A Simple Sunday

Posted on November 25, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I like my mother’s simple holiday arrangement at The Motel. She got the basket at a yard sale (fifty cents at most) and the greens are from the farm. Bittersweet is everywhere and when the yellow parts fall off the berries, they easily pass for red winter berries.

I often see piles of “free” baskets in my travels. In the event you do not have access to a family farm, a bit of charm and a winsome smile may very well persuade a neighbor to share some evergreen with you. Don’t forget your garden shears.

Don’t forget to rest today, too!

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The Longest Walk Home

Posted on November 23, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

The last time I was in my hometown, I walked home in the dark and saw a shooting star.  One thing I forgot to mention was that I was carrying our friend Margaret’s Wonderful Worumbo coat home with me, hugging it as I dream-walked.  Margaret had given it to Faye and Faye was letting me borrow it for a while.

Margaret is a very old family friend; I’ve written about her before.  Among other things, she loves the Red Sox.  It was a difficult summer for the Red Sox and it was also a difficult one for Margaret.  Although she has been healthy and independent all her life, she fell at home in June and was hospitalized.  Following her hospitalization, she went to a rehabilitation facility to improve her strength and mobility.  Unfortunately, she continued to have problems walking.

I visited her in August.  We talked about the Red Sox and Lisbon Falls and the long list of regular visitors she had.  I wheeled her around the facility; she showed me where she did her physical therapy.  While we were just sitting and talking, she said “I don’t think I’m going to be able to go home.”

I could tell she had resigned herself to this; still, I didn’t know what to say.

The uncomfortable moment of silence passed and I must have brought up Uncle Bob’s name.  She smiled and she said “Bobbie is so good to me.”  I smiled and thought about how very true that was.  She went on to tell me that when she was home, Uncle Bob had picked her up for church in his pick-up truck.  Now, Margaret isn’t much taller than five foot three and climbing into trucks isn’t that easy.  Uncle Bob had a little stool O’Pa had made long ago and he opened the door for Margaret, placed the little stool on the ground, and helped her up into the truck.  When Margaret recollected that story to me, she still referred to my grandfather respectfully as “Mr. Baumer.”

There were so many things I wanted to ask Margaret that day, but it was almost dinner so we said good-bye and I promised I would visit again.

My parents visited Margaret every other week and kept me posted on her well-being.  On November 10, she celebrated her 94th birthday with a dinner at her favorite restaurant, Fishbones.

I had her Wonderful Worumbo coat dry-cleaned and loaded it into the Jeep with everything else I brought home for Thanksgiving.  I was planning to visit Margaret over the weekend and model the coat for her.

When I got home Thursday morning, I said “hello” to my parents and then skipped over to Uncle Bob’s.  He was getting ready for a Thanksgiving service at church and I could tell he didn’t have time to chit-chat.  Then, as if remembering something he would rather forget, he said “Margaret died last night.”

Once again, I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say much; just “good bye” and “see you later.”

Realizing I would have to break the sad news to my parents made the 220 steps between Uncle Bob’s house and Motel Four the longest walk I had taken in a long time.

*********

We had a good Thanksgiving in spite of our sadness and we ate too much pie; we talked about Margaret sporadically, remembering all kinds of things.  That evening, I ended up taking a walk alone; I didn’t see any shooting stars, but the moon was waxing towards full and it was amazingly bright.  It created crazy shadows along the quiet streets of my hometown.

Margaret’s long life had ended Wednesday night and another bridge to the past is gone.  Because Margaret had always been with us, I assumed she’d always be here and there would always be time to ask her about the past, but it didn’t work out that way.

Margaret had a full life; so many people loved her.  Here are just four of them:

Left to right:  Robert “Bobbie” Baumer, me and the Wonderful Worumbo coat, Herman “Hermie” Baumer, and Richard “Dickie” Moses (son of Worumbo Mill owner, Oliver Moses.)

Good bye, dear Margaret.

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Sweetie Pie

Posted on November 22, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

This will be our third Thanksgiving dinner at Moody’s Diner. We’ll load up the Jeep and I’ll be at the wheel; we’ll listen to Bing Crosby, then I’ll throw on some Johnny Cash for Herman the German.  He likes “Sunday Morning Coming Down.”

It works for lots of reasons, but mostly because we’re from hee-yah and we fit in.  The pie is good, too.  Then we’ll go to my brother’s house and rendez-vous with Uncle Bob and have some more pie.

I think we’d better drink the diet Moxie.

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Ring Those Moxie Bells!

Posted on November 21, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I had a breakfast business meeting Tuesday before I got to The Big Corporation; I met my friend Merrill Lewis for coffee.  Merrill is the “Grand Poobah and Embarassador” of the New England Moxie Congress and we would have had Moxie except that we were at McDonald’s.

We got caught up on some Moxie Festival business and then Merrill reminded me about my recent “promotion” within the Congress leadership.  I don’t mean to brag, but I’m the “Moxie Festival/Lisbon Falls Coordinator.”

See here, near the bottom of the page!

It was a difficult “promotion” and I had to give a lot of speeches and deal with negative campaigning.  Every time someone said “ugh, Moxie, gross,” it was a personal affront to the spirit of the word “moxie,” the Moxie beverage, and thus to me.  I would quickly spout out a few sound bites, including “it’s a state of mind, silly.”

On top of all that, my brother wrote a delightful book about Moxie soda; any insults to Moxie are an affront to my family name.

Ayuh.

It all worked out, though, and I’m looking forward to new adventures with the New England Moxie Congress in 2013.  I’m hoping more of my friends will consider joining the “Congress.”  By their own description, New England Moxie Congress members are “a loosely-knit band of Moxie zealots and fellow travelers who collect Moxie-related memorabilia, promote the drink’s availability, get together for parades and clam bakes, and some who actually drink the stuff.”  Drinking Moxie soda (“ugh, Moxie, gross”) is not a requirement for membership; it’s optional.  For ten dollars per year, you can become one of a distinctly different group of people.

After leaving my meeting with Merrill, I drove to The Big Corporation, my head spinning with ideas.  This is the best promotion I’ve ever received!  My first order of business as a representative of the Congress is mailing some of the magical elixir to my friends in far-away places.  This is a good weekend to do this.

Then, I need to get Moxie soda into the vending machine at work.  I’ve talked to the friendly young man who was refilling it the other day, but I don’t think he’s the decision maker.  I’m going to have to use my new title and a little bit of moxie on the telephone with the vending company.

I’m also long overdue for a visit to The Moxie Store at home in Lisbon Falls.  Frank has Moxie ornaments and I need to see if they’re going to fit into the decorating scheme on my atomic age aluminum tree.

This is just the beginning of my administration as the Lisbon Falls representative to The New England Moxie Congress.  I have lots to do this holiday weekend, but any time is a good time to ring those Moxie bells.

Jing-a-ling-a-ling.

I’ve still got Moxie.  Do you?

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Walkholm Syndrome

Posted on November 20, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

This Thanksgiving week, many bloggers will be writing about gratitude and giving thanks.  It’s not a bad idea; living here in the “first world,” it’s sometimes easy to bemoan the lack of things which aren’t necessary for life and living.  I am guilty of it myself.  In spite of the national problems the news puppets squawk about every day, there are many, many things for which I forget to give thanks.

One of the things on my gratitude list is the ability to walk.

Like most people my age, I have a long history of walking.  I never took a bus to school and I didn’t have a car in college.  When I did get out of school, my opportunities to walk everywhere lessened and I began spending my days in a cubicle.  I could always feel something pulling me out of that environment and so from the beginning of my working life, I found opportunities to walk during the work day.

When I lived in Portland, I lived near the Back Cove and I would “walk The Boulevard” early and often.  I wish I had a dollar for every time I walked The Boulevard.  One day, my old friend Zino and I had a walking marathon; we walked around The Boulevard three times in succession.

I’ve lost touch with Zino.  I hope he’s still walking.

Having a love for written correspondence, the career of a postal carrier appealed to me, but it seemed like a complicated transition, fraught with Civil Service examinations and lots of government red tape.  I just wanted to walk for a living.

On the many occasions when I would walk alone, I would wonder how long and far a person could walk.  My nephew settled that question for me when he walked across America one summer.

Since I’ve been working at The Big Corporation in Portsmouth, I’ve been taking a daily lunch walk on the Pease Tradeport and for the last three years, I’ve dragged my friend and co-worker Cherie Ripperton along with me.  We’ve walked the same general route for most of these three years until just recently.  The Big Corporation moved our office to a different location and we had to make an adjustment.

We were a little confused at first; we hadn’t realized how trapped and imprisoned we were in our walking routine.  All of the things that seemed nice enough about the asphalt roads along the flight line were no longer an option because they were too far away.  We were a little stunned about where we should walk.

We found a walking path that took us off the Tradeport and transported us into a residential neighborhood.  It was odd and interesting to walk around quiet homes and manicured lawns.  Some of the residents had interesting lawn ornaments, worthy of two or three conversations.

The new scenery is interesting and variable; there are more walking options.  We had forgotten that walking at lunch could be fun.  We had grown to love the prison of our former walk.  Like Patty Hearst, we had accepted the notion that the asphalt streets available to us at our former location were wonderful and we had even encouraged some of our co-workers to join us on those old paths.

We had Walkholm Syndrome.

I’m thankful The Big Corporation moved.  There are many wonderful things about our new location, not the least of which is the opportunity Cherie and I had to break out of our walking prison.  Although I may never be a letter carrier, walking is a good part of life and I want to do more of it every day.

Have you taken a walk today?

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The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Posted on November 19, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

It’s the Monday before the Thursday before the Friday about which the rest of America is excited.  Because I don’t have a Tee Vee, I’m less aware of the consumer economy shenanigans, but I’ve noticed some shopping chatter over the sports talk radio waves.  Apparently, a certain automotive center will be opening at 4:00 a.m. on “La La La I Can’t Hear You” Friday.  People who don’t generally move faster than turtles are also “working out” in preparation for this day.  Maybe they’re worried about the trouble brewing at a certain big box store and want to be able to flee quickly if things get out of hand.

If things get out of hand, it will be a sensational story on the Tee Vee news.

I’ve never participated in this particular day of consumer economy shenanigans, but I’d be a real BLEEP if I wrote a blog post telling readers to avoid being hoodwinked by the “sales person.”  After all, consumption and debt are a way of life for some and I’m also susceptible to messages which tell me I will be a better person if I buy a new handbag.

I have, however, noticed a slight increase in the stress levels of everyone around me and stress can be contagious.  I’m worried about my stressed-out friends and it’s important that I remain calm at this most wonderful time of the year; after all, what use will I be to them if I’m on the edge of the stress ledge with them?

A fine mess it will be; we’ll be like a pack of Chihuahuas caught in a big box store when the trouble breaks out.  For this particular reason, I won’t be shopping on “La La La I can’t hear you” Friday.

This particular day is now considered the beginning of the holiday shopping season, but I wonder if there isn’t something a little Pavlovian about it.  I know it’s utterly simplistic, but perhaps we’ve been conditioned to shop by all the cues and messages we’ve received over the years.  In spite of the “deconditioning” I’ve implemented in my own life, I still have moments of personal frustration which only seem manageable by a trip to “the store.”  These days, I’m working to tune those bells out when they ring.

I’m not going to tell anyone what to do.  That’s not my gig.  However, in order to be a person of good spirits and good will for all the people in my life, I will not be shopping on “La La La I can’t hear you” day.

Ding.

Let the holidays begin.

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The Hackmatack Tree

Posted on November 18, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I didn’t always like to stomp around in the woods; I used to like to run around in Boston and the suburbs.  I travelled for business and I visited a lot of American cities, too; it seemed exciting, like a Tee Vee commercial.

I remember very distinctly the day I started wanting to “go home.”  It was the first year of this new century and I had been “dumped” by a man right before the Christmas holidays.  Although I thought he was “the one,” he did not share my thoughts.  There was some sound and fury (signifying nothing, of course) and a few dramatic tears.  Then it was over.

It was a strange holiday at the Motel.  Helen made many favorite treats which I wouldn’t eat.  Fresh boxes of tissues appeared on my night stand while the damp and discarded ones disappeared from the overflowing trash bin while I slept.

On Christmas Eve Day, my father suggested a walk in the woods.

We stomped about much like I do these days.  My father told me stories about the land as he remembered it as a child.  He pointed out areas which had once been fields and areas he, O’Pa, and Uncle Bob had cleared.  When I’d get distracted and weepy, he’d remind me to “be strong, like an oak tree” and then he’d point out a certain oak and tell me how it had grown so tall and strong.  He explained that by clearing away “scrub” brush and trees from around the oak, it could grow and flourish.  He said that some little trees would never be anything but a nuisance to the hardwood trees and as a good steward of the forest, he cleared selectively and carefully.

We approached a clearing; there was a tree in the middle of it.

I asked my father what kind of tree it was and he said “It’s a Hackmatack tree.  I don’t know why I didn’t cut it down when we cleared this field.”

The Hackmatack tree is still there; I saw it just last Sunday.  When I see it, I think of my father and his stoic attempts to cheer me up that particularly dreary holiday.

I remember a few things about the man from the Boston suburbs; in retrospect, I don’t think it would have worked out anyway.  In fact, I’m glad he dumped me.  If he hadn’t, I might have spent Christmas in Connecticut and never learned about Herman’s Hackmatack tree.

I might never have learned to listen to my father, either.

The desire to “go home” is or will be part of everyone’s story; have you found your Hackmatack tree yet?

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The Masquerade Ball

Posted on November 16, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I got an e-blast from the Junior League of Boston this week, announcing some details of the February 2, 2013 “Service in the City” Charity Ball.  The 2013 event will be a “masquerade ball.”

I must have read the blast with only one eye because I was thinking “costume ball” and dressing up like Elly Mae Clampett.  What fun it would be to wear my farm girl boots to a charity ball!  Maybe I would even bring a real farmer to the ball with me.  Wait, I would host a whole table of farmers!  Yee Haw!

Thinking happily about such things was a good distraction and I sent one of my Junior League friends a text about my Elly Mae Clampett scheme.

I was shocked into reality when my telephone rang.  It was a matter of “business,” the details of which are not important.  I pushed Elly Mae Clampett into the back of my mind and pulled out my Jane Hathaway personae.

The conversation twisted and turned; sometimes, to remain “in character” when talking business, I have a tendency to speak a little too factually.  I’m not trying to be a jerk.  I’m just trying to steer clear of the emotional ditches of a conversation.  Don’t get me wrong, I am always ready to listen to other people’s problems.  I certainly don’t mind when people cry to me about the struggles of life.

This particular business matter was not going well in spite of the facts and figures I presented.  Sadly, I was called a liar.

This accusation broke my heart and I could feel a little tear in the corner of my eye.  That little tear slipped out and it was difficult to remain business-like.

For me, lying is uncomfortable.  I try not to lie and when I do, it shows on my face.  One of my bosses at my previous Big Corporation Up The Road even told me during a staff meeting that I needed to get better at masking my thoughts.

“I can practically see your thoughts written on your forehead,” she said.  “You’ll need to work on that.”

There is no one alive on this planet over the age of one who has never told a lie, including me.  Some people lie all the time.  Some people lie occasionally.  Some people spin the truth into a lie.  I like to tell the truth and it shows on my face.

I managed to steer the conversational car away from the rocky cliff and after another 40 minutes of listening and explaining things, it all worked out.  Like Jane Hathaway, I neatly hung up the phone and put down my pencil.  Then, I took a deep breath and burst into tears.

My other phone buzzed and through my tears, I could see a text from my Junior League friend.

“It’s a masquerade ball, not a costume ball.”

I looked back at the e-blast and could see my friend was telling me the truth.

I’m not sure my farmer friends are going to go for the masquerade ball, especially if they can’t wear their BLEEP-kickers.  As Uncle Bob would say, “we’ll see.”

What masks are you wearing today?

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Volunteers in the Garden

Posted on November 15, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I found a few lettuce volunteers while cleaning up the garden.

In the upper left is “green bibb deer tongue” and in the lower right is “red oakleaf.”

They were delicious!

Farewell, beloved garden.  Sleep well under the watchful eye of Uncle Bob.

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Calling Cedric Maxwell

Posted on November 14, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I visited the TD Garden in Boston yesterday.  My occasional trips to Boston sometimes involve passing under the TD Garden, through North Station, but the last time I saw the Celtics play on the parquet was at the old Boston Garden in 1979.  Being offered an opportunity to stand in the places where basketball legends have stood was an offer I could not resist.  I was even a little nervous.

Part of the event featured a dynamic and energetic keynote speaker.  He talked about being a “play maker.”  I listened carefully and tried to decide if I agreed with the things he said.  After all, he was a retired professional sports figure; he’d already made his plays and achieved his calling.  Was there something in his words which might be helpful to me?

I wasn’t sure.

One of my friends, an occasional reader of this blog, has on two occasions told me he enjoys my writing and has even said “you missed your calling.”

My fingers stall on the keyboard as I try to untwist my thoughts about this comment.  I suppose I could do some research and find a pantheon of people who succeeded after age 48.  That would be selective research, though, and some smart snark aleck might come along and comment that we live in a youth culture and most people achieve their life goals before age 48.

They might even tell me to “act your age.”

What is my calling?  I’m not sure.  I like to grow food and I like to write.  I like to write about growing food.  I enjoy encouraging other people to grow food.  I may never write a book and if I do, it may not be as good as The Great Gatsby.

That’s a lofty goal.

You never know, though.  At least I’m in the game.

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