Pity Party for One

When I was a little boy and I reacted badly to some real or imagined slight, I tended to remove myself from society – loudly enough to announce my bitterness – and seek solitude.

After what my mother considered “long enough,” she’d quickly find me, (I wasn’t a clever hider) and ask, in a very sweet and kind voice, “Is Tommy having a Pity Party? Would you like to invite some friends to the Party?”

I wish I could state that I’ve outgrown Pity Parties, but the truth is that I’ve just had a long one over the continuing rapid decline of my body. You’ve heard of organ rejection after a transplant; I believe that my entire body has rejected my mind and my plans. Arthritis, gall stones, hernia, gout, neuropathy, disabling back pain – too many days, I can’t get on my GTS, much less trust my legs to hold us up at a stop. I haven’t had a decent, pain-free ride in weeks. Poor, poor, pitiful Tommy!

Yes, Mom, I had a Pity Party, and no, I don’t want to invite my friends.

Well, I am glad that’s over.

Now, a short scoot from my home is one of the oldest parts of Portland, founded by the man for whom my hometown was named.

Located at the edge of Portland, this tidy little park is near the mouth of the Fore River.

Ducks rest on the calm water before heading south for the winter, just like an increasing number of Mainer's not fond of the shoveling and plowing of snow. Indeed, unless one is a winter sportsperson, snow is simply something that looks pretty for the first hour, then then brown and black and dangerous until March.

This photo illustrates the strange fall we've had up in Maine. Some trees lost their leaves seemingly overnight, without turning much more than brown. Others, like those on the opposite bank of the Fore River, while never turning the brilliant typical colors, haven't dropped so much as a single leaf!