September 1, 2104--Midcoast: Too Much Nice

Again yesterday morning when we pulled up to our house, hanging from the latch on the shed door was a bulging plastic shopping bag.

"Ken," Rona said. I knew what she meant.

Peering into it, Rona said, "This time it's full of peaches, broccoli, and zucchini. Ken is amazing."

"Indeed he is," I said, feeling Ken's affection.

He has a large vegetable garden and we are beneficiaries.

Rhubarb comes early, shortly after we arrive for the season, and then, not long after, are his wonderful squash and string beans; and next, after the peaches and zuccs, another round of rhubarb and then giant butternut squash, which we use to make a hearty soup that is perfect when the fall weather sets in.

Usually when we are done with coffee at the diner, on Rona's seat, there's a bag from Ken. If we skip breakfast, Ken comes by and quietly hangs a bag on the shed door.

And occasionally, from our up-the-road neighbor, Jill--a very talented gardener--there might be a package waiting on the front deck with all the ingredients but olive oil that we need to make pesto--the basil and garlic right out of her overflowing garden.

"You know it's about to be September 1st," I pointed out with a shrug of resignation.

"September 1st? You're losing me. I thought we were talking about Ken."

"We were but it also means we only have about two months left before we need to head for the city. Before long it'll be too cold for us to stay here without the cottage being insulated."

"I know. But why does Ken's bag of veggies make you think about that? It's supposed to make us happy, not depressed."

"It does make me happy, and though all his and other's niceness is half the reason we want to be here, getting used to too much niceness will disarm us for when we'll be back in New York. One can't expect that there. Nice is not much of a virtue in the city. And unless we get used to less nice we'll be at a disadvantage back in town because it will make us vulnerable. Still needing things to be nice."

"You amaze me sometimes."

"Amaze you?"

"All the things you come up with to make you feel bad."

"I don't . . ."

"Yes, you do. You're very creative when it comes to anticipating in advance everything that can go wrong." I shrugged again. This time with a hint of apology. "You go from Ken's vegetables, which is such a wonderful thing, to worrying that his being giving leads to your imagining, anxisizing about how his generosity is a bad thing." She sighed. "Sometimes you are just too much."

"I just think I'm trying to be honest about my feelings. Isn't that something you always tell me you want me to do?""

"Yes, yes. But soon you'll again be telling me how Ken keeps bringing us firewood so we can keep the place warm so we won't have to leave so soon also upsets you."

"Not upsets me, but has the effect of disarming me emotionally. I mean I love it, but aren't you afraid that this kind of generous friendship can have some negative consequences when we're back in our dog-eat-dog environment?"

"I don't want to allow myself to think that way. I'd rather live taking things as they come. Enjoying the wonderful way life is here and then doing the same thing in the city. Which has other virtues. I mean we do enjoy being there, right?" She paused as I didn't respond immediately. "You do, don't you? I mean want to spend time there?"

"Yes, yes."

"And soon, closer to the time when we have to leave, you'll be reminding me about how during the winter many of our friends walk by our place after a storm to see how the house fared, letting us know not to worry. They even . . ."

"I know, send us photos to reassure us that all is well."

"And that presents problems for you?"

"It shouldn't, right? And all the other nice things that are too numerous to mention."

"I'm not going to tell you how to feel. I'm out of that business."

"And I'm glad for it."

I looked out over the bay. The tide was running in as if there were rapids in the water. It was another glorious day.

"Maybe," I said, "I should put all this on hold--my obsessing about niceness--until at least the end of the month. When we'd have only a month to go."

"How about holding off until mid-October? After your birthday. Better, until late in the month. After our anniversary."

"I can't commit to that, but I think I can hold out until I'm officially a year older." I smiled.

"That would be a nice present . . . to me."

"In the meantime, what should we do with Ken's broccoli?"