May 29, 2020--Maine: From Away

This is from Jill Davenport, another good Maine friend. She is writing in response to what Mike Stevens said the other day about people "from away" returning to Maine for this virus-infected "season."


Hi Steven--

I just now read your blog and saw the picture of our Maine friend, Mike Stevens.  He lends the same sort of perspective about us summer residents as do some other friends of mine who live year-round near Pumpkin Cove.  They, too, have offered help during the two-week quarantine which we must all live through if coming from out-of-state.  

And they, as do Mike and Mary, have a friendly acceptance of us cottage dwellers and have given assurances that we are missed and welcome to return.  

Perhaps all of the caveats rolled out by the state apply to those who could be transient and careless, like the beach-goers on the southern NH beaches or the fools who crowd together in bars.  

Our Maine friends and acquaintances need us and the economic boost we bring.  Though no beaches for this girl.  

Think about Thrumcap Island in Johns Bay.  Think about Rona's honeysuckle and clematis and the pot holes in the road and then think about the sweetness of the simple life and the pleasure which this brings.  

We need Maine but Maine needs us too.  The effort to get there will be worth it.  Just ask the clematis.   

Love to you both.

Jill

February 18, 2019--Seething Sort of Muted Rage

A great friend, Jill Davenport, sent the following note late last week. 

She attached a posting from the Daily Kos blog which, as you can see, brought her to a calmer place when thinking about the state of our politics and nation.

It did the same for me and I thought it might do so for you. So here it is--

Morning, Steven . . . 

This piece from Kos made me think about you and Rona and your Bristol Diner breakfasts.  I sincerely hope that this is not a piece of fiction designed to give some respite to those of us who are weary from the constant whiplash of hope risen and hope dashed.  And it gives something of a pass to the MAGA-hats who were duped and who now seem redeemable.  No passes given out for the vultures sitting in Congress, though, nor to those who profit from the sweat of others.   

Sorry to press this upon you.  It’s an easy read and well-written despite the author’s insistence that he can’t write "too good."  He writes good.  The piece has put me into a calmer place where I can look upon the impending "National Emergency” as a “go ahead and do it” proposition.  Any touchstone for hope will work for me--

--We the 99% got money issues to worry about.

So yeah I’m not usually a dairist here, and my writing skills leave something to be desired. I’m analog and not very digital and fat fingers can produce interesting grammatical errors that leave the more gifted wincing, not to mention spelling. My mind out races my fingers frequently and I rarely think to edit.  Consider this your warning about wondering narrative ahead. It’s tax time, and Trump time, and valentines night out for a lot of people isn’t happening this year. Trigger warning: I am going to give you some actual conversation as verbatim as I can.

Some might find this offensive.

So I have finally gotten all the snow cleared from where I didn’t want it, cleared a space for the danger doofus doggo to do her business without freezing tender areas and was very hungry and did not want to cook and wanted biscuits and gravy with two over-easy on top. So off to the local greasy spoon I went. The place was packed with guys like me 40+ white working class/farmers, hey it’s rural Wisconsin, and they were all bitching about one thing. Taxes. 

It wasn’t the quietly disgruntled sort of mildly irritated bitching. It was a seething sort of muted rage that comes from people who are seriously pissed and are looking for someone to blame kind of bitching.

Then ol’ Chuck Grassley appears on the TV pontificating about taxes. Ho Boy. Spark meet gasoline. Even the owner and waitresses lost their shit. I think “Bald faced fucking liar” was the mildest term I heard used and that was a waitress.

Could be wrong though. It was loud. 

Everyone and I do mean every single person in that establishment started comparing just what they had to cough up in taxes or just how small their return was going to be if they got one compared to last years. People were going to be short 5k minimum on their refunds. Others were in the hole to the IRS up to 12k. Vacations were being canceled. Repairs and purchases are being postponed. Vehicles are not going to be purchased. 

Then the farmers started bitching about who they were going to sell soybeans to. What should they plant? Corn? Soybeans? It’s time to order seed you know. How can I make a profit if I can’t sell what I grow? Is this China shit going to be sorted out soon? Who gives a fuck about a border wall I need fucking laborers. Does that fat orange bastard really know what the fuck he’s doing? 50% of these people voted for Trump. Now granted there were some MAGA hat wearing folks in there and a couple spouted off about staying the course and talking points. My did that go over well. Not.

Long story short they eventually brought up her e-mails. Whoopsie. An older farmer who could probably buy the place stood up and said his piece.

“You voted for Republicans in 2016 because you were angry about a black man being president for eight years and there was no damned way you were going to have a woman, let alone that woman be president. You got what you wanted. It wasn’t just that shitbag Trump. It was Republicans in the House of Representatives and Republicans in the Senate that drafted these tax laws you’re all cryin’ about. You’re stupid. You never learned nothing. You don’t look at history.

Republicans ALWAYS do what really rich people tell’em to. It ain’t about fags, blacks, Jesus, God, her emails, abortions, guns, or any of that other shit they holler about. Religious freedom don’t need no special laws it’s right there in that Constitution they keep spittin’ on. It’s about the money. It’s about how they can take your money and give it to people who flat don’t fucking need it. All of you need to grow up and take responsibility for your damned government. 2018 was a damned fine year. Democrats in charge of Congress again.”

Then Mr. MAGA Major bigmouth just had to say it, “What about that Pelosi bitch and all them (n----r) women in congress? They’re going to wreck it!”

Farmer: “Son you’d best be grateful that Pelosi bitch is a mean ol’ bitch and those women are serious about government. They’re the ones going to save your stupid ass from yourself. How you going to cover that tax bill you owe Bill? You need a loan? Maybe next year this time we’ll have us a real honest set of tax laws. Then again maybe you like paying this much in taxes every year? No? Thought not.”

Exit the farmer. A badass first class taking no shit from anyone farmer. 

It got real quiet for about 30 seconds as the man paid his tab and left. Then a new kind of hum started building in the place. the kind that made me grin and made the MAGA boys nervous. And to think what that farmer would have said about Mueller? Now there, yes there is something I’d like to have a sit down and listen to. Maybe I can have that after I go see him about what he’ll be asking for half a beef.

Jill too writes good. 

June 19, 2018--Donuts On My Chest All Day

Whenever I write about donuts I always get a big response. One email after my posting last week about the Nobleboro Village Store just said, "Yum."

One can't have enough good sources for donuts and so I am pleased to receive suggestions for other places to try. Like, from one friend, the Willow Bake Shoppe in Rockport, Maine, though I am skeptical about the authenticity of any place that spells shop shoppe.

From all these responses it must be true, as I claimed, that donuts are one of the five essential food groups. Pizza being another.

And thus I was happy to receive a note from a dear friend who is a long-time resident of this area, the Pemaquid Peninsular. Her family owned much of the land near the lighthouse and Jill Davenport comes from a long line of storytellers. She also has a wonderful sense of local history. Including about donuts.

Her Uncle Basil was a scholar, anthologist, and weaver of gothic tales. He also was a sort of pied piper to the local children of Pemiquid who loved to huddle with him as he regailed them with shimmering stories. Acting all the parts.

Her mother, Gwen Davenport was a very widely-read novelist. She was the author in 1947 of Belvedere, which formed the basis for a series of movies, including, my favorite, Mr. Belvedere Rings the Bell, and a successful TV series.

And her father, John Davenport, in 1949, in The New Yorker, published an amusing piece, "Slurvian Self-Taught.

He is an excerpt--

Listening to a Hollywood radio commentator the writer heard her say that she had just returned from a Yerpeen trip and had had a lovely time nittly. He readily understood that she had just returned from a European trip and had had a lovely time in Italy. Speaking in this manner is Slurvian. 

The writer has made a study of it and includes a number of examples, including words that when spelled as pronounced make good English words other than the ones they are supposed to be such as bean for human being, form for forum, and lore for lower. 

Then, from Jill Davenport, here is what she wrote about the local donut situation--

The great and worthy donut finds life in small New England kitchens and only faintly resembles its more modern counterpart, the puffy and overly sweet confection found in all its manifestations at Dunkin Donuts.

When I was a small child, my grandmother would sometimes take me to what is now the Seagull Shop, adjacent to the Pemiquid lighthouse, for a breakfast treat. We would sit at the counter and we had donuts. These were small, brown, modest and they ran rings around any donut I've tasted since. 

The old donut was unglazed, looked overdone and its appearance hardly generated the swiftly indrawn breath of anxious expectation which a more spectacular donut might have done. But sink your teeth into its unprepossessing surface and bear witness to a rather juicy crunch imparted by its trip through the hot grease, and to a cinnamonish flavor unequaled in today's world of fat donuts so devoid of character.  

I miss those sturdy New England donuts. 

My father once managed to charm his way onto a lobster boat for a day's fishing. He got up early and had a substantial breakfast before setting out on his adventure. He and the lobsterman spent the morning hauling pots and by noon my father was starving, but the lobsterman seemed unfazed by his long separation from nourishment. 

So my father asked him what he had eaten for breakfast. The lobsterman said, "Two donuts. They sit on my chest and nourish me all day."