Thanks, But No Thanks

Posted on March 26, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Today was supposed to be the second part in a three-part Reggie Black “Born to Run” chronicle, but poor old Reggie was busy propping up a rickety rosewood dining room table somewhere in the vast Tampa exurbs last night.  No “Reggie in Residence.”  I pulled back the curtain here in Maine this morning; not one flake of falling snow.  Darn.  Part of me was looking forward to a final day of winter isolation and contemplation in my home office.

There are other ways to be alone.

If one were to plug the words “Amtrak writer in residence” into a search engine, one would find numerous articles and blog posts about the publicly funded railroad’s latest savvy marketing project directed at young-uns like my nephew.  Amtrak wants to provide “creative professionals” with time and an “inspiring environment” in which to write.  Exactly what these creative professionals should write and to what purpose their content will be used is not completely clear in the “Official Terms” although no professional writing experience or particular educational background is required.

Residents of Alaska or Hawaii may not apply.  Sorry about that, but if you live in Alaska or Hawaii, you’re used to hearing the “not one of the contiguous 48 states” routine.

As part of the “Official Terms” a writer must agree not to “disparage sponsors.”  I guess that means it wouldn’t be amazing and inspirational to discuss how filthy the train’s public bathrooms become after twelve hours of rocking and rolling.  Of course, the selected writers in residence will travel on a sleeper car with their own private toilet.  That and a writer’s ego that says “my BLEEP doesn’t stink” will keep the focus on the amazing scenery and inspiration of train travel.

A different kind of roometteSorry to be all potty-talk about Amtrak.  I love Maine’s Downeaster and I love Amtrak in theory.  Preserving the existing rail infrastructure is important to transportation health in a world of diminishing resources.  The Lady Alone Traveler has a whole series of train jaunts and posts lined up for spring and summer and she’s no stranger to long distance train travel, either.

I don’t mean to be all snarky and cynical about Amtrak’s new promotion, either.  If I’m honest with myself, I’d like to enter the contest but I don’t have the psychic energy to become a one woman Amtrak cheerleader.  At the end of the day, the publicly funded transportation service is looking for a different type of traveler, one who is all wired up and tweeting train tickets and hashtags.  I know, I know, Jessica Gross still lost money on the trip in spite of her free train ticket.

Of course, there is nothing stopping the Lady Alone Traveler from buying a sleeper car ticket and writing about it.  She wouldn’t have to say Amtrak-appropriate comments about toilets masquerading as chic, multi-purpose…a-hem…package holders.  The Lady Alone Traveler is a “writer”, after all, and she could certainly deduct the price of the ticket on her taxes.  In fact, she could bring her own sense of style, decorate her “roomette” with a few touches from her vintage storage suitcases, and spend the whole journey writing.

Amtrak, thanks but no thanks on the #AmtrakResidency.  Lady Alone Traveler makes her own rules, so please make sure my roomette is sparkling clean.

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Just Stop It!

Posted on March 24, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Last Sunday night, I was counting the hours until my death.

I know what readers are thinking.  Who wants to think such morbid thoughts?  As it turned out, my fear of dying was premature and greatly exaggerated, much like my fear of going bald a few months ago.  No, I didn’t write about it here on the blog because it seemed like “too much information.”  After spending portions of last summer and fall speeding up and down the highway and moving loads of my possessions, my hair was falling out in small clumps; I was convinced there was a finite number of shampoos remaining before my hair would swish down the drain forever.

I mean no disrespect to the bald and balding among us.

It’s true that stress can cause one’s hair to fall out.  It’s also possible that I imagined things were worse than they actually were.  My hair stylist consoled and tried to convince me that things were not as bad as they seemed and she worked some kind of scissor sorcery that created fuller and thicker looking hair.  I started taking various vitamins and supplements.  I found something else to worry about until my hair stopped falling out.

The new worry was something that required doctor’s visits, tests, and eventually day surgery under anesthesia.  It was a strange to slip into the unknown while kind and efficient nurses and doctors wheeled my gurney into the operating room.  The last thing I remembered saying was “I’m going to see Bruce Springsteen in Florida when this is all over.”

As evidenced by recent blog posts, I did not die last Tuesday and a different inevitable event waited for me.  In one of my less-worrisome moments prior to surgery, I had made an appointment with another doctor for Saturday, March 22 at 11:30 a.m.

The Tax Doctor.

Many of the same people who tried to convince me I was not dying or going bald tried to convince me I could do my own taxes, but I didn’t believe them.  On the recommendation of my brother, I drove to Old Orchard Beach and had a wonderful time doing my taxes with artist, music lover, and accountant Peter Mourmouras.  His office walls are lined with framed album covers, there’s an old Victrola in the waiting room, and some of his own art hangs in the entry area.

On this particular Saturday, the Tax Doctor’s radio was set to Maine’s classic rock blaster, WBLM , and I was transported back in time to junior high school when I would spend part of my summer vacation at a friend’s beach house at Pine Point, just a mile down the road from the office.  We listened to WBLM back in those days, too, although we didn’t have to pay taxes.

Enough of this navel gazing!  My taxes turned out exactly the way I anticipated, my hair isn’t falling out, and I didn’t die on the day surgery operating table.  It’s Monday and a spring snow event is lurking out there somewhere.

Reggie has theories about worrying and he’s sent me a book about it.  He tells me I shouldn’t focus on “what ifs” and only on “what is.”  When he reaches his exasperation breaking point, he reminds me of the old Bob Newhart cure:

STOP IT!

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No Quiet Repose

Posted on March 23, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

With the Jeep fully restored to clickety-clack-less locomotion, Lady Alone Traveler is moving about Maine again, investigating unlikely places. She remembers to LOOK UP and if she sees tall spires, she walks towards them.

She jiggles the handles on church doors, seeking places of quiet repose.

When the faithful have left the building and locked the doors, Lady Alone Traveler rides around in her Jeep and talks in the third person.

More tomorrow.

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Bridal Investigations

Posted on March 21, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Things waxed and waned at The White Sarcophagus that spring.  Little Miss Ruffles, all of nineteen year’s old, brought youthful energy to the salon most days and hung out in the back room moping on rare days when teen angst rolled in.  She was happy to wait on customers, engage brides in open-ended conversations about their weddings, and re-merchandise the store during slower times.  The less glamorous tasks, garbage and vacuuming, were at the very end of her “to do” list.

One day we were eating lunch in the back room and brainstorming about ways to increase sales.  There were other bridal salons in the area and when brides would come to our shop, we’d always ask if this was their first stop or their third, trying to gauge dress fatigue and general thoughts about the hunt.  If a bride copped an attitude or looked down her nose as she climbed the Sarcophagus stairs, it might mean she had been to the competition up the road Kelsey and I laughingly called “The Bratty Bride.”  This salon was “by appointment only” and if a bride should happen to wander in off the street, she would be quickly relegated to the appointment desk and barred from entering the inner sanctum of satins and silks.  On the other hand, if a bride commented on the cozy, personal touch of our salon, it suggested she had been to David’s Bridal, the Men’s Warehouse of the wedding trade.  Where The White Sarcophagus fell among the competition was not clear; Facebook had barely gotten off the ground and social media was still in the awkward stage.  Bay and Carleen didn’t have much time for competitive analysis, either.

“I think we should go undercover to The Bratty Bride and see what goes on there,” I suggested.

Little Miss Ruffles raised her eyebrows and seemed surprised.  I offered to make the appointment and we’d pose as a mother and daughter.  We’d analyze the salon, the dresses, the attitudes, and even the bathrooms if necessary.  I’d make the call from home to prevent any tracking of phone numbers.

Two weeks later, Little Miss Ruffles and I were sitting in the waiting room of The Bratty Bride, posing as “Jennifer Brown” and her mother, “Mrs. George Brown.”

Nervous?  Of course, but the show must go on. Our “personal shopping assistant” steered us to the inner rooms of the salon and directed us towards a rounder of mid-priced dresses.  She suggested “Jennifer” select two or three dresses; she picked up a simple princess style gown and “Jennifer” quickly pointed out two other random dresses and we were whisked into a large fitting room.  I sat down on a tufted slipper chair and our personal shopping assistant helped “Jennifer” into her first gown.  I had a little notebook and I jotted down notes while making conversation about “the wedding” and “your fiancé Brian” and “Daddy’s relatives from San Diego.”

Things were going well; I was making many good observations about the system and the methods of The Bratty Bride and Little Miss Ruffles was attentive and reserved.  At the suggestion of our personal shopping assistant, she went out into the larger room to look at herself in the many mirrors.  I stayed in the fitting room, jotting down notes.

In a swish of satin, Little Miss Ruffles rushed back into the dressing room and closed the door behind her.  Alarmed, she said “Sally the seamstress is here!  I saw her going into another fitting room!”

“Did she see you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Was she stoned?”

“I don’t know.”

The Sally sighting changed our undercover expedition quickly and I told Kelsey to start crying.  She pulled a tissue out of her purse and sniffled, hyperventilating a bit, and then said “I can’t try on anymore dresses today, Mom.”

Our personal shopping assistant tapped at the door and asked if anything was wrong?  I explained that “Jennifer” was a sensitive spirit, easily overwhelmed, and that we’d have to cut our visit short.  This didn’t sit well with the assistant eager to sell us a dress and realizing she would not make a sale to Mrs. George Brown, she handed me her business card and suggested I call when “my little angel, Jennifer” was feeling better.

Jennifer and Mrs. George Brown made a quick escape out of The Bratty Bride and back into the warm natural light of a May afternoon.  Our first and last undercover expedition having met a fast end, we stopped for an ice cream to calm our nerves.

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Sunshine Par Avion

Posted on March 20, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Last night, I heard a tapping noise.  Maybe it was the baseboard?  No, it was ice at the window.  The ice turned to snow overnight and the first day of spring here in Maine is wet and wintery white.

I got some Florida sunshine in the mail yesterday.

We’ll be planting our peas before you can say “Vacationland.”

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Reggie Walks in the Woods

Posted on March 19, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Reggie Black told me a funny story the other day; something from long ago.  I said “Reggie!  Why were you always walking alone in the woods?”  He said “why were you always alone in your room?”  Well, that settled that and I asked Reggie if he would kindly write the story.  He obliges us today with what appears to be part one of two or three…

I took a walk in the woods.

It was a long time ago.  Maybe I was in middle school, but I think I was in high school.  Why I took this walk, I can’t remember.  I used to have a bedazzling crush on a girl over the other side of town, maybe I started that direction down the railroad tracks before I found something more interesting.

There was still snow on the ground, although the weather was warming.

On the roads the snow left only wet gravel to be remembered by, but it was still deeply piled alongside and I wore my winter boots.  I think I still have those same boots, but they haven’t seen much snow in decades.  The sun made me warm, and I walked with an open coat.

I strode the unused railroad tracks beside the Androscoggin and crossed the Sabattus on that old railroad trestle.  Now facing the proverbial fork in the road, I chose to follow River Road and keep the larger Androscoggin to my left.  The railroad tracks were the shortest path to my be-crushed and I had followed them many times in summer on my bike, but now the road had the greater appeal.

I wound up the slight grade past the junkyard to my left, and then the farm to my right.  I thought the road continued all the way on down to Southwest Bend, the sharp left hook in the river where a ferry used to run to the town of Durham on the other side.  To my surprise, it didn’t, but the road did continue as a broad path used by snowmobilers in the winter.  ATVs weren’t around then, but they likely ride it in the summer nowadays.

I pressed on through the snow piled up by plows before they turned around, and found myself on a smooth, dry lane running slowly downhill under high, shady pines.  To me, those pines were old, old as the river.  I know now that they are “new” growth, maybe as old as fifty years, but that pines are the trees that grow fastest in overtaking old pastures and clearings.  Once, when horses and cows needed to be fed all winter, this was all pasture.  Now the pines have claimed it, and their needles warded off most rivals, leaving only the clean, dry ground below.  Competing for light, the canopies were high and all the lower branches had fallen off long ago.

The lane got narrower and more wet until it was impassable, and I decided to turn uphill and get back to Ferry Road.  The ground was nearly snowless under the trees, and to my surprise I stumbled upon the foundation of a house long gone.  It was a fairly large house compared to the foundations of other old farmhouses I had found in the woods.  It faced out towards the river, looking out over the old Ferry Road that I had been on.  Above it, a driveway descended from the new Ferry Road fifty yards away, gracefully lined with tall pines in neat lines.

I wondered who had lived there once, and I felt like I was trespassing.  How long had the house been gone, likely burned down?  Were there, like the ghosts in Our Town, spirits that still recalled the great joys of the living, of harvest dances and newly ironed dresses?  The house sat right on a spring, the source of the water that cut off my path up the lane.  The ferry itself was only a little beyond it, once the only way of crossing the river to Durham, and from there either down into Lisbon or north to Lewiston.  Not much would have passed this house unobserved.

Concerned the darkness would catch me there, I followed the tree-lined drive up to the road, clambered over the banks, and started right, away from the bend and back towards town.  The road was shaded by the pines as the sun dipped a bit, but it was not long past mid-day and the road was bright by comparison to the woods I had just left.

It was on that road I encountered an Opel coupe with tinted windows, probably the only one in Maine and which I had seen before in passing.  This time, I would get to know it and its driver far more than I wanted to.

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My Dubious Advice

Posted on March 17, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Back in my “Velvet Sparkle Hammer” days, I had strong opinions about everything. No white shoes after Labor Day, always send a written thank you note, remember birthdays, and never, ever forget to bring a hostess gift. I even wrote a few “ask Fabulous Jabulous” advice columns about the topics that concerned me most. Blogs didn’t exist then; it was just a long and tedious stream of letters written to oh so lucky friends. As I read them now, all these years later, they sound stuffy and “do you know who I am?”

Who was I, anyway?

Here’s an example

Dear Fabulous Jabulous,

A friend recently gave me a “buttered popcorn” scented candle. I’m not sure whether I should burn it or not. What do you think?

Catherine McWick
Phoenix, AZ

My response:

Dear Catherine,

Thank you for your thoughtful question. I, too, once received a food-scented candle. It was called “Hot Cocoa.” Naturally, I mailed a “thank you” note immediately and lit the candle. It was not offensive, but I had the same mixed emotions you’re having now. After burning the “Hot Cocoa” candle off and on for several weeks, I concluded sugary hot beverages in burning wax form were just not right, or shall we say “Hot Cocoa No No?”

Why not?

Simply put, there is no substitute for a clean house and a piping hot cup of cocoa made from the finest chocolate one can afford. We live in an age that encourages us to present an image of hospitality without the fulfilling activities required to create warmth and friendly festivity. Sadly, in the frenetic pace of modern society, we burn a “Hot Cocoa” candle while bolting a glass of Scotch by our lonesome. Is it working?

If and when I burn candles, they are generally from the wood and garden family of fragrances. Roses, lilac, and pine all make a lovely background scent for the home. Lemons and apples may suffice, but do avoid over-perfumed varieties which (frankly) just stink.

Some baked goods of the holiday variety can be reasonable replacements for the real thing. Pumpkin and apple pie come to mind.

If the goal is to mask a cigar or a smoking litter box, a cup of white vinegar in an open bowl can absorb some odors. And please, always try to keep one’s home as sparkling clean as time will allow, which is always healthier and more cost-effective than burning through a Vatican-sized supply of candles.

Warmest regards,

Jabulous (Fabulous, of course)

I can’t help but wonder what my life might have been like if I had written such foolishness in a blog years ago. To tell the truth, casting my writing out beyond the safety of my epistolary pursuits seemed overwhelming, frightening, and hopeless back then. It does today, too.

I’ll drink to that.

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Preserving the Antiquities

Posted on March 16, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Not everything was built to be thrown away.

The windows to the future may rely on the past.

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A-Hem

Posted on March 14, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Did I sleep last night?  I tossed and turned, writing sentences and paragraphs in my head until I fell into a close-eyed state resembling sleep.  How was I going to end the story of the bridal boutique?  Was it time to end it?  How many stories did I have left in the tank?

There was the one about Sally, the seamstress…

*****

After Veronica quit, I worked alone for a few weeks.  Carleen disappeared again and Bay made Veronica the boutique’s persona non grata, guilty of such heinous crimes as stealing petty cash, pencils, and toilet paper.  Bay even intimated that Veronica and her attitudes may have driven away business and customers; an economic indicator of doom.  I couldn’t believe any of this, but I held my tongue.  One thing I knew for sure was that Veronica had not stolen any toilet paper because I had been in charge of stocking this item (with my own money) and I was keeping a close accounting, practically down to the square.

Bay interviewed for Veronica’s replacement and eventually introduced me to a congenial and bright nineteen year old named Kelsey Ruffles, an apt name if there ever was one for a bridal boutique employee.  Little Miss Ruffles, I sometimes called her.  She learned everything about the salon quickly and in a matter of weeks, she was selling the BLEEP out of the Maggie Sottero line.  It was April and things were looking up at The White Sarcophagus.

Customers were coming in regularly, ordering dresses, and June brides started coming in for their alterations.  One Thursday, I looked at the clock and wondered where Sally the seamstress was.  Little Miss Ruffles laughed and said “she’s probably lost.”  I asked her what she meant and she said “she’s always baked when she gets here, haven’t you noticed?”

I hadn’t noticed.

I’d never known many marijuana people and I wasn’t an herb user myself, so I was naïve to the ways of the weed.  Sally did seem a little disheveled and forgetful, but it never crossed my mind that she might have been stoned out of her mind.  On the day in question, she arrived late and with Kelsey’s comment in mind, she did seem more mind-altered.  She puffed up the stairs carrying an armload of finished dresses and her portable sewing machine, and then set up shop in the fitting room area.

The next day, Little Miss Ruffles showed me one of the dresses Sally had returned; she had taken in the waist, but she had forgotten to take up the hem.  The bride’s wedding was less than two weeks away and she had paid for the alterations in advance.  I called Sally on the phone and outlined the problem and the urgency; she was repentant and apologetic.  She agreed to pick up the dress that day on her way home from her sewing gig at a competing bridal salon.  She promised to finish it in twenty-four hours and I would pick it up at her studio the next day.

During the twenty-four hours after Sally picked up the dress, I had various conversations in my mind, rehearsing stern lectures of disappointment and that Bay wouldn’t be able to pay her for the mistake she’d made.  I contemplated an intervention of sorts or a “come to Jesus” meeting about the seriousness of straight seams and perfect hems.

As I drove thirty miles north to the rural town Sally lived in, I had every intention of being “all business.”  I parked my car and could see Sally through the screen-door of her little camper in the woods.  Quaint and adorable, it was hardly the hookah pit I had imagined.  Sally invited me in and made me a cup of coffee.  While she finished the dress I sat on a comfortable overstuffed chair and looked around the room and right next to the refrigerator was one of those “Jesus knocking at the door” pictures, shellacked onto a log slice.  Maybe it had belonged to a dear Aunt Bessie or was a yard sale castaway, but it cut me to the quick and I crumbled in my resolve to read Sally the riot act.  She finished the dress, we had a visit, and I zoomed off to drop the dress at the bride’s office.

The handwriting was on the wall; time was running out for me at The White Sarcophagus.

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Yaris in the Snow

Posted on March 13, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I know, Reggie, I know, the Yaris is popular in Europe.

It was a perfectly lovely rental car, but it’s not for me.

The Jeep is back.

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