I know this might count as bragging, but right now the air at the little house in the big woods is so impossibly sweet that I can’t imagine how it could be sweeter anywhere else. How to describe this smell? Green? Woodland? Nature? Life itself?
If I could bottle this smell and sell it, then I would be a very rich woman indeed. People would clamor for it. I know they would. But unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—this smell cannot be reproduced, not even by the cleverest chemist. This means that only a very small group of people, family and friends, have the privilege of enjoying this green, woodland smell at the little house in the big woods.
This morning, after hanging laundry, I took photos as I do nearly every day. It has become my practice, and through this practice I hope to become a better photographer.
The sweet smell of summer was all around me as I took pictures of flowers, the woods, and insects. The smell enveloped me until I felt as though it were holding me in its hand, and it seemed to encourage me to look closer and closer at what I was photographing.
From a distance, gardens and flowers, plants, and even insects can be beautiful, but close up they are strikingly interesting. How often do we slow down for a closer look? Not often enough, I think. Most of the time we are rushing through life, trying to get various chores done.
Photography is a good reminder to slow down, slow down and take a closer look. When the slowing down is combined with the sweet smell of summer, well, you have a combination that cannot be beat.
In Maine, June is typically a cool, rainy month more suitable for say, soup, than for barbecues and time spent on the patio. For those of us who love summer and being outside, June can be a bit of a trial. We want to wear shorts and t-shirts, but instead we are wearing turtle necks and sweaters. (Today, I am actually wearing a corduroy shirt over said sweater and turtle neck. I am determined to use as little heat as possible.) Every year in June my lament is the same, “Where oh where is summer?”
It will come in its own sweet time, I know. Fortunately, while June might be a rainy month, it is also a beautiful month. The leaves and grass are still lush and green. There is just the barest hint of the slug and snail onslaught that begins in earnest during midsummer. But best of all, the irises are in bloom at the little house in the big woods.
Now, I love all flowers—even peonies, those show-offs of the flower world—but irises are my favorite. Because our yard is so shady, many varieties of irises will not grow here, but I have found two very beautiful irises that do not mind partial shade and the damp it brings. Even better, the irises are purple, my favorite color for these lovely flowers.
Why do I love irises so much? I think it’s because they are both bright and elegant, a delight to the eye and soothing as well. Peonies, on the other hand, with their gaudy explosion of bloom and color, are just too darned much. Here I am, here I am, here I am, they shout. Full disclosure: At a friend’s house yesterday, I did admire her peonies, and my compliments were sincere. Still, when it comes to peonies, better her garden than mine.
This morning, before breakfast, I went out in the mist and took some pictures of the irises that have just started blooming in the backyard. Fortunately, the rain has not been heavy enough to beat down the irises. With any luck, there won’t be heavy rains for the next week or so, and the irises will bloom in all their elegant glory, bringing much-needed color to what can be a gray month.
Yesterday, we went to a friend’s retirement party held at the old grange—now the Helen Melledy Hall—in Monmouth. After thirty-five years of teaching high school chemistry, Mr. Knightrogen—aka Stephen Knight—has decided to “throw in his lab coat.” This year is his last year of teaching full time. (He does, however, have a part-time gig this summer in Farmington. You just can’t keep Mr. Knightrogen down.)
The hall was packed with family and friends, and the noise level was astounding. It’s amazing how happy people can make such a sound and a fury.
A view of the crowd and Mr. Knightrogen
Naturally, there were refreshments, and the food was pretty darned good, as my Yankee husband noted. Lots of tasty appetizers.
The spread
I can’t resist sharing this picture of my own contribution to Steve’s party. Yes, a recipe will follow in the next week or two.
Stuffed bread
To round out the refreshments, there was also wine tasting, courtesy of David Gulak, Steve’s future son-in-law. David is one of the owners of Meridians, a wine, beer, and food shop in Fairfield, Maine.
After everyone had plenty of time to eat, talk, and drink, there was a short program where a tearful Steve made a speech. There was also a snappy video, projected large on a back wall, and the video had testimonials from friends and former students as well as stills of Steve’s life as a teacher.
Then, of course, there was cake, made by Emilie Knight, Steve’s daughter.
Last but certainly not least, there was an official recognition from the Maine Legislature of Steve’s retirement and his service to Maine.
A much-deserved accolade for a dedicated and creative teacher. Clif and I have no doubt that with his energy, enthusiasm, and curiosity, Steve will have a fulfilling retirement and will continue to serve the community.
Every day, it seems, is national something or other day, but June 5 just happens to be National Donut Day. I am a donut lover from way, way back, when I worked at Dunkin’ Donuts during those halcyon times when each store had honest-to-God bakers who made donuts fresh every six hours. I ate more donuts than I care to admit, but because I was biking to work—ten miles round trip—I was fit and lean.
In 2008, I wrote a longish essay called “Desperate for Donuts.” In honor of National Donut Day, here are some excerpts, slightly edited, from that piece:
The Good and the Bad
Ironically, they are the perfect shape—a circle, round like a mandala, the symbol of eternity—and this should make them the perfect food. But fried in oil, perhaps drenched in glaze, covered with sugar, frosted, or even plain, they are not good for you. Not even a little bit.
Then there is their status. Jill Lightner, a West Coast writer, has called them the “dumb blonde of the pastry world. ” Patric Kuh, another West Coast writer, described them as a “street thug…strutting past Madeleine and Éclair.” There are also all the donut/cop jokes that have become so ubiquitous they are now clichés.
But…there is something about fried dough that transcends its lowly status, that crosses class lines, that worms its way into people’s appetites, even though they might not like to admit it. Simply put, fried dough is delicious, and donuts are the epitome of fried dough. There is nothing more sublime, say, than a raised donut, newly fried, dipped in glaze, and eaten just as soon as that glaze has dried.
A Brief History of Donuts
“When it comes to donuts New England is a place apart.” —John T. Edge, Donuts, An American Passion
New England can reasonably claim to be the epicenter of the American donut world, and its donut tradition stretches all the way back to the Pilgrims, who, after staying in Holland, brought fried dough, which the Dutch called olykoeks (oily cakes), to the New World. These ur-donuts had no holes, were yeasted, and had raisins, apples, and almonds in them. John T. Edge…has described them as “deep fried fruitcake.” A daunting thought, but I would certainly give them a try if the opportunity presented itself. Naturally, as the Dutch settled New York, they brought their olykoeks to this region as well, and fried dough had a firm foothold in what would become the thirteen colonies.
According to legend, Sea Captain Hanson Crockett Gregory, from Rockport, Maine, invented the hole in the donut sometime in the mid-1800s. Out at sea, with a holeless, olykoek-type donut in one hand and the ship’s wheel in the other, he supposedly stuck the donut on the spoke of the wheel, thus inventing the donut hole. Is this true? Only Captain Gregory knew for sure, but he somehow managed to convince the Boston Post his story was true and was duly accorded fame for his “invention.”
From there, donuts, complete with holes, went international, and they did so in a most unusual way—they went to France during World War I with the Salvation Army. Here again, we have the stuff of legend. In 1917, four Lassies (as the women in the Salvation Army were called) traveled to the camp of the 1st Ammunition Train in France. The soldiers wanted pie, but there were no bake ovens for the Lassies to use. However, they did have a kettle, oil, and the ingredients for donuts. From that first day, when two of the Lassies fried 150 donuts, word spread, and other Lassies soon began making donuts for the troops. Eventually, Lassies, often only two of them, would go on to make as many as 2,500 in one day for the grateful soldiers. Hence, the term “doughboy” was born. You might die miserably in the trench or be poisoned by mustard gas, but at least there were donuts to be had before the horrors of battle. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
A Donut Tour
“We devalue the things that give us pleasure.” —John T. Edge
I have a dream, a fantasy of sorts, that John T. Edge, a food writer who hails from the South, would come as far north as central Maine and that we would go on a donut tour together. We would start in Augusta, at Bolley’s Famous Franks, early in the morning when their donuts…are still warm. Taking time to savor Bolley’s tender, old-fashioned cinnamon donuts, we would then hurry to Frosty’s in Gardiner…marveling at the oh-so-fresh honey-dipped donuts.
From there it would be off to Willow Bake Shoppe in Rockport, whose cake donuts are impossibly tender and whose chocolate donuts are satisfyingly rich. I would perhaps introduce “wicked good” into Edge’s vocabulary. After all these donuts we would need a bit of a break, and Camden, on a sparkling day, would be the perfect place to rest. Finding a bench in the park overlooking the shimmering harbor, we would discuss the various donuts we had eaten, and I expect Edge would want to compare them to donuts he has eaten in other parts of the country. But in the end, Edge would return to a line from his own Donuts: An American Passion. That is, when it comes to donuts, New England is a place apart.
Sherlock making sure the coleuses have been properly watered
All right, I’ll admit it. Now that all the library brouhaha is over, I’ve been bitten hard by the gardening bug, and once bitten the fever spreads fast. Modest budget be damned, what I want to do is head to the local garden centers and spend, spend, spend.
I won’t, of course. I am mindful of our modest budget. However, this weekend when I go get herbs and some tomato plants, I might slide in a few six packs of, say, begonias, coleuses, or dwarf snapdragons, all plants that do well in my shady yard. I’ll try not to look at at the garden ornaments, another one of my weaknesses, but I sure could use another cobalt blue ball to go with the bird bath out back.
Yesterday, I potted coleuses and impatiens. Today I’ll plant the dwarf snapdragons in the long bed by the patio. The cats and the dog will be nearby to give me encouragement.
Right now, in central Maine and at the little house in the big woods, the gardens are in a prebloom state and are mostly green. But the green is a vibrant green, and the slugs and snails have yet to do their worst on the hostas. Everything looks, well, so green and healthy. While I’m crazy about flowers, I’m also very fond of all the green. So fond, in fact, that I don’t think I would be happy in an arid climate where the colors are more muted.
Green, green, green
More green with a spot of black
For the next week or so, I’ll be working diligently outside. Along with potting flowers—a task I just love—there is compost to spread, beds to be fertilized, and plants to be thinned.
As Katherine White once wrote, onward and upward in the garden.
Last week, along with the excitement of Bailey Library’s reopening, Clif and I also had the excitement of taking care of our “granddogs”—Holly and Somara. Oh, what a flurry of activity they brought to an already busy week at the little house in the big woods. But what dear dogs they are.
Holly is bold and energetic, and her moniker Hurricane Holly is a fitting one. With her long legs and her tan and orange coloring, she is a striking dog. Holly has the most expressive face of any dog I have ever known, and at times she even sneers like Billy Idol.
Holly with her “Don’t mess with me” look
Somara lived in a shelter until she was two years old, and she is sweet and affectionate but timid. Fortunately, she hit the jackpot when Shannon and Mike adopted her, and now Somara has a lifestyle that any dog would envy. A very, very loving home, plenty to eat, and daily runs in the woods. If Somara could talk she might say, “It’s a dog’s life, and I love it.”
Sweet Somara
Poor Liam was a little overshadowed by the two dogs. He is a Sheltie and a herding dog. Although Liam is friendly, he also has that aloof quality that herding dogs are known for. He doesn’t like having his head patted, he’s not a cuddly dog, and he prefers to sleep on the floor. Holly and Somara, on the other hand, wanted to be on the couch with Clif and me when we watched television. Holly often rested her head on my leg, and Somara was always ready to be patted.
Our Liam
But for the most part, everyone got along well. (Holly did chase the cats from time to time, but it was an occasional event rather than an ongoing one.) There were walks and doggie treats and romps in the yard.
Last night Shannon and Mike picked up the dogs, and today the house is quiet. The child gates are back downstairs, and the cat dishes are on the floor rather than on the small wooden table in our kitchen. It is a dripping rainy day, but it looks as though the rain is backing off, and I’ll be able to take Liam for a walk this afternoon.
The girls, as I call them, will be back soon when Shannon and Mike come for a backyard barbecue. How nice the dogs feel comfortable here.
And how nice the little house in the big woods is dog friendly as well as people friendly.
There! After a week of folderol and brouhaha, the new and improved Bailey Library is officially open. There was a ribbon cutting ceremony, with Sarah Fuller, the chair of the Winthrop Town Council, doing the honors. Before cutting the ribbon she quoted from Cicero: “A room without books is like a body without a soul.”
Hear, hear!
Edie Smith, from Senator Angus King’s office, told a charming story of coming to Bailey Library as a young girl. She would find a book and read perched on the window sill in the reading room until Mrs. Dow, the head librarian, would say, “Edith Ann, it’s time to go home.”
After the ribbon cutting, people stayed to chat, admire the library, and check out books and DVDs. Clif commented on the happy vibes that filled the library.
The happy crowd at the library
We were indeed all happy: the trustees and campaign volunteers who have worked so hard to raise the million dollars for the project; the library staff who have also worked hard to move the library from its temporary location and to make everything presentable for the opening; the patrons who now have an expanded library filled with light and oak shelves and plenty of room to sit and read.
We were all smiling, smiling, smiling.
My friend Margy Knight said, “We’re so in love with libraries that people might think we’re loony for libraries.”
Loony for libraries. Margy certainly got that right.
Later in the day…happy teens in the new teen section.
On Friday, there was an open house for the newly expanded and refurbished Charles M. Bailey Public Library. Books were shelved, pictures were hung, and toys were in their places. All the packing boxes had been spirited away, and as Shane, the adult services librarian put it, the library looked presentable. It certainly did.
In the new events room, we had a table set up with cake, cupcakes, and bottled water. I wondered, “Would there be enough cake for everyone?” This was followed by the terrible thought, “What if hardly anyone came and there was too much cake?”
A book cake
I needn’t have worried at all. When the doors opened at 4:00 p.m. , there was a rush of people. Shane was keeping count, and by 4:20 p.m., fifty people had come to the open house. And people just kept coming.
The library was duly admired and fussed over. Children, upon seeing the new children’s wing, didn’t want to leave.
The day was a smashing success, but there were three highlights for me. The first was when a woman whom I hadn’t seen for a while—she is part of our book group—said hi and then asked, “So what are you reading?” Was there ever a better question? I told her I was reading The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell, and for five minutes or so, we had some great book talk.
The second was a conversation I had with a bright teenage girl. She had taken out two graphic novels of The Flash, and we had a fun time talking about the Flash and Daredevil and their television shows.
Finally, and best of all, so many people thanked me for the work I had done as a trustee and a campaign volunteer for the library expansion. A simple thank you costs nothing at all and means so much.
The final count? Over 150 people came to the open house, and we all decided it was a rousing success.
On Monday, there will be a ribbon cutting, and the doors will open at 10:00 a.m. After being closed for several weeks, Bailey Public Library will be back in business.
Onward to the next hundred years!
A blog about nature, home, books, movies, television, food, and rural life.
Notes From the Hinterland 