The Secret Garden

Posted on May 12, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I have one more garden.  It’s a 10 foot by 10 foot garden in an undisclosed location.

It’s a long story and it’s complicated.  There’s a lot going on here.  I’m not ready to talk about it yet.

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Friday Pillow Talk – Running Through The Mist

Posted on May 11, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Today’s post won’t be about one of my crazy dreams.  It’s really just about the dream I enter into when I sink down into the dirt of Uncle Bob’s garden.  It feels like sacred ground.  It’s hard to write about; a waterfall of emotions and feelings come pouring out of my heart and I am lost.  Where am I?  Where am I going?  Where do I belong?

I hope I’m not being overly dramatic, but it reminds of the scene in “Gone with the Wind” when Scarlett tells Rhett about her recurrent nightmare:

“Oh, Rhett, I was so cold and so hungry and so tired and I couldn’t find it.  I ran through the mist and I ran but I couldn’t find it.”

“Find what, honey?”

“I don’t know.  I wish I did know.”

***********

My grandparents came to America in 1924.  They had been living in Kleinschwand, Germany and they boarded a ship named “Munchen” in Bremen one day and arrived in New York on January 11, 1924.  They never returned to their homeland and they never told us they were unhappy with their decision to come to this country.

This is not an uncommon American story.

My grandfather had been a soldier in the Kaiser’s army and spent some time in a French prisoner of war camp during what was once known as “The Great War.”  Things weren’t very good in Germany in the 20’s, so my grandparents came to Lisbon Falls, Maine, because there was a textile mill there; my grandfather had some skills.  He bought a house on a small piece of land in town.  He also bought a piece of land across the Little River in Topsham.  We call this land “The Farm.”

Like most people in those days, he planted a garden in the back yard and he kept chickens, cows, and horses.  O’Pa would work in the mill during the day and work in the garden or on The Farm at night and on Saturdays.  In fact, wherever he was, he was working and his six children would work alongside him.  The Farm was his cash crop; he planted potatoes and would sell them to the grocery stores in town.  He would also cut wood and hay there.  My father says he was more comfortable behind a team of horses and perhaps this is why he never quite got the knack for driving his tractor.  My father can point out all the gardens in town that my grandfather tilled with his horse and plow.

He was retired by the time I was born; the chickens, cows, and horses were gone but he still kept his two gardens in back of the house.  Every summer, he would supply our families with rhubarb, beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, and corn.  There always seemed to be enough for everyone and there was usually a little left over to sell.

I never spent much time in the garden with O’Pa; I usually sat on the porch with Nana.  I would walk by their house every day on my way to school with my cousins and Nana would stand in the kitchen window and wave to us.  She never missed a day.  I don’t remember if my grandparents ever verbalized any dreams they might have had for us grandchildren.  When my grandmother sent me my confirmation card, she simply wrote “be a good girl.”

I hope I didn’t disappoint her.

One summer day in 1986 or 1987, my grandfather fell down in the garden.  We teased him about it and how the police dispatcher had reported the incident by saying “man down on Pleasant Street.”  We found out he had cancer; perhaps it had metastasized to his bones and that was why he fell.  Uncle Bob took care of him so he didn’t have to go to a nursing home.  He died at home in 1988; he was 89.

Uncle Bob still lives in my grandparents’ house and he still plants the garden.  Somehow, I finagled my way in through the little garden in back of the big garden; maybe it was the year Uncle Bob had his hip replacement surgery.  That was my first summer “helping out” and I didn’t do a very good job.  I didn’t really know what I was doing.  Most of the garden went unplanted, although I did have the wherewithal to plant some buckwheat so the soil wouldn’t erode.  Each summer, I’ve started a little earlier and planted more things.  I now garden in about one-quarter of the big garden and most of the little garden, with the exception of O’Pa’s rhubarb patch.

I like being in the garden; Uncle Bob is easy-going and fun and I learn a lot of things from him.  We have a good garden together.

Being in the garden is a relatively new thing for me.  I have spent a lot of time running in the mist of corporations, chicken coop-sized condos, and six-lane highways.  When I get in my Jeep at 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning and head north to Maine, the mist starts to dissolve and I don’t feel so lost.  In fact, I feel more found.

Thanks, O’Pa, for helping me find my way through the mist.   

Tomorrow:  The last installment of the “All My Gardens” posts—why I garden in an undisclosed location.          

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My Dream Hoop House

Posted on May 10, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Old school, like me.

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The Surprise Garden

Posted on May 9, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

When it comes to the place you were born, many people get stuck quoting Thomas Wolfe and say “you can’t go home again.”  I once thought that was true, but I now reject the whole idea out of hand.

It all started in the summer of 2001, when I was gaining my gardening confidence in the Hampton Victory Garden.  I had run into a few friends from high school at the Moxie Festival and we started talking about organizing our 20th high school reunion, scheduled for 2002.  That fall, I began coming home a lot to plan the reunion and noticed how lovely the flowers and plants were all over town.  Apparently, these gorgeous gardens were the work of The Green Thumb Gang and I recalled seeing their float in the Moxie parade.  This gang, formed in 1997, was a creation of my friend, Faye.  Faye was the coach of my summer softball team, Faye’s Clippers, and I’d known her forever.  She has a bumper sticker that says “Question Authority” and sometimes, she gets to O’Pa’s rhubarb before I do.  It’s ok, because she is family.

One fall day, I stopped by her barber shop and asked her a few questions.  She told me that the “mission statement” of the Green Thumb Gang was:

 “to enhance the quality of life in our town of Lisbon by planting garden spots, doing general trash clean ups, and inspiring citizens to appreciate the beauty and recognize the many assets of living in Lisbon, Maine.”

“We invite volunteers of all ages and abilities to join our gang.”

“The Green Thumb Gang is funded solely through citizen contributions.”

I loved the idea of The Green Thumb Gang.

I had a lot of fun at my 20th reunion.  It made me want to spend more time at home and so I did. One summer night after the reunion, I was taking a walk down Summer St.  I started the right hand turn onto Maple St., to climb the hill behind the cemetery and the tomb.

It’s a good hill no matter which way one walks it and on a clear day an observant person can see the White Mountains from the top.  It’s one of my favorite places in town.  This night, though, I stopped and looked at the T-intersection at the bottom.  It was a sorry clump of grass and weeds.

I said to myself “there should be a garden on this corner; I’m going to make one.  I am a citizen and I can make a contribution.”

I convinced Faye I would be no burden to her or The Green Thumb Gang and she interceded on my behalf with the town, telling them a new garden was being created.  Public Works mowed the grass down and construction began in the spring of 2003.

It was a lot of work and I had a lot of help.

My first step was to build up the soil level and Faye suggested I visit a local compost facility.  My father would give me a ride there in his truck and I would fill up big plastic tubs with compost; I’m sure the owner must have gotten sick of my visits that spring; I reminded him he was making the world a better place, and he never refused my requests for compost.

Then I needed big rocks to build a primitive wall around the beds.  My chauffeur, I mean, my father, would bring me up to a little rock pit in the industrial park; no one ever missed any of the rocks we hauled off.

Once everything was in place, my mother donated quite a few perennials.  Siberian iris, primrose, Tiger Lilies, and ferns from the farm were the foundation.  I bought some Autumn Joy (sedums) and lots of annuals like marigolds to fill in the gaps.  A garden takes time; sometimes years as things grow into their adult size and shape.  Annuals were a good way to wait and see what was going to happen.

In spite of the work involved, I was having a lot of fun on that corner.  At first, people were surprised to see a woman with a shovel hanging around.  Once they recognized me, they started waving.  Then, they stopped and talked.  One friend would always stop and ask me if I needed a soda.  Occasionally, evangelists would walk by and share their worldview with me.  I was even asked out on a few dates.

A few unpleasant things also happened.  Someone once drove their SUV through my garden and crushed a few plants.  I have forgiven them.

Another time, someone else thought it was a “communal” garden and dug up one of my sedum plants.  This same person even returned to dig up my Tiger Lilies.

Unfortunately for them, they started digging at the same time my mother was taking a walk with her friend.  Her eagle eye spotted the crime and she marched right up to the person and said “What do you think you’re doing?”  The thief said he was just “replanting” a few things.   Helen said “this is my daughter’s garden and I am unaware she had instructed anyone to replant things.  Now, you put those lilies back and when you’re done, you drive home and get some dirt to fill in the holes you’ve made.”

The thief did just as Helen commanded.  Helen then called Faye to report the incident and I have never had another problem with vandals or thieves since.

I love my little surprise garden.  It doesn’t require much work anymore because my perennials have grown up; my mother gave me some Baptisia shoots that ended up filling in a big portion of the garden.  I have a “tulip section” now, too, which pops with color for about a month.

This isn’t a political blog, but the whole experience of being free to produce something beautiful without rules and regulations has probably influenced me more than any politician or political philosophy.  Through my own voluntary action and the consent and assistance of those who I asked for help, I ended up producing something beautiful.  I had brightened a little corner of the world I loved; mission accomplished.

I’m glad I’ve been able to give something back to the town that had given me so much freedom to be a creative producer.  By the way, you can go home again and don’t forget to wave when you drive by.

Thursday:  The “All My Gardens” Minimalist post, so I can catch my breath.         

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The Trash Picker

Posted on May 8, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Where ever I have lived, I have planted the required Memorial Day geraniums, summer marigolds, and fall mums.  These are easy plants.  For one brief summer in Portland, Maine, I had a little four-foot square garden, but I didn’t know what I was doing.  I just planted dill, mint, and snapdragon.  My elderly neighbors grew marigolds from saved seeds; I thought they were foolish, what with marigolds being so inexpensive.

In 1999, I moved to my chicken coop-sized condo in Hampton, New Hampshire.  When most people think of Hampton, they think of the Hampton Beach Casino or “the strip” that runs along Route 1A.  Hampton is a “summer tourist destination.”  I am a few miles north of the casino, on “North Beach.”  North Beach is a year-round surfing destination, but I don’t surf.

As was my habit, I put a few marigolds on my deck; I didn’t have much spare time because I was commuting to Waltham, Massachusetts, down Route 128.  If you’ve never had to drive Route 128 on a regular basis, count your lucky stars.  It sounded exciting at first, but it wore me down and I didn’t have much time to do anything besides splash a little water on my marigolds.  After 18 months of commuting, I had had enough and got a job here in New Hampshire.

With all my newly found free time, I would ride my bicycle on the back roads through Hampton, North Hampton, and Rye.  I was fascinated by all the things people in this area threw out.  No one from home would ever throw anything out until it had done its job and also done a little moonlighting.  I kid you not; we’ve been sitting on the same lawn chairs at my parent’s house since I was born.  Here on the Seacoast, people threw out lots of brand new things, like planters, garden tools, complete sets of perfectly good dishes, and dictionaries.  It broke my heart; I tried to rescue as much good stuff as I could, especially the tools and planters.

Each time I found a new planter, I would plant something in it although I still didn’t really know what I was doing.  Gardening is like anything else; practice makes perfect.   I started some morning glories and some moon flowers from seed and by mid-June, my Coop deck was blooming with climbing morning glories at sunrise and fragrant moon flowers at night, along with marigolds, potted sea grass, and other pretty flowers.

I was having fun.

Unfortunately, my morning glories started climbing onto the deck above mine and the Coop commissars asked me to remove them within 14 days.  I was devastated and spent the next 10 days away from the Coop, forlornly pedaling along the ocean, pining away for a place to plant some flowers.

One Sunday morning, I was riding down Barbour Road in Hampton and my eye caught sight of an old barn.  Behind the barn and surrounded by a chain link fence was either a dump or a baseball diamond.  In front of the barn was a sign that read “Hampton Victory Garden – Gardeners Only.”

I kept riding but I was curious.  I circled back and decided to explore whatever was behind the chain link fence.  The gate was locked, but walking the perimeter I counted 40 garden plots.  Some plots were all vegetables; some were all flowers.  Some were a combination of both.  All of these 40 plots were heaven on earth to me.

Telling myself that I was a gardener and a Hampton taxpayer; I purposefully rode home and wrote “Hampton Victory Garden” in my planner for Monday.

A few calls to the town office put me in touch with the community garden organizer, Bonnie.  She said I was in luck; there was an available garden, just a bit overgrown.  We agreed to meet at the garden on June 23, 2001.

Notions of neat rows of vegetables were quickly dashed when Bonnie showed me the 14 by 24 foot plot, garden #31.  It was completely overgrown with grass and weeds, although one sunflower was growing in the corner.  It seemed like a good omen.  I paid my $20, and left.  I had places to go that morning but I would be back.

I got home at Noon and changed into a vintage 50’s sundress and a pink garden hat; I was all “Sentimental Journey” gardening glamour.  Obviously, I had no idea what I was doing.  I had the presence of mind to take along some bug spray, a few garden tools I had found trash picking, some water and some gloves.  I stashed a pad of paper in my bag too, since nothing could be more interesting than keeping a garden journal.  After all, I was a gardener and a bit of a writer.

I am sure whoever saw me on that summer day got a little bit of a chuckle, but I toiled away from Noon until 4:00 p.m. and cleared out a 4 foot area around the “good omen” sunflower.  I saw a snake and screamed (what else do you do when you’re wearing a pink straw hat?) but was reassured by a garden neighbor that it was merely a garter snake.

I could go on and on about that first summer at the Hampton Victory Garden; I did keep a lengthy journal and shared it by weekly snail mail with my family and friends.  On August 2, 2001 I wrote:

“My garden is truly on auto-pilot now and sometimes when I’m on my way home I think to myself ‘there is nothing to say about the garden today.  What is there to write?’  Yet, there are so many stories to tell; many of them only indirectly related to the Hampton Victory Garden.  Some possible stories are ‘The Readers of Cusack Road’ and ‘Beach Dogs I Have Known.’  Maybe I’ll just write about some of these things.  Life in Hampton is interesting, well worth preserving on paper.”

My primitive blog.

I decided to return to the garden in 2002 and I have kept coming back every year since.  I have tried different things in my garden spot, mostly flowers in the beginning.  In 2007, I created a sunflower maze in an empty garden and I converted a particle board bookcase my friend Jaxon gave me into a raised bed.

That same year, the current garden organizer, Cindy, asked me if I would like to take her place and I tentatively said yes.  She was very patient and we were co-organizers in 2008.  In 2009, Cindy cut me loose and let me handle all the coordinating.  2012 will be my fourth year as “Volunteer Coordinator” at the Hampton Victory Garden.

I am still having fun.

Has it always been fun?  Of course not.  We have 40 plots, approximately 60 gardeners with different styles and personalities, running water, bills, and occasional problems.  Things disappear and feelings get hurt.  At the end of the day, it all works out.  Gardeners come and go; most stay.  Rain barrels get fixed, garden sign roofs get replaced and stained, and we learn things from each other.  This year, we got a new picnic table.  And it’s only May 8!

I’ve changed a bit in my gardening style and my farming dreams have outgrown my 14 x 24 foot plot.  I still don’t always know what I’m doing, but I can’t help but think I would never have gotten this far if I hadn’t started picking trash for planters and gardening tools on solitary Saturday mornings.

Tomorrow:  My Lisbon Falls Surpise (!) Garden…no trash allowed.  I’ll meet you there.

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Keep Cooking The Maine Way

Posted on May 7, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

It’s Monday morning and I’m cooking up my first batch of rhubarb sauce.  You can find the easiest recipe for this in Marjorie Standish’s “Keep Cooking The Maine Way” cookbook.  This was her sequel to “Cooking Downeast.”  My Aunt Jo had a copy of the latter book in her kitchen and she gave me a copy of it as a wedding gift.  It’s a Maine thing.

Today’s post isn’t really about rhubarb, though.  I was just wasting time, trying to tease out some cogent words.  One of my “followers,” Bernard Saint, sent me an e-mail yesterday and asked when I planned to start writing about gardening again.  He didn’t say so, but the implication was that he might be a little bit tired of hearing about Uncle Bob, Moxie, the Red Sox, and rain barrels.

What he did say was this:

“I am often confused when you talk about your gardens.  How many gardens do you have?  Where are they?  Can you do a blog post about your gardens and how they came to be?”

As a novice writer and blogger, it’s a gift to have readers who enjoy my material and then contact me about it.  I’m also a bit of a people pleaser, so the request for content on a specific topic put me into “get on it” mode.  That’s why this week’s blog is going to be a trip to “All My Gardens.”  Of course (said rather histrionically, emphasis on “course”) there will be drama and excitement.  Everyone’s life is a soap opera and I’m no exception.

On Tuesday, I’ll write in detail about The Hampton Victory garden, the little place where I gained my garden confidence.  On Wednesday, I’ll write about my Lisbon Falls “surprise garden.”  Thursdays are “Minimalist” posts (taking a breath to make it through the week) and then on Friday, I’ll cover my Uncle Bob garden.  On Saturday, I’ll tell a little story called “Gardening at an Undisclosed Location,” and that should cover it.

Sunday, as we all know, is Mother’s Day and a day of rest.  There will be no garden drama on that day.  Stay tuned, Bernard Saint; this week, I will make it all clear for you.

Until then, seek out some rhubarb and some Marjorie Standish and keep cooking the Maine way.

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There’s A Lot Going On Here

Posted on May 6, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Someone once posed the question to me “What if humans weren’t made to travel at 60 miles per hour?”  I didn’t have an answer and I had never even considered the possibility of such an existence.  That’s the funny thing about “progress.”  It’s hard to put the genie back in the bottle or even ask the question about things which are billed as “life improving.”  I have never experienced life without the ability to jump in my car and GO.  One day, I saw a car with a vanity plate that read GO POWER.  I thought to myself “that would be a good license plate for me.”

Yesterday, my friend Amanda Robbins pointed out that I had said “there’s a lot going on here” more than once in the course of the day.  Then, as I put on my apron on my way to The Moxie Store (to help scoop Moxie ice cream for my brother’s book signing) my mother said “Wherever Julie-Ann is, she’ll be working.”

This is a good place to rest.  I’m sorry to say it’s 60 miles per hour away from me.  I’m happy to know other people might be resting here.

It’s true.  I always have a lot going on in my life.  I’m always working at something, even if it looks like I’m reading a book or taking a walk.  I’m not quite sure how to slow down and rest and it’s ironic that I call my Sunday blog posts “Today We Rest” since I hardly ever do.

Do as I say, not as I do.    

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Friday Pillow Talk – Prank Phone Calls

Posted on May 4, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

It’s been a busy week, one long crawl from the horizontal to the vertical.  I’ve gone through the motions of living, getting things done, and sadly, not dreaming.  Have I really been sleeping?

I have, however, received a few annoying phone calls; some of them bordering on idiotic.  In lieu of a dream sequence, I’m creating a new Friday Pillow Talk called “Prank Phone Calls.”

In this modern age, prank phone calls don’t really exist.  Telephones and smart phones leave a digital print that makes privacy and pranking a thing of the past.  Poor teenagers—they have one less thing they can do to pass the hours between school dismissal and dinner.

Prank phone calls were fun.  I miss them.

Fridays are crazy at my office and it’s my last chance to get important things done before the weekend.  For me, it’s not a day for chit-chat and long lunches.  I need to take care of “bidness.”  If I don’t, the undone work lodges in the back of my mind all weekend and interrupts me when I’m working in the garden, walking on the farm, or jinxing the Red Sox.

Last Friday at 3:30 p.m., I got a prank phone call.  I’m convinced it was pay back for all those pizzas I ordered and never picked up or all the times I called the local pharmacy looking for Prince Albert in the can.  My Friday prank phone call went something like this:

Phone:  Ring, ring.

My Internal Voice:  Who the heck is calling me at this time of day?  Why is everything urgent on Fridays?

Phone:  Ring, ring.

My Internal Voice:  I have to answer.  I don’t want to come in to a voice mail message on Monday morning.

Phone:  Ring, ring.

Girl on the Phone:  “Big Corporation, this is Julie-Ann.”

Urgent Intruder:  “Hi, this is New Pest.  I’m sorry to bother you, I’m sure you’re swamped.”

Girl on the Phone:  “Ha, ha, yeah!  I really am swamped!  How may I help you?”

My Internal Voice:  If you know I’m swamped, why do you call?

Urgent Intruder:  “I’m your new vendor for DUM, Inc.  I was just checking to see if you had your ID to access our system.”

Girl on the Phone:  “Yes, I have it, thank you.”

My Internal Voice:  Are you for real?

Urgent Intruder:  “Great!  Have you utilized the services of DUM, Inc. in the last few weeks?”

Girl on the Phone:  “No, I haven’t had a need for your services.”

Urgent Intruder:  “Why is that?”

My Internal Voice:  Good grief.

Girl on the Phone:  “I’m really not at liberty to disclose confidential information about our current mix of business needs.  Thanks for calling, though; I’ll call you when I do need your services.”

Urgent Intruder:  Oh…OK!  Remember, my number is 1-800-NEW-PEST, ext. 123.

Girl on the Phone:  “OH!  Thank you!  To make sure I can reach you when I need you, let me repeat that number back to you.  Your number is 1-800-NEW-PEST, ext. 123.”

Urgent Intruder:  “You got it!  You’re the best!  Have a GRRREAT weekend!”

Girl on the Phone:  “You as well.  Thank you for your call.”

CLICK.

My Internal Voice:  No lettuce for you.

A few moments later, Urgent Intruder sent the following e-mail:

Hi Julie-Ann:
It was a pleasure speaking with you today.  As promised, here is my contact information should you have any questions/concerns.  I’d be happy to help you in any way that I can.  Thank you again for taking the time to speak with me today.  I look forward to working with you!  1-800-NEW-PEST, ext. 123
I remain,
New Pest

You know I’m not making any of this up.

Enjoy your weekend and try not to be a pest.

Peace!

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It’s Trillium!

Posted on May 3, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Beautiful, wild, and free.  Like Texas.

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If The Shoe Fits

Posted on May 2, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

If you’re about my age, it’s possible you watched a CBS Television production of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “Cinderella.”  It was first broadcast in 1957; it was remade by CBS in 1965 and broadcast 8 times through 1974.  I watched the 1965 version, perhaps in 1972 or 1974.

The songs were lovely and magical; very Rodgers and Hammerstein.  Think “South Pacific” or “Oklahoma.”  My favorite song was “Impossible: It’s Possible,” sung by Cinderella and Fairy Godmother.  It went like this:

“Impossible for a plain yellow pumpkin to become a golden carriage.
Impossible for a plain country bumpkin and a prince to join in marriage.
And four white mice will never be four white horses.
Such fol-de-rol and fiddle dee dee of course is
Impossible!
But the world is full of zanies and fools who don’t believe in sensible rules and won’t believe what sensible people say
And because these daft and dewy-eyed dopes keep building up impossible hopes
Impossible things are happening every day!”

Cinderella’s story stuck in my head for a long time and I pursued many avenues to have a magical princess-like existence.  I worked hard, joined clubs, and watched what I ate.  I even went to fancy parties where I could wear ball gowns, eat expensive pieces of chicken, and dance into the night.  It took a lot of work to look like a princess.  It was even harder trying to be one.  In fact, most of the time, it was impossible.

There is nothing wrong with being a princess.  Don’t tell anyone, but my mother is a little bit on the fancy side, what with her spring gloves and her tact lectures.  I’m glad she’s the Carnival King of ‘51’s queen.  It works for her and she’s taught me enough queenly good sense to leave my muddy boots outside of her castle and keep my mouth zipped on certain occasions.  I wish I had remembered her important lessons at certain times when I was not being regal.  I can hear her voice in my head right now as she says “If it were me, I would not put a picture of myself wearing a tiara on the internet.  It’s not polite to be too full of yourself.”

Gulp.

(There is no picture of me in a tiara and a ball gown RIGHT HERE.  I’m listening to my mother’s queenly voice.)

As I’ve gotten older and hopefully wiser, it seems more plausible and possible to accomplish simpler things.  I’m not saying I won’t ever wear a ball gown and eat an expensive piece of chicken with an asparagus spear.  It’s just that these days, the only pumpkin coach I want is an old tractor.  I want a solid pair of work boots that won’t give me a bunion because they’re too small and have pointy toes and high heels.  I want to grow my own food; lots of tomatoes, potatoes, and maybe a few big pumpkins, bright orange like a pair of Moxie shoes.

Legend has it that Frank’s sister found these shoes somewhere in a kingdom far, far away and sent them to the store.  A lot of people have tried to wear them, but so far, they haven’t fit anyone perfectly.  It’s possible that there’s a Moxie princess out there somewhere, just waiting to find her shoes.

Maybe it’s you.

To find out if you’re a princess, please join me at The Moxie Store on Saturday, May 5, 2012 from 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m.  The store is located at 2 Main St., Lisbon Falls, Maine; right on the corner of Route 196 and Main St., across from the old Worumbo Mill.

If you don’t want to be a princess, my brother will be there, signing his recently released book “Moxie: Maine in a Bottle.”  Tact be damned!  This is one thing I can’t keep my mouth zipped about because it’s a wicked good book and my brother’s a prince of a guy.

In Lisbon Falls, there’s still a little magic left in Moxie and impossible things are happening every day.

It’s possible!

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