All posts by Laurie Graves

I write about nature, food, the environment, home, family, community, and people.
People

Lunch with Esther at Barnes and Noble: A Complete Person

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Last week I had lunch with my friend Esther at the local Barnes and Noble in Augusta. I must admit, the food wasn’t too bad. I had a cup of black bean soup that actually had a bit of a zing as well as a tasty tomato  and mozzarella sandwich, all for under $10. A real bargain for lunch nowadays.

 

My friend Esther
My friend Esther

 

As I have mentioned in previous posts, Esther was my mother’s friend—my mother died eight years ago—and she is my friend now. I love hearing her stories about growing up in rural Maine in the 1940s and 50s. On this blog, I share her stories with such frequency that I have decided I am, in effect, Esther’s Boswell. (One of these days, I’ll actually have to read The Life of Samuel Johnson.)

I have found that stories can’t be hurried. Nothing puts a damper on the conversation quicker than “All right. Tell me some stories of times gone by.” No, the stories must come naturally in the flow of our talk. First we might discuss the weather, a most important subject in Maine. Next, we’ll inquire about each other’s families and catch up on the news. Esther, with six children, has such a big family that this can take a while. From there, we often move to politics, and we are usually in complete agreement.

Then, then, come the old stories, the meat of the conversation. Last week, after we had finished with the weather, family, and politics, Esther said, “My father had a saying that not everyone understands.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“I didn’t make a new dollar for an old one,” came the the answer.

I wasn’t sure I entirely understood the meaning.

“My father was a farmer, and he was referring to when his crops failed. There was no return on his investment. Some years were like that, and they were hard.”

I nodded. “I know what you mean. During the Great Depression, my great-grandparents lost their potato farm in Aroostook County. They owned hundreds of acres and had to go live in a small apartment in Skowhegan.” (Skowhegan, in central Maine, was once a prosperous mill town.)

Esther said, “Fortunately, my father never lost his farm.”

From there we moved on to Nancy Bown, a friend of Esther’s who was from Wales.

Esther said, “When the war started in Britain, Nancy left her post as a scullery maid and joined the armed forces. She helped plot the course of incoming aircraft from Germany so that alarms could be raised in cities and towns.”

“That was quite a responsibility,” I said.

“Life and death,” Esther replied. “After the war, she came with her husband to central Maine. She was the first war bride in Waterville.”

As it so happened,  years ago, I had met Nancy, and I remember her friendly, buoyant  personality. I mentioned this to Esther.

“Oh, yes. Nancy was a complete person,” Esther said.

“A complete person?”

“A whole person. Nancy had a strong personality. Nobody could shove her around. But she was not domineering, and she knew how to have fun. At Grange meetings, she used to sing songs in Welsh. We loved listening to her.”

I could picture Nancy, with her ready laugh, singing for the folks in the Grange in East Vassalboro. In my mind’s eye, I could see the Grange members, mostly Yankees but with at least one Franco-American thrown in—my mother—listening to Nancy’s songs, sung in a language they did not understand but was, nonetheless, very beautiful.

 

 

Books, People

Love of England: The Road to Little Dribbling

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The roadAbout thirty years ago, my mother and I went to England to visit friends from Maine who had moved to North Yorkshire. Their cottage was just outside Whitby, tucked among rolling hills and a vista so broad that it seemed you could see halfway across the country. For me, it was love at first sight, and as our friends very kindly drove us from beautiful spot to beautiful spot, I knew I had found my heart’s home. This was only emphasized by the flowers—even the smallest yard had pots of spilling color—the wonderful tea, and the large number of dogs who were out and about with their people. Finally, England is the home of Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and J.R.R. Tolkien, three very different but nonetheless brilliant writers. How could I not fall in love?

For a variety of reasons, it is highly unlikely that I will ever return to England. But I can visit via books (and blogs!), and it was with great pleasure that I read Bill Bryson’s The Road to Little Dribbling. Bryson is perhaps best known for A Walk in the Woods, which was recently made into a movie starring Robert Redford and Nick Nolte. In the movie, the terrific Emma Thompson played Bryson’s wife, and in real life, Bryson’s wife is indeed English. Because of this, the lucky fellow is actually allowed to live in England—yes, I am envious—and The Road to Little Dribbling is an account of his traveling from one end of Britain to the other, from Bognor Regis in the south to Cape Wrath in the north. He dubs this route the Bryson Line.

But as to be expected from this lively, discursive writer, Bryson does not exactly follow this straight line. Instead, he zigs and zags his way through Britain, going to Wales, Cornwall, the Lake Distract, North Yorkshire,  Hampshire, and many other places, touching bases with the Bryson Line from time to time. Along the way, he visits museums, walks in the countryside, and drinks a fair amount of beer. Ever curious, Bryson writes about the history of the many places he visits. Then, of course, there is his famous snarkiness—his acerbic observations and crotchets—amusing but fortunately kept in check. For this reader, a little snarkiness goes a long way.

While not without its criticisms—no place, of course, is perfect—The Road to Little Dribbling is in essence a love letter to England, and for Bryson, as for me, the countryside is his greatest love. At the end of the book he writes that he loves England for many reasons, but chiefly because of “the beauty of the countryside. Goodness me, what an achievement….there isn’t a landscape in the world that is more artfully worked, more lovely to behold, more comfortable to be in than the countryside of Great Britain. It is the world’s largest park, its most perfect accidental garden. I think it may be the British nation’s most glorious achievement.”

So well put and so true. I have decided that The Road to Little Dribbling is a book for the home library—I borrowed it from our town’s library—and I will be putting it on my wish list.

People

Piper Is Two: A Trip to the Belgrade Public Library

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Yesterday, I visited with my friend Beth and her granddaughter, Piper. As it happens, it was the exact day of Piper’s second birthday, and we had muffins to celebrate. I gave Piper some books about animals, and Beth gave her some garden tools. Start ’em young!

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After that, it was on to the Belgrade Public Library for story time.

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I love libraries big and small, and this particular library might be little, but how sunny and open and inviting it is. The staff is warm and welcoming, and I immediately started “talking libraries” with the director, Janet Patterson. I told her I was one of the trustees for the Winthrop Public Library, and we were both in complete agreement that libraries provided essential serves, “food for the soul” for their communities.

This, of course, led me to think about libraries and their budgets. Unfortunately, when times are hard and the state doesn’t honor its obligations for town revenue sharing, libraries are sometimes seen as optional, a frivolous service.

Nothing could be further from the truth. For many people, and I include myself in this group, libraries are a lifeline, a way to stay open to the world of ideas and stories, even when times are hard.  In fact, especially during these times. Unfortunately, libraries frequently have to fight for every penny they receive, and although their budgets are relatively small, they are often the first to receive cuts.

But on such a sunny day, with a Dr. Seuss story to honor the anniversary of his birthday—March 2—and a craft project that involved making a giant hat, it was impossible to brood about stingy budgets for libraries.

Happy birthday Miss Piper and happy birthday Dr. Seuss!

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Food for Thought, Home

Loving the Small Things in Life: Waiting for Ice-Out on the Patio

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Clif and I are huge fans of the small things in life. While we appreciate big showy events as much as the next person, we both feel it’s the little things that jazz up our lives. There’s not a day that goes by that I’m not grateful for this attitude because let’s face it—most people’s lives are made up of small events, and if you don’t enjoy them, then this means that most days you’re just marking time.

For example, yesterday I wrote about my eager anticipation for being able to hang laundry outside for the first time this season. Readers, you can bet that when this joyous event occurs, it will be duly noted in this blog. I also wrote about mucking about in the yard, getting damp and cold, then coming in, settling in the living room, and having popcorn while reading. A simple but oh-so-good pleasure.

Another one of our many small pleasures is waiting for “ice-out” on the patio in our backyard. For this, a bit of a backstory is in order. We live in a part of central Maine that has many lakes and ponds, so ice-out—when the water is free and clear of ice—is a big event for the whole town. When the ice goes out on the lakes and ponds all depends on what kind of winter we’ve had. Last year, according to Maine’s Department of Agriculture, the ice didn’t go out on the Lower Narrows Pond until April 22. (Happy birthday, Shannon!) This year, if things continue the way they have, the ice could be out by the end of March. The DOA notes, “If the current weather pattern continues through March as it has all winter, Maine lakes may set new records for ‘early’ ice out on our lakes and ponds. Recently, we have had ‘early’ ice out during the spring of 2006, 2010, and 2012. It will be interesting to see if we break any century old records this year.”

As the lakes and ponds in central Maine go, so goes the patio at the little house in the big woods. Last year was a cold and very snow winter, and the date for ice-out on the patio was April 16, not all that different than it was for the Lower Narrows Pond, just down the road. This year, if the season progresses the way it has with record warmth and little snow, I expect the patio to be free and clear of ice by the end of March.

Then will come another event, another small thing, that Clif and I look forward to in early spring—bringing up the round patio table from down cellar. At first, we’ll just have tea on the patio, but as the season progresses, we’ll have supper on the patio as well. We’ll bring up the big rectangular table, and we’ll have friends over for wine, appetizers, grilled bread, grilled pizza, and homemade ice cream.

Stay tuned!

Patio, March 1, 2016
Patio, March 1, 2016

 

Home, Nature

Going, Going But Not Quite Gone

Gallery 18 Comments

In Maine, what a difference a week can make. The snow is nearly gone from the backyard, and we can see the garden and some of the patio. The area by the clothesline is free, and I long to start washing blankets so that I can hang them outside.

The backyard
The backyard

 

“Not quite yet,” Clif has advised. “The ground is still too soft, and the weight of the blankets will pull the line over.”

He is right, of course, and I’ll hold off washing the blankets for another few weeks. But now and then, I look longingly out the window at the line.

The waiting clothesline
The waiting clothesline

 

Yesterday, in an extreme case of Pushing the Season, Clif and I went outside and mucked around for a bit. I mean this literally. Our shoes left footprints in the mud, and where it was shady—this includes the whole front yard—we left footprints in snow that is as soft as a coconut slushy.

The front yard
The front yard

 

I had originally gone out to pick up sticks in the backyard. When you live in the woods, there are always a fair number that fall during the winter. I gather them and put them in a large garbage can, and we use them in the firepit in the summer.

The ground was really too soft for this chore, but Clif soon found another that was more appropriate. That is, removing usable wood that had been trimmed by the power company and left in an untidy clump in our front yard. While he was at it, he brought out the ladder and sawed some branches that were hanging too low. We saved what we could use, and the rest I hauled into the woods, where I made a little brush pile for the creatures who live there.

All in all, we spent a good couple of hours at our task, and when we were done, the front yard looked much better.  We came in with wet feet and a sense of accomplishment. I popped some popcorn and we settled in the living room to read and to eat our snack. The dog, who had been supervising outside, jumped on the couch so that he, too, could have some buttered popcorn. All was snug and cozy.

I’m going to conclude with a wood metaphor. Going out on a limb, I’m predicting that winter is over, and we are on the cusp of mud season, early spring in Maine. The days are ever so much longer, and yesterday I heard our resident cardinal singing his spring song.

Naturally, this winter I did not accomplish anywhere near as much as I wanted with my inside chores—the perpetual cleaning and decluttering.  Never mind! On bad days I will work on those projects. Right now, I am itching to be outside, even if it’s only to muck about in the yard.

Of course, Mother Nature might give us one her little surprise March snowstorms, which will cover all the bare ground and make everything even wetter and soggier. But the snow won’t last long.

Spring is edging her way in, and how welcome she is.

Snow dog
Snow dog
Food for Thought, Movies

Sordid Realism: Jafar Panahi’s Taxi

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taxi2Last Saturday at Railroad Square, we saw the Iranian film Jafar Panahi’s Taxi. (It was part of a film series—Cinema Explorations—that Clif and I help organize.) The filmmaker, Jafar Panahi, a gadfly of the Iranian regime, has for some years been under house arrest and has been forbidden to make films. His response? Make movies that pretend not to be movies but of course really are movies. Hence, Taxi, where he flouted house arrest to drive around Tehran in a taxi and film various passengers and their conversations.

Part documentary, part narrative, part cinéma vérité, this terrific movie explores different aspects of Iranian life and culture. Executions, women’s rights, imprisonment, repression, movies, and superstition are all discussed as passengers come and go.

I was especially taken with the section of the movie where Panahi picks up his teenage niece Hana from school. Hana is a budding filmmaker, and she carries her trustee Canon camera around so that she can shoot street scenes as her uncle drives through Tehran. Panahi and Hana talk about making movies, and she worries about the filming restrictions her teacher has placed on her. The teacher’s list is long, but “sordid realism” is a particular bone of contention for Hana.

Now, when we Americans think of the term “sordid realism” what might come to mind can be very nasty—graphic sex, graphic violence, disturbing behavior, bad language. I must admit that I tend to avoid movies that dwell too much on what I consider sordid realism. However, if a movie is very good, then I will make exceptions.

But to the Iranian censors, sordid realism means something quite different. Instead, it is a term—almost doublespeak—applied to anything that might make Iranian society look bad. In the niece’s case, it applies to a young street boy who steals money dropped from a bridegroom on his way to his car after his wedding. Hana has filmed the theft, and tries to convince the young boy to return the money. However, things don’t go exactly as Hana wants, and the boy ends up with the money.

After her uncle drives away from the boy, Hana frets about this at some length, knowing that her film won’t win any prize money if it contains such sordid realism as a street boy stealing money. And without the prize money, how can she go on to make a better film next time?

How indeed? I expect that Hana’s worries are also shared by her uncle. How can artists create with such unreasonable restrictions and censorship? As Panahi so deftly illustrates with this movie, it can be done. But at what cost?

As I mentioned earlier, I am not a fan of what I consider sordid realism, but unless animals and children are harmed in the process, I firmly believe that filmmakers have the right to make the kind of movies they want. For example, I have never seen the The Wolf of Wall Street. Too many friends have warned against it for the sheer ugliness of the sex scenes. But that is my individual choice, one that I don’t necessarily expect others to make.

And that makes all the difference.

 

News

Freeing the Birds at Woolworth’s

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At the little house in the big woods, whatever the season, the backyard is aflutter with birds, and it gives me great joy to watch them as they flit from the trees to the bird feeder. Finches, woodpeckers, chickadees, nuthatches, and many other birds come to eat. Our friends Beth and John are just as crazy about birds as we are, and last year on a warm spring day, we spent a happy afternoon on the patio, watching the birds.

In the winter, of course, I watch from inside, often as I am doing dishes. Winter is a hungry time for birds, and there are always a lot clustered at the feeders.

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The other day, as I was watching the birds in the backyard, I remembered the time I freed the birds at Woolworth’s in Waterville. I was three or four years old, and in those far-gone, innocent times, I was allowed to look at the toys and the pet section by myself while my mother did her shopping. I was a quiet child. not prone to running around and screaming and breaking things. My mother felt as though she could trust me, but you know what they say about the quiet ones.

On the day I set the birds free, I watched the bright fish swim in their tanks and listened to the bubbling sound that came from the water. I admired the silky hamsters, curled in a ball, their little noses twitching from time to time. Then I came to the birds, tweeting and jumping in their cages. I remember feeling sorry for them, trapped in such a small space.

Without hesitation, I undid the latch of one the cages and opened the door. With a swoosh, the birds flew from the cage, and their quick motion startled me, making me realize that what I had done was probably not a good thing, at least from the store’s point of view.

I found my mother, but I didn’t tell her about the birds until we were at the lunch counter, and two parakeets went by.

“Look at those parakeets,” my mother said. “I wonder who let them out.”

I confessed right away. “I let the birds out.”

“Shush,” she said, and I could see that she was trying not to smile.

Our food came, and as we ate, birds flew over our heads, and I could hear them twittering. No doubt they were eventually caught and returned to their cages. But for a short time, anyway, they had escaped their confinement and did what birds are born to do—fly.

When we got home, my mother scolded me, just a little, telling me I was never to let the birds out again, and I didn’t. But to this day, I  see my younger self and my quick little fingers, unlatching the cage door and letting the birds fly free.

And it still makes me smile to think of it.