October 26, 2015--Take Them A Meal

The daughter of a friend required emergency surgery. For a time it was looking as if she might not make it. But she is young and strong and optimistic and is now home and recovering.

She is a nurse and it was clear that she would not be able to come to work for more days than would be covered by her accumulated sick leave and she would thus lose income in addition to having to deal with the aftermath of major surgery.

So her colleagues at the hospital contributed some of their own sick and personal days so that her absence from work would not cause her or her family undue financial hardship.

"That's about the nicest story I've ever heard," I said to her father. "Typical, though, of how people here seem to take care of one another."

"Yes," he said, "That's what we do. If a carpenter has a serious accident, friends will organize a benefit dinner or auction to help out him and his family."

"And I know from a few years ago," Rona said, "when someone we know was seriously burned on the job friends and neighbors, since winter was approaching, raised money to help them pay for heating oil."

A few days later, Ellie's father said, "Remember how the other day we were talking about how people here help each other out?" We did remember. "Take a look at this."

He slid a printout from a website across the breakfast table."

"What is it?" I said.

Rona who was looking at it, said, "I don't believe this. It's amazing."

"What is it?" I said again, feeling a little left out of the conversation.

"Give me a minute. Ellie's friends organized this?" Her father didn't say anything. He sat there smiling across the table at Rona.

"It looks like they're preparing food for Ellie and her family and bringing it over to them."

"That's right," he said. "See how it's organized? Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday the person who signed up for that day fixes a dinner for the four of them and brings it over to their house."

Rona was reading down the list for next week. "On Monday one of her friends is making American chop suey and apple pie. Wednesday someone else is making a homemade pizza with bacon. And . . ."

"Please, let me see that," I said, reaching across the table.

Rona passed it to me. "This really is amazing. Actually, wonderful." I looked at the list and saw that on Friday a friend is planning to make meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and squash. "Probably squash from your garden!" I said, looking at Ellie's father.

"Could be," he said, again smiling.

"I think I'll invite myself over for dinner on November 2nd when the meal of the day will be lasagna, garlic bread, and a veggie."

"Is this something Ellie's friends organized on their own?"

"I'm not sure about that. One friend I know is taking the lead. This came off the computer so when you get home you can look up how it works."

We did and found that Take Them A Meal is a nationally organized effort. They say they prepare 1.2 million meals a year. People can simply use their website to organize things. There is no charge and there do not seem to be any ads on the website.

"They even offer recipes for dinners they say transport well and reheat easily. Things like crock pot honey sesame chicken and blackened chicken and cilantro-lime quinoa."

"What day are they bringing the sesame chicken to the house?" I asked, "That sounds delicious."

"Rather than inviting yourself," Rona said, why don't you instead sign up to make the blackened chicken.'

"I was just kidding," I said, "But maybe I will."

September 1, 2104--Midcoast: Too Much Nice

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

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

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

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

He has a large vegetable garden and we are beneficiaries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You amaze me sometimes."

"Amaze you?"

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

"I don't . . ."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, yes."

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

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

"And that presents problems for you?"

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

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

"And I'm glad for it."

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

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

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

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

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

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