Last week, the weather was uncertain. First, we had freezing rain, and early Tuesday morning, I woke up to the roar of the town’s sanding-plow truck as it rushed past our house. Believe it or not, this sound is comforting to me. I am so grateful to the drivers of these huge trucks, which go out in the worst weather at all times of day. Our town takes good care of our roads, which in turn makes life safer for its citizens. In the winter, we have a lot of bad weather in Maine, but people must still go to work, to appointments, and do assorted errands. Having driveable roads is a must.
I’m not a fan of freezing rain, but its aftermath is pretty.
The icicles on the bird feeder,
and the icicles on the hedge.
Even the glazing on the salt and sand buckets,
as well as the glazing on the car.
Later in the week, it snowed.
Snowy branches, snowy roof.
To clean the driveway, Clif had to use our trusty electric snow-thrower, Snow Joe.
Finally, on a cold January Sunday, there was poetry at the Wayne General Store in Wayne, Maine. Yup, Wayne, Maine. Population: 1,129.
The general store is a sweet place with mismatched tables and chairs, which gives it a very cozy atmosphere.
There is a bakery in the store, with delicious bread and pastries.
The event was host by David Moreau, a fine poet whom I’ve know for many years.
My friend Claire Hersom was one of the featured poets.
Also Lori Douglas Clark with David Moreau listening appreciatively.
How lovely it was to sit in this snug store, sip tea, have brunch, and listen to poetry. A finest kind of day as we would say in Maine.
Claire has very kindly allowed me to use one of her winter poems in my blog. Many thanks, Claire.
Thank You
– by Claire Hersom
Thank you
for the winter wind,
and the lake,
its water like a stone
and for this quiet time
to build words again,
tucked into the foothills
hard as iron like flowers
waiting for spring
and for change, its core –
a small violence,
inching soft, inner bodies
out of hard shells,
our frozen winter grief
out, where it can vanish
and blow away
as if air and sun were its wings
and it, a necessary and expected
flight
Previously published in The Anglican Theological Review
(italicized phrases from the hymn In the Bleak Midwinter, lyrics
Because our daughter Shannon and our son-in-law Mike spent Christmas in North Carolina with his folks, we decided to have a belated celebration the first weekend in January. Unfortunately, the weather gods had other plans for us, and a storm kept Shannon and Mike home that weekend. The next weekend, then, we decided.
However, those weather gods were plotting yet again to send a storm our way, but this time we outsmarted them. Shannon and Mike came the day before the storm and left the day afterward. I am happy to report that we celebrated the holiday in our usual simple, cozy way, and it really did feel like Christmas.
It was lovely to see the girls again.
And the storm that came to central Maine on Saturday made it feel all the more like Christmas.
On Saturday morning, there were presents and pumpkin bread. In the afternoon, appetizers and a new game—Betrayal at House on the Hill. In the evening, homemade cheddar cheese soup.
Dessert, unfortunately, didn’t turn out that way it should have. I pressed chocolate chip cookie dough in a skillet to be baked and brought warm to the table and served with vanilla ice cream. But even though the skillet cookie was nicely browned on top, the middle was gooey to the point of being raw. We thought that perhaps I should have used only half the batter. Readers, any suggestions? I’m willing to give it another try.
While the storm on Saturday wasn’t bad for central Maine—snow mixed with a little rain—it was devastating for our coast, which hadn’t recovered from the previous storm. More flooding, more property damage, more roads destroyed. It’s heartbreaking to see the damage. Even though I live inland, I love the coast, and as a Mainer, I feel connected to it. I have been to many of the places that were ravaged by the storm, driven on roads now destroyed.
Governor Mills declared a civil state of emergency for all eight coastal counties. And rightly so. Those communities will need a lot of aid to recover from the storms.
All in all, in the past few weeks, Mainers have received quite the punch from storms causing damage that would have been inconceivable when I was young. Yes, we had a lot of snow, and the snowbanks really were taller than I was when I was a child. We plowed, we shoveled, and went about our business. As far as I can recall, there wasn’t much damage, and we hardly ever lost our power.
But these wind storms in the winter are something new, and because of the rising sea, the damage is made worse along the coast.
The effects of climate change are with us now, and we have to deal with increasingly destructive storms.
I can only hope that we have the personal and political will to stop the climate crisis from getting worse.
Here is a clip that shows one small part of the storm’s destruction. All along the coast, the story is the same.
Sunday was one of those August days that draw tourists to Maine in the summer. Warm weather—around 80°—combined with low humidity and sunshine made for a perfect afternoon on the patio. As it turned out, we had invited our friend Jill over for drinks and appetizers, and we were thrilled that the weather gods decided to smile on us. Yes, we could have had drinks and appetizers inside, but how nice to sit on the patio and watch the birds flutter in out and of the woods as they visited the bird feeders.
A beautiful August summer afternoon in Maine. When the rain and cold and snow come, I will try to keep this day in my heart, to be warmed by the memory of good food and good conversation.
In this time of climate change when some people suffer from too much heat and others from too much rain, reading good news provides welcome relief. In her post “This week’s Small Pleasures #348,”my blogging friend Barbara of Thistles and Kiwis wrote about how bird counts are up in Wellington, New Zealand. Way, way up. Some by as much as 260%. If my knees weren’t so creaky, I would jump for joy.
Listening: Poetry Reading at Greene Block + Studio in Waterville, Maine
Self-Portrait as Homestead by Jeri Theriault
Last Friday, I went to Waterville to hear Jeri Theriault read poetry from her terrific new book Self-Portrait as Homestead. Like me, Jeri is Franco-Amercan, and she also grew up in Waterville, a small mill city by the Kennebec River.
It gave me great pleasure to hear Jeri use the word “mémère” (grandmother) in her poetry. And what a thrill that the title of one of her poems comes from a street in Waterville’s South End, where I lived as a baby and visited every week as a child. My home, my geography, my ethnic group. While Jeri Theriault’s poetry ranges far from Waterville—to Iwo Jima and the Middle East—for me, Waterville was the center that rippled outward to other places. Perhaps someone not born and raised in Waterville would have had a different take, but that is what stayed with me no matter how far Jeri roamed in her poetry.
To add to the mood of the reading, Jeri’s husband Philip Carlsen and his son Mel played music between the poetry—Philip on the cello and Mel on the piano. So lovely, so lovely.
Jeri asked that the applause be held until the end, and she spoke about each poem, telling the audience how her poetry wasn’t memoir, which allowed her to use some artistic license; how she thought of the “self as house”; how the book was “supposed to be all feminist poems,” but somehow her father crept in. Jeri filled in her father’s silence with her own words as well as ones taken from a local newspaper article about his time in Iwo Jima.
After the reading, editor and journalist Bob Keyes had a conversation with Jeri, which illuminated her poetry and her process.
From her moving poetry to the music to the conversation, this was one of the best poetry readings I have ever been to. I bought Self-Portrait as Homestead, and instead of shelving it with my poetry collection, I will be tucking this one among my Franco-American books.
Jeri Theriault, on the left, with Claire Hersom, also a fine poet.
Last week, Clif, Dee, and I took four days off—Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday—from our regular routine to relax and have fun. Our daughter Shannon, her husband Mike, and their dogs joined us on Friday and Saturday.
On Friday, the weather gods were in a good mood. Although it was hot, there was no rain, and off to Absolem Cider Company we went for a picnic and drinks. Mike’s aunt, Claire Hersom, met us there.
I had an utterly delicious drink of rum mixed with strawberry liqueur.
Dee took this picture of us. In the picture, Claire looks uncertain, but really and truly, she had a good time.
Clockwise: Claire, Mike, Clif, me, and Shannon
Chickens, hoping for a treat, joined us. They might have gotten some popcorn that made it to the ground.
Here are a couple more pictures of this lovely place, only five miles from where we live. How lucky is that?
On Saturday, the weather gods continued to smile for the morning and early afternoon, and we spent the entire time on the patio for a bagel breakfast and a lunch of Clif’s legendary grilled bread.
I forgot to take pictures of the food, but I did manage to capture this daylily against my Great Library/Elferterre sign.
Unfortunately, the rain came late afternoon, bringing flash flooding to some places. But Shannon and Mike and the dogs made it home safe and sound.
On Sunday we went to the movies to see Haunted Mansion. Not a great movie by any means, but it was a lot of fun albeit tinged with some sadness.
On Monday, we had planned to go to East Boothbay and have a picnic on rocks by the ocean. But guess what? The forecast was for rain in the afternoon. As it takes an hour and half to get to East Boothbay, we decided to stay closer to home and have a picnic by the Kennebec River, about seven miles from us. However, the weather gods foiled us, and by the time the picnic was packed, we could hear thunder rumbling. Out to our patio we went, and we had barely finished eating when the rain came. Back in we scurried.
The rain did not last long, and we decided to console ourselves with ice cream at Fielder’s Choice in the neighboring town of Manchester. We might not have made it to the coast or even to the Kennebec River, but we had some wicked good ice cream.
One of my blogging friends, Carol Ann of Blogging for Joy, recently read Maya and the Book of Everything, the first book in my Great Library Series. She had such kind things to say about my novel. Many thanks, Carol Ann! I’ve written this before, but I feel like it must be noted again: Because of my blogging friends, my Great Library series has traveled around this country and around the world, too. No small feat for an indie writer. To borrow from Shakespeare: “I can no other answer make but thanks, And thanks; and ever thanks…”
Introducing…
Volume Five of Résonance, an online journal. The following description is taken from its website: Résonance features works “primarily by and/or about the Franco-American communities of the United States….There has long been a need for this type of resource. Franco-American and other writers who wished to communicate the reality of this linguistic minority have often found no literary-focused vehicle to do so….Résonance is published by its Editorial Board in Orono, Maine, under the aegis of the Franco American Programs of the University of Maine.”
For new readers: Yes, Franco-Americans are an actual ethnic group in the United States. Between 1840 and 1930, about 1 million French Canadians immigrated to the United States. They primarily settled in New England but also spread out to other states where there was factory work.
In Maine, the state where I live, about 30% of the population is descended from French Canadians. That would include me—my family name was Meunier—and indeed French was my mother’s first language. My great-grandmother never did learn how to speak English, but the feeling was that she understood more than she let on.
Unfortunately, the Yankee Protestant population did not welcome us with open arms, and there was active discrimination and prejudice against Franco-Americans. In Maine, Ku Klux Klan membership was huge, with rallies and cross burnings other methods of intimidation.
Sometimes, situations do improve, and Franco-Americans no longer face they discrimination they once did. By gum, thanks to the University of Maine at Orono and editor-in-chief Steven Riel, we even have our own journal, Résonance. And I am happy to report that I am the creative nonfiction editor.
In Maine, June was a very rainy month, and it seems that July is following suit. I know, of course, that too little rain is a terrible problem, but it is possible to have too much of a good thing. Although my perennials are thriving, my annuals are a bust this year. The tomatoes are tall and spindly with few blossoms; the cucumber plant looks stunted; and the nasturtium seeds rotted in the ground. According to Maine Public, this was one of the rainiest Junes on record, and if the weather gods don’t relent, this also will be one of the rainiest summers on record.
On Saturday, the weather gods must have been looking elsewhere because there was no rain for the entire day. Before they could change their minds, Clif, Dee, and I hurried out to the patio, where Clif made his legendary grilled bread. As we Mainers would put it, that bread was some good. We had small bowls of marinara sauce for dipping.
We also had drinks to salute this day without rain. The owl wine glass belongs to Dee, and we toasted Jackie Knight, a lover of owls. (Jackie is the wife of blogging friend Derrick Knight.) Jackie, we love owls, too.
July is the time for fledglings, and with my wee camera I was actually able to catch this pair of woodpeckers. The one at the bottom is the fledgling, who with a squawking and fluttering of wings, followed and pestered its parent for food. I do love those fledglings, on the edge of independence but still young enough to want to be fed.
In the front yard, there are bursts of yellow and red to add variety to all the green.
On July 4, Clif, Dee, and I went to Regal Cinema in Augusta to see Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny. Because of Covid, it had been three years since we actually went to a cinema to see a movie. With all that’s available on streaming, I thought I was just fine not going to the movies. After all, we have a really nice television with a good sound system.
Turns out, I was wrong. As soon as I settled into one of those big recliners, and the room went dark, I was completely absorbed, enthralled, even. Once a cinephile, always a cinephile. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I was watching Harrison Ford, one of the biggest and most charismatic stars of my generation.
Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny followed the usual contours of the previous Indiana Jones movies: There were lots of bad guys—Nazis, again; a magical artifact that would cause big trouble if it fell into the wrong hands; a thrilling opening sequence where a digitally de-aged Indy ran across the roof of a long, long train; and chase scenes galore. As you can see from the poster, Indy had his trademark whip and hat.
These repetitions could have made the movie feel stale, but they didn’t. Instead, it was a thrill to see Indy on the hunt again, this time for Archimedes’ Dial, which supposedly opens fissures in time. On that train, in 1944, Indy escaped with half of the dial, outwitting the Nazi astrophysicist Jürgen Voller (played by the excellent Mads Mikkelsen).
Is there another half of the dial somewhere? Is the Nazi astrophysicist obsessed with it? Does Indy, spurred on by his goddaughter Helena (a luminous Phoebe Waller-Bridge) go after the other half? Yes, yes, and yes.
But Dial of Destiny, with its themes of sorrow, regret, and the trials of old age, rises above the average adventure movie. After the thrilling chase scene on the train, the movie shifts to 1969, when Indy is no longer young. We see him at a low point in his life—sad, sleeping in his boxer shorts in a chair, drinking first thing in the morning. His old cocky days are long gone, and it gave me a pang to see him like this. While things perk up when his goddaughter Helena arrives on the scene, that sadness threads itself through the movie, elevating it.
Readers, I loved this movie and would gladly see it again. If you are an Indiana Jones fan, get thee to a cinema, where you can see it in all its glory on the big screen.
In the United States, yesterday was Mother’s Day. Unfortunately, our eldest daughter Dee is in New York and couldn’t be with us. However, our youngest daughter Shannon and her husband Mike came on Friday and spent the night. Naturally, the dogs came, too, for the early Mother’s Day celebration.
What a treat to have them here. We had Chinese food followed by donuts for dessert. (I am a donut fiend, and I once wrote a piece called “Desperate for Donuts.”)
We spent quite a bit of time on the patio. Luckily, this spring the black flies—those biting scourges of the north—aren’t too bad. A real gift for Mother’s Day. Nothing like having a cloud of bloodthirsty insects swarming around your head to ruin a celebration.
That night, we played a cooperative board game called The Big Book of Madness.
We had a lot of fun with this game.
After playing The Big Book of Madness, we talked late into the night about all the things we love—books, games, movies, and television. It’s wonderful to have Shannon and Mike within driving distance of us. When they lived in North Carolina, we didn’t see them very often.
A sweet, sweet way to celebrate Mother’s Day early.
For the past four or five days, the temperatures have been 90°F and very humid. With the heat index, it has felt closer to 100°F. Too darned hot. Is this really Maine in August?
It seems that it is.
This heat has knocked the stuffing out of me. (A Facebook friend described it as feeling depleted. Yes.) Our little air conditioner, whom we’ve named Eva, is simply not up to the task of keeping our home cool. The best we get with her is 80°. Better than 90°, I know, but not much of a relief. Strange to think that until a few years ago, we didn’t even need an air conditioner in our home in the woods. An attic fan did the trick.
But there have been a couple of bright spots.
Unlike me, the container plants seem to thrive in this heat and humidity. I have never had such a burst of impatiens on my front steps.
The begonias look pretty darned good, too.
Then there are the tomatoes, “the jungle” as we call it. Lots of green tomatoes and enough ripe ones for a sandwich or a wrap at lunch.
Also, on Saturday, we had a visit from Shannon and Mike.
Along with their dogs, who were thrilled to see us, Shannon and Mike brought donuts—fresh, thick, and perfectly fried. I’m a fiend for donuts—I once wrote an essay called “Desperate for Donuts”— and these were oh so good. The half-donut in the picture is the result of me not being able to wait and grabbing half before we had our lunch.
For readers in or near Tewksbury, Massachusetts, those delectable donuts came from Donna’s Donuts.
This week, the heat is supposed to break, and we’ve even been promised night temps in the lower 60s. Oh, yes, please! This Mainer really doesn’t like the temperature to go much above 80°, and my happy place is between 65° and 70°.
Well, I’ll have to adapt to this warming world. Soon Clif and I will be checking into heat pumps, which cool as well as provide heat.
Here we are at the end of August, traditionally one of Maine’s most beautiful months. Time was when the weather was hot—around 80°F—and dry during the day, yet cool enough for blankets at night. It seems this era has passed, and now we veer between a humid 100°F heat followed by a forty degree drop to 60°F. So disorienting, especially to an old timer like me who remembers how sweet August once was in northern New England. It fills me with such sadness to think that those days are probably gone for good, that future generations of Mainers will never know the glories of a Maine August when the weather was nearly perfect.
Fortunately, despite the unwelcome change in the weather, tomatoes still ripen in August in Maine. In my yard by the edge of the woods, I only get six hours of sun at most during the summer. But I have found a variety of tomatoes—Juliet—that actually grows well in part sun/part shade.
Here they are on the vine.
And here are these gems in a bowl.
Juliet is a grape tomato, firm yet sweet and tart, perfect for many uses—sauces, salads, on their own as a side, and, especially, for tomato sandwiches.
Southern readers would probably cry foul if I claimed tomato sandwiches were a Maine speciality. Therefore, I won’t do that. However, old-time Mainers are as keen on tomato sandwiches as they are, say, on blueberry pie or corn on the cob. Tomato sandwiches are definitely a thing in Maine in August and September.
Simplicity in itself, tomato sandwiches consist of three ingredients, garden-fresh tomatoes, bread, and mayonnaise. All right, there is a fourth ingredient if you are so inclined—salt.
Some folks like white bread, untoasted. I am not one of them. I want a good whole-grain bread, and I want it to be toasted, thank you very much.
As I was making this sandwich, Clif asked if I wanted lettuce on it, too. I gave him a pitying look that indicated he should know better. After all, Clif is from Maine. But alas he does not like raw tomatoes and is thus unfamiliar with the protocol of a proper tomato sandwich.
Clif tried to defend himself. “You would have lettuce on a BLT.”
Yes, you would, but a tomato sandwich is not a BLT, and Clif received another pitying look.
With tomato sandwiches, you have a perfect combination of crunch, sweet, tart, smooth, and salt. With such deliciousness, I can almost forgive the high heat and humidity that is now August in Maine.
With the Delta Covid variant rearing its nasty, unwelcome head, our vacation last week was fairly restrained. The more we read about this ultra-contagious variant, the more cautious we have become. As cases soar around the country—even in Maine—this seems like the sensible and safe thing to do.
But we did squeeze in a few treats, and the last one on Saturday was especially fun, despite the weather being horribly hot and humid. With masks firmly in place, we went to Meridians Shop in Fairfield. Meridians is a store of delights that features wine, beer, chocolate, cheese, cracker, and nuts as well as other goodies. It’s even more of delight when you have $70 gift certificate. (Thank you, Rose & Steve!)
Into the basket went all kinds of goodies for a picnic at home. Because I am, ahem, more than a little food obsessed, it was a gleeful experience for me to choose rather expensive treats and not worry about the price. Beer, Brie, cashews, pecans, crackers, and chocolate all went into the basket. And cookies. Because what is a picnic without cookies?
Shopping done, we headed home straight into a bank of black clouds and a brief but thrilling storm. Thick flashes of lightening streaked across the entire sky. On the side of the road, the wind blew the Queen Anne’s lace back and forth, back and forth. The rain bucketed down so hard that we could barely see the car in front of us, but fortunately everyone drove slowly, and there were no accidents. Even with the windows closed, the sweet smell of rain on wet pavement came through.
It took us no more than five minutes to drive out of the storm. Within ten minutes, the rain had stopped and there were blue patches in the cloudy sky. The road was dry, and the Queen Anne’s lace was still. But a crack of thunder behind us reminded us that the weather gods have the last laugh.
When we got home, everything was wet, and eating outside was not an option. No matter! We would have a dining room picnic.
Here is an array of the treats we bought.
And a close-up of a beer that tickled Clif, who is from Bangor.
He especially liked the snappy slogan. After all, we think of Maine as north of north.
Apparently the beer was pretty tasty, too.
In fact, the whole feast was pretty tasty, a fine way to end our vacation week.
Nifty posts from some of the lovely blogs I follow
Note: Every week, it’s difficult to settle on six nifty posts from the many wonderful blogs I follow. This week, for some reason, was even harder. So many great posts. I could feature more than six, but lists that are too long tend to be daunting, and six seems like a good number. Anyway, here is but a brief sample of the terrific posts I read in the last week.
Yet again, Thistles and Kiwis dazzles us with food from fabulous Wellington, New Zealand. Am I jealous? You bet I am.
In the United States, last Sunday was Father’s Day, and to celebrate, Clif and I had went on an honest-to-God outing, something we haven’t done since March 2020, right before the pandemic closed everything down. First we went to the Colby College Art Museum in Waterville, where we saw an exhibit featuring prints of the U.S. artist Mary Cassatt (May 22, 1844–June 14, 1926).
My first impression of the prints was that they were subtle to the point of being dull. But a closer look disabused me of that notion. A lesson, that’s for sure—first impressions are not always accurate. Cassatt was a master portraitist who focused on mothers and children. Cassatt’s ability to capture nuance and emotion shines forth even in her prints. I was utterly amazed that she could give them so much life.
Here is a short video featuring the curator of the exhibit.
After looking at the exhibit, we wandered around the rest of the museum. We found ourself on the lowest floor of the museum, where there were no windows, and we heard a loud rush of water that sounded suspiciously like rain. Could we really be hearing rain so far down?
It seems that we could. When we went upstairs and looked out a window, we saw the rain bucketing in sheets.
Clif asked, “Did we leave our car windows open?”
Yes, we did. The day was hot and humid, and we thought it would be more comfortable to leave the windows open. Boy, were we ever wrong.
The tempest didn’t last long, and when we went back to the car, there was water, water everywhere pooling inside the center console. Fortunately, I was able to mop up most of the water with napkins from the glove compartment.
But the cloth seats were soaked, and after two minutes of sitting on them, so were our backsides.
Nevertheless, onward we went to the second part of our outing—to Buen Apetito for Mexican food. Fortunately, we sat at a booth with plastic seats. As we squished our way in, I explained the situation to our server, who laughed and took it in stride.
“No worries!” she said.
With that settled, we started with a beer—Lunch not Miller Lite— for Clif and a margarita for me.
We shared an order of potato flautases, which I forget to take a picture of. And because it was Father’s Day weekend, we also split dessert, a deep-fried banana tortilla with scoop of vanilla ice cream sprinkled with cinnamon.
As we would say in Maine, wicked good.
Some Favorite Blog Posts from Friends Far and Near
Note: After marathon gardening for two months, I’m still not in the swing of things, But eventually each week I hope to feature more posts from snappy blogs I follow.
Ju-Lyn, from Touring My Backyard, received the gift of a kabocha pumpkin, which is one I’ve never heard of.
Notes From the Hinterland 