September 11, 2018--Midcoast: The Lindbergs

Another Midcoast story. This one from three years ago.

"But you are the Linddbergs," she insisted.

We were having dinner at the Anchor Restaurant in Round Pond. It was Rona's birthday and we were celebrating, well into a bottle of sparkling rosé.

"I'm sorry to be interrupting your dinner."

To this I mumbled something.

"But you look like them to me."

"Well, we're not," I said, not looking up.

"What you're eating looks delicious," she said, leaning closer to get a better look at Rona's soft shell clam appetizer. "But, again, I'm sorry to be interrupting."

"In truth you . . ." I trailed off.

"I need to find the Lindbergs," she pressed on. "I met them, I think you, a couple of times. Once at a tag sale at our house. We're the ones who used to own the Bristol barn. Do you remember that?"

"I think I remember," Rona said, friendlier and more welcoming than I.

"And then at a concert. I think the DaPonte string quartet. At the Walpole Meeting House. Where they perform in candlelight."

"We're really not . . ."

"It's OK," Rona said, hushing me.

"We're really not them," I said, hoping Rita--she had by then introduced herself--would return to her table and let us enjoy the food, the view of the harbor, and the occasion.

"How could that be?" she said. "I met you at least twice."

"That may be true," I said, trying not to sound exasperated, "But that doesn't make us the Lindbergs."

"We actually know them," Rona said, "Which makes this quite a coincidence. To be confused for them, I mean."

"If you're not them, then who are you?"

Rona gave her our names and reached across the table to take her extended hand. "I'm so mixed up," Rita said.

"Tell me about it," I said under my breath.

"I need to find them," she paused, smiling. She shrugged, indeed looking mixed up.

"Did you make arrangements to meet them here?" Feeling badly for her now, I was trying to be helpful.

"No. But I thought I would run into them here or somewhere else. This is such a small town." Her smile now fading.

"If it's important to see them, meet with them, why don't you call them and arrange something?"

"I could do that," she said. "If you're not them, I guess that's what I should do. They're supposed to mentor me."

I looked at her skeptically since she appeared to be about 60 and wondered what would constitute mentoring for a 60 year-old.

"What would they do with you. I mean, help you with?" I said.

"Bees."

"Bees?"

"Yes, they agreed to help me get started. With a hive of my own."

"They are quiet experienced," Rona said, "They gave us a bottle of their honey last year and it was so delicious I finished it in a month."

"So that's why I have to find them."

I nodded, now empathetically.

"I wish you were them," she said with an edge of sadness.

"I understand," Rona siad.

By then our entrées had arrived, and noticing that, she said, "I'm so sorry to be interrupting you." Then, perking up and, more playfully, added, "But you really are the Lindbergs, aren't you?"

From her renewed smile I knew she was having fun with us. An unexpected birthday treat.

October 2, 2013--It's My Party

"So what do you want to do for your birthday?"

It was Monday, two days before October 2nd and Rona wanted to be sure I wasn't being coy when I had said during the past few months that I'm not really into celebrating birthdays--mine--and that we should play it by ear.

"Maybe," I said, "closer to the time I'll come up with some place I'd like to go or do to make it a little special."

"Well, it is a special one considering the number."

"To tell you the truth, this one is feeling like any other. To quote my mother, 'Every day I wake up and feel good is my birthday.'"

"But your mother's more than 105 and it's easy to understand why she feels that way. On the other hand, I hope you're not into denial when you say you don't want to make a big fuss. Or a small fuss."

"I don't think I am."

"I know why you're saying that. In your case it's honest to admit you don't think you're in denial considering how you thought turning 60 was no big deal and then when that birthday came you had a version of a nervous breakdown."

"Fair enough. But we were in Beijing at the time and I believed I was more disoriented by that than by it being my 60th."

"So, what do you want to do? I can still arrange a dinner party for friends. We can go to Primo in Rockland. It's supposed to be the best restaurant in Maine. Or Solo Bistro in Bath. Friends say it's even better than Primo."

"I guess that's a possibility."

"Don't sound so enthusiastic."

"I'm really not. Enthusiastic. I mean, I'm thrilled to be alive and feel this good and to be married to you; but at the moment, I think I'd like to cook dinner for us and drink a whole bottle of a wonderful, very expensive Bordeaux. Then watch Mary Tyler Moore reruns."

"How about two-thirds of a bottle and also watch Bob Newhart?"

"It's a deal."

But then yesterday, the day before my birthday, we returned to the subject.

"You know," I said sheepishly, "I think maybe I would like to do something."

"Anything. Well, almost anything."

"Maybe let's see Blue Jasmine and then go out for a nice dinner."

"That sounds fine. Which theater and where do you want to have dinner?"

"In Rockland. I think they have an afternoon show and then we could go to Primo. We've been here five, six years and are sort of foodies but have never gone there."

"That sounds good. They say eating in the bar is the thing to do. But check the movie schedule because it changes so often."

I did and discovered that there was no show at all in Rockland. The film apparently played just on the weekend. "I suppose," I said, "there's not that much call for Woody Allen up here. But I think it's playing in our town, Damariscotta, at the Lincoln Theater. At 2:00 and 7:00. Depending on the show we go to, we can go to King Eider's for an early dinner either before or after the movie."

"You'd better check that too."

I did and, amazingly, the film appeared to be scheduled at both times.  "So, let's pencil it in. The 2:00 show."

"I think," Rona said, "let's also buy a Bordeaux. That will give us the option--if you change your mind--of having it if you decide you want to cook your own birthday dinner."

"No, I'm all set--movie in the afternoon and an early dinner at Eider's. Eating at that time will prepare us for early-bird dinners in Florida."

At that Rona rolled her eyes. "I know you by now and so let's get the wine. You say pencil in the 2:00 show, but it's at best 50-50 that we'll budge from the house."

"We can go to Portland if you'd like," I offered. "Or the Lake District. The leaves are changing and so it must be beautiful there."

"I'm sure it is, but since you're colorblind leaf-changing season frustrates you."

I shrugged and smiled. "You're right, let's get the wine. But what about Portland? I'm sure the film is playing there and there are so many good restaurants."

"That will mean staying overnight, which I doubt you'll want to do."

"True, true. So let's just stick to the plan."

"Which is?"


                                                     *    *    *

It is now 6:00 AM, October 2nd and I am officially another year older. Or, as I prefer, another day older. We have the movie penciled in but just in case also have a wonderful bottle on hand of 2005 Cos d'Estournal. It did cost a fortune. But how often do you get to be as old as I?

September 26, 2013--Behind the Times

A friend from England is in the area. Siting with her yesterday morning on the top step of the house where she is staying, looking out into the sun over Muscongus Bay toward Monhegan Island, she said, "This is the only place in the world where I sleep well."

"Why is that? I ask because that's also true for me; and though I have my own thoughts about this, I'm curious why this is such a restful place for you."

Not taking her eyes off the waves lapping the granite ledge, she said, "Some of it has to do with the sound of the water. You know those sleep machines that play an endless stream of natural sounds as a way to free one's mind and help one sleep? There are birds sounds, whale songs, sounds of the wind and forest, and of the tranquil ocean. The ocean being the most listened to to induce a peaceful night. So right out my door here, without the bother of one of those machines, which to me seem so artificial, I find a natural form of calm."

"Maybe it's because our remote ancestors came from the ocean."

"You mean how the sea is the-mother-of-us-all sort of thing?"

"Well, we did descend from fish. There is overwhelming evolutionary evidence about that."

"I thought you Americans don't believe in evolution." She was tweaking me. "But, I know that's true and it may have something to do with being instinctively connected to the eternal that is so conducive to peaceful rest."

"There's something else," I said, "that works for me beside the ocean and air and sky."

"What's that?"

"The isolation. I should say, how I here feel isolated enough."

"That's a curious concept--isolated enough." She glanced at me then turned again to face the water and the horizon.

I said, "We don't live deep in the woods or isolated from neighbors. In fact, I like having neighbors. Even the occasional pesky ones. I am from the city, after all, and too much tranquility and quiet can make me anxious. I need a little more than just nature."

"I understand that. I'm from London though now I live mainly in Brighton. So I as well need a little human activity."

"For me the little part resonates since I like some action as long as it's just that--little."

"I also like being a bit out-of-step," she ruminated. I looked at her curiously and she said, "I'll give you an example."

"That would help."

"That recent tragedy in Kenya."

"The barbaric killings at the mall?"

"That's it. It happened while I was here but somewhat out of the reach of the news. When I'm here I do not take the paper or watch much TV. Almost none at all. And so news of that slaughter took some time to filter to me. As if I were living, as they say these days, off the grid. Rather, half-off the grid."

"This is true to me too, but because of my blog I do need to keep up with the so-called news."

"Sorry, but I forgot about that. What's it called again?"

"Behind the (New York) Times, with the New York part in parentheses."

"I remember that. How you're wanting to have it both ways--you tend to write about things reported in the New York Times that provoke you and also you are signally that you personally are a bit behind the times.  Having a little fun at your own expense. Saying you're perhaps obsolete, no? Behind the times?"

"Exactly."

"So here especially, in a similar way, I too am behind. The mall murders, the debate about Iran and what to do in Syria, your debt ceiling crisis, all of these impinge upon my awareness but in a less immediate and worrisome way that when I'm in New York or London or even my sleepy Brighton."

"You're speaking about what I meant by isolated enough. Not that isolated so that if there were a real crisis that affected me or us directly it would be possible to know minute-by-minute what would be important, even essential to know to avoid a conflagration--a big Sandy-like hurricane--or to be able to mobilize one's thoughts and actions as a citizen because of a major terrorist attack, God forbid, directly on the U.S."

"Isn't this also a stage in life thing?"

"Say more."

"We are after all getting a bit older," not me, I gestured, "and at these latter stages one tends to want to be involved in more generative things. Which by definition means less engagement in the here and now, no matter how vital all of that might have been a few years ago. But now is considerably less compelling."

"I suppose there is some truth to that, though remaining vital is still important to me."

"You feel vital enough to me, if that's any consolation." She smiled wistfully, still gazing toward Monhegan 15 miles off shore.

"But I do need more rest than in the past and that again is where we began--with sleeping."

"You are about to have a birthday, aren't you?"

"Next Wednesday."

"It's a significant one isn't it?"

"At this point they all are."

"But, as I recall, this one is a real number."

"Yes, real. As real as it gets."