Margaret Makes Toast of the Jinx

Posted on May 1, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

A few weeks ago, Uncle Bob accused me of jinxing the Red Sox, our neighbor Margaret was upset about it, and I had to crawl into a rain barrel.  One detail I left out was the fact that on Sunday morning, on our way back from Aubuchon Hardware to get rain barrel parts, my father and I noticed Margaret had not taken in her Sunday paper.  It was still on the rack under her mailbox.  I was worried; what if she had fallen into a deep despair about the Red Sox?  If I had jinxed them, it was my fault.

“You call her when we get home,” my father said.

(By the way, that’s what we do in a small town; we look after our neighbors.)

Home is about a nano-second from Margaret’s house.  My father was in his “work shop” gathering up his tools and I was on the phone to Margaret before we could say “Jared Saltalamacchia.”  She picked up promptly after two rings and confessed to sleeping late.  I told her I was worried; it wasn’t like her to sleep late.  Or was it?

“Bobby said you jinxed the Red Sox!”

Then she asked to speak to my mother and I went down into Hermie’s “work shop” to discuss the rain barrel strategy.  As I shut the door, I heard my mother say “jinxed the Red Sox…” and “ha, ha, ha.”

Margaret and my mother must have had quite a discussion about the Red Sox jinx.  In fact, it seems that Margaret was actually worried about me.  She was so worried that on Monday, April 23, she sent a slice of toast to me via my mother.  Since I wouldn’t be back home until the following Saturday, my mother put the toast in the freezer.

Toast?

Margaret doesn’t have ordinary toast.  After all, she’s a really big Red Sox fan.  She’s never wavered in her devotion; she is the antithesis of the dreaded “pink hat” fan.  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when my mother pulled the toast out of the freezer and said “Margaret sent this over for you.”

The funny thing is, on the very day she toasted that slice of Arnold’s Whole Wheat bread, the Red Sox started winning.  They beat the Twins 6 – 5.  They won 6 of their 7 games.  They won last night, 11-6.

Toast that.

Word to Bobby Valentine:  Get a toaster for the club house if you’re worried.  And one for the bull pen, too.  Or call Margaret; I’m sure she’d let you borrow hers.

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The Lilacs Have Arrived

Posted on April 30, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Beep, beep…beep, beep…beep, beep…

It’s Monday, my alarm is going off, and I’m hitting the snooze button.  I don’t want to get up.  A lovely scent of lilac is drifting over from my night stand.  Ah…spring!  I guess I can force myself into the upright today.

This is not a flower blog; nonetheless the beautiful and fragrant lilacs (syringa) have arrived here on the Seacoast of New Hampshire.  As a Mainer living in exile, I love the New Hampshire state flower.  It was selected because it symbolizes the “hardy character of the men and women of the Granite State.”  I don’t know if people in New Hampshire are any more or less hardy than people from Maine; I do know lilacs are magnificent.  If New Hampshire could just figure out a way to make lilacs bloom perpetually, I might live here forever.

My parents have a lilac border at home and our house always smells like lilacs during this aromatic season.  My mother, Horticultural Helen, shares her lilac bushes with other people, sending my father out to dig up lilac shoots for them.

Here at the chicken coop-sized condo complex, we have one lilac bush near the See-Mint pond.  The condo commissars don’t allow residents to cut the lilac flowers, so the purple beauties die unappreciated.  It’s sad.  I’m not going to live here forever, though; one of these days I’m going to bust out of here and wherever I go, I’m going to make sure there are lilacs.  Maybe I’ll plant a hedge on The Farm some day.

I have found several places where lilac bushes grow in abundance and I help myself to the flowers.  I keep a pair of garden snips in the car for this.  Maybe I am breaking the law by clipping a few; please keep my secret safe.

It’s delightful to live in New Hampshire during lilac season.  I can have some now and then I can have some later when they bloom in Maine (hardiness zone 5a) about a week from now.  They’re such old-fashioned shrubs, growing into natural hedges where they are planted.  They grow best when left alone and their stature resists the gas-powered gardeners who seek to lop every plant into stylized miniature oblivion.

I have labored to write these pedestrian words about lilacs.  Please forgive me.  Emily Dickinson made it seem so easy with her 23 words:

Upon a lilac sea
To toss incessantly
His plush alarm
Who fleeing from the Spring
The Spring avenging fling
To Dooms of Balm

Today would be a good day to find some lilacs.  Don’t forget your snips!

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Peace Trellis

Posted on April 29, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I have never grown peas; I ate some delicious pea tendrils this spring and decided I would try to grow some.  I found instructions for making a “pea trellis” out of an old window and if you can believe it, I did have an old window here in my chicken coop-sized condo.  I was going to make a cold frame out of it, but then I bought a cold frame; that’s another story for another day.

Here’s the pea trellis I installed in the little garden at Uncle Bob’s.

My father helped me by removing the glass and stapling the chicken wire on the frame.  (Thanks, Dad!)  Naturally, I had chicken wire here at the chicken coop-sized condo.

Uncle Bob laughed at me as he is wont to do.  He thinks growing peas is foolishness because the yield is low.

I’ll share my little crop with him when they get here.  I’ve planted and watered and it’s out of our hands now.  I’ll worry about it later.

But not today.  Today, I’m going to rest.  You rest too.

Peace!

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Friday Pillow Talk – Jet Noise

Posted on April 27, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

If you’re a new reader, you might think today’s post is strange.  Let me quickly set the stage for you:  I don’t have particularly restful sleep and sometimes when I try to improve it, I have funny dreams.  It all started by thinking a seed catalog under my pillow would help me to dream in flowers; since then, the project has taken on a life of its own.  Just remember, it’s all a dream sequence and the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

My office is on an old Air Force base.  There is still an Air Force presence, but there are also private jets and cargo carriers that fly in and out of Pease Tradeport.  Every day at lunch, my co-worker Cherie Ripperton and I take an hour-long walk; the best part of our walk is along Aviation Avenue, which runs parallel with the runway, or “flight line” as it was called back in the day when it was an Air Force base.  I know this to be true because Cherie’s father was in the Air Force and she actually lived on Pease for a few years when she was little.  Sometimes, she’ll point out certain buildings and say “that was officer housing” or “this is where we would ride our bikes.”

Aviation Avenue is pleasant because there is not much traffic and it’s a little more than a quarter-mile long; Pease used to be a back-up emergency landing strip for the space shuttle.  The best part of Aviation Avenue, though, is seeing the private jets up close; Cherie and I always tell each other where we’d be going if we were boarding a Gulfstream instead of shuffling around in our scuffed-up sneakers.  Cherie’s usually going someplace warm, like Florida or Hawaii and I am never sure where I’m going.  I’m more interested in the interior details of the flight.

“I don’t care where I go; I just want something good to eat and a nice warm blanket and pillow.  Maybe a cup of hot tea with lemon and one lump of sugar and some shortbread cookies.  I guess I’ll be going to Scotland, then, right?”

Cherie’s been on vacation this week, though, so I’ve had to take lunch walks alone.  I don’t mind, but it’s more fun to have someone to talk to.  Thursday was a weird day to walk alone along Aviation Avenue.  There was a detour on International Avenue and it was diverting all traffic to Aviation, making the peaceful route absolutely frantic.  Then, there was an accident somewhere on Pease and police cars, fire trucks, and tow trucks were racing around.  To top it all off, there was a lot of jet noise, like a million planes were taking off at once and the Air National Guard’s KC-135 Stratotanker was cruising around, spending their daily allotment of gub’mint gas.  I hate to use the tired expression, but it was a freak show.

By the time I got to the old Pan Am hangar I thought to myself, “Has the Apocalypse started?”  Then I noticed the 16 crab apple trees in front of the building and they were at their blooming peak.  It was breathtaking and beautiful; all the noise of the world seemed to stop except for the low hum of one little jet pushing on down the runway and jumping into the sky.

These were the things I was thinking about when I finally fell asleep last night.  It’s no wonder, then, that Mr. Sandman was escorting me to my plush leather seat in a Gulfstream G650 and my friend Jaxon was the flight attendant.  First, he brought me Earl Gray tea in a Wedgwood bone china tea set.  Yup, with lemon and one lump of sugar and a side of shortbread cookies.  Then, he brought me a goose-down pillow in a flannel pillow case and a Shetland wool blanket.  I curled up in the cozy seat, wrapped myself in the blanket, and looked around the cabin.  Not surprisingly, Cherie Ripperton was the other passenger and Jaxon was bringing her a big margarita, a hamburger and fries.  She was wearing a sombrero; I don’t know how it was staying on her head with its foot wide brim.  Only in a dream, I guess.

Jaxon was in the front of the jet and he said “Ladies, in just a few moments we will begin preparation for departure.  Since we are in a private jet, we recommend you fasten your seat belt but it is not required.  I am going to sit down until we’re safely in the air, at which time I will tell you about our movie selection. ”

Jaxon is a gentleman in real life, so I guess that’s why he was so professional and courteous as our flight attendant.  He was wearing a finely tailored suit; was it an Armani?  Why yes, it was.  The only out of character part of his attire was the Birkenstocks he was wearing.

He sat down and we taxied down the runway and into the wild blue yonder.   Once we were at our cruising altitude, he stood up again and like a game show host announced:

“For our movie today, I’ve selected the 1966 Rankin/Bass film ‘The Daydreamer.’  This film features fake puppetry and clever manipulation, plus some really bad animation.  However, I think you will find it more endearing and honest than the computer generated fake garbage of today.”

“Mr. Robert Goulet will sing the title song.”

Jaxon bowed and sat down, the cabin went completely dark, and a bed sheet descended over the door to the cockpit.  I guess Gulfstream hasn’t perfected dream sequence movie screens, although it looked like it might be a 2,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheet.  As can only happen in a dream, it was dark in the cabin but bright blue sky outside and no one suggested we pull our window shades.  I didn’t watch the movie.  I was looking outside; I thought I could see a crab apple branch in the corner of my window.

The branch looked more like a spider tentacle, the pink flowers all fuzzy and moving.  It was also like a rope, and it was getting bigger and closer and wrapping around the plane.  I looked across the aisle to see if there were branches visible in the other windows.  Sure enough, the branches were wrapping around the jet.

Cherie and Jaxon were completely oblivious, laughing uproariously at the movie.

There was a tap tap tapping at the window behind me and I got up to investigate.  All of a sudden, the window broke and the branch tentacle crept into the jet and started invading the cabin.  I screamed.  There was no reaction from Cherie and Jaxon who were clapping and singing along with the song “Isn’t it Cozy.”

Since it was a dream, I thought I was screaming at the top of my lungs but no one could hear me.  The rear of the cabin was filling up with crab apple tentacles and one was starting to wrap itself around my ankle.

“JAXON AND CHERIE, HELP ME!”

Crickets.

All of a sudden, the cockpit door opened and Elvis Presley burst through the bed sheet movie screen.   It was Elvis from the “Aloha from Hawaii” era, in a white jumpsuit.  He was smiling and carrying a platter of chicken wings and pork rinds.  Instead of serving us, he just stood at the front of the cabin and threw the wings and rinds at us.  A chicken wing knocked Cherie’s sombrero off and a pork rind hit me in the forehead.  I shouted out,

“ELVIS, IS IT GRASS FED PORK?”

Elvis didn’t answer and I heard the high-pitched barking of a small dog.  Breaking through the fog of sleep, crab apple blossoms, and pork rinds, I woke up and realized it was the annoying little dog in the chicken coop condo above me.  Another night of restless sleep was over and there was nothing left to do but brew a cup of coffee and write about it.

Happy Friday; you are now free to move about your own Pease Tradeport.  Don’t forget to stop and smell the crab apple blossoms.

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Itty Bitty Surprise Garden

Posted on April 26, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

When I first started growing stuff, I grew flowers.  I planted these daffodil bulbs over on The Farm almost 10 years ago and then I forgot about them.

They didn’t forget about me.

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A Pear In A Rain Barrel

Posted on April 25, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Three years ago, we bought a rain barrel for the Hampton Victory Garden through a program sponsored by the water company.  Skyjuice New England provides the barrels to communities at a reduced price to encourage water conservation.  Since we have running water at the garden, the rain barrel is used primarily for hand washing and back up in the event of a drought.  Last summer we had a little problem with the faucet, but one of our talented and handy gardeners fixed it, so I didn’t even pay attention.

I liked the rain barrel so much I brought one home and convinced Uncle Bob I would help him save money on his water bill if he helped me to install it.  One smoking hot June day, my father and Uncle Bob did the heavy lifting while I supervised and we installed a gutter for my beloved barrel.  The Three Stooges had nothing on us that day, but it all worked out once the shouting was over.  I’ve had cool, clear, oxygenated water for my tomatoes ever since.

Last week, while worrying about drought conditions, I made a phone call home to make sure Uncle Bob had put up my rain barrel.  Sure enough, my mother confirmed “all systems go” for the predicted rain.

On Saturday, no rain fell.  I spent the afternoon at The Moxie Store, celebrating Frank Anicetti’s birthday, and I didn’t think about my rain barrel.  Early Sunday morning, I walked down to the library to post my blog and rain was falling by the time I walked home.  The sight and sound of the rain was pleasing to me as I walked up Main Street and I wanted to hear the sound of rain running off the shed roof into my rain barrel.

It was early; not even six o’clock.  No signs of Uncle Bob and no water collecting.  There was only a slow trickle of water running out of the faucet hole at the bottom of the barrel.   The faucet was missing!  I ran home, thinking as I ran.  I tried to compose myself, but since I am always 10 years old when I am in Lisbon Falls, I marched into the house, out of breath, and proclaimed “the rain barrel is broken.  The faucet is missing.”  My father said he didn’t remember seeing the faucet.  He recounted this year’s installation and who had done what; he said it sounded like a Three Stooges episode.  I reminded him that there had only been Two Stooges involved, he and Uncle Bob.

I won’t bore you with the details of my 6:15 a.m. call to Uncle Bob, the 7:30 a.m. post-breakfast investigation, and the 9:00 a.m. trip to Aubuchon Hardware.  We got the parts we needed to replace the broken faucet.

Uncle Bob was at McDonald’s, so my father and I did the job alone.  It was a simple fix.  Except no one had arms long enough to reach into the rain barrel and screw the pipe coupling to the faucet.  I don’t even think an NBA player could have done it; that barrel is 35 inches tall.

Someone was going to have to crawl inside the rain barrel.

Fortunately, I have been blessed with a “pear shape” and I am not “barrel chested.”  I was able to shimmy into the barrel and attach the washer and the coupling.  My father laughed when I said, muffled through the barrel, “this must be quite a sight; my butt hanging out of the rain barrel.”

When I got back to New Hampshire, I blasted off an e-mail to Skyjuice New England.  If they didn’t respond, I had the power of the internet behind me and I would blog about it.  Luckily, they were “pronto tonto” in responding as follows:

“We have had a few barrels whose faucets have broken. We are not sure why this is happening so appreciate your email. I also don’t really like to squeeze into them to replace faucets so will work to make sure we don’t have more that break.”

They also graciously offered to replace my barrel, but that won’t be necessary.

I’m just one happy pear today.

Have you ever crawled into a rain barrel?

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Why I Joined Facebook

Posted on April 24, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Dear Friends,

I’m kind of stubborn sometimes.  My father’s stubborn, too, so maybe I have a stubborn gene.  There’s nothing wrong with being stubborn; being stubborn about brushing my teeth morning and night has served me well.  No one has gotten hurt by my stubborn dental practices.

I’ve stubbornly decided I do not want to go to Disney World.  I don’t know why, but I want to be the only American who has never gone to Disney World.  I have friends who go to Disney World and we get along just fine because I don’t impose my stubborn anti-Disney thoughts upon them.  No one gets hurt and everyone is happy.  That’s freedom.

When it comes to Facebook, I am late to the party because I’m stubborn.  I am familiar with Facebook and social media; I have a fan page for The Hampton Victory Garden.  (“Like” us, please!)  Through this fan page, I have subscribed to other farming, gardening, and local food pages.  I can find out what is happening at my CSA farm share and when I might be able to eat some fresh kale.  I can read the news and information I want without having to sit through commercials.  I have learned a lot of things from Facebook fan pages.  If I had a small business, I would be on Facebook.  It’s a dynamite way to promote a product or idea.

Prior to Sunday, I hadn’t been on Facebook as my stubborn self and I didn’t know if I needed or wanted to be.  It seemed time-consuming.  Sometimes, it seemed like passing notes in 7th grade.  Don’t get me wrong; I loved passing notes in 7th grade, but one time, I wrote something mean about someone and I got in trouble.  I might even have gotten grounded for a year; I can’t remember.  My mother was upset and I had to listen to the “tact” lecture for the tenth time.  I was sorry I had written those mean things.

I had also seen a few cases where adults had made some mistakes on Facebook, passing notes.  I was a little nervous about whether it was right for me.  I sure didn’t want to get the “tact” lecture from my mother again and she’s not even on Facebook.

Then I started writing this blog and sometimes, I would write things about the past and I would think “oh, I bet so and so would like this post today; I mentioned his favorite song from 1981” or “I wish my best friend from second grade could read this.  I miss her.”  Facebook is like a study hall and a class reunion all rolled into one; I’ve always loved study halls and class reunions.  In fact, I think I told someone at my last class reunion that I would plan the next class reunion and maybe it’s this year.

Whoops.

So I decided to join Facebook to plan a class reunion on the fly and share some of my blog posts with friends from home.  Maybe I would let people know about my brother’s book, too.  Doing all these things on Facebook is a lot faster than writing and mailing letters.

At approximately 11:00 p.m. on Sunday, April 22, 2012, I joined Facebook.  In just a few hours, I learned a lot of things and sweet things started to happen.

I found out that one of my classmates was sick; I decided to pray for her.  Then, one of my classmates posted a picture of us in 7th grade and we were not passing notes.  We were outside at recess and we were singing at the top of our lungs and clapping our hands.  It seemed like so much fun and it made me laugh. I even noticed I was wearing my purple ski jacket and the purple mittens my Nana had knit for me when she used to sit in the big chair next to O’Pa under the cuckoo clock in the living room in the house where my father was born.

The best part of the experience was the knowledge that so many of the people I had grown up with and who knew all about me and my clan were alive and living interesting lives.  I can’t quite explain it, but it made me happy to know they were my friends.

People are still going to pass mean notes on Facebook and they’re going to get in trouble.  There will be drama and fights and disagreements.  Isn’t that what people have been doing from the beginning?  King Solomon long ago said “there is no new thing under the sun” and it’s true.

Since this is true and I wanted to pass some good notes, I joined Facebook.  Thank you to the 63 people who accepted my friend request in the last 24 hours.  I’m thinking about a class reunion and happy things I want to tell you.

Very truly yours,

Julie-Ann Baumer

P.S.  My brother is going to be on Tee Vee again tonight.

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The See Saw

Posted on April 23, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

It’s Monday, it’s raining, and I’m on the down swing of the see saw.  Last week, I predicted fears of a drought would dissipate with the first downpour and this may be so.  I drove home to the Coop in a driving rain, thankful for the deluge in spite of the difficulties it added to my drive.  I was thinking of all the fun I had over the weekend with my clan and assorted home friends.

I have a routine about my drive home.  I drive by Uncle Bob’s and make last-minute checks on things in the garden.  This week, I had to make sure the rain barrels were hooked up correctly.  I’ve got a story about those barrels, but it will have to wait until Wednesday.  Then I drive to the Extra-Mart and gas up my Jeep.  Last night, I saw my friend Dill Buttons; he was buying lottery tickets.  He’s good at “games of chance” and I sure hope he wins big so he can retire.  I bought a “throwback” beverage and I would have gotten a soft-serve ice cream at the Dairy Maid, except the Dairy Maid was closed.

Then I drive out of town and turn right at the Moxie Store, across from what’s left of the old Worumbo Mill.  I keep that mill in my rear view mirror as I cross the bridge over the Androscoggin River.  I’m always sad when I drive away from town and there’s this little fear in the pit of my stomach that the mill might not be there the next time I come home.  It’s probably going to happen some day; vacant mill buildings don’t stay around forever.  I push that thought out of my mind and I say to myself “it won’t happen this week.”  Then I say “if it does, it won’t mean that Nana and O’Pa didn’t come to America to live.”  I pinch myself to make sure.

Route 125 winds and twists through Durham and I get on Interstate 95 in Freeport.  The rest of the drive is uneventful per se, maybe 90 minutes of radio roulette and creative thinking.  Sometimes I stop at the Kennebunk South Travel Plaza to stretch.

Today will feel odd, not because it’s Monday and not because it’s raining, but because it is hard to have a divided see saw heart.  I will go through a variety of machinations to get my brain in “corporate” mode because I’ve been in “clan” mode all weekend.  I collected a lot of memories in 36 hours; I also picked up a rock on top of Mosquito Hill, the metaphorical top of the see saw.

I’m going to bring the rock to work with me and put it on my desk to remember where I come from and where I’m going.  That rock reminds me that I won’t be on a see saw forever.

What’s Monday like for you?

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Julie Jinxes The Red Sox

Posted on April 22, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

On Saturday night, I stopped over to Uncle Bob’s to give him some Dorinny corn I wanted him to plant.  It’s organic corn from way up north at Wood Prairie Farm in Bridgewater, Maine.  He seemed agreeable and he said it looked like there was enough seed for two rows.  He told me about his new rototiller; we talked about whether or not we should put more compost in the garden and how big my tomatoes were down at my chicken coop condo and sometimes greenhouse.  We talked about the weather and how he’d painted the shed and put my rain barrels up.

The conversation turned to sports and we talked about the Red Sox and Bobby Valentine.  The game was on in the background; the eighth inning.  The Red Sox were winning 9-8.  We’d talk for 30 seconds and then watch the game and then talk for another 30 seconds. He told me some Chicago White Sox player had pitched a perfect game today.  I asked him if he had ever pitched a perfect game and he said no.  I asked him if he had ever pitched a no-hitter and he said only in relief.  He had pitched a few one-hitters, though.

I listen to a lot of sports and a lot of sports talk radio, but when it comes right down to it, I don’t really know the intricacies of these games.  Once, I asked my friend Samantha Van Hopper why she thought I liked sports radio so much.  She’s a social worker and she’s pretty good at psychoanalyzing people, especially me.  She said “it’s the male voices.  It probably goes back to the cradle when you would hear your father’s voice and it would comfort you.”

Yup.

It was cozy and warm in the living room; Uncle Bob was sitting in his recliner in the corner and I was sitting in the glider rocker.  When I was little, O’Pa used to sit in the corner and Nana had a big chair where the glider rocker is now.  The cuckoo clock is still there above Nana’s spot, but Uncle Bob doesn’t keep it wound like Nana did.  Although she never said so, I think Nana loved that cuckoo clock.  When it would chirp the hour, she would laugh and then she’d tell us what time it was.  O’Pa would come in from the barn or the garden, complain about some politician and then say “Jingo.”

I was comfortable and comforted watching the game with Uncle Bob.

Then one of the Yankees hit a ground rule double and two runs scored.  The score shifted to 10-9, Yankees.  The implosion began.

“You know what Yogi Berra said?” Uncle Bob asked.

“What?”

“It’s ain’t over until it’s over.  And he was right.”

Bobby Valentine brought in the closer at some point and we watched what seemed like the longest half-inning of baseball in Tee Vee history.  I don’t remember how many runs the Yankees scored.

It didn’t look good for the Red Sox and there was still some daylight, so I got up to leave.

“Joo-lie, you’ve jinxed the Red Sox.  They were ahead when you got here.”

(By the way, there are only three people who can call me “Julie.”  My father and Uncle Bob are two of the three.)

I went out into the garden to hoe my solitary row of lettuce and radishes.  They had just popped up thanks to my father watering them for me.  I took a few pictures of my garlic.

Uncle Bob came out to the garden to tell me that Margaret had just called, all upset about the game.  She probably just needed to hear a comforting male voice, too.  Margaret is our neighbor on Plummer Street, maybe 115 steps from Uncle Bob’s house.  I used to mow her lawn and I was her Sunday paper girl.  She’s 92 years old; faithful to the Red Sox all these years.  I’m glad they won two World Series’ rings for fans like her.

I said good evening to Uncle Bob and skipped home along the same 255 steps I’ve been skipping my entire life.  The final score was 15 – 9, Yankees.

I think I jinxed the Red Sox.

My garlic looks good, though, doesn’t it?

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Friday Pillow Talk – Tears On My Pillow

Posted on April 20, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

The last week was a busy and sad one here on the New Hampshire Seacoast.  With all my activity, I haven’t had any time for seed catalogues, daydreams, or night dreams.  My head hits the pillow and before I know it, my alarm is going off and I’m sitting upright again.

Happily, all of the garden plots in the Hampton Victory Garden are full and we have eight new gardeners.  Some of them have young children and that’s good; we need a few more wanna-be farmers in this world.  One of the kindest surfer dudes on Hampton Beach stopped by the Victory Garden with his back hoe on Sunday and made room for a few more gardens.  Thank you, Anthony.

On Tuesday, we had our annual meeting with tasty food at Las Olas Taqueria and we laughed a lot.  It’s fun to get together with people who like to grow food and talk about wheelbarrows, compost, and water.  Most of the “administrative” work is done, the water is on, and the rototilling is finished.  Victory Gardeners are now free to get about their business.

Some sad and violent things also happened last Thursday on what was once a country road running between Greenland and Hampton.  The Post Road is one of two regular routes I take to work and I happened to drive home that way about 20 minutes before the violence began.  I didn’t notice anything unusual and I was listening to the radio, singing “I think I love you” at the top of my lungs along with The Partridge Family.

Not far from the shoot-out house, there’s a gentleman with a big garden and a farm stand; I’ve bought string beans from him.  Further down the road, there’s a lady with another little stand who sells homemade pizzelles, cookies, and fresh strawberries.  I had never bought any of her snacks until last summer when, in a fit of hunger, I stopped and bought strawberries and some crazy cookies she makes with corn flakes.  I was hooked and I started going there instead of Lago’s for ice cream.

I felt strange and upset when I read the news while writing my blog post the next morning.  I’m often naïve about life; I wonder how such horrible things could happen in such a short period of time.  I have read the writings of the prophet Jeremiah.  He wrote “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it.”  Those are hard words to digest.  I don’t have any quick and easy answers.

I’m going to “put a little gravel in my travel,” go home and be with my clan.  Everyone at home is going to celebrate Frank Anicetti’s birthday on Saturday.  Frank runs the Moxie store and museum; he’s kind of famous.  He’s in Stephen King’s latest book, too.  Frank doesn’t care about fame, though.  If you’re near Lisbon Falls, Maine on Saturday, stop in and see Frank and wish him a “Happy Birthday.”  I’ll see you there.

Oh, and next week I’ll take some time to dream.

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