April 22, 2020--Our Friend Ken Longe

We had been having coffee at the diner in Bristol, Maine with Ken Longe for the longest time before he began to show inordinate interest in our fireplace.

"You have a fireplace, don't you?" he said.

The first time he asked we didn't pay much attention. We were still sharing growing-up stories--his in Andover, Massachusetts ours in Brooklyn. Though we had been renting a place for the season in Pemaquid and had known Ken for three or four months and a friendship was emerging, there was a lot remaining to share.

"Is it a big one?" He spread his arms to indicate the fireplace's possible width. 

"That's about right," Rona said.

"And does it draw good?" Ken asked.

"Yes," I said, "We can make quite a fire."

We moved on to other subjects. Labor Day was approaching. 

"We're starting to get ready to leave," Rona said. "You know how much there is to do. Though we're just renters and since we've been here three or four months we really got settled in and now have to restore the house to the way we found it."

"It's been cold," Ken said. "Have you been comfortable?

"We have a couple of electric heaters and as I mentioned we get pretty good heat from the fireplace. It warms most of the living room. So we're OK."

"Why then don't you stay a little longer? Though you might not be able to make it all the way to Thanksgiving, it would get to be pretty cold, that would be nice. You could do fine the month of September and even October. It's my favorite time of year. The leaf-peppers show up but otherwise its real quiet. And it's interesting to watch the seasons change."

"Maybe if we come back next year," Rona said. "I wouldn't mind being here to observe that." The house was for sale and we were thinking seriously about trying to buy it.

We drifted on to other subjects. That morning might have been the one when we had our first tentative discussion about political things. It was well before there was Trump to talk about. It was more than ten years ago and Obama was president. From some earlier tentative probings we all knew we weren't on the same page about him and politics more generally. Without discussing it we knew to stay off the subject. At least for a time.

A few mornings later, at about 5:30, with the sun in pastels rising over Johns Bay, with Rona still sleeping and me reading about Abraham Lincoln and the history of slavery in the  U.S., I was startled to hear what sounded like serious thumping on the roadside porch. I thought it must be some large animal. We had seen deer on the water side of the cottage. Could it be that one was wandering around probing to see if there was anything in the vicinity good to eat. 

Or, was it an intruder? We rarely locked any of our doors even when sleeping and so the big-city boy in me tensely began to make plans to scare away or perhaps confront whoever or whatever it was. 

I debated if I should wake Rona and get her to a secure place before dealing with what was going on out there. I made enough noise putting on my pants and shoes to wake her. In an instant she too was alert and on guard. This was not what we wanted to be happening a few days before leaving and while simultaneously negotiating a potential sale price with the owner. 

If we were in some sort of danger there is no way we would be comfortable being in the house, even with the doors locked. We had enough anxiety living in New York's City. We were thinking about the possibility that Maine could be an alternative to that. With someone perhaps about to break into what would be our hideaway house, that sense of refuge was evaporating.

Rona whispered that I should back off and let the situation resolve itself. But recklessly oblivious to the danger, I ignored her, thinking I could scare away the deer or whatever by just making enough noise from inside the house.

So I stomped down the hall to where a window looks out over the front porch. Perhaps I could catch a glimpse of what was going on and raise a protective clamor. 

In the car park area there was an unfamiliar pickup truck. At least it wasn't a bear, I thought, and continued to made enough of a ruckus to be heard outside. I thought, hopefully, that would scare away the intruder. 

Rona in the meantime was moving to dial 911.

With that I saw someone, a tall, slender man in a blue windbreaker, trudging up the front steps. It was still half light and I couldn't make out who it was or what he was carrying. Though it was clearly something quite large.

It was Ken I then realized with a bundle of firewood cradled in his arms.

Relieved, I raced to the front door.

"Ken," I half-shouted, all excited and breathing again, "What are you doing? Let me help you." I saw firewood in the bed of his truck.

He waved me off. "I'm almost done," he said.

"Done with what?" I said.

He had already stacked what looked like half  a cord on the deck and neatly added those he was carrying to the pile.

"The other morning at the diner," he said, "I was asking you about why you were going back to New York so soon."

"I remember that," I said.

"Well you told me you had a big fireplace and I thought if you had enough firewood to keep things cozy you might stay longer." He said this, avoiding eye contact.

"That is incredibly generous," I finally said, "You've been so--" I didn't finish the thought.

"You can help me with the rest of the load," he said. With the two us working side-by-side we were done in five minutes.

"Can I at least get you a you cup of coffee?" I said.

By then Rona had joined us and she gestured toward the house. "I'll have some brewed in a moment."

"Better yet," he said, "Meet me later at the diner and buy me a cup," he winked, "I want to talk about that Obama fellow." 

Some months later, after completing the purchase of the house, when a few of our New York friends asked what motivated us to do so I told them this story. 

Some got it. Others, didn't. It nonetheless is the truth.

Ken Longe

April 9, 2020--Birds Behind the Barn

My friend John Allan, from up in Bristol Maine, sent me this after a long call Tuesday morning--

Glad to hear you're settled in and prepared for the duration. 

I've assembled a library of books "to read sometime" and so has Boodie. We're set for months. 

Not set so much on squaring our time with daily news. 

Mask? No mask? Schoolwork for grandchildren or not to worry? 

Hoping I don't forget to listen to the birds behind the barn when the sun rises.

And how about that full moon last night! It was so impressive I took a selfie of me with it over my shoulder in the back field. 

OK, so I'm stretching my desire for some normalcy but can 

you blame me? 

What do I tell these grandkids when they look at me with concern about this unsettling turn of events. I can see the fear in their faces. I wonder, despite offering comforting words of assurance, whether I have won any confidence with them at all. 

So, on a brighter note, the granddaughters and I went to Pemaquid Point Lighthouse after our phone call and collected flat, smooth rocks to paint in cheerful colors which we'll bring back there and hide hoping to surprise and delight someone. You just never know what might bring someone solace and comfort in these crazy times. 

Hope your friend has a successful recovery from surgery. 

Sorry we missed speaking with Rona.

Stay safe.

John

September 22, 2017--Jack & Betty: Rocket Man

Between breakfast and lunch rush, it was quiet at the diner and so Betty plopped down in the booth with us.

"Don't get me wrong, I like when we're busy. I like the action and of course the money, but it's about a month since the season ended and I'm about burned out."

"And what about your other jobs? Are you still so busy?"

She smiled at Rona. "My weekend job runs 'til Columbus Day. But the house cleaning is tapering off. The people who tend to be here now, I mean in addition to us year-rounders, tend to be like you guys. Owners who are here for six months and don't require weekly cleaning. So, I'm getting a bit of a break, which is good 'cause my arthritis is getting worse." She stretched and turned her head with effort from side to side as if to illustrate.

"One good thing," she said, "I haven't seen much of Jack. Actually, he hasn't been in in a month. But to tell you the truth, I sort of half miss him. He stirs things up."

"Really?" I said, "I thought he gets under your skin. The last time we were all here I think you called him a hypocrite. Sort of harsh. Not that I disagree, mind you. He's set up with his state job and benefits and vacation days but points his finger at anyone else who is helped by the state. You pinned him about that. How he is oblivious to the fact that he too in some ways is on the dole. And though he rants about shrinking the size of the government he works for that same government he wants to get rid of."

With that, wouldn't you know it, as if on cue Jack bounded through the door. It felt like half the oxygen was sucked up by him. 

Before he sat down, he bellowed, "How's my boy doing?"

"Here we go," Betty muttered, "He's all pumped up again after having some doubts about Trump a month ago. You know, after Charlottesville and the white supremacist business." 

I did remember that and told Betty I wrote a piece about it. About his grandfather who had been in the Second World War and saw the slaughter that had been going on in Nazi concentration camps. What racism and white supremacy can lead to.

"That's right," Jack said, as if he could read my thoughts. "He's back!"

"Yeah, like Freddy Krueger," Betty said half under her breath.

"I can see my president has you all confounded. In the meantime, how 'bout getting me a cup of java?"

Betty hauled herself up and went to get it. Still muttering.

"How's the state job?" Rona asked with an edge. "Just rode up here on the Bristol Road and saw some of your compadres hard at work. Especially those flag guys who direct traffic where only one lane is open. You know, the ones that have signs that say 'slow' and 'stop.' How much are they making? By, the hour, I mean. Not that what they do isn't important, but the state needs to employ them? I would assume you'd want them to be contract workers. You know, to shrink the size of government. Like one of your heroes says, to make it so small it can be drowned in a bathtub."

"That's Grover Norquist," I said, "the anti-tax guy."

"You guys have your daggers out, don't you. Did you rehearse this? Can't even wait for me to get my coffee." 

Betty was back, and after depositing Jack's coffee just out of reach on the table, slid back onto the banquette next to Rona. Jack smirked.

"We haven't seen you for awhile so we've got up all this pent up material. Your boy doesn't disappoint in one way at least." Jack looked at me quizzically, "By saying and doing stupid things. He's a gaff machine." Betty had her arms folded across her chest and glared at him.

"You mean you don't like how he's behaving and what he's saying at your UN?"

I ignored the jibe. "So you're liking what he's been saying about North Korea and Kim Jong-un?"

"Not liking it, loving it. It's about time someone told it like it is."

"You mean getting us into a nuclear war with them?" Rona was incredulous. "That's telling it like it is?"

Betty said, "How, he said, it's getting close to the time when we'll have to, as he put it, 'totally destroy' North Korea and then referred to Kim as 'Rocket Man' on a 'suicide mission.' You're OK with that? You think that's the way an American president should address the UN?"

"Like I said, it's about time. Where has talking in diplomaticese gotten us? Let's start with Bill Clinton, then there was George Bush, and after that Obama. They all spoke the same language of reasonableness and diplomacy. With a few pathetic threats mixed in. And where did that get us? An agreement with North Korea about nuclear weapons and intercontinental missiles? Not even close. Over the past 20, 25 years, while presidents of both parties talked this way the North Koreans developed A- and H-bombs and seem to be close to having rockets big enough to reach not only Guam but soon the west coast of the U.S. You think that's a good thing?" When we didn't answer, he said, "So, if you were president what would you do?"

For the moment, the three of us had nothing to say.

Jack continued, "That's what your fancy talk gets you."

"You think it's smart to call Kim Rocket Man?" Betty asked, "To insult him, especially an Asian is frankly stupid. It's a cultural thing. He's not Little Marco or Crooked Hilary. This is serious and dangerous business. But of course your boy if nothing else can be pretty stupid."

"I think you have it backwards," Jack said, ignoring his coffee, "Let's remember that for some crazy reason Kim Jong-whatever loves Dennis Rodman. Not just because he was a basketball star but because of his flamboyance, his cartoon-like, super-hero style. So, what Trump is doing is actually buttering Kim up. Remember during the campaign when he said he would be 'honored' to meet with him? That's a direct quote. What do you make of that?" Not waiting for an answer, he plowed ahead, "I tell you what I make of it--it's my view that my boy is flattering Kim. My guess is that Kim loves being thought of as Rocket Man. I doubt that he knows the Elton John song, 'Rocket Man,' or any of the lyrics. He may know Trump played that song at his rallies. Maybe Trump thinks of himself that way too."

"This is lunacy," I said. "You really are comfortable with your leader, our leader thinking and behaving this way when things are so hair-trigger scary?"

"I repeat," Jack said, "conventional politicians got us to this point. They're the ones who have acted dangerously. They kicked the problem down the road and now here we are. Trump is trying something different,"

"Yeah," Betty said, "Including leading us to a big unwinable war. You think China will sit still if we attack North Korea? We can only get away with that if North Korea acts first and bombs Guam or Japan. And even then we could overreact."

"I can't believe the three of you. Weakness itself is dangerous. If we continue to act like pansies what kind of message does that send to Kim? If you're interested I'll tell you what I think is really going on."

Looking away, Rona said, "Tell me. I'm waiting with bated breath."

"That behind the scenes we're having discussions with the North Koreans. Like we did with the North Vietnamese. Trump figured out that Kim wants respect and he's giving him a little. Enough to begin the process of making a deal. But, in the meantime, publicly, to underscore the seriousness of how we're taking this threat, Trump is behaving like a scary crazy man. If you were Kim and not the head of a suicide cult, I think I would take Trump's crazy act, and that's what I think it is, very, very seriously because we really can totally destroy them. It would be hideous, but we could do it."

He sighed and gulped his coffee.

"There's enough blame to go around," I acknowledged, "Clinton, Bush, Obama, and now Trump. He's the one who may finally take the steps to blow up the world. I think it's that precarious and so I really hope you're right." At that thought Jack was glowing again. "But try as hard as I can, I think the two of you are crazy. And I don't mean acting crazy."

August 24, 2016--Midcoast: Peggy Pays A Visit (Concluded)

"Back in New York no one would eat anything recommended by Paula Deen who's an out-and-out . .  ."

"That's not the way things work up here," Dan said, remaining calm. Peggy fussed with the knot in her Hermes.

"So just how do things work up here, Danny?" I wasn't sure if Peggy was being condescending.

"Well, how do they work down there in New York?" Dan said firmly but without attitude.

"Among other things we pride ourselves in being tolerant. No restaurant person I know would have anything to do with the likes of Paula Deen."

"Well, we're pretty tolerant up here too. Maybe even willing to give someone like Paula Dean the benefit of the doubt. She was mortified by what she said and apologized profusely. No one you know in the Big Apple ever make a fool of themselves?"

Peggy didn't have a ready answer to that but pressed on, "I look around this diner and what do I see?"

"You tell me," Dan said.

"Well, Danny, everyone looks like you." She paused to let that take its full effect.

"I hope not," he said, "That would be a sight for sore eyes."

"I mean," she leaned closer and this time in a sub sotto voce whisper said, "Not a person of color. Not even one working in the kitchen washing dishes."

"I'll let that stereotype about who might be washing dishes pass. But, yes, Maine has very few minorities, if that what you mean. 'Round here in the Midcoast even fewer. So by that definition of yours it's true were not diverse. But," he added, "that's not the only way to think about it."

"Well, how do you folks define it up here? The rest of the country . . ."

"Let me cut you off right there," Dan said, "'Cause there's no 'rest of the country.'" He made air quotes.

"You're losing me," Peggy said. "On CNN, on MSNBC, in the New York Times, even on Fox News which I assume you watch, that's how they talk about diversity."

"Your rest of the country is not all the same. There are lots of local differences. I remember talking with Rona and Steve back in May about the election and how we agreed that we have to be careful making assumptions from our limited individual perspectives. I quoted someone I heard on CNN, which I watch, who said that he asked at a dinner party in Manhattan how many people had been to Paris and how everyone raised their hands. Then he asked how many had visited Staten Island. He reported that only a handful had. It's just a ferry ride away and pretty much no one had ever been there."

"Well, I have," Peggy said, "And couldn't wait to get back to civilization. But return to your claim that Maine, in spite of who I'm seeing here, is diverse."

"I'll say even more so than your downtown New York."

"I'm all ears," Peggy said, cupping her ears.

"What you're seeing and being blinded by, if I may say so, is skin color. Not that I'm minimizing the importance of that but it's only part of the picture. Even liberals would agree that not all Hispanics or black people are the same. You also have to look at how much education people have, the kind of work they do, what they read. But Im not just talking about that though that's an important way to see the diversity here. We may look the same in part because we all dress more or less alike--basic clothes, informal, and all that--but you'll see what I mean when I tell you about who's in the room."

Peggy swung around in the booth to see who Dan was talking about.

"At the counter from the left is an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in feet and next to him . . ."

"Is he the one who now smokes salmon?"

Dan smiled but continued, "Next to him is a retired science teacher who taught at the Lincoln Academy for 30 years, then there's Jimmy who makes a living these days as a clam digger. That's John who is a former accountant in New York City who runs a very successful steel fabricating business who has clients around the world, especially in Europe and the Middle East. Under that overhang next to the air conditioner is a minster who runs the Office of Religious and Spiritual Life at Bowdoin College in Brunswick. His wife, right next to him, is a major fundraiser for a variety of social service agencies. At the next booth is Al, a former contractor who is now a graphic designer and book publisher. You may have seen one of his own book of photographs at the bookstore in town."

While Dan paused to catch his breath, Peggy said, "And what about you? What don't I know about you?"

"By comparison I'm boring. I was a lineman for the local phone company for 35 years. Now I build wood boats. But are you getting what I'm trying to say? I could go on with who's here right now but don't you already see how diverse we are? Beyond appearances?"

"I am seeing that," Peggy said.

"And here's the big point--"

"What's that?"

"How we're all here having breakfast together. This is a place where people from all sorts of backgrounds are comfortable with each other. Know each other in many cases all our lives. Those with a lot of education and impressive careers and others who are just getting by working two, three part-time jobs."

"I must admit where I go for coffee in the morning there isn't much of this kind of diversity."

I jumped in, "When we're in the city we go to the same place for breakfast and though we love it there, pretty much everyone agrees with everyone about politics--everyone's for Hillary--to movies to restaurants."

"That's my final point," Dan said, "How right now in this room there are people with very different perspectives--of course about politics, but also about religious beliefs (or non-beliefs), what constitutes friendship and love, childrearing, favorite books, the importance of money. You'd be surprised what we talk about. And, disagree about. We know how to do that. We have to be good at that because we need each other, have to live more or less comfortably together."

"I must admit . . ."

"Don't let me mislead you. This isn't paradise here. There's also a lot of nasty stuff. A lot of family abuse, too much drug usage, some people cheat the system and lie to get public assistance. Fortunately, we don't see too many of them at Deb's. But they're here too. Some just up the road. But we try to be civil with them too." He shrugged. "They're our people and we have to want the best for them. And, if we can, be helpful. There's a lot of that. People helping out."

"Well Danny," Peggy said, "You've given me a lot to think about. And as to these two," she didn't turn to us, "back in the city I'll tell Meg not to worry about them." She let out one of her patented laughs.

"But one more thing," she said, "You mentioned politics. Don't tell me you're voting for Trump?"

"I'm very conservative, as you probably heard. That's true, and under other circumstances I would be open to that, but thanks in part to many conversations over coffee with them," he winked at Rona and me, "like you, I have a lot to think about."

Deb

August 18, 2016--Midcoast: Skunk Patrol

We had just dropped off a load at the dump, and with windows open to let the smell dissipate, we turned up the Bristol Road, heading for the diner where we hoped to run into a friend or two.

About a quarter mile north, half off the road on the right side, a car had pulled over and its four-way flashers were winking. Not unusual as there are some mailboxes there and people frequently pull over to empty them. But what was unusual was the sight of what looked like quite an old man seemingly staggering in the middle of the road, straddling both lanes.

For as far as I could see in the rearview mirror, there were no cars in sight so I moved toward the center of the road to provide at least some protection. Cars along that stretch often race along at 60 mph or more.

As we crept closer, not wanting to startle him, I saw he was carrying what looked like a long-handled tool. Perhaps a rake or shovel. Strange, I thought. Perhaps to use as a sort of crutch to steady himself as he was clearly wobbling.

"I wonder if he's sick or something," I said.

"Slow down even more," Rona said, "And watch out for oncoming traffic. Maybe pass him and pull over to the left side so with your flashers on there'll be warning lights on both sides of the road. Maybe we can help him get to the other side where he'll be safer than wandering in the middle of the highway."

"And we'll see what's going on with him. Maybe help get him to the hospital if he's having some sort of medical or neurological problem."

So I drove past him, going very slowly, and as we did I saw that he was pulling a shovel behind him. Still moving slowly with effort.

We got out of the car and approached carefully since he was not paying attention to us and we didn't want to startle him.

When ten feet away, I asked, "You OK?" He didn't respond so again I called out to him, "Are you all right?"

"Be with you in a minute," he said, sounding fully compos mentis and formal. "Just doin' what I have to."

We then noticed he was shoveling up a dead animal, roadkill, that had been squashed flat. "Looks like a skunk," Rona said. She is hypersensitive to smells in general and dead skunks are among her least  favorite. Seeing he was not in danger and didn't need any form of help, she turned toward the car but hesitated, thinking, as I was, that something unusual was going on with him and the dead skunk.

"I think we saw him in the diner yesterday," Rona whispered, "We were sitting with Ken and he came over to say hello."

That occurred to him at the same moment. "You're the New York folks from the diner."

"We were there yesterday and you introduced yourself. When we saw your car pulled over and you on the road we though to stop to see if you were OK."

"That was nice of you folks. I 'preciate that."

Traffic in both directions was light so we stepped fully off the road to talk with him. "You said you were doing what you 'have to' do," I said.

"That's what I said," he said with a shrug.

"I don't mean to pry," I said, "But you have to do this?"

"Not exactly," he said, laughing.

"Do you mind my . . . ?"

"Perfectly fine. Understandable," he said. "It's what I do. Don't really have to so I guess I mislead you. Didn't mean to. But I take care of the road. This part of it anyways. North from the dump up far as the diner. 'Bout three miles. Other folks work the road down to the lighthouse and others all the way into town. To Damariscota. Do it every morning. Lots of roadkill this time of year. Days getting shorter so animals are thinking where to settle in when it gets cold and there's less for them to forage. And there's more traffic as we get closer to Labor Day. Makes more for me to do," he smiled, "I mean taking care of the road. Keeping things here the way they should be."

"You just do this?" Rona asked.

"Don't get paid for, if that's what you mean. Just do it. I don't know how I got started but I've been doin' it for long as I can remember. My father before me."

"I have trouble with skunk odors," Rona said, "So I really appreciate you're doing this."

"I get used to it. Come to sort of like the stink, tell you the truth. So . . ."

Clearly he was ready to move on. To see what he would find further along on his was up to Bristol.

"My name's Bob by the way. Maybe," he winked, "I'll see you later at the diner."

June 7, 2016--Midcoast: The Green Stuff

"What's this I hear about you and that green stuff?"

We were at the cashiers in Reilly's with a basket full of things for dinner--steak medallions, sweet potatoes, salad, and a pint of Walpole's ice cream to a la mode the strawberry rhubarb pie Rona baked using our friend Ken's rhubarb.

Sensing our confusion, Sarah asked again, "You know that green stuff, the chili sauce I'm hearing they now have at the Bristol Diner?"

"Oh, that," Rona said. "Yes they have it. Green Dragon hot sauce from Trader Joe's in Portland from near where Sharon lives. You know, Deb's daughter. Deb, who now owns the diner. Sharon buys it there and brings it to the diner. Probably also to Deb's other place in Waldoboro."

Intrigued, I said, "You not only know about it but also that we've been liking it after spotting it at the diner a couple of days ago?"

"Well you know it's a small town here. Everybody knows whatever they want to know. The good, the bad, even the ugly. Maybe 'specially the ugly." She winked, "Not that there's that much of that."

"Oh no," Rona said, playfully.

"So it'd be worth my while to get over there to try it?"

"Could be," Rona said, "We like it so much we asked if maybe Sharon could bring us a bottle of our own. Of course we'd pay her. I'm thinking about all the things it could go with. For example, this steak and even the crab cakes we're planning for the end of the week. We'll be back for some corn for that."

"I'm not sure about the crab cakes," I said. "It could overwhelm them. They have a delicate flavor."

"I'm mixing a little with my tartar sauce," Rona insisted, "Just to spice it up a little."

Two days later when we returned to get some corn on the cob to accompany the crab cakes, Sarah was there and appeared eager to talk with us.

"Glad the place is quiet," she said. "I'm all excited."

"About?"

"The green stuff. The hot sauce from Trader Joe's. You know, what we were talking about the other day."

"Rona's been finding all sorts of things to do with it after Sharon brought us our own bottle."

"That doesn't sound bad."

"You know, on the label where they list the ingredients, it says the bottle contains 102 'servings.' I said to Rona, if we use it at our current rate we'll need another bottle by the end of next week. We've been sloshing it on everything in sight."

Rona protested, "An exaggeration, to say the least."

Still bubbling, Sarah said, "After I talked with you folks the other day, I went to the diner for breakfast."

"Sorry we missed you."

"You know my hours here so I got there real early."

"And?

"Well, the green stuff's all the rage. And I can see why. It's as you said. Everyone's talking about it. Sharon was there waitressing. She helps Deb out when she can and she was telling everyone that you liked it so much that you went for Thai food the next night because you said as a result of having Green Dragon with your eggs and hash browns you were so addicted to spicy flavors that you ordered your food at the Thai place at the four-star level."

"That's true," Rona said, "It's one star below the spiciest level."

"Everyone at the diner thought that was really funny. Though you know, now I'm thinking about how to use it. I liked it so much. I thought, would it work with stir-fried chicken, red peppers, sweet onions,  and rice? One of my go-to dishes."

"It would be amazing," Rona said. "You know what I'm thinking?"

"What's that?" I asked, not really wanting to hear.

"With the corn on the cob we're making tonight, how about rubbing some on the kernels and then in their husks roasting the corn on the grill? Sort of Mexican style."

"I don't know. Maybe we could . . ."

"What time are you serving?" Sarah laughed. Less than half in jest.

August 21, 2105--Friday at the Bristol Diner: Volvos

“We sure can use this rain,” an old-timer said, not looking up from his coffee. “If it keeps up this way for a few more hours it will do us a lot of good.”

“True,” I said. “We haven’t had any for, how long has it been now?”

“’Bout 16 days by my count. The last one we had was the first of the month. Everything‘s sort of parched.”

“Compared to last year, things have been real dry,” Rona recalled.

“True enough. One thing that makes no sense is . . .”

“The weather,” Rona said, completing his sentence.

“That too,” he said with a smile and a wink, though clearly not liking having his thought appropriated. “But don’t tell me about global warming.”

“We weren’t going to,” I said to assure him that things weren’t going to turn political so early in the morning.

Ignoring me, he said, “I know it’s going on and it isn’t any good, but not when it comes to the day-to-day.”

“I’m not sure you’re right about that,” I said in spite of knowing that I might be entering tender territory, “Just the other day I was reading in the Times that . . .”

Rona was poking me under the counter and so instead of hurtling forward I took a big gulp of coffee.

“Read that too he said,” surprising me. I wouldn’t have taken him for a New York Times reader. “They did make a case for that. That some of the weather we’ve been experiencing lately—the storm and floods and in other places the droughts—might be caused by that. But not that it hasn’t rained here, in how long has it been?” He smiled at Rona.

“I think 16 days,” I said, also smiling, relieved not to have to get myself all riled up so early in the morning.

“Quite something,” he said, nodding toward the window, “Where the sun is low in the sky is over Monhegan Island. Lots of artists made their way there. The Wyeths and Winslow Homer and even old Ed Hopper. Did I tell you I knew him?” We shook our heads. “Not all that well, but well enough to run him back and forth when I had my boat. I did some line fishing in my day. Lots of cod out there then. Pretty much all fished out by now. Sort of like what’s happenin’ with global warming when you think about it.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to,” I stammered.

“That’s OK,” he said. “You and I are pretty much on the same page about that.” And with that, with some difficulty, he lifted himself from the stool. “That arthritis gets me every time,” he chuckled, “But got to get going anyway. Too much to do to linger with you folks. Though I enjoyed talking with you. Have as nice a day as you can.” And with that he was gone.

“I like him,” Rona said. “A little cranky but that’s how I generally am before I’ve had my coffee.”

“I agree,” I said, “We’ve been running into so many people like him up here. Friendly, but they also keep a bit of a distance.”

“As I would,” Rona said, “If I was a ‘native,’ so to speak. They have a long history here of having mixed feelings about people like us. ‘Cottage people,’ is how they refer to us. They depend upon us for the money we bring to the local economy but see them, or truthfully us, as also not always respecting their way of life. Wanting to do things our way.”

“Too often insensitively. I was reading the other day that along the coast here in many towns, including ours, there are now more outsiders than local people. And that this is even changing some town governments. Seasonable people register to vote here and manage to get recent residents elected to town boards and things like that.”

“Which often means,” Rona said, “that they want to keep things the way they are—rural and rustic and ‘charming’—while some who have been here for generations want to see the economy modernize so their children can find good jobs and be able to buy houses and stay here rather than feeling they have to leave and go to Portland or out of state to find work. It’s complicated.”

“True enough. On the way here this morning I saw a car in the parking lot with a bumper sticker that said:

Save A Lobster
Boil A Tourist.

"A little hostile but I guess it captures what some feel.” Rona nodded as she paid the check.

Back in the parking lot, based on our conversation about local people and outsiders, I said, “Let’s look at license plates to see who’s here.”

Even a quick survey revealed mainly Massachusetts, New York, and New Jersey cars.

“And look,” Rona said, “Look at the kinds of cars.”

I glanced around. “Mainly Subarus and Volvos and various kinds of SUVs and pickup trucks. But Subarus are clearly the vehicle of choice. Everyone seems to need, or want, four-wheel drive. It’s better in the snow.”

“How many of these people do you think are here in the winter? Who from New York is going to trek up here at that time? I’ll bet none. I think it’s an affectation.”

“An affectation?”

“Yeah, as a way of seeming intrepid. You know, ‘We have this place up in Maine and it’s so rural and remote and rugged that we need a 4WD to get up the road that leads to our place.’ I can just hear that.”

“Probably true. Look, even when we were looking for a car last year a Subaru was on my list of ones to consider. But then we reminded ourselves that we’ll never be here in the winter and though our cottage is on a dirt road we hardly need four-wheel drive.”

“So, what did we consider? Volvos of course. The other car of choice. And the one we finally bought, the Volkswagon.”

“Didn’t we agree at the time that we didn’t want to look like flatlanders? Folks from out of state? Or too yuppified? So that took Volvos off the list.”

“We even debated getting an American car. A Ford, which most of the locals drive.”

“But I said, we’re not locals and shouldn’t even think of trying to pass ourselves off as that. And I think American cars still have a ways to go before they’re as reliable as European or Japanese cars.”

“So we got the VW, which is working out well.”

Feeling good about ourselves we headed toward our Passat. “Look,” I said. “See how it’s getting all muddy. Talk about fitting in. Which cars here aren’t a mess? Interesting how when we’re other places we can’t wait to get it washed and detailed but up here the muddier the better.”

While I was opining about the virtues of mud, Rona whispered to me, “Look at that. Over there. Look what’s going on in that Volvo. The one between the two Subarus.”

I assumed she was pointing out a summer-peoples’ vehicular trifecta—a massing of Subarus and Volvos. “No, not the kind of cars but what that women from New York is doing on the back of her Volvo wagon.”

The hatch was up and from what I could see she was trying to load something into it. “I should go and help her. It looks as if she’s alone and struggling with something.”

“Not with what you think. Decidedly not an antique chair, if that's what you're thinking.” In fact that’s what I thought was going on. “Take a closer look. She’s far from alone and I don’t think she’d welcome your help.”

I moved past Rona so I could get a better look and saw that on the floor of the open hatch she had set up a changing mat, and wiggling on it was an infant whose soiled diaper she had just expertly removed.

“How clever,” I said. Rona nodded in agreement and I sensed she was tempted to go over to help or take a closer look. “If you’re going to have one of these kind of cars put it to good use.”

“And she surely is,” Rona added.

“But still,” I said, “I’m glad we didn’t get one of them.”

“A baby?” Rona was not understanding me as she was so engrossed in what was going on.

“You’re being silly,” I said. “Of course not. I mean a Volvo. Though I can now see its virtues.”

First posted August 18, 2010

August 7, 2015--Friday at the Bristol Diner: Tony Said

He said, "I don't care."

"You mean you'd vote for someone who won't tell you what he'd do about immigration?"

"I told you," he said, beginning to get heated, "I don't care. I really don't."

Jack, who was sitting opposite Tony, stared at him.

"It's his biggest issue. His political claim to fame."

"How many times do I have to tell you, I don't care.

"Or what he would do about the Middle East." With that Tony turned to the window and started humming.

"Can you believe this?" I asked Jack who shrugged and shook his head.

"You're from New York, right?" Tony turned back to us. I nodded. "You remember that skating rink in Central Park?" It didn't register at first. "It was an ice rink. The city owned it."

"It's coming back to me," I said, knowing now where this was headed.

"There was some sort of a problem with it. The cooling system. It made slurry, not ice. For years. I forget how many, the city kept trying to fix it. Spent millions. Maybe over five years but still no ice. My boy, Donald Trump, The Donald, said he couldn't take it any more. He said he'd fix it and pay for it himself."

"I remember that," Jack said.

"Again, I don't remember how long it took. At most a few months. That was years ago. As far as I know the ice machine is still working."

"It is," I admitted.

"So now you know why I'm for him. He knows how to get things done."

"You don't care what those things are that you believe he can get done? Like what he would do to 'get things done'," I made air quotes, "with the 10 million illegal immigrants who are here--hundreds of whom I assume mow the grass on his golf courses?"

"I know he got in all sorts of trouble when he said the Mexicans here are murderers. That was ridiculous."

"And so?"

"And so, as I said, I don't care. Don't get me wrong, we should figure out what to do with all the illegals--most are doing work that none of us would want to do. Like pick lettuce in the hot sun. And I believe that Trump would figure that out."

"You mean like fixing the ice skating rink?" Jack asked.

"I know they're not the same thing. I'm not that deluded."

"So what are you then?" I said, "It feels as if you drank the Trump Kool Aid."

"Maybe I did, but let me put it to you another way--The other candidates, from both parties, have all sorts of position papers about immigration and education and the environment. But we know that once they get into office they never get done what they promise to do. Maybe in their first year or two a new president can get a few things through Congress. Whatever you think about those policies. But after that all those position papers and their speeches about this or that mean nothing. And then we're left with a president who can't get anything approved and who has to fall back on whatever ability he has--forgive me, she or he has--to get things done."

"Like what?" Jack asked. "Give me an example or two of what Trump could get done after he realizes he can't get anything through what will for sure continue to be a gridlocked Congress?"

"Well, first of all, as someone who knows how to get things done on a large scale, the people he hires--appoints--to say the Cabinet: the secretary of state, of the treasury, health, education would be the same kind of get-it-done people he hires to build his hotels and casinos and condos and golf courses. People, who if they don't get the job done, get fired."

"You mean people like his daughter, Ivanka?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Yeah, like her. Like Kennedy appointing his brother attorney general. remember that? Though with that I suspect you didn't have a problem." He winked, knowing he had made a good point. "Look, no matter who wins, Democrat or Republican, no matter how much they cut the budget, there's still lots of money around to do things with. Like rebuild the infrastructure. Not all the money you or I might like, but enough to make at least a bit of a difference. Wouldn't you admit that for doing that--fixing our roads--Donald Trump would do a better job than Jeb Bush or your Hillary?"

I couldn't disagree with that. "But what about foreign policy?" Jack asked, "You'd trust him to be commander in chief? He doesn't even know where Iran is on the map."

"First of all you don't know that. You're just being partisan. We need to get away from that--making everything partisan--and focus on fixing things as best as can be done. Like our southern border which is still like a sieve after decades of politicians promising to fix it. Again, who would you prefer to work on that? Bush? Walker? Rand Paul? Ben Carson? Or Trump? I vote for Trump."

"That's clear," Jack said with a sigh. "Before I have to leave, here's more ammunition for you."

"I'm all ears."

"I forgot where I read it earlier this week, but some columnist for the Times or Washington Post said that Trump is the first post-policy candidate."

"A what?"

"Post-policy. He was making your point. That it doesn't matter what his so-called polices are. Or even if he has any. All that matters is what people believe about him. Like you--you believe he can get things done. You're not interested in the specifics of what that means. Just that you believe he can. That a lot of people are fed up with 10-point plans to fix our education system or white papers about creating jobs. Trump is attractive because he gives you and many others the feeling of competence and a certain kind of hope for a better future, a better America."

"Now you're talking."

July 17, 2105--Fridays at the Bristol Diner: No Real News

“You get the Lincoln County News, don’t you?”

“Yes, every Thursday when it comes out,” I said, “We look forward to it. It’s where we find out about tag sales and of course the local news.”

“Exactly,” Char said. She’s a graphic artist who also works part time at the Bristol Diner.

“I was reading there last week,” Rona said, “about how lightening struck the Cheney Insurance company chimney. Right on Main Street. They’re our agents and we were glad to read that they took their own advice and were adequately insured!”

“It’s right down the street from the church which has been raising money for the last two years to replace the steeple that toppled in a big storm,” I said. “Lucky it didn’t get hit again ‘cause they’d have to start all over. That guy who has been camped out in front of the bookstore all summer trying to raise money would have to get back to work.”

“I’m glad to see you guys are getting into the spirit of this place,” Char said, “ Paying attention to lightening strikes and local causes.”

“We’re trying,” Rona said.

“One thing I like about being here,” Char said, “is that though through TV and the Internet it’s easy to keep up with news of the world, the paper that everyone reads, The Lincoln County News, doesn’t include any ‘real news.’”

Char made a gesture in the air to indicate quotation marks around “real news.” She is actually very well read and up-to-speed about all things national as well as local, but we have been here long enough to get her full meaning—people have a different perspective on what’s important.

They pay attention to and care as much as New Yorkers about the state of the economy (and feel it more directly than most of the people we know in the city) and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan (actually they are more likely than we to know soldiers fighting and dying there), but they also pay a great deal attention to local issues—the big, the small, and the amusing.

And since the LCN is the paper of choice here, I thought to share some of the stories from last week’s paper:

The lead story was about the state of the lobster fishing business. In a word, not good.

Though the lobstermen of North End Lobster Co-Op on Westport Island noted improvements in catch volumes this season, according to Stott Carlton, captain of the Edna Mae, “Our expenses have gone up [for fuel and bait], but what we get paid for our lobsters hasn’t changed significantly in 10 years. In fact, if anything, it’s gone down.”

Then there’s the big flap about the guy in our town who has a large piece of land on which he wants to create a wolf refuge. Yes, a place where wolves can thrive and partake of the natural environment of which they were once a part before they were thinned out and ultimately driven entirely away as the result of more and more settlement.

He doesn’t have a spread big enough to assure his neighbors that their property too will not become an unintended part of that refuge and thus threaten their pets and their livestock, not to mention their children. It turns out that the Town of Bristol does not have zoning laws about this and it is not clear if they now want to institute them. This is after all a small-government kind of place.

So on this goes. I am sure the paper will have more to report about the wolves next week. Between now and then there will be no Breaking News about this to interrupt our lives.

It was good to learn, also on the front page, about Chloe Maxmin, a Nobleboro teenager who was one of ten national winners of the Barron Prize which honors youths between 8 and 18 years of age “who have made a significant positive difference in people and our planet.” Winners receive $2,500 for their higher education or to help fund a service project. Chloe’s will focus on global warming and she plans to use the money in part to pay for her upcoming three-month conservation project in South America.

On the other hand, also in Nobleboro, local folks were sad to learn that the more than 100-year-old grange hall is up for sale. In rural America grange halls were centers of community life, hosting countless lunches, suppers, and social events. In the not-too-distant past many a young man met his future bride at a grange hall Box Social.

But in recent years, these sorts of things have gone out of style and attendance at grange hall events has declined to the point where the Nobleboro folks do not any longer turn out in sufficient numbers to meet the legal quorum requirements to retain their grange hall charter. Meetings must be held regularly and at least seven members have to be present. This minimum requirement has turned out to be difficult to attain. And so, if you’re in the market for a grange hall to convert into a whatever, there’s one unhappily for sale right nearby.

Page Two includes a story from Jefferson. If you’ve had your quota of bad news for the day, skip on down past this one since it’s about an old oak tree that was cut down on Carol Kirchdorfer’s property without her permission. Seems the outgoing road commissioner decided to remove it. He was defeated in the recent local election and was not not be found and so no explanation was forthcoming. This did not satisfy Ms. Kirchdorfer, though she admitted that, “He did leave us a big pile of woodchips.” With cold weather approaching, there’s a lot to be said for putting in lots of woodchips.

Meanwhile, over in South Bristol there is concern about the status of the pump on one of their fire trucks. To repair it would cost $60,000 to $80,000. The truck could also use a new water tank and the breaks need rebuilding. But money is real tight here as everywhere and the Board of Selectmen is hesitant to authorize the repairs. They do have two other pumpers in excellent condition and it was decided to wait until the town can again build up its reserve fund while keeping an eye out for a used one. Selectman Chester Rice said, “Some towns are getting some pretty good fire trucks for little or near nothing.” Sounds like a plan to me.

Tucked near the bottom of the page is an announcement—

Rick Genthner of Nobleboro and Beth Estes of Damariscotta, big sisters Kathryn Estes and Gabby Genthner, and grandparents Anne Gabel and Dave Ellis of Nobleboro and Rick and Debbie Genthner of Bremen are pleased to announce the arrival of a baby boy, Nicholas Creighton Genthner, born on Sept 20 at 12:42 p.m. at Miles Memorial Hospital weighing 6 lbs., 9 oz.

Deeper in the first section where sports news is to be found there's nary a mention of the Red Sox not making it to the postseason and of course even less (actually nothing) about the hated Yankees, but there are a full two pages devoted to how local junior high and high school teams are faring.

In boys’ soccer Medomak Junior High picked up their third win of the young season, defeating Rockland 2-1. In girls’ soccer, however, Camden handed Medomak its first defeat, shutting them out 1-0.

Over on the Sheepscot Links, I read about how the local golf teams are doing. In the Senior Scramble (don’t ask me to explain), the winning team included Mark Petela, Bob Bell, Janet Ray, and Al Gifford.  Dan Walenta had the longest drive for men and for the women, Janet Ray. Closest to the pin was Kathy Sproul, who landed her chip shot on the 2nd hole only 10 feet, two inches from the pin; while on number 8, Tom Simmons came within 7 feet, 3 inches of holing out.

If the weather stays good, we can expect more of the same next week.

And, yes, the paper also typically contains news about car accidents, injuries, aggravated assaults, and the inevitable obituaries; but not a word about Afghanistan (unless a local soldier returns from a tour of duty) or Christine O’Donnell’s latest electoral aberration in the Delaware Senate race or don’t ask, don’t tell.

That’s waiting out there and can be gathered from other sources, as Char the other morning pointed out.  You can always find ways to get “real news.” In the meantime, I read that Lincoln Academy’s boy’s soccer team will be taking on their traditional rival Medomak in Saturday’s Homecoming game; and since the forecast is calling for it to be sunny with temperatures in the high 60s, maybe we’ll drive over to catch the first half.

We can’t stay for the whole match since at the Pumpkinfest in Nobleboro they’ll be having their annual Pumpkin Chunking contest to see who can chunk a pumpkin the furthest and later in the afternoon they’ll be turning some of the biggest pumpkins from last weekend’s weigh-off into boats that they will then race in the Pumpkin Boat regatta in the Damariscotta Harbor on Sunday. If you’re wondering about pumpkins serving as boats, the winner at the weigh-off came in at an astonishing 1,414 pound and was more than 15 feet in circumference.

And if that isn’t enough for us to do we still have the Pumpkin Catapult to look forward to and the Underwater Pumpkin Carving Contest, also in the Damariscotta River.

So if any of our friends back in New York or down in Florida are concerned that we don’t have enough going on or are insufficiently stimulated I suggest you look at the Lincoln County News’ website and think about driving up here for Saturday’s Pumpkin Dessert Contest.

This first appeared October 6, 2010.

Thursday, July 16, 2015 Serving Maine and Lincoln County for over a century. Volume 140 Issue 29

July 10, 2105--Fridays at the Bristol Diner: The Meaning of Life

"I'm not interested in the meaning of life."

"That surprises me, Paul. I think of you as a thoughtful, self-reflective guy. And also a little philosophically-minded. I would have thought the meaning of life would be of great interest to you."

"Maybe this will help," he said, though I wasn't pressing him to be helpful, "Though I may not be interested in that big-picture question, I am very interested in how to live a meaningful life." He paused to let that sink in and then said, "Get the distinction?"

I didn't feel the need to answer and he went on anyway, "Look, I'm in my mid-60s and have tapered off from work. What do I have, maybe 20 more good years. If I'm lucky. With my family history, probably 10 to 15. I'm passed the-meaning-of-life stage. I'm not religiously oriented. Never one to get too involved with any of that, including any more, personal belief systems. So I'm thinking about  just living. How to live meaningfully."

I didn't really disagree but I wanted to make this a bit more complicated, nuanced. "You say there is a  distinction between the two. I'm not sure I see it that way. Living meaningfully implies, doesn't it, that the way you choose to live--meaningfully--is derived from what you believe to be the meaning of life. I see them connected in that way."

I looked over at him while he thought this through.

"I can see your point but here's mine--Chasing after the meaning of life inevitably means seeking connections to something really big, maybe even something universal. Like following the Golden Rule. Guided by it to live so that you do unto others . . . You know the rest."

"Yes. To live meaningfully, as you put it, means, doesn't it, that unless you find meaning in things that are self-involving and pleasurable (and I know you well enough to know that's not you), if you have something resembling a humane or ethical core--and I think you do--that what you find meaningful does in fact connect to something else, often something bigger, even if not universal. Something at least close to the meaning of life?"

He peered at me seemingly thinking. I let a few beats go by and then asked, "So, what do you say?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm into pursuing happiness. The other day was July 4th, right, and our Founders in the Declaration of Independence put that on the list that also included life and liberty."

"What do you think they meant by happiness? What was happiness to them? Surely not what many today think constitutes happiness--pleasure-seeking, doing their thing, adventure, acquiring stuff, sex, drugs. And to be fair, less controversially, things like family, reading, pursuing culture and . . ."

"I'm OK with much of that," Paul said, interrupting me. "I'm OK with folks doing their thing. As long as they're not harming anyone or anything or making demands on others or encroaching on anyone's territory. And here I'm not just talking about property but . . ."

"You do know, don't you, that Jefferson's first draft of the Declaration said that all men--men--are created equal and entitled to life, liberty, and property? Not only is what finally emerged--life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness a better sentence," I smiled at him, knowing how he reveres Jefferson, "but they may have thought that there was a connection between property and happiness."

"Well, to them, if you didn't have property you couldn't be a full, participating citizen. Jefferson's yeomen."

"But let's get away from early American history and get back to your pursuit of a meaningful life because I think it may have things in common with that pre-revolutionary meaning of happiness. Pursuing happiness," I returned to that in spite of saying we should move on, "suggests a life of meaning, and not one that's just pleasure-driven. In fact, other than Hamilton and his Federalist followers, Jefferson and others hated the idea of a life of commerce and materialistic striving. They wanted us to be good citizens above all else and find happiness largely in that. Very Roman."

"I don't see why you keep saying, or at least implying, that my interest in a meaningful life is not to be a good citizen or take care of my property and family--another important piece of the meaning equation--means all I care about are empty pleasures. I'm not really sybaritic or materialistic--though I confess to liking nice things--I don't think I take advantage of or ignore people who are struggling or less fortunate than I. I even try to do a little helping. So what's wrong with my loving my music and reading and gardening and all the good and healthy foods I prepare or, as I said, how I love and enjoy being with my family and fiends--even you," he said with an exaggerated wink."

"I'll concede you all that."

"But I won't go along with your insisting that I somehow have to be interested in higher pursuits if my life is to be meaningful. I'll stack my music and the things I love to read against anyone or anything who claims that there are higher things which are needed to guide a meaningful life. All the codes, all the so-called sacred texts to me were written by men--not by God or gods--and are no more valid as guides to the good or meaningful life than the things I've discovered on my own."

He had became a little heated and I didn't want to press him that much further. But, I said, "I too believe that sacred texts and moral codes such as Hammurabi's or Leviticus and Deuteronomy are all man-made. But they do distill a lot of wisdom and are thus worth taking into serious consideration even when attempting to living a meaningful life disconnected from the meaning-of-life."

"With that, we've come full circle," Paul said, easing himself up out of the booth. "Stiff joints," he grimaced.

"Sorry to have kept you so long," I apologized.

He waved me off, "I always enjoy talking to you, even though at times you make me crazy."

June 19, 2015--Best of Behind: The Jam Garage

A companion piece to "The Dump," this was first posted June 14, 2010--

After establishing a relationship with the town dump, next on our list of settling-in priorities was a visit to the Jam Garage.

This probably requires some explanation.

Wherever we are we are addicted to finding an indigenous place to go for breakfast. Half the reason we bought this cottage on the Midcoast of Maine was because of the Bristol Diner. A tiny hole-in-the-wall kind of establishment right across the road from the town hall, which, even before we entered it for the first time, had the look which conveyed the promise that we would encounter a diverse, very local clientele. And that, with a little luck, the people we would meet would be friendly and welcoming. So that we could have some instant social life and learn about the area in addition to finding good coffee and whatever the chef might throw together.

Well the chef-co-owner, Doug, does a lot more than throw things together. What he prepares for breakfast and lunch is blue-plate exceptional. Saturday morning, for example, I had one of his legendary egg dishes. This one scrambled eggs saturated with chopped sautéed asparagus (still crunchy), browned onions, sprigs of fresh thyme, and melted-in layers of Parmigiana cheese. All accompanied by a side of perfect hash-brown potatoes and a homemade biscuit. Um, um.

And the people—the wait staff and the regulars, which we quickly became—are as fine as the eats. There is Doug himself. Of west coast origin he is in Bristol now fresh from a stint of living in Alaska, and is not only a gifted chef but an accomplished artist and wit. Both are in evidence on the walls and diner’s chalkboard. “We Don’t Serve Fast Food” one sign proclaims, “We Serve Good Food As Fast As We Can.” And in case one day you are looking for soup at lunch, Doug, on another sign, tells you that the Soup of the Day is “No Soup.” But he will also let you know that they do have soupspoons for the daily chili.

His art is also on display. Currently, intricate ink line drawings that appear to have been influenced by what he must have seen and experienced among the native people in Alaska and the northwest. Mysterious and haunting stuff.

Crystal McLain, the other co-owner, is the place’s guiding spirit. And I mean both “guiding” and “spirit” literally. When in attendance, she is the diner’s impresario. When not there, she is pursuing her rapidly budding career with an ever-growing clientele as a licensed massage therapist. But to just encounter her at the diner is like receiving a massage of good cheer, ever-resilient optimism, and doses of wisdom that belie her years. And she makes sure, in her impresario way, that everyone feels paid attention to and gets to know each other. Shyness is not acceptable behavior when Crystal is in attendance and gliding between and among the three booths, two tables, and the six or seven stools at the counter.

It is not an uncommon occurrence that the10 to 12 of us who might be there at any time are all together engaged in a conversation that might be about the state of lobstering, the local primary elections, the latest show at the Farnsworth Museum, the Celtic-Lakers series, or the affects of social networking on American culture. All conversations from last Saturday morning.

And engaged in that conversation might be, as it was then, a former successful New York City accountant, John, who now with his son runs an international manufacturing company that produces world-class manways (look it up) and seems to have read pretty much everything important; Rod, a retired school superintendent from Ohio, who the other day had a lot of insight to share about the plague of bullying; a former contractor, Al, who specialized in the design and construction of huge spaces who now does lots of things, very much including producing books of his photos that do a remarkable job of capturing the beauty of this place and the lives of the people who work the waters (his latest, just published, is about Muscongus Bay); a former employee of a locally-owned telephone company, Ken, who has the driest wit around (and there is a hot contest here for that coveted title); a South Bristol women with roots that go back more than 300 years who, though she does not have the most worldly goods, doesn’t pursue them or keep score that way, but has devoted her life to the care of others and does so with so much generosity of spirit that if the encyclopedia needs an illustration for the Golden Rule a picture of Lynn would do very nicely; and then of course Rona and me, hanging out, sharing the conviviality. Fully welcomed by these wonderful people and the many others who make their way to the Bristol a few mornings a week. They make us feel part of their community, as if we have lived here all our lives.

We by now are fully ensconced and settled in there every day at the counter or in one of the cozy booths. So if you are in the neighborhood (and I recommend it) be sure to stop by. Doug has lots of good coffee waiting and the best hash ever, which I could go on about at some length but will restrain myself.

But what does any of this have to do with the Jam Garage?

Though all the food at the Bristol, as you’ve seen, is to write about, the jam, in little plastic punnets, though Smuckers, is, well, still Smuckers.

I don’t blame Doug. He keeps his prices affordable and those little things are cost-effective, control portions, and are easy to clean up. Homemade jam in jars or pots is more than anyone is entitled to expect. Thus, thankfully, about five miles from here, there is Simply Delicious Jams where we get incandescent homemade preserves. These are found just down the Pemaquid Harbor Road (of if you’re not at the moment nearby, you can order them on line via jamlady@earthlink.com). I recommend the Marion Blackberry. The self-titled Jam Lady sells them unattended from her garage. Thus, the Jam Garage.

On beautiful display she has Maine Wild Blueberry, distilled from those ubiquitous late summer local delicacies; Maine Strawberry and Maine Strawberry-Rhubarb (my second favorite); Old Fashioned Peach (I lied, this is my second favorite); Pure Raspberry (Rona’s choice); and, among a few others, Blackberry-Pomegranate (a little exotic for me in these climes). They range in price from $5.00 to $7.00 a mason jar and you pay by the honor system. There’s a box to stuff the bills into and in a large bowl there are a couple of fistfuls of quarters for change. Just perfect.

We began going there a couple of years ago and quickly became addicted to the jams that we take with us to the diner where they are an ideal accompaniment to Doug’s biscuits, muffins, and, especially the blueberry, to his steaming stacks of pancakes.

But the Jam Garage is not just about jam. There is something else about the place that draws us. Set in a meadow that lopes gently to Lockhart Cove, it also partakes, in that rural splendor, of the magic of theater. Like a stage set, the jams appear each day as if by magic. The door rolls up with no stagehand or jam-maker in sight like a proscenium curtain set in motion by a timer switch that must be secured within the house; and the lighting is so dramatically designed, as it would be for some screen ingénue, to show off the jams’ best side. Even if they were not so delicious, rather simply delicious, the setting and the lighting alone would cause one to stop and try a jar of Patriots Blend, which is, as the brochure puts it, concocted from “New England’s two native berries—Blueberries and Cranberries—with a hint of Orange.”

Also intriguing, though we have made our way through enough of the Jam Lady’s jam to bring us back there at least a dozen times, we have never caught site of her of anyone else. Which is a surprise because her acres of meadows and gardens and berry patches are in perfect order. Just like the garage and the jams and her house and everything in sight. This unattendedness, the sense of peace it instills, only contribute to the illusion that the jams are products of artifice and nature—they are there like the grass and trees and bushes and wild flowers and the air and breezes off the cove. But also, like the gardens, tended to and shaped by the hand of man. Or in this case, woman.

We are thus left to imagine her and her life.

She must of course be from a long-established family. Going back at least a hundred years; or perhaps like Lynn from South Bristol, her people were among the original settlers. Thus the Jam Lady’s recipes must have been passed down across many generations. Maybe even the local Indians, who for the most part were friendly, taught her ancestors some of their ways. How to cultivate the wild berries so as to assure a bountiful crop year after year and thus could serve as a carbohydrate staple in their diet and thereby help fend off the inevitable scarcities that are a consequence of the long and harsh Maine winters.

And then, considering the homestead’s location near some of the best fishing grounds in early America, some great, great great-grandfather would have taken to the sea to fish for the bountiful herring or another relative from the distant past would have taken up ship building. Around these parts then, and still, some of the new country’s best wood-hulled boats—schooners then, lobster boats and cruising yachts now—were constructed from the native oak and spruce and hickory.

Maybe a great, great-uncle had taught in one of the area’s first normal schools or been pastor of the South Bristol Congressionalist Church. Or a great aunt had been a nurse in the Second World War and another had been the town’s first female lawyer.

Rona and I build up quite an imaginative head of steam while contemplating that Jam Garage. Something special for sure happened there, well before there were garages, and is, we are convinced, continuing until at least today.