Where Everyone Knows My Name

Posted on September 27, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I went home last weekend.  I needed to do some work in my garden and I needed to make sure Uncle Bob was “ok.”  On Saturday morning, I loaded up the Jeep in my usual way and left The Coop just a little later than my usual pre-dawn time.  My first stop at home was the Lisbon Community Credit Federal Credit Union; who should be getting into her car but Uncle Bob’s Florence Nightingale.  I was so happy to see her and thank her for taking Uncle Bob to the doctor’s following his lumbering accident, I practically jumped out of my moving car to hug her.  I got all the gory details and then I went into the bank with the weekly Class of 1982’s reunion deposit.

“Hello, Ricky,” I said to one of my class mates.  He sat behind me in Chemistry my junior year and now he’s a loan officer at the credit union.

I got in the quickly moving line and approached the counter.  I looked over the teller’s shoulder and going through the drive-through was Sharon, wife of one of my classmates, Dean.  Sharon and Dean live in my Tante Anna’s old house now.  Sharon waved and I waved back.  I transacted my business and was waiting for my receipt when I looked at the drive through window again.  Why, there was Russell, the Class of 1982’s best dancer!  He can bust a move, that Russell.  He waved and I mouthed the words “are you going to the reunion?” to him and he smiled and nodded his head “yes.”

My business complete, I drove five miles to my parent’s house and told my mother the whole story. We laughed and I said “Mom, you just can’t make this stuff up.”  I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true. This is my life when I’m in Lisbon Falls.

I love that place; it’s my home.

**********

When I was in high school, Bruce Springsteen was riding a swelling wave of popularity.  I listened to Born to Run during middle school and The River in high school.  One of my classmates loved “The Boss;” I owned all the available Springsteen vinyl, including his debut album, Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ.  I don’t know how, but I ended up in an American Literature class with my older brother and his friends and occasionally, one of them would use a lyric from a song to counter a line by Nathaniel Hawthorne or William Faulkner.

“The highway’s jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive.”

Teen angst and the desire to shake the dust of a small town from my shoes made “Thunder Road” one of my anthems.  Today, it breaks my guilty heart to know my home was a place I couldn’t wait to leave, “pulling out of here to win.”

I’m not sure what glossy fashion magazine fantasy I was searching for, but those are the kinds of things teenagers think when they’re tall and they don’t have any dates.  In spite of the fact that my father was “Tops Among Teens” I didn’t go to my prom and one of my high school friends tried to console me in study hall by saying “you just don’t have the high school look.”

Like most post-industrial teens, I went to college, got a “liberal arts” degree, and started working in the business of business.  It’s not important to know what I’ve done all these years; I might as well be pecking at blue and red paper squares, writing my letters with lots of unread words and legal language.  In my years of inching further away from home, I thought I was achieving a certain level of success. Boston is not the end of the world, but I have spent a lot of time there in the last decade of my life.  I’ve had time to think on my solitary dusk walks from North Station over Beacon Hill and through the Public Gardens.  Crossing Arlington Street and taking a right onto Newbury Street, I’d always check my watch to make sure I got to the Junior League Headquarters on time for every 6:30 p.m. meeting.

I learned a lot of things in my quest to hide my second-generation American blue-collar roots and I owe a debt to a handful of passionate Junior League members who helped me to see myself more clearly.  One or two of these gems understood what it meant to serve others and they showed me by example as they volunteered tirelessly year after year.

**********

The first General Membership Meeting of the 2012 – 2013 Junior League year was held this past Monday night and I was supposed to go.  One of my gem-friends was presenting important information and there was also an agenda item about the Show House.  I’m sure the meeting was sparkling and well-attended; I’ve been to enough of these gatherings to know the first General Membership Meeting of the year is always fun and exciting.

For the first time since 2001, I didn’t make the trip south; instead, I headed north.  The New England Moxie Congress asked me to represent them at a public hearing at home regarding the 2013 Moxie Festival.

It was an interesting meeting and some of my classmates were there. I knew almost all of the 50 people in the Town Council chambers at the Lisbon Town Hall.  The Moxie Festival is a large undertaking for a small town like Lisbon; it takes a lot of people putting their shoulders to the wheel together to push it forward and make it successful.

Some people had gripes, some shared helpful history, and others offered thoughtful suggestions.  I stuck my hand up and volunteered to serve; after all, I was wearing my Junior League charm bracelet.

As I was leaving to make the long drive back to The Coop, I heard Frank Anicetti (the mayor of Moxie Town) say “that’s Jimmie Baumer’s sister.  He wrote the latest Moxie book.”

I did have to wipe a little tear from the corner of my eye as I turned out onto Route 196.  In a place where everyone knows your name, it’s just fine to be Hermie’s daughter, Bobby’s niece, or Jimmie’s sister…it doesn’t matter to me anymore.  What’s the popular expression?  “It’s all good?”

Shoulder to the wheel, everyone…

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When Wednesday is Thursday

Posted on September 26, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

This is a test to see if my blog readers are paying attention and to see if posts about surfers really are my most popular posts.

I finally met Ralph Fatello; he’s kind of famous.  It was a brief meeting.  I saw him with a few of his friends looking out over the ocean on September 11.  He told me this small group of men met in this place every year.  I didn’t want to crash their party, so I told him I admired his surfing, his tenacity, and his photography.  I snapped his picture and moved along.

Here’s a big shaka sign to you, Ralph.

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Toot Toot Tootsie, Good Bye

Posted on September 25, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

What was I thinking?

I never eat Tootsie Roll Pops unless a) I’m desperate and b) it’s the only candy around.  One of my co-workers keeps a Tootsie Roll Pop “bouquet” in a mug perched on her cube wall; I’ve walked by that mug every day for 5 years and never taken one candy “flower.”  I wasn’t even hungry when I grabbed the orange Tootsie Pop and unwrapped it last Friday night at the office.  As I finished what I was doing in my cube, I thought back to the Tootsie Roll Pop commercials from the 1970’s.

Tootsie Roll Industries’ website says this about Tootsie Roll Pops:

“And at only 60 calories per fat-free pop, it’s the perfect guilt-free sweet-tooth pleasing treat that everyone can enjoy.”

My sweet-tooth was not pleased when I crunched into the Tootsie Roll candy center while driving out of The Big Corporation’s parking lot.  I had barely gone 200 yards when I felt a piece of something that wasn’t a Tootsie Roll in my mouth.  The crown on my left lower molar was lodged in the candy center.

Crunch.

I pulled over and examined the crown.  I wasn’t in any pain and I could put the crown back into place.  I left a message with my dentist and knew he’d make time for me on Monday or Tuesday.

There is research to suggest that dental decay and cavities (caries) are caused partly by excess sugars left on teeth.  Some dental researchers have intimated modern processed foods increase the likelihood of decay.  I’ve discussed this issue with my dentist and he always stresses the importance of brushing and flossing after meals and snacks so that food and sugars aren’t left on the tooth surface for long periods of time.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not one of those people who fear the dental chair; I can recline and catch a 20 minute cat nap while I get my teeth cleaned.  My dentist is outstanding.  I’ve been his patient since 1988.  Finding a good dentist can be a painful process (literally), so I’ve made the trip to Portland, Maine for the last 12 years instead of going to a local and potentially disappointing dentist.

I don’t mind making the commute to Portland for a snooze in the dental chair and a chat with Dr. Iselborn; I just hadn’t planned on going this week.  The orange Tootsie Roll Pop changed everything.

Other people have warned me about hard candy.

My mother has lectured me on numerous occasions about the dangers of caramel, taffy, mysterious chocolate-covered substances, almonds, cough lozenges, and popcorn kernels.  These things are the enemy of the middle-aged tooth.  I can almost hear her voice in my mind’s ear right now.

“You’ll pull out a filling or break a tooth.”

She was right, once again.

It’s hard to know whether cavities, disease, and death will be eradicated in the future.  When I have occasion to view the Tee Vee, the news puppets certainly do have bright, shiny teeth.  A person might even be blinded by their dental brilliance as they announce the dawning of a new era of health, vitality, and eternal life.

Since I have a few reasons to go to Maine today, I’ll work a side trip to the dentist into my schedule.  It could have been worse; I could have swallowed the crown!  That would have been a troubling problem.  Just to be on the safe side, though, I’m going to knock it off on the Tootsie Roll Pops from now on.

It doesn’t really matter how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll Center of a Tootsie Pop, does it?

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The Writer’s Tease

Posted on September 24, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

My alarm goes off every day (except Sundays) at 4:15 a.m.; some mornings, I hit “snooze” more than once.  I get up, make a cup of coffee, and start writing.  Once in a while, there isn’t enough time to fully develop an idea and present it in a way that is acceptable to me.

I’ve never had a “writer’s block.”  Before I was blogging six days a week, I was either writing in a journal, writing lengthy letters and e-mails to close friends, or writing “customer service letters” to praise or damn consumer goods and services.  The only thing that has ever “blocked” me from writing is a lack of time; after all, there are only 24 hours in one day.

I have a lot of commitments at The Big Corporation this week and it’s going to take a Tom Brady laser-like focus to keep my eye on what’s important.  Looking at the clock out of the corner of my laser-like eye, I see my publishing time approaching.  Today is not the day I develop any one particular idea into something funny, heartwarming, or informative.  I have lots of ideas; I just need more time.

Here is a short list of the topics and blog post titles I will be writing about in the next few weeks:

  • LL Baumer
  • The Cow Stampede
  • Surf Free or Die
  • Helen and the CSA
  • Another Dream about Garbage
  • Bringing in the Wood
  • Manufacturing Sentences
  • Reblogging
  • Planting Garlic
  • Hiding in Time
  • When You’re Tall
  • The Black Dress Redux
  • A Junior League of One
  • Where Everyone Knows My Name
  • The Day I Gave Up Tootsie Roll Pops
  • Who is Earl Burner?
  • Growing Cabbage

I’d also like to know who abandoned their big girl jeans over on The Farm.

Writing is a strange and obsessive craft.  My brother wrote an interesting piece about it.  Jim Baumer would be the first person to remind me of something our Uncle Rhiney used to tell him.

“Jimmie, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Tick Tock!

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The Eternal Rest of Marigolds

Posted on September 23, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

These Red Marietta marigolds were the last plants in the big home garden I share with Uncle Bob.

I didn’t want to pull them out, but I knew they were approaching the end of their days.

Uncle Bob said he would do it for me; I didn’t think he should be working too hard, what with the “stitches” in his head.  He acted like his accident was nothing, but I saw his Florence Nightingale at the credit union and she told me more of the story.

Lazily, I started pulling the plants out of the soft, damp earth.  I saved a few seed heads and put them up in the barn to dry.  While I was ding-toeing around, Uncle Bob came out and said “I’ll drive the truck around so you can load them right up.  No sense handling them twice.”

That was Uncle Bob’s way of saying “get a move on and pull those out; I want to roto-till the garden.”

I did have to wipe a little tear from the corner of my eye, though.  Then I remembered it was the first day of autumn and Uncle Bob was fine and there would be other outside things to do in the garden.  I got a move on and finished the job.

“Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”  Luke 12:27, King James Version.

Peace and rest to you today!

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Timber!

Posted on September 21, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

We’ve got a few rules about telecommunications in our family; we are not people who just randomly call each other to chit-chat. During the offseason, when the motel is closed and I (sniff, sniff) don’t go home as much, my mother and I have a Sunday night phone call routine. One Sunday night she calls me and the next Sunday night I call her. We keep a list of things we want to tell each other so we’ll be efficient about our time on the horn.

Generally, my mother doesn’t call me at work unless it’s an emergency.

When she called me yesterday, I panicked.

“Hi Mom, is everything ok?”

“Uncle Bob was in the woods by himself and a tree fell on him.”

Any thoughts that were moving around in my head slowed down to a full stop. Uncle Bob got hit by a tree?

“Was he wearing a hard hat?” I asked?

“No, and your father has told him time and time again to wear one.”

Uncle Bob and Herman the German used to cut wood together every summer and fall. They both heat their cold New England homes with wood from The Farm. In the last few years, my father has slowed down a bit and sometimes, Uncle Bob cuts wood alone. Accidents can happen and it probably doesn’t matter that Herman the German wasn’t with him. In 1979, my father cut his leg with a chainsaw; Uncle Bob was right there.

As the story goes, after Uncle Bob was felled by the tree, he got on his tractor and drove up the road. He parked his tractor, a little woozy because he’d lost some blood. One of our family friends happened to be next door and she took Uncle Bob to the doctor’s. The doctor decided Uncle Bob needed to go to the hospital; the ambulance was called. There was a lot of excitement.

Uncle Bob got some stitches and the doctor said he should not cut wood for a week.

Luckily, he didn’t have a concussion.

I’m sure there’s more to the story and I plan to get to the bottom of it. For right now, Uncle Bob has been restricted to mowing the lawn.

It’s hard hearing about these things from a distance; it’s also hard seeing the people I love getting older. I’m getting older too. I can’t control it even though I try. Sadly, none of us can control much of anything.

Uncle Bob, wear your damn hard hat.

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The Last Sunflower

Posted on September 20, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I asked the smartest person I know to explain Fibonacci numbers in sunflowers.

I don’t have an answer yet.  Enjoy the beauty of mathematics in nature today.

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The Castor Bean Plant

Posted on September 19, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

In my first summer at the Secret Garden, one of the gardeners grew a stately ornamental called a “Castor Bean” plant.  The Latin name for this plant is “Ricinus communis” and because these lovely species so enhanced the Secret Garden, I would sometimes refer to that place as “The Communis Garden.”  Suddenly, I saw Castor Bean plants everywhere, including the landscape installation at the Museums of Old York’s 2011 Annual Decorator Show House.

I may have seen them in my sleep; I’m not sure.

The problem with Ricinus communis is that the seeds and the seed pods are poisonous.  This is because they contain the toxin, ricin.  With this in mind, I encouraged my brother to plant my package of Castor Bean seeds as a poisonous shield to prevent woodchucks from eating up his garden.

Things started out well.  The seeds sprouted and grew to 6 inches.  We had a magical hope in the power of the Castor Bean to protect my brother’s future harvest.  Then one dark night, the woodchuck ate the Castor Bean plants.

The next morning, Chuck E. Wood was back at it, sunning himself next to my brother’s tool shed and eyeing his next meal.  The Castor Bean plant may have caused a little indigestion, but it didn’t stop him from mowing down a row of Swiss chard that afternoon.  He started on the spinach the next morning.

Nothing could stop him until he’d devoured the entire garden.

We’re working on next year’s plan for Mr. Chuck E. Wood; it won’t be Castor Bean plants.

(Ricinus Communis in Rye Beach, New Hampshire, 2012)

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Mental Dental Floss

Posted on September 18, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Things are not looking good in “Trophy Town” this week.  On Sunday, the Boston Red Sox were mathematically eliminated from post-season baseball play.  On the same day, the New England Patriots lost a game they should have won.  The National Hockey League lock out threatens to end any plans for a trip to the (insert current corporate owner’s name here) Garden for Bruins action.  So far, I haven’t heard anything about the Boston Celtics on the local sports radio megaphone, WEEI.

Is today the day some news will come through the air about the 17-time World Champion winners?  Could a trivial piece of news about Kevin Garnett’s glasses send Boston sports fans spiraling to the edge of the ledge?  Pre-season play begins in just 11 days.

What does it all mean?

I think it means “time to shut down sports radio for a while.”  If there is such a thing as mental dental floss, I need it to scrape away the meaningless sports trivia from my brain.  Can a person empty their brain of all the “sound and fury signifying nothing” that passes for news, sports, and weather?  I hope so.

The answer is probably in the fall garden.

With the days getting shorter, there’s a lot to do.  Let’s turn off the radio and think about something better in the garden.

How is your fall garden shaping up?

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Babylon Revisited Again

Posted on September 17, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

This blog uses an internet blogging tool provided by “Wordpress.” According to Wikipedia, WordPress is currently the most popular blogging system in use on the internet. WordPress provides bloggers with lots of help, support, and tools to create better blogs. I haven’t participated in any WordPress blogging activities before, but last week’s “Weekly Writing Challenge” caught my eye. It was called “Stylish Imitation” and the challenge was to discard one’s own personal writing style and imitate the style or tone of a favorite author.

My first “favorite” author was F. Scott Fitzgerald. In high school, I read a book of his short stories called “Tales of the Jazz Age” and my fascination with him continued into college. I’ve read almost everything he wrote, including his letters, plus biographies and critiques of his work. I knew if I pulled out an old college paperback, I would find a favorite paragraph or sentence by sad old Scott Fitzgerald.

In the short story “Babylon Revisited” I had asterisked the following paragraph, with the notation “Wow, FSF rules!” in the margin and also underlined some of the sentences:

“At dinner he couldn’t decide whether Honoria was most like him or her mother. Fortunate if she didn’t combine the traits of both that had brought them to disaster. A great wave of protectiveness went over him. He thought he knew what to do for her. He believed in character; he wanted to jump back a whole generation and trust in character again as the eternally valuable element. Everything else wore out.”

(From “Babylon Revisited” by F. Scott Fitzgerald, first published February 21, 1931 in the Saturday Evening Post.)

Here is my “stylish imitation” of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 72 words.

**********

Elizabeth Spencer looked at the black vintage dress hanging in her closet and knew today was the day it would fit. There was only one fear lingering in the back of her mind; vintage clothing was made for vintage bodies molded by vintage foundation garments. The hourglass figures of past fashionable women were created by corsets and girdles, not cotton bikini briefs.

Elizabeth Spencer had no foundation garments and she was down to her last pair of cotton bikini briefs. Although she had taken her mother’s advice to own plenty of underwear (“so you don’t have to do laundry all the time”), she had once again worked through a drawer-full and gotten to the one lone ill-fitting pair of Hanes Her Way. If she gained 5 pounds, they didn’t fit; she had even pinned a note to them once which said “lose weight, fatso.” She had examined this particular pair, convinced that the fabric had been incorrectly cut. She had even compared this pair to others and proven her theory.

They should never have been sold. They were the worst form of cheap modern manufacturing.

She put them on anyway; today they fit. With a sigh, she finished dressing.

She just wanted to go back in time, to a day when American clothes were made by American people for American bodies. It wasn’t that she was a jingoist or a neo-con; she just wanted some classic, well-made clothing that would last a few years. She’d tried to find brands which were classically tailored and long-lasting, but like the crooked and uneven seams of her underwear, sweaters and skirts would unravel and shred after being worn once or twice. There was a reason no brand dared call themselves something like “Toughskins” these days.

She took a final look in the mirror and dashed for the door.

“Well, at least we’re still wearing clothes.”

(Photo courtesy of Xenia Levitsky.)

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