After a swift overnight in Portland, I rushed home to mow grass and then rushed north to watch my son run in the Penobscot Valley Conference finals, where I'm happy to say he did really, really well . . . though unfortunately I missed the exciting moment when a hot-air balloon crash-landed on the discus field because Tom and I had slipped off to Pat's Pizza, where we were eating steak and sausage sandwiches and trying not to listen to the hired guitarist's painful rendition of various songs I never need to hear again. I mean, what kind of performer believes that the theme to Gilligan's Island is the perfect choice for a Friday-night gig at a central Maine bar?
As expected, I did not win the Maine Literary Award in Poetry, which deservedly went to former state poet laureate Betsy Sholl. It was a pleasant evening, especially when my dear friend Martha and I were sitting over a late dinner in the Old Port, where the air was tender and soft and the thunder clouds were whipping out to sea.
Here's my boy (# 6 in the 400 meter) at the awards podium on a sweet spring evening. He didn't even think he had qualified to run in this race, but now he's heading to states!
Nothing can lift my heart like the sight of my boy threading his way toward me through a crowd, waving his ribbon, throwing his arms around me in joy. No literary award can compare.