NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO ROCKPORT, MAINE.

I got on the road early Saturday morning - there was a fund-raising breakfast at the Congregational Church here on the green, that opened at 7:00, so I went and ate when they opened, then took off. Drove across VT on US 4, up I-91 to St. Johnsbury, then across the narrow top of New Hampshire on US 2, to the north of the Presidentials. I then followed Mr. ApOllonio's directions for crossing Maine on a series of secondary roads to come to Rockport from the northwest. I managed, by fudging on speed limits whenever the road appeared to be minor enough that I didn't think it would be patrolled, to get to his house just before 2:00, having estimated to him that I'd be there between 1:00 and 2:00. (Augusta was the only serious problem. They like roundabouts there, and they like putting the sign that tells which routes leave the roundabout where, just at the place where you see it too late. But I managed to make it through and out on the correct road with only a couple of stops and turnarounds, and one near-miss by a lady in my blind spot. I'm not sure I see the need for Augusta, but a lot of people seem to.)

I was very cordially received by Mr. A., even considering that I came bearing money. He provided a lunch of lobster, a special treat since I like it but hardly ever have it, living inland. He didn't even flinch when I demonstrated my lack of technique at taking a whole lobster apart to eat it, and sprayed pieces of shell and that green stuff inside, on various parts of the table.

He also provided an instrument fully as good as he had represented it, and then some. Basses like a burly slave beating a giant bronze gong in a great stone temple. Trebles like an explosion in a wind chime factory. Midrange to match, 'tho I'm out of similes. More bling than I'd realized it had, but all in excellent taste. I received a thorough familiarization with the special mechanics of this instrument. What I really liked was the strap pin. It's centered in the heel of the neck, rather than around to the treble side as is more common. But you can grab the pin, pull hard, and it pops out, along with a quarter-inch or so of dowel that it's screwed into. At the bottom of the resulting hole, there's a slotted machine screw head. When the action gets bad, and the neck angle appears to have gone awry, you do not try to find a competent luthier who has time to work on it, give it to him for days or weeks, and have him do a neck reset for 200 - 400 dollars. You tighten or loosen the screw.

After being shown around his shop, admiring his cittern playing (when he showed me his CD, that he had entitled "Cittern on the Dock of the Bay," I knew I had discovered a mentality somewhat like my own, if much more gifted), making an appropriate fuss over his cat, and doing the necessary business stuff, I headed out around 4:00, down Route 1 and the Maine Pike, to Scarborough, where Kendall and Jacqui, and Becca, were waiting to admire the new acquisition. Actually, Kendall had already played it, and his claim that it was as good as, or better than, his old Apollo 12 (the best-sounding 12 string I'd ever played until this one) was the deciding factor in my committing to it. But he wanted to play it some more.

We indulged in modest servings of adult beverages, and I got to play Jacqui's new guitar. Another one from Mr. A., but a six string, a dreadnought shape but about 7/8 standard dread size. Adirondack/Mahogany, IIRC. Very plain compared to the big 12, but sound is all you'd expect from a slightly smaller 6-string from this maker. Could compete with the Proulx OM/D or the Huss & Dalton CM, my nominees for "closest to dreadnought sound in a smaller body." and action like butter. The whipped butter that comes in tubs.

Dinner at the local buffet restaurant followed. Back at the house, Kendall insisted on sleeping in the camper and having me use his bed. Eat your hearts out, ladies. Even though he wasn't in it. Jacqui and Becca and I drank wine and told lies for a while longer. Not very long.

In the a. m. I was baconed and egged, and declined the offer to join K. and J. at the Sunday old car rally, as I wanted to get on the road and beat the leaf peepers. I had a quick trip down 95, across on 101, and up 93 and 89, but when I got off onto US 4 east of Woodstock, I found that all the elderly leaf peepers in southern New England were there ahead of me, indulging in the usual Fall competition to see who could drive the most slowly without stalling out his/her engine, and swerve from side to side of the road most wildly without actually going into the ditch on the wrong side. For most of the trip, I would have preferred to have had Kris go with me, but for the end of the trip, I was glad to be alone so I could scream as many loud curses as I needed to, without rebuke.

Home by 11:15 am. Have alternated sleeping and playing the new machine for the balance of the day, with one good walk in the woods to work out kinks. Now I have to start learning to really play 12-string. I know I'll never be Gordon Bok or Leadbelly, but I can't just beat on this thing. It wouldn't be right. Nothing is ever simple.

Peter