The weather puppets were calling for rain yesterday so I made it to Uncle Bob’s before dark and planted a few “cold weather crops.”
Click on the picture to read what I had to say about that a few years ago when I was in the Aunt Tomato business.
The grey matter you see is rock dust; it’s an experiment.
Onward lettuce, onward radishes! Silly old Aunt Tomato.
Last week, I twice-blogged about the St. Mary’s Hospital chapel dome, but there is a second dome, counterbalancing that old section of the hospital and it’s referred to as the “surgical dome.” Its ceiling panels were glass and back in the old days, everyone in Lewiston could know when surgery was being performed because electrical lights from the dome would brighten the night sky.
I have a bright light in my kitchen, over the bar area. When I first moved in, I was unaccustomed to such a bright light and my friend and neighbor, Gina, jokingly referred to it as “the surgery light.” I’ve grown to like it and it brightens up the night sky here on The Ridge Road and everyone on the Mason compound can see when I’m performing surgery. Usually, I’m operating on things like potting soil and plywood Easter eggs, but last night, I was wrestling with a “major life decision.”
I’d done everything I could to prolong making a decision about this. I’ve been to church, prayed, made a pros and cons list, taken a walk, done laundry, vacuumed, did my dishes, written letters, done financial calculations and projections. Some of my trusted advisors were silent. Finally, I went to bed with a 1947 Good Housekeeping magazine. I was looking for a sign in a magazine.
Back in the old days, smoking a cigarette used to be the answer, but it’s not so simple anymore.
Dreams were of no help, either. I dreamed I had the chicken pox.
I still don’t know what to do about my “major life decision” so I’m blogging and then I’m signing off.
Any suggestions or tips on decision-making are welcome. Or prayers or dreams or signs.
A closer look at the stained glass inside the St. Mary’s Hospital chapel in Lewiston, Maine.
Peace to you today.
When I was very small, I thought everyone in the world was a member of the Roman Catholic Church. My world was a tiny wheel, the hub being my parents’ house. There were four or five spokes to this wheel and each one took me through or to safe Catholic places. Faithful grandparents, aunts, uncles, and neighbors lived along each path my little lady alone feet traveled in their red Buster Brown oxford shoes or Keds sneakers. These places and people shielded and insulated me.
Eventually, all the spokes of the entire wheel turned towards Holy Family Church and the pews on the left rear of the small building. I don’t even need to close my eyes to see my Nana coming back from communion and placing her left hand on the front pew to steady herself as she carefully turned the corner and stepped down into the window aisle. Or my Tante Anna’s sophisticated hats blocking a full view of the mass to anyone sitting behind her.
There was no day of the year when this sacred place was more mysterious to me than on Good Friday. My little feet carried me from the Marion T. Morse Elementary school to church; after kneeling as devotedly as I could for a few minutes, I’d sit quietly in a pew, observing the veiled crucifix and the bare altar. Our extended family would return later in the evening for the veneration of the cross.
The priest would chant, “This is the wood of the cross, from which hung the Savior of the world.”
We would respond “Come, let us worship.”
Was there incense? I don’t remember.
My little feet grew and carried me away from home and I discovered that not everyone in the world was Roman Catholic. I’ve searched for answers to life’s existential questions in many Protestant denominations, some which consider the machinations of Catholicism to be pagan rituals. No matter where I have been in my life, Good Friday has remained a solemn and gravely thoughtful day for me, in deep contemplation and remembrance.
There are not many churches within walking distance of folks in town these days. But that’s a different drama.
I apologize for having no answers for you, dear reader. In addition to reading the gospel accounts of the passion of Jesus Christ today, I’ll be reading my brother’s blog and Wendell Berry’s essay “God and Country.”
The Farm daffodils are finally breaking ground.
Spring’s a bit late this year. I’ll still take it.
Last summer, I volunteered to maintain the beautiful garden area around our town’s gazebo. Even though I didn’t know a thing about edging, I did my best and things turned out just fine. I hung the bunting for Memorial Day, too, and took it down after Moxie just the way Faye has always done it. This year, I’m getting an early start on things–the edger has been sharpened and I applied bulb food just before it rained.
Don’t forget the Easter eggs.
Like the bunting, the eggs are hung at strategic spots in the gazebo. Faye provided me with the cording to hang them from the drilled holes at the top of the eggs, but it was too thick for anchoring them from the smaller holes at the bottom.
No problem.
I hung them as instructed and then anchored them with fish line. Although I’ve never cast a line in my life, I have a small supply of the miraculous stuff. It’s perfect for hanging light baskets, invisibly repairing and swagging draperies, and creating other decorating illusions. When I hung the eggs last breezeless Sunday, everything was perfect. Faye even called me to tell me “the gazebo looks great!”
On Monday, things were not so great and the eggs had busted out of their fish line anchors after a light wind swept into town. No problem. I have floral wire in my bag of tricks too, and I anchored the eggs with it.
On Tuesday afternoon, a zephyr wind blew in from the northwest and as I drove by the gazebo, damned if those eggs weren’t crazily swinging around like deserted saloon doors on Gunsmoke. One of them had even fallen down.
I called Faye from the gazebo and she said she wasn’t surprised; sometimes these things happen. I told her I was going to take them down, bring them home, and find some better, stronger anchor and put them back up in the morning.
When I pulled back the curtain this morning, I had another surprise.
I’ll hang the eggs at the gazebo when I make my mail run today. Fingers crossed, this snow will be gone.
I’ll tell you, it ain’t easy being Faye.
Long walks seem to be the thing this spring. Last weekend, I walked three and a half miles for a donut. This past Saturday, I walked that same approximate distance for a plate of lasagna. Life in Maine is interesting.
It started out innocently enough. I sent an e-mail to Julie, who readers know as “Slipper Sistah” here on the blog. I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk, maybe go to Luiggi’s. Slipper Sistah’s a good sport; she said “sure.”
When I got to her house, she was chopping wood and I spied a push reel mower near the wood pile.
While she got ready for our walk, I took the mower around the yard for a spin, enjoying the calming clickety-clickety of the rotating blades.
We started our walk at about 3:00 p.m. Outer Sabattus Street has plentiful sidewalks and there are even crosswalk devices telling pedestrians to “WAIT, WAIT” until it’s safe to cross. The devices announce the street crossings by name. We didn’t pass any other walkers, though and the traffic zipped noisily by, happily motoring to destinations unknown. It’s Lewiston, Maine, not Cambridge, Massachusetts. Why walk when you can drive and get out of the city faster.
We passed throwback places like Val’s Drive-In and the Dairy Joy near St. Mary’s Hospital on Campus Avenue, both still in business. My mother brought me a milkshake from the Dairy Joy when I had my tonsils and adenoids removed at the hospital on July 1, 1973.
Luiggi’s was almost as I remember it when we used to go there in the 1970’s and there were even some Franco Americans having a meal. As luck would have it, Sistah recognized a woman waiting for her pizza and introduced herself. They reminisced about shared friends and then Sistah introduced me. I provided my mother’s maiden name and getting only a vague look of recognition, I tried my uncle’s name. Jackpot.
“Oh! Dick Belaire! I’m Paul Fortin’s sister!” she exclaimed.
“Tall Paul,” I said, remembering that before my uncle had been my uncle, he had been part of the Lewiston High School basketball team that won a state title and then made it to the New England finals. They were defeated by a Westerly, Rhode Island team at the old Boston Garden in March of 1960. Maybe Uncle Dick, Tall Paul, and Lionel “Rod” Rodrigue ate a few pizza’s at Luiggi’s back in the day.
I made some notes on my phone so I could remember to tell my mother about seeing Tall Paul’s sister and then Slipper Sistah and I left and headed up College Street. We passed the Bates College lacrosse fields and then we were at St. Mary’s Hospital again. I asked Sistah if she thought we could visit the hospital chapel, under one of the two architecturally magnificent domes. Sure enough, we were able to get into the chapel; a place of quiet repose.
I’ll have to go back to the dome one day when I have more time. Although my destination was Luiggi’s, I ended up going further down memory lane than I had anticipated and I bumped into ghosts from another time and place.
There are important stories everywhere; not all of them can be told in 140 characters or less and easily read while happy motoring.
Keep walking. Wait! Wait!
I took a long walk with Slipper Sistah on Saturday. This will be the second weekend in a row that I’m the “Lady Not Alone Foot Traveler.”
I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.
Everyone loves the Frank Capra movie “It’s a Wonderful Life.” According to Wikipedia, it’s “one of the most loved films in American cinema.” Generally viewed during the holiday season, I’m a sucker for the movie at any time of year and lately I’ve been thinking about the scene where young George Bailey goes into old man Gower’s store and makes a wish while pressing on the cigar lighter.
I wish I had a million dollars.
I think about money a lot. In spite of the many provocative things Jesus Christ taught about money, I still get twisted around the axle, worrying about it. There must be more money, money, money. Not a miserly worry, like I’m old man Potter stacking up silver coins in a windowless room somewhere, but just a general worry of whether there will be enough money for today, what I should do with the money I have, and what I could do with any excess there might be. I struggle with the things Jesus said about “worry” too.
Worried about taxes, I went to a meeting here in town the other night. The town “fathers” and “mothers” want to build a new track and the estimated cost is $350,000. (They would also like to build a new gymnasium, but the cost of that project is outside the scope of my “million dollar pillow talk” project.) I started thinking about George Bailey and his cigar lighter wish and I thought “if I had a million dollars, I could build the track for the town.” Not only is there an apparent potential for world-class running events to be held at this new track, its promoters say it will benefit the whole community. Yep, everyone in town will be going to the track.
Hot dog!
Would it be called “The Julie-Ann Baumer All Weather Running Track?”
I don’t know if I’ve ever blogged about it, but I lettered in track and field for four years and was co-captain of the team my senior year. I wasn’t a runner. I did field events, mostly the shot put and the discus and the best part of it all was being outside in the sun, waiting for the school year to end. It didn’t change my life and I didn’t do anything with it after high school. But if I had a million dollars, I might consider spending less than half of it on a new track for the community.
I wonder why no passionate philanthropist has come forward to take on the project? Surely, someone somewhere must have a million dollars.
What would you do if you had a million dollars?
It seemed like a good blog post idea at the time.
I lost my “mojo” and now I’m not so excited about it.
Julie-Ann Baumer 