In the Cards

So this guy shows up at a psychic’s office without an appointment. The psychic opens the door to her office and says, “I’ve been expecting you!” Before the other night, that joke summed up my appreciation for the world of psychic powers. That and some creepy memories of run-ins with the Ouija Board as a child. And the Drew Barrymore movie when she uses her mind to set fire to anyone who gives her the stink eye, although I always figured she just never got enough love from her stage mom, and, deep down, she was really a nice little telekinetic second grader. Michelle Beauregard changed all that for me. And contrary to popular myth, psychics do require appointments. I made mine for this past Monday night and arrived at Michelle’s office in Center Barnstead with nothing but a “clear mind,” at her suggestion.

I’m here for what Michelle calls an “intuitive reading.” I’ve never done anything like this before and have no expectations, except a vague sense that she’ll spill the beans about my future. As I sit down, my only hope is that I don’t learn that I’ll die in the claws of an enraged giant marsupial, and I definitely don’t need her telling me that she sees me fatter, balder and shorter in my waning years. I don’t need a psychic to tell me - the mirror works just fine for that.

Michelle sits me down, and as she picks up a small crystal and holds it in her hands, she asks me to select a pack of cards from a broad assortment. “Look them over,” she tells me, “and choose the pack you’re drawn to.” I feel no energy emanating from the cards, although that pack on the end looks kinda cool so I grab it. “Those are the Shape Shifter cards,” she tells me as I shuffle them into three stacks. Michelle takes the stack I point to and lays out three rows of six cards each. The drawings on these cards are not what I expected. With titles like “Legacy,” “Success,” “Loneliness,” and “Sorcerer,” the cards look like the album cover concepts Ronnie James Dio rejected for his greatest hits compilation. But there’s no time to think about the breakup of Black Sabbath because Michelle launches into what she sees or feels about me and my energy through the eighteen cards on the table between us.

Michelle is a thirty-year old mother of two, a shamballa reiki master and psychic whose been doing this kind of work full-time for two years. “I’ve always been intrigued by tarot cards, ever since I was a kid,” she says. “And then once I learned reiki and the energy work around it, I heightened my senses and really started to do card readings for people outside my friends and family.” (Check her out at www.theinnateinyou.com) I’m pretending I know even the first thing about tarot cards, and before tonight I would have guessed that shamballa reiki was some sort of bean curd dish served with fresh vegetables, as in “Yum, this shamballa reiki tastes swell with a nice cold glass of soy milk!” But I’ve since learned that it’s a form of holistic healing that focuses on the energy inside of us, and reiki masters use their hands to help channel the energy into the right spots to fix whatever’s ailing you.

What’s ailing me first, apparently, is the fact that I could use a little more money. Michelle feels a “heavy weight” pressing down on her as she focuses in on the card, which, I’m presuming, shows a gas pump and Concord tax bill, but as I look, I think I see a man’s head on a piggy bank, and the man is weeping. Considering it cost me $47 for half a tank of gas to get here, I’d say Michelle is right on target. Holding up the card titled, “The Moon,” she goes on to say a few very insightful things about my wife’s family, which, for the sake of harmonious holiday dinners to come, I’ll keep to myself.

Most of what Michelle tells me is spot-on. She knows that my family owns a cabin in the woods up north and that my mom loves the solitude of it, often spending time there alone. She nails it when she describes my job and what might lie in store for me, although her insistence that there is a 5’10” woman “with long legs, blonde curly hair with either heavy eye makeup or eye glasses” who has a lot to do with my future career success is a tad unnerving. And her description of my wife as “The Sacred Flame,” full of talent, potential and “untapped spiritual energy” is something I commit to memory immediately for future use at the appropriate time.
Michelle barely takes a breath, except for occasional sips of water, and she juggles the crystal in her hands, her eyes glazing over a bit as she moves from card to card. I really have no idea how she’s doing what she’s doing, and her sunny face, her great laugh and the ease with which she seems to be capturing pieces of my past and present and turning them into a puzzle for my future is compelling and comforting.

Not all the news is good. She takes a while explaining how one of my siblings will get into some trouble at work, and how I will be the “guiding light” to help him or her (I’d rather not share) make it through the dark times. She intimates that this sibling’s done something bad, so, just in case, I’m on caller ID high alert at home, my copies of ethical and/or criminal codes handy for quick reference. And then there’s just plain odd. Michelle swears my family and I are soon to see a dinner theater version of the Disney movie “Mulan,” but I honestly have to say we’d need to be forced at sword point to do such a thing. Maybe a meatball sub and a DVD of the movie, but “Mushu and Friends on Ice” isn’t in the cards for us, even though it seems to be for her.

The hour flies by, and Michelle tells me a lot of information about myself, the choices I’ve made, the regrets I have and how my future and my family’s future is generally very bright. Granted, I didn’t need her to tell me that my wife and I are happy together, but it’s sure nice to get the validation, even if it’s based on a stranger’s interpretation of a playing card with a drawing of a scantily-clad woman-lioness hybrid frolicking with a cloven-hoofed man-beast playing a lute and laughing to the sky. The weird thing is that is exactly what we’re wearing for Halloween next year. Coincidence? I think not.

Karaoke Krimes

You self-confident people have all the fun - always smiling, with lots of healthy-looking hair, using your fingers like pretend pistols as you point, chuckle and say, “Hey there, buddy!” because you have no idea what my name is, and buddy will work just fine. Well, my name is Tim, and I could use a little more self-confidence. But how? Extra smiling seems creepy, and the only place I’m growing hair at my age is on my ears; I could call more people “buddy,” but buddy’s really a dog’s name. After some thought, I decided the fastest way to earn more of this elusive character trait was to spend a night in public, singing for a bunch of strangers. And nothing says “strangers” and “singing,” like karaoke, so I invited a few friends and headed to the local bar to check it out.

Karaoke’s origins are disputed – some claim it was a bunch of besotted Japanese salarymen filling in for a missing performer; others say it was a Japanese bar singer who coaxed the drunken patrons to join him in singing; and others contend it started during Japan’s feudal era when the Samurai would drink boxes of sake and sing to relieve their stress from carrying around such heavy swords in their pajamas.

My wife and I meet our Massachusetts friends Erika and Kojo in the basement pub of Chen Yang Li in Bow. There were no more than ten people on this Thursday night, and most of them are focused on basketball and not on Rick the KJ in the corner. Rick runs “Rick’s Good Time Karaoke” where it’s suggested on his song request forms that we “Come be the star that you are!”

In the interests of full disclosure, I’ll share that I’ve arrived with a few beers already in my belly – the history of this activity stresses alcohol as a key element, and earlier in the week, my co-worker Kelly explained in Rule Four of Kelly’s Five Rules of Quality Karaoke that, “The only way to get up there and do karaoke is to do it drunk!” Kelly knows a lot about karaoke, enough for me to commit her Five Rules to memory. I get myself a cold draft, find a table for my wife and friends and prep for a night of self-confident singing.

The bar has the feel of a cantina at a forced labor camp. One couple picks over a plate of chicken wings while a guy in a red hat gives us a look that says, “Don’t even think about singing.” I grab a binder of song choices from Rick’s gear, and Erika and I pour over the pages. Neither Kojo nor my wife will be singing - they’ve our designated drivers tonight, which is a good thing based on how fast that beer just went down.

As I select my first song, Kelly’s Rule One comes to mind: “Pick a song you really love and know all the words.” The song binder is massive – choosing between Mel Tillis, Motorhead and the Monkees is harder than you think. While I keep looking, Erika bounds up front, and Rick announces, “Let’s hear it for Erika!” Other than us, no one gives Erika a second thought, but with the first sounds of her voice, everything changes. “I’ve been cheated, been mistreated. When will I be loved?” Erika sings, and everyone in the bar stops to listen. As she continues, it’s as if Linda Ronstadt herself came in for mu shu takeout, heard a commotion and grabbed the mic. Erika’s voice is full, sweet and sultry, and when she sings, “It happens every time!” the crowd is hers and hers alone. The song moves into the instrumental break, and I’m so mesmerized by my friend’s beautiful voice that I don’t remember Kelly’s Rule Three (“Never, ever speak the words ‘Instrumental Break’ when they flash on the screen. It’s not funny.”) No need to because Erika is gently swaying to the rhythm while we wait in rapt anticipation for the finale. She delivers, and the crowd loves it. Rick’s smiling, and Mr. Red Hat is hooting, giving Erika a high five as she sits down. Everyone applauds.

The pressure! The crowd will be expecting brilliance after that debut, and I hustle up front. I’ve chosen Lynrd Skynrd’s rollicking tribute to the flirtatious coward in all men - “Gimme Three Steps.” After thirty years of singing that song to myself, I know the words and belt it out, using hand gestures to emphasize phrases like, “And he was looking for you-know-who,” and “Wait a minute mister, I didn’t even kiss her, don’t want no trouble with you,” and the crowd at least seems unoffended. I finish to tepid but noticeable applause. I can feel the confidence flowing a bit, or maybe that’s the hops and barley. Either way, this is fun.

Erika’s up again, choosing Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats.” The crowd hangs on every note from her throaty, precise voice, and when she croons, “I might’ve saved a little trouble for the next girl,” the smiles on the faces of two women closest to Erika, both deep into matching goblets of white wine, are huge. As Erika sits, another woman walks over and says, “That was beautiful. Did you see my man split for the bathroom when you started singing that one? Ha!” Erika’s voice – so good it forces cheating men to run for cover.

I’m up next and take a risk, choosing “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” a Pat Benatar staple. I thought about “Hell is for Children,” but remember Kelly’s Rule Two: “Karaoke is much more fun when the audience knows the song.” I can see one of the Chardonnay Twins laugh as I begin. It’s better than expected, although my voice sounds more like Alvin the Chipmunk going through puberty than Pat Benatar in her heyday. But Alvin never sang lines like, “Before I put another notch in my lipstick case, you better make sure you put me in my place.” The crowd approves, and the Chardonnay Twins love every minute of it - even Mr. Red Hat throws me a high five. Maybe I wasn’t so bad after all.

This really is fun. Granted, catching lawn darts is lots of laughs after six quick beers, but something tells me I’m OK at this. I decide the best way to win the crowd over and nail this self-confidence thing is to duet with Erika! This fulfills Kelly’s Rule Five – “A team effort is a good thing,” and we choose Elton John’s and Kiki Dee’s, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” We walk arm in arm to the front, and I’m ready to blow ‘em all away. But right out of the gate, I can’t find the tune, and my voice sounds like Peter Brady during his “Time to Change” phase while Erika’s performance demands everyone in the room strikes the mere memory of Kiki Dee’s now-pedestrian voice from our minds forever. We continue, and I hear something in the sparse crowd. Just before we finish, I realize Mr. Red Hat is shouting at me. “You stink! Stop singing. You’re ruining it!” he yells, leaning over as we walk by, saying to my wife, “That guy was lousy but the lady was awesome!” Wow – heckled by one seventh of the crowd. I’m not sure if Kelly has a secret Rule Six, but I’m betting “Expect to get heckled in front of your wife and friends,” is not it.

We sit down and think about heading home when the taller of the Chardonnay Twins ambles by, the wine edging over the lip of her glass and announces to Erika, “You have a voice of pure gold. You got to do something with it. I’ve seen every episode of American Idol, and you are way better than every one of them.” Erika is gracious, brushing off the compliments, but Chardonnay Sister One persists. “What are you doing in Concord, New Hampshire? You are too good for this place. Promise me you’ll do something with your voice. Promise me,” she says, touching Erika’s arm. Erika promises, and Chardonnay Sister One stumbles away, content her role as local dream catcher is complete.I sit and watch this unfold, realizing my voice, on the other hand, is not too good for Concord (or Bow, Penacook or Hooksett, for that matter), and I’m OK with it. This self-confidence thing is gonna take some time, and I’ve got just the right song list to get me there. But next time, I’m going solo, avoiding Elton John and doubling up on the beers. I’m pretty confident about that.

A Fish(less) Story

It’s just before sunrise on a frigid February Sunday morning, and I’m standing on a frozen lake. It’s still dark, although the sun is starting to make its way up and out over the trees behind me. My guide for the morning, Ben Nugent, a thirty year-old biologist for Fish and Game, finishes pulling his sled, packed with the tools we’ll need for a day of ice fishing. I met Ben about twenty minutes ago, right near Mosquito Bridge outside Tilton. The first thing he said to me was, “This is the coldest morning I’ve fished this year,” and now, standing in the middle of Lake Winnisquam, wearing six layers of clothes, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks and foot warmers inside my boots, I believe him. The cold takes my breath away, reminding me that it sure was warm in my bed about an hour ago, where I still could be, snug and cozy as I dream of soft tropical breezes and warm sand between my toes.
My imaginary vacation is interrupted by the whine of the gas-powered ice augur that Ben’s man-handling as he drills a hole into the ice. Water gushes out as Ben kicks the slush and ice away and drills another hole. My guess is that the fundamentals of ice fishing haven’t changed much since our ancestors realized that salted squirrel meat gets pretty tired around mid January. You cut a hole in the ice, you bait a hook, you drop the hook into the hole, and you wait. A few days before Ben cautioned me that even though he’s picked out a sure-fire winning spot for us, “There are no guarantees” we’ll catch anything, but as I watch him set up the shelter and cut the bait, I have a feeling I’m in the hands of a pro, and if I can prevent myself from freezing to death or falling through the ice, I might just be eating fish for dinner tonight.
I’m not much of a fisherman. To-date, my greatest achievement as an angler is getting a three-pronged lure stuck in my ten-year old belly while yanking it from a sunken log only to be followed twelve years later by a mid-river mishap in Montana when I learned that fly fishing waders filled with gallons of Bighorn River water make for a hilarious, near-lethal combination. And prior to today, the thought of ice fishing reminded me only of the joke about how the ice fisherman died (he got himself run over by the Zamboni), but with thousands of fishable bodies of water across New Hampshire, I decided it was time to hit the ice and see what the frigid fuss was all about.
Ben’s from northern New Hampshire, and after two years of college, he abandoned his plan of becoming a pharmacist. “A life under fluorescent lights was not for me,” he adds as he divvies up the sucker meat. Ben is a conservation biologist for New Hampshire Fish and Game. “My job is to look for and study endangered fish populations for the state and help towns make good decisions about how to protect them,” Ben explains. And when he says things like, “Trawlin’ on Winni,” and “Jigging for lakers,” he says them with such casual conviction that I’m convinced this man knows more about fish and fishing than I could ever hope to. Besides, anyone who utters the sentence, “Black crappie makes great eating,” with a straight face deserves my respect.
We’re now seated in the temporary shelter – sort of a bob house on the fly. The thick plywood base has two hatches in the floor, and Ben’s positioned them just above the holes he’s drilled. He then unveils his baby, or as he calls it, “My $350 fishing buddy,” a state-of-the-art depth and fish finder. Ben drops the cable sensor down the hole, and we see how deep the water is and where the fish are. “Without this, you’re fishing blind,” he says, which sums up every attempt I’ve ever had at fishing until today.
Ben hands me a small rod with a simple lure and a piece of sucker meat on it. I watch as he cuts more of the meat and puts it into what looks like a small copper bell at the end of another rod. “It’s time to chum the holes,” he explains as he puts three or four pieces of bait into the bell, latches the bottom and drops it into my hole. Ben tells me that it’s a chum bucket, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve heard that term before, but only during Spongebob Squarepants, drawing even greater attention to the fact I’ve got lots to learn.
We watch the bucket descend on the depth finder’s small screen, and just as it reaches fifty-five feet and the bottom, Ben yanks the line to release the bucket’s bottom to let the chum fall to the floor. Our target today is lake trout, a robust species that’s found in most lakes across the state. I learn that any trout we keep has to be at least eighteen inches long and that trout love smelt. Ben waxes poetic about the smelt, about how they’re key to the health of the larger fish in the lake. “The trout and the salmon eat smelt, so we need smelt for the other fish to thrive,” Ben tells me. I had no idea how important smelt were to the entire operation, and Ben continues, telling me the smelt population in Lake Winnisquam is healthy and plentiful. I think we’ve dumped enough of it at the bottom of our holes to host a trout-only, all-you-can-eat “smeltasbord,” but so far, the fish ignore us.
Ben’s fish finder shows nothing except our lines in the water and an occasional fish or two. We’ve been out here for about two hours already and nothing’s biting except the cold air. Ben suggests that the chum left behind by the bob house owners in the distance might have helped our trout lose their appetites or that last weekend’s fishing derby may have played a role. Either way, we’re having no luck, and Ben decides to find a new spot. Within minutes he’s drilled two new holes, and we’re soon seated in our cozy shelter, rods in hand, and fresh chum down the holes.
One thing I can tell you about ice fishing when the fish aren’t biting is that you spend a lot of time talking about other things. Ben saw John Hiatt and Lyle Lovett at the Capitol Theater last weekend, and I really liked George Clooney in the film, Michael Clayton. The sub-prime housing market issue is a big problem, and the New York Mets will play their last season at Shea this summer. I once saw an otter in the lake when I was a kid, and did you know that otters will eat only the eyes and brains of salmon that are caught in Fish and Game’s nets? We talk Red Sox, mink, bald eagles and fish. We discuss the state of fishing on Winnipesaukee (great) and the future of the Bridal Shiner (not great). We talk about how ugly the cusk is and about how last summer a renegade pickerel in Merrimack nipped at campers’ feet as they swam, and that the Round White is a very rare fish in New Hampshire and lives only in Newfound Lake.
“We might get skunked today,” Ben laments. We try another strategy and go back to the original holes and bait a hook on a “tip up,” a contraption that sits over the hole with a baited line at the end and a flag that snaps up the moment there’s any tug on the line. Ben sets it, and we head back to our holes.
It’s around 10 AM and we’ve been out here for four hours. Just then, Ben sees the raised flag on the tip up, and we jog over to see what we’ve caught. Ben can’t believe it – the flag’s up but there’s nothing on the end of our line, just remnants of the sucker meat. Apparently we’re the only suckers out here today. Back in the shelter, our time running out, we even try dumping the carcass of the sucker fish Ben filleted last night to entice our recalcitrant foes, but it’s frozen, and the sucker’s head bobs on the surface of my hole, its dead eyes staring through me, mocking my incompetence.
Just before we quit, we’ve fallen back into silence when Ben murmurs, “You’ve got a lake trout right underneath you.” I reel the bait gently upward, hoping the fish will forget the free food we gave him and attack my strings-attached snack. But he’s too smart, too full or too jaded for my shenanigans, and he swims away, leaving us fishless.
You might call five hours sitting on a block of ice in the frigid winter air with no fish to show for it the definition of failure, but I’m not so sure. How often do you get to learn all sorts of things from a man who’s an expert in his field and have fun doing it? And there are worse places to spend a Sunday morning than in the great outdoors. Besides, what’s a little frostbite among new fishing buddies?

"The Fat Man's Candy" or "How Cheese Changed my Life"

The holidays are over, and as I look in the mirror, I see a flabbier version of myself staring back, a look of confused anxiety on my face as I realize what six weeks of over-indulgence can do to a man. This year was gonna be different – this was the year I stayed away from third helpings of the festive pecan sugar log, rejected another lap around the buffet table, the year I avoided the face-first forays into the creamy Frito-laden dip. That plan ended the minute the eighth swan went a’ swimming, unfortunately, leaving me swollen, sullen and looking for the ghost of Jack Lalanne, and he isn’t even dead yet. When New Year’s Day rolled around, I seized upon the first day of the New Year as the perfect time to right my ways.
But then the cheese called. Well, not the cheese itself but the cheesemonger, dashing my hopes for a slimmer future. Cheesemonger? What in the name of Cheez Whiz is a cheesemonger, you ask. Until two weeks ago I too had no idea, but any job that features cheese in the title can’t be all that bad, so I went to learn more, casting my weight loss plan aside like an unopened Absizer.
There are those who care more about the Doodle than the Cheez, who consider cheese a sidekick and nothing more. Then there are those who see cheese for the glorious creation it is, finding a partially filled glass of milk and caring nothing about the half-empty versus half-full argument, demanding only to know what moron blew the chance to turn that milk into cheese. I love cheese not as the corner man but as the main event - the Muhammad Ali of the meal rather than the Bundini Brown. Cheese, I believe, is the pinnacle of human existence, the reason for life itself, and the only real thing that separates us from our simian cousins. Cheese – the fat man’s candy, milk’s leap into immortality – it has many names, each of them beautiful. I will never have enough cheese.
I enter Butter’s on Main Street in Concord, and Keith Dickey is standing there, waiting for me, a look of detached determination on his face. He greets me and hands me an apron. “Are you ready to work,” he asks with a wry smile. Keith’s been the proprietor of Butter’s since he opened its doors in the summer of 2006. After years as an archaeologist and then an investment banker in Manhattan, Keith, his wife and daughter moved to Concord, and soon after he poured all that archaeology money into Butter’s, creating a destination for cheese lovers across the Granite state.
After a quick tour of the store, a beautifully renovated space with exposed brick, cases teeming with cheese and fancy meats (think prosciutto, not porterhouse), shelves stacked with gourmet snacks, crackers, oils and wine, Keith gestures to an enormous wheel of cheese resting on a butcher’s block table in the store’s front foyer. “You’re going to cut that up,” he says and points to a table nearby covered in cheeses of all sizes. “And then we’ll tackle those.” I’m reminded of the line from the film, Field of Dreams, when Kevin Costner’s dad asks, “Is this heaven?” I expect Keith to read my mind and respond, “No, Tim, this is a cheese shop,” but he just smiles and gets me working on the wheel.
My first job as a cheesemonger, or one who sells cheese, is to cut it before I can sell it. The title of cheesemonger, I later realize, is a more unofficial one, like “parade grand marshal” or “celebrity spokesmodel,” except that this requires fewer decorative sashes and more skill. Keith introduces me to a beautiful wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano, and we wipe it down to remove the excess oil. He explains that this 80 lb. wheel of Italian cow’s milk cheese has aged for at least two years, its birthday burned into its rind. He offers a quick lesson in how to open it. I learn that a true cheesemonger never cuts this wheel; rather he breaks it into pieces slowly, using a set of special tools – a cross between spackling trowels and fancy hood ornaments. Within seconds my heart rate’s racing as I drive the tools inch by inch into the massive circle. A small crowd gathers – it’s not every day you see a small man wrestling with a large wheel of expensive cheese – and as I twist the tools in the opposite direction, the wheel opens and the most amazing smell releases into the air, drawing the three or four onlookers closer. Keith offers us a taste of the uneven shards, and the cheese explodes with flavor. It’s sweet, salty, robust and delicate. Parts of it crunch like candy as others melt softly in my mouth. Keith stands back as we each seem to be discovering this cheese for the first time, blown away by its aroma, texture and taste.
But I’m here to work, so I keep cutting, the halves into quarters, the quarters into eighths and so on until Keith and his team wrap the cheese into sections for selling. Next up we attack what looks like a curling puck, and I learn it’s an Ascutney Mountain cheese from Vermont, its slightly hard texture yellow with the milk of the jersey cows that’ve had a hand in its production. Its taste is dense and rich, not quite as intense as the Parmigiano but subtler, more subdued.
We finish with the Ascutney Mountain, and Keith gives me a lesson in wrapping. “True cheesemongers take special care to wrap cheese the right way,” Keith explains as he shows me the correct technique. “You don’t want any wrinkles – the ghost effect is the goal,” he says as he deftly wraps a half-wheel of the cheese we’ve cut without a single fold in the plastic wrap to be seen.
I continue cutting, first a soft Fourme D’Ambert, using a wire to slice it into two large discs, then use a double-handled, 24-inch blade to open a five-year old huge wheel of Gouda, its smokiness shattering my taste buds as I pop the gleaned remnants in my mouth. We talk cheese as I work.
At this point, I feel like the Trekkie at a Star Trek convention who’s wandered into Leonard Nimoy in the men’s room and struck up a conversation about the episode where Abe Lincoln and Captain Kirk band together to fight Genghis Khan and the Klingons. Keith tells me about the foundations of cheese making (“It’s all about the milk,”) and how there are strict rules governing around selling cheese made with raw versus pasteurized milk. Keith says things like, “My Stilton is stuck in the harbor,” “You don’t want bleu on your cheddar,” and, “Notice the piquant flavor.” And by the time he describes the “mushroomy nuttiness of Brie,” I feel like my older sister during her Leif Garrett stage, listening to his record as she flips the pages of Tiger Beat with Leif shirtless on the cover. Dreamy.
Keith continues, tells me about the role of rennet, the enzyme essential to the cheese making process. He explains how bacteria is to cheese what Big Papi is to the Red Sox – the critical element that turns regular milk into a winner. I learn that bleu cheese’s mold comes from penicillin and that the crust on the outside of a nice wheel of Brie is all mold as well. “All cheeses are living, breathing things,” Keith explains as I cram another fistful of soft Brie in my mouth. I can barely form sentences now I’ve eaten so much cheese, and when Keith offers me a few sips of wine he’d been sampling earlier, I might not make it home in one piece. We say our goodbyes, and as I leave, my hands and shoulders sore from the cutting and opening, my New Year’s resolution is in tatters. But I don’t care. Weight may come and go but cheese is eternal.

Tim O'Shea Must Shut Up!

“No talking. At all. The whole day. Are you crazy?” This is my reaction as I read my invitation to the White Mountain Sangha, “a day of silence and inquiry,” so that I might discover my “deepest nature” and “share in beautiful silence.” Considering silence and deep thought fit me about as well as a two-piece bathing suit, I’m skeptical. I tell my son Sam about the idea, and after informing me that a story like this will be “the most boring story in the world,” he declares, “You can’t stop yourself from talking.” I’m not listening because I’m too busy telling him about my favorite kinds of apples and how Saving Private Ryan is such a good movie and that Kevin Garnett sure will make the Celtics better this season and that I had a crush on Linda Ronstadt as a kid and that Buzz Aldrin would have been a really cool uncle and some other stuff I’ve been meaning to tell him.
Despite Sam’s misgivings, I head to the Universalist-Unitarian church on a recent Saturday, armed with a bag lunch and a willingness to try out this silence thing at the Sangha, or “spiritual community.” I take my seat and mentally declare that my lone goal for today is to utter not a single word. Margaret Fletcher, my host and today’s organizer, begins with a set of shared rules. Among them, “We agree not to make non-spoken speech so we don’t interrupt the silence that someone’s cultivated today.” I guess my plan to use my self-taught mime techniques is out the window. Margaret continues, telling us about the afternoon’s planned “free-form walking meditation,” which sounds a lot like the Grateful Dead’s third set at Hartford ’87 (“’Space” into “Drums” into “Franklin’s Tower” with a brief free-form walking meditation as an encore”), but I’ve agreed not to be judgmental so I keep my lip buttoned and settle in.
Norman Scrimshaw, the Sangha’s leader, enters the room, filled with twenty-five of us, some on the floor and others in chairs. Norman is a barrel-chested man with remnants of a sturdy head of white hair, and as he takes his seat on a platform in front, he has a look of pure calm on his face. For the next twenty minutes, Norman reels off Zen-like quote after quote, pausing ever so slightly while saying things like, “The mind loves attention,” “To be nobody is extraordinarily peaceful,” “While meditating, let go of the ambition,” and “The heart dwells in silence where there is no judgment.” This is like two full semesters of eastern religion in less than a half-hour, my mind swelling as I try to make sense of what he’s telling me without looking like the charade I am.
A gong sounds as a woman gently strikes a large bowl, and the first meditation begins. She now makes circles around the bowl with her mallet, and the sound grows louder and louder, like no noise I’ve heard before. The tone now blankets the entire room and massages my brain, and I watch the others start their meditation. I try to spend the next forty-five minutes as motionless as possible, but having no idea how to meditate, I close my eyes and try to give into the silence. Between Journey’s “Open Arms” playing inside my head, the image of the pile of leaves that needs raking on my lawn and the age-old question of why Dee from What’s Happening was so darn sassy, the first session flies by and I’m exhausted, leaving me to wonder why people think this is relaxing.
Next up is the satsang, or “gathering in truth.” Norman poses ideas to the group such as, “Awakening is opposite from denial and judgment,” and “Practice radical acceptance – accept the way things are about the world and about yourself.” A few participants ask Norman questions, but I’m far too intimidated to speak; besides, I’m not breaking my vow of silence. The audience is riveted. Some, like me, take notes while others wait on every word from Norman’s mouth, and I understand why. His delivery is so smooth and simple, and his message –focus on yourself, accept yourself and don’t judge – is a pretty good approach for people like me, a 40-year old guy with an expanding waist, a shrinking hairline and a legitimate concern that I’m actually getting shorter.
After another meditation session, it’s time for lunch. I’d put some thought into what to bring. An iceberg lettuce, carrot and radish salad followed by a big bag of Pringles seems wrong for a silent lunch so I opt for a turkey wrap and a handful of Fig Newtons, the quiet cookie of choice for meditation enthusiasts and cat burglars across America! We eat in silence, staring at our meals, careful not to make eye contact. To the casual observer, we must look like the misanthrope section of the high school cafeteria, each of us silently plotting our revenge for all those wedgies we’ve endured, but we’re the exact opposite, each of us choosing to be our own best friends for this lunch break.
The gong sounds, and we head back to the room. I can’t wait for the next meditation. The one just before lunch was not as cluttered as the first, and I’m hoping to think a little less and just be for a spell. Okay, so maybe I doze off for a bit, but when the gonging bowl calls us back to satsang, I’m relaxed and engaged.
After another chat with Norman, my judgmental ways creep back in. We’re into our fourth meditation session, and I’m distracted by a man sitting on the floor. He’s the only one moving, methodically swaying back and forth, like a slow-motion bob and weave. He’s also asked a few questions during the satsangs, and frankly, some of his “questions” sounded more like statements, as if to say, “I’m super excellent at meditating, and I want you to know this.” Well, if Norman says we should leave ambition at the door and Mr. Bob and Weave doesn’t oblige, then I’ll judge him, silently, of course.
The final meditation begins, and I notice that Mr. Bob and Weave is taking huge breaths; he’s starting to sound like a mating humpback whale. I try to shut that idea out and focus on my silence, but seriously, he’s really making a lot of noise with that breathing. I start to get angry and consider breaking this silence with a “Dude, put a yoga sock in it. We’re trying to be in the here and now, but that noise is keeping me in the there and then!” But I remain silent and refocus my mind on nothing. I close my eyes and let his whale song opera wash over me. Pretty soon I’m in my own world. No more ‘80’s arena rock lyrics, no more bills to pay, no more emails to answer and no more cetacean love songs. Nothing but silence.
As the church bells announce that it’s four o’clock, many in the group take a moment to ask one last question or to say a few words of thanks. I’ve met my goal and been silent the whole day, but it’s quittin’ time and I’ve got something to say. I take the microphone, thank the group for inviting me and then make a quick joke about how writing a story about an experience where there are no stories will be a tough task. This is apparently a clever joke for those in the meditation know, and it gets a nice laugh, but as I get ready to toss out a few more Zen-filled zingers and establish myself as the Don Rickles of the meditation set, Mr. Bob and Weave takes the microphone and makes one more statement about his tremendous meditation acumen, and I’m pretty sure I even see Norman’s eyes roll a bit at that one.Driving home, I think through Norman’s comments about “being present” – about having a “calm abiding” that allows you to be completely aware of the moment you’re in now. It gets me thinking. Am I ever really present? Do I put my energy towards what I’m doing now rather than recalling things I’ve done or need to do tomorrow? Do I let go of the mistakes I’ve made or things I’ve failed to do? Nope, not a chance – not by a long shot. But it’s good to know there’s a path to get there, but I first need to get this Journey song out of my head.