Today the sky is gray, and certain weather reports have a tempest coming our way. Other reports are more moderate, merely promising us rain and drizzle. At any rate, we shall see.

Yesterday was a glorious day, and I spent some time cutting back my perennials.  Silly gardener that I am, I even like the way some of the plants look as they are winding down for their winter rest. Nothing showy, nothing beautiful, but worth noticing nonetheless, and I don’t cut everything down, leaving plants with pods and dark seeds to give interest to the fall and winter garden.

Pictures from my October garden:

Note: From my friend Kate, I got the notion of how important it is to live in place, to be completely immersed in the area that you live. I was going to do a multi-part series about living in place, but I believe this notion is so important that it deserves a category of its own, one that can be explored on a regular basis. While a Living in Place category might be similar to a Community category, there are some differences. Community, at least to me, focuses on the human element. It’s the way we come together to make our towns, cities, and, yes, even suburbs places of resilience that nourish people in good times and bad. Living in Place is more about the land, the environment, and I truly believe that only when we fully live in place do we begun to take care of the land, the water, and the air. Thanks so much, Kate, for planting this seed, so to speak.

In Maine, October is a tumultuous month, one of lashing rain, falling leaves, frost, brilliant blue skies, and air so crisp and clear that it makes you glad to be alive. It is a bright month of orange, red, and yellow. It is also somewhat sad. Lovely, warm summer has come to an end. The time for lunch on the patio will soon be over. Even on our little acre in the big woods, there is much to be done. The gardens need to be cut down, the leaves raked, the wood stacked.

Yesterday, was a very satisfying day of emptying pots with flowers and herbs that had been blackened by frost. It was warm enough so that scrubbing those pots was no hardship. It was also a day of hanging sheets, blankets, and quilts on the line. I feel a sense of urgency on every nice day to keep that clothesline full of sheets and blankets. Soon, it will be too cold to do so, and everything will go in the basement to dry. But until then…

Here are some pictures I took yesterday.

Note: In my last post, I wrote about the importance of living in and loving place, and I promised to write about my hometown, Winthrop, in my next post. But then we went to visit our daughter in New York City, and I just had to write about that place, the city of cities. Soon, I will write about Winthrop and its various pleasures and discontents. After all, no place is perfect.

My husband, Clif, and I have been visiting our daughter Dee in New York City for 12 years, and even after all those years, the city, in my mind, is a patchwork of impressions—neighborhoods, food, people, the subway system—almost a character in itself—smells, sounds, and sights. When I try to hold an image of New York, it constantly shifts, partly because of my faulty memory and partly because of the protean nature of this big city, where things are added and subtracted on a regular basis.

Not surprisingly, food is a beacon for me, and in my mental map of New York City, the food zones light up in various parts of the city. First there is the Chinese takeout near Dee’s apartment in Brooklyn. By New York standards, it is nothing much—adequate food at good prices—but by central Maine standards, the food is pretty darned good, as Clif might say. The sauces have a subtly missing in every Chinese restaurant in our area, and the fried tofu in the vegetable stir-fry is brown and crunchy, just as it should be. In the other direction from Dee’s apartment is an Italian bakery with canolis, a crunchy shell filled with a sweet, creamy filling that just doesn’t taste like any canoli I’ve ever had in Maine. Then, turn the corner and there is the bagel shop, with large chewy bagels that have obviously been boiled as well as baked. These three shops make a ring around my daughter’s apartment, and I have no trouble placing them in the map in my mind.

We, of course, go farther afield than Dee’s immediate neighborhood, and every year we add something new. On our last visit, in April, it was the Doughnut Plant in Chelsea, with donuts so fresh and flavorful that Dee has become a convert, stopping by regularly to grab a donut during a recent film festival.

For our trip last weekend, it was Smorgasburg, an outdoor food market with over 70 vendors. Smorgasburg is an offshoot of the Brooklyn Flea, and it is in a large lot in Williamsburg near the East River. For a foodie like me, Smorgasburg is pretty much as good as it gets. While there were a few vendors selling records—that’s right, vinyl—mostly it was food, rows and rows of vendors selling enticing things to eat—sausage, porchetta, donuts, macarons, jelly, pickles, chocolate, fish tacos, falafel, and much, much more. Smorgasburg runs through November, and if I lived in the area, which looks a little like Sesame Street, then I would go regularly and try something new each time. Well, all right, maybe with every visit I’d make it a point to get a heartbreakingly soft donut from Dough and a macaron, two crunchy little meringues held together with a creamy filling, from Vendôme Pâtisserie. The donut would be the appetizer and the macaron would be dessert. Readers, I am making myself hungry as I write this.

Although it was hard to make a choice about what to eat between my donut appetizer and my macaron dessert, I did settle on porchetta served on a roll. The porchetta, from the aptly named Porchetta, was moist, crunchy in places, spicy, and utterly delicious. It would be hard to resist getting one each time, but I am reasonably sure I would be up for the challenge.

So now I have Smorgasburg to add to my patchwork map of New York City. And lest anyone think that all I do is eat when I go to New York, I would also add to my map the Strand Bookstore in Union Square. The Strand boasts of having “18 miles of new, used and rare books.” I believe this boast. At the Strand, the shelves of books go up so high that little magic ladders would be in order, ones that could whisk you up and down and sideways and every which way.

The Strand is so big and quirky that it deserves a post of its very own. Another time, perhaps, if I can pull myself away from finding more places to eat the next time I go to New York City.

My husband, Clif’s, birthday was yesterday, and he took off the day from work in the hopes of going on another bike ride if the weather cooperated. The weather did indeed cooperate, and we decided to ride again along the Kennebec River from Hallowell to Richmond, but this time just to the town line, making this a trip of about 20 miles rather than the 30 miles we rode on my birthday. And what to do after the ride? Why, go to the Red Barn for some of their delicious fried food.

For my birthday, I wrote quite a bit about the ride from Hallowell to Richmond, so I won’t go too much into it here except to add that on the way back, we stopped at Reny’s in Gardiner for a little shopping—blue jeans for Clif, a shirt for me, and chocolate chips for cookies for some special Scorpios who will be having birthdays in the next couple of months. Knowing we were going to stop at Reny’s, Clif and I had come prepared with a knapsack, and between that and our bike packs, we had plenty of room. What fun to combine things and do errands on our bikes!

When we returned to our car in the parking lot in Hallowell in late afternoon, the sun was at a slant. The river was as smooth and as placid as a lake, and the reflection of trees shimmered on the calm surface. Not far from the parking lot, 5 ducks skimmed across the water and lifted off, flying down the river until they disappeared. Clif packed the bikes into the car, and talking about our ride and some of the scenes we loved best, off we went to the Red Barn, where we ate with the hearty appetite of those who had truly earned their supper.

Last Saturday was my birthday, and to celebrate, my husband, Clif, and I decided to go on a long bike ride, from Hallowell to Richmond and then back again. Round trip, it was about 30 miles.

The day started out gray and there were even a few sprinkles, but by noon the sky had cleared, the sun was out, and the temperature—about 70 degrees—was perfect for bike riding. Clif loaded the bikes in the car, and we headed to Hallowell to pick up the rail trail, which would take us as far as Gardiner, about 5 miles away.

The rail trail was sheer bliss. What a relief it was to be able to ride on a route where we didn’t have to worry about the cars. All through Maine, I wish there were many trails like the rail trail . True, we had to watch out for pedestrians, but that was not a problem at all. We duly slowed down when we approached pedestrians, and we let them know we were going by on their left.

On the rail trail, we crunched over dry leaves—a reminder that fall has arrived—and to our left, the Kennebec River shimmered in the bright sunlight. Narrow and placid, at least in central Maine, the Kennebec River cannot be called mighty, but it is beautiful, and we would follow the river all the way to Richmond. What is it about water that draws us so? Mountains might have grandeur and deserts their stark beauty, but some elemental part of us seems to respond to water, to love it, to want to be near it.

We stopped in Gardiner—the end of the rail trail—for lunch and had peanut butter sandwiches, Goldfish crackers, and a cookie. Clif and I discussed how the DOT (Department of Transportation) should not essentially be the DOC (Department of Cars), that it should include and accommodate various modes of transportation—from bikes to trains to walking. And while there is plenty of room for improvement, it was heartening to see new sidewalks in Farmingdale, on busy Route 201, going right into Gardiner. So progress has been made, but as is so often the case, it is slow and uneven. (I’m thinking of my terror rides up Pelton Hill, where there are no bike lanes, and the traffic zooms by at 50 miles an hour. “Terror” is not too strong a word to use.)

From there, we rode through town to South Gardiner, which with its flat roads and paved breakdown lanes, is another biker’s delight. We left the main road twice to go on two quiet side routes that followed the river and, as a bonus, bypassed two huge hills. We rode past broad fields and plenty of pointed firs. One dog, a border collie, rushed at us, but he didn’t leave his yard, and as Clif put it, “He’s all bark.” Our kind of dog. A little farther on, another dog, a huge Newfoundland, watched serenely as we rode by, and we didn’t hear as much as a soft yip.

Eventually we came to Richmond, which has a splendid little park complete with restrooms, a wonderful amenity when you are biking. We sat by the river and admired the view—Swan Island, an old metal bridge—and all too soon it was time to head back to Hallowell.

We dawdled a bit along the way, until we realized that we were running a little late. We had arranged to meet our daughter Shannon and her husband, Mike, at the Liberal Cup in Hallowell, and it was time to stop dawdling. Pedal, pedal, pedal back through South Gardiner, to Gardiner, and onto the rail trail. We were 15 minutes late, which is not too bad, and Shannon and Mike were waiting for us at the Cup.

Let’s just say that after a long bike ride, fish and chips and a cup of cheddar soup tasted pretty darned good, to borrow a phrase from Clif. Then, it was back to our house for cake, ice cream, and presents, which we had around the fire pit.

The title of this piece refers, of course, to the number of miles we rode and to my age. Both Clif and I are so pleased and grateful that we are able to ride this distance at our ages—Clif will soon be 61. Never for one minute do we take our health for granted. We know all too well that life is unpredictable and that bad luck can strike anyone. However, right now, we are both more than able to ride 30 miles on our bike in a day. And the best thing is that the very next day, we went on an 11-mile ride and felt just fine.

I can’t think of a better way to have celebrated my 55th birthday. Well, that’s not quite true. If only our daughter Dee could have joined us. Nevertheless, it was a splendid day.

Notes from the Hinterland

Labor Day was surely one of the most beautiful days of the season, which is edging from summer to fall. The day was warm and dry, and the sky was a brilliant blue. For my husband, Clif, and me this could only mean one thing—a long bike ride. We decided to ride what we call “the big Monmouth loop,” with a stop in the middle at Cumston Hall for iced tea and a granola bar and then on to Winthrop and an ice cream, at the end, at Tubby’s. The loop is about 17 miles, and most of it is on back roads lined with trees and fields, on roads where there isn’t very much traffic. The route, like most routes in central Maine, has its fair share of hills, but Clif and I have gotten to the point where most hills really don’t bother us that much. I never thought we’d get to this point, but when you bike long enough and push yourself to go up hills, this does indeed happen.

We made it to Monmouth in good time, and here is where we bought the iced tea. It’s a general store with an old wooden floor and various items ranging from milk to iced tea to used books.

Then on to beautiful Cumston Hall, home to the Theater at Monmouth and the town library, where we could rest in the shade and admire this spectacular old building as we drank our iced tea and ate our granola bars.

Through Monmouth we went, down busy 132, which doesn’t have a breakdown lane. This was our least favorite part of the trip, but then we were back on country roads, and we biked by many gracious homes that have been around for a couple of hundred years.

All too soon, our bike ride was over, and we pulled into Tubby’s for an ice cream.

And what to do after Tubby’s? Why, return home and make pizza on the grill. The roasted tomato sauce and the topping of peppers and pepperoni all came from central Maine farms. I hate to boast, but Clif makes great pizza.

Then with rum and Coke, we said farewell to summer and welcome to autumn.

And we hope there are many more bike rides before the snow falls.

Notes from the Hinterland

As many readers already know, two years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was lucky in that the tumor was small—stage one—as well as slow-growing and nonaggressive.  I had surgery and radiation treatment, and although my prognosis is excellent, I go for regular check-ups at the Harrold Alfond Center for Cancer Care in Augusta, about 14 miles from where I live.

Last year, when I was the heaviest I had ever been, I decided the time had come to lose weight, exercise, and, in general, start taking good care of this body, which, after all, is the only one I have. Fortunately, I love to ride my bike. Not only is it great exercise, but it is also easy on the joints. For me, there is something very satisfying about pedaling and the forward movement of the bike. It sounds crazy, I know, but pedaling really is a pleasure for me.

One of the things I like to do is set challenges for myself, especially when it comes to biking. Now, I know that challenges have a down side. They can drain all the fun out of an activity and turn a person into a driven, humorless Puritan, a real partypooper.  But, approached in the right spirit, challenges can add fun and excitement to life. They can be positive goals for a person to focus on, which in turn can be a way to relieve stress. For me, challenges definitely fall into the second, non-partypooper category, and my husband, Clif, and I have a lot of fun with our biking challenges.

Over the past year, as I began to lose weight and became a stronger biker, I decided that I wanted to bike to the Cancer Center for my summer check-up. It would be a way of saying, “All right, I had cancer. But look how strong I am now.” I would also be riding in honor of the many friends and family members who have had cancer.

Well, yesterday, I did it. I biked to the Cancer Center. I left Winthrop and pedaled on busy Route 202, which fortunately has a wide break-down lane so it’s not as bad as it might be. I rode past cattails, Queen Ann’s lace, and purple loosestrife, which I know I’m not supposed to like but I do anyway. I zoomed past Winthrop Veterinary Hospital, and looked to see if Dr. Dave was working. He was. His motorcycle was parked by the building.

I went up hill and down hill and into Manchester, the worst part of the ride. There is no breakdown lane, and as soon as the lights allow, the cars speed by at 50+ miles an hour. I, on the other hand, slogged up Pelton Hill, and I prayed I wouldn’t get clipped as I felt the wind of the rushing cars. I guess the god of biking was smiling down on me because I made it safely through Manchester and onto back roads leading to the Cancer Center.

I got to the Cancer Center in one piece and in good time—an hour and a half. I had lunch on the terrace overlooking a man-made pond. The sound of the fountain in the pond was soothing, and I felt comfortable, relaxed, and, I must admit, very pleased with myself as I ate my peanut butter sandwich and my apple.

When the nurses, the lab technicians, and my doctor realized I had biked to the Cancer Center—the helmet and the biking shorts were give-aways—they clucked and fussed over me in a very satisfying way. Everyone likes a success story, and unfortunately, this is not the only story at the Cancer Center.

My doctor urged me to come the upcoming Cancer Survivor Day next weekend so that everyone could see how healthy and strong I was, even though I had had cancer.

“It would give a lot of cancer patients hope,” she said.

So, next weekend, weather permitting, Clif and I will be biking to the Cancer Center for Cancer Survivor Day.

I would like to conclude with a few comments about wellness, healthy eating, and exercise. First of all, I am never smug about my health. I know that people can take good care of themselves and still get sick. Sometimes it’s a matter of luck and the way a person’s genes interacts with the environment. Second, I don’t know if healthy eating and exercise will help me live longer. They might or they might not. But here’s what I do know: they will help me feel better while I live, and that alone makes the effort—and it is effort—worthwhile.

Now, on to the next challenge! A 50-mile bike trip. If not this summer then next summer.

Because I have been black-belt dieting for the past couple of months, I have not been going to the Flaky Tart, one of my favorite places to eat in Winthrop. No matter how good the food is at a restaurant, it is very difficult to control the amount of calories in any given meal. When fall comes, I told myself, I’ll stop by once a week or so to have a cup of the Tart’s delicious soup, which even a black-belt dieter can have without guilt. (Note: My black-belt dieting is working, and I have lost over 60 pounds.)

However, yesterday, even though the day was rainy, I walked into town to go to the library. By the time I came out, the rain was pelting down, and as I came to the Flaky Tart, I decided that a cup of tea and a small treat might be just the thing. I could sit at a table by the window, have my snack and tea, and hope that the rain would let up when it was time to walk home.

As it turned out, there were no small treats, but there were homemade granola bars, or breakfast bars, as they are billed at the Tart.

“Well,” I said to myself. “Why not have one of those? You have a granola bar for your snack everyday.”

But the ones I have at home are not as big as they are at the Tart, and I knew I’d have to break the bar in thirds. Not a problem at all. I took a third of the bar, wrapped up the rest, and put it in my pocketbook next to the ginger cookie I bought for my husband, Clif. The granola bar was out of sight, and therefore out of mind, as the saying goes. It’s a silly trick, but it works.

I ordered some iced tea to go with the granola bar and sat at my favorite spot, that table by the window. I watched as cars went up and down the street. For the most part, the sidewalks were empty, and there is something melancholy about empty sidewalks on a rainy day.

Across the street, in the window of Pete’s Roast Beef, the “open” sign flashed off and on. In a big SUV parked next to the Tart, a little dog with a white and brown head barked as he waited for his person to return. I could see the dog’s mouth open and close, but I couldn’t hear the bark.

Soon, the granola bar, one of the best I have ever had, was gone, as was the iced tea. The sky didn’t look as gray, and the rain appeared to have abated, at least a little.

Time to go home to my own dog and another walk, if the weather allowed.

Once upon a time, there was a forgotten garden.

Where there had been flowers, there were now mostly weeds.

And remnants of an earlier time.

But although the garden was forgotten, it was not empty.

They are waiting.