October 19, 2010--Midcoast: What Ken Said
Ken said, “I thought if I helped feed them and keep them warm,” he was speaking about us, “then maybe they’d stay on through November.
This after finding a perfect butternut squash from Ken’s garden on the front seat of our car and, when we got home, a stack of neatly stacked firewood, also from Ken, at the side of our shed. Enough for at least two dozen all-day fires.
John and Al nodded.
“Just when are you planning to leave?” he asked.
“We’ll you know, we’re not heated. Our place is just a seasonal cottage. But we’ll try to stay on as long as we can until there’s concern about the pipes freezing. We have an electric heater for the bedroom that gets the job done. And a big fireplace in the living room which takes the chill out of the air.”
“That’s why I’ve been keeping you supplied with firewood. But I do know you can’t stay if the pipes are going to freeze up on you. Though there are things you can do about that too. What with the insulating materials they now have. I could show you what to do if you’d like me to.”
John continued to nod. He too has been full of good advice about how to stretch the season.
Al chimed in, “I know a lot about winterizing too. You remember, don’t you, that before I started my graphic arts business that I built a lot of houses. I’d be happy to give you a hand with whatever it is that you might want to do.”
More than the squash, more than the firewood and the good advice and offers of help, more than anything, Ken and John and Al and others have made us feel at home by the feelings they have expressed in words and acts of generosity.
Mike, a retired orthopedic surgeon and sometimes clam digger, when he heard about our desire to extend the season by putting in a propane heater told me that he had a nearly-new Rinnai that he is no longer using (he prefers kerosene to propane) and that if we wanted it he would let us have it. When I mentioned this to Rona she said, “They cost about $1,400 and you’re saying he offered to give it to us? Are you sure he wasn’t saying he’d sell it to us?” I told her I was sure.
Talking with Doug a few weeks ago about chiliquiles—a scrambled egg, tortilla, and salsa dish—he is co-owner and chef at the Bristol Diner, he told us that he makes what he thinks is a pretty good version. And wouldn’t you know it, without telling us, he put it on the menu as a special last week and as he saw if was popular among his regulars, concerned that it would run out before we got there, he put two portions aside for us.
We had never been to the King Ro General Store in Round Pond. We had driven by it many times on the way to the Anchor Inn and Muscongus Lobster Coop since we are loyal to Reilly’s in New Harbor for our groceries. But the other day, at about 1:30, we were headed south on the Bremen Road and as we approached Round Pond I wondered if maybe King Ro had any slices of pizza. I was in the mood for one.
“They probably do,” Rona said. “We’ve been meaning to look in there to see what kinds of things they have. And I could deal with a slice myself.”
So we pulled in and sure enough, on top of the small pizza oven, I could see three slices sitting on small paper plates.
A women, who felt like one of the owners was alone at the counter and, as I approached pointing, asked if we could have a couple of slices.
She smiled and turned to get them. All three. I said, “We’re not that hungry so two will do for us.”
“But I have three left she said,” placing them on the long wooden counter. “I’m happy that you’re wanting them.”
“But . . .” I began to say but Rona poked me and I didn’t finish my thought.
“That’s fine,” Rona said, “could you maybe heat them up for us?”
“They came out of the oven maybe only ten minutes ago,” she said, touching one, “They’re still warm.”
“That sounds good,” Rona said. I was feeling disappointed that she didn’t seem to want to heat them up. I like my pizza hot. “How much do we owe you? And for the soda too?” I had taken a diet Pepsi from the chest.
“Oh, I couldn’t charge you for them,” she said.
“But we want to pay you,” I said.
“They’re all that I have left and as I said they’ve been sitting here for at least ten minutes.” She smiled broadly and, it appeared, apologetically because they weren’t fresher.
“We’re fine with reheated pizza,” I said to reassure her, still uncomfortable with the thought of not paying, “In New York at most pizza places the pies came out of the oven at least a half hour before you buy a slice and it’s customary to reheat them.”
“I know that,” she said, “We get to New York every year or two and know how they do things there.” It was clear that she was saying that that was how they do things there and this is how I do things here.
“But really . . .” I tried again before Rona cut me off.
“This is so nice of you,” Rona said. “We’d love to have them. All three. Thank you so much.”
“It’s real nice outside so why don’t you go sit out front. There’s a table and a few chairs. It’s a perfect place to enjoy your food. Which I do hope is warm enough for you.”
I assured her that it was.
Moved by her casual generosity we sat down and, shaking our heads in wonderment—also thinking how different things are here than we are used to—we did in fact enjoy the pizza. It might have been the setting and the experience but it seemed in fact delicious.
After about ten minutes Mrs. Ro came out to see how we were doing. “How’s that? Is it warm enough for you? I hope you’re liking it.”
“It’s just perfect,” Rona and I said in unison, our mouths full of pizza. “Just perfect.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, returning to the store to serve someone who came in for a six-pack.
The next morning at the diner we told Ken and John and Al and Doug about the King Ro store and the pizza. About how surprised we were, especially never having been there, that the owner refused to allow us to pay for them.
“That shouldn’t surprise you,” Ken said, “That’s the way folks are here. We try to take care of each other.”
“But we didn’t . . .”
Once more Rona interrupted me and said, “We have to learn to be better at this.”
“At what?” John asked, knowing full well what Rona meant. He’s originally from New Jersey but has been living here forty years and knows as much as anyone about the spirit of this place.
“We have to be better at taking care of and, equally important, being taken care of.”
“You’ve got it figured out,” Ken said.
Doug and John and Al smiled and nodded.
This after finding a perfect butternut squash from Ken’s garden on the front seat of our car and, when we got home, a stack of neatly stacked firewood, also from Ken, at the side of our shed. Enough for at least two dozen all-day fires.
John and Al nodded.
“Just when are you planning to leave?” he asked.
“We’ll you know, we’re not heated. Our place is just a seasonal cottage. But we’ll try to stay on as long as we can until there’s concern about the pipes freezing. We have an electric heater for the bedroom that gets the job done. And a big fireplace in the living room which takes the chill out of the air.”
“That’s why I’ve been keeping you supplied with firewood. But I do know you can’t stay if the pipes are going to freeze up on you. Though there are things you can do about that too. What with the insulating materials they now have. I could show you what to do if you’d like me to.”
John continued to nod. He too has been full of good advice about how to stretch the season.
Al chimed in, “I know a lot about winterizing too. You remember, don’t you, that before I started my graphic arts business that I built a lot of houses. I’d be happy to give you a hand with whatever it is that you might want to do.”
More than the squash, more than the firewood and the good advice and offers of help, more than anything, Ken and John and Al and others have made us feel at home by the feelings they have expressed in words and acts of generosity.
Mike, a retired orthopedic surgeon and sometimes clam digger, when he heard about our desire to extend the season by putting in a propane heater told me that he had a nearly-new Rinnai that he is no longer using (he prefers kerosene to propane) and that if we wanted it he would let us have it. When I mentioned this to Rona she said, “They cost about $1,400 and you’re saying he offered to give it to us? Are you sure he wasn’t saying he’d sell it to us?” I told her I was sure.
Talking with Doug a few weeks ago about chiliquiles—a scrambled egg, tortilla, and salsa dish—he is co-owner and chef at the Bristol Diner, he told us that he makes what he thinks is a pretty good version. And wouldn’t you know it, without telling us, he put it on the menu as a special last week and as he saw if was popular among his regulars, concerned that it would run out before we got there, he put two portions aside for us.
We had never been to the King Ro General Store in Round Pond. We had driven by it many times on the way to the Anchor Inn and Muscongus Lobster Coop since we are loyal to Reilly’s in New Harbor for our groceries. But the other day, at about 1:30, we were headed south on the Bremen Road and as we approached Round Pond I wondered if maybe King Ro had any slices of pizza. I was in the mood for one.
“They probably do,” Rona said. “We’ve been meaning to look in there to see what kinds of things they have. And I could deal with a slice myself.”
So we pulled in and sure enough, on top of the small pizza oven, I could see three slices sitting on small paper plates.
A women, who felt like one of the owners was alone at the counter and, as I approached pointing, asked if we could have a couple of slices.
She smiled and turned to get them. All three. I said, “We’re not that hungry so two will do for us.”
“But I have three left she said,” placing them on the long wooden counter. “I’m happy that you’re wanting them.”
“But . . .” I began to say but Rona poked me and I didn’t finish my thought.
“That’s fine,” Rona said, “could you maybe heat them up for us?”
“They came out of the oven maybe only ten minutes ago,” she said, touching one, “They’re still warm.”
“That sounds good,” Rona said. I was feeling disappointed that she didn’t seem to want to heat them up. I like my pizza hot. “How much do we owe you? And for the soda too?” I had taken a diet Pepsi from the chest.
“Oh, I couldn’t charge you for them,” she said.
“But we want to pay you,” I said.
“They’re all that I have left and as I said they’ve been sitting here for at least ten minutes.” She smiled broadly and, it appeared, apologetically because they weren’t fresher.
“We’re fine with reheated pizza,” I said to reassure her, still uncomfortable with the thought of not paying, “In New York at most pizza places the pies came out of the oven at least a half hour before you buy a slice and it’s customary to reheat them.”
“I know that,” she said, “We get to New York every year or two and know how they do things there.” It was clear that she was saying that that was how they do things there and this is how I do things here.
“But really . . .” I tried again before Rona cut me off.
“This is so nice of you,” Rona said. “We’d love to have them. All three. Thank you so much.”
“It’s real nice outside so why don’t you go sit out front. There’s a table and a few chairs. It’s a perfect place to enjoy your food. Which I do hope is warm enough for you.”
I assured her that it was.
Moved by her casual generosity we sat down and, shaking our heads in wonderment—also thinking how different things are here than we are used to—we did in fact enjoy the pizza. It might have been the setting and the experience but it seemed in fact delicious.
After about ten minutes Mrs. Ro came out to see how we were doing. “How’s that? Is it warm enough for you? I hope you’re liking it.”
“It’s just perfect,” Rona and I said in unison, our mouths full of pizza. “Just perfect.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, returning to the store to serve someone who came in for a six-pack.
The next morning at the diner we told Ken and John and Al and Doug about the King Ro store and the pizza. About how surprised we were, especially never having been there, that the owner refused to allow us to pay for them.
“That shouldn’t surprise you,” Ken said, “That’s the way folks are here. We try to take care of each other.”
“But we didn’t . . .”
Once more Rona interrupted me and said, “We have to learn to be better at this.”
“At what?” John asked, knowing full well what Rona meant. He’s originally from New Jersey but has been living here forty years and knows as much as anyone about the spirit of this place.
“We have to be better at taking care of and, equally important, being taken care of.”
“You’ve got it figured out,” Ken said.
Doug and John and Al smiled and nodded.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
3:28 AM
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