sat at her lonely meeting of one, atoning for her excesses of the night before.

It seemed best to give her some time alone in the square, so I slipped off to search for the mysterious final gazebo that had eluded me like Ahab's whale.

Only less whaley.

And it wasn't actually moving.

And I wasn't at sea.

Or named Ahab.

And probably wouldn't die, strapped to the gazebo.

At least, I hoped not. The death I envision for myself involves more whipped cream and less whale.

I wandered along the serpentine paths that wrap around the town pond, setting off into a desperate wilderness.

The trail was very poorly marked and difficult to follow, but still I ventured onward, heedless of the dangers that surely awaited me.

I soon arrived at a distant outpost of civilization. A soccer field with at least 3 signs warning me not to cross the field. The field, apparently, is just for show.

The fence, while somewhat inadequate, kept me from crossing the field. Perhaps it is riddled with land mines. Unsure of what to do, I turned and headed back into the wilderness to find the white gazebo.

 I bushwhacked along the tortuous trail for upwards of a minute before I finally spotted my quarry - The Great White Gazebo.

The Gazebo is really less a gazebo than an altar of some sort.

It's kind of blocking my view of the mountain.

But, as with so many things in the valley, it does have a place to put your glass of wine.

Set somewhat apart from the main altar is a second, slightly less fancy altar. Perhaps it is for couple who wanted to get married on the first altar, but found it was already booked that day. They can get married here and spent the ceremony stealing jealous glances at the happy couple who got the fancy altar with the wine holder.

 Tired from my dangerous hike through the wilderness, I headed back homeward only to be beckoned once again into the wild.

I had been hearing throughout my stay about The Cascades, a delightful sounding series of waterfalls out in the woods.

Sorely misjudging how long the hike would be, I set off into the woods armed with my camera and nothing else, including, evidently, my common sense.

It was a beautiful hike, for sure. People who told me about it said that it took about an hour. I assumed, wrongly, that that meant round-trip. It was an hour out to the Cascades and the sun was slowly beginning its descent.

I opted to press onward, thrilled with the natural beauty of the area. Once at the top of the cascades, I was treated to some man-made beauty.

Free filthy towels!

And underpants!

And more underpants!

Seeing the underpants strewn about, I had a better idea of where Barbie may have been partying the previous night. She's lucky she didn't freeze to death.

Ancient ruins.

A random caution sign posted along a road. While taking this picture and wondering what I was supposed to be cautious of, I pictured a cartoon where a character is reading a danger sign and a weight marked "500 tons" drops out of the sky. I moved on quickly, keeping one eye toward the darkening sky.

Just as I started to get really nervous about the dwindling daylight, I saw this.

Sadly, it was not running and I was forced to actually walk down the hill.

The view from the top was pretty spectacular.

Goodbye sun, hello bears!

I slipped down the hill and found myself in a strange field dotted with locked steel doors, obviously where Waterville Valley locks the undead who would otherwise ravage the valley in search of tasty brains.

Zombie-proof doors.

Good luck getting out of there, you dumb zombies.

They even provided an access spot to keep the zombies fresh and clean. Good for you, Waterville Valley! I admire your progressive treatment of the evil undead.

I wandered off and soon came to the top of the giant ski-jump that has so intrigued me over the past week.

This is what it looks like from above.

Those kids are CRAZY!

I shook my head in wonder at those crazy kids and was just about back home when Kerri called to report that Tori had been checked out and she does, indeed have a concussion. She'll be home from school for a few days and should be fine. It may even be a blessing, as the zombies locked under the hill in Waterville Valley might not be interested in her bruised brain should they escape.

Day 7 - Don't Tell Me What My Favorite Pizza Shop Is.

Today I woke up surrounded by my loving family. I mean, not literally surrounded by them, because that would be weird and scary, but - you know - they were here.

Which was also weird and scary after 6 days of being a childless bachelor. And by weird and scary, I naturally mean, "delightful".

We spend this lovely Sunday morning working hard, because that's why I'm here.

Me, working really, really hard.

After all that work, Tori and I decided that we would take the Waterville Shuttle for a tour of the town. As we made our way to the bus stop, Kerri was hard at work taking pictures from the balcony.

She's taking pictures of the sky so she can write a letter of complaint to the town. Too blue.

Actually, she was taking pictures of Alex, on his never ending quest to become a pink smear on a road somewhere.

Tori and I waited for the shuttle, which tootles all over town like a toy trolley from a cartoon.

We had to wait for almost 3 minutes! I'll be writing my own letter of complaint.

 It's really a cool service provided by the town. As it was free, Tori had a very hard time convincing me not to spend the entire day, endlessly circling the town.

This is the trolley. Not the entire trolley, obviously, but the business end of it.

We were happy to be speeding about the town at mind-bending speeds approaching 12 miles per hour.

 The driver was a great guy and since we were the only riders, he made time to stop and point out lots on interesting things around town. He even pointed me toward some great biking trails.

As all good things do, our ride came to an end. Then, even more sadly, my visit with my family came to an end. It was hard to say goodbye, primarily because I found out that Alex had hidden my pillows.

I decided to postpone The Great Pillow Hunt for later and take advantage of the biking while the weather was delightful.

I made my way along a beautiful gravel path where octogenarians whizzed along at speeds that would have shamed the Waterville Trolley.

I was trying to get to a place called Greely Pond, but found that because of some recent flooding, it was no longer accessible by bike. A gentleman I met on the path directed me to a path that he said, "Climbs up pretty steeply for about a mile and  half, then drops precipitously."

I don't know if you could resist a description like that, but I couldn't.

I sweated and swore my way upward, careful not to block the path of the octogenarians who kept passing me in great, swirling swarms.

As I climbed, I kept myself motivated by thinking about how much fun the ride down would be. "This will be so much fun!" I lied to myself. "This will be totally worth it."

I finally reached the summit of the road at the point where, as foretold, the road dropped precipitously.

Down ahead of me.

Down behind me.

Not wishing to drop dead in the middle of the woods, I opted to head back down the hill, toward town where there was the promise of ice cream and horizontal roads to bike on.

I zipped down the hill, zigging and zagging through the endless parade of people hiking up the hill. The ride down; the one I had been so eagerly anticipating, lasted a good 5 or 6 seconds and was, I'm sad to say, less thrilling than I had anticipated.

Once back in town, I settled in for some grueling work by the pond. this time, I selected a seat in the town square, so I could have a good view of the beach and all the plastic chairs which ere there yesterday.

The work is brutal, but I feel obligated to do my best at all times.

Please note the complete lack of chairs of any kind on the beach. I'm beginning to suspect some sort of demonic possession.

While taking that picture of the beach, I noticed something on the raft.

Can you see it?

Now can you see it?

It appears to be some sort of a message in a bottle. I quickly reasoned that someone must be in grave peril somewhere and cast that bottle into the river upstream in a desperate attempt to get help. It bobbed downstream and somehow popped out of the water to land on this raft.

I can't think of any other plausible explanation.

And, to whoever it is that is in desperate need of help, I'm sorry, but I didn't have my bathing suit. Maybe I'll try to get out there tomorrow.

If it's warm.

Otherwise hang in there, buddy and remember: Stay Put and Stay Dry.

On my ride home, I was struck by just how many gazebos there are in Waterville Valley. I suspect that the original town may have been simply a loose gathering of gazebos.

I have decided that working in each of them is a moral imperative while I am in residence.

This one overlooks the town common.

I have also noticed that buildings in town are quite transient, as if eager to go walking along paths with old people.

This gazebo will be tricky. It's surrounded by golf course and, naturally, golfers, who tend to hit balls around at very high speed. I'll wear my bike helmet while working there.

This one is tucked away behind the golf course.

And I like the dedication.

This one is attached to someone's house and will likely be even more challenging to get into than the one on the golf course.

This one is right outside the ski school and is very close to my residence.

This is as close as I get to a gazebo where I am staying. Working in there was totally unacceptable.

 Tired and hungry from my arduous bike ride, I grabbed a snack (leftover from the reception last night) and some wine for an afternoon snack.

While in town, I picked up something to help me handle those tricky boxes of wine.

1.

2.

3. Presto! Instant snack.

I wanted to head over to the school's gazebo with my snack so I could eat, drink, and draw in the warm afternoon sun. I realized that sauntering across a schoolyard carrying a box of wine with a straw sticking out the top might prove problematic.

In the words of the late great musician, Louis Jordan: "It looked so common. And I know I ain't common. I got class I ain't even used yet."

So I transferred my wine to a coffee mug and settled in to enjoy last rays of sun on the warm afternoon.

Because I epitomize "classy".

 No sooner had I settled in when I spied an even better place to hang out.

The scorekeeper's chair at the tennis courts was empty!

AND IT HAD A WINE TRAY!

The view from on high.

Sadly, there was no room on the tray for a snack, wine, and my sketchbook. Two things had to go.

Soon, the snacks were gone, the wine was gone, my sketchbook was full, and it was time for dinner.

My father had generously bought 4 pizzas yesterday to feed the assembled family. The leftovers beckoned me, but the presumptuousness of the pizza place's slogan bothered me.

Don't tell me what my favorite pizza shop is.

And so, with the lingering taste of pizza on my lips, I spent another delightful evening hard at work on a top secret new project and trying to find my pillows.