The Front Porch

Mom waved good-bye from the front porch this morning with her usual bright smile. After a long weekend of her 83rd pre-birthday celebration, we hugged each other extra hard. It would be our last hug until December, when Gary and I come home for Christmas after our next trip south. I pulled out of the driveway and beeped and waved excessively until she was out of sight. How many times has every member of our family done the same silly routine? It doesn’t matter who is leaving, or how long they will be gone. Rain or shine, wind, sleet, or snow. Everyone who is not leaving stands on the front porch and waves. The person or persons leaving beeps and waves all the way down Lamme Road. It’s silly and corny. It’s just what we do. 5020 Lamme Road. The three of us had to memorize that address before the start of first grade. So many kids would end up memorizing many more street addresses as their families changed or relocated, but our family address has remained the same for almost sixty years since Mom and Dad moved to Dayton. If you were to flip through the pages of our family album of life on Lamme Road, the majority of our pictures were taken on the front porch. We posed on the front steps for first communions, birthdays, and every holiday. At the beginning of each summer, young Cindy, David, and I had to scrub the porch down and hose it all off in preparation of Mom and Dad’s seasonal entertainment. We were also assigned the horrendous task of sanding and painting the front porch metal latticework glider and chairs, which today could easily be considered child abuse. How could any one child be expected to paint across those tiny little square holes without drip marks? Our work was not complete until the picnic table was sanded and varnished. And don’t forget to re-web the folding chairs. Looking toward the future, several marital disputes were based on cutting and laying indoor/outdoor carpet on the same front porch and stairs. Speaking of child abuse, how about being forced to pick row after row of home grown green beans in the hot summer sun. This was supposed to be our SUMMER VACATION, not prison camp. Next, we had to sit on the front porch and snap basket after basket of said disgusting green beans. Sure, it sounds all Norman Rockwelly, until you grab a furry squishy smelly yellow green bean worm between your fingers. All that torture for a pot of Mom’s day-long steeped ham, beans, and potatoes. I feigned disgust at that dish during my teenage years, but can still remember the delightfully sinful taste of it all smashed together with a few big pats of butter floating over the entire mess. Home grown health food! Dad prided himself on his locally famous garden, and since there were no child labor laws enforced in our neighborhood, we were expected to tend to the driveway produce store during the summer months. Each tomato had to be wiped clean and polished to perfection before being placed in neat rows along the picnic table. (We ate only the blemished ones.) Our family baby scale was used to weigh the customer’s selection, and at the end of the day the money collected was hidden in a big brown beer mug in the china closet. No robber would ever think to look there! Sadly, there were real neighborhood thieves. Whenever we went away, Dad would place a sign on the picnic table stating “Help yourself and put money in mailbox on front porch.” This worked for years, until one day we came home to a sold-out empty picnic table….and an equally empty mailbox. We felt so betrayed after all the years of neighborhood honesty. Dad’s garden drew visitors from near and far. His Pittsburgh relatives and Detroit cousins were his biggest fans. They would pull into the driveway after a long road trip, and walk straight to the garden with salt shaker in hand, to sample the vine ripened tomatoes. Mom would prepare plenty of snacks and everyone would congregate on the front porch for cold drinks and lots of food and laughter. When we were younger, Mom entertained the three of us playing car games from the front porch. We each had to pick a car color, and for a specific amount of time we kept score as each car went past on Lamme Road. As we grew older, our porch games got a bit more “mature”. I shared my first kiss on the glider on the front porch. When one kiss led to too many others, Mom or Dad would flick the porch light on and off in a warning gesture, and suitors would tend to make a quick getaway. Today, on hot summer nights, I still recall that romantic, sweet smell of the Moraine Locust trees surrounding our house, accompanied by the drone of the locust and crickets. All three of us posed for Prom and Homecoming photos on the front porch. Graduation announcements, bridal showers, and wedding invitations were addressed on TV trays on the front porch. Firewood was stacked on the front porch to last through the long cold winter months. We would, not voluntarily, take turns going out to replenish the wood basket. Once, after an important Pittsburgh Steelers loss, I caught teenage brother David crying in frustration on the front porch…and announced it to anyone within earshot. I was absolutely giddy with sibling revenge for all the times he made me cry. How cruel he was as he and his friends sent my Michael Jackson 45s sailing from the front porch across Lamme Road like Frisbees! During high school, the front porch was a very popular impromptu hang out. We never admitted to a premeditated party, but the parents would leave for a night out, and Dad was convinced that we threw our garden hose across Lamme Road so that friends felt the bump and knew the coast was clear to congregate on the porch. Cars lined our driveway, the neighbor’s driveway, and eventually our front yard. Parties ensued and the following mornings excuses of innocence prevailed. Seriously, we DID NOT plan the party! In my early twenties, the front porch was where I went for solace after I found a “suspicious lump.” Mom and I sat on the front porch while she held my hand and calmed my fears. Even as adults, Cindy, David, and I and all of our friends continued to enjoy spending time on the porch with Mom and Dad. We would cram in as many folding chairs as possible, fill in any gap with tv trays covered with snacks, and talk and laugh way into the night. When Gary and I met, he quickly and naturally became part of our family. It was not uncommon for me to call him, wondering why he wasn’t home after a long day at work. His excuse? “I’m sitting on the front porch with your Mom and Dad having a Manhattan.” What a beautiful, wonderful, loving testament of his love for my parents, not to mention a perfect alibi for getting home late from work! The front porch is where Mom and Dad spent most of their quiet relaxing time, later in their years. It is where we delivered Mom’s 75 roses on her 75th birthday. It is where the events of our lives unfolded, winter spring summer and fall. This past Sunday night, Mom and Cindy and I sat on the front porch like so many countless times before. We watched the world go by, reminisced about everyone that sat here with us in the past, laughed, and cherished each sweet and special memory. As I sadly continued to beep and wave goodbye to Mom this morning, I drew strength from that familiar, warm, comfortable, “front porch” feeling. Knowing that, no matter what this life holds for us, we will all stay together forever, gliding in the glider, posing for a family photo, holding a tomato and a salt shaker, snapping a bean, or toasting with a Manhattan. We will never stop excessively beeping and waving and loving each other. It’s just what we do. Happy Birthday Mom! We love you!

The Adventures of Tessa begin soon...

Revised E.D.D. (Estimated Date of Departure) update:

9/20ish/10.

First Day Off

Today is the first day both of us has been off work together since we arrived back to Port Clinton in May! Since that time our routine, if you can even call it a routine, has been hectic. We get up by 7:00, shower and head to work. Gary goes either to West Marine or Put-in-Bay to work at the Skyway. I jump on the Jet Express and head for the Put-in-Bay WInery. Sometimes we even get to ride the Jet together, which is a treat. In the evenings we meet somewhere for a quick bite to eat, Gary hands over his paychecks and tips, I combine them with mine, toss them on the counter, and we flop into a hot sticky bunk on board Tessa. The tips have piled up since we have no time to spend them! We will need all the cash we can accumulate to pay for our new cockpit enclosure, dodger, and bimini top. Tessa is still on-the-hard, waiting impatiently for us to complete her summer makeover and get her back afloat. We may launch this afternoon if the last minute projects come together. If not, we will launch tomorrow for sure. All three of us are very anxious to be back on the water again. Hope to be able to do more detailed updates when the chaos is over and order is restored on board!

Erie Canal

THE BROTHERS JORDAN

THE BROTHERS JORDAN It’s early morning. Our boat is charging through the Atlantic waves, sails trimmed to perfection. We’re making good time, averaging 8 to 9 knots. The journey from St. Augustine to New York seems to be successfully underway. Then I look aft. A man is holding the carcass of a tuna in his hands, munching along it’s backbone as though it were an ear of corn. He lifts his head and smiles at me as blood trickles down his chin. OMG, I wonder as I look on in horror. What is in store for us for the next nine days at sea with the Brothers Jordan? Jim is amused by my reaction, and enjoys informing me that Brother Bill also likes to eat eyes, hearts, and various other organs. I gasp and go down below to gag in private. Using perch eyes as bait when you run out of minnows is one thing, but eating fish eyeballs crosses some sort of line, doesn’t it? I need to focus on the bright side. We have two able bodied, experienced sailors to crew with us to New York. We have a freshly caught tuna. Might as well move beyond the blood and guts and start cooking. We dined on Tuna Eggs Benedict, Tuna Ceviche, Sesame Seared Tuna, and Tuna Mediterranean Style. As the winds increased to 30 knot gusts and the waves built to 10 to 15 feet, the brothers pulled in and filleted three more nice tuna. The aft deck was a blood bath, the guys looked like deranged murderers splattered with tuna DNA, and their grins were from ear to ear. Captain Gary needed a power nap late that afternoon, so Jim took over the helm. He opted to hand steer, as the autopilot could not react to the huge swells. I wasn’t reacting all that well to them either. I purposely avoided looking out the ports while I remained down below trying to read. Jim and Bill thought they could tease me into a better mood, until I shouted up through the companionway to Jim “STOP TALKING TO ME! FOCUS ON STEERING!” They actually seemed to be enjoying themselves in these conditions. That night, about thirty miles out, a cute little bird joined us on board. We marveled at how this teeny little guy we nicknamed Woodstock made it out that far. Apparently, he wanted to take a nap because he kept fluttering around down below. We tried shooing him away numerous times. Once he even rode back up into the cockpit on Gary’s head. He finally ran out of steam and fell to the deck. Jim tenderly picked him up in a towel and held him until he died. It was sad. A while later, along came another bird. We considered that Woodstock I died due to lack of food and water during his long journey, so we tried to feed Woodstock II some bread soaked in water. He wasn’t interested in anything but flying down below until he calmed down and sat on my hand. I was in an uncomfortable position, so I shifted him to the corner of the cockpit and draped a towel around him. He didn’t make it through the night. The next morning, I was ready for a break from the waves and eager to head into Southport NC. Gary was debating whether to continue on to Beaufort. Bill witnessed our exchange of opinions. (AKA fight) After that, Gary and I were down below trying to nap amidst the chaos of the wave action. One big swell sent our conch shell off the shelf and SMACK into Gary’s forehead, slicing open a gash above his eyebrow. I applied ice, then a bandage. When my patient emerged from our stateroom, Bill acknowledged the bloody band-aid by commenting “So, I guess we’re going to Southport!” Even though the joke was on me, I have to admit that was funny stuff! Especially since we WERE going to Southport. Docking was a challenge in the dark with opposing winds and currents. Tessa, not Captain Gary, decided she would back into the slip next to the fixed dock at The Provision Company. Gary suggested we simply pull her the twenty feet across the well to the floating dock. For at least an hour, all four of us had a line in our hands and pulled with all of our might while Tessa refused to budge. It was like she was saying “I’m tired, I’ve had enough, just leave me be!” Eventually we muscled her over, secured her, and knocked back a cocktail before bed. 30 to 35 knot winds were forecast to blow until Wednesday. We were officially weathered in at Southport. It was a nice opportunity to relax and become more acquainted with Brother Bill after the two challenging days at sea. Chas drove down from Fayetteville to hang out with us Monday and Tuesday, and we used his wheels to provision at Wal-Mart. Monday evening, we went to our favorite Southport restaurant, Mr. P’s. They serve the most wonderful Oysters Rockefeller, and the appetizer special was a delectable soft shell crab. Later that evening I prepared a second round of sesame seared tuna which Chas devoured. During both days, The Brothers Jordan’s assignment was to frequent the Provision Company for food and drink as often as possible. This in exchange for our complimentary dockage. We didn’t have to twist their arms to fulfill these obligations, especially since they enjoyed the antics of the friendly bar staff (especially Sheri and Laurie). Jim didn’t tell us that Bill was a hunter and gatherer along with his strange culinary tastes. Wednesday morning a Round House bucket filled with fresh clams appeared on board. Bill had dug them up during low tide. Jim could hardly wait for us to get underway and start grilling clams on the aft deck. They were fantastic! A good weather window opened Wednesday morning and remained for the rest of the trip from Southport to New York. The guys would have preferred more wind in order to sail instead of motor-sail, but it was just fine with me to calmly make way at six knots. We were cruising along Virginia approaching Maryland just before dawn Thursday when my cold and weary Captain came down below for a nap. I snuggled against him, trying to thaw him out, and he immediately fell sound asleep. Minutes later, through our closed hatch, and over the drone of the Perkins, I ever so faintly heard the now familiar zzzzzzzzzing of the reel. FISH ON! I jumped up onto our bunk, threw the hatch open, and called to the brothers. “Check the rod, I think we have a fish on!” Bill reeled in a big Bluefish while I apologized to Gary for scaring the heck out of him. As the day progressed, the brothers reeled and reeled, and the filet knife was flying. Soon their cooler was filled with eight Blues, both were covered with fish slime, and the two of them (and Tessa) smelled like one big smelly fish. The rod zinged again and I elbowed them out of the way to reel one in myself. Bill was on the aft deck fingering through a pile of fish innards. “Bill” I warned “I swear to God, if you put that in your mouth I will puke on you right now and I am NOT kidding!” He laughed but did resist the temptation. Each afternoon, Jim would pop open a bottle of wine and serenade us with his guitar. We were about as relaxed as we’ve ever been on the mighty Atlantic. The Bluefish tasted wonderful blackened and poached. The conclusion of the ocean voyage was near, and the Statue of Liberty would soon be greeting us in New York. We docked at Liberty Landing Marina Saturday night, and celebrated with “Dark & Stormy” cocktails, Roast Duck, and fine wine. A perfect ending to a very successful journey. The brothers wanted to turn in early in anticipation of a long drive home Sunday, and all four of us looked forward to the first uninterrupted night’s sleep since Southport. Sunday morning, as we waved farewell to The Brothers Jordan, we were hoping that the trip was memorable and gave them an opportunity to do some brotherly male bonding. I think it worked for Jim. For example, one day Bill was face down, sound asleep on his bunk, with his little yellow reading glasses still perched on his nose. I commented to Jim that he looked cute. Jim smiled for a moment, then said tenderly “Hey! Let’s put a couple of dead fish next to him so when he wakes up he’ll be sleepin with the fishes!” You could just feel the love!

Lock 17 of the Erie Canal

Went through Lock 17 in the Erie Canal. Here is a video of the 40.5 foot rise and filling with over 5,000,000 gallons of water. This is the highest rise lock on the Erie Canal.

OBX

At 10:40 am April 29th, we are 15 miles East of the Outer Banks. Winds are calm and we are under iron sail. Should be in NYC by Sunday for the Jordan Boys to return home.