Do you have it? That ability to restrain yourself from reacting in the heat of the moment? Do you let emotions overtake you? As I look out over the raging digital world this morning, I read many things. Some begin like this:
“I’m not one to air my grievances in public, but…”
or
“I wasn’t going to post anything like this today, but…”
One writer posited she knew of no one able to restrain themselves.
I’m sad, tired and world-weary this morning, a Monday malady for which there is no cure. I think I’ll take a vacation from this digital space for a week or so. Putter around my garden, mow the lawn, and maybe take a few walks along the path of silence and restraint.
Last night was my third trip to the elbow of New England in less than a week. Is Portsmouth the “elbow” of New England? I don’t know; I just made that up. Maybe it’s the wrist, but it’s the place where the Maine vibe ends and the “spirit” of Massachusetts begins. If you’re traveling northward, it’s where you throw your troubles aside and breathe easy, knowing you’re in “vacationland,” “the way life should be,” or “the land of the holy donut.” Take your pick.
Since I’m not a long haul trucker, all this time behind the windshield has wiped me out. I’ve got no Friday morning pillow pontifications.
Fortunately, I got to work in a stop at a favorite place in southern Maine.
Coming up, garage sale next week. I hope there are no accidents!
The rain New England gardens needed finally arrived on Sunday afternoon. During the week, there had been a suggestion of it; a hint of precipitation and the ambivalent weather puppet “partly cloudy with a chance of showers.”
It was touch and go for the tomatoes I planted at Uncle Bob’s. I started some from seed this year, like in the Aunt Tomato days of old, and I waited until last Sunday to plant them. They were drooping on Monday and Tuesday, but I watered in the morning and Uncle Bob watered in the evening and I think they’re going to make it now that the rain has started in earnest.
On Saturday, Handy and I went to a nonagenarian birthday party in Massachusetts; a longtime friend of Handy’s family. Handy is one of seven children and since I’m one of only two, it’s different and interesting to observe the dynamics of larger sibling groups. The party was in the afternoon, so after traveling there, celebrating, and traveling home, it ended up being a whole day away from Saturday’s chores. But it’s always pleasant spending time with Handy and even better when we get to sneak in a stop at a Market Basket along the way.
I’m glad it didn’t rain on the party.
It’s the Monday of a busy week. The calendar is calling for brevity today and a moment of silence for D-Day.
Many years ago, I got a handwritten letter from a friend. Wait, if I’m honest with myself and with my blog readers, it was probably a decade or two ago. My friend glued a picture on the letter, a picture of a woman eating a granola bar. Except that the granola bar looked more like a piece of excrement rolled in nuts. Above the woman’s head my friend had written “some people don’t even know they’re eating sh*t.”
This image made me laugh in its absurdity and it stuck with me for a while. When the sordid image faded away, my friend’s simple words remained glued in my mind. It’s true. So that we can have an honest conversation without saying sh*t ten or more times, let’s call it “bad yogurt.”
I’m going out on a limb and say most people don’t even know they’re eating bad yogurt. There’s a lot of bad yogurt out there, most of it a far cry from any kind of bacteria-fermented milk product thought to have originated in Mesopotamia. Yogurt with chocolate chips, cheesecake flavored yogurt, and so on.
Yuck.
My observations this week have been about how long it really takes to produce quality yogurt. And don’t think I’m going down a path of technophobia and saying something like “life would be better if you were reading this blog post on a piece of papyrus you received by carrier pigeon.” No, what I mean is the old adage “good things take time” is true.
My friend Robin Swennes is a painter and graphic artist. She and I have worked together on a variety of projects ranging from business cards, Moxie Festival promotional material, holiday cards, and more recently, a promotional card for one of my “causes.” We do all our work via e-mail with an occasional phone call to make sure we’re on the same page. Sometimes, my “vision” starts out with a handful of papers and marketing collateral I’ve collected in my travels. I’ll send Robin an e-mail and I’ll say “I have an idea I want to work on. Here’s what I’m thinking and I’ll mail you some samples. E-mail me back when you’ve received them and had a chance to analyze them.”
I suppose I could e-mail her images, but because we’re usually creating something which will eventually be represented on paper, the relative slowness of the mail and the simmering of time is a positive ingredient to the work.
Sometimes, we’ll swap another handful of e-mails before she’ll design three to six samples for me to review. This will eventually be boiled down to one design image; she does the artwork and I’ll do the written content. And since we’re both working day jobs, most of this work gets done early in the morning or late at night.
On our last finished project, we had fifteen revisions before the final product went to the printer.
I suppose I could get some DIY graphics software and make something myself, but what do I know about graphics? Very little. So I leave it to someone who does to figure out whether a certain image will work as a piece of promotional material.
I am biased in my opinion, but I don’t think our collaborations have created any bad yogurt yet.
Keep your eyes open for the bad yogurt; there’s a lot of it out there. The good yogurt?
There’s a red flowering shrub in my backyard, between two blueberry bushes. I’ve contemplated moving it, but I waited too long this year. I’m not absolutely sure why it doesn’t flower all over, but I think it has something to do with pruning.
If you click on the picture, you can read about a Memorial Day from 1943, long ago and far away.
Memorial Day, 2016. It’s raining. It’s a good day to spend some quite time in the garden alone, thinking about planting, pruning, and other things.
A few weeks ago, I asked my friend if she took “Home Economics” when we were in high school. She said she did and I asked her if she had learned how to make a weekly menu. After spending a considerable amount of time convincing her I had not taken the class myself, she admitted she had only baked blueberry muffins and made an ill-fitting skirt. Apparently, Home Ec, as it was affectionately called, was in decline in the early 80’s.
If you do an internet search on the term, you might learn that while once considered a “fundamentally narrow, dull, and socially conservative” field, researchers now say that it “opened up opportunities for women and had a broad impact on American society.” Cornell University’s HEARTH project is a digital archive of books and journals ranging from the field’s early days to the present.
The topic of tending hearth and home is a powder keg filled with trouble, too much trouble for the Friday morning of a long holiday weekend. I’ll have to interview my mother about why she didn’t insist I take Home Economics in high school and why she didn’t teach me how to do laundry until the weekend before I left for college. Making menus and developing a cleaning routine in the midst of working a full-time job make the domestic arts a daily struggle. As a lady alone home owner, there’s a lot I need to know and do.
Handy didn’t take Home Ec. He took “Metal Shop” or something like that and he says he doesn’t remember much about it. He must have learned something, though, because he knows how to make a menu AND fix small engines.
This is the lawn tractor he bought for $100 dollars.
He bought it, fixed it up, and was going to sell it to me until he decided he liked it too much. I borrowed it yesterday and I have to admit I had a great time using it.
In the economics of saving time and energy at the big old house on the hill, Handy is a Ph.D.
For kicks, we sometimes go to Whole Foods. Each time we’ve gone, I’ve looked fondly at the $8.99 per pound “hot bar.” I’d never given in to it until recently.
“I didn’t think tofu could be that tough,” said Handy.
When did it happen? When did I become too old to spend Saturday night in a bar or nightclub? I think it was last summer; Handy and I went to The Old Goat in Richmond to listen to live music. We cozied up to the bar, ordered a sandwich and some beverages, and watched the crowd arrive for the band. A good number of lively Richmond-ites sauntered in plus the folks that creep over from Dresden and other towns.
The band set up and there was the “tick, tick, tick” of drumsticks on the cymbal. And away it went. We waited for the right moment and the right song and we got up to dance. There was nothing overtly wrong. We danced a bit more, finished our dinner, and then called it a night. Driving home, I said “I don’t think my knees are as springy as they used to be. Maybe it’s these flip-flops.”
And that was the last time we’ve been out “clubbing.”
There are other things to do on Saturday night. Portland restaurants are just an hour away and who doesn’t want to join the throngs of foodies and connoisseurs on the quaint city streets to try the latest hip restaurant?
This Saturday, after shoveling like a stevedore in the gardens all day, a trip to Maine’s restaurant capital was out. So what were Handy and I to do?
Why, date night at Market Basket, of course.
Sure, Biddeford is farther south than Portland, but it’s generally smooth sailing down the interstate at the dinner hour. And the Market Basket is right off the exit, a bright and shiny location with a “Market Café” right next to the “Market’s Kitchen.” Every week, there’s a different sub sandwich for $4.99. This week it was ham and cheese with all the fixings. Handy and I split it and sat in the café to eat. We compared our grocery lists and then we leisurely strolled the aisles and did our shopping. And you know what? On Saturday night, there are lots of other couples shopping at Market Basket too.
This year, two documentary movies were released about how loyal non-unionized employees and the stores customers staged a strike and boycott which lead to the return of the ousted CEO, Arthur T. Demoulas, or “Artie T.” Handy and I went to see the movie with some friends a few Saturday nights ago. (Yes, the classic “dinner and a movie” date night.)
“The Market Basket Effect” did a good job of outlining the long-standing Greek family drama. It had a happy ending. The company didn’t declare bankruptcy and fade off the scene. Lucky for us we’ve still got a place to go on a Saturday night.
After we loaded up our groceries and got on the interstate for the trip home, we scanned the radio dial and picked up “The Legends,” a little indie station broadcasting from Sanford. On Saturday nights, they play syndicated recordings of Dick Clark’s “Rock, Roll & Remember” and Handy and I sang along to Herman’s Hermits and the Everly Brothers until the signal faded out as we approached Portland.
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I’m sad, tired and world-weary this morning, a Monday malady for which there is no cure. I think I’ll take a vacation from this digital space for a week or so. Putter around my garden, mow the lawn, and maybe take a few walks along the path of silence and restraint.
Carry on.
He bought it, fixed it up, and was going to sell it to me until he decided he liked it too much. I borrowed it yesterday and I have to admit I had a great time using it.
“I didn’t think tofu could be that tough,” said Handy.
Julie-Ann Baumer 