Right
adjacent to the Mobil station where in its convenience store lobsta
rolls are a well-priced $10.99 is the Friendly Book Store of Deer Island, Maine.
The window to the left of the door is full of children’s books, including the cleverly-titled Train in
Maine; and the one on the right has a suite of books unexpecetedly set in and about
Africa. There’s Dinesen’s Out of Africa, Michela Wrong’s In The Footsteps of Mr. Kurtz, and Hochschild’s King Leopold’s Ghost among others. Not uninteresting, I thought, my prejudices showing, for a small town book shop quite a ways from anything cosmopolitan.
So to
tell the truth, when we pushed through the door in search of the New York Times after having coffee at
the Island Café I wasn’t expecting much. And when it came to books was not disappointed. The shop seemed more set up to be a place
where local women would gather to buy yarn for knitting and, if they had the time,
could settle into one of the shop’s many overstuffed sofas or side chairs to
trade tips and patterns. It’s a cozy
place, but this one felt strangely
devoid of books.
In fact
it took just a moment to take them in since there are just a few bookshelves. There are also a couple of tables on which are stacked what I imagine are the
proprietor’s recommendations. Not much
unusual about that either. But neither
included an obligatory array of local writers, great or uninspired, except for
Richard Russo who lives and works in nearby Camden. Though his recent Bridge of Sighs was not all that prominently featured. Almost hidden from view, it was tucked
between O'Neill's Netherland and Alice Hoffman's Third Angel. Just right, I thought,
because to me it is far from Russo's best work and not deserving of too much prominence
except as a show of Penobscot Bay pride. I took this as a sign of good taste and integrity—not even neighborliness had motivated the
owner to offer a false endorsement for something so formulaic.
But
though it was quite early, not much past 9:00, for a small place in a still
sleepy town there was quite a crowd drifting among the shop's nooks and crannies. Expect for a
man of about 45, dressed almost in rural caricature fashion, in full denim
shirt and overalls with, yes, a straw hat slung from a string and hanging on
the back of his shoulders, all the other customers, if they in fact were that,
were women at least in their late seventies.
Yet
customers they clearly were because, grasping greeting cards and books, they
soon shuffled into a irregular line before an elegant leather-topped writing
table behind which was seated the owner, proprietor, and obvious doyen of The Friendly. And from how she was dressed
and how she engaged each lady in conversation, I quickly realized that the shop
was aptly named.
Jane,
we learned later was her name, was radiant. She wore a sumptuous beige silk
blouse, buttoned at the neck, with a rakishly knotted man’s red tie.
“Yes, I
know your grandson is about to be married,” she smiled broadly at the women
leaning on Jane’s table to support herself, “Will it be in
Baltimore? He was such a lovely
boy. I remember how much you loved when
he visited during college vacations. He worked for the Millers, didn’t he?
Down at Waterman’s Beach. I recall that. And is he still in law school? .
. . Nice, nice. He’ll make such a wonderful lawyer. Not like so many of the others who are only
interested in the money. Your daughter
did such a good job raising him. You
must be very proud. And they will so
much like that card. I’m sure his
wife-to-be comes from a fine family. Just like yours. So hard
working.”
And to
the woman who moved slowly to the table, clutching a small book to the handle
of her walker, Jane, her face all smiles, said, “It has been such a time
since you’ve been in. I heard you were
in hospital. But I can see you’re doing
very well now. Walking more securely. They do such wonderful things these
days. Surgeons I mean. Why I bet you won’t need that silly thing too
much longer. . . . Yes, yes. I’m not
surprised to know you’re back in your garden. Not overdoing it, I hope. But I
know, since Averill passed, you’ve done such a good job of taking care of
everything. Though don’t I know you, tending
to overdo it a bit. Am I right? But there’ll be no need for me to be worrying
about you anymore. Though I admit that every time I go by your
place I’m so envious of your roses. Aren’t they the most beautiful ones in all of Knox County? So it’s so good to know you’re back tending
to them. And of course you know, if you
have any chores for me . . . Aren’t you sweet. And really, it would not be a problem for me. Not at all.”
Next to
approach Jane was a woman in a blue housedress that barely cleared her
laced-up shoes, bent with the hint of early-stage osteoporosis. Jane gestured for her to sit in the gilded
chair next to her table.
“Oh, Henrietta,
you shouldn’t have been waiting so long. No one would mind, would they, if you came right up here. Let me take those books from you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them. You do love those page-turners. Why I read that one just last week. I can’t wait 'til you finish it so we can
talk about it. Just the other day, David
Walker was in. Didn’t we used to call
him Skip when he was younger? He was the
nicest boy. So sad how he lost his only
son. Breaks one’s heart. They were so close. . . . But enough about
that. It’s too nice a day for that.
"How’s your Andy? I haven’t heard much about him lately. Are they still living in Atlanta? . . . Good,
good. I’m so glad to know they’re well.
. . . And you say he’ll be coming soon for a visit? In August. It must be so hot there. Well,
you’ll be sure to bring the darling boy by, won’t you, so I can lay my eyes on him? And remember what the doctor told you. How you should be sure not to forget to take your medicine, and like he
said be sure to keep up with your walking. You need to do that too. And yes
I know how hard that is now, but still you have to try. We all need more of you.”
And then
there was the man in the overalls. He
didn’t have anything in his hands. I
assumed there was something on Jane’s deck that he had lined up to
purchase. But he didn’t pick anything up
but rather stood there looking down at Jane, not saying anything, just
smiling and smiling.
“Well, well. It’s so nice to see you again Herbert.” To him her voice was like music. “All smiles I see. What’ya been up to? Not getting into any trouble, are you? I hear things. Everything. You know that. So you need to
behave yourself. Though young people
these days, I know, do need to have some fun their own way. . . . Sorry, I can't hear what you’re whispering. You do tend to do that, you know. But don’t be shy with me Herbie. I’ve heard it all. . . .
“Oh that,
yes my boy Robert and I went back to that farm to have a second look. Over there by Cushing. And yes, you are remembering correctly. They have three striped cows down there. I’ve never seen any like that before. Black all over but with a wide band of white
all around their middle. . . . No, not
like zebras, but just like I said—black in the front, white in the middle, and
then black again in the rear. Striped. .
. . And no I’m not making that up. And
no we didn’t take any pictures. But if
you don’t believe me you can go take a look for yourself. It’s right along Pleasant Point Road right
where Hathtorne Road breaks off. Toward
the old Olson place where Andrew Wyeth painted Chistina’s World. But to see
them you have to be patient. It’s a big
pasture and they don’t much like people. If you stand off at a distance and don’t make
too much of a racket, they get used to your being there; and maybe, like the
other day with Robert and me, one of them will come up to where you’re standing.
“I don’t
know what got into me, I had as I said never seen cows or anything quite like
this, though to tell you the truth when we got home I looked up ‘Striped Cows’
on the Internet and, wouldn’t you know it, there were all sorts of pictures of
cows just like these. You could do it
too if you wanted. But as I was about to
tell you, when the largest of them nuzzled close to us, I just looked her in
the eye, this was before I Googled them, and said, can you believe it, right to
her I said, ‘How did you get those stripes?’ All puzzled she looked back at me, eye-to-eye, and said, ‘Why I was born that way.’ Then I said, ‘Did your mother and father have
stripes too?’ And she said, sort of
indignant, 'Of course they did! Didn’t your mother and father, like you, also
walk on their hind legs?’
“I must
admit, she had me there. And with that
she turned away from me and scampered back across the meadow to rejoin her
sisters. It was quite an afternoon.”
And quite
a morning. Though Jackie doesn’t carry
the Times, I’m sure we’ll find a book
or two to buy next time. Or a few
greeting cards.
Labels: "Bridge of Sighs", "Christina's World", Andrew Wyeth, Book Shops, Cushing Maine, Midcoast Maine, Richard Russo
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