Columns

If I were asked to select only one occupation to represent all occupations that have outlived their intended purposes, it would be an easy decision. The hands-down winner of the coveted Brass Butt-Nugget Award would be the world's packaging engineers.

A few years ago, I installed a small playground near my island home for my grandkids. Some of them have now outgrown the swings and slides, but I still like to keep the area looking nice. For beauty's sake, I have planted some rhododendra, hydrangea, rose of Sharon and shrubby St. John's wart in the vicinity.

Part of what I like about writing this column is that I get to research subjects I don't know about, or at least don't know enough about. Despite writing more than 200 columns during the last 10 years or so, it has never been difficult to find a topic. My favorite way to land on a topic is to be introduced to it by a reader of my writing.

In February 1976, I lucked into an assignment in Australia for Eastman Kodak. En route, I stopped in Auckland, New Zealand, to visit the local operations. My host invited me to sail in the harbor, with plans for a swim and a cookout. The swim was abruptly canceled when we looked overboard to see the water covered with thousands of moon jellyfish.

I was 19 and in nursing school. On an impulse, I sent a resume to Trans World Airlines. Word had it they were looking for airline stewardesses and hostesses. I got a call to meet with them, and two weeks later I was off to Queens, New York. After several hours of interviewing, I was hired. Holy smokes! What started as a whim had suddenly turned into a reality.

One of the pleasures of walking the golf course is enjoying the resident birds. Blue jay and tufted titmouse calls are always on offer, but you never know what will catch your eye. Yesterday it was a female eastern bluebird plucking a tuft of grass and flying toward her nest site. Spring breeding season is past, but these gorgeous birds attempt second, even third broods in favorable summer weather.

The first time it happened was in the fall of 1996, upon returning from our honeymoon in Quebec City and opening the door to our Bangor apartment.

The phone call itself was not surprising. My aunt and uncle had retired to Maine and built a home on Orr's Island in the mid-1980s. They had not had children together, so we were effectively their only family. Being invited for a visit was not, in itself, unexpected. We gladly accepted. What we did not know at the time was that there was an ulterior motive.