When I stopped by Hilda’s house the other day, I noticed this interesting “planter.”
It’s either a recycled pallet or something she built, but I hope Hilda will honor my blog with a comment of instruction so we will all be the wiser! After all, it’s my “Minimalist” post which means fewer words from me.
Rock the blog, Hilda!
When I first started writing my blog, my brother once said “I don’t understand the Uncle Bob angle.” I’m probably not Uncle Bob’s favorite niece, true enough; I was one of many nieces when we were growing up. These last ten years, I’ve been the niece who has likely given him the most grief and in spite of all that, I think I’m growing on him. I’m grateful he’s let me set up my experimental “Lettuce Farm” in his back yard and I know he’s looking out for things when I’m not there.
Uncle Bob provides good blog material.
Last year, I grew peas for the first time, both in my Hampton Victory Garden spot and at home. I didn’t really know what I was doing, so I didn’t grow very many peas. The ones I planted next to my garlic at Uncle Bob’s were “okay” but not fantastic. The trellis was too low.
This year, in spite of Uncle Bob’s skepticism, I planted a whole row of peas right next to the rhubarb. When the seeds sprouted, Uncle Bob made a trellis out of poles and chicken wire. It’s been a team effort and the peas have grown happily all spring.
Last night, I had the good fortune to be at home for a fleeting few hours and I was elated to see that the peas had arrived. Uncle Bob came out to visit and told me he had been eating and enjoying them. They’re Amish snap peas; they can be eaten whole, pea pod and all. According to the seed package, they will yield over a 6 week period if kept picked.
Wow!
That means we’ll have peas right through the Moxie Festival.
I don’t know what Uncle Bob really thinks about the peas. In my storytelling mind, I’d like to think they remind him of peas O’Pa grew in the garden back in the days when peas were an early summer treat and not something cheap and pale in a can. Uncle Bob knew how to jigger up a pea trellis, which tells me he has a remembrance of peas past.
Peas perdu.
It doesn’t matter if Uncle Bob has an existential connection to peas or not. He’s peaceful and calm about everything and I need a little more peace and calm in my life. Peace and calm and peas.
I love you, Uncle Bob.
One of my friends from Portland, Hilda Taylor, is passionate about helping cats. When I first met her in the early 1980’s, she had just begun her involvement with an urban feral feline rescue and awareness organization. You can read a little bit about her here.
Recently, someone stole the empty cans she’s been collecting for the Bayside Cat Fund, an organization that helps rescue and neuter stray cats. She was rightly angry and she posted a sign at her house warning future thieves. I couldn’t help but laugh a little bit when I pulled into her driveway and read these words:
The…bag of bottles you stole is for our Bayside Cat Fund to help rescue, spay & neuter strays. We also provide food & litter for owners in need.
GET OFF YOUR BLEEP AND COLLECT YOUR OWN BOTTLES, LOSER!!!!
Certain shocking indignities require a sign with four exclamation points.
Hilda Taylor has Moxie.
Back home this week, the Moxie sign went up over Route 196 in Lisbon Falls, Maine.
There’s a new sign, too. It’s for the Moxie Recipe Contest and I’ve changed my blog banner to include this new Moxie Festival sign. It’s not as passionate as Hilda’s four exclamation point sign, but it did bring a little tear to the corner of my eye. The Moxie Festival is less than thirty days away and it’s a sign that I need to turn my Tom Brady laser-like focus towards the recipe contest. I might even need to do a little Tebowing, too, to make sure everything runs smoothly.
From now until July 12, 2013, I’m waving it for the Moxie Recipe Contest.
It’s a sign.
The Moxie Recipe Contest takes place on Friday, July 12, 2013 at Chummy’s Midtown Diner on Route 196 in Lisbon Falls. For more information about the judges, the prizes, and the rules, click here.
After a few weeks of strange and uncertain weather, New England received a gift of a day. I texted Reggie Black more than once about the idyllic day he was missing.
It was beautiful.
On February 9, 2013, we had a weather event with high tides, snow, and street flooding. I put on my old pair of Maine Hunting Shoes and took a trip outside to assess the damage. I didn’t stay out very long because cold water seeped into my boots and my feet were quickly soaked. I went back into The Coop and posted a question on Facebook.
“Will L.L. Bean resole my Maine Hunting Shoes?”
I got a quick flurry of responses; more than 20 people responded with accurate information. Yes, L.L. Bean would resole my Maine Hunting Shoes, also known as “Bean Boots.” There was some debate as to whether the lifetime warranty would apply.
A few weeks ago, I stopped into L.L. Bean and dropped off my boots.
Everyone is friendly at L.L. Bean. The customer service representative who took my information even asked me if there was anything defective about these boots. Her implied question was “do you think L.L. Bean should repair these boots for free?”
They would have, if I’d said “Yes.”
I laughed and said, “No, I’ve had those boots since 1982; I think the sole has done its job.
I was charged $39, which I paid for with one of the two L.L. Bean gift cards I got for Christmas. When finished, my boots would be shipped back to me, free of charge.
Digging around in some old papers the other day, I found an article I wrote in 1982 for the high school paper, The Greyhound Flash. I called it “A Place Called L.L. Bean.” The store was much different in 1982 than the well-manicured outdoors campus and retail anchor it has become. In 1982, it was an old building with one wide flight of stairs. I told a lie in my article, saying “I had been to L.L. Bean many times before.” The truth was more like this:
“I had never been to L.L. Bean before. My father wasn’t a hunter and until The Official Preppy Handbook was published in 1980, I had no need for rubber-soled leather boots and Norwegian sweaters. L.L. Bean was the place where some of my friends’ parents worked. Our next door neighbor stitched moccasins for them from home.”
Because I wanted to “fit in” when I got to college, I saved my summer job money and bought a pair of Maine Hunting Shoes before loading up the station wagon for the University of Maine at Orono. I opted for the brown leather instead of the tan and they survived many miles of walking across campus. They also survived standing in beer at a keg party at Alpha Gamma Rho (the agricultural fraternity) and muddy visits to the Hyland arboretum. One day, I made up the following marketing line for them:
“The Preppy scene is at L.L. Bean, where everything is pink and green.”
After graduation, other boots took their place, but I kept my Bean Boots tucked away in my closet, just in case.
Time passed and L.L. Bean became a bigger part of my life. The store grew and many of my family and friends went to work for them. L.L. Bean was one of my customers when I worked for The Big Corporation Up North. My ex-husband liked to hunt and fish and visit the store.
I got a job there once, too, but I ended up moving to New Hampshire instead.
Early one summer Saturday morning last year, on my mad dash for Lisbon Falls, I bought some flip-flops at L.L. Bean. Maybe I hadn’t had enough coffee that morning; when I was balancing my checkbook later in the day, I noticed I had written “L.L. Baumer” in my register. It made me laugh.
My boots arrived last week with brand new soles stitched back on to the old leather uppers. New laces were included and the leather had been reconditioned, too. $39 seemed like a good deal to fix a pair of 31-year-old boots and if they last for another 31 years, they will have met their lifetime guarantee. I’ll be 80 years old.
I only have one little complaint with L.L. Bean Boots today. Rumor has it the “Bootmobile” can’t make it for the Moxie Festival Parade.
How can this be?
L.L. Baumer to L.L. Bean…we need the Bootmobile for the parade on July 13. Call Gina…please and thank you!
Sometimes, I dig up things in Uncle Bob’s garden. I’ve asked both he and my father if they remember ever burying garbage in the garden but they say this never happened. Still, whenever I dig up a little broken thing, I save it in a jar at The Coop.
There are a lot of broken things in this world–broken institutions, a broken economy, broken families, and broken people.
I save these broken things to remember that not all broken things are garbage.
I am prone to hyperbole when I write. I am trying to tone it down; forgive me when I say that Sunday was one of the best days ever. It’s hard to describe. It’s my crazy bifurcated existence, with my work and my residence in New Hampshire and my heart in Maine. When I’m on such a whirlwind, I take pictures so I can remember.
I made a plan to meet my friend, Julie, at a 7:30 a.m. church service in a little town 7 or so miles north of Lisbon Falls. I roared up Interstate 95 and arrived only a few minutes late. I’m going to write some stories about my friend. She’s my “slipper sister” because we met at Supreme Slipper in Lewiston, Maine. In the twilight of the industrial age, they made slippers right here in the United States and it was respectable work. This work helped pay for my college education and over the course of three summers, I made a lot of slippers. I’m going to write some stories about Supreme Slipper, but not today.
After church, we went to Uncle Moe’s Diner for some breakfast. Julie has so many interesting things to say and she’s like a big sister to me. She gives me advice, except I don’t realize it’s advice because she will just tell me stories from her own life. This week, she told me a story about the “lost dandelion phase” of her life and how she met Helen Nearing. I jotted a few notes on the restaurant place mat; I collected a few more stories to write, but not today.
After breakfast, I zoomed down “The Ridge” or Route 9 to Lisbon Falls and picked up a few things at Aubuchon Hardware. I made a pit stop at my parent’s house and then raced up to my Surprise Garden. I dug out some sea grass that had overtaken a corner and planted an Autumn Joy I was transplanting from my Hampton Victory Garden spot. I haven’t had very good luck with Autumn Joy in that spot, but I believe in second chances. Then I zoomed halfway back up The Ridge to find some annuals to fill an empty section of the Surprise Garden. I made a new friend at a landscape company and sure, there’s another story to write, but not today.
After lunch, I headed over to The Gazebo across from the high school. I have volunteered to help my friend Faye take care of this garden and she gave me my own edging tool. She said “edge around The Gazebo, just make it look pretty.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t know a thing about edging, so I did the best I could and weeded the heck out of the garden. It did look pretty when I left, but only because Faye has lovingly created and maintained this garden for so long. A woman stopped by and asked if I was the new “Green Thumb Lady” taking Faye’s place. I replied with a hearty “BLEEP no” and introduced myself. Lo and behold, she said “I was one of Uncle Bob’s girlfriends,” and there is surely another story to write about that sentence, but not today.
Somewhere, squeezed into the space of the afternoon, I went over to The Farm and planted a trumpet vine along the fence. I also transplanted another Autumn Joy near my daffodils. This little project would be the definition of “Tiny Steps Gardening.” It started with ten daffodil bulbs about ten years ago. But that’s another story for another day. Not today.
I managed to shovel a sandwich down at around 5:00 p.m. and then a visit with Uncle Bob. My mother told me he liked “the pineapple” I’ve placed in my garden, but he didn’t say anything to me personally.
My sunflowers were popping up, there was more rhubarb to pick, and the peas are glorious. If you can believe it, Uncle Bob said “we should plant TWO rows next year.” Oh Uncle Bob…you are one big story for another day.
After my ritual visit to The Dairy Maid, I headed back out to The Farm to finish work on my “little” project. It was so beautiful with the shadows falling over what I’ve learned some people call “Baumer’s Field.” Why didn’t I ever know that?
Uncle Bob takes good care of this field and as I walked along the path he mows to the barn, I did not wipe a little tear from the corner of my eye. No, I cried a whole river of tears for the love I have for this piece of God’s creation that has been given to my family for all this time. I dreamed a little dream about growing something bigger than a trumpet vine and an Autumn Joy, but I’ve got to start somewhere.
It wasn’t all glorious perfection; I picked a few ticks off my right leg before I got in The Jeep.
The ride back to New Hampshire was bittersweet; I was tired and I cried a little bit on the way home. Close to midnight, I arrived at The Coop and entertained the prospect of the week. I’m not sure how long a person can live with such a divided heart and THAT is another story for another day.
Actually, that’s the story of this blog.
When I was a child, I remember sitting on the living room couch with a bag of circus peanuts. Not cocktail peanuts, dry roasted peanuts, or peanuts in the shell, but those peanut-shaped orange marshmallows. Maybe I didn’t like them; I threw a few at the ceiling and it made me laugh. It also left a small orange imprint on the freshly painted ceiling. My mother didn’t like it, some kind of discipline was meted out, and I was told it would be a good idea to avoid throwing circus peanuts at the ceiling in the future.
Then Helen issued the quiet reminder of “I’m only going to tell you once.”
Yesterday, blog reader and commenter SK (aka gwynsmum) texted me urgently with the message:
“Bill Belichick just signed Tim Tebow.”
Just like that.
SK knows her football; she’s a student of the game. She’s not a fly-by-night “I loved them in the Super Bowl years” fan who spends hours gazing at Tom Brady’s dimple on her “Twelve Months of Tom Brady’s Dimple” calendar. She understands the plays, the purpose of different players, and can discuss football strategy. She can present compelling evidence to refute any “Spygate” allegation. I can’t even find the right words to describe her football knowledge because it far exceeds my own.
It was difficult telling her I was out of the loop. The truth is, I haven’t listened to WEEI since April 16, 2013. I haven’t listened to any Red Sox games since then, either. My sports consumption has been a mere 20 minutes of a Bruins game while waiting for take-out food.
I had quit listening to WEEI cold turkey.
I considered predicating this revelation with “I’m only going to tell you once” since those words always remind me of circus peanuts. The addition of Tim Tebow to the Patriots’ roster will be just the sort of circus side-show Boston sports fans need.
Sports news of this magnitude was enough to send me back to my sports talk radio addiction. In my “come to Tebow” moment, I tuned into WEEI and sent SK a quick text response of “WHAT? I’m tuning in to WEEI now.”
It’s funny how news travels.
I managed to scoop Reggie Black with the story. For some reason, he wasn’t scanning the news horizons like a hawk and he missed it. My note to him was met with the following response:
“Thank God I didn’t snort Moxie through my nose on that one.”
He thought I was trying to amuse him. Then I told him it was true; after all, I had confirmed it within 20 seconds of tuning in to WEEI, the Boston sports oracle.
He responded in less than one minute with “Holy Crap! You’re right!”
I only had to tell him once.
Reggie likes football; he and SK could have fun talking about this news story. Me, I was interested in how it would be spun by the sports puppets. In a town where the Holy Trinity of football is Bob Kraft, Bill Belichick, and Tom Brady, the introduction of a player who overtly worships a different god is going to be met with resistance.
On cue at WEEI, Mike Salk was telling Michael Holley that Tim Tebow was not going to work because he was so “in your face” about his religion. Then, a caller confessed that he had planned to discuss why Doc Rivers sucks, but “the more pressing matter now is Tim Tebow.” Michael Holley did an admirable job of encouraging Salk to consider applying critical thinking skills to his emotional outburst, but his comment fell flat like a stale circus peanut.
The preliminary judgment of the Boston sports talk community?
Crucify him!
Thirty minutes of WEEI was all I needed after my long hiatus. I didn’t stay tuned in for the Red Sox game and I won’t need to hear Dennis & Callahan’s “take” on it this morning. It will be a predictable set up and if WEEI is lucky, it will generate media buzz and advertising dollars.
Just remember, the most important commandment in any Boston sports conversation is “Bill Belichick is god, who brought Patriots’ fans out of the desert of football mediocrity, and you shall have no other gods before him.”
Unless, of course, fans would like to worship dollar bills, Tom Brady, or some glass company they can call when their windshield’s busted.
This is the script; I’m only going to tell you once.
I pack a lot of living into twelve hours, more or less, and this way of life is filled with good blog material. As I reflect over my “Day of Rest” and look at the evidence on the clock, I see there isn’t enough time to craft out any one miraculous and happy thing that happened yesterday. It’s just a mental list of beautiful things, like:
I wish I had time today to tell at least one of these stories, but I don’t.
As I was leaving town, I passed this truck.
It would be a good truck for the Moxie Car Show or the Moxie Parade. It’s for sale.
Ring, ring.
“Yeah, I saw the truck you’re selling on a blog. I’ll take it.”
(Orange 1964 Chevrolet truck with a new engine, $3,500, located in Bowdoin, Maine. If you’re interested, leave a comment. If you’re not spam, I’ll send you the phone number.)
Yesterday was International Yarn Bomb Day.
I don’t understand it, so I didn’t knit any scarves for the trees in my neighborhood. You know what they say–beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
I’ll keep knitting together beautiful things in the garden.
Make peas, not scarves.
Julie-Ann Baumer 