Lenny Ackerman

Typewriter

This year July 4th fell on a Tuesday, so the office was closed today, Monday. Most people look forward to the extra holiday time off, but I am accustomed to a structured schedule during the week. My days are consumed mostly with work and the occasional social event, so the open-ended time leaves me feeling a bit adrift. Like other mornings, it began with the newspapers, coffee, and a few pages from one of the many books I am reading. Predictably there were a few emails from old friends who, like me, were also unoccupied, and looking for some casual conversation. But by then I was already onto a cleaning project instead: my vintage 1940s Smith Corona typewriter — a gift from my kids on Father’s Day, purchased “fresh” from someone’s attic in Maine through Ebay. Though it had a new ribbon, the machine was otherwise in need of a thorough Lenny cleaning. With tools in hand, including several brushes, mineral oil, a clean rag and cotton Q-tips, I started the process slowly. The case was musty from years of storage and disuse. I ran my finger across it and picked up a film of brown dust. I did not want to ruin the patina on the metal exterior or be too aggressive with the inner workings as I could mess up something that has been working for the past 70 years. I cleaned the keys just enough so they didn’t stick. I can only imagine the essays and perhaps novels written on this old Smith Corona. Like a later-model Smith Corona purchased during my high school days in 1955, I am certain it was used by a student in the 1940s.

This Corona is going to camp to replace the old Hermes 1940s vintage typewriter that has been my accomplice in writing since 2017, when I started visiting camp during the summer months and wrote letters and journal entries, then my weekly column. Unfortunately, the tab button broke during my last stay at camp. My kids found me a replacement for it instead of lugging the heavy machine back to New York for a visit to the typewriter doctor. Eventually I will get it fixed.

I’ve had a long-term fascination with typewriters, from the first one I received in the 1950s to my current collection–an Olympia, two Smith Coronas and an Hermes. I am motivated to write when I am seated in front of one of these machines. The touch of the keys, the sharp clicks of the letter bars striking the rubber barrel (unlike the hushed, smoothed-over tapping sound of a laptop keyboard) and then rolling out a finished column—that is satisfaction. Sometimes I wear an old hat while I am typing. It is the way I imagine writers of the past worked when they were at a keyboard.

Now that I have cleaned my new typewriter, I am content to have accomplished something that was important to me. Lunch will be ready soon. If the rain stops, maybe Patti and I can bat a few tennis balls, or even better, I will wash the old Jag and ready it for a ride to the beach.

The Trail – Again

Last week at camp I ventured out onto the Wheaton Trust trail off Route 1. It is the same trail where I lost my way back in 2018, sweating through the wilderness to find myself only 500 feet from the highway, but some miles from my initial point of entry. This time I was accompanied by my kids and had the benefit of the new trail map brochure prepared by the Trust. The brochure is now available locally and at the trail sign-in post. The route is well marked and provided one pays attention to the map and the trail markings, getting lost is not an issue, though none of that is any use without the stamina and balance to handle the two or so miles of natural terrain to Sucker Lake.

The trail begins rather seductively some 1000 feet from the turn-off, with a cleared walkway to a car-width sized opening, everything plainly marked, and open to the skies. A few feet away a wooden bench is chained to a tree – undoubtedly a welcome sight to exhausted, returning hikers and perhaps a bit of a hint to what lies ahead. Eager to be on my way, I darted into the thick woods, my daughter Kara and her husband behind me. The trail quickly narrowed to the width of a bleacher row at Yankee Stadium – little over a foot wide. The ground was uneven with roots bared and tree stumps and sawn branches from a recent cutting. The light was much dimmer. There was no reason for sunglasses so I tucked them into my shirt pocket and slowly adjusted to the reduced light in the heavily canopied wood. I noticed how quiet it was. There were no morning birds or sounds of water lapping against the rocks– just stillness. We were alert at every turn for the next small directional sign nailed to a tree and the occasional painted limb indicating a trail marker. It was easy to miss these clues when forest debris or mud puddles obscure the obvious pathway. The trails are not level and obstacles, such as a fallen tree blocking the path, can be disorienting– like taking a wrong turn an unfamiliar city. Without clear detour signs one quickly loses direction. I always keep my head down to avoid a stumble, however with eyes on the ground it is easy to miss the trail markers. I learned my lesson the last time. These trails are marked early in the season and nature has a way of not adhering to anyone’s schedule. Avoiding the mud puddles from the recent rains then returning to the prescribed marked area on the map took a bit of walking back and forth to reorient ourselves.

The hike from the trailhead to the picnic area at Sucker Lake took us an hour and a half—a distance of only two miles. The over, the under, the balancing, the crossing of small streams, the muddy, low-lying areas and the large granite boulders all made for a bumpy trek. This time, with the help of my ever-alert children, the well-marked trail, and the new map, we did not get lost and together conquered a great hike. I sent my kids back to camp through a shortcut in the woods from the lake and I ventured on to pick up the truck from the trailhead. My cell gps calculated another hour walk so I decided it was enough. I turned around and took the same familiar shortcut back and hitched a ride with Katie to my truck. It was enough hiking for one day and I most certainly did not want to push my luck.

Father’s Day Menu

After a day of rain, temperature in the 40s, and heavy wind from the northeast, I awoke to calm waters, a bit of sun breaking through the dark clouds and weather in the high 50s. Enough reading by the fire. After lunch, Darci drove my 1950 motorboat up to the dock and off we went, Kara, Peter and I, to explore the shoreline of East Grand Lake. A lot of trouble with maneuvering in and out of gear—there were a few bangs into the rocks. Eventually, I figured out reverse was too difficult, so we paddled off into the open water, then used only forward gear around Greenwood Island, watchful for the large boulders now submerged by the recent rainfall. The afternoon sun created a mirror-like reflection of the island in the water off to the east. The effect was like a magnificent, panoramic painting.

The camps along the shoreline were mostly unoccupied, the occasional American flag whipping in the breeze to indicate someone was home. We passed a motorboat tied to a dock, awaiting the owner for the weekend, and a few chimneys with smoke. It was a quiet lake day. I was in the driver’s seat and the kids sat in the back. The motor made a loud hum, but I could hear the kids’ conversation and it was about me: Why is he so quiet at camp? He is not his usual talkative self? He seems to be in a quiet mood? Yes – I am all those things. Being away from the office, my cell phone, the computer screen, all the everyday noise, allows me the space to be more contemplative.

The next day was Father’s Day. I had planned a day of fishing at Wheaton’s with Andy and the weather forecast was encouraging: a slight chance of rain in the morning and clearing in the afternoon. Up early, before the sun. Eager to be on the water, I hustled the kids into the truck by 8:15 a.m. Andy was already launched. The kids had a new guide – Butch. Andy and I pushed off at Spudnick launch at 9:15 a.m. The water was calm. Andy gave me some rain pants. I am the optimist when it comes to fishing weather – “It will be fine!” All bundled up we sped off to one of Andy’s coves where the bass are drawn to the rocky shallows. Itching to cast, I stood up in the canoe and threw a fly to the hungry fish. I envisioned that they were awaiting my arrival. Right away a fish rose to the bait. By lunchtime I had hooked and set a dozen bass. Andy was relieved–no rain and plenty of catch. I am always amazed at how stressed he becomes if I don’t reel in my fair share before lunch. We landed for a picnic at Birch Trees, a public campsite – a bucket for a toilet makes it a campsite. Lunch was my four-pound salmon which was caught and frozen two weeks ago, grilled chicken and of course, lemon meringue pie. The perfect menu for an ideal Father’s Day.

Fishing Lessons

The weather in Maine was an unseasonable 82 degrees when Patti and I landed in Bangor. Usually, on the first week up north, I’m greeted by 40-degree weather, overcast skies, black flies and a broken water heater at camp. The drive along I-95 was uneventful, with just a quick stop at Governors for chowder and a piece of unfried fish. One more stop at DQ for a soft ice cream and we were on our way to Lincoln to go food shopping for the few days we had planned to relax by ourselves, and I could do a little fishing. By the time we arrived at camp, it was nightfall. After a quick toe dip at the end of the dock I headed straight to bed and slept. Next morning I woke up with the sun at 5:30a.m. and took my coffee to the dock. The fishermen were all out on the water, trolling for salmon and lake trout. The warm weather brought out the weekday anglers. I needed to catch up on a few office matters before Greg, my local fishing guide, and I could take off on another of his expeditions to a “special place” where the trout are “18 inches.” He came by promptly at 1:00 p.m., ready for an afternoon of catching. He was as usual enthusiastic and promising a bit more than he can usually deliver –but it is not his fault, the fishing rods are to blame. “Bring rubber boots,” he said as I was getting into the truck. But I was already prepared with them—a brand new pair I had just purchased from an online outfitter. Off through Danforth we flew, on the main roads and then the backroads, with a brief stop at his buddy’s house to hitch up an old rowboat with a 15 hp motor. Greg and his friend grew up together and both work in the woods, for the lumber industry. This fellow never married until recently, when he fell in love with a widow and now, according to Greg, he “never leaves the house.” We arrived at a small bridge over the Mattagodus Stream. Anxious to get a fly in the water, I took a few casts from the shore as Greg maneuvered the boat down an embankment. With a splash, it was ready to go. We traveled upstream, winding our way through a 20-foot-wide expanse of water that was the confluence of several smaller streams passing through miles of wetlands on both sides. There were no other fishermen in sight. When we got to a promising spot, Greg turned off the motor and we both cast–Greg with his live bait on his spinning rod and I with my flyrod with a dry fly. The sun beat down on us mercilessly. The wind was minimal and the only relief was when Greg sped upstream. We reached a bend and Greg promised (again) some action at a nearby beaver dam. He beached the boat and I waded ashore (reason for boots). The ground was marshy with areas of soft mud. I walked further upstream away from Greg to the beaver dam and started casting. With my rod in hand, I carefully moved closer to the water to avoid a back-cast hookup. Suddenly I had a fish take and now had to move away from the water to better maneuver bringing in the fish. But the wetlands were muddier and wetter as I moved back from the stream. Suddenly, with a fish on the line, I felt myself sinking slowly into the mud. Greg was on the other side of the bend in the stream and out of sight. He was too far to hear me if I called out. I gripped the rod as I continued to sink even deeper. The mud was now over my boot top. I had to make a fateful decision – the fish or me! I chose the fish. So as sank, I continued to play the little fishy, drawing him in. There was no sense of panic about getting myself out of this, but it would be messy. I laid down on my stomach, still holding my rod with the fish attached, and slipped out of my boots. I reeled in my catch and walked, barefoot and covered in mud, back to where Greg was fishing contentedly. “What happened to you?” he said, eyeing me from head to toe. “I caught a fish, that’s all!” I answered, holding up my prize. Was it 18 inches? Not even close. And I lost my new boots for it. Yet I was happy. Actually, it was refreshing to take a mud bath on a day with temps in the 80s. I guess I had been a bit scared there for a minute, but I knew it wasn’t quicksand, just wetlands. And there is always an upside to things. I learned not to back up into wetlands, always carry a whistle, and wear slip-off boots when fishing.

What’s So Special About the Hamptons?

The New York Times has published yet another article about how much the Hamptons have “changed”. The press has long been fascinated with this bucolic cluster of small hamlets at the easternmost tip of Long Island, 100 miles from New York City. The white sand beaches, the brilliant natural light, the lush landscapes–and the dancing all night at Shagwong bar in Montauk –all have attracted the throngs for decades. I made East Hampton my home permanently in 1972, when I moved my young family out of New York City. My late wife and I lived the dream. Despite the articles proclaiming the demise of that Hamptons dream, I find that today the Hamptons are not really that different than they were in 1968, when we first found a weekend home on Egypt Lane. Certainly, there are more cars on the road, generated by the tenfold increase in new houses and resulting population explosion. Yet the character of the place has not changed. There is still a vibrant community of “locals” who enjoy a small town neighborliness. Maybe the fact that many of the mom-n-pop shops on Main Street have been replaced by national brand retailers is disappointing to some. There is no longer Marleys Stationery or Whites drugstore. Yet the traffic cop is most likely a local kid, and most of the staff in the shops, the schoolteachers, firemen and many of the doctors, lawyers and other professionals are all fulltime residents here. Like me, they would rather be out here than in New York City. So what makes the Hamptons appear to be so different now? It has to be more than the retail establishment and the population increase. Perhaps the push and pull between the locals who want things to be as it was before the onslaught of development versus the newbies who want pickleball and more bedrooms added on to their already sizeable homes. Nevertheless, the Hamptons remain special because of the vast open spaces and beaches that are protected in perpetuity. Back in the 1970’s large swaths of land were set aside by people who understood what was happening and a moratorium stopped all development. A not so local new Supervisor, Judith Hope, sought and succeeded in slowing down uncontrolled home building. Thousands of acres of vacant land were set aside and the rules governing future expansion were tightened. Today we all benefit from these rules. Sure, there is more traffic as one drives the roads and lanes in the Hamptons. And yes you need a reservation now at The Grill, but there is still room at Main Beach and one can get a lobster roll at Lunch on the highway and if you’re lucky the local traffic kid will give you a pass for overstaying the time limit parked on Main Street.

The birds were chirping away this morning. The walkers and runners were on Further Lane at sunup. Coffee was ready at Poxabogue at 6:30am, and where breakfast is served all day. It is the weekend and I plan to go on a swim, wash my car, take a ride to Northwest Harbor in the morning and then a barbeque at my daughter’s home. The only thing changed for me is my age.

Shake it Off

Why do some dogs “shake it off”? Patti’s dog Wally is a Havanese breed and, as with most dogs, he periodically gives himself a good shake. Usually it is after a dog event, like when he is finished barking at the FedEx delivery man at the front door, or when he is done rolling around to relieve an itch. Dogs apparently use the “shake it off” behavior to end a sentence or finish a task. So here I am wondering why us humans don’t “shake it off” sometimes instead of mouthing off. After a bad spell at the office, just shake it off instead of going off the deep end. Managing our differences requires a good night’s sleep and some self-control, and they may be in short supply. So instead of confronting, just shake it off. Too much energy and time is spent on the back and forth. We don’t always have to have the last word. I suggest, to minimize conflict we simply, figuratively, “shake it off”. Even Wally knows that barking will only get him so far, so he shakes it off and waits patiently by his bowl to be fed or at the door to be let out. We humans can learn something from our pets.

Camp Opening

Mid-May is the customary camp opening target date. The usual tasks include emptying out the storage garage of porch furniture and the assortment of watercrafts: a 1950’s motorboat, a Grand canoe, oars and kayaks. The main cabin needs cleaning from the family of mice who live there rent free over the winter. The kerosene heater needs finetuning. The water pump needs priming. One special job this season was the completion of the bookshelves in my recently constructed office cabin overlooking the lake. Over the winter Greg –my regular handyman and fishing buddy –and his partner Jimmy built wall-to-wall bookshelves out of cedar, filling two full walls, floor to ceiling. I had shipped up around 1,000 books from the Florida and East Hampton houses, and my trusty assistant Ali spent a weekend sorting all the books by author and subject matter. Sometimes I refer to this new space as my studio, where I have my office and my watercolor painting supplies and easel. It will also have a fly-tying nook. Once it is all completed, I will have a perfect, separate, place of privacy—100 feet away from the main cabin—where I can work and play without disturbing anyone, or vice versa. I find it is usually the first place I go to in the morning to check my email and the last at night to steal a few moments with a good book.

I have a list of adventures planned for the summer season. There is a new trail guide that Wheaton’s Trust recently published. I intend to take a few outings with my kids and friends to prove I do not always get lost in the woods. I intend to learn to drive my little 30-horsepower Johnson motorboat on my own. It is like a Corvette when it takes off and planes at a 45-degree angle for a bit. I am building up my confidence to deal with that. I want to explore more off-road trails in my four-wheel drive. Last year I took the Bronco out a few times on the path up to Sucker Lake. More of that looks like fun. Sucker Lake – I really love it for its solitude. I am trying to encourage a family member or two to join me and Greg for a campout there one night but no takers. It is always the bathroom thing.

Being in Maine at my camp is always an exciting time for me. Much of my enthusiasm derives from trips as a youngster to Camp Seneca, a sleepaway camp on Seneca Lake in upstate New York. The outdoors has always attracted me despite the black flies. I suppose that is why I enjoy fishing so much. A bit of wilderness on the water, a good lunch and the peace and quiet way from life’s daily bubble.

Topwater Salmon

I had a free pass last week. After the hearings in East Hampton on Friday, I snuck in a day of fishing East Grand Lake at my camp in Maine. I flew up through Baltimore en route to Portland, followed by a three-hour drive to Danforth. I arrived late evening after a stop on the way just outside Bangor for dinner at Dysart’s Truck Stop, where I overdid it on the strawberry pie but no regrets. Up with the sun at 5:30am, coffee in hand, I strolled down to the end of the dock, sat down, and dipped my toes in the water. The sun created dazzling reflections on the water which was a frigid 46 degrees nonetheless; not swimming temperature, but a refreshing morning start. Greg had left his truck at the foot of the driveway, ready for me to take it to Wheaton’s, where I had planned for a day of fishing with my trusted guide, Andy. I was hoping to reel in a topwater salmon using a streamer fly that draws the salmon to the surface. I packed an old down Orvis jacket, my fishing bag, a 5-weight rod and an extra flannel shirt. I would be prepared for any surprises, or so I thought. Andy already had his Grand canoe in the water when I arrived at 9:00 o’clock. With my tucked-in flannel shirt I was dressed for a Maine summer day. I was immediately taken aback by the wind in my face. I rushed to empty out my fishing bag to locate a pair of gloves, and the Bulgin wool beanie cap from my buddy Thom’s last visit, then hurriedly put on my second flannel shirt, all of which lessened the impact of the chilly breezes. Waves are unusual on the lake, but today they were lapping over the sides of the canoe and my coccyx felt every bump. Andy threw a pair of rain pants at me and I tried in vain to pull them on. If I closed my eyes I could have been in Ireland. The wave action was more than I have ever experienced on East Grand Lake. I gazed upward and saw an eagle soaring against the clear blue sky and a few scattered clouds. Despite the conditions on the water, I was aflight myself with the sense of freedom I always have out on the water, when the mind is quieted, and any troubles are left at the shore. It was Andy’s first day out on the canoe this season and he battled the waves a good long time before finding a secluded off-shore area sheltered from the northeast winds.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said, calling over to me, as he pulled the bait out of the container. I watched him set a live smelt on my hook.

“You know I don’t fish with live bait!” I shouted to him over the engine noise.

“It’s salmon you want and its salmon we will catch!” he hollered back.

Early season anglers have the most luck with live bait so live bait it would be. I tossed the line out and peeled away down to my backing. Quietly we moved along the shore. Thirty minutes went by and I felt a few hits but nothing stuck. After each knock Andy checked to see if my bait was still attached and the hook available. The sun was now higher in the sky and beating down on us. I began to remove the layers – the extra flannel shirt, then the gloves. The wool beanie was replaced by my lucky old felt cowboy hat. Seated in the bow of the canoe in the stillness of the cove, I felt a deep sense of contentment. It was one of those unique moments I find most pleasurable while out on the water and only on the water. I held the rod in my right hand and the loose line lightly in my left for any slight tug before I set the hook. My thoughts drifted to old memories, to hopes for the future and to being at peace in my heart. I was “zoned out” when I felt a slight tug on the line. Immediately roused out of the daydream, I sat up from a slouch, my senses alert to the matter at hand: a fish. The best strikes are the ones I don’t anticipate, unlike sight fishing when you observe the fish taking the fly. This strike was totally spontaneous, and I was taken by happy surprise. Andy erupted into total guide mode:

“Take it on the reel!” he commanded. “Don’t lose him! Reel it in!” Then, after realizing I had things under control, he said, more calmly, “Just let it run.”

The dance between the guide and the fisherman when a fish is on the line could be a Broadway production. There is much song and dance until the fish is in the net. And this one was still unseen. Neither of us knew for sure what it was though we suspected salmon. Twenty-five feet of line was out and the 5-weight rod was bending as I reeled in. Andy sat quietly in the stern ready with a net. He slowed the engine down to keep pace with the fish. I was fearful of losing it before I got to see it. As I reeled with my left hand and dug the bottom of the rod into my right side I felt in control. I continued cautiously so as not to break the line. Andy saw the fish before I did, before it dove below the canoe.

“Salmon!” he shouted– a huge smile on his face.

After more steady reeling, the fish finally gave up and surfaced. Andy swooped in with the net. It was his first salmon of the season and he was as proud of it as I was. Dark green with a white belly it measured 30” and weighed four pounds—a happy catch for both of us.

“I will freeze him for lunch next time,” Andy offered.

I usually catch and release but accepted his offer. Reeling in a topwater landlocked salmon is an experience I’ve only ever had in Alaska, Iceland, and Labrador. This was a first at my home lake. Thanks, Andy, for those smelts.

A Palm Beach Barn Find

From time to time my classic car magazines feature so-called “barn finds” – recently discovered vintage cars that have been in storage for decades, sitting in barns and garages in the Midwest or other out of the way places—true automotive treasure trove. Hemmings magazine reports on these barn finds when a vehicle of special significance is found and offered for sale. Now I am proud to report on my own barn find right here in Palm Beach. My friend Chris Kellogg recently told me about two old cars he has had in his garage for decades—a 1956 Bentley and a 1966 Mercedes 230 SL. He recently made the decision to sell them and hopefully he will find a deep-pocketed restoration hero. The cars’ history makes this barn find all the more interesting. It begins when Chris’s father, the Honorable Francis Kellogg, served as an Ambassador and Head of the Department of Immigration and Refugees under Nixon, reporting to Henry Kissinger. While on a trip to New York City, he purchased the Bentley from an English couple returning to London. The Bentley had been given to them as a wedding gift. Kellogg brought the car back to D.C. where it logged many miles ferrying visiting dignitaries, including the queen of Thailand.

On a trip to Europe in 1966, Kellogg purchased the Mercedes at the company factory in Stuttgart, Germany. It was intended as a graduation gift for his son, but he loved the car so much he kept it—and since Chris already had a 1600 Alfa Romeo at the time. In 1968 Kellogg returned to New York City and for a period of time the two cars were housed at the United Nations on 34^th street. After that they were moved to Kellogg’s farm in Bedford, New York, where, according to Chris, his father took great pleasure in driving the Mercedes through the curves and hills throughout the area. Eventually the cars were relocated to Palm Beach where they remain at the family compound. The Ambassador passed away in 2008, and the cars were left to Chris.

Both vintage autos rest peaceably in Palm Beach, dusty and in need of restoration. Unique in their heritage, both vehicles represent another era of auto history—the Bentley a classic touring car, the 230 Mercedes the early pagoda-style two-seater convertible made famous in the movie “Two for the Road” starring Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney. Treasure indeed.

Restart: End of Season

It is the beginning of May 2023 and the busy winter season is ending here in Palm Beach. People are off to myriad locations, mostly north, to the Carolinas, the Hamptons and upstate Maine. A few friends remain here for the summer to enjoy the quiet roads and uncrowded restaurants and beaches. Last night, a few friends gathered to say goodbye. The mood of the evening was convivial and brought to mind similar dinners from the past. In June of 1958, my senior dinner was held in the Benjamin Franklin High School gym in Rochester, New York. It was the final gathering of the graduating class, after all the other end-of-high school events had occurred–the Prom, and our class play. In the following days, we were all gone with the wind–off to various colleges throughout the country, a few to the military, and most, typical of the era, went straight into the workforce at Kodak, Xerox and other New York state companies. After four years of seeing each other almost daily –though many of us had been friends since elementary school– we were off to pursue our own destinies. As for my friends last evening in Palm Beach, God willing we will all see each other again in the Fall when the winter season in Florida recommences. The end of the season 2023 is the farthest thing from the runway takeoff of the summer of 1958. Back then, only a handful of us returned to live upstate where we were born and raised as children of immigrant parents. Over the years, a group of us have enjoyed getting together at my Maine camp every year – Jer, Bobbie, Harvey, Arnie and myself—to reminisce and talk about our school days and our careers and sometimes about our backgrounds, like where our families are from and how they have influenced us. I am particularly interested in my own family history, and I intend to write about it this summer while I am at camp (and do a bit of fishing too of course). I am starting with my father, who at age 12 traveled alone across Europe, then stowed away on a ship to find his brother in America. His life journey was an incredible one, and I was fortunate to be on it with him for a time, as it has ultimately led me to where I am today, surrounded by good friends and family, in the places I want to be. Something about seasons ending makes me especially nostalgic and searching.