Wednesday, January 12
Most people go south for a break in the winter. But not us. No, we make a beeline for the epicenter of everything I detest—snow and cold.
So here we are in Maine. I am seated at the kitchen island, enjoying a view of the relentless snowfall outside the window. How bad can this be? I’m warm, drinking coffee and working on my computer. For starters, I had to drag poor Teddy out into the snow for his morning walk. Dragged isn’t quite accurate. I shoveled a path for the little prince. The snow was too deep for the little dog to make his own way through. I put his red leash on him, even though I knew I wouldn’t really be using it. Teddy wouldn’t venture far off in the snow. But thinking ahead, there were contingency plans to be made: if he sank too deep in the snow, the red leash could provide a visible trail for me to locate him. I eyed the little dog, thinking even further ahead, If all else fails, that is a source of meat. Visions of the Donner party are never far from my mind.
Two days ago—long before it ever snowed—I was making a pot of soup. (You can never have enough stick-to-the-ribs soup on hand throughout the winter. And at this rate I will be foraging in the snow for root vegetables to make more soup.) Peter came up beside me and offered instructions, “You’re cutting the carrots too small.” Jesus Christ! Get out of here! I screeched. If I run out of dog meat, Peter may be my next source of protein.
Peter just told me he thinks the falling and drifting snow is pretty. Pretty? I think it portends death and starvation. But that’s just me. I’m not a Georgia on My Mind kinda gal. I have more of a Wisconsin Death Trip outlook on life. Well, if not all of life, then certainly winter. Wisconsin Death Trip was a 1973 book of photos that testified to the unsettling effects of Wisconsin winters on rural townspeople. The book is chockfull of wild-eyed portraits of the living who look like they’ve recently dined with Death, of the dead sweetly tucked up, dressed up and ready to meet their Maker, of elaborate funeral wreathes, of mutilated bodies and other evidence of the less than salutary effects of prolonged winter oblivion. Without benefit of cable TV, Facebook or (most important) antidepressants to while away the endless winter, raging cabin fever and bursts of inexplicable violence passed the time.
Where was I heading with that? Oh yes, if Peter doesn’t stop micromanaging the minutia of life, I may lose my mind. How big are the carrot slices? I can see blood in the snow already.
Thursday, January 13
My sister-in-law (a licensed family counselor with tales of dysfunctional families that would curl your hair) tells me that a single day stuck in the house does not beget cabin fever or any form of winter/snow madness. She was explaining this to me on my cell phone while I was driving from my favorite coffee house to my favorite antique shop in town. After more than two feet of snow, the secondary roads have been completely and exquisitely cleared, and even the tertiary roads are plowed. Our landscaper plowed our driveway yesterday. We had only to shovel out the excess snow blocking the garage doors. The sidewalks, curbs and streets in Brunswick are easily walk-able in shoes (rather than boots). I have to admit: They really know how to manage snow up here. No muss. No fuss.
So perhaps I was over-reacting yesterday. After the antique store, I met Peter for lunch in town. After that I trotted off to the super market where I picked up some lovely Clementine oranges. Okay, so we’re not the Donner party, and Teddy is not on the menu for the time being.
Friday, January 14
We had dinner in a charming little Italian restaurant last night. I am refreshed and restored to my usual equanimity—such as it is. Pasta and wine are wonder drugs.
Showing posts with label Harpswell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Harpswell. Show all posts
Friday, January 21, 2011
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Where in The World is Carmen Sandiego?
For those of you who are wondering how I came to be a field hand, and where I might be fulfilling this life-long goal of working the land as if it were 1875, here’s the explanation.
Peter and I have been vacationing in Kennebunkport for over 30 years. We love the Maine coast, and hoped to have a house there someday. Over the last couple of years, we thought the time was finally right. We came to this conclusion just as Lehman Brothers was being sucked into the black hole of the financial apocalypse that it and the rest of Wall Street had so thoughtfully created. It was September 2008, and we were driving around the country roads of southern Maine, listening to that card-carrying CNN cretin, Rick Sanchez, on Sirius Radio as he cheerfully whipped up the panic about the financial collapse. (I will go on about the irresponsibility of the 24/7 commercial news cycle some other time.) So we put our conclusion aside for awhile.
We continued to look around even while the economic winds of fortune blew like a hurricane. We are firm believers in that old adage: location, location, location. I found a lovely little lot that backed on the Webhannet Golf Course in K’Port. For a mere $900,000 we could own property on which we might afford to build a quonset hut. We wouldn’t have enough spare change to erect an outhouse. Luckily, since we couldn’t afford to clear the land, there would still be enough forest to afford me the privacy that the outhouse would have provided. I’m sure the neighbors would understand. And best of all (remember location, location, location) I would be able to observe President George H. Bush (aka 41 or the Bush with brains) while he played golf on the Webhannet course once a year.
So, with real estate prices that rivaled Scarsdale’s, Peter decided K’Port might not be the garden spot for us. I have no idea how he came across Harpswell, Maine. But anywhere, here we are: owners of a house on 2 acres of wooded property, with a beautiful (if overgrown) garden built on tiered stone walls. The house is a 2,700 square foot saltbox, about 25 years old, in need of new bathrooms, a new kitchen and the expected cleaning-out that goes with 25 years of accumulated detritus.
My approach to anything that needs to be cleaned, painted, raked or weeded is to attack it with gusto. My favorite form of gusto now comes in the shape of cash: Let’s hire someone to do that! But Peter has suddenly become the very soul of financial responsibility and sober judgment. That used to be my role in this marriage. But with menopause comes wisdom, patience and a new, mellow approach to life. (Just ask Peter how mellow I’ve become.) My new approach takes the shape of live-and-let-live, and Let’s-hire-someone-to-do-that! Peter’s new-found maturity has taken on the persona of fiscal conservator for the Rockefeller Foundation. So when it came to the initial hands-and-knees scrubbing of the house’s kitchen, bathrooms, floors, cobwebs, and more, I spent nearly a week going at it hammer and tong. Had I known how grimy the house was, I would have hired a cleaning service to do it. I mentioned this to Peter, but he thought that would be a waste of money: no one would clean it with the zeal that I brought to the job, or to my satisfaction. And besides, you’re so far along, why not just finish it? I should have climbed up on a milk crate and smacked him right then and there.
We are back in NJ for now, having lived through the heat wave (that reached handily up to Maine) with no air conditioning. By the last week of August I took to spending large chunks of the day in the blissfully cool and comfortable Brunswick library. If I stayed at the house, I inevitably fell to hacking at overgrown shrubs, raking leaves or ripping out yard-long golden rod stems by main force. The arbor vitae and the rose hips were so intertwined as to be virtually braided together, the rhododendron had grown tall enough to cover the second story windows, and the rose bushes were over 6 feet tall. They called to me to come out and do battle. Better to be in the library than sweating in the mid-day sun and heat.
I lost my train of thought… We are back in NJ, and I am unemployed. (I will go into that story at length and with great gusto another time.) For now, while I am searching for work, I will actually be a housewife. This is entirely new territory for me. I’ve never been a housewife before. Wish Peter luck.
Peter and I have been vacationing in Kennebunkport for over 30 years. We love the Maine coast, and hoped to have a house there someday. Over the last couple of years, we thought the time was finally right. We came to this conclusion just as Lehman Brothers was being sucked into the black hole of the financial apocalypse that it and the rest of Wall Street had so thoughtfully created. It was September 2008, and we were driving around the country roads of southern Maine, listening to that card-carrying CNN cretin, Rick Sanchez, on Sirius Radio as he cheerfully whipped up the panic about the financial collapse. (I will go on about the irresponsibility of the 24/7 commercial news cycle some other time.) So we put our conclusion aside for awhile.
We continued to look around even while the economic winds of fortune blew like a hurricane. We are firm believers in that old adage: location, location, location. I found a lovely little lot that backed on the Webhannet Golf Course in K’Port. For a mere $900,000 we could own property on which we might afford to build a quonset hut. We wouldn’t have enough spare change to erect an outhouse. Luckily, since we couldn’t afford to clear the land, there would still be enough forest to afford me the privacy that the outhouse would have provided. I’m sure the neighbors would understand. And best of all (remember location, location, location) I would be able to observe President George H. Bush (aka 41 or the Bush with brains) while he played golf on the Webhannet course once a year.
So, with real estate prices that rivaled Scarsdale’s, Peter decided K’Port might not be the garden spot for us. I have no idea how he came across Harpswell, Maine. But anywhere, here we are: owners of a house on 2 acres of wooded property, with a beautiful (if overgrown) garden built on tiered stone walls. The house is a 2,700 square foot saltbox, about 25 years old, in need of new bathrooms, a new kitchen and the expected cleaning-out that goes with 25 years of accumulated detritus.
My approach to anything that needs to be cleaned, painted, raked or weeded is to attack it with gusto. My favorite form of gusto now comes in the shape of cash: Let’s hire someone to do that! But Peter has suddenly become the very soul of financial responsibility and sober judgment. That used to be my role in this marriage. But with menopause comes wisdom, patience and a new, mellow approach to life. (Just ask Peter how mellow I’ve become.) My new approach takes the shape of live-and-let-live, and Let’s-hire-someone-to-do-that! Peter’s new-found maturity has taken on the persona of fiscal conservator for the Rockefeller Foundation. So when it came to the initial hands-and-knees scrubbing of the house’s kitchen, bathrooms, floors, cobwebs, and more, I spent nearly a week going at it hammer and tong. Had I known how grimy the house was, I would have hired a cleaning service to do it. I mentioned this to Peter, but he thought that would be a waste of money: no one would clean it with the zeal that I brought to the job, or to my satisfaction. And besides, you’re so far along, why not just finish it? I should have climbed up on a milk crate and smacked him right then and there.
We are back in NJ for now, having lived through the heat wave (that reached handily up to Maine) with no air conditioning. By the last week of August I took to spending large chunks of the day in the blissfully cool and comfortable Brunswick library. If I stayed at the house, I inevitably fell to hacking at overgrown shrubs, raking leaves or ripping out yard-long golden rod stems by main force. The arbor vitae and the rose hips were so intertwined as to be virtually braided together, the rhododendron had grown tall enough to cover the second story windows, and the rose bushes were over 6 feet tall. They called to me to come out and do battle. Better to be in the library than sweating in the mid-day sun and heat.
I lost my train of thought… We are back in NJ, and I am unemployed. (I will go into that story at length and with great gusto another time.) For now, while I am searching for work, I will actually be a housewife. This is entirely new territory for me. I’ve never been a housewife before. Wish Peter luck.
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