Grumbles and Grins by Karen Bessey Pease

A Plethora of Puppies (aka A Canine Country Christmas...)

2012-01-21T00:02:00.000-05:00

Brillo meets Scruffy

The holidays are over and winter finally seems to be setting in. God and Mother Nature worked in tandem to create a little magic, and at the last minute we had a white Christmas to allay my children’s fears. We didn’t have enough snow for our “sliding after dark in pajamas” tradition, but there was enough snow to make the landscape (and the teenagers’ dispositions) sparkle and shine.

On Christmas Eve we invited family and some new friends to The F.A.R.M. for supper. Three years ago our oldest son Guy created a wonderful family tradition. He arrives ‘home’ early on Christmas Eve day and prepares the meal, which is a wonderful gift for his mother. I find I invite more guests when I’m not doing the cooking…

Guy with Saint and Scruffy on his shoulder, Lucy on the arm of the chair, and the long-suffering and good-natured Boone, who (with Brillo) had to put up with the 3 puppies

This year, there were 14 humans and 5 canines in our home on ‘the night before Christmas’. The Pease Wees, the newest members of our household, were joined by their cousin Boone, Guy’s sweet dog. Cousin Brillo, the Labradoodle, was in attendance too—arriving with my sister Chris and staying with us for a few days so Chris and her husband Chris could travel to Cleveland to visit Chris’ family. Meaning the family of the other Chris, since this Chris’ family is here. Of course, now that they’re married, Chris’ family is Chris’ family, too. Two Chrises. One family.

No problem.

Thank God for wine.

But I was talking about dogs and not how many Chrises were Christmasing with us. The fifth canine to round out our party was Lucy, my friend Patty’s 7 month old Jack Russell terror. Jack Russells are an active breed. Always moving. Always jumping. Wiggling. Burrowing. Terrier-izing.

I didn’t realize how mobile the little dog was. The kids and I had pushed all the living room furniture back to the walls to make room for the tables in the center of the floor. We sat on sofas and chairs and enjoyed Guy’s hors d’oeuvres and Patty’s homemade wine while staying out from under the cook’s feet. All of a sudden, Lucy jumped onto Chris (one of them) and continued bouncing over the top of everyone else, springing from one sofa (and lap) to the next chair (and lap) to the next sofa (and lap) without ever touching the floor. Round and round in a circle she went, over duck tenders and around pesto pizza and under homemade cheese-its. Jack Russels aren’t large dogs, but they are solid. And their feet are quite pointy. Sharp. Wicked picked, in fact! Our new friends were quite taken with the gymnastic abilities of Miss Lucy as she knocked food out of hands and drove air out of tummies. I’m sure we impressed these newcomers to the point of ‘no return’.

Thank God for wine.

Guy and Josie on the (new) sofa (see towel...) and Lucy, Boone and Brillo on Guy and Josie.

Wee puppies and not so wee puppies tested the patience of the adults—both human and canine—as they teased for snacks, darted in and out of harm’s way, and generally confirmed the rumor that The F.A.R.M. is a zoo.

Eventually, the house quieted. Most of our guests stuffed themselves with good food and fine wine… and went home. Remaining to hang stockings with us were Guy and Patty…and the 5 dogs. Oh, yeah.... and the 3 cats.

Stevie and Scruffy (Stevie never touched her [he actually loves the Wees) but Scruffy has felt the claws of Josie's cat Curious before...I thought this expression of ANTICIPATION was hilarious.)

I have a very patient and long-suffering husband. He puts up with a lot. I’m the one whose friend gave me the Wees, causing our household to revert to a nursery again after years without puppies or small children. It is my life-long friend and my family members who bring dogs to our parties.

It’s my side of the family that brings wine.

The living room had been put to rights. The tables and chairs taken care of, the dishes washed and dried…We sat on sofas and in chairs chatting, winding down, relaxing in the glow of Christmas tree lights and candles. Steven and Eli were on the big (new) couch, Josie and I sat on the love seat, Patty was tipped back in the recliner, and Guy was propped in the armchair. Dogs were lounging by feet and in laps. Suddenly, Eli spoke.

"Dame Scruffy of Dingleberry Bog" (bottom) and "Saint Baxter of Soggy Bottom" (top)

“Lucy! LUCY! Papa! Ahhhh...um…you might wanna MOVE, Papa!”

Eli’s words sunk in at the same moment that Lucy’s pee soaked in. Steven jumped off the (new) couch, pulling the seat of his britches away from his…seat. Lucy bounded off the (new) cushion behind him–her task complete; her bladder empty. Pal Patty perked up. A seasoned dog owner, she’s attuned to the change in tenor of the mood in a room when a human realizes he has been piddled upon.

I could have sworn Ricky Ricardo was in my house. “Looo-cee!” was repeated several times as Patty ran for paper towels, Guy belly-laughed and Josie tittered, Eli breathed a sigh of relief that he’d been on the other end of the sofa, and Steven went to take a shower and change his clothes for the second time on Christmas Eve.

It was interesting to watch the ‘host’ Steven as he attempted to curb his tongue and his temper after ‘the incident’. Had one of the Wees done such a thing on our (new) couch—especially when Steven was sitting on/in it—we would have been witness to a much more colorful display of emotion. Choice words, facial contortions…it would have been a far more interesting show. But ‘host’ Steven loves friend Patty and he didn’t want to spoil the Christmas mood. And he didn’t. What a guy.

Our Canine Christmas was hectic, but truly enjoyable.

Five dogs. Two Chrises.

And wine.

Downeast Humor-Compliments of Tim Sample, the Harraseeket Inn and Friends of Maine's Mountains

2012-01-05T00:34:00.000-05:00

The New Year has come and gone. Already, 2012 is almost 'old hat'. Martin Luther King Junior Day is a week away. Ground Hog's Day... less than one month. And St. Patrick's Day--one of those harbingers of Spring--is only 2 1/2 months from now.

By that time, we'll have cabin fever. We'll be sick of the cold, the snow, the short days and the long nights. We will have had our fill of shoveling and plowing, of filling the woodbox and taking out the ashes and splitting kindling. We will long for humidity. Warmth. Dry floors. Cool tempers.

Please join Friends of Maine's Mountains as we work to raise money for a good cause while also working to dispel the winter blues. Maine's premier Maine humorist, Tim Sample, is performing a live show to benefit FMM on Saturday, March 17th. I hope to see you there!

The Bucket List

2012-01-01T00:51:00.002-05:00

Karen’s Log:

Star Date--New Year’s Eve.

Two Thousand Eleven.

Lexington Township, Maine… somewhere on the 45th North Parallel…Earth…Milky Way Galaxy.

The crew is restless. Edgy. Almost…pains in my @$$.

The new year—2012—begins in just a few minutes. And…everyone wonders….

What will the year hold? Will the world end on December 21st, as many people believe? Will concern about that possible happenstance change the way any of us live our lives?

And if so… how?

Well, I (Karen Louise Bessey Pease, a.k.a. Kazza, Kaz, Mama, Mum, Sweetie and Honey) for one, intend to create a “Bucket List”.

For those of you who don’t know what I mean by “Bucket List”; it’s simple. A “Bucket List” is a list of things which you hope to do, say, accomplish, experience or survive before you “Kick the Bucket”.

Yes. It’s a list of things you want to do before you die. But making lists is easy. I also intend to start checking off some of the items!

think I’ve led a life which has been relatively unselfish. I’ve asked very little of others unless I was willing to give in equal measure; and when I had to ask at all, I tried to repay their generosity with something “in kind”. It’s always been a matter of pride, I guess. I don’t like feeling like I am indebted to anyone.

But there’s no way a Bucket List can be completely unselfish or philanthropic. Not really. After all, it is a compilation of things I want to do–not things I want for others. Yes, sure…I want world peace. But if I’ve got less than 12 months left on this planet, it’s beyond my ability to make “world peace” happen. Realistically—wouldn’t that be a complete waste of time? Especially since—when the world ends of December 21st–all those warring factions are destined to go up in smoke right alongside me?

And really… how boring would it be if we had world peace? It’s unrealistic. It’s against all things natural. Take a good look at this planet. How many sentient beings live in harmony with other sentient beings? It’s a dog-eat-dog world.

So. Even though I truly don’t believe the Mayan Calendar is the be-all, end-all…. Still, I’ll use this opportunity to write a first draft of my bucket list. It will undergo changes and revisions, sure. Life is like that. Nothing is set in stone. But this list will be a start. Something for me to refer to–and aspire to follow.

BUCKET LIST (not necessarily in the order of importance…):

#1: Pay off the mortgage on my homestead. I would love (LOVE) to gift my husband with the security of knowing that—no matter what befalls us—we would not lose our home, a place which gives him such peace and satisfaction.

#2: Have a novel make the New York Times Best Sellers’ List—mostly so that I could afford to pay off the mortgage and give my husband that security.

#3: Get a pilot’s license. I’d prefer to learn how to fly a chopper, but with only a few months to devote to the prospect, I’ll settle for learning to fly an airplane. I’ve been told it is easier and cheaper.

#4: Meet my friend and co-author, Saint. That’s all. I just wanna stare at him across a table and tell him how he’s enriched my life over the last few years. Also… I’d like to show him what good care I’m taking of the puppies he gifted me for my 48th birthday.

#5: Spend 4 months in Australia…riding cross-country on motorcycles with my pal Larry and visiting all the Aussie friends I’ve made in Queensland, New South Wales and Victoria. That would be the ultimate vacation, and a dream come true.

#6: Sail on the ocean. A schooner, windjammer, clipper…catamaran or sailboat. I just want to feel the sea breeze, ride the swells, be at the mercy of (and try to conquer) the power and might of the ocean.

#7: Since this is my fantasy, I’d like to add this: Hundreds of Maine citizens have been working their buns off in an attempt to bring common sense to the energy policies of this state. Friends of mine have suffered health problems caused by improperly sited wind turbines. They’ve suffered loss of property value and quality of life, as well. I would love to be able to witness the citizens of Maine taking control of this issue and creating an atmosphere where common sense, science, economics and EMPATHY govern our energy plan.

#8: World Pease. I mean…“peace”, of course.  And learn to ski. Maybe. 

#9: It would be really cool if I could write something which would change people’s lives for the better. I would love to know that my thoughts and words had a positive impact on others. (It would also be great if that ‘writing’ made me a good chunk of change, so that I could pay off the mortgage and give my family that wonderful kind of security…See #’s 1 and 2 on my Bucket List.)

#10: Climb Mt. Katahdin. And (I’m really reaching, here—but it’s my fantasy!) not see a single wind turbine from the summit.

Now that I’m on a roll, I can think of a dozen other “wants” for my list, but I’ll settle for ten. If I could accomplish just half of my goals, I’d be completely content to vaporize along with the rest of you on December 21, 2012.

In truth, a Bucket List is something we all should have... something we should create and then strive to fulfill. I don’t believe the world will end next December. But I know for a fact that no one–not a single one of us–knows when we will die. It might be tomorrow or 50 years from now. We should live like there is no “tomorrow”–even while responsibly planning for it.

World Peace? Hah! I can’t even get my teenagers to quit sniping at and sparring with each other!

But I am going to make it a point to work towards the goals on my Bucket List. I’ll fly an airplane. Meet Saint. Tour Australia. Write a Best Seller. And give my family some peace of mind and security.

Next year—THIS year—will be great.

Happy New Year. Happy 2012.

Merry Christmas from The Besseys

2011-12-22T22:55:00.001-05:00

In 2009, I posted some Christmas poems written in the 1960's by my Uncle George Bessey and my grandfather, Arthur "Bappa" Bessey; who worked for Great Northern Paper Company at the time. These poems were published in the "Pittston Farm Weekly"--GNPC's newsletter.

Two years ago, in an attempt to preserve family history (and make it entertaining, too...) I made voice recordings of most of these poems and burned them onto CD's for my closest friends and family members.

And then... I forgot about them.

The last two years have been unlike anything I've ever experienced-- or intended to experience. I've been busy. Preoccupied. Right out straight, if truth be told.

But what takes precedence? Work? Community involvement? Activism? Or...should 'family matters' be what really matter?

Christmas comes but once a year. And I think once a year is 'just about right' for how often a Bessey family poem should be read. And enjoyed.

I hope you like this holiday poem which was written by my uncle George Bessey, published in GNP's Pittston Farm Weekly, and passed along to me and my kin to be enjoyed by you and yours.

Merry Christmas, from the Besseys of Maine to You.

********************************
What a Night Before Christmas!

‘Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except Santa’s spouse
Who, with shabby old house coat and curlers in hair,
Was making S.C. wish that he wasn’t there.

“So the children were nestled all snug in their beds!”
She shouted at him as she waved some blonde threads.
“Now, patience, my dear,” pleaded Santa with pain,
“If you’ll just let me speak, I’ll try to explain.

“I left here on time, albeit quite shivery,
Intending to make the Christmas delivery.
But before my first stop, it became crystal clear
That ahead of my sled were eight crazy reindeer!

They bypassed the houses where I planned to go
And finally dumped me right out in the snow
Where, what with my wondering eyes should I sight,
But a house full of girls—and a single red light!

“ ‘Hey, girls! Look who’s here!’ I heard one exclaim.
And there rose such a cheer I was glad that I came.
They dusted me off and invited me in,
And their boss introduced them to me with a grin:

‘Here’s Pat, Midge and Fran and a loser named Vixen.
She’s red-headed, drives a Rambler and voted for Nixon!
Here’s Connie and Cuddles and Bubbles and Joyce.
Now look them all over and then take your choice.’

“Now, my dearest, you know that I could not agree
To take one and not all of them…up on my knee.
So I said to their leader, ‘It would be a crime
If I didn’t give all of your girls equal time.’

She chuckled and said, ‘You’re a helluva gent!
And I lingered with them till my ear was quite bent,
Then before I departed, I gave them their toys:
Five sables, three bobcats, a beaver and a golden decoy.

“Despite what you think, there’s no reason to doubt
That I planned to continue my regular route.
But when for my list, I ventured to look,
What should I find but a little black book!

To hunt for my list I knew would take ages,
So I used in its place that little book’s pages.
And though (as you know) I’m quick to see,
The first address led to the Auberge at Ste Aurelie.

“Now, the names in that book included ‘Annette’,
‘Beatrice’, ‘Lilli’ and a yummy ‘Yvette’.
But just which was which? There was no guessing whom
Until they all took me to their dressing room.

And there I discovered Annette had a mole;
Bea really was blonde; and Yvette wore a scroll
Tattooed on her thigh that caused me to pause;
For on it was written ‘J’adore Santa Claus!’

“The evening rushed on in a dizzying whirl
As the little black book led to girl after girl
In Greenville and Jackman and St. George and St. Zacharie
And each of them had to eggnog and nutmeg me!

And I’m not to blame if their clothing was scanty
Or if they were all simply wild about Santy.
Thus it was that the sun rose over Maine
At the very same time I was leaving the I.P. Chain.

“After that, Sugarplum, your jolly old gnome
Hopped into his sleigh and headed for home.
Now I’ve told you my story with patience and care;
So I’m sure you’ll excuse that bit of blonde hair!”

“Indeed, I will not!” Mrs. Santa shot back.
Then without a word, she went straight to his pack
And dumped out a doll you’ll not find on a shelf!
Said Santa, quite weakly: “It’s just a new elf.”

“A disgrace to your calling—that’s what you are!”
Mrs. Santa came on like an angry hussar,
“There’s only one way to undo what you’ve done—
Now don’t argue with me! I’m sending our son!

He’s the symbol of everything you ought to be:
Love of family, clean living—in short—decency!”
“My gawd!” muttered Santa to this revelation,
“That pantywaist kid will kill my reputation!”

But although Santa pleaded, his wife remained firm,
Shouting, “Take off that suit, you philandering worm!”
In a twinkling their son made ready to go;
Candelabrum in hand and dimples aglow!

“Now be careful, my precious, and be a good boy,”
Mrs. Santa said kissing her bundle of joy.
'Twas then Santa shouted, his voice rather messy!
“Give that little black book back to bachelor George Bessey!

And so ends our story, as Santa said, rather meekly…
Happy Christmas to all—A la Pittston Farm Weekly.

The Pacific by Peter Watt

2011-12-22T08:59:00.000-05:00

Few things brighten my day more than finding a yellow ‘parcel notification’ slip in my mailbox and then going to the Post Office to pick up a package from Australia. Last week my local Postmistress handed over a wonderful surprise—an autographed copy of the latest novel written by my friend Peter Watt.

These days, I rarely take time to read for ‘fun’ but I’ve been anxiously awaiting the publication of The Pacific. This most recent novel is a continuation of the legend of the Kelly and Mann families, which began in Pete’s novel Papua.

I read The Pacific in 2 days.

I’m always pleased by the authenticity of Peter’s novels. Every writer knows—heck, every reader knows—that a good book will remain as only a good book unless its author knows what he or she is talking about. To create a great book, the author has to have done extensive research… or ‘lived’ his or her story. Peter’s fans have the advantage. He is a man who does extensive historical research, and he has lived a life of adventure in addition to being a former advisor to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. The man isn’t blowing smoke—when it comes to the backdrops and time periods of his novels, he knows his stuff.

In The Pacific, Peter takes us to exotic locations. Queensland, Vietnam, Papua...there were few places on the globe which remained unscarred—literally and figuratively--after World War II. As in Europe, many countries in the Pacific were deeply embroiled in the intrigue, the terror and the scrabble for survival.

Ilsa Stahl is an American war correspondent who is taken captive by the Japanese after being plucked from the sea following a plane crash. Perhaps worse--Ilsa is set to be turned over to the Nazis due to past activities carried out by her German step-father.

But she is the daughter of Jack Kelly, the sister of Lukas and the cousin of their closest friend, Karl Mann. These Papuans of Irish and German descent each find themselves with a mission: to bring Ilsa to safety.

War is hell and for those involved, death hovers--never far away. The Kellys and the Manns do not escape unscathed from the battles fought in the jungles of Indochina and the South Pacific.

It might be the height of summer Down Under but up here in America it’s the first day of Old Man Winter’s domination. Grab The Pacific and settle in for a good read. Better yet—start at the beginning of this saga, with Papua and read all the way through. Then (because you won’t be able to help yourselves) give the Duffys and the MacIntoshes a try, beginning with Cry of the Curlew. A major motion picture is in the works for that series and I can’t wait! For twice the enjoyment, be sure to read it before it hits the theaters. If you visit Peter’s website, you can order your own autographed copy.

Merry Christmas and a blessed and happy New Year to you all!

A Tennessee Country Christmas...

2011-12-06T00:45:00.001-05:00

It’s almost Christmas; the season for parties and festive decorating ‘round the house and spending time with family and friends. It’s the gift-giving season, too--and I have just received the most amazing gift from some wonderful friends. It arrived at Bangor International Airport on Saturday night--Delta Flight #5603.

Actually, I should say…they arrived.

That’s right. My gift was a matching pair of puppies; a brother and sister. I--a woman who has always had mutts and mongrels and pound puppies (and one really big Newfoundland)--was gifted with—brace yourself!—pure-bred Chihuahuas.

Aaaat! Now, before you react, it’s important to remember that wahwahs are dogs, too! That’s right. It doesn’t matter that Eli’s cat Stevie outweighs these guys by 13 pounds. And the fact that the puppies have to wear weasel collars because cat collars are too big…why, that doesn’t mean they are any less beastly than your average rotti or hound-dog or lab!

This breed has a reputation for being yappy little ankle-biters… but it all comes down to their training and the skill and dedication with which they are raised. I intend to have quiet, calm dogs. These will be country wahwahs, and they will be treated no differently than any other Pease puppies. They will be kind and gentle. Well socialized. They will do their business outside. They won’t chase the deer in our field or piddle in our corn patch. These farm-raised pups might not be suitably sized for herding cattle, but I’m sure they will excel at herding…chickens. Small chickens like…guinea hens. Little itty bitty biddies. Yes, these calm, working farm dogs will be clothed in dignity.

And sweaters.

Oh, my God. What have I done?

It’s been two years since the inhabitants of The F.A.R.M. have had canine companionship. We were ready to share our home with a dog or two and this gift was incredibly generous and well-timed. Yes, there will be challenges. Of course there will be. That’s only natural.

First; it’s apparent we have a slight communication barrier. See, these aren’t your typical Spanish-speaking Chihuahuas from south of the border. It’s worse. These dogs are from Tennessee. If you’ve never heard a Tennessee accent, you don’t know what you’re missing. In fact, no one knows what they’re missing, because it’s almost impossible to understand a single thing uttered by a Tennessean. These dogs don’t bark. They don’t even yap. They “yay-up”.

“Yay-up, yay-up, yay-up!” What the heck does that mean?

Does it mean “I wanna go ay-out!”? “Ah miss ma maw-ma!”? “May-un, y’all have some honkin’ big cay-uts!”?

What???

Second, of course, is the issue of size. Wahwahs are easily misplaced. It’s crucial to develop the habit of emptying all pockets before throwing clothing into the wash. It’s vital to gently shake out shoes before shoving feet inside. These dogs can turn up in the most unlikely places.

The truth is that they have no concept of mass, bulk or dimension. To their way of thinking, they are leviathans. Powerful entities destined to rule the world… or at least—The F.A.R.M. No matter the size of the being coming through our front door—these babies think they are bigger and badder. (Yes, badder. Don’t look it up in your dictionary—you won’t find it. It’s a Tennessee word--pronounced “BAY-uh-der”. Being a quick study when it comes to southern drawl, I’ve determined that it means “worse”.) What’s funny is that my two-pound puppies are able to convince all other creatures that they really ARE bigger and badder. More bad.

Worse.

Before we know it we’ll have it all figured out, and we’ll wonder how we ever got along without our wahwahs. For sure, it will be wonderful to have little ones around the Christmas tree again. With my youngest child now a doddering 15 years old, some of the sparkle and magic seemed to be missing during the last couple of holiday seasons. But not this year! We’re all delighted to have these wee ones in our family.

These Pease Wees.

From the multi-lingual crew at The F.A.R.M. (where there’s Fresh Air and Room to Move) to all of you: MAY-uh-ree CREE-us-mus! Feliz Navidad! And Happy Hanukah, too.

Scrappy butchers her 1st pig at The FARM

****************************
P.S. I should add in this disclaimer. My friend has informed me (in somewhat haughty fashion) that the wahwahs fit into FERRET collars--not WEASEL collars. My mistake. Hehehe....I just like to yank his chain...

P.P.S. Our puppies' names have not been determined, yet. If you have ideas and would like to share-- please do. We've had the babes for 48 hours and the monikers we've tried thus far don't please everyone in the house. Current discards include Chalupah and Burrito, Kelly and Boog, Sweetie and Snappy, Butch and Brutus. Today, the little girl has been called Scruffy and Scrappy, and the little boy has been Saint and Baxter. To be determined....

Bee Dazzle...by Eugene Saint and Kaz Pease

2011-11-30T23:52:00.047-05:00

Welcome to Bee Dazzle, a short story Tag! written by Saint and Me.

Post #1, by Kaz

The truck stopped on the side of the road in front of the garden and I heard the driver’s side door slam shut.

S**t. Now what was I supposed to do? My well-thought-out plan, crafted in a split second of ingenuity, was now working against me. What possible excuse could I give for lying prostrate between the rows of corn and its companion plants of butternut squash? I frowned in concentration, waiting for the inspiration to hit me.

Nothing.

I sighed and pushed myself up off the ground, brushing loam from my bare knees and thighs and the front of my ragged cotton shirt. Who could this be? I lived in the boondocks and vehicular traffic was sporadic, at best. I rarely had visitors. Even the mailman didn’t venture this far up the road, but left my letters in a box at the bottom of the hill. I liked it that way. I learned a long time ago that I’m socially inept. When I open my mouth, the most foolish things come pouring out. Even knowing this—I can’t seem to help myself. I open my mouth anyway.

And… I suffer the humiliation afterwards. That’s one of the reasons why I live alone up here on my little farm.

I looked up as I heard the footsteps approach. It was a man. Figures. It would be bad enough to be caught half naked and bra-less by a strange woman. I mean, I don’t normally receive visitors with nothing but panties covering me from the hips on down. So naturally, the stranger would have to be a man. At least there was still a chance that he hadn’t seen me dive between the rows. My knees were a little grubby, sure. But perhaps he’d assume they got that way by kneeling in the garden to weed. In my underwear.

Uh-huh.

I crossed my arms over my breasts. Like that would help matters any. With my luck, rather than hiding them, I was probably making them lop-sided. I resisted the urge to look down to check out the status of my ‘mammarian equilibrium’. It begged the question: Which was preferable--uncovered or crooked? And really… why did I care? They’re just boobs, after all. Everyone has them, right?

A sudden flash of brilliance hit me and I stooped and snatched up the small basket I’d carried from the kitchen. I’d been on my way to pick some high-bush blueberries to throw into my muffin batter when I’d heard the vehicle approach and I’d flung the container away when I threw myself to the ground to avoid detection. The basket just might preserve my dignity.

I positioned it in front of my upper thighs, keeping the other arm braced in front of my chest and clasped my upper arm with my hand. A perfectly natural stance, right?

Right.

He was almost upon me and I tried to arrange my face into a nonchalant and welcoming smile. The morning sun was in my eyes and I squinted to get a look at him. Okay…maybe it was more like a welcoming smile accompanied by a fierce squint. I probably looked like a rabid dog. With the sun at his back, the stranger wasn’t much more than a moving silhouette. At this point all I could tell was that he was fairly tall but not overly so. As the silhouette neared, it stretched forth a hand. Like it wanted to shake mine.

Aw, hell. I don’t even like blueberries.
****************************
Post #2, by Saint

Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever see this clown again.

“Hi. I’m Jessie... Jessie Bingham. Uh... but my friends all just call me ‘Bing’. I’m your new neighbor.” OK... this is different.

Wondering to himself if this was “The Crazy Lady Down The Road” (every place has one, you know) Jessie Bingham tried his best not to look there. Or there. Or there. She did seem awfully busy – for just standing there. Guys can tell a lot in a millisecond. Even a short millisecond. She was cute. Kinda grubby but cute. Nice squint – for those who favor such things. Probably clean up real nice.

Not knowing how long he should keep his hand extended before it would look like he was grabbing for something, Jessie was relieved when she dropped the basket to take his hand. His relief was short lived as the bright morning sunlight deepened what needed deepening and highlighted what needed highlighting. Holding them up for display like that didn’t help matters as the notion of that fine line between grin and out’n’out leer wafted through the back eddies of his mind.

Not knowing how long he could keep his hand extended before it would look like he was grabbing for something, Bee was relieved when Jessie stooped to snatch up the basket with a, “Here, let me get that,” before a gust of wind could take it. It bought her time. Time to formulate a plan. A solid plan. OK. OK. Be cool. Just act casual – you’ll get through this. That’s the plan. Casual. Cool.

The plan really hadn’t allowed for the next gust. As gusts go... one might say this was the gust as her shirt billowed up and what Bee held down... stayed down. From his vantage point Jessie could tell those babies had tops to ‘em. His mind torn between those and a beneficent little fruit basket... he opted for the fruit basket. This time.

Girls can tell a lot in a millisecond.

****************************
Post # 3, by Kaz

And I could tell this guy was trouble. Yeah, he averted his eyes when the wind lifted my shirt, but not before taking a picture. A telephoto shot, even. I could almost hear the click of the shutter and the advance of his mind’s-eye film as he looked away.

Damned wind.

Damned men.

“Nice to meet you, Bing,” I lied. Bing? If I had a name like Bing, I sure as hell wouldn’t advertise it. What was the matter with ‘Jessie’, for crying out loud?

“My new neighbor, huh? That must mean you bought Dingleberry Bog?”

There was only one property for sale up here: a 300 acre homestead which had been abandoned for years. “Dingleberry Bog”, named after the wild cranberries which grew on the shore of the 40 acre woodland pond at the property’s northern border, had once been a thriving homestead until the previous owners just up and left one cold winter’s night. It abutted my acreage, and I’d played with the idea of purchasing it, myself. Anything to keep new neighbors at bay. But with a daughter in her first year at the university, I couldn’t afford to throw money around. My second novel was due to be released soon, but there were no promises that it would have the success that “Beat, Flay, Shove” had enjoyed. I mean, readers had stood in line to purchase my dark thriller. Would they also have a hankering for a novel with no violence or murder or suspense? “Tattered Blankets and Dancing Pigweed” was a sappy story about raising a daughter as a single, working mother. It was full of love and humor and hard-learned lessons. I was almost ashamed of its sentimentality.

Which is why I wrote it under a pen name. Bee Beecham.

I took a couple of steps towards the house. My only thought? To get some clothes on. Actually, that’s not true. I had two thoughts. The other one included a scenario in which ‘Bing’ would just… LEAVE.

“Yep. That’s me. Bing of Dingleberry Bog.” The man smiled, and now that I wasn’t facing into the sun, I could see the dimple that appeared briefly in his left cheek. Big deal. I worked hard not to give a return grin. If I smiled, he might take that as friendliness, and I didn’t need some stranger popping over for a chat whenever he felt like it. I’d worked too hard to maintain my privacy.

“Well, what can I do for you, Bing?” Short of giving you a nudge on your way…

How was I going to get into the house? If I walked in front of him, he’d have a full view of the cheeks of my rump underneath the tail of my shirt. I couldn’t very well hold the basket over my butt, could I?

No.

I sighed. It was full disclosure, one way or another.

“Look…obviously, you caught me by surprise. There’s rarely any traffic up here, and I just popped out for a second to pick some blueberries for the muffins I’m making. I really didn’t intend to put myself on display for passing traffic. If there’s nothing I can help you with, I’ll just go back inside, now…” There. How was that for a confession and a brush-off, all in one?

“Actually, there’s something important I’d like to discuss with you. I was going to ask after you down at the town office, but when I saw you out here….well, stopping here saved me a trip into Moxie Falls.” The idiot. What kind of man sees a scantily dressed woman in her garden and purposely stops to chat? “How about this?” he continued. “I’ll take this and go pick some blueberries.” He waved the round basket in the direction of the bushes at the edge of the garden. “You can go inside and find some clothes, and by the time I come in with your berries, you should have those babies covered.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Excuse me???”

“Muffins. If you don’t keep them covered they won’t rise. Come out all flat,” he added with a wink. As hard as I tried to feel outrage or disgust, I simply couldn’t pull it off. A snort escaped me, and then I lost it. The embarrassment gave way to laughter, and I’ve gotta say—it felt good. Really good. I’d almost forgotten how good it felt to laugh. And anyway; they were just boobs, right? Everybody has them.

I turned and strode towards the porch in my bare feet. Let him look. Everybody has a butt, too.

“So… I’ll pick you some blueberries, right?” I could hear the chagrin in his voice, and the humor, too. I just waved my arm at him without turning around.

“Hey! What’s your name?” he called out again.

At this, I stopped, just shy of the steps. I rolled my eyes and sighed in irritation. I hate this part. Without looking back, I hollered.

“Serendipity.”

I heard him cough. Clear his throat. And then… silence. I stepped up onto the veranda, and as I did, I heard his rich baritone jumble up the famous words of Uncle Remus in “Song of the South”.

“Dippety-doo-dah, Dippety-ay. My, oh my, what a wonderful day…”

Yep. I could tell this guy was trouble.

****************************
Post #4 Saint

Watching the last bit of Serendipity disappear into the house, Bing turned and set his mind to the task ahead. Hmmm... blueberries, huh? I can do blueberries he thought to himself, adding No worries, mate in an Aussie accent.

“Dammit! Get back here! Brillo! You GET back here!”

Rather than listening, like most Labradoodles Brillo thought it more interesting to charge past Bee and out the front door – hell-bent on challenging this idiot who dared come into his yard. Bing spun on his heels, standing his ground…

“Aaat!!! This is a warning tone. Dogs understand warning tones,” Bing said in a very warning tone, pointing and adding, “You are a dog,” to which Brillo instantly melted to the ground with a whimper.

Kneeling down, Bing patted his knee while Brillo groveled his way up to him for pets. I’m a good dog. I’m a good dog. Everybody says so. You can ask HER. Brillo probably didn’t realize HER was standing in the doorway clutching her heart in panic thinking about the ramifications of owning a killer beast – imagining herself pleading no conteste to whatever they call it when your dog eats a new neighbor. Manslaughter? Negligent Homicide? Other expensive sounding words.

“Good boy, Brillo. Good boy.” See? See? I'm a good dog. Even this guy thinks so. I’m a good dog.

With that, Brillo’s new best buddy turned with a “C’mon, Boy” and headed for the clump of blueberry bushes nestled at the far end of the Crazy Lady Down The Road’s garden – the big black dog prancing happily in circles around him the entire way but for a couple stops for pets and a “Yeah, I know, boy. She was yelling at you wasn’t she? Yeah, I know, boy. I know.”

Of course, Serendipity didn’t know whether to fume or feel relieved. That sonofabitch took my dog. He didn’t take your dog. He took my f*****' dog -- that sonofabitch. Yeah, well you’re lucky he isn’t suing the pants off ya. What pants? You’re jealous of a dog, huh? Tell me you’re jealous of a dog. I am NOT jealous of a gawdammed dog! Yep you are. Am not. Are. Shouldn’t you be covering your muffins or something? Grrrrr...

Closing the door behind her, Bee Becham stood for a full minute watching through the kitchen window while the new guy and what used to be her dog scoured the bushes for blueberries. Like I said... everybody’s got one. That reminded her... she really ought to cover her muffins.
****************************
Post #5 by Kaz

It was a good save. I had to smirk. Cover my muffins, indeed. Obviously, my new neighbor wasn’t a whiz in the kitchen, or he’d have known that muffins are ‘quick bread’, and don’t need to rise. No slow-activated yeast—the baking powder took care of the rising during the baking process.

Still, it was a good save, and I’ve always appreciated people who could think on their feet.

I zipped into the bedroom and grabbed a pair of jeans and a bigger, baggier button-down shirt. No holes or ragged edges, this time. I even—dammit-- grabbed a bra. That irritated the hell out of me, for some reason. I mean, I live up here so I don’t have to entertain people. So I can run around half-dressed if I want to. So I can be left alone to be ‘me’, and not other people’s vision of who I should be. So, yeah… it irked the hell out of me to have to harness myself for this stranger. Although—realistically--there probably wasn’t much point, at this late stage in the game.

Aw, hell. They’re just boobs. Everybody has them. And this was my home. I didn’t ask him to come here, and if I wanted to go bra-less, I’d damn well go bra-less!

I pulled my shirt off over my head and tossed it into the hamper. Looked at myself in the full-length mirror. Ugh. I rarely waste time with regrets, but I found myself wishing for the days of firm, perky boobs and an unlined face. Crow’s feet? Yuck. I gazed at myself for another second, and sighed. I was almost forty years old.

I put the bra on, anyway.

Damned men.

Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a mug and poured myself a cup of coffee. Black. Reluctantly, I took down another mug from the cupboard. I suppose the gracious thing to do would be to offer him a cup of coffee, too. Just this once. But no way was I going to be so hospitable that Bing got the idea I’d be a sociable neighbor. I’d nip that notion in the bud, post-haste! If he ever returned with my dog, that is.

I couldn’t believe Brillo had warmed up to him like that! Brillo was my baby. Well, mine and Martie’s. I’d adopted the curly haired black beast from the Humane Society almost six years ago, as a birthday present for Martie when she turned thirteen. Figured a teenager ought to have a dog, and learn the responsibility of taking care of one. Now that she was in college, it was just Brillo and me banging around the place. Most of the time, I liked it that way-- but I missed my daughter. She was taking summer classes—wanted to get her degree in three years—and so I was spending the summer alone. For the first time in… forever, it seemed like. There were plusses and minuses to that, but I was dealing with it. No empty nest syndrome for me. I had too much to do to waste time mourning the end of my active parenting days.

I heard footsteps on the veranda and looked up. Bing and Brillo stood on the opposite side of my screen door. The stranger smiled, catching my eye, and I tossed him a nonchalant “Come on in.”

Brillo bounced in through the doorway and scuttled to my side, looking way too happy and carefree. The traitor. He was my dog, and this sonofabitch stole him. Just like that.

“Hey. Great dog you’ve got there.” Bing placed the basket on the counter. “I wasn’t sure how many berries you needed, but there’s a pint or so there…”

“That’ll do. Thanks.” I scooped up the basket and a colander and retreated to the opposite side of the center island, to rinse off the dust which always settled on the bushes after having been kicked up from the dirt road.

“This is a great place you’ve got, here.” Bing shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around. My house was simple, but nice. Open and airy, but not very big. Just enough for a woman and her daughter. And their traitor dog.

“Thanks.” I sounded like a broken record. But what was I supposed to say? I didn’t invite him here, and I didn’t have a clue what he wanted.

“What do you want?” There. Now that sounded rude. Even though my question got to the crux of the matter—it was too abrupt. Like I said—there’s a reason why I live alone, up here. I don’t ‘do’ people.

He raised his brows and grinned, not the least bit put out by my brusqueness.

“Hmmm. Direct and to the point. I like that. May I?” He indicated the coffee pot. Dammit, I’d intended to offer him some before now. I really am a social clod.

“Help yourself.” Am I the ‘hostess with the mostess’, or what? I sighed inwardly, a little disgusted with myself. He didn’t deserve such rudeness. Not yet, anyway.

“Right.” He moved to pour his coffee and I registered a slight accent in his voice. What was it? Where was he from? I found myself full of questions about this man, but there was no way I’d ask them. After all, I wanted ‘Bing of Dingleberry Bog’ to leave. Asking him questions was inviting him to sit down for a chat.

I wasn’t interested in that. Nope.

He poured his coffee and I noticed he drank it black, too. I threw the blueberries into the batter, mixed it up, and scooped spoonfuls of it into the muffin tin. Popped the pan into the oven. Washed my hands--aware that his eyes were on me every second as he sipped his coffee and leaned against the sideboard with Brillo sitting there at his knee, looking for all the world like he’d just discovered a long-lost friend. He was really beginning to get on my nerves. The man--and the dog.

Finally, I turned to him.

“So….?”

“Right.” There it was again—a small inflection in his voice. “First, let me say—you clean up nice.” There was that dimple, again. I rolled my eyes and folded my arms across my chest. For the second time that morning. “Not that I didn’t appreciate your gardening attire, too.”

Oh, he HAD to bring that up again. Of course he did.

“Look, Mr. Bingham…”

“Bing, please. After all, we’re neighbors. And I’ll call you Serendipity, if I may?”

I groaned inwardly. No one but my teachers and my mother had ever called me that. And my mother was wacko. Who else but a total space cadet would name their daughter Serendipity Benevolence? Thank God my last name was somewhat normal. James. You couldn’t go wrong with a name like that.

Unless your first name was Jessie, that is. I smiled reluctantly. Sheesh.

“Bee. Don’t ask why, but that’s my nickname. It’s a little easier to wrap your tongue around.”

He grinned and I was suddenly nervous. What had I said this time?

“Okay, Bee. To the point! As I said, I’ve purchased the old Holden farm. ‘Dingleberry Bog’, to the people in these parts. My intention is to fix it up and resell it, eventually. The old homestead has a lot of potential, and I think it will be a good investment. But that wasn’t the main reason I was interested in the property. You see, that particular piece of real estate came with something besides a ramshackle farmhouse, a pond and 300 acres. It came with a story.”

He set his coffee cup on the counter and leaned forward, bracing himself on the island and looking directly into my eyes.

“It came with a story. And I’m a mystery writer. ‘Stories’ are what I do.”

A writer? Bing was a mystery writer? Was he any good? Why hadn’t I heard of him? I’m a voracious reader, but I’d never heard of Jessie Bingham! Of course, he might write under a pen-name, like I do. Interesting….

The oven timer dinged. I snatched up a potholder and turned away. I decided to make one more attempt to be a gracious hostess.

“Would you like a muffin?”

“Mmmmm. Absolutely. I’ve had those babies on my mind since I got here!”

I could hear the laughter in the writer’s voice. The innuendo. I worked hard to bite my tongue.

Yep. This guy—this writer--was trouble, for sure.

****************************
Post #6, by Saint

Oh my god. What are these... f***ing sawdust? Bing sat enjoying his first bite of woman-cooked food in what seemed like ages. Oh thank god... a blueberry.

“Well? What do you think?”

Smiling across the table, Serendipity Benevolence James seemed genuinely interested in a response. A response Jessie Bingham would have loved to have given had he been able to speak – his first attempt being more of a puff. Oh my god, was that a chicken toenail or what? Knowing his only hope lay in a blast of coffee didn’t keep Bing from flashing on that video of what happens when you drop Mentos into a bottle of Coke. Holding up a “one moment please” finger as to not relinquish the token, Bing drew in as much coffee as was possible – and still seem normal. Finally able to choke down the first bite, he continued,

“They’re something else. Like Mama used to make.” He wasn’t kidding.

“Oh good. I thought about what you said – about them not rising and all – and doubled the baking powder.” Picking up another muffin from the stack and handing it to her new neighbor, “Just that first one though.” With a girlie smirk.

A gawdammed girlie smirk. He’d not underestimate her again.

“I won’t underestimate you again,” Bing smiled through a coffee toast. The dimple was back.

“I should think not.” The faintest hint of a mock curtsey. “A story?”

“Ma’am?”

“You said the Holden place comes with a story. I’ve never heard any story and I’ve been here sixteen – going on seventeen years now. More coffee?”

“That’s because nobody’s ever heard it. Uh... Please.” Bing extended his cup. Maybe she decided to grow some personality after all. He rather liked the Crazy Lady Down The Road. Certifiable, yes... but a known quantity. Wasn’t too sure about the lady who’d poison him as readily as show him her tits. A Black Widow? “Truth is, I haven’t finished it yet.”

“Oh... you mean one of your mysteries.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say just yet. I’m still putting the pieces together.”

Bee looked at her watch. She wasn’t actually wearing a watch but that wasn’t really the point. She didn’t have time for this – even though she actually did. Actually. What the hell, maybe she could write a book about this schmuck.

“Please... do go on. Mr. Bingham.”

With that, Jessie Bingham withdrew two pieces of aged paper from his pocket, unfolded them and handed her the first one. Bee studied it carefully. A copy of the text to be sent via the local Western Union office, rubber-stamp dated February 24, 1945.

TO: Baxter Argyle Worthington III

Am dying. Come quickly. Please.

Winston

“OK.” Bee traded Bing for the second letter – the received response from Western Union – Paris Office. Dated February 27, 1945.

ATTN: WINSTON HOLDEN

ON MY WAY [STOP] BOOKED PASSAGE ON INDIGO STAR [STOP] ARRIVE BOSTON MARCH 15 [STOP] HANG ON BROTHER [STOP] CLAYTON

“OK.”

Bing then produced a photograph of a well-dressed middle-aged gentleman standing on a pier, dwarfed by a huge cargo vessel. From that perspective the name on the tramp steamer clearly stood out – Indigo Star.

“OK.”

****************************
Post #7, by Saint

“Hmmm... where to begin... where to begin... Well, I was at a flea market one day. An old-timer had a tableful of stuff he was going to throw out at the end of the day -- assuming no one bought it first. Amongst the items was a beautiful old Bible. Now, I’m not what you’d call a very religious man myself but I could just see my mother rolling over in her grave if I let that Bible end up in the trash – so I gave the guy a buck and tossed it in the back of the car. Eventually it made its way onto one of my bookshelves and sat there for, oh... a couple years I guess. I found these telegrams and that picture pressed inside that Bible.

“Well, being a writer and all, I’m always looking for the next big story. What did you think when you read those?”

Considering the question for a moment, Bee shrugged her shoulders, “Not much really. I guess I kinda I wondered if they got back together in time," with air-quotes.

“My thoughts exactly. So... I did a little research. In the very front of the Bible was a family tree covering a few generations of Holden kin, you know... birthdays, anniversaries and so forth. Sure enough, on January 21st, 1903 twin boys – Winston and Clayton -- were born to a Pete and Margaret Holden. Later it says, ‘Winston Holden Jan 21, 1903 – Mar 10, 1945’.”

Bee thought about it.

“So... they never did get back together, huh? Kinda sad really.” Bee thought of all the little sadnesses that occur in life. Little things. Local things that go unnoticed by all but a few -- not long remembered but by mothers and such. Feeling somewhat drawn-in by the story, “Did you check the obits?”

“Yep. First thing. Yep, checked the Moxie Falls Dispatch archives. Winston Holden died of consumption on March 10th, 1945.” Hmmm... Logical question. Who’da thunk it? “That’s what they used to call just about anything people died from back then if they didn’t know what it was.”

While Bee sat pondering the sadness of consumption, Bing happened to glance at the watch he did just happen to be wearing. “Ach... already?” Then looking up to Bee, “I’m really sorry, Miss Bee... I’d love to sit here and discuss twins and muffins all day but I’m afraid I must run into town and meet with my editor. That’s something I seldom enjoy.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” A raised eyebrow from Bing prompted her to continue. “I mean, I can imagine it would be. Something you’d seldom enjoy I mean. Meeting with your editor I mean. Uh... you never did tell me what you stopped by to tell me... did you?”

“Oh no, love... that’s just the beginning. Tell you what... how’s about you come over for dinner at my place tonight. I’ll throw some shrimps on the bar-B and tell you the whole thing. Here. Here’s my number, call me.”

Writing his cell number on a fold of her newspaper, Bing slid it over to Bee as he hopped up from the table. “Sorry, love. Gotta run.” Spinning, he slammed his last dab of coffee and setting his cup on the counter, headed for the door, Brillo up and ready to go at his heel.

“Not all that great a story so far you know,” Bee called after him. Oh my... people come and go so quickly around here.

Giving the screen door ample time to slam first, Bing called back over his shoulder, “That’s because you don’t know what the Brothers Holden were up to.”

She could tell he was grinning.

****************************
Post #8, by Kaz

Grinning in self-satisfaction, no doubt. Had I even accepted his invitation?

Why in hell didn’t I just say ‘no’? Because I was intrigued, that’s why. But really….what was I doing, going out to dinner? Dinner with a stranger whom I’d just met? Dinner at my neighbor’s house, for crying out loud! Accepting an invitation to his home was NOT the way to keep a new neighbor at arm’s length.

And besides…. I didn’t have anything to wear.

I can’t believe that thought even crossed my mind. I didn’t ‘do’ dates. No way, no how. I was simply captivated by Bing’s story, that’s all. NOT by Bing. So it didn’t matter what I wore, right?

This was not a date.

I parboiled a peck of tomatoes and removed their skins, then stuffed them into quart jars, added salt and boiling water and lemon juice, and put them in the canner. While the canner boiled merrily, I sat down at my computer. At daybreak I’d written a chapter in my newest novel, affectionately called ‘Book Three’ until I could come up with something a little catchier. This time, I was trying my hand at romance, with a little adventure thrown in. My agent had encouraged me to stick with thrillers and capitalize on the success of my first novel, but I wasn’t ready for another dark tale, just yet. And I hated the idea of being cast as an author in one particular genre, only. I was a talented writer and I knew it. And I wanted to try my hand in several different categories to see if one suited me better than all the others.

I skimmed back over the chapter, sighed, and hit ‘delete’. I was a talented writer, yeah. But I sucked at writing romance. “Write what you know.” Every author worth his or her salt knew that adage. And I didn’t know diddly-squat about romance.

On a whim, I googled “Jessie Bingham”.

“Let’s see who this fellow is, huh?”

Brillo’s tail thumped on the floor in response.

“Yeah, sure, you traitor. You would have gone home with him if he’d asked you, wouldn’t you?” The Labradoodle’s tail thumped even faster. “That’s what I thought.”

My screen lit up with 'Jessie Binghams' and I scrolled down through the list. Most were 'Jessicas'-- but there was no doubt my new neighbor was a male. There was a Jessie Bingham Swann, mother of a WWII veteran from Indiana named Joe Bingham Swann. There were a few Jessie Binghams with Facebook pages. There was one Jesse--sans ‘i’—but his website showed a photo of a young man wearing a dust mask and talking about Theoretical Computer Science and Math, and “formal verification” and “theoretical depth and practical use”. Somehow, I was quite sure that wasn’t my Jessie.

Well, not MY Jessie….

Damned men.

I typed in “author Jessie Bingham” and there was the young brainiac, again. “Efficient SAT Solving” was the name of his published work. And while that sounded like a mystery to me, it didn’t sound like the kind of mystery writing my morning visitor practiced.

Yep, old Bing must write under a pen name.

For the heck of it, I googled both Clayton and Winston Holden with several variations—first, “Moxie Falls” and then, “Indigo Star”. But my timer sounded and I left the computer to turn off the burner under the pressure cooker. From there, I moved to my other chores—I had another bushel of tomatoes waiting to be picked, corn to husk and blackberries to pick for jam. It was August, and I was elbow deep in harvesting and preserving the bounty from my little farm. Old habits are hard to break. When Martie was small there’d been a year or two that had been incredibly lean. If it hadn’t been for my well-stocked pantry, we would have been up shit creek.

Before I knew it, it was late afternoon. I was sweaty and grubbier than all get-out from a day in the garden. My fingers were stained purple, too. How attractive. I whistled for Brillo, who was laying in the shade of the honeysuckle, and went into my cool little house. Shed my clothes and climbed into the shower.

And wondered what I’d wear.

If I went, that is. I still hadn’t made up my mind.

“Hi, it’s Bee. Is that invitation to dinner still open? I thought maybe I’d come. Over! I thought maybe I’d come over.” I knocked my head against the wall by the telephone as I listened to his enthusiastic response. There’s a reason I live up here in the country.

I hung up the phone and made my way to the bedroom. My wardrobe was meager. But it was barbequed shrimp, after all. Certainly nothing to dress up for. Feeling mutinous, I grabbed the first thing I laid my hands on—a clean pair of snug jeans and an even snugger blouse. And a damned bra. I shoved my feet into my cleanest pair of sneakers, ran my hands through my damp hair to get the tangles out, and whistled to the dog.

“Come on, Mop-head. You wanna walk up to the neighbor’s house with me? Huh? Huh?” The idiot dog danced around my legs and I grinned at him. I grabbed a jar of freshly made blackberry jam to take to my host and walked to the other side of the room to shut my computer down.

I touched the mouse and the screen flashed on.

What I saw there was very intriguing. I was suddenly anxious to hear ‘the rest of the story’ from Bing of Dingleberry Bog.
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Post #9, by Kaz

The old Holden place was a mile up the road. Brillo and I often walked up this way, just as we used to do with Martie. My girl was a good walking companion. Quiet, speaking only occasionally when she had something important to say—she didn’t jibber-jabber the whole time but allowed us to take in the peace and beauty of our surroundings. I missed her companionship more than I liked to admit.

The lane was somewhat steep—just enough to give me a little bit of a work-out if I walked at a good clip, and anyway-- the walk back home was downhill. Sometimes I even jogged back to the house. Not that I would ever admit that to anyone else.

My thoughts strayed to the stranger. How interesting--that this Bing Bingham was a writer. Or so he said. I wanted to ask him if he wrote under another name, but I didn’t want to show an interest in him. It was one thing to be curious about his ‘story’. It was quite another to express curiosity about the man, himself.

Was he married? I hadn’t noticed a wedding band, but that didn’t mean anything. A lot of men didn’t wear rings. Most likely, though, he was single. A married man wouldn’t invite a woman to dinner, right?

Oh, right! I shook my head. Of course a married man would do that! Hell, I knew from first-hand experience that a married man would sleep with a woman barely out of her teens, and never say a thing to her about the little lady waiting for him at home… Just like I knew that a married man would dump that girl as soon as he discovered she was pregnant.

Damned men. I was getting pissed at this Jessie Bingham. I walked faster, the dog loping at my side.

I stopped at the beginning of the driveway to Dingleberry Bog, hands on my hips as I caught my breath. Now I was hot and sweaty again. I considered turning around to go home. After all, I really didn’t want to act like I was glad to have this new neighbor. I didn’t want to appear too welcoming. And… I was all hot and sweaty again. I took a quick whiff. Well, I still smelled okay. Not that I expected him to get close enough to smell me…

I sighed. I might as well get it over with.

The driveway was long and curved. I’d only been here once when the homestead was occupied—the former owners’ dog had wandered down to the farm one day, years ago, and I’d caught him chasing my Rhode Island Reds. He hadn’t hurt them any… just scared them out of egg production for three days. I’d grabbed the spaniel by the collar, put him in my Jeep, and delivered him to the Bog. It was an embarrassing way to make introductions, but still… today’s ‘first encounter’ was far worse.

Practically naked, for God’s sake.

“Come on, Brillo. Let’s get this over with. Enjoy your visit with your new friend, because this is probably the last time you’ll see him.”

I rounded the final corner and the old farmhouse came into view. Wow. It was a mess. Alders had sprung up everywhere--creeping up to the buildings--and the small field was thigh-high in grass and goldenrod. The paint—once a charcoal gray with white trim, was faded to a dusky blue—the window trim and soffits, a weathered, dingy gray. It was hard on a house, being abandoned for years like this one had been.

I heard a single deep bark and looked to the right. A dog trotted around the corner of the farmhouse and stopped to look at us. It was a magnificent dog. A brindle Great Dane. I reached down to grab Brillo’s collar, but I was too late. He was off like a shot.

“Brillo!” My heart was in my throat as I pictured the massive canine making a quick meal out of my leggy but lean mutt. But Brillo skidded to a stop in front of the dog. They stood at stiff attention for a moment, staring at each other. Then the co-sniffing began in earnest, both tails wagging a mile a minute. Brillo crouched and feinted an ambush, the big dog returned the favor, and they were off, tearing around the rear of the house in long, delighted leaps.

“Brillo! Get BACK here!”

Bing appeared from around the same corner. He was dressed in a light white cotton shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans, and tennis shoes without socks. He looked cool. He looked good.

I looked hot and… not so hot.

“Hey, you made it! Don’t worry about Sally. She’s harmless. Nothing but a big goof.” He grinned. There was that damned dimple.

“I’m sorry. I should have asked if it was okay to bring Brillo with me. The way they’re going, they’ll…”

“Tear up the flower beds?” He indicated the disarray of the yard with his hand as we neared each other. “As you can see, they can’t hurt anything. It’s a disaster. But, oh….” He looked down into my eyes and winked, “it’s gonna be gorgeous when I’m done with it!”

I couldn’t believe it! For some stupid, idiotic reason, I suddenly felt bereft. I knew he intended to flip the property. And I didn’t care, except for the fact that the buyers would be another unknown quantity. At least I knew Bing was good with dogs. He couldn’t be all bad.

Could he?

“Come on out back and have a seat in the shade. It’s been hotter than hell this afternoon, huh?” I walked along beside him. In the shade of the house he’d set up a table and chairs next to a gas grill. The grass had been cut here, at least. And there were a few wild day lilies which hadn’t yet gone by, to give color to the space. Bing had begun to strip the cedar shakes from the rear of the house and there was a neat pile off to one side. A pile of planks. Something else covered by a blue tarp. “Would you like a beer? Or, if you don’t drink, I have some lemonade. Country Time, not fresh squeezed, I’m afraid. It’ll still make you pucker, though.”

He looked at my boobs when he said that! For a split second, his eyes dropped to my chest. I swear they did.

I should have just walked up here bare-assed.

I squirmed. I didn’t usually drink alcohol, but now seemed as good a time as any to take up the habit.

“Sure, I’ll have a beer, thanks.” The dogs tore by in a frenzy of slobbery euphoria. I had to grin. They looked like they were having a blast, but they had to be getting overheated, too. Bing must have thought the same thing.

“Sally! Come!” The beast skidded to a stop, tossed a look at the black dog who almost collided with her hind end, and changed direction, trotting over to Bing’s side. Long strings of drool swung from her massive jowls. “I’d introduce her to you, but I’m afraid she’d drown you.”

I crinkled my nose. It looked gross, all right.

“Come here Sally.” I patted my knee and the Great Dane came to me, tongue lolling. Brillo ran up to me at the same time. A little jealous, maybe? Good. The traitor ought to know what it felt like!

I grabbed a shingle and swiped it under Sally’s jaw, gently scraping the froth from her face. I tossed the shingle back into the pile and stooped to stroke the big head.

“You are one gorgeous, incredible girl.” The tail wagged, banging against the side of the table. Brillo forced his way up under her chin, asked for a pat, too. I smiled and scrubbed behind his floppy ears. “Good dog, Brillo. Yes, you’re handsome, too. But Sally is beautiful.”

Bing handed me an icy bottle from the cooler underneath the table.

“That makes two of you,” he said.

Oh, boy. He was trouble, all right. I twisted the top off the Budweiser and took a swig. Condensation dripped down my chin and I wiped it off. The dogs plopped onto the grass at my feet and I looked directly at Jessie Bingham. I resisted the urge to burp. Resisted it really hard. He’d already seen the cheeks of my butt and what was under my shirt. If I got much more earthy than that he’d think I was nothing but white trash. Not that I cared what he thought, but well…maybe I should. I didn’t want to be a public figure—not at all. But I just might be, some day. After all, I was a best-selling author. Had a movie deal in the works. My second novel was due out in a month. And I had a third written. Almost written. I thought about the chapter I’d dumped that morning. Karen Sommers didn’t have a clue how to be sexy, and so I’d had to delete her very first love scene. But I’d figure it out, somehow.

“You had a ‘story’, remember? And you wanted to talk to me about something?” I raised my brows and tried to ignore his compliment. I think he called me beautiful. It was time to change the subject. I took another pull from the bottle. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got.”
****************************
Post #10, by Saint

“Aaat!!! Don’t even think about it. I will eat your babies.” Bing hopped up from the table, shooing the dogs away from the stations at which they’d posted themselves to keep close tabs on the wraps of aluminum foil now sizzling on the grill.

“That really does smell delicious. What is it?” Bee made her way over to see just what was cooking. The dogs hadn’t gone far.

“Barbequed swordfish steaks. Mmmm...” the mystery writer cum master chef winked. “I went to get shrimp, as advertized, but didn’t like the looks of ‘em. Too big for one thing. 21-25s. They’re not as good when they get that big and these looked like they weren’t all that great to begin with. Ah, but the swordfish was beautiful.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever tried it. I know I’ve never tried it barbequed.”

Peeling back the foil to sneak a peek, Bing was happy with their progress. “Whelp... you’re in for a treat. Good eats. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted barbequed swordfish. Not just barbequed swordfish but MY barbequed swordfish. Mmmm mmm.”

“I’m sure I’ll forever loathe my impoverished life up ‘til now.”

“Lady, you’ll hate yourself in the morning.” Dimple. Happy (if sarcastic) grin. “There, we’ll just let that cook for awhile. Nothing worse than clear fish, eh?”

“To be honest, I’m not much of a ‘fish person’.”

“Yep... and tomorrow you’ll be saying, ‘I’m not much of a fish person EXCEPT for Bingo’s Barbequed Swordfish’.”

“Bingo?”

“Yeah. Was a farmer had a dog...” Bing motioned for her to “take it’ but she didn’t. Wouldn’t. He’d try again later.

“Turns out... the Holden brothers were heavy into the Black Market in Europe. Even had connections in the Pacific Theater. Baxter Argyle Worthington III had been under surveillance by the OSS, the ICPO (those are the INTERPOL guys now) and even the Nazi SS. Nobody really knew who he worked for but each was convinced he worked for their team, just for someone higher up than they. Baxter didn’t really care who he dealt with. Whoever paid the most. With governments failing right and left, paper money wasn’t worth much back then so payment was typically received in the form of some other commodity. Then Baxter would be in the business of selling that commodity. Except for gold bullion. That he ferreted away to be shipped to Winston.

The bottom line is... they figured Baxter was about $4 million to the good. Keep in mind that’s in 1945 dollars AND it was based on the then current price of gold which for years had been frozen at 32 dollars an ounce. So we’re talking roughly $80 million in today’s market. Another beer?”

“Uh... OK. Sure. Please... do go on.”

****************************
Post #11, by Kaz

I knew better than to take another beer. As a woman who doesn’t drink, it didn’t take much alcohol for me to feel light-headed and stupid. And it simply wouldn’t do for me to be ‘stupid’ on my second encounter with my new neighbor. I mean… the guy had already seen me half-dressed. Or… half-naked. If I acted as foolish as I’d looked this morning, I’d never be able to convince him I was calm, cool, intellectual, sophisticated….

Not that I cared what he thought of me.

The stuff Bing was showing me was interesting, sure. A family drama, a historical setting, with tie-ins to World War Two and the Black Market....he could hardly go wrong. If he was a decent writer, that is. Who knew, really? His writing might suck, big time.

He sure smelled nice.

Okay. It was obvious that I shouldn’t be drinking. I mean… since when did I smell men? Since when did I have dinner with them? And swordfish? Where the hell did this guy come from? We ate beef in these parts. And pork. And chicken. Shrimp? Swordfish? Nuh-uh….

I took the cold beer Bing handed me. Patted Sally’s huge head, and Brillo’s curly one. I thought about his story. Eighty million bucks. Wow. That much money was beyond comprehension. Hell… FOUR million was beyond comprehension. I’d been the sole bread-winner all of my adult life, and until “Beat, Flay, Shove” had made a splash, Martie and I had--mostly--lived hand-to-mouth. Our lives had never been easy… but we’d been okay. Happy, after a fashion. I’d at least had the confidence to know that I could provide for my offspring, without help from a man—married, or otherwise.

Still… like most people, I’d always had dreams of being wealthy. Of never having to worry about the mortgage payment, the electric bill, the car insurance. I’d dreamed of being able to send Martie to a good college, so that she would be able to have a career, instead of working at ‘jobs’, like her mother had always done. I wanted my daughter to start her adult life with freedom from responsibility. With a leg up, instead of feeling like she had one foot in the grave.

I took another swig of beer and wiped my chin, again. Damned bottles were covered with condensation and I looked like a slob, constantly cleaning up after myself. Bing took another peek at the fish, and hauled the foil-covered meat away from the flame. He threw some vegetable kabobs on over the fire… pieces of onions, peppers, potatoes and carrots brushed with oil and sprinkled with some kind of seasoning. It all smelled great.

Damned men. The last thing I needed was to meet a competent man, who was also good-looking and smelled nice.

Not that I gave a damn about all that…

I wondered if he could really write.

****************************
Post #11 by Saint

“So are you saying they never caught up with him? I mean… you’d think they’d have really gone after him for $4 million. That's a lot of money. Well... I guess like $80 million now.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean but look at the dates and think about what was going on in Europe at the time. Hitler had just thrown everything he had into one last desperate effort to keep the Allies off of German soil. His Panzer Divisions nearly broke through too – that’s why they called it the Battle Of The Bulge. In fact for the Americans it was the bloodiest battle of the War. But... when all was said and done the Allies prevailed and at that point even the Nazi High Command (if not Hitler) had to concede – the end game was a foregone conclusion. The war was lost.

“The people knew it though. They knew from that point forward everything west of the Rhine would be safe from Nazi oppression – forever – and they began going back in droves to find out what had become of their homes; their families. Refugees by the hundreds of thousands turned around and headed back the other way. Nobody wanted to end up stuck in East Germany under Stalin’s thumb. Nazi soldiers – whole battalions at a time – were surrendering to anyone who’d take them. To anyone other than the Russians. After what Hitler had done to Russia they knew just what they had coming. It would be a bad comeuppance. That’s what happens at the end of war.

“A lot of dust has to settle after a World War. Hard to keep track of folks amidst all of that chaos and the OSS had much bigger fish to fry than Baxter Argyle Worthington III. They wanted the real bad guys – the Goebbels and Mengeles. Von Ribbentrops and the like. Now their attention focused on stuff that would ultimately be presented at the Nuremburg Trials. Throw in a Cold War that was just in its infancy and you’ve got a real mess. I can’t imagine we’d handle things any better nowadays – even with all the new technology. Anyway, in 1949 Baxter’s file, like so many others, crossed somebody’s desk who deactivated and rubber-stamp closed it. That was that. He was officially off the books.

Sipping her coffee, Bee could see where this all might end up fitting neatly into a novel. “So... we know Clayton didn’t get back in time to see his brother. What’d he do after that?”

Bing thought about the inclusive we before answering, “That’s the thing... Nothing. Not a word about him anywhere that I was able to find. At first I thought that was the end of the story but something bothered me. I guess it was the complete and total lack of information from that point on. Seems there’s always something more. A little blurb somewhere. You know... ‘Hundred year old Clayton Holden dies in sleep’. Something. But there wasn’t. Isn’t.”

“Probably lived out his life of luxury in Tahiti playing with all the topless girls or something like that, eh?” Oh my god! Did I just say that? Pbbbfffttt... He he he... burp... good beer.

“Yep, that’s what I figured too...” Reaching around, Bing lifted his MacBook from a patio chair, set it on the table and turned it on. While the system booted he continued, “...until I saw this.” Once the screen came up Bing scrolled through the directory structure then, finding what he wanted, double clicked on a video file. Standing and moving next to Bee, he turned the computer so the Crazy Lady Down The Road could better see along with him. She smelled nice.

Somewhat anxious, Bee didn’t know quite what to expect. No doubt it’s a video of this psychopath’s last kill. Probably called “Swordfish-26” or some catchy shit like that. Look at Brillo would ya. Not a hint of concern – the sonofabitch. He he he...

Bee was relieved when what appeared to be an old World War II black and white film documentary began rolling on the screen. The scene was the aftermath of a naval battle, viewed from an airplane circling high above the event. Below, ships were scattering in all directions – the ones that could anyway. Others were ablaze, billowing huge clouds of burnt fuel oil. Great patches of confused roiling water, where obviously there had once been other ships, punctuated a sea of devastation and mayhem.

“Take a close look at those ships. See how they’re painted?”

Bee looked at the ships and noted, “Yeah... I’ve seen that before. Painted all weird shapes and all.”

“It’s called ‘dazzle’. It’s kind of a camouflage for ships. Of course there’s no hiding a ship at sea but when you see one of them tied up to a harbor wharf it’s amazing how well the dazzle works – especially when viewed on black and white enemy reconnaissance film. Even if you can see it’s a ship it’s still hard to tell which way it’s facing, the type of armament she carries, stuff like that. In a World War every little bit counts. I’d say it’s pretty obvious that no two ships painted like this are identical – wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah. I’d say the odds are pretty slim of running across another ship wearing that same dress,” Bee smiled. An interested smile. An “I reckon this guy isn’t out to ‘throw a little Bee on the bar-B’ (yet anyway)” smile. A pretty smile.

Bing stood in silence, watching the footage roll – to a point – then clicked pause.

“Here, you see this?” Bing pointed to a ship in her final gasps – she was sinking. “Look at this ship’s fantail. See what I mean?”

“Fantail?”

“Here, sweetie,” tapping the stern-quarter of the ship frozen on his screen. “The back of the boat,” he smiled.

“OK.”

Pressing the photograph of Clayton and the Indigo Star up to the ship in the movie – showing them to be identical – Bing watched as the light bulb in Bee’s mind’s eye blinked on.

“He never made it back,” She realized aloud.

“Nope. He never made it back.”

“No, really... he never made it back.” She was suddenly very excited about the whole thing.

“Never made it back,” Bing agreed again.

“Then that means...” Bee Beecham thought for a long moment before looking up at her new neighbor, “...he never made it back.”

“Never made it back.”

OK. The swordfish bit was good but this... this was better. He never made it back. “So, how do you know Clayton Holden was actually onboard?”

“He wasn’t.” Handing Bee a copy of the ship’s manifest, Bing smiled and followed along over her shoulder as she read through the passenger list.

“Oh my god... he wasn’t on the ship. Baxter Argyle Worthington III was.”

“Baxter Argyle Worthington III was,” Bing nearly sang. “That’s the Indigo Star and you just saw her sink. The official report said she went down with all hands. Passengers and crew. No survivors.”

“I have to admit this is interesting.” Then raising an eyebrow, “Probably not something one would normally stop by to introduce himself and tell a new neighbor about.”

“I should think you’d be interested in knowing why you should marry me.” The dimple was back.
****************************
Post #12, by Kaz

Now it was apparent—I really WAS drunk! Marry him? What in the hell was he talking about??

“Hah!” I set my bottle down on the table and pushed myself away. Stood up. Brillo got up and came to my side, long tail wagging in nervousness. He could tell when I was upset.

How many beers had I had? This guy had just said I should marry him, right?

“Marry you? You’re funny.” I didn’t know whether to be mad, or amused. Whichever emotion had the best chance of forcing him to change the subject, I guess. Or whichever would elicit a logical response. There had to be one.

Didn’t there? I mean… surely he hadn’t stopped on the side of the road with the express intention of asking a total stranger to marry him! I had decent boobs, but they weren’t that good! Besides… everyone had them.

I backed away from the table and reached down to place my hand on Brillo’s head. A familiar head. Comforting.

“You’re joking, right?”

He had to be joking.

****************************
Post #13, by Saint

“Ach, better flip those.” Jessie Bingham hustled to the flaming grill with a water bottle to mist the kabobs before giving each skewer a twist. Looking back to Bee...

“Well, I suspect this does all seem a bit sudden, eh? That’s exactly what I thought too.” Bing smiled as he quoted his prior thought, “Why, I hardly know this lady. She can’t be serious.” Bigger smile.

“OK. Now you’re creepin’ me.”

“Hey, what do you want? I write mysteries.”

“They any good?” Girlie flippant. There. I just came out and asked. He he he...

“Eh... they do OK. They’re no Beat, Flay, Shove or anything.” Bing registered her reaction. Guys can tell a lot in a millisecond. Her response seemed surprisingly measured.

“You didn’t ‘just happen by’ today did you, Mr. Bingham?”

“Well, to be honest... I’ve ‘just happened by’ a few times this week. This time you ‘just happened’ to be outside.” Noting her expression, Bing added, “And yes... I know quite a bit about you. Like for instance....”

****************************
Post #14, by Kaz

So this Bing—this stranger—proceeded to tell me what he ‘knew’. I couldn’t decide whether to be ticked off or amused. It appeared he’d done his research—as far as he could take it, anyway. I mean… who can really know another person, unless that person allows them access to the ‘real deal’?

He told me the typical facts that are easily available in a small town by simply asking a few questions. He knew I was not a local and that I’d moved to Moxie Falls as a young, single mother. He knew I purchased half of Dingleberry Bog several years ago, and named my homestead Martie’s Haven. He knew how much I’d paid for the place, knew I’d built the house practically by myself-- he even knew how much I’d had to borrow from the bank to get it all done. Yep, he knew the salient facts—that Martie graduated second in her class, that I’d never married, that I’d begun a successful farmers’ market in Moxie Falls and that I wrote for an organic gardening magazine… these things, Mr. Bingham knew. And he knew I was the author of a best-selling novel.

But those facts consisted of data, only. Stuff gleaned from locals, or maybe from the internet. He knew nothing about Serendipity “Bee” Benevolence James. He didn’t know me, at all.

What could possibly be so interesting or desirable about me as to make this stranger talk about marriage? He didn’t know diddly if he thought I’d have any interest in that. For all I knew, Bing could be a murderer. A druggie. A child molester. A dog-napper. He could be married already. A bigamist.

The possibilities were endless.

Besides, I still didn’t know if he could write.

And yeah… what ever happened to romance and falling in love and all that dumb stuff I’d given up on, so long ago? Marriage? To a stranger? Just because he had a terrific dog…and a dimple and nice legs, and he smelled good…

Pfffttt! Besides, I didn’t even know if he could write.

****************************
Post #15, by Saint

Moving his computer to one side, Bing unrolled a land survey – spreading it flat on the table.

“This is the original Holden estate. Here’s you. Here’s me. Here’s the bog. You can see where the Johnson place was already parceled off.”

Pointing to a small square in the center of the map falling directly on top of the boundary now comprising the Bingham/James property line, “This is Winston Holden’s memorial plot. It’s on that little knoll overlooking the bog.”

“Yes, I’ve been up there a couple times. What’s the deal with that? Kind of a creepy place if you ask me.”

“Well, originally Winston had had that plot prepared for Margaret Holden – his and Clayton’s mother. They leveled the ground, erected that tall wrought-iron fence around it and planted all those hedges you see up there today.

“Well, when Winston died Margaret was heartbroken. She apparently had the memorial stone engraved and placed there in his honor. I guess she’d go up there and talk to Winston for hours nearly every day while she waited for Clayton to return. But... now we know, Clayton never returned.

“One of the last things Margaret did was will the estate to a Trust. The Trust stipulated that Winston’s memorial would be maintained until such time as either Clayton returned or until the Trust equity ran out.”

Bee said, “Yes, I’ve seen them. Three, maybe four times a year some guys would be up there trimming back the hedges, painting the fence and just generally cleaning things up.”

“Well, you know a piece of property can’t just sit there in perpetuity. Little by little the property taxes and maintenance costs will chip away at the Trust so it was also stipulated in the Trust that the estate would be sold off “as needed” to maintain the memorial – the last piece to be sold being the plot itself. To her last days, I don’t think Margaret ever gave up hope that Clayton would someday come walking through the door. Come home to take over whatever remained of the Holden estate.

“That’s all written into the Trust. It’s all a matter of public record. Everything was going along fine... then the funding ran dry. That’s when the State jumps in. Actually it’s all pretty straight forward because there’s no body.”

“No body?”

“Yeah, it’s a memorial. That is to say there’s nobody actually buried there. It’s different if there’s an actual body. The State keeps pretty close track of that stuff. For one thing, if there’s someone buried there then future owners of a property have the right to know it. Plus, if someone runs across human remains on the property then they’ll know whether or not they ought to be there. And you can’t just exhume a body you know – even on your own property. It’s a big deal. Memorials are different. I suspect that’s why Winston had the plot constructed way out there overlooking the bog – figuring it would be a long time before anybody would want to build on that site.”

“Ah... I see. And therefore I should marry you. Of course. It makes perfect sense. Duh me.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, Bing pressed on. “Anyway, like I said, the Trust ran dry. That means the State is obliged to put the land up for sale – to auction it off.

“Here’s where it get’s interesting.” Bing turned the skewers one last time. “Local ordinance states that because there is no body interred on the property and the lot is under the 10 acre minimum lot size -- per subdivision standards around here -- then it must be sold to an adjacent landowner and all easements invalidated. That means it has to go to either you or me. There is no deeded access or right-of-way, and the state can't sell land-locked land--they'd have to come to you or me to purchase access, anyway. So... now that piece of land is coming up for auction.”

“I’m sorry but I still don’t see...”

“Where’s the gold?”

“What?”

“The gold. Where’s the gold? Winston didn’t spend it. Clayton never made it back. Obviously Mama Holden didn’t include it in the Trust or it wouldn’t have dried up. So... where is it?”

“You think it’s buried up there on that knoll?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, why are you telling me all of this? Why not just buy the land at auction and be done with it? I would never have tried to outbid you on it. If you know so much about me then you should certainly have known that.”

“Ah, don’t think I didn’t consider it, love. Here, hand me your plate.” Bee grabbed a plate from the table and held it up. “Ahh, eee, ooo. Hot hot hot...” Bing quickly transferred one of the kabobs to her plate followed by a tin foil of Bingo’s Barbequed Swordfish. “And what exactly would I gain by doing that?” Bing stopped what he was doing – expecting an answer.

“Well for one thing... you’d get the whole $80 million. Uh... assuming there’s anything to be got.”

“Yeah. Then what? Look at it from my perspective. The way I see it, I’d already have $40 million. Do you honestly think the first thing I’d want to do is screw somebody else out of the other 40? Can’t I just be happy with my $40 million?” Big Bing smile. He was serious.

“I guess it makes sense when you put it that way. I still don’t see what any of this has to do with getting married.”

“OK sweetie, follow my logic... IF we find anything – and I’m not saying we will but IF we do – then what? They suspected Winston of being in cahoots with Baxter – not Clayton – and when Winston died he was dropped from the active participants list. They thought Baxter Argyle Worthington III had gotten away clean, remember? If we go finding a bunch of gold then it will be no time at all before they reconnect it all back to Winston and Baxter.

“That was International Law they were breaking and there’s no statute of limitations on that. Folks with art treasures looted by the Third Reich don’t get to keep them you know. There are organizations out there that that’s what they do. Everybody and their brother will be showing up here. God-only-knows who will be claiming it was theirs. Some might even have the goods on Baxter and where he actually acquired the loot. Who knows? At a bare minimum it could end up in court for years. Is it worth the risk to find out?

“The good new is... as it stands, they don’t even know there’s any gold to be found. As far as anyone is concerned that gold doesn’t exist anymore. So, what if, on the other hand, we find something but DON'T tell anyone? Then it’s just “our gold”. Nobody’s going to be making any ridiculous claims against it. Problem solved.

“Of course the IRS isn’t going to be very happy about that. We’d both be living in glass houses. It’s not easy keeping a $40 million dollar secret. One false move by either would jeopardize both. We’d each be forever at the mercy of the other’s discretion, eh?

“I suppose so. I guess. Maybe.”

“Right now it’s all nothing more than speculation. Just two people talking about ‘what if’. BUT if we do find something... then our marital status ‘at that moment’ will make a huge difference. Then the gold would be not mine, not yours but ‘ours’. Legally there’s no comparison. As a married couple we couldn’t be compelled to testify against each other about any of this. Where the money came from. How we knew about it. None of that. Being married would automatically entitle us each to half of our shared wealth – whether anyone knows about that wealth or not. Getting married ‘after the fact’ doesn’t count. See? Simple. Simple... if we're married.”

“Oh my god...” it occurred to Bee, “...this swordfish is great!” She was genuinely impressed. “My compliments to the chef.”

“I knew you’d like it. Get used to it, love.”

Bee Beecham couldn’t help but notice, there was that dimple again as Bing gave each eagerly-patiently waiting dog a grilled carrot. An excellent grilled carrot.

****************************
Post #16 by Kaz

Get used to it, love.

He couldn’t be serious. Not about marriage, and not about 80 million bucks. My head was too fuzzy to take it all in. I mean, it sounded like he’d put a lot of thought into this…all that talk about statutes of limitations and exhuming bodies and such. I hoped I could remember it all when this buzz faded, so I could do a little research of my own. There was no way I was accepting Bing’s story without verifying it for myself.

Wow, could this guy barbeque fish! And I don’t even like fish! He’d already ruined Brillo, though… the dog was not allowed to beg but there he sat next to a frothing, salivating Sally, waiting for another tidbit from my host.

“Brillo. Go lay down.” I pointed to a spot on the ground away from the table.

The brown eyes darted to me, then to Bing, then back to me.

“Yes, Brillo, I’m speaking to you. Go. Lay. Down.”

The canine’s eyes darted hopefully to Bing.

“You’d better do as your mother says,” he leaned down and whispered loudly and exaggeratedly, “or she will eat your babies.” My dog cocked his head at Bing, took one last (damn if it wasn't worried!) look at me, and moved away from the table, laying a few feet away in the shade.

I snorted and rolled my eyes.

“You might as well keep him. Obviously, he’s defected and he’s your dog, now.” I popped a grilled onion into my mouth. “This food is delicious, Mr. Bingham. Thank you for inviting me to dinner. But as to all the rest,” I waved my hand at the laptop and the survey map, “it’s a great story. An intriguing one. Whether or not it’s true?” I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s anyone’s guess. I wish you luck with your treasure hunt, but I think you’ll have to devise another way of keeping it—IF it’s there, to begin with. I’m a sole proprietor.”

A sole proprietor? What the hell did that mean? I took another swig of beer to lessen the pain. This was embarrassing. Marriage to a total stranger? A somewhat handsome one who could cook and was good with dogs? Hell, he couldn’t be good at everything, could he? He was probably a crappy writer. I intended to find out, one way or another. It was time to ask to see one of his mystery novels.

“You sure you’re not already married?”

Aw, hell. That wasn’t what I intended to ask. There’s a reason I live up here in the country…

Not that it was doing me any good, today.

**************************
Post #17 by Kaz

I couldn’t believe I’d asked that. By doing so, it almost sounded like I was considering his proposal! I mean-- considering his scheme! For he surely hadn’t proposed! Not in any traditional sense of the word.

Bing smiled and shook his head.

“Nope. It’s just Sally and me. I was married, once. For twelve years. It didn’t work out. No one’s fault really.” He got up and removed the plates from the table. “Come on inside. I’ll show you around.”

I was curious about the house. I followed behind him after grabbing another beer from the cooler. Boy, for a woman who didn’t drink, I was sure pounding them down. Nervousness? I didn’t know what else to lay it to. I’m just not a social butterfly, I guess. I’ve never been good at mingling, or carrying on a polite conversation. Or talking about marriage with a man I’d known for twelve hours.

I opened the beer and took another swallow.

Bing set the plates in the sink and then turned around to lean against the counter. He met my gaze.

“I have been divorced for nine years. I don’t have any children. My parents are still alive and married—to each other--and living in New South Wales. I’m a dual citizen of the United States and Australia, having been born in Oz to American parents working for the Peace Corps. I have two younger sisters, three nieces and two nephews. I served in the U.S. Navy as a weapons officer aboard a nuclear sub. When my marriage fell apart, I lost interest in a seaman’s life. Too hard to have a strong relationship when you’re gone for six months or more at a time. She found someone who wasn’t. And I didn’t re-enlist.”

Sally and Brillo came wandering in through the open doorway. The big dog made her way to a bed in one corner and flopped down with a sigh. Brillo paced for a few moments, glancing occasionally at the sofa in the adjoining room.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.

*****************************
Post #18 by Kaz

“Or she will eat your babies….” Bing whispered loudly, winking at me.

I had to grin. It was an idiotic thing to say.

“Number one: I don’t eat babies. Number two: Brillo’s a eunuch. He’ll never have babies. Or puppies.”

Bing bent down and placed his hands over Brillo’s ears as the mutt looked at him adoringly.

"Hush! You never, ever call attention to a gentleman’s lack of baby-making paraphernalia! Sheesh!” He uncovered the dog’s ears and scratched behind them. “Never mind, boy. She’s not herself tonight and doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s the new moon, you see--and all her juices are pulled to one side….”

I snorted. This man was a nut.

“I think you’d better keep Brillo, Mr. Bingham. Clearly, you’ll pay more attention to his tender sensibilities than I will...”

“If you marry me, we’ll both get to keep him. And I sure do like your dog!”

“Oh, come on! Back to that?” I tipped the beer up and took another sip. This guy was relentless. How was I going to get out of this? Change the subject? Clearly, the only remedy was to just go home. I said as much. “Are you gonna show me around this place, or what?”

Damned men.

“Absolutely!” His grin widened and he walked over and crooked his elbow at me in a courtly gesture, as if expecting me to thread my arm through his. So, I did.

This man was a nut, and I simply had to be drunk.

The structure was pretty much what I expected it to be—a ramshackle old farmhouse. Ah, but I could see the potential. And I was happy to see that Bing did, too. I’ve always hated it when people bought up these old homes and promptly tore them down, replacing them with houses of contemporary ugliness or common-place redundancy. These old farmhouses had character and history. They had charm and permanence. If they managed to retain good roofing systems and had decent foundations, almost all of them could be saved.

Bing took on the role of a real estate agent, showing me the good features of the home, and telling me how he was going to update it. He’d already jacked up the house and replaced the 100 year old sills, which now rested once more upon the solid granite foundation. The floors were as level as they were going to be—and they didn’t appear to cant in any particular direction. Perhaps Bing knew what he was doing.

The plaster-and-lathe walls had been removed in the upstairs rooms, and new wiring was strung through the exposed studs. Rolls of pink fiberglass insulation were stacked in the corners, waiting to be inserted between the studs and stapled into place.

“I’m saving that job for a day that’s a bit cooler than this one,” Bing smiled.

“Mmmm. Good call. Nothing is worse than having fiberglass stuck to all your sweaty spots.” I smiled back. I’d been there, and done that. Ouch.

The floors were of wide spruce, painted in browns and dull greens. Bing planned to sand them all down to the bare wood and stain and seal them. My mind’s eye could see the finished product. Impressive. The upstairs consisted of two bedrooms—one in each gable end-- and a large walk-in closet at the top of the stairs. This, he intended to convert to a three-quarter bath with a shower. He was opening up the eaves on both sides of the bedrooms to expand into storage space. It was a light, cozy area. Very nice. Or… it would be when he was finished.

On the first level the rooms still retained their original plaster and were covered by an assortment of blowsy wall-paper. The kitchen, parlor and living room were typical, small rooms, each accessed by a conventional door. Old farmhouses were hard to heat, and cordoning them off like this allowed the homeowner to heat the rooms in use and close off those that weren’t. Bing told me of his plan to knock down the walls and open up the space. The living room had a fine old stone fireplace, built all the way up from the floor of the basement. He’d already had a mason come in to inspect the integrity of the fireplace and double-flue chimney, and he’d declared the massive stonework to be ‘a keeper’. It was beautiful, and would make a fine centerpiece for the common living area.

A small birthing room and pantry had been converted to an old-fashioned bath years earlier, and a claw-foot tub dominated the room. The exterior of the tub needed to be painted and the fixtures needed replacing, but the interior enamel was pristine and clean. It, too, had potential. I could picture a tiled floor and cypress walls and hanging plants to give the room an exotic look. Yep, this old home had great potential. But boy--was it going to take a ton of work! It was a job I’d love to tackle…

“But, where do you sleep?”

It was a stupid thing to ask. It wasn’t as if I was curious about the man’s bedroom! It was just that—as I looked around—I realized I’d seen it all. The tour of the house was over. And it was obvious that Bing wasn’t bunking amongst the mess upstairs, nor was there a bedroom on the first floor. But to go back and attempt to explain that now would sound even more stupid… so I let the question hang in mid-air.

You’d think I’d learn to keep my mouth shut.

“Ah! Good question! That’s the best part of the house. Come on.” He took my hand and I let him lead me out through a side door off the living room. There was a small ell on that end of the house, and we entered a utility room, of sorts.

“That,” Bing pointed to a door on the opposite wall, “leads to the woodshed. This,” he indicated a set of steep stairs, “goes to the shed ‘chamber’. My bedroom.” He stepped back and indicated that I should precede him in climbing the stairs…

Even half-plastered, I was conscious of the proximity of my back to his front as we climbed into the loft. Geez, I hoped my ass didn’t look fat in these jeans!

Stepping up and emerging into the chamber, I began grinning.

“I love it!”

The room was approximately twenty by twenty feet square. Wide pine planks on the floor--polished to a sheen--were covered here and there by antique braided rugs. The walls were covered in more pine—ship-lapped and running top to bottom at a 45 degree angle. Lots of waste when it was done that way—but it wasn’t my money, and it looked beautiful, varnished to a brilliant gloss, the way it was. Two large skylights let in the fading light of day, and there were two more windows centered in the gable end. The walls were covered in treasures gleaned from a life on the sea. A shelf held a sextant, and some other instruments which I couldn’t put a name to. “Caulking mallet” came to mind when I spied a tool resembling a wooden hammer with iron fittings. A military stopwatch. A brass compass. A pewter hip flask with the naval insignia etched into the front. On one wall hung a ‘man overboard’ life ring and some colorful buoys. From the peak of the ceiling a huge brass lantern was suspended, and it gleamed as the last ray of the setting sun hit it.

It was all quite charming. Masculine, neat, airy. The only thing the bedroom lacked was… a bed.

As if he read my mind, Bing chuckled sheepishly.

“I have all my large furniture stored. Didn’t think it was wise to move it in and then try to work around it. Some of it is in the barn, and some is in a dry rental unit in Moxie Falls. So…” With his foot he nudged the huge feather tick covered by a light patchwork quilt and mounded with pillows that lay on the floor underneath the skylights, “I’m camping out. After a fashion. In all honesty… I’ve never slept better. Don’t know if it’s the pallet on the floor, the great air you’ve got here or…” he smiled into my eyes from only a couple of feet away, “the fact that I’ve never worked so hard in my life!”

God, he had a nice dimple. A fantastic smile. I took a deep breath and moved away. No more beer for me! Lots of men had great smiles. What was the big deal? There wasn’t one. No. Big. Deal.

I walked to the pair of windows at the end of the room.

“Oh, wow. Wow, Jess.” I didn’t even realize what I’d called him. My focus was on the view. “This is amazing!”

Stretched out below and to the west was Dingleberry Bog with a backdrop of distant, cobalt mountains. The bog was patterned with the scrub and cranberries for which it was named, and the water glinted as it reflected the orange sunset streaking the sky above. To the north was the tiny knoll where Winston’s memorial was erected, and beyond that—Martie’s Haven. My home. To the south of the bog lay the thick forest that rose beyond the end of the road. I’d never seen this view. I couldn’t see this view from my house.

It was magnificent.

“What a view!” I turned to compliment my host. “I could live with this!”

What the hell did THAT mean? What I meant was that the view from Bing’s bedroom was stupendous.

Dammit. No more beer for me.

****************************
Post #19, by Saint

The air had cooled with the slight breeze. The sunset was gorgeous.

A guy can tell a lot in a millisecond. I can’t believe she’s getting hammered. What a lightweight. Guess I can scratch “biker moll” off the list. Talk about a cheap date, eh? He he he... As the pregnant pause reached its third trimester Bing slapped his hands together.

“Ya know... I was just about to throw on some coffee. That sound good to you?”

“OK.” He he he... O...K… Ooooo kay.

Bee held her beer straight out and waited. Smiling.

“Uh... let me get that, love.”

Taking the bottle from her hand and setting it on the windowsill, Bing took her still outstretched arm in his.

“C’mon. Let’s get you downstairs.”

Carefully leading her down the steps, Bing tried not to stare anything in the face – at least not so much as to forget he was walking backwards down steps. Bee Beecham, on the other hand was, like any woman, emboldened by the fact that her ass didn’t look fat from that angle.

“So... tell me again why you want to marry me.” Pfffttt... Trying desperately to spin around halfway, ‘”Is it because... of my butt?” Pbbbfffttt... He he he...

“Yep. I’d say it’s time for some coffee.”

“Because if it’s about my butt then... you know what?”

“What?”

Leaning close as to not be overheard, Bee grinned, “There’s dogs at the bottom of your steps, Pbbbfffttt... Sheee he he he...!”

She was right.

From the bottom of the stairway, with dancing dogs running interference, Jessie Bingham assisted the Crazy Lady Down The Road across the living room and with a “Here we go,” seated her on an antique steamer trunk. “Now, you just sit there while I get some coffee brewing, OK?”

“Hey, Mr. Bingo, I don’t have to sit here if I don’t...” trying to stand, she gave up the notion and plopped back down. Ooooo... OK... OK... "I’m just gonna sit right here for a minute IF YOU DON’T MIND.” He he he...

“No. You do that, sweetie. I’ll just be a minute. Actually, this coffee maker takes three minutes,” Bing corrected but Bee was too engrossed in petting the dogs to notice.

“You are such good babies. You are SUCH GOOD BABIES.” Pets and scratches behind the ears.

Looking up from his task, Bing couldn’t help but smile as he watched Bee interact with Sally and Brillo. Pouring the coffee he called out, “Black?”

“Whatever color it comes in I guess. So... why did I ask you to marry me again?”

“Ah, sweetie... I’ll explain it all tomorrow. OK?”

“Well now, I’m afraid the cat’s already out of the bag isn’t it?”

Sally sprang to her feet with a “chuff” and began pacing and sniffing. Looking under things.

Holding his hand up beside his mouth, Bing whispered, “Uh... can’t use the C word.”

“Oh... I see. You can’t say c.a.t.?”

Boewoawoawoa whoaoooooo...!

“Nope. Can’t even spell it.”

“Aw, c’mon... don’t tell me this dog can spell.”

“Well, love, that is a pretty easy word after all. I mean, that’s the first one they teach you isn’t it?” Bing held up an invisible flashcard, “What’s that spell? C’mon... what’s that spell?” he chided.

Bee studied the invisible card for a moment before dropping her eyes, smiling and admitting, “Cat."

Boewoawoawoa whoaoooooo...!

****************************
Post #20, by Kaz

“Love,” he’d said.

How many times had I asked him about getting married? Oh, gawd… I was getting plastered! I never get drunk!

I hate coffee, but it sounded like a good idea. Based on the fact that the room was swirling around in front of my eyes, I didn’t think I’d be able to make the walk home without laying in the ditch—by choice or accidentally—for awhile, first.

I must have been making a hell of an impression on Mr. Bing Bingham. Oh, well. All the better. He’d drop that dumb idea of marrying me.

“So… this marriage thing… it’s kind of a wild idea, huh?” Was my grin lop-sided? It sure felt lop-sided. But then… the whole room was tilted off to one side. Oh, man….. this wasn’t good.

Had we discussed my butt? No! Of course we hadn’t. Had we?

Damned men. I surely wouldn’t have brought up the subject, that’s for sure.

He handed me a steaming mug of coffee. I looked at the cup. The wording on the side said “Be Alert… The World Needs More Lerts.” I snorted. Completely unladylike. Holy cow…..

“Cheers.” Bing raised his mug in a salute. I wondered what his cup said. “Be Adept… The Word Needs more Depts”? Or maybe, “Be Adroit… The World Needs More Droits”??? I snorted again. This was getting embarrassing. “Drink up, love.”

Why did he keep calling me ‘love’, anyway? As far back as I could remember no one had ever called me ‘love’. I had no intention of getting used to the endearment. I took a gulp of scalding coffee.

“That’s nasty…”

Bing grinned and came to sit beside me on the steamer trunk. There was hardly enough room for him, but… okay.

“Yep. That’s Aussie coffee, grown in New South Wales. A little plantation next to my folks’. Ma and Pop have a small vineyard. ‘Mudgee Waters’ is its name. Good stuff. Great wine.”

He had crows’ feet, too! When he smiled, he had crows’ feet! Thank God. It wasn’t just me. They looked better on him, though. I looked away and took another big swallow of coffee. Damn, that was gross.

“Yeah, well…. I don’t drink.”

He chuckled.

“So I’ve noticed.”

The sunlight faded. The room was lit by one small light on an end table. In the dim glow, the outrageous rose-patterned wall-paper didn’t look nearly so hideous. I said so.

“If this was my house, that shitty wall-paper would be the first thing to go.” I smiled up at him, somewhat befuddled as I realized my head was on his shoulder. “But I wouldn’t change a thing in the bedroom.”

There I went again… talking about his bedroom! What ailed me, anyway? I sat up straight and downed the rest of my coffee.

“I’ve gotta get home. I’ve got a long day tomorrow.” For the life of me, I couldn’t even remember what day it was—say nothing about what I had to do tomorrow. I stood up, and the room swayed. “Whoa! You’ve gotta do something about the yaw in this floor!”

He stood up beside me and took my upper arm.

“Hold on there, Bee. If you’re so hell-bent on going home, I’ll give you a ride. There’s no way you’re walking down to Martie’s Haven. Not in the dark, and not like… not with Brillo.”

I bridled. Not with Brillo? He’d done it then. Absconded with my dog!

“I beg your pardon? I’ve walked myself AND my dog home in the dark since before you were out of diapers!” The image of this handsome man standing before me dressed in diapers flashed before my eyes. Hehehe….. I snickered. I hate it when I snicker in the middle of being pissed off…. “Maybe if I just lie down for a minute…” Suddenly, I didn’t feel so well. It had to be that disgusting Aussie coffee. I felt like barfing.

“I might even barf.” I looked at him in horror. “Aw, Jess… I think I’m drunk!”

He grinned.

“No question about it, sweetie. You’re three sheets to the wind. Come on… if you can make it upstairs, you can lay down on my bed for a few. And when you’re feeling better, I’ll zip you and the Labradoodle home.”

“Labradoodle! You’re funny!” There were two of him, now. Oh, my gawd… I was three sheets to the wind. Drunk. Stinking drunk. Oh, my gawd….

“That I am. Come on, now. Let’s get you settled. Is your tummy okay? You’re not going to lose your supper, are you?”

It was FISH in my tummy! I didn’t even like fish! I leaned against him and let him lead me back to the stairs to the loft.

“That was excellent fish, Jess…”

“Yep. Bingo’s Barbequed Swordfish. Get used to it, love.”

Love.

Damn, I was drunk...

- - - - - - - - - -
"Good morning, love.”

It was dark—or practically dark--except for the glow of the lantern suspended from the ceiling above—so I thought he was a little bit off on his timing.

I was in his bedroom. Oh, gawd… I was in his bedroom.

“Would you like to try another cup of coffee? I can’t guarantee it’ll taste any better, but maybe your stomach will tolerate it, this time.”

He was sitting on the floor beside his bed. His feather tick. His pallet. Whatever the hell it was called. I propped myself up on my elbow, taking stock. I was dressed. So was he. I was in his bed. He was beside it. My mouth tasted like crap. His looked delicious.

“I got drunk.”

“You got drunk.”

“Did I get sick? Make a fool of myself? Aw, Jess… I’m sorry. I hardly ever drink. Honest.” I could feel my face flame. I took the coffee cup from his hand and took a sip. “This is still gross.” The wording on this cup was different. ‘World’s Greatest Lover’, it said. My face got even hotter.

“Still gross. But… it’ll put hair on your chest.” He grinned. Even in the soft light, I could see that damned dimple. I didn’t want to think about that, or his chest. Or his hair. Any part of his body, at all. “And no, love… you didn’t make a fool of yourself, and I know you hardly ever drink. It was fairly obvious. What’d you have… three beers?”

“Four. I think….” I smiled sheepishly and took another sip. It was better this time. “I guess you want me to go home, huh? So you can get some sleep? I’m really sorry…”

I was. Sorry, and embarrassed. What a way to impress the new neighbor.

“What time is it, anyway?” I sat up and looked around for a clock.

“Around two a.m., I guess. I don’t have a clock in here, but it’s pretty close to two. And I’ll be happy to take you home, if you feel up to it—but you’re not walking. Aat!” As I opened my mouth to protest, he held up his hand like he’d done to the dogs. I was NOT a dog…”I will be happy to drive you home. Or….” I cocked my head, interested in this ‘or’ of his. Honestly? I was still suffering the after-effects of the alcohol. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and go back to sleep in this cozy space… in this comfy bed. “Or, you can stay right here and rest for a few more hours, and I’ll cook you breakfast. Bingo’s Famous French Toast. But… you’ll have to scoot over. Share your nest. I promise, I won’t snore.” The dimple. The damned dimple.

I swallowed. Hard.

He wanted to lay down with me. Sleep beside me. I hadn’t been in bed with a man in… well, it seemed like I hadn’t been in bed with a man since Bing was in diapers. Suddenly, I wasn’t picturing him in diapers, though. I was picturing him in…

“Dressed, right? You’d stay dressed?” Sheesh…. How lame was I? And why was I even considering his suggestion? I’d known him for less than 24 hours. He might be a dog-napper, after all… “I’d really love to go back to sleep for awhile….”

“Sweetie, I’ll be completely dressed. Just like you are. Except I won’t have my shoes on, either.” I realized my feet were bare. He must have removed my sneakers…that was rather… intimate, wasn’t it? I glanced surreptitiously at his feet. Not bad. Some people have ugly feet. It would have been good if Jessie Bingham’s feet were ugly. It’d be nice to have something to find fault with.

Damned man.

I was an adult. Right? So... what was the big deal? No big deal. No. Big. Deal.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He smiled warmly and took the coffee cup from my hand, setting it on the floor away from the mattress. “Okay. And in the morning, we’ll continue our conversation.”

“About getting married?” I scuttled down under the quilt, tired and head-achey.

“If you’d like. About the Holdens, and the gold, and our dogs--who are obviously very attached to each other, already. And maybe… about getting married.” Bing climbed onto the feather tick. I turned my back to him and hugged one of the soft pillows. Gawd, this bed was comfortable! No wonder he slept so well. I felt him pull gently on the quilt. “So, you’re a blanket hog, huh?” His voice was teasing. Husky. Nice.

“Yeah. I guess so.” I felt his hand descend briefly on my hip. He gave me a friendly squeeze before removing it.

“Good night, love.”

Love…

“Nite, Jess…” I drifted off to sleep, mildly surprised to find myself looking forward to waking up next to Jessie 'Bing' Bingham.
****************************
Post #21, by Saint

Bee bolted upright then instantly froze – certain the maneuver had ripped her brain in half. OK. That hurt. Judging by the angle of the sunlight attacking her, she’d slept in. Way in. Way in... but where in? That same sunlight seemed to glare off of well... everything. It instantly dawned on her that something should be dawning on her but wasn’t.

Lying back, she pulled the blanket over her head and buried her face in the pillow – she would just stay right there. No problem. Her eyes popped open. He’ll find me. No he won’t – not under this blanket. You gotta pee. No I don’t. Yep... now it’s worse. Chill out. Oh yeah, timer’s started. Sonofabitch. OK. OK. Just be cool. Just act casual – you’ll get through this. That’s the plan. Casual. Cool.

The plan hadn’t really allowed for the full length mirror hanging halfway down the staircase. Oh my god! Who let Phyllis Diller in here? Ahem... time’s ticking, Bee.

“Is that you, love?” came from the bacon in the kitchen.

Oh my god! Oh my god! Serendipity Benevolence Bee Beecham James was stuck. As one might expect, her mind instantly flashed to Omaha Beach. June 6th, 1944. D-Day. Those guys know what I’m talking about. They were stuck too. Ocean to their backs and bad guys to their front – none of their options included staying put either. Yeah, those guys... they know what I’m talking about. Managing to get her hair to stay in one clump, Bee made her way down the beachhead.

OK. OK. Cool. Casual. I’ll just bip on through, saying something whimsical on my way to the bathroom. That’s the plan. Bip. Cool. F***ing whimsical. Writers can do whimsical.

In fact, Bee Beecham was prone to whimsy “...as Margo rounded the corner into the kitchen only to find Wade Eastman standing at the stove frying bacon – nude. ‘Oh my,’ she mock twittered.” OK, now I’ve really gotta pee.

Bee rounded the corner into the kitchen only to find Jessie Bingham standing at the stove frying bacon.

“Oh my,” she mock twittered but like most writers had no idea where to go from there. Oh yeah, ‘whimsical’. “Ya know, us getting married is about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” she chimed as she made her whimsical f***ing way to the bathroom.

****************************
Post #22, by Saint

The world seemed a better place when Serendipity B. James emerged from the bathroom. Not so hectic.

Jessie Bingham wasn’t standing at the stove frying bacon – not that it mattered so much now – rather, he’d set-up yesterday’s out-door entertainment ensemble in what was now the “breakfast nook” just off the kitchen. Buttered French toast, topped with grape jam and a sprinkling of confectionary sugar, coupled with a side of bacon and coffee adorned the table.

Looking up, the dimple smiled and said, “Thought you might like some breakfast. I know how it can be when you’ve been up partying all night. He he he...”

Oooo... the sonofabitch. Just never lets up about it does he? Sonofabitch. Harp harp harp. Grrrrr... Now I’m supposed to be all “You want I should put out before or after breakfast there – writer, chef, dimple dude?” Yeah, well rub a lamp, pal. It don’t work like that.

“It certainly looks delicious.” OK. It certainly looks delicious. I am freaking starved too. Resisting the temptation to plop down and scarf chow like there was no tomorrow, Bee casually – wistfully – turned, studying the contents of the bookshelf along the wall. Cool. Selecting a book at random (casually) she opened it to glance at a word or two. Maybe check the font size, paragraph format, front matter – cool writer-stuff like that. Oh my god... it’s a first edition Callow. Taking Out The Flour Girl. Signed!

“My god, how old are you?” Bee smiled – thinking herself amusing.

“No no, sweetie... my grandmother gave me that ages ago...” Bing chuckled, “...but yeah, I get that all the time. Uh... breakfast?”

OK. I’ve sidled wistfully long enough. Don’t want the poor schmuck to feel bad. The least I can do is choke down some breakfast I guess, seeing how's he went through all the trouble of making it and all.

Seating herself at the table, “I suppose I might be able to nibble about halfa dab... maybe... I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever tried French toast with jelly.”

“No other way to eat it if you ask me. Mmmm mmm. Bingo’s Famous French Toast.”

Taking her first bite, Bee was pleasantly surprised. ”Not bad. Not bad.” Oh my god, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.

“Mind if I join you?” Big smile.

Taught not to speak with her mouth full – at least not as full as she was cramming it – Bee smiled, gesturing Bing to, “pees doo.” Close enough. My god this stuff is good. A gulp of coffee and right back to it.

Bing grinned as he sat sipping his coffee and watching Bee devour her breakfast. This poor child hasn’t eaten in... oh yeah... since last night. He he he...

Now I suppose this guy’s going to just sit there and watch me eat. Why do guys do that? Oh no, I’ll just sit here and watch your fat ass eat. Grrrrr...

“You did hear me, right?”

Bing thought for a moment. “If you mean about our getting married being ridiculous... yeah. That’s cool. No worries. Never mind.” Still all smiles. OK. I gave her the opportunity. Her loss – not mine.

“Well OK then.” Pbbbfffttt... Ha! Put the kibosh on that tack, eh? That was easy. The more Bee thought about it... the more she thought about it. Too easy. OK. Let’s re-cap. This guy shows up out of nowhere, offers me half of eighty million bucks and wants to marry me and I tell him no. OK. So far so good. Guess I told him, eh? Yeah, Bee... guess you told him. What? Nothing... just guess you told him ‘sall. Don’t start that crap! What crap? He shows up and offers you forty million and you tell him f*** off, ‘sall. Well what am I supposed to say? Hey, a******, he said never mind so never mind, OK? It never happened. Go back to your life... ‘sall.

Go back to my life? “Oh just never mind,” he says. Now I’m supposed to just ‘go back to my life’? That sonofabitch. Who the f*** does he think he is. The sonofabitch. Well maybe you should have thought of that before you shot him down. Probably broke his heart ya bitch. Hey, f*** you. No... f*** us.

****************************
Post #23, by Kaz

In spite of my seeming schizophrenia, I really DID have things under control. I mean… there was no way I was contemplating marrying him, right? So his utter lack of concern about my disregard for his ‘proposal’ should have come as no surprise. In fact—it should be welcome.

So, why did I feel so forlorn, all of a sudden?

It was just that… well—he hadn’t tried hard enough. You don’t just make such a huge, life-changing proposition, and then abandon it without SOME kind of argument, do you?

Apparently, you do. Or…Jessie Bingham did, anyway. The sonofabitch. A typical man, for sure. Suddenly, my appetite was gone. I pushed my plate away.

“Good stuff, Mr. Bingham. Thank you for that—and for supper, last night. But, I’ve gotta get home. So… thanks for your hospitality, and I’m sorry I got… tipsy. Believe it or not—that’s a rare occurrence.” I could feel the heat in my face. He probably thought I was a lush.

Bing pushed a forkful of grape-jelly-covered French toast into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Took a sip of coffee. Displayed that damned dimple.

“Hey. I know that. It’s obvious that you don’t drink very often. Otherwise… well. Three or four beers wouldn’t have… done you in, the way they did.” He, too, pushed his plate towards the middle of the table. “Bee, don’t worry about it. You haven’t embarrassed yourself. You didn’t break some ‘code’. I still have a high opinion of you. And, I’ve gotta say… it was damned nice waking up next to you, this morning. In spite of the drool…”

“Drool?” Aw, hell. Was he kidding?

“Drool.” Bing chuckled. “Not much. Nowhere near what Sally can put out on any given day. And… I still love her, you know.”

‘Love’…

He needed to shut up, before this conversation went totally awry. I pushed my chair back and stood.

“Yes, well… I guess I’ll take my dog and go home.” Brillo ducked under the table. The traitor.

Bing wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood, too.

“Would you like a ride?”

“No. Thank you-- but no. It’s a short walk, and I could use the fresh air. Brillo!” I shouted, much louder than was necessary. I mean… the dog was right there! Sheesh….

“Come on, boy. Time to head home.”

Brillo came to stand at my knee, his tail wagging in dubious enthusiasm. Sally walked to his side and laid a slobbery kiss on his floppy ear. And then, another.

“That’s one disgustingly awesome Dane you’ve got, there.” I had to grin. Brillo had a loogey the size of a night-crawler plastered onto the side of his face. Gross. But funny, too. As long as he didn’t share it with me…

Bing ran his hand along the big dog’s back.

“Yep. Sally’s my girl. Or… one of them, anyway.” He grinned at me. “Hey… do you have something pressing to do at home? Or, would you like to walk over to Winston’s memorial with me? Before it gets hot…” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s gonna be another scorcher, I heard.”

I did have pressing things to do at home. I needed to….and I should…and anyway--what would be the point of walking over there? He’d already said he didn’t want to marry me. He’d dropped that idea like a hot potato. He was welcome to his eighty million dollars. If it existed—which it probably didn’t. More power to him. I wished him well, but I didn’t have time for such foolishness.

“Okay,” I said.

Damned men. Damned dimple. Damned cooking talent… What the hell was I doing?

“Let’s go.” I picked up our plates and carried them to the sink. Looked at Brillo and said—for Bing’s information, as well as the dog’s—“Dogs don’t get ‘people’ food! Back off!”

Brillo looked at me and then turned his head and glanced sideways at Bing. Like HE was his boss!

“You’d better listen to your Mum, Brillo. I have it on good authority,” he lowered his voice into a mock whisper, “that she will eat your babies!”

I rolled my eyes. Smirked.

“I told you! He’s a…”

“Aat, aat, aat! Hush!” Bing walked to me and put his warm hand over my mouth, grinning. “You must NEVER point out a gentleman’s lack of baby-making paraphernalia!”

Smiling behind his hand, I touched my tongue to his palm.

Damned men.

****************************
Post #24 , by Kaz

The memorial site was only a ten minute walk away, and at eight a.m., the day hadn’t heated up, yet. The air was still cool. It was a glorious morning.

I’d been here before. Martie and I had hiked through the woods a time or two, skirting Dingleberry Bog and sitting on the rise overlooking the water as we took in the view. The memorial was pretty, if a little creepy. A large granite stone surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence… with manicured shrubs outside that. I could understand wanting a little fence to protect the site, I suppose. But—protect it from what?

Bing pulled the gate open, and the dogs plowed through. They snorted and snuffed, and then Brillo lifted his leg.

“Brillo!” He sprinkled the stone and looked at me apologetically. “Get away from there!” He did as he was told, while Sally checked out his offering. “Geez… how’s that for respectful?” I was embarrassed. Why couldn’t it have been HIS dog who piddled on the memorial stone?

Bing folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the fence, looking me in the eye.

“I think it’s here. Aren’t you curious? Hell, aren’t you tempted? Don’t you want to know?”

I sighed. Of course I wanted to know. But…

“Look, Bee. I’ll say this once, and if you still hate the idea, I’ll never bring it up again. I’d like to marry you.” He held up his hand when I opened my mouth. “Please, love—let me finish. I know this isn’t the kind of proposal a woman wants. I know we are strangers. I know a man and a woman are supposed to get married because they love each other and want to build a life together. I know all that.” Bing straightened and took a couple of steps towards me. He reached out and took my hands.

“I’ve been divorced, so you might think that makes me a bad risk. But I believe in marriage. My wife left me—not the other way around. I was an absentee husband and she wanted someone who wasn’t. But long and happy marriages run in my family. That’s what I want to have. And if you married me, I would try my hardest to make it work. Whether there is any gold buried in this lot, or not.”

“But…” Dammit, ‘but’ what?? “Look. I don’t know you. I know nothing about you! And you know nothing about me! You might find out you hate me! And then we’d be stuck.”

He squeezed my hands.

“A guy can tell a lot in a microsecond, you know. And I could tell the moment I saw you that you are not the kind of woman people hate. I’ll bet you’re the kind of woman people love.”

I looked away. I was almost 40 years old and unmarried. Apparently, I wasn’t all that loveable…

“Bee, look at me. It’s a risk, sure. But people have made relationships work with a lot less going for them. You’re gorgeous. Aat! You are. Trust me. You are independent. Folks say you’re a devoted mother…that you work hard…that you are involved in the community. That’s not the kind of woman people hate. And, you’ve got a great dog! Plus… I love your muffins.” He grinned. I blushed.

Damned men.

“Well, sure! YOU’D be getting a great bargain. But what about me? Do YOU work hard? Are you active in your community? I don’t even know if you’re a good writer. AND… I’ve never tried your muffins!” I felt myself blushing even more. “What’s in it for me? Besides the gold, which probably doesn’t exist?” I stared at him, amazed that I hadn’t already walked away. I was nuts. Hung over.

Crazy.

“I work hard, but I like to play hard, too. And you’ve tried my swordfish and my French toast…. What did you think?” I rolled my eyes. Bing had me, there. He squeezed my hands again. “And my pen name is Johnson Seavers.”

Oh, my God. Johnson Seavers. Oh, my God.

“Okay, so you can write. Pfffttt!” I couldn’t believe I was holding hands with Johnson Seavers! “That’s still not a reason to marry you, is it?” Oh, my God…

“Nope. And neither is eighty million dollars, or barbequed swordfish or an awesome Great Dane. But I’m not a bad bloke. I’m a pretty good guy, actually. And… I like you.”

A laugh escaped me. It had a tinge of hysteria to it—which was even funnier. Oh, my God! I doubled over, pulling my hands from his. He LIKED me. The marriage proposal I’d secretly hoped for all my life came from a total stranger who said he LIKED me! Was that romantic, or what?? The irony of it was hilarious. What else did I expect? It was so typical of my life, my gaucheness, my…. Hahahaha!

Bing stood there and watched me as I laughed; a questioning smile on his face. I’ll bet he thought I was the Crazy Lady Down the Road, or something! Finally, my hilarity wound down. I leaned against the memorial and gasped, all strength gone.

“I’m sorry….” I tittered, still a bit on the edge. “I’m really glad you...like me.” My face hurt. “I like you, too, Jess. Thus far, anyway. So, what are we waiting for? Let’s do it. Let’s get married. Let’s buy the lot. Let’s dig for gold. And then, when we don’t find any—we’ll find out what this marriage thing is all about. Just remember-- I come with a daughter, as well as a great dog. And, I come with my own tools. I’m a hell of a bargain.” I snickered weakly.

“That, you are, love. No arguments, here.” There was that sexy dimple again.

I was nuts. Hung over. Crazy. What had I done?

I couldn’t wait to find out.

****************************
Post #24, by Kaz

“You’re what???” Martie squealed and I held the phone away from my ear. “You did NOT just say you’re getting married! To a guy you just met? Oh, wow, Mum. Wow.”

“I’m hoping you can make it home on Friday… it’ll just be a simple civil ceremony.” I sounded so matter-of-fact—when I felt anything but! What had I done?

“You’re kidding! Aw, Mum… my Native Studies class is climbing Tumbledown to see the petroglyphs, and then I have a paper due on them next Wednesday. I don’t see how I can miss the climb. Way to give a girl some notice!”

I grinned. Martie’s sarcasm was well-known at the Haven—and in Moxie Falls.

“No problem, baby doll. We’ll have some kind of celebration next time you come home. Really… this will be a short and simple proceeding. No real need for you to be there.” Martie was my only child and best friend, and I was getting married without her. Somehow, I’d never pictured my wedding day quite like this.

“Is he a nice guy, Mum? Because if he doesn’t treat you well, he’ll have to answer to me.”

My daughter was five foot three and as gentle as a lamb.

“I’ll make sure he knows he has to watch his step, Martie.” I longed to hug her. “Yes, of course he’s a nice guy. He would have to be to convince your old maid of a mother to marry him, right?”

“True.” I heard her giggle. “Oh, my God, Mum. I just realized. You’re practically a virgin! I’ll bet you haven’t had sex since… let’s see. I’ll be nineteen in… add nine months… Yep! You might as well be a virgin!”

She was getting a little lippy. It hadn’t been quite that long, but it sure seemed like it.

I heard a vehicle on the gravel road and looked out the window in time to see Bing’s truck pull into the yard. Brillo went to the door, his tail wagging. Not even a bark… he already knew who it was.

“Gotta run, baby doll. I love you. And don’t worry, okay? Your old mother knows what she’s doing.” That was an out-and-out lie.

“Oh, I love you too, Mummy. Be happy. Okay? Wow, I’m gonna have a dad! I hope he gives generous allowances!” She snickered. “Oh! And for God’s sake, get on the pill! Seriously, Mum… be happy. You’ve given up your whole life for me. I want you to be happy.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“I never gave up anything, Martie. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Aw… don’t you dare cry! If you do, so will I! And I’ve got a date tonight. I do not want to go looking all botchy and red-eyed!”

Smiling, I said goodbye as Bing rapped on the screen door. I beckoned him in, and Brillo wiggled in ecstasy as Bing rubbed his ears and scratched his belly. What a traitor that dog was. But I sure was glad Bing was so good with him.

It could have gone worse with Martie. I was relieved. I’d had visions of my daughter throwing a major fit when she heard I was getting married to a man she’d never met. Instead, she almost sounded happy about it.

Maybe things would work out okay.

“Hi,” Bing straightened and grinned at me. “You look pretty this morning.”

Well, I didn’t. I had on cut-off jeans and another baggy, holey shirt. I hadn’t been expecting him. But… I’d been thinking about him. Damned men. Damned man.

“Hi. Are you alone?” I smiled back.

“Yep, I left Sally at the Bog. I’ve got errands to run in town, and I didn’t want to leave her in a hot truck.”

“You could have brought her down here, you know. I mean… we’re almost family.” I smiled shyly. That sounded so corny.

“Well, thank you. But I was kind of hoping you’d come with me. We need to buy you a diamond, and pick out wedding bands, after all.”

I plopped into a kitchen chair, and then quickly stood up. I went to the window and looked out over the garden.

“I don’t need a diamond, Jess. Really. I spend a lot of time in the garden, you know. I’d probably ruin it, or lose it, or something. You should save your money…” My voice trailed off. A diamond? No one had ever offered to buy me expensive jewelry before.

He walked over to me and put his hand gently under my chin and turned my face until our eyes met.

“I want to buy my soon-to-be bride a diamond, okay? Please let me do that, Bee. I want to.”

Well, damn. Now how could I say ‘no’? A diamond. I glanced down at my rough working hands.

My first diamond. My first wedding band.

I found myself hoping they’d be my last. My only.

Forever.

I was nuts. The Crazy lady Down the Road. I wondered if Bing realized every place had one….and that he was about to marry her.

- - - - - - - - - -

“With this ring, I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow...”

Bing’s voice was low, but firm. He didn’t sound like he had any misgivings, at all. He smiled into my eyes and slid the cool gold band onto my finger.

Myrtle Potts stood front and center, looking like a proud aunt. Moxie Falls’ first assessor was also a JP, and she’d informed us that we were “her 50th wedding”. She followed that up by telling us that out of those 50 marriage ceremonies she’d performed, 27 had ended in divorce, and two… in suicide.

I’d given a nervous snicker. Bing had simply smiled benignly and said, “Well, Mrs. Potts, we’ll be your first golden anniversary! In fact, you’re invited to the party now, as our most honored guest.”

The old gal had melted when she saw that dimple, and simpered like a schoolgirl.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Myrtle removed her reading glasses and winked at us. “You may kiss the bride.”

I was about to receive my very first kiss from my husband. How often did that happen—that a bride had never before felt on her own mouth the lips of the man she was marrying? Bing had pecked me on the cheek a couple of times in the last few days, but that was it. What kind of a kisser would he be? What kind of a kisser would I be???

Suddenly, a scene from the movie Hitch flashed in front of my eyes. Will Smith and Kevin James standing on the steps of an apartment building… Kevin’s eyes closed, lips puckered and pursed, looking like a complete doofus. Suddenly, I knew that’s what I’d look like….Oh, my God.

Bing’s lips were warm. His breath was fresh. For a second, his tongue touched my bottom lip, and then it was gone. I resisted the urge to chase it… oh, my God.

I felt like a virgin.

****************************
Post #25, by Saint

Marriage certificate in hand, a quick stop at the County Courthouse netted the newlywed Binghams the deed to Winston Holden’s memorial plot – sans auction – along with several raised eyebrows at Bee’s new marital status. Hoping she wouldn’t have to explain anything to anyone before she’d had the chance to absorb it all herself, Bee simply smiled her way through the questioning looks. True to their nature the Moxie Falls locals were much too polite to just come right out and ask. Leaving the courthouse, Bee was glad to have that part behind them.

The ride started out quietly as, with Bing driving, they wound their way through the hills toward home. But which home? That was the first question.

“So... what happens now?” Mrs. Serendipity Benevolence ‘Bee Beecham’ James-Bingham wanted to know.

Bing had been wondering the same thing. In truth, he really hadn’t expected Bee to say “yes”. Hadn’t really planned for that eventuality.

“I don’t know, sweetie... what do most people do on their honeymoon?” All smiles.

Oh yeah… should’ve known. Should have f***ing known.

“Dig for buried treasure?” OK... that didn’t sound right.

“Mmmmm....” Still all smiles.

Oooo, that sonofabitch. I guess he thinks he owns me now. He is your husband, you know. Just barely! ‘Just barely’ is all it takes. He is kinda cute, I guess. ‘Kinda’ my ass... you’ve been wanting to jump his bones since you met him – lying out there in the cornfield in your panties and all. Hey, it’s not like I planned it that way. So... you’d ‘plan’ it differently today... hmmm?

“I don’t really know anything about you, you know.”

“Fair enough, sweetie. But... how about what you DO know about me?”

Bee thought for a long time before answering. Reaching over and taking Bing’s hand in hers, she admitted, “The short time we’ve been together has been... wonderful. I’d forgotten what it feels like to wake up wondering what the new day will bring. Now I actually look forward to finding out. Thank you for that. But what I don’t understand is... why me?” Then staring him in the eye, “Surely you know we could have accomplished the same thing by forming a corporation.”

“You saw right through that, huh?”

“Well, duh.”

“Well why didn’t you just say so right then and there? So... are you saying you knew that but married me anyway?”

“Uh... well, what about you? You knew the same thing, right? So I could just as easily ask you the same question.... Why did you want to marry me?” Ha! That ought to cool his jets.

“I wanted to marry you because...” Bing took his eyes off the road long enough to show his sincerity, “...I love you.”

OK. This sonofabitch is good. Oh, he could have said because that way he’d be in on the whole 80 million – IF there is 80 million. He could have just said he likes my tits but nooooo... He has to say, “I love you.” The sonofabitch is good. You’re gonna cry aren’t you? NO! I’m not going to cry! You’ve never been loved you know... that, in and of itself is.... Dammit, I’m NOT going to cry! OK so don’t cry. Who cares?

Tears streamed down Bee’s face as she fumbled to regain her composure. “But how? When...? I mean....”

“In the garden. That’s when I knew. I think it was the blue panties,” Bing added with a wink and a dimple as he turned onto the long driveway leading up to Martie’s Haven.

Oh, well, that’s just f***ing great. My panties. Not even my tits for crying out loud. Well maybe if you weren’t squeezing them all lopsided and all they’d be more memorable, eh? OK. OK. Forget that. We’re home… now what?

Stopping in front of the house, the two sat watching their dust blow downwind as the air before them cleared. Bing had come to a decision.

“I’m going to swing by my place for a second. I’ll see you up there. Bring a shovel.”

Bee climbed from the Bing Family pick-up somewhat dazed as Bing sped off toward his house – still smiling.

Whelp, you asked “Now what?” so this is ‘what’. “Bring a shovel.” Just like that. “Bring a shovel.” I suppose now he figures he can bark a command and I’ll just hop to. Chop chop. And what the f*** is a shovel? Oh yeah... a shovel. His place. Not ‘our’ place. His place. Hmmm... So just where does one keep one of those things? What things? A shovel dammit! Oh yeah, a shovel. Out with the other shovels I reckon. Yeah, that’s where it is.

Stopping halfway through her doorway Bee couldn’t help but turn to watch Jessie “Bing” Bingham negotiate the last bit of driveway before pulling onto the road and disappearing behind a stand of elms. She closed the door behind herself and leaning back against it Bee surveyed her living room.

Oh my god! Just LOOK at this dump! Oh my god! What ‘Look at this dump’? This place hasn’t been this clean in years and you know it. That’s not the point! Well then, what pray tell is ‘the point’? The POINT is... I don’t know what the f*** I’m doing. That’s the POINT. And... this is news? You haven’t known “what I’m f***ing doing” in ages. So what’s so special about now?

Bee thought long and hard about what she’d been thinking before it occurred to her.

I guess what’s so special about now is – it matters. What’s special about now is – I haven’t felt this way in ages either. Bing makes me feel... I don’t know... alive I suppose. Well then, grab a shovel and go, dammit. Just like that? Just ‘grab a shovel and go’? Yep, just like that. I can’t just ‘go’. I have things to figure out first. Like what? Well like how’s about the long shovel or the short one. OK, NOW you’re just stalling. Never mind then, I’ll just stay here. The short one... uh... and a looser, button down shirt. Lose the bra too. You’re kidding right? Hey, you’re the one who doesn’t want to f*** up. Oh great – you’re a lot of help. Excuse me but I just looked through the entire handbook and, surprise surprise, it doesn’t say a word about me being here to ‘help’. Hmmm... the short one, eh? Do it. Just do it. Now go. Just go.

- - - - - - - - - -

When Bee arrived at Winston Holden’s memorial she wasn’t surprised to see Bing was already there. She was surprised that he’d set up the card table – adorned with a loaf of bread, block of cheese and a bottle of chilled wine. As she stepped through the wrought-iron archway Bing smiled and held up two glasses.

“I thought maybe we should start acting more like a married couple, eh?”

“What, do you want to argue?” with a girlie smirk.

Looking up from pouring the wine Bing simply smiled, “Nope.” He held up a glass. “Join me?”

OK, Bee... this is it – the moment of truth. What are you going to do? What’s it going to be? Your whole life hinges on what you say and do right now. Are you going back to your quiet peaceful existence? Just say the word and it’s done. OR... do you want to see what’s behind door number two?

“OK,” Bee sang, tossing her somewhat smallish shovel back over her shoulder to slam into the wrought-iron fence with a resonating clang. She walked up and accepted the glass from her new husband with a “Thank you.”

Hooking his arm through hers Bing raised his glass for a toast to his new bride. To their new life together. Then he stopped. Froze. He seemed transfixed – staring into space. His whole demeanor seemed distant as he changed the subject. Sliding his hand into his pocket Bing withdrew a pocketknife – snapping it open with a loud locking click.

“I realize now that Mother Holden never knew about the gold – that’s why she didn’t put more money into the Trust.” Taking the glass from her hand, Bing set it on the table. “You do realize there’s no gold buried under Winston’s monument, right?”

Staring at her own dread reflected in the shiny steel blade, Bee stepped back with a half-smile and an, “OK... you’re starting to creep me out a little.”

Bing looked down at the knife in his hand before letting out a loud and genuine laugh. “Here, sweetie... you hold this.” He handed her the knife and, taking her by the wrist, escorted her to where the shovel had chipped the paint from the wrought-iron fence. “Scrape off some of the paint, love.”

“What?”

“Just scrape off some of the paint.”

“Well, OK. If you say so.” Hey, I’m just happy to have the knife.

Standing alongside the fence, Bee Bingham reached up near where the shovel had glanced off the wrought-iron and sliced off years of thick green oil based paint – revealing the shiny yellow metal beneath. The two turned slowly – each estimating the total number of bars in the fence before looking back to each other.

“Are you as horny as I am?”

"Oh my god yeah.”

****************************
Post #26, by Kaz

“Good morning, Mrs. Bingham.”

I smiled without opening my eyes. ‘Mrs. Bingham’. It sounded good. Right.

“Morning…”

I felt his hand under the quilt as it settled on my hip. His breath was warm on my neck, and his body was spooned up against mine. Back to belly, thigh to thigh. Heaven.

“Mmmmmmm…God, I like waking up next to you.” His voice was husky and his arm slid around my waist. I almost stopped breathing as I waited to see where it would travel next.

Boewoawoawoa whoaoooooo!!!

Wooof!

I jumped a foot in the air, and my eyes flew open. The dogs!

Bing chuckled.

“I think Sally’s jealous. She knows you’re up here.” He pulled gently on my hip and I rolled over onto my back, pulling the quilt up to my chin. I was still shy, even after….last night. Wow… last night. Martie was right. I was practically a virgin.

“I think I’m glad she can’t get up those steep stairs.” I smiled at him and watched the dimple appear in response.

“Oh, she can climb those stairs. She’s just a well-behaved dog, that’s all. She obeys. When I say ‘stay’, Sally stays.” His smile was one of smugness.

A godforsaken racket ensued, and seconds later Sally and Brillo scrabbled into the room. The big dog trotted over to the mattress and laid a long wet tongue along my cheek.

“Eeeeooh!” I pulled the blanket over my head. Laughing, I hollered a muffled “Well-behaved, my ass! Get her off me!” through the cloth. “Oof!” Feet poked themselves into my belly. “Brillo!” Off came the quilt and I looked down the mattress. Brillo was turning in circles, trying to find a way to settle down between us.

Sally stood over me, panting hot breath on my hair.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I looked at Bing. “Jess, do something!”

He chuckled and shook his head.

“Sally, Brillo, down!” He pointed towards the stairs. Sally gave an audible sigh and scrabbled her way back downstairs with Brillo hot on her heels. My husband grinned at me.

“Well, love, that was fun. Now that we’re wide awake, what do you propose we do?”

“Well,” I put my hand to his cheek. It was rough with stubble. Mmmm, I was in bed with a handsome man, and he was mine. “We’re writers. We could write.”

“Later. Later we’ll write, and work hard, and make plans for our new life. But remember… I like to play, too. And eat. Right now, there’s a muffin I’d like to nibble on…” I looked down at the top of his head and swallowed hard. The man did like his muffins.

Damned men. Mmmmmm……

****************************
THE END

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Book Cover Designs: Beat, Flay, Shove by Kaz Pease (that's my brain, btw!)
Death by Sunflowers by Kaz Pease (read The Eggless Club by Eugene Saint and that title might make sense!)
Following Seas, by Eugene Saint (he painted that "Captain" painting, don'tcha know!)

Stayed tuned for the 'real' Following Seas, a full length collaboration by Saint and Me. Me and Saint. Or maybe...by Serendipity and Johnson Seavers....hmmm...

Photos: I'm not going to label all the photos I'm randomly adding to this short story, as I'm doing it willy-nilly and without much forethought. But I do want to 'place' a few of them. The labradoodle in the photos is Brillo (yes, he's a 'real' dog) my sister Chris' dog. The Great Dane is Sally, the gorgeous girl of Greg and Pat Drummond of Claybrook Mt. Lodge in Highland Plantation. The gent playing with the Lab is Larry Gilles and the setting is the Wire Bridge over the Carrabassett River in New Portland. The gorgeous photo from New South Wales was taken from my friend Ali g's farm in the heart of wine country. Other photos are taken here and there around The F.A.R.M. The black and white cemetary photo was taken by daughter Josie-Earl. The pics of the mutts in the car were beauts who were waiting patiently for their master to come out of the grocery store in Kingfield, and the photo of the ki-oat-tay with the kitten cuddling close is compliments of my friend Cathy at Fryewood Farm...and more...

Me and Saint...and a Short Story

2011-11-30T23:24:00.001-05:00

Me and Saint.

Saint…and Me.

Handsome, older gent with a sharp tongue and a rapier wit…and Me.

We met a couple of years ago on an authors’ website. Frankly, he was in awe of my writing talents. That was what drew him to me, originally.

It was understandable…it happens to me all the time.

Once he got to know me--well. It was plain there was no escaping my particular brand of charm.

Saint and I have participated in several games of “Writers’ Tag” in the past. Most of our co-authoring included other writers who participated in the stories. Some of our writing was good… and some of it was EXCELLENT!

It ALL needs to be edited.

Earlier this year, he and I had an opportunity to write a short story together. Just the two of us.

Me and Saint.

Saint and Me.

The only rules? We had to limit the story to 20,000 words… and we couldn’t ‘collaborate’. Not really. Saint would write a portion and then I would have to pick up where he left off--trying to make a coherent, entertaining, somewhat-believable addition to the story.

Then he’d have to follow my lead and do the same.

We decided (Me and Saint) to share this short story on GAG. It is in its raw form—almost completely unchanged from when we originally authored and posted it. Unedited and for the most part--unpolished. However, I have taken the liberty of ‘asteriskizing’ it. Saint’s vernacular can be a bit…ah…“colorful” and since GAG doesn’t have an ‘adults only’ block, we (Saint and Me) thought it best to substitute the occasional **** for his occasional ****.

I’m going to try to upload a post a day—maybe more—until the whole of our light-hearted, off-the-cuff short story is on GAG.

We hope you enjoy it.

If not, please direct your complaints to the handsome bearded gentleman from Tennessee. He’ll happily listen to your concerns and send you on your way with an asterisk or two.

Stay tuned for “Bee Dazzle”, by Eugene Saint and Kaz Pease

A Home-Town Boy Goes Home

2011-11-29T02:25:00.001-05:00

A friend departed, today.

David Turner of Shirley passed away and his death was a sobering blow. Dave was only sixty-four. By all accounts, this man was too young to die.

It was just last summer when I met Dave for the first time. The date was July 1, 2010, to be exact. My friend Larry Gilles, who lives on Russell Island in Brisbane Harbor off Australia’s eastern shore, traveled to Maine for a month-long vacation and he stayed at my parents’ camp in Elliotsville Township.

Larry also grew up in Shirley—a tiny village a few miles from Elliotsville between Monson and Greenville—and he’d known Dave since they were young shavers attending Shirley’s community school. In addition to growing up together, the men had something else in common. They were both veterans of the Vietnam War. I was stunned to realize how many young men from that tiny village went to fight in Southeast Asia. Larry. Dave. Bill. Neal. And many others…

Dave seemed a little bit shy, during our first meeting. Every time I pulled out my camera, he showed me his back or grinned self-consciously and held up his hands. I had to be contented with rear and side shots.

The three of us sat down by the pond—Larry and Dave enjoying coffee brandy and milk while I got a caffeine buzz from my Diet Mt. Dew. That day, Larry cooked for me for the first of many times; grilling sausages and peppers and onions for us. I’d worked that morning and then drove the 70 miles to camp to mow the lawn. That was part of the deal… if Mum and Dad let my friend stay in their camp for a month then it was my responsibility to keep the place mowed while Larry was there. So… knowing I had a job to do, I chatted with the men for an hour or so and then went up to camp to change into my ‘grubs’… what I call the ratty old clothes I work in.

When I came out of the camp, Larry and Dave were standing at the back of my truck, tailgate down--looking for all the world like they thought they could be helpful. Prior to the opening of the bottle of coffee brandy, that might have been a possibility. But there they were—two old friends who hadn’t seen each other for five years--and they were partying. I smirked as I watched them try to figure out how to unfold the tractor ramps…and then shooed them back down to the picnic area to enjoy their reunion.

Two hours later, I was finished; the rider and the push mower were loaded back into my pick-up; and the Shirley boys were feeling no pain. I envied them and wondered at the special bond they had—one which would allow them to connect so comfortably after such long absences. Listening to them, it was like they’d never been apart. We’re not all so lucky as to have that strong and wonderful bond.

I had the opportunity to visit with Dave a couple more times before Larry winged his way back Down Under. I also met Dave’s brother Dan, and my heart goes out to him. Over the course of that month, I met most of Larry’s and Dave’s friends and family: Phoebe and Queenie and Linda and Peggy and their kids and spouses and pals. I may never see these folks again, but they left an indelible impression on me…one of family and simplicity and caring and…home.

The little hamlet of Shirley was Dave’s home, and I know that those who live there—and those who often stop by—will miss David Turner.

A friend.

A home-town boy.

An American soldier.

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Setting moon, Elliotsville Township
Shirley Mills schoolhouse
Larry at the Bar-bee and Dave fixing them a drink
Lawnmowers...
Some of the crew from Shirley...
Larry in Shirley Mills, Maine

A Christmas Potty!

2011-11-27T00:16:00.002-05:00

It has been AGES since I've held a contest on GAG! Ages since I've had any type of writing fun, at all. So...I'm gonna have a contest!

A "Photo Caption" contest.

I snapped this photo in Kingfield, in the parking lot of "Trantens Too"... a popular convenience store, take-out and gas station.

Surely, you can come up with a funny caption for this photo? Or... how about this version of it?

I have faith in you! Come up with a caption, and enter it as a comment to this blog entry. On December 11th, I'll have my pal Saint choose the one he likes best (unless he enters, himself--which I don't think he'll do...except that the prize is so....unique? Coveted, even?? Hah! Well, if Saint enters the contest, I'll have my oldest son Guy choose the winner. He never reads the stuff his lame-oh mother writes!)

The winner will receive a DVD of the 'comedy show' I performed at Nostalgia Tavern in November of 2009. Not a single copy of this show has been released anywhere (and there's good reason for that!!) Listening to myself afterwards was PAINFUL! Excruciating. All I can say is... Thank God the crowd was drinking!!

Enter my contest and win--and I'll release one copy of that fund-raising show to you. It will be NON-copyable (is that a word?) After all, I can't go around being a total bonehead to just anyone, can I? Ugh...

Please enter. What have you got to lose? Your dignity? Nope. I've got that one in the bag.

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Okay! This didn't work. So... at the suggestion of one of my Australian friends, who is an expert on...well, to hear him tell the story-- he's an expert on everything that I'm not-- (which allows him a fairly large repertoire!) I'm 'expanding' the contest (and writing a tremendously long run-on sentence, too!)

Below is a photo which will be easy to write captions for--and there is nothing in it to prompt any political zingers. I guess.... (We try to save those for VOW...)

Here you go. I'm closing this down on January 8th, and someone will get a prize.

Enter a caption in the comments section, please???

Thank you and Happy New Year from the crew at The F.A.R.M.--where there's Fresh Air and Room to Move!
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From Your Lips...

2011-11-22T20:35:00.000-05:00

That’s it. There’s no question, anymore. I’m completely and totally unsuited for polite society. Maybe even Society, as a whole.

I simply don’t—can’t seem to—fit in comfortably with others. Oh, my family appears to be at ease in my company… as long as there are no strangers hanging about so that they have to ‘explain’ me. Take me off The F.A.R.M., though?

It’s not recommended.

I was in the State House last week. The Capitol. It’s one of the most majestic and impressive buildings in Maine. Marble floors and sweeping stairways. High ceilings and heavy wooden doors. Lining the walls are portraits of our past leaders and other influential individuals who played vital roles in our state’s history.

The Dome. The Chambers. The Governor’s Office. Definitely “Polite Society”.

I was there in Augusta to record a press conference in the Hall of Flags. Before ascending the stairs to set up my cameras, I used the ladies’ room just down the hall from the Security Officer’s desk.

Some of you may remember my initial encounter with automatically flushing toilets. Ever since that first episode in the Farmington Wal-Mart, I’ve had an aversion towards the things. I take it as a personal insult that the decision of when-to-flush has been taken from me. Who decided that I wasn’t capable of making that judgment all by myself? Who dares claim to be so ‘in tune’ to my washroom habits that they deem themselves a better judge than I?

Having the commode rush and roar without my permission irritates me, to no end—and usually jumps the stuffing out of me, as well.

A friend accompanied me to the washroom since she, too, had been in the car for an hour and a half. We each entered a stall. I have no idea how any other stalls were occupied. It’s never really mattered. After all, I go in… and I come out. Wash my hands, dry them, pick up my bag, and leave.

I stood up, cringing slightly as I waited to see whether the toilet was programmed to mind my business for me, or not.

WHOOOOSHHH!

Yep.

I tried to button my pants. Yes, I said ‘tried’. They were brand-new gray wool slacks and they’d fit me that very morning when I put them on. Of course, at that time I’d stretched out across my bed to button them. I’d forgotten that small detail.

Apparently, I was going to have to exert some effort to make button meet hole. I sucked in my breath and grabbed each side of the waistband…and the toilet flushed! I turned around in surprise. Yes, it was my toilet. Wasn’t it triggered by weight? I’d presumed it was like a land-mine. Assumed that sitting on the seat depressed some activating mechanism…and then--when the weight was removed--it blew.

I scowled at the sparkling clean bowl. I didn’t have time for such foolishness. My friend was out, washed and ready to roll. I gulped in another lungful of air and pulled in my tummy…and the toilet did its gurgitation routine again!

Okay. This was embarrassing. Everyone in the ladies room had heard my toilet flush three times! Did they think I’d plugged it? That I was playing with it? Wasting water? What??

I gave a nervous giggle. I had to get out of there, but I couldn’t leave the stall unless and until I’d zipped and buttoned my pants! Could I? I contemplated the length of my sweater, and decided it was too risky. I had to do up that which had been undone.

I gave a mighty heave. The toilet accompanied my motions by giving a mighty—but resonant--roar. Followed by a rather pathetic gurgle. I chortled… just moments away from full-fledged panic. I sweated and tugged, and tugged once more. I wasn’t going to let that toilet—or my pants—get the best of me!

My friend snickered from over by the sinks.

“Four flushes, Karen!” Like I needed a narrator! Jeepers! “Everything all right in there?”

There are no limits to what a desperate woman can do when terror sets it. The button slipped into the hole, and the zipper was zipped. Breathless, I bent to lift my big carry-all off the tiled floor.

The toilet flushed. Idiot thing! Our tax dollars at work... I glowered at it and left the stall.

Linda grinned at me. She was enjoying herself way too much. I hoped that no one else was witness to my boneheadedness from the other bathroom stalls, but I wasn’t going to embarrass myself any further by waiting around to find out. I quickly washed and exited the restroom.

“REST”? Not hardly!

A couple of days later, I found myself in a business meeting with some friendly acquaintances. The restaurant where we were having the luncheon was somewhat classy, as was the company I was keeping. We strategized, made plans, set goals.

At one point, one of the gentlemen in my party said, “This time next year, we can do twice as much with half the effort!”

That sounded good to me! I said, “From your lips to my beard!”

Five people turned to look at me, which automatically caused my ears to hear what my mouth had just uttered.

What the hell???

“Wait!! I meant ‘From your lips to God’s ears!!’”

Oh, my God! Oh. My. God. What were they thinking of me? Why did those words come out of my mouth when that is NOT what I was thinking??

I don’t even have a beard! Not so’s you’d notice, anyway! Not in classy, ambient lighting!

Arrrghhh! Sometimes, I can’t bear having to lay claim to knowing myself.

But...lucky for me, it looks like this time next year—I’ll only have to enter polite society half as often.

Oh, my God.

You Are Not Welcome Here

2011-11-19T16:56:00.001-05:00

My family doesn’t post our property. We never have, for as far back as I can remember. My grandparents owned many acres, as did my parents, and there was never a “No Trespassing” sign posted on trees.

My husband and I are lucky enough to own 70 acres of forest. We feel fortunate to be able to step off our front porch and take a walk in the woods and we want everyone to have that same freedom and ability. When I was a child, almost all of Maine was ‘open’. It was rare to see a “No Trespassing” sign and Mainers were able to roam the forests and fields and mountains to experience that ‘quality of place’ and quality of life that is so integral to our contentment.

A shiny silver Ford pick-up drove out of the driveway to our orchard. That was not a big deal. It happens all the time in November, since this is the height of deer hunting season. The truck then proceeded up the road and stopped beside our house. Since my husband had just gotten into his Blazer to take our son to work, he got out and walked over to the Ford.

He noticed the GPS antenna mounted on the front of the hood. He asked the driver what was up.

The driver informed my husband that he and his partner were ‘fixing the positions’ of residences in the area for a survey they were conducting.

Mr. Pease asked them who they were working for.

The driver informed him that his client wished for the company's identity to remain confidential.

Mr. Pease said, “Oh. Iberdrola, huh?”

The men became deer in the headlights. Kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. They shut their mouths. Stick a fork in them—they were done!

It’s easy to have the last word when the other party won’t speak—but the words my husband uttered could not have come easy, nonetheless. He’s the kindest, gentlest, most generous man I know. But he meant what he said when he told those wind industry surveyors that they were not welcome on our land--that he knew he couldn’t prevent them from using the county right-of-way to invade our privacy or help a foreign company threaten our way of life, but he COULD forbid them from stepping foot—or driving tire—onto our property.

This is a tough battle we’re fighting. We don’t have anything against those men—not personally. Those contractors are Mainers who are “just doing their job”. But as a friend from Vinalhaven said of the construction workers who built the Fox Island Wind turbines near his island home: “YOUR job has ruined MY life.” Those six words sum it up, powerfully.

That shiny, decked out Ford (and yes, I got the license plate number) that was driven so nonchalantly onto the property we generously share with all was likely purchased with money earned by work done for an industry which is negatively impacting the lives of hundreds of Mainers.

So, no. We don’t post our property, and unless something drastic occurs--we won’t. But let this be public notice that anyone working for an industrial wind developer--whether directly, or indirectly as a subcontractor--is not welcome at The F.A.R.M. If you’re going to try to plot and plan how to sidestep the wishes of more than 77% of the residents of Lexington Township, you’re going to have to do it without our help. If you don’t care that we have stood together and said “NO!” you will not be the beneficiary of our largesse. We will not harbor you, we will not welcome you—and we will firmly escort you off and arrange for transportation to the county jail if you come onto our property without having express and written permission from my husband or me.

You are not welcome at The F.A.R.M. and you are not welcome in Lexington Township. Or in Concord, or in Highland. Accept defeat, please. You are not welcome here and I am just one voice of many asking you to respect us and abandon your plans for wind developments in these three communities.

An Abundance of Aussies

2011-11-11T21:51:00.000-05:00

By now, you all know about my awesome friends Down Under—friends made ‘by chance’ and under the most coincidental of circumstances.

First came Jack—big brother, lifter of spirits, co-writer and major pain in my behind—this man has been the topic of several of my columns, and has even contributed to “Observations” in the past. And when Jack wouldn’t take payment for his editing services on the sequels to Grumble Bluff, many of you helped me settle up with him. You came to a charity benefit night at Nostalgia Tavern and raised $1,700.00 to donate to Jack and Ali’s pet charities: Alzheimer’s Association and Hospice/Home Health Care. You even autographed his poster (which I’m sure hangs in a prominent place in his home!)

Several of you met my “mate” Larry when he came to Maine last summer. For a month I dragged him around with me; all the while listening to him gripe about what a “third world country” this was because he couldn’t get decent cell phone reception in our mountains. The poor man found ONE rock at my parents’ camp he could call out on--if he stood atop it (with left foot held out at a 29 degree angle)--and ONE turn-out between Greenville and Shirley where he could park in order to “phone home”. He pissed and moaned at me endlessly--and I split a gut, laughing at him.

You followed Larry’s “cell-phone saga” to its conclusion. He bequeathed his “piece-of-shite” telephone to Josie-Earl when he left the States, so she could use up his remaining pre-paid minutes. And then--we held the “Battle of Antique vs. State-of-the-Art”. My WWI era Luger 9mm was victorious over the high-tech cell phone; and with 2 shiny bullet holes piercing its metal armor, I mailed the contraption back to Larry in Oz (after a rousing conversation with Australian Customs, who’ve come to know me well [reference “The Great Spud Smuggling Debacle of 2009”]!). Larry was vindicated, and to this day, he says the phone is a great conversation piece--not that he needs any prompting to tell a tall tale!

Yep. Jack and Ali, Larry, Ali g and KK, Dozy and CP, Pete and Naomi. I’ve been blessed with “An Abundance of Aussies” from Queensland, New South Wales, and Victoria.

Dozy lets me crab and whine about the cruelties of life and she repays me in kind! We can’t decide which one of us is better at “whinging” (an Aussie term, pronounced WIN-jing). This woman always makes me smile--and she’s responsible for supplying me with the only sexy earrings I own. She's also the only person on earth who has gifted me with elephant dung. Does she know me well, or what? (I would have paid good money to see her collect and dry it for shipping!)

Ali g is a shining light—always kind, generous, and a little (okay… a lot!) irreverent. He gives excellent advice, and I appreciate it all the more when I ignore it, and regret it, afterwards. He’s educated me about the wild, testosterone-charged world of Rugby, and he’s made me fall in love with Australian folk singers. He’s a favorite uncle, a wise friend, and a mischievous troublemaker. I can’t wait to look into his smiling eyes.

Peter W. is my absent-minded professor—brilliant, gentlemanly, and generous to a fault. And CP is so much smarter than I am that he makes me completely comfortable in my boneheadedness! I know I can’t compete with him, so there’s a certain relief and consolation in acknowledging that I don’t even have to try.

Yes, I’ve been blessed with an abundance of Aussies.

Coincidences. Flukes. Some of the links tying me to these friends are beyond belief… but I’ve already told you about the gossamer strands of fate that connected me to these wonderful people. And now…I’m going to mention another amazing stroke of luck.

I was wandering the aisles of Trantens’ Store…grubby in my sweat shirt and pants; having come from packing boxes and moving furniture at my office. I was feeling a tad ‘down-in-the-dumps’—and a little sore and tired. Pushing my cart, I passed behind a gentleman in the bakery aisle just as a loaf Pepperidge Farm whole-grain bread slipped from his hands. He quickly recovered it before it fell to the floor.

“Slippery stuff, huh?” I said. (You know me…silence is NOT an option.)

I’m not sure what the fellow said when he responded, but my ears have grown accustomed to the unique articulations of my pals Down Under. Those three or four words the stranger spoke infused me with a sense of well-being.

“Is that an Australian accent?”

It was. And that’s all it took to set me off. In typical style, I proceeded to (in all probability) tell the poor bloke the story of my hum-drum country life. At a minimum, I peppered him with questions, and told him about my Aussie pals. Soon, we were joined in the bread aisle (aka the “toiletries, peanut butter and Stove-top Stuffing aisle”) by his companions Heather, Barb and Norm.

It turns out--Allan grew up just around the corner from where Jack lives. Not kidding. Right down the road. (You know how big the continent of Australia is, right? It’s HUGE! What are the chances, I ask you!??) And there were other coincidences, too. I was grinning from ear to ear when I left the store, and I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Jack. And Larry. And…well, everyone! I’d entered the supermarket dirty, dusty and down-in-the-dumps, and I departed with a smile. What luck!

Today I received a surprise gift. I can’t adequately express how delighted I am. Two weeks ago I spoke with Tracy at the Irregular, who told me “an Australian” had dropped off an envelope for me. I knew it had to have come from Allan and Heather…for how many Aussies are there in Kingfield on any given day (besides our good friend Rosemary at Daisy-A-Day Flower Shop)? Before I could retrieve the envelope it had passed from family member to family member until finally—today—I was able to take possession.

What a delight! Standing in my parents’ kitchen I opened the envelope to find an original painting by Allan English! It is lovely…wondrous, colorful, peaceful; a true reflection of “home”. These Australian visitors had been drawn to our town from 10,000 miles away by the descriptions and photos of our autumn foliage; and while here, Allan perfectly captured the view seen through a window of the Kingfield house he rented.

These visitors are long gone. They left town to travel to Maine’s beautiful coast, and then they planned to visit Nova Scotia before heading back to the southern hemisphere. I only spoke with them for a few minutes—in the middle of a busy grocery store--but in that short amount of time, they enhanced my life. And now I have a permanent reminder of how small this old world is—and how lucky we are when we connect with people who, it seems, were in the right place at the right time—just when they were needed.
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Photos: Aussie flag: G. Dowling
Jack on Moreton
Jack on Moreton--after fund-raiser in BAR (i.e. pub, i.e. tavern....!!!)
Larry and Kaz
Luger and Larry's cell pone
Dozy and African elephant (in AFRICA!)
Ali g and KK in Papua, New Guinea
Pete W. and Larry in NSW
Allan English watercolor from window in Kingfield, Maine, USA, October 2011
Photos I've taken at The F.A.R.M. in the past, which I thought might give evidence of what a wonderful job Allan did capturing Maine's autumn...

Spandex--It Ain't For Sissies

2011-10-19T00:09:00.001-04:00

I discovered something about Spandex. It’s airtight.

That’s right. If you’re wearing Spandex, there’s nothing getting between it and you. Not sweat, not hair, and definitely, not air.

Spandex and I are completely incompatible, and yet…I succumbed to the urge and bought myself an outfit. A tank top. Some tight little exercise pants. No problem, right?

My Spandex came without instructions. No warning labels. No ‘How To’ directions….

It was a free-for-all.

I waited until the house was empty before entering the fray. In my bedroom, with the door locked, I took my Spandex outfit out of the package.

It wasn’t much bigger than Barbie doll clothes. How could those tiny pieces of black material fit someone my size? Wow. I was entering the world of polyurethane-poly-urea copolymer. That tells you right there… Spandex ain’t for sissies. This stuff is used in orthopedic braces. Surgical hose. Wrestling singlets. Heck… Superman, Batman, Captain America and Dolly Parton all wear Spandex. This stuff ain’t for sissies!

By the way, until I began writing this, I didn’t know what a ‘wrestling singlet’ was. Without a doubt, it is the ugliest sports uniform known to man. A wrestling singlet is like wicked tight underpants... with suspenders. Horrific. There’s no way I’d ever put a full-Nelson on a guy in a wrestling singlet. No way.

But back to my Spandex. I shook out the tank top. Size-wise, it was more Tonka than tank, but I shrugged off my apprehension. I took off my sexy, knee-length sweatshirt. I took a deep breath. It was the last one I was allowed to draw for several minutes. I took that deep breath, and I pulled that Spandex tank top on over my head.

Over my head. Over my shoulders. Arms through the holes on either side.

But there, it stopped. Completely. Wrapped in a tight band underneath my armpits, it remained. It was a band of rolled steel encircling my shoulder blades and my upper sternum. I couldn’t drop my arms to my sides. The pressure was so bad that the blood stopped flowing to my head. I couldn’t contort myself in any way, shape or form to allow me to unroll the rest of that elasticized straightjacket.

I’m claustrophobic. I could feel panic setting in. I sat down on the edge of my bed, arms straight up in the air—but that was a mistake. For--opposite the bed is a mirror… and the sight of a half-naked Rubenesque woman being cut in two by polyurethane-poly-urea copolymer is not a pleasant or calming sight. I couldn’t get it on… and I couldn’t get it off. I was skewered by Spandex.

There was only one course of action. I was reminded of the Spandex-clad Caped Crusader. When Robin asked, “Where’d you get a live fish, Batman?” Batman replied, “The true crime fighter always carries everything he needs in his utility belt, Robin.”

I knew I kept a finely-honed 8 inch buck knife in my night-stand for a reason.

As I looked at the cleanly sliced Spandex tank top lying on the bedroom floor, I was not defeated. After all, the exercise pants couldn’t conquer me. I could visualize how I would look in those skin-tight leggings. No longer would I have soft, squishy thighs. Oh, no! I was about to be toned and honed!

I shucked my sexy flannel sweatpants and sat back down on the edge of the bed. I put one leg through and then the other. I drew the Spandex up—much like one would pull on tights—tights that were way tighter than any tights had a right to be. Up over my calves. My knees. My thighs. I laid back on the bed. I broke out in a sweat, because you see...Spandex ain’t for sissies! Not only was I fighting the laws of elasticity, but until I laid down--I had gravity working against me, too.

The ‘law of elasticity’ is called Hooke’s Law—named after a fellow named Robert Hooke--and it states that “the extension of a spring is in direct proportion with the load applied to it.” Therefore, if I wanted that Spandex to stretch up over my hips and my butt, I was gonna have to apply a heck of a load.

Not only was I sweating; I’d commenced with some heavy breathing, too. But by Hooke (or by Crook) I was gonna get those Spandex leotards on!

I rocked back on my shoulders and picked my butt up off the bed, and with one final gasp, tug and spurt of adrenaline, I hauled those babies up over my hips.

I was exhausted. Exhausted, but triumphant. I laid there for a minute and caught my breath, but I couldn’t wait to see what I looked like in Spandex. The mirror beckoned.

And I couldn’t move.

Seriously. I couldn’t move. Could not get off that bed. There was no bending of this body. I couldn’t sit up. Every time I tried to heave myself upright, the laws of elasticity, gravity and constraint conspired against me. It was as if my bed was a magnet and I was a huge iron filing. I didn’t know what to do.

I couldn’t stay there. No way was I going to let Steven come home to find me stuck to the bed. No way was I gonna ask Steven to help get me out of the leggings. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to help me, anyway. The door was locked.

My analytical mind kicked into overdrive. It was time to make the laws of nature work FOR me, for a change, instead of against. With a heroic show of strength and using the laws of leverage to overcome the laws of elasticity, gravity, constraint AND inertia, I rolled myself over onto my stomach and began inching myself backwards across the bed. Off over the side went my feet. My knees. My thighs. And at last, the law of gravity enabled me to bend at the hips. I got my feet underneath me and pushed myself upwards, until at last, dizzy with effort (and lack of air) I was upright.

Victorious, I spun towards the mirror… just in time to watch those Spandex pant-legs roll up on me like window-shades! It appeared as though I had kielbasas wrapped around the top of each of my thighs. Or, better yet—black rubber inner-tubes.

It came to mind then that polyurethane-poly-urea copolymer might actually BE rubber, because I’ll tell you this! When that stuff went whizzing up my legs, rolling along at 36 inches a second, it took with it every hair it came in contact with on its way up. And then some! I discovered I had hair I never even knew about. Hair that I wished I didn’t have. Hair that’s never grown back.

You think waxing is the way to go?

Try SPANDEX-ING.

It ain’t for sissies.

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And just for Ali g....that photo up above is NOT me. THIS is me. :o) Sheesh....(it was for illustrative purposes, only!)

Maine Citizens Overwhelmingly Say “NO!” to First Wind’s Bowers Mountain Industrial Wind Proposal

2011-10-17T18:53:00.001-04:00

Maine Citizens Overwhelmingly Say “NO!” to First Wind’s Bowers Mountain Industrial Wind Proposal

In one of the most hotly disputed industrial wind development proposals to come before Maine’s Land Use Regulation Commission, citizens of this state spoke out in opposition to the Bowers project by a margin of 9:1.

Champlain Wind LLC, one of the many limited liability subsidiaries of First Wind of Boston, is proposing to build a grid-scale wind facility on Bowers Mountain in Carroll Plantation and Dill Hill in Kossuth Township. The proposed development would site 22 wind turbines, each approaching 500 feet tall, on a ridge overlooking the Downeast Lakes Watershed.

Based on LURC’s Wild Land Lakes Assessment study of over 1,500 lakes, this watershed has the highest concentration of Class 1A and 1B rated lakes in the state. In order to achieve that rating a lake had to exhibit “outstanding values of statewide significance.” There are at least six lakes in this watershed that have a “1A” rating, three that have a “1B” rating and numerous others that are rated as a “2”.

During the application process, Maine citizens requested and were granted a public hearing. An astonishing 374 citizens gave oral or written testimony about this project. Three hundred thirty-seven (337) or 90.1% of those testifying were opposed to First Wind’s Bowers Mountain project.

Due to concerns that such massive industrialization would seriously damage the area’s
extraordinary scenic value; more than two dozen professional guides and many of the local sporting camp owners took precious time away from their businesses during peak tourist season to come to Lincoln to testify in person. Three prominent organizations, representing nearly 1,000 Maine business owners who are familiar with the watershed, publicly came out against the Bowers project:

* The Maine Professional Guides Association, 900 strong, which has representatives on committees such as Tourism, Conservation, Land Access, Landowners Relations, River Trust and others, voted unanimously to oppose the Bowers project.

* The Maine Sporting Camp Association, which represents more than 50 sporting camp owners.

* The Grand Lake Stream Guides Association, representing 50 full-time professional
guides who make their livelihood on the Downeast Lakes Watershed, voted unanimously to oppose the Bowers project.

Maine citizens have faith that LURC will listen to the will of the people and deny First Wind/Champlain Wind a permit to industrialize Bowers Mountain and Dill Hill. Please consider attending the final deliberation session to be held at 11:00 a.m. on Wednesday, October 19th, at the Waterfront Event Center, 8 Prince Street, Lincoln, Maine. Local residents, business owners, tax payers and tourists will be there. I hope you will be, too.

Stopped For Not Speeding--Part Duh...

2011-10-12T19:40:00.000-04:00

I love Kingfield and the surrounding communities and I often think how lucky my family was when my father was transferred to this district in 1967. It’s not that other areas of Maine aren’t lovely—there are treasures to be found around every bend. But if you’ve traveled around the state at all, you’ve got to admit that the western mountains are a bit of a jewel… and the people of this area are among the best.

When someone writes to me or stops me in the store to tell me how much they enjoy “Observations”, it makes me very happy; happy that I brought a smile to someone’s face and pleased that I can make a difference, however small, in others’ lives. I love to hear people tell me about a memory a particular column invoked and I enjoy getting the low-down on their own funny experiences.

But one of the best things about being part of a small community is the giving spirit of our friends and neighbors. Last week, I recounted the tale of the ‘date’ I went on with my husband... and how we were stopped by police as we returned home through Rumford. Steven was pulled over for driving cautiously. (Even now, that makes me laugh…pulled over for driving under the speed limit and staying on his own side of the road… priceless!)

I understand now that cautious driving is an indication that the vehicle operator might be intoxicated—however illogical that seems. I understand that there are standard operating procedures law enforcement officers must use when approaching ‘suspect’ vehicles. I understand that it’s the law that a current insurance card must be kept in vehicles at all times. Yes, I comprehended all that. What I didn’t like, however, was the feeling of being considered a danger—and of being in danger, ourselves.

I am the daughter of a retired law enforcement officer. I grew up believing that police officers and game wardens and border patrol agents were here for our protection—that they were the good guys; the front line; the knights in shining armor. But on that rainy night in Rumford, I felt a little bit threatened. There we were—a middle-aged couple trying to find our way through a big town on a rainy, foggy night—and we were pulled over by armed men who treated us like criminals. As I mentioned, it wasn’t just a solitary cruiser which pulled in behind us; there was a Suburban, too. Four cops…cops who made a point of staying out of the ‘line of fire’, cops who engaged in no pleasantries, cops who didn’t make us feel safe. They made us feel threatened.

And that made my husband mad.

All that aside—there’s a point I want to make. On the Monday after that Friday night event, my husband called the police station in an attempt to have the large fine dismissed. He was told to mail the ticket in with his insurance card and the court would take it ‘under advisement’. So that’s what Steven did… and he’s been anxiously checking the mail ever since, waiting to find out what the final judgment will be. Hoping that the system isn’t as screwed up as we think it is.

In the meantime, I learned via that little-understood-but-well-known super highway called ‘small town scuttlebutt’ that someone has flown to our defense. It’s been repeated out and about and here and there that a friend read of our experience in the Irregular and wrote a scathing note to the Rumford police department protesting the ‘incident’. He not only wrote a note—he sent it! (Since the gentleman may wish to remain anonymous—not receiving credit for his charitable act--I’ll just refer to him as “Drew”.)

Drew’s actions tickled the heck out of me…so I told Steven what he’d done.

My husband stopped in his tracks. He stared at me. He asked, “Drew? Have we received notice that the ticket has been dismissed, yet?”

Oops. I suspect the chances of that happening may have plummeted. But I realized something. We are lucky to have friends who will fly to our defense when we need defending—and sometimes, even when we don’t. Folks like us who live in communities like ours are blessed. There are no two ways around that fact. We’re among the lucky ones.

We might have points taken off our licenses unnecessarily and we might pay ridiculous fines, but by golly—we’ve got each other.

And that’s priceless.

Stopped For Not Speeding

2011-10-12T10:17:00.000-04:00

I recently had a speaking engagement in the small western town of Woodstock—aka Bryant Pond. While I often travel to such things alone, this trip was different. Steven came with me. It’s been ages since we’ve spent the day in each other’s company and I looked forward to the jaunt.

Knowing my propensity for getting lost; Steven had a friend at work ‘google’ the directions and with print-out in hand, I navigated for my husband.

The trickiest part was following the directions through Rumford, with its rotary, high volume of Friday afternoon traffic, and its painted-on-the-tar road signs. That’s right. The arrows pointing the way to Rt. 2 are painted on the pavement; at every little intersection, dog-leg and corner. We wound our way through town and laughed; saying we hoped we’d be able to see the signs when we came home after dark, so that they would guide us back across the river.

It was 9:45 before we were back on the road. It had rained and there were scattered areas of fog hanging close to the ground.

We’d never been to Woodstock, and we’ve rarely driven through Rumford; certainly, not at night. We hit the bustling mill town at approximately 10:15 p.m. As we left Route 232 and merged with Rt. 2, I leaned forward in the passenger’s seat… self-appointed “Arrows-On-The-Tar-Spotter”.

Steven drove cautiously; worried that if we didn’t take the correct road, we’d get turned around and stuck in the downtown area, swallowed up for hours by the metropolis alongside the Androscoggin River. Laugh if you will but this was serious stuff; and I refuse to go down alone. If I got lost, my husband was coming with me!

He couldn’t see very well. It was dark and foggy, and the road was wet. The glare of the town’s sodium vapor lights reduced the visibility through the sand-pitted windshield. The headlights of the car behind us shone into the mirrors, reducing Steven’s vision even more. He slowed down as I squinted to find the road signs leading us along Rt. 2. I leaned forward to get the “google map” directions from the dashboard, but as I did, the seatbelt locked up, trapping me and preventing any forward movement. That seatbelt is temperamental. If I cough or move even the slightest bit, it locks and there is no coaxing any slack out of it. The only way to prevent strangulation is to unbuckle, let it retract all the way, and then pull it out again.

I unbuckled, took the page of directions off the dash, and sighed.

“I suppose I should buckle up again.”

“Yep. Especially since there’s a cop riding my bumper!”

I rolled my eyes, knowing he couldn’t see in front of us, to say nothing about what was behind. Steven loves to spout doom and gloom—he’s a glass-half-empty kinda guy. But I complied. It is the law, after all—even though I disagree with it.

I’d barely snapped the buckle into place when Steven said, “Yessuh! I told you!” before pulling off into a small parking lot. Blue lights flashed behind us.

“Oh, for crying out loud. What’s that all about?”

I was glad Steven was driving. I’ve never received a traffic ticket, and I don’t intend to start now. He parked the Blazer and started digging for his license and I tried to open the glove box for his registration—but was strangled and held in place by the seatbelt, which gave an ominous ‘click’ as it locked and tightened.

In any other circumstance, I would have quickly unbuckled my seatbelt, sitting there in a stationary car parked off the road. But in my mirror I saw another police vehicle pull up behind us—this time an ominous-looking Suburban. Rumford Police’s version of a paddy wagon, I suppose. This seemed to be over-kill for whatever our infraction was… a plate light out? Tail-light? What else could it be?

Not only did an officer walk up to Steven’s side of the Blazer, but another approached cautiously on my side. What the heck was going on? I decided to find out. I rolled down the window and poked my head out. The officer shined his Mag-light in my face and stood far back, hugging the side of the Blazer. I understood the protocol, but it irritated me, nonetheless.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked with a smile. No response. My ears tuned in to what Mr. Grumbles was saying to the officer on his side of the rig.

“What’s the problem, officer?”

“You were driving 18 miles per hour, sir,” came the response. Steven’s eyebrows rose.

“What’s the speed limit?”

“It’s 25 m.p.h.” the public servant answered.

I could feel static electricity as it began to emanate--snap, crackle and pop—from my husband’s aura.

“It’s 25 miles an hour… and I was going 18?”

“Yes, sir. And hugging the curb.”

“So, let me get this straight. You stopped me because I was NOT speeding, AND I was staying on my own side of the road?”

“Honey…” I poked him in the shoulder as I gave that cautionary word. I leaned past Steven to speak to the primary officer in charge. “I had a speaking engagement in Woodstock. We’ve never been there… and we’re just trying to find our way back home. We were going slowly so we could see the arrows painted on the road. Honest!”

Why I said “Honest!” I don’t know. There was no reason for anyone to doubt the veracity of my statement. The policeman gave me the same attention he’d award to a pesky mosquito. He ignored me—brushed me aside.

“Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”

Snap, crackle, pop from the driver’s seat while two vehicles-- blue lights flashing—drew attention to the violent law-breakers in the 15 year old Blazer.

“No. I haven’t.”

“You haven’t had a beer or two?”

The air was heavy laden with ticked-off-man. I poked said man again, and his voice remained somewhat polite as he once more informed the young officer shining the bright light in his eyes that he had not been consuming alcohol. None. Not one beer, not two. That he’d been in a crowded room, enthralled as he listened to his wife speak. (Okay, okay. I have it on good authority Steven didn’t doze off, and that’s close enough to ‘enthralled’ for me!)

“License, registration and proof of insurance, please.”

Damn.

I unbuckled, risking the wrath of the law and a stint in the slammer. It was the only way to reach the glove box. I knew what I would find. Registration; yes. Insurance card; yes. But not a current insurance card. The day before—on Thursday—I’d remembered my truck registration expired at the end of July. I’d assembled the paperwork to license it, but realized that Steven and I didn’t have the most recent copy of our insurance cards in our possession. I called my agent and asked that she fax them and she did. But a new card didn’t get placed in Steven’s Blazer. My ‘bad’. I knew our insurance was current, but I couldn’t prove it.

The cops went back to their cruiser to ‘call us in’. They must have communicated our apparent harmlessness to the SWAT team in the Suburban, for their strobes were extinguished and the paddy wagon drove off. Reinforcements weren’t needed. We were just two boring old farts who hadn’t even had a drink on our first date in two years.

All we were was…lost.

The ticket for not producing a current insurance card was $171.00. The cab of the Chevy filled with blue smoke as we drove across the bridge and away from Rumford.

I had to laugh—and did. It was par for the course. Who else but my husband could get stopped—by FOUR cops, no less!--for driving cautiously, AND land himself a $171.00 fine?

Do I know how to show a guy a good time, or what?

A Gentleman Caller

2011-08-27T20:12:00.000-04:00

I love human beings.

No particular make or model holds pride of place. I simply love “people”. I find them fascinating.

No two are alike. We each have unique features, habits, and personalities. That particular uniqueness is, perhaps, what I like best. To communicate well with people, it’s necessary to be open-minded, able to listen, and willing to accept those who are different than we are. Sometimes we’re as different as night and day. And that’s when our interactions are the most stimulating!

I answered the ringing phone, yesterday. There are times when that sound brings me instant irritation, especially when I’m under a deadline. That was my state of mind yesterday afternoon. I’d just finished a lunch meeting, and had sent my guests on their way. I cleaned up the kitchen and washed the dishes before sitting down at my desk to catch up on the day’s chores.

The telephone rang. I sighed.

“Hello?”

“Yes, is this Jennifer?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. This would be a very short interruption, indeed.

“No, I’m sorry. This is Karen Pease. You must have the wrong number.”

“Oh, dear. I apologize. I’m returning a lady’s call, but I couldn’t quite make out all the numbers from the answering machine message.” The elderly man’s gentle voice conveyed his disappointment.

“Ooh, I hate it when that happens!” He had my commiseration, for sure.

“Are you at 628-2070?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Oh, dear...”

He really sounded quite dismal. And so… I thought I’d give him suggestions for how to find the lady’s number. I asked him whether or not he had a computer and if he knew how to use it. He informed me that he’d enrolled at UMA for computer classes, and had already completed one course. Proud as a peacock, he told me that it would be the 5th ‘senior citizen’ class he’d participated in at the college. He sounded so tickled with himself that I smiled. I have a hankering to return to school, myself, and I told him so.

It’s amazing how we humans communicate and connect. I spent the next 40 minutes having a delightful conversation with an 88 year old man who was a complete stranger. Note “was”, in the past-tense. We’re not strangers anymore. Before we hung up the phone, I discovered he was a WWII veteran, he’d been married twice, and he had seven children; two of whom had master degrees and one who is a doctor. He urged me to return to school if I wanted to, but told me to never disrespect myself for the fact that I didn’t have a college degree. He told me I probably had more common sense than many college grads, and used one of his daughters as an example! Oops…

He’s still good friends with both his ex-wives. They share children, and when there is a family affair, they all co-exist in harmony. My gentleman caller said he gave each of his ex-wives a unique gift. He paid for their cremations, recently. I had to laugh at that one, and did. We chuckled for several moments about his “thoughtfulness”. In reality, it WAS a considerate gift. He doesn’t want his children to be burdened with such a chore when their mothers pass away. He arranged everything so that all his kids will have to do is make one phone call, and someone else will take care of those sad details.

I found myself admiring him.

And Jennifer? She was an old love from his past… someone he met at a dance hall. A woman who was exciting and compatible and lovely. My poor gentleman came home to find a message on his machine from her, saying that she’s single, and she’s been thinking about him… so she did a little digging and found him. Would he please call her back, if he was interested in reconnecting?

What a conundrum! He was thrilled, happy, and kind of, well…charged up about it! I learned a couple of private details about her that made me giggle and blush. Details that made me want to say “You GO, Gramps!”

So, I said exactly that. We laughed some more.

But… he couldn’t understand her number, and he was afraid she wouldn’t call him back.

I assured him that she would. That he must be pretty special if she went to the trouble of finding him after so many years. I encouraged him to ‘google’ her and see if he could find out where she lived, which would enable him to call directory assistance, if her phone number wasn’t posted on the web.

And then, I asked him to let me know how he made out. Ah… no pun intended.

He gave me sweet advice, made me laugh, and caused a lump to rise in my throat, all in the space of 40 minutes. Forty minutes that I couldn’t spare—but I’m so glad I did. What a guy!

I never even got his name.

It's Not Easy Being This Not Cool

2011-07-04T23:59:00.000-04:00

Okay. I’ve faced facts. I am not cool.

People (under the age of 20) kept telling me that, but I didn’t want to believe them.

I was sure I was cool! Hip. With it. All that! (Good lord, and to think people actually talk that way!)

But the evidence establishing my non-coolness kept stacking up.

I don’t paint my toenails. Or my fingernails. And I don’t understand why anyone else would, either.

I don’t use mousse in my hair; and if I eat mousse, it looks far more like hearty stew than light pudding.

I didn’t know there were shaving creams for men; and shaving creams for women--or that there was anything wrong with a girl’s legs smelling like Gillette. Last time I raised my calf to my nose, it smelled just fine. The occasion is imprinted on my mind, in fact; due to the excruciating charley horse that crippled me afterwards.

I thought “product” was a result, and had no idea it was actually hair goop. “I FINALLY have some product!” said the teenager after arriving home from a shopping trip with her girlfriend (called ‘BFF’ by the cool crowd).

Whatever!

And then, there was today’s business with the gentleman caller. He came over to the house and brought a movie to watch. With my daughter. In the living room. On the couch.

Now…it was hot this afternoon. It was 85 if it was a degree. We have a large sofa, a love seat, an over-stuffed chair, a recliner and a Canadian glider in the living room. The room easily seats eight. Easily! It made absolutely no sense for the both of them to sit on the same piece of furniture. None whatsoever. There were three vacant seats, each equally comfortable and made soft by an excess of cat hair. There was no reason for the girl and the gentleman caller to sit on the same couch--and certainly, not on the same HALF of the couch.

And I said so.

Apparently, that’s not cool.

There was also no reason for them to go for a walk, either. We live in the woods. Once you’ve seen one tree, you’ve seen them all, right? Sometimes you can’t even see the forest around here, for all the trees we’ve got that look identical. So there was no earthy reason for them to go for a walk. Not without the girl’s younger brother AND the visiting labra-doodle in tow, anyway.

The four of them had a lovely time on their walk…but I rated a look that said I was far, far, far from cool as I handed her the leash and pushed her brother out the door behind them.

Apparently, it’s cool to wear jeans that are so tight you can ping quarters off them, but I had to mention the snug-fitting apparel before finding that out.

The jeans are cool. Mentioning them in the same sentence with quarters—not cool.

I have been informed that it’s also not cool to hang out my upstairs bedroom window saying, “Sheesh! How long does it take to walk someone to his car, anyway? Time to go home, kiddo! Chop, chop!”

Way not cool. Waaaay! I’m so ‘not cool’ that my youngest son, before he even has any serious interest in a particular girl, has informed me that he’ll never invite one over to our house. He says I’d scar the poor thing for life.

He exaggerates, of course. I might be ‘way not cool’, but I’m harmless. My intentions are good. And really, I can’t be held responsible for my lack of coolness. If my girl had shown up downstairs in baggy jeans and sweatshirt, with legs that smelled like Gillette, and limp, product-free hair, unpainted toes and fingers, and with a plan to stay inside the house and ALONE inside her personal space (five feet in all directions would have been sufficient), I would have shown those teenagers exactly how cool I could be.

Scarred for life? Hah! They ought to try having MY job. It’s not easy being this ‘not cool’. I’m exhausted…

Coming Soon: "The Pacific", by Australian Author Peter Watt

2011-07-04T11:04:00.011-04:00

Australian writer and adventurist Peter Watt is one of my favorite authors . In addition, I am fortunate to be able to call him a very good friend. And so, it gives me great pleasure to announce the imminent release of another historical novel by this fantastic story-teller. The Pacific will be released this coming November, and I can't wait to read it.

     If you have not yet had the opportunity to read and enjoy the ongoing dramas of the MacIntoshes and Duffys, the Kellys and the Manns--don't delay! I recommend you begin with Cry of the Curlew and follow the adventures of these unforgettable characters from the very beginning, when the ancient continent of Australia was being populated by immigrants who were jostling to make their mark on the land. It's a treat you shouldn't deny yourself.
     I recently finished reading To Ride the Wind, so stay tuned for a review of Pete's most recent novel. It was every bit as good as those which preceded it. My only complaint? My teenaged daughter, Josie-Earl, decided to read it at the same time, and I constantly had to hunt for where I'd last left-off, as the darling girl would move my book-mark. It was a minor aggravation, but it was nice to be able to talk about the adventue as we read it together.
     Here is a blurb about The Pacific. Make sure you get a copy when it becomes available-- and if you'd like to have yours autographed by the author, just go to Pete's website and order one directly from my Aussie mate. His penmanship isn't half-bad!

As a war correspondent covering the Second World War, Ilsa Stahl isn’t afraid to be on the front line. But when her plane goes down in a terrible storm over Papuan waters and she is taken prisoner by the Japanese, she has every reason to be terrified. Particularly as they plan to hand her over to the Nazis.

When Jack Kelly discovers that his only daughter has fallen into the hands of the enemy, he will stop at nothing to save her. Even if it means risking the life of his only son, Lukas. No one knows Papua the way they do, they may be Ilsa’s only hope but time is running out.

Meanwhile, Major Karl Mann is sent on a secret mission to Indo China that will see him embroiled in Ilsa’s rescue mission in ways he could never have imagined.

This sweeping saga continues the story of the Kellys and Manns, following Peter Watt’s much-loved characters as they fight to survive one of the most devastating conflicts in history – the war on Australia’s back doorstep.

The Ties That Bind

2011-06-16T22:03:00.008-04:00

When I began writing a column for the Irregular 11 years ago, my children were 17, 5 and 4 years old. Guy was a junior in high school, Josie was in kindergarten, and Eli was still at home with his mum.

Guy left for college two days after his high school graduation in 2001 and has never moved back home. Not even for ‘a week or two’. Josie-Earl is going to be an 11th grader in the fall, and Elias graduated from 8th grade last week. It doesn’t seem possible that the end of our ‘school daze’ is in sight, but it is. A small part of me will be sad to see it end—-but I’m excited for my children and their futures, too. Life is an amazing ride, and even the smallest decisions we make can have long-lasting impacts on our lives. How I wish I were in their shoes right now, with the whole world opening up in front of me. Except… this time I’d like to start my young adulthood with the wisdom I have at 47!

It took me two weeks to pull information about an 8th grade graduation from my youngest son. I’d ask, “Hey, Eli… is your class holding a graduation?”

“I dunno.”

“Your teachers didn’t send home any notes?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well...wouldn’t you know, if they did?”

“I guess so…”

A day or two later, I tried it again.

“Any news about graduation?”

“Not yet, Mum.”

“Well, it’s the first of June. Exactly when would they tell you?”

“I dunno.” A nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

“So, I suppose that means you still haven’t brought home any information about it?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, Eli… if you’d brought home papers from school; who WOULD know about it?”

Sheesh.

On Friday, June 3rd, I tried again.

“Eli? What’s up with graduation, anyway?”

“Oh! We’re having marching practice on Monday. Or maybe Tuesday. Oh yeah, and I need a note, too.”

“Well, when’s graduation?” I’d already found out the 'old fashioned way'… I’d asked the mother of an 8th grade girl. They pay far more attention to these things, since such occasions call for a shopping trip, hairdo, fingernail polish, toenail polish, shaving of legs and much fretting over who their marching partner will be.

“I dunno. Thursday, I think.”

“What time?”

“I dunno.”

Oh, brother.

“Come on, Eli! Pay attention! It would be nice if we could tell Papa when graduation starts, so he can leave work on time, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess….”

“And why do you need a permission slip?”

“Oh! We’re going to the beach.”

“Ooh, that’s nice. Which beach?”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t know which beach… Is it Popham?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, for crying out loud! When are you going?”

“I don’t know, Mum! Monday or Tuesday, I guess.” He was beginning to sound exasperated.

Welcome to my life, kid.

At 4:30 on Thursday afternoon, Eli came into my bedroom. Gone were the baggy jeans and faded tee shirt. In their place were khaki slacks and a dark dress shirt. He had a necktie draped around his neck.

“I can’t tie this.”

I grinned. That’s one of the cool things about being a mother… this tying of her young man’s necktie. He cautioned me not to snug it too tightly, so I didn’t.

He looked sharp, and I told him so. He wandered into his bedroom to check himself out in the mirror.

“I’m not going to wear this tie. It looks dumb.”

Just then, Josie-Earl wandered upstairs. You know…Josie-Earl; the sister who argues with her little brother all the time, and who tries to boss him around until he loses patience with her! She heard me tell Eli that the tie didn’t look 'dumb', so she popped into her brother’s bedroom.

I overheard the conversation.

“You look GREAT! That tie does NOT look dumb! Wow, Eli! You’re handsome! Oh, my gawd; girls are going to be hanging all over you next year when you get to high school!”

Without another protest, Eli wore the tie.

I love my kids.

Driving With Miss Josie--Part Two

2011-06-15T00:17:00.006-04:00

It was a sad day when I realized that I’m not as ‘cool’ as my mother.

Josie-Earl just turned sixteen. She has her driver’s permit, and as all teens do… she wants to get her license. But over the winter, she didn’t fulfill the required 35 hours of driving time.

So… we’re trying to make up for it, now.

My truck is tall. It’s long. It’s got a towing package which makes it a little ‘stiff’. It’s not a sedan; it’s a work truck… something we need around The F.A.R.M., and for hauling the tractor, and for driving to those real estate showings which are off the beaten path. Or to those which don’t have a path, at all.

Josie hates my truck. But Josie wants to learn to drive. Josie wants to get her license. I’ve told her that once she is comfortable driving my pick-up, she’ll be comfortable driving anything (except my pick-up in the city, or in parking garages!)

On Saturday morning, Josie needed to be delivered to her grandmother’s house for a trip to Portland to attend her cousin’s birthday party. She needs driving time, so… I let her drive.

It’s no wonder I have frizzy hair. What IS a wonder is that I have any frizzy hair left on my head.

It’s not that my daughter is a bad driver—she’s not. As long as there are no other cars on the road, she’s actually quite safe. Oh, and as long as there are no corners on the road, either. Or soft shoulders. Or snapping turtles wandering across.

We managed to drive 10 of the 14 miles to Mum’s without a single bellow coming from the passenger seat. I spoke calmly.

“Josie, you really need to stay out of the ditch.” Calm as a clock, see?

“Sweetie, that yellow line is there for a reason. You should be able to see it out your side mirror. No, YOUR side mirror, not mine.” Patient as the day is long.

But then there came a particular corner at the top of John Hall Hill, by the bog. She took it too fast, and swung way out into the opposite lane. And I simply couldn’t help myself.

“Josie! You’re on the WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD!”

Her head whipped around and she snapped back.

“Yes, Mama! I see that!”

Like I was a goober, or something! Like I was simply pointing out the obvious in an attempt to irritate her!

“Well, then! Get back over here!”

I think I also swore, but my memory is a bit foggy. Blind panic does that to me.

Moments later, we arrived at the Bessey home. Mum came out onto the porch to wish us ‘good morning’ as we climbed from the truck.

“How are you?” she asked.

“My nerves are shot, “ I muttered, walking on shaky legs to the driver’s side. I kissed my gorgeous teenager, wished her a ‘good time’, and resumed my rightful place behind the wheel of my pick-em-up truck.

When Josie returned home the next day, she informed me that Nanny let her drive part of the way home from Portland.

“She’s WAY cooler than YOU! Nanny never hollered at me once!”

That stung. Hurt. But I’m not letting it get me down. Now I have a new goal. Someday, I want my grand-daughter to tell Josie-Earl that I’m WAY cooler than she is.

I might not have any nerves left… but I’ve got a goal.

Getting the Message...

2011-05-19T23:20:00.009-04:00

One of the first things I do upon arriving home from work each afternoon is to listen to the messages on my answering machine. I push the red-flashing button to listen and then move around the kitchen--taking care of my groceries, sorting the mail I just picked up from the box at the end of my road, and occasionally grabbing a pen to jot down the number of someone who needs a return call.

Sometimes, I'm able to wash a sink full of breakfast dishes while listening to the dulcet tones of friends, clients, and associates--as one or two of them are extremely loquacious and they ramble on and on. Most likely, they do so because they appreciate a captive audience…One which doesn’t interrupt them while they speak.

I’m a creature of habit, and I always look for that flashing light as I set my parcels on the sideboard. Once in a great while the button is dark, and for a moment I feel bereft. Wasn’t there anyone who needed me while I was gone?

And once in awhile, I find myself wishing that I’d never pushed that blinking button.

Last Tuesday was just such a day. The message I heard as I put the milk and eggs in the fridge was a recorded one. No live being asking me a question or telling me some news, but a canned soundtrack. It was from my telephone company, informing me that it was imperative that I call the following toll-free number.

Well, what possible urgency could exist which would cause my telephone service provider to leave such a message? I knew for sure I’d paid my bill. Didn’t I? I wracked my brain, trying to recall that happy occasion. I couldn’t remember specifically writing out the check, but I was positive that I would have felt some unease if I was guilty of the offense of non-payment. The problem came when I realized that I didn’t have the checkbook from which that payment would have been written. My husband did. So, I called the number and see what was what. I certainly didn’t want to risk disconnection based on my mental self-assurances. My memory has let me down too many times in the past.

I dialed the number. Not surprisingly—I was greeted by another recording.

The female voice began speaking in English, but promptly switched to Spanish. I rolled my eyes and sighed. I’m pretty sure my telephone company is based in America, and I really didn’t have time to decipher “por (something) espangnol (something something) numero dos.”

So, I didn’t “something something” anything… just held the line and hoped that the robotic voice would revert to my native tongue. After a pregnant pause, it did.

“Please enter your four digit PIN number, then press pound.”

Oh, yeah. My “PIN” number. For the life of me, I had no idea what that might be. None. I remembered getting a notice from my telephone company several years earlier, informing me of that vital combination of numbers, and I’m sure I’d filed it away for future reference. Filed it somewhere. In my office? In mi casa? I had no idea where it was. No idea why I’d need it.

Until now. How would I find out the reason for the urgent call from the phone company if I couldn’t produce that PIN? In another moment, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had options!

“If you do not know your PIN, please press ‘two’, followed by the pound key.”

Okay! I pressed ‘two’ and '#'.... and waited.

“If you are calling regarding an existing residential account, press ‘one’. If you are calling about an existing commercial or business account, press ‘two’.”

Well, heck. I didn’t know WHY I was calling! But because the message was left on the answering machine at home and not at my office, I took a stab in the dark. I pressed ‘one’.

“If you are calling about making payment arrangements, press ‘one’. If you are calling for a new service, a change in service, or to disconnect an existing service, press ‘two’. If you are calling about internet service, press ‘three’.

Didn’t they listen to their own recorded messages? Didn’t the company realize that they hadn’t given me enough information to know WHY I was calling? How much time did I have before making up my mind about which number to press? I could feel a mild panic setting in. Or was it mild irritation?

“If you would like to hear the menu again, press ‘four’.”

Okay, that bought me some time. I pressed ‘four’ and listened to the whole spiel all over again. At the end of the instructions, I took another stab in the dark. I took a gamble on the most likely reason I was calling. It’s not often that I’m the last to know why I make a phone call, but this is the age of technology. I learned a long time ago that I’m almost ALWAYS the last one to understand anything when it comes to ‘modern conveniences’. (And I use that term loosely.)

I pressed ‘one’.

“One moment, please.”

At least the robot was polite. I waited for a human being to answer the phone.

I waited in vain.

“Please enter your PIN number, followed by the pound key.”

Well, for crying out loud! Hadn’t I pressed ‘two’ just moments ago, when instructed to do so after I ascertained that I didn’t KNOW my PIN number?

Yes, I most certainly had.

“I don’t KNOW my PIN number!” I uttered aloud to no one.

A moment of silence, and then, “We’re sorry. Please enter your PIN number, followed by the pound key.”

“I SAID I don’t KNOW my PIN number!” I felt idiotic as I spoke to a mechanical being, but what were my options?

“We’re sorry. Please enter your PIN number, followed by the pound key.”

Exercising my vast reserves of self-control, I kept silent. I seethed—which was, perhaps, an over-reaction--but the thought crossed my mind that this was a ridiculous waste of my time, and as a customer of this company for almost 30 years, I deserved to be spoken to by a real, live human.

I waited.

“Please hold, while we connect you with the next available operator.”

Halleluiah! I was going to speak with a PERSON. I only hoped he or she spoke English…

I heard a click, and then… “Good afternoon. This is Candice. May I have your PIN number, please?”

Oh, for crying out loud. This was ridiculous. I called up faded memories of Sesame Street and growled, “Si. Quatros-uno-ocho-cinqo.”

“Ah. Buenos dias, Senora.”

I hung up.

And sent a new check--just in case.

"The Dreams Stuff is Made Of"...

2011-05-18T17:28:00.008-04:00

Where else but on Grumbles and Grins can one find men and women of integrity? Oh, I know... there are a few blogs which might be as graced as GAG. But I lay claim to a monopoly of the coolest of all 'followers' and visitors.

In my last post, I apologized for starting a contest, and then--for completely forgetting about it. It is the mark of a terrible hostess, for sure. I pronounced my friend Crookedpaw the winner--the choice being easy, as the bloke was the only entrant. I promised to mail his prize; consisting of a quart of Maine maple syrup and an autographed copy of Grumble Bluff, post haste. (Punny, huh? "Post" haste. "Mail". Get it?)

Oh, brother. Never mind...

So, that was yesterday. TODAY, I arrived home to find this:

That's right. The quart of maple syrup which I've had for a month--a month during which no one felt the need to touch it--had been opened, and sampled. Used. Poured over French Toast and bacon.

It's not like there were no other options. There were two already-opened plastic containers of syrup in the fridge. One from sap boiled down in neighboring Embden, and one from the maple trees of Strong, a town approximately 40 minutes away. It was local syrup, yes. But it was syrup which was sold commercially. I'd wanted to gift my friend with the product of our own trees, right here in Lexington Township. I wanted to give him some 'marple sarple' made--not to sell--but to be enjoyed by our family and friends.

So, I was grouchy. Slightly grouchy, but in a loudish kind of way.

"Great!" I said to no-one in particular, and everyone within earshot. "Now I've gotta go hit up Cousin Jimmy for another quart!"

Less than ten minutes later, I came upstairs and sat at my computer. I opened my email account. And, lo and behold, there was a note from my pal Crookedpaw, telling me that he couldn't accept the prize. That to do so wouldn't 'sit comfortably' with him. That I should SAVE THE SYRUP (now known as an impossibility) until he wins the next contest fairly and squarely.

Or something like that.

:o)

I lucked out. I've been let off the hook. I won't have to go down the road to Cousin Jimmy's, hat in hand, and ask for more syrup. I won't have to endure another quarantine of my packages as Aussie Customs tries to determine if the jar contains whiskey or some other type of contraband. Heh...

CP, you're a prince. You DID deserve the prize, but I'll graciously say 'thank you' and keep (what remains of) my syrup here in Maine.

For the time being, anyway.

Thanks, sport.

Oops!!!! Sleeping on the Job!

2011-05-17T20:08:00.004-04:00

Hey, gang...

I owe you an apology! I have been so busy (not kidding! I know it's a bad excuse but it's true) that I not only forgot about the ending of my most recent contest, but in between posting it and now, I forgot to promote it, too.

Holy smokes.

It is, of course, obvious that we have a winner. Once again, Crookedpaw prevails. Against all odds and strong opposition, he managed to pull another one out of the bag!

Hehehe........ I feel like such an idiot.

And we really made this way too easy for our Down Under pal. A man with the brains and talent of Mr. paw should have had to work much harder for his victory. (And I should have worked much harder to get others involved, so that he had to.)

A quart of Lexington maple syrup, fresh made six weeks ago by Cousin Jimmy, will be on its way to CP very soon. Since that's a trip of 10,000+ miles, I'll mail a copy of GB under separate cover, just in case the syrup jar breaks, or it leaks, or something. (Won't Aussie Customs love me, then!? We have such a sticky relationship, already!)

Again, I'm sorry I dropped the ball, here. In addition to job and family, I started a new blog, Voices On the Wind (VOW) so that I could keep windy stuff separate from my other writing here on GAG. And I've been very involved in legislation at the Capital in Augusta, along with myriad details having to do with the Highland Wind project. And other projects and people and issues. Like I said, that's no excuse... but it IS my excuse.

Hugs from here,
Kaz

Royally Skewed

2011-05-04T10:42:00.009-04:00

Wednesday’s editorial “Nothing to Cheer About…” regarding Angus King’s temporary withdrawal of his application for a wind turbine development in Highland was published in all three of Maine Today Media’s newspapers. If there were any questions remaining about the bias of this publisher in the matter of industrial wind development, they’ve been answered.

Quote (MTM): “Opponents of wind power are no-doubt celebrating…”

Did MTM editors call any ‘opponents’ to see if they were cheering? I spoke with many--and often, the opposite was true. We aren’t naïve, and we recognize that Mr. King is gaming the system. Maine’s Expedited Wind Law is great when it works in the wind industry’s favor, but that abbreviated time-frame proved to be a bane for Highland Wind when their project was challenged by the MDIFW. And lest anyone think this report came as a surprise to the developers, the MDIFW states they “provided technical assistance and consultations to this project since 2007. Despite considerable discussions and previous project modifications, an array of concerns remain unresolved…”

Quote(MTM): “They are not cheering because they love the Roaring Brook mayfly, or are appreciators of the northern bog lemming…”

How are the editors so in tune with ‘wind opponents’? Did they ask how they feel about the ecosystems and environment of Maine? Do they know how many opponents of mountaintop industrial wind are dedicated individuals who appreciate the special qualities of the Maine woods? How many of them guide nature tours in these hills? And are the editors so narrow-minded that they are unable to acknowledge that many other species are affected every time one is endangered or lost? They trivialize a mayfly—but that species has thus far been found only in Maine. Both the above-mentioned species have already been impacted by the Kibby and Sisk wind projects.

Quote(MTM): “opposition has come from people who don't want to look at tall white towers and rotating turbines…”

Quote(Angus King in May of 2010): “It’s all about the view.”

Statements such as those have one purpose: to try to turn public opinion against opponents of industrial wind. To belittle us as selfish elitists who put our ‘back yard’ view above other, more important things.

That is a warped reality.

A view has value, yes. It’s evidenced by the fact that real estate with gorgeous vistas command higher prices on the market, and in towns’ assessment books. “Views” are an integral part of Maine’s celebrated “Quality of Place”, and their value brings billions of tourism dollars to our state’s economy. Yes, scenic value is important. I wouldn’t be surprised if the owners of MTM and Highland Wind LLC enjoy some lovely views from their own homes.

A quick perusal of MTM’s own online comments section would have quickly proven that ‘wind opponents’ have diverse and vital concerns, including Mainers’ health and well-being, protection of our environment, and distress at having to foot the bill for the $1.4Billion transmission costs needed to add ‘wind’ to our energy mix. We are concerned with apparent conflicts of interest as Maine’s leaders chose an unreliable, intermittent, expensive and un-storable energy source which was abandoned 100 years ago for good cause. We are worried about permanently scarring our fragile slopes and ridges, and removing thousands of acres of carbon-sequestering trees. We fear for bald eagles, bats… and yes. Some really are concerned about small rodents and insects, especially as they pertain to the larger picture.

Quote(MTM): “Through the expedited permitting law passed by the Legislature, investors could expect to find a clear path to approval.”

A clear path to approval is exactly what the authors of that law expected, and many of them were heavily invested in the outcome. In a letter from Rob Gardiner (partner to Angus King and president of Independence Wind) to Alec Giffen, chair of the Governor’s Task Force on Wind Power, Gardiner attempts to influence the writing of the law which gave wind developers the advantage over Maine citizens, forestalling their objections to wind developments.

Gardiner states: “In my opinion, the biggest sticking point is visual impact. Under the standard of "fitting harmoniously into the environment", wind is at a serious disadvantage. Because it involves 250' high structures (King and Gardiner’s are 400+ feet tall) that are usually on high ridges, the visual impacts are significant.”

“An immediate executive order followed by legislation that specifically removes the presumption of negative visual impact from wind farms would go a long way toward setting the stage for balanced regulatory review.”

“A second element of such executive order and legislation should be to declare that reducing air pollution and greenhouse gas emissions is a public benefit, and that wind farms can make a significant contribution toward a more sensible energy mix for Maine. Therefore, any regulatory agency should accept these positions and not waste time receiving further evidence and debating them. To the extent that regulators are charged with balancing the benefits of any project against the negative impacts, these beneficial aspects should be "a given" for wind farms.”

“…wind farms ought not to be expected to help purchase conservation lands or do other types of mitigation. Wind farms ARE mitigation for our energy consumption habits and for the impacts of fossil fuel consumption.”

“I understand that preserving Maine's "quality of place" is an important goal for your task force. I fully accept that having wind farms everywhere might ruin that quality.”

"I recognize that LURC feels overwhelmed… This may need attention, but it is a short-term phenomenon. Don't change the rules, provide the necessary resources. The Governor can do that... But creating a new agency or shifting responsibilities will, in actuality, make it harder for developers.”

Yes, investors like those hoping to develop Highland’s mountains certainly expected—and worked hard to get—a ‘clear path to approval’.

Quote(MTM): “any Mainer concerned about an unfriendly business climate and a propensity for over-regulation should look at this frustrating process and wonder if there is anything to cheer about.”

MTM certainly hasn’t supported Governor LePage, but it’s apparent they are attempting to use his administration’s goals of bringing jobs to Maine (and reducing environmental regulations in order to do so) to their advantage. Such statements cloud the issue; but if new, full-time jobs are MTM’s goal, perhaps the editors should read the Highland Wind LLC permit application to see exactly how many will be supplied by this development, and how many American tax-payer dollars must be spent to provide that handful of technical positions.

Maine Today Media has reporters who have been in the field and spoken at length with many ‘wind opponents’. Those journalists know the scoop. MTM’s editorial board would do well to deal in truths rather than biased rhetoric intended to sway the public’s perception of Maine’s wind energy plan.

********************
Top and second Photo: First Wind's Rollins project, credit: Friends of Lincoln Lakes
3rd and 4th photos: Iberdrola Renewable's access point for met towers erected in Lexington Twp., taken by Kaz Pease, November 2010.

ANGUS KING WITHDRAWS HIGHLAND PERMIT APPLICATION

2011-05-03T22:33:00.006-04:00

On December 18, 2009, Highland Wind LLC (HW LLC) filed a permit application with Maine’s Land Use Regulation Commission (LURC) to build a 48 turbine grid-scale wind energy facility in Highland Plantation. Due to the inappropriateness of the site and due to the negative impacts such a development would have to the local ecology and environment, to the nature-based economy, to the health and quality of life of the area residents, and to scenic qualities of the area near the Bigelow Preserve, the Appalachian Trail and the Arnold Trail, Friends of the Highland Mountains (FHM), along with the Maine Appalachian Trail Club (MATC) and others, requested intervenor status.

Upon analysis of the application, FHM filed a motion to suspend the review process until such time as HW LLC provided the necessary documentation to meet the completeness standards set forth by LURC. On April 7, 2010, LURC ruled in FHM’s favor, and the review of the permit was suspended.

On December 29, 2010, HW LLC submitted a revised permit application for a 39 turbine wind facility, acceding, in part, to the concerns about the project’s impacts to the Appalachian Trail and the Bigelow Preserve. The application was deemed complete and accepted for processing on February 23, 2011, initiating commencement of the expedited review process once more. Again, upon examining the application, FHM determined several areas wherein the applicant had not provided sufficient documentation for a comprehensive review (including complete Title, Right or Interest; make, model and size of turbines proposed for the project; and sufficient proof of financial capacity) and we once again petitioned LURC to suspend the review process. This time, LURC ruled in favor of the applicant, HW LLC. In keeping with the statutes, FHM and the other intervenors submitted documentation and filings by the deadlines set forth.

On April 13th and 20th, 2011, Agency review comments were submitted to LURC. The comments submitted by the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife (IFW) stated unequivocally that Highland “is not an appropriate locality for an intensive wind energy installation such as that currently proposed by Highland Wind Power.”

On April 26, 2011, the 3rd Procedural Order, including a schedule of events and deadlines, was sent to all parties, and intervenors provided witness lists, as well as the issues they would be addressing at the Public and Technical Hearings, to the LURC staff and the applicant, HW LLC.

On May 2, 2011, Angus King, a principal of HW LLC, submitted a letter to LURC withdrawing his application, with “intent to re-file at a later date”, and stated that those government agency review comments “suggested that additional data would be necessary to satisfy agency concerns.”

The IFW did not suggest that additional data would satisfy their concerns. The IFW stated that Highland was “not an appropriate locality”. "Additional data" will not change the fact that Highland’s mountains are an inappropriate site for a grid-scale wind energy development. In fact, the IFW stated that they have “provided technical assistance and consultations to this project since 2007. Despite considerable discussions and previous project modifications, an array of concerns remain unresolved…”

Highland Wind LLC must permanently withdraw their development permit application to build an industrial wind turbine facility in Highland Plantation. The IFW’s report, in conjunction with the many other issues raised by the intervenors, provides ample reason to abandon all plans to develop the mountains of Highland Plantation.

FHM has conformed to all the standards and restrictions set forth in the so-called “Expedited Wind Permitting Law”. The applicant has pressed for an expedited review, as evidenced in letters obtained through the Freedom of Information Act between Rob Gardiner, President of HW LLC, and LURC. Now that the developers have realized that their project, as submitted, was destined for denial, they are gaming the system. HW LLC has had several years in which to study and ascertain the appropriateness of their proposed development, and has ignored all concerns except those which they determined had the greatest ability to hinder the approval of their project. The Agency review comments submitted by the IFW, an unbiased party, corroborate some of the many concerns which FHM has presented as reasons why approval of this project should be denied. By abandoning their plans to industrialize Highland’s mountains, HW LLC has the opportunity to save Maine tax-payers and individual citizens additional expense.

Mr. King and Mr. Gardiner should publicly and permanently cancel all plans to build an industrial wind facility in Highland Plantation.

Questions...

2011-04-30T19:17:00.002-04:00

What happens when you lose faith in your government? What happens when you start asking questions, and the answers you receive stun you to your very core? What happens when you realize that the People haven’t been running the show, but it’s Big Money and Big Corporations which are in charge, and have been for a long, long time? What happens when you realize that those elected officials you thought were there to serve the People are, instead, pawns for a powerful force which does not care about citizens or their rights, but only cares what those citizens can do to help advance their cause and add to their wealth?

What do you do?

Do you ignore the truth, and go about your business? Do you assume that the revelation, while disturbing, won’t affect you? Or do you hope that someone else will take charge, and step up to the plate to correct the problem? Someone more qualified than you, or who isn’t as busy? Do you feel a twinge of dismay, or sadness or hopelessness, but think to yourself, “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it!”? Do you flounder at the immensity of the problem, convinced that your one voice will be ineffective, thereby persuading yourself to remain silent?

Or do you start to speak out? Do you talk to your neighbors and family members? Do you read and research and investigate so that you are as informed as possible, and then take that knowledge that you’ve acquired and try to educate the public?

And if you do take a stand, for how long will you hold your ground? Will you remain constant if your livelihood is threatened? If your reputation is damaged? Will you stay in the game once you find out that you have been “profiled”—your movements tracked, your “tone” evaluated? Will it disturb you when you are approached by strangers from these corporations who seem to know you intimately?

Will you speak out as often and as publicly as possible when you know you are angering the opposition? Will you be intimidated when you testify before Legislative Committees and discover that the corporate lobby has paid dozens of people to come to oppose you and your position? Will you lose hope when you discover that some of the very people you depend on to help you have been paid off, or have personal and financial interests which create obstacles to their ability or willingness to help?

What will you do when well-meaning insiders sympathetically caution you to “give up”? When they tell you that you don’t stand a chance, and that the entities you are opposing are too well-entrenched and powerful to ever be disrupted by someone as inconsequential as you? How will you act or respond when people who’ve promised to support your cause suddenly back off? When you find out they’ve accepted money in exchange for dropping their opposition, or that they’ve been indirectly threatened in some way?

How far will you go? How long can you hold out? Is the battle worth the sacrifice?

Have you ever asked yourself these questions?

I have.

I Don't Like Spiders and Snakes... but if that's what it takes...

2011-04-23T00:34:00.006-04:00

Derek Small, Executive Director of the Granite State Zoo (GSZ), a nonprofit conservation-education organization, is bringing some of the Zoo's Animals to Kingfield!

GSZ's animals and Educators have appeared on the Martha Stewart Show, Late Night with Conan O’Brien, Fox-25 (Boston), as well as delivering over 1700 educational outreach presentations per year across Northern New England, while also working to build a new public Zoo in Southern NH!

In 2008 they were also a part of the Animal Planet Expo Tour, and today have their own "Wildlife Encounters" TV Show that airs in communities across the area. Don’t miss this rare opportunity.

This is a hands-on show & educational opportunity & everyone is welcome.
Showtime is at 1:00 p.m. on Saturday, April 23
WEBSTER HALL, School St., Kingfield.
Children under 12- $5.00 Adults-$7.50, Families (4 or more)-$20.00

Proceeds to benefit the Friends of the Highland Mountains

WE WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU THERE!

Open for Business... but NOT For Sale!

2011-04-22T22:32:00.004-04:00

Well, it is official. The State of Maine has re-established its credibility and integrity to the People of Maine. Wow, does that feel good!

As you know, I’ve recently expressed grave concerns about the ‘offer’ levied in the permit application of Highland Wind LLC (the limited liability corporation owned by former governor Angus King and Rob Gardiner) to Maine’s Department of Conservation. Highland Wind LLC is asking permission to construct a 39 turbine grid-scale wind energy facility atop the mountains of rural Highland Plantation. Under the ‘tangible benefits’ section of that application, the owners of Highland Wind LLC made this offer to the Agency which would be determining the fate of their multi-million dollar project:

“For the Maine Department of Conservation, Bureau of Parks and Lands: Highland Wind will provide $1,040,000 to the Maine Department of Conservation, Bureau of Parks and Lands (BPL)over a twenty year period, as a “donation for land or natural resource conservation” pursuant to 35-A MRSA §3451 (1-C) (C). This land or natural resource conservation will be comprised of two Elements:…”

http://www.maine.gov/doc/lurc/projects/Windpower/HighlandWind/Highland_DP4862.shtml

In layman’s terms, Highland Wind LLC was offering a bribe to the very Agency which will be deciding the fate of their development. That was unacceptable. At best—it created a conflict of interest. At worst… it was a blatant bribe. So you can imagine the delight I felt when the following “Agency Comment” was published on LURC’s website today:

“BPL (Bureau of Parks and Lands) declines to accept this proposal. The Bureau’s current policy is to remain neutral in these proceedings, and acceptance of such benefits is viewed as a conflict of interest…”

Acceptance of such benefits is viewed as a conflict of interest….Oh, yeah.

You can’t blame me for smiling when I read that, can you? I hope not. For, you see, concerned citizens have been trying to engage our State Agencies in this ‘wind’ issue for years, and we’d almost given up hope of receiving anything other than politically correct answers which circumvented the real issues. But here, finally, we have proof that a State Agency recognized when it was being put into a compromising situation.

I don’t know about others, but my faith is slowly being restored. Last week the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife submitted comments detailing exactly how the Highland project would pose a significant threat to several threatened and endangered species. And today, the Department of Conservation made it clear that it would not be a party to extortion.

Maine may be “Open For Business” but it is not “For Sale”.

Yep. There’s hope for us, yet.

David vs. Goliath, and a Mayfly vs. a King

2011-04-16T15:40:00.016-04:00

On April 13, 2011, Maine’s Land Use Regulation Commission posted ‘Agency Review’ comments to the Highland Wind LLC permit page of their website. These comments are solicited from different state agencies which may have opinions on--or knowledge about--the potential impacts of a development such as the industrial wind project proposed for Highland Plantation’s mountains.

What I read from the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife caused a wide grin. An ease of pressure in my chest. A lightening of my heart. For the first time in a year and a half, a Maine State Agency had actually given me a ray of hope. Not just hope that the Highland project could be defeated, but some optimism that perhaps the people and the natural resources of Maine will not continue to be sold down the river.

These comments show beyond any reasonable doubt that Angus King’s and Rob Gardiner’s proposed development is not suited for Highland’s mountains. That if built, the turbine facility will cause grave—if not irreparable—harm to the wildlife, ecosystems and environment of the region… harm which may very well have a cumulative effect on species in other parts of our state. The concerns addressed in the IFW’s comments are just a few of the many which we have been speaking about ever since the development proposal was first made. Finally, a state agency has acknowledged that we were right.

Below are a few of the highlights from the report.

“Northern Bog Lemming. We have significant concerns that the proposed development will have undue adverse impacts to this series of wetlands along Witham Mountain and believe that maintaining the integrity of this complex is critical to the local population of this Threatened species.”

“Roaring Brook Mayfly (State-Endangered) and Spring Salamander (State Special Concern)… The magnitude of project area within occupied stream habitat is of great concern and poses a high potential for undue impact to both species.”

Bats: “MDIFW is greatly concerned that this proposed project poses a significant long-term mortality risk to both resident and migrant bats.”

“Nocturnal Migrants and Diurnal Raptors: The passage rates of nocturnal migrants and diurnal raptors through the project area are among the highest reported for projects in Maine…The proposed Highland Wind Project has some of the highest recorded passage rates through the rotor-swept zone, and is among the highest passage rates (targets/km/hour) of any project reviewed by MDIFW…Absent a commitment by the applicant for significant operational mitigations (e.g., seasonal curtailment of turbines during migration periods), there are no plausible strategies to mitigate risks to migrating birds at this time.”

Vernal Pools: “MDIFW contends that the applicant has not yet provided enough information demonstrating that impacts to SVPs (Significant Vernal Pools) cannot be avoided entirely.”

Conclusion: “We conclude that the collective wildlife concerns detailed above demonstrate that this is not an appropriate locality for an intensive wind energy installation such as that currently proposed by Highland Wind Power.”

So, there we have it. A State Agency has determined that the Highland wind project poses a serious risk to Maine’s wildlife and the habitat which supports it. Will this be enough? Will our former governor care more about the state he once shepherded, than he does about building his industrial wind development? Will this cause him to withdraw his permit, when nothing else has? Once upon a time, I would have thought, ‘yes’. Once upon a time I was naïve and trusting, and I didn’t fathom the deep-seated desire to make money, no matter what the costs to neighbors, natural resources, or a way of life.

But now, I’m not so sure. Now, I’m cynical. I seem to look for the negative in everything positive. Now, I am picturing other scenarios… none of which bode well for the inhabitants of this region.

I think about the millions of dollars Mr. King is quoted as having spent on compiling his application, and I wonder if he and Mr. Gardiner can turn back. Are they willing to let it go, or are they thinking that—since they’re already in for a penny, they may as well be in for a pound, and they should fight this to the bitter end on the off-chance that they’ll be successful? That their investment will secure those great rewards they’ve been seeking?

If that is what they decide, what will happen next? Will the owners of Highland Wind LLC attempt to offer ‘mitigation’ to the IFW, in the hopes that the department will take their money and drop their opposition to the project? As pertains to these wind developments, ‘mitigation’ is an act where a wind developer offers to protect the flora and fauna in another area of the state by establishing (or enabling the establishment of) a conservation easement, in exchange for being allowed to endanger or decimate the flora and fauna in the location of the proposed development. While the state of Maine has made mitigation an acceptable practice, that doesn’t make it a good one. It’s an ‘I’ll kill a baby here-- but build an orphanage there’ way of doing business which I believe is wrong.

There are still many questions which need to be answered. LURC deemed Highland Wind LLC’s permit application ‘complete’, so intervenors must move ahead within the compressed time mandated by the expedited permitting law and do our best to make our cases. But, while considered ‘complete’ by LURC, there are still many unanswered questions about the application which make it difficult for those who oppose the project to defend our positions.

The applicant was not required to supply the model, make and size of the turbines. That fact puts us at an unfair disadvantage when we must argue the case about sound and how it will affect those living within two miles of the project.

The applicant was not required to prove title, right or interest to all portions of the transmission path from the project to Wyman Station. We know for a fact that Highland Wind LLC does not have all those required deeds, easement and permits, but still… they were allowed to move ahead.

The applicant was not required to prove they have the financial capacity to build their project, either. Instead, they were allowed to submit vague letters of qualified support from financial institutions-- letters which clearly stated that they were not loan guarantees.

And what about the ‘tangible benefits’ section of the application? Will the Department of Conservation (the same department which LURC—the agency deciding whether or not to grant the permit—falls under the jurisdiction of) accept the $750,000.00+ that Mr. King and Mr. Gardiner are offering? If not, who WILL be the next beneficiary of their largesse? Where will the money have the most effect? Will it be offered to the residents of Highland Plantation? The Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife? The Arnold Expedition Historical Society?

In a perfect world, these questions wouldn’t need to be asked. But I’ve come to realize that this world is far from perfect, and that money often rules the day.

But… not today. Today, the People are going to be victorious. If my instincts are right, a critical region of this state will be preserved. And that will be, in part, due to the meticulous and admirable work of the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife.

As a woman whose father retired from that Department, I’m feeling very proud.

********
Photo of turbine blades and nacelle taken in Freedom, Maine-- Beaver Ridge Wind Development

A Lunar Module (i.e. A Post About the Moon...)

2011-04-14T00:03:00.008-04:00

The moon is waxing, and will be full on Monday, the 18th. Patriot’s Day. The day of the Boston Marathon. The day Eli and his class head to Washington D.C. for a week. Oooh!

Some give no credence to the moon’s affect on humans. Many scientific studies have been done over the decades, and there appears to be no empirical evidence to prove that there are more accidents, suicides, births or violent crimes at full moon. Instead, conventional wisdom says that we have been conditioned to believe such things occur with more frequency during that time in the lunar cycle. That due to folklore, and our culture’s fascination with movies with werewolves or themes of bewitching, or even due to anecdotal accounts, we simply look for the unusual at this time, where we normally wouldn’t give such things a second glance.

I’ve always believed that the moon had some pull. (Sorry, you know how I love a good pun. Or even a pun like that!) Without a calendar at my disposal and even during a week of overcast skies, I can tell when full moon is approaching. Call me daffy, but you can’t change my mind. I’ll bet there are a lot of emergency personnel out there who agree with me. Ambulance services and hospital emergency rooms are busier, and the medical problems are different than at other times of the month, too. More accidents, more violence. Dispatch and police details are right out straight. And new moon is almost as bad.

One friend told me that I acted like a ‘lunatic’ at full moon because all my ‘juices were pulled to one side’. I snorted and called him an idiot… after I said “What do you mean, I act like a lunatic?” I gave it some thought, though, and found this:

An unscientific work by Arnold L. Lieber entitled How the Moon Affects You introduces the author's "biological tides theory" which explains that the lunar cycles which cause tides in the ocean also cause them in the human body, since the human body is almost 80% water.

However plausible that sounds, scientists have debunked that theory, stating that the moon’s effect is on unenclosed, uncontained water, only--and that in reality, the draw of the moon alone is negligible. That it is due to the alignment of the more powerful sun with the moon that the tides are affected like they are. They claim we individuals are too small to be influenced.

Hmmmph!

Scientifically proven or not, I’m in tune with my own senses. I feel differently at full moon. I’m more tense. Less patient. More excitable. I feel more alive, more sexual. My senses are heightened, and my trigger is ‘hair’.

I’m not totally dippy. Evidence shows that herbivores (that’d be cows and such) and humans ovulate around the full moon. The height of the deer rutting season occurs around two full moons. Coral mates at the full moon. (How in the world do coral mate? Is that where the term ‘getting your rocks off’ comes from? Um… Sorry.) Migratory birds appear to follow the patterns of the moon for timing and finding their path of migration. Game birds (that’d be partridges and such) tend to return to certain locations at the time of the Hunter's Moon. Bears (omnivores), caribou (herbivores), and salmon(ah… fish!) move at the full moon. Even oysters (I want to say these are bicuspids, but that doesn’t sound quite right…) are sensitive to the cycle of the moon and not simply the movement of the tide.

And vets and dog trainers note that animals are more restless and unruly during a full moon.

Nope, I’m not completely daffy or dippy. What’s good enough for coral is good enough for me. And chances are good…no coral has ever watched An American Werewolf in London.

So, if I ever seem to be a bit of a lunatic, a little hyper or over-sensitive, please lay it to the Man in the Moon. He does it to me every time.

And that, my friends, reminded me of one of my favorite Conway Twitty songs. In closing--and just because I love the moon--here’s a bit of it, if I remember correctly:

“I talked to the Man in the Moon. I said, ‘Sir, is she coming back soon?’ He smiled and he stated, ‘Son, I’m over-rated. I get too much credit in those old love tunes. I don’t know a thing about love. I just kinda hang here, above. I just watch from the sky. Will love grow, will it die? I don’t know a thing about love.

“You know I can move oceans, when I take the notion… or make mountains tremble, or rivers run dry. But in all matters human, remember there’s Someone in charge of those things, way above you and I. I don’t know a thing about love. I just kinda hang here above. I just watch from the sky. Will love grow, will it die? I don’t know a thing about love.’ ”

A 'Luney' Tune, huh? :o)

*********************
Top photo: Moon setting behind Mt. Abram, taken from my bedroom window.
2nd photo: Ali g's full moon, NSW, Australia
3rd photo: Dozy's full moon, NSW, Australia
4th photo: Waxing (4 days from full) moon behind grey birch in my field.
5th photo: 1st quarter moon at the Hill Place in Elliotsville Twp., July 2010 while Larry (from QLD, Australia) was visiting.

Frivolous Lawsuits-- A Contest.

2011-04-09T19:53:00.006-04:00

Even though I take full responsibility for the subject matter and tone on Grumbles and Grins, there are times when others influence the content of my blog. My family, friends and neighbors all play a role in my life… and my life is what inspires the content of this online journal.

After a recent post (“Testosterone-Smelling Ears”) one of my Australian friends wrote to me with a suggestion. He proposed that I start a new contest. He thought it would be fun to have readers write in with their best and brightest ideas for bringing a frivolous lawsuit, based on something stupid that they had done. Let’s face it… we’ve all done stupid things. Some of us even make a bit of a career out of it!

His idea sounded good to me.

At his suggestion, however, I am expanding the contest. In my next “Observations from The F.A.R.M.” column in The Irregular, I am going to invite the newspaper readers to join in the fun. Hopefully, they won’t be too shy to play along. I’ll invite them to come to GAG and submit their entries here on the blog, so that you can all enjoy their ‘bonehead moments’, too.

Since there is a bit of ‘lag time’ between when I write my column and when it appears in the newspaper, I’ll keep the contest open for awhile. I’ve already submitted articles in advance, so I believe the contest won’t get mentioned until I write the column for the April 27th issue. Therefore, I’ll let the contest run until May 11th, my mother’s birthday.

Since this is maple syrup season, I’ll award the winner a quart of maple syrup made right here in Lexington which, at today’s prices, is worth almost $20.00. I’ll also throw in an autographed copy of Grumble Bluff. If you’ve already got one, maybe you can think of someone who’d like my novel as a gift.

In addition, I’ll take my top three favorites and publish them in the Irregular, in a subsequent column (with or without the winners' names-- your choice!) I think I’ll ask an author friend of mine to do the judging this time, so that—if we have a repeat winner—it won’t seem as if I’m playing favorites.

How does that sound? I hope it sounds like fun, and that you will enter. Just think of something dumb you’ve done (or something a member of your family has done) which would be a prime example of what might make a frivolous lawsuit, and tell me all about it!

Chances are, though… that lawsuit’s already been 'tried'.

Profiled...

2011-04-07T20:03:00.007-04:00

What a gorgeous spring day! Oh, how I wish I’d been able to get outside and enjoy it!

Actually, I did enjoy it. Parts of it, anyway. I attended a LURC pre-conference hearing for the Highland Wind project, which was held this morning at the Maine Forestry Service building in Augusta. That wasn’t the part of the day I got pleasure from, but it was a good meeting to ‘get behind us’, nonetheless. Within a few days the Friends of the Highland Mountains and other interested parties and intervenors will know the schedule of events as they pertain to our most pressing project in the Plantation of Highland.

The part of the day which added additional sunlight to an already dazzling and warm Thursday came before and after the meeting.

I took Josie-Earl with me.

I’d requested that she be allowed an ‘excused absence’ from school, so that she could attend the meeting, too. I believe such things are ‘educational’ and warrant an occasional absence from the classroom. I want my children to be young people who are active and ‘aware’. I want them to be concerned about what goes on around them, and I’d like to see them participate in the shaping of their own futures. I’ve always been of the opinion that a person has no right to complain unless they are willing to take the time (and put forth the effort ) to get involved in changing that which troubles them.

Since I’ve been devoting so much of my free time to ‘wind’, I’ve missed out on a lot of the ‘one-on-one’ time I used to have with my family. So I decided that combining an educational experience with an afternoon of ‘girlie’ shopping was in order.

As often as Josie and I clash, that doesn’t change the fact that she is a delightful young woman. I enjoy spending time with her. She’s funny, articulate, and engaging. I loved spending the day with my daughter.

When it comes to my three kids, I am so very lucky.

After a ten hour day ‘on the road’, I returned home to find forty-one emails waiting for me. I changed into my ‘grubs’ (running pants and a baggy sweatshirt--typical garb for this country girl) and sat down to deal with those many notes. The first one I opened was from a friend in Massachusetts who is also involved in the effort to stop needless and expensive industrial wind sprawl on our mountains. She told me that she’d been searching for something online, and ran across a website called ‘Carbon Capture Report’.

And on this site, she discovered that I have been ‘profiled’.

Profiled. Like I’m an ‘enemy of the state’, or something.

In all honesty, I haven’t had time to read the whole thing. I opened the link, scanned it quickly, and minimized it to the bottom of my screen. It is held ‘in reserve’ for later, in case I get caught up on my work and can devote a few minutes to reading what is there.

All I know is this: The corporate wind lobby is a powerful entity. It has sufficient resources to devote to foolish endeavors such as tracking the activities of a woman from the western mountains of Maine—those same mountains which the wind industry currently covets. Corporations like Independence Wind, First Wind, Maine Wind, Iberdrola Renewables, Patriot Renewables, Eolian Energy…these corporations stand to make millions in tax-payer subsidies if they can build their projects on Maine’s iconic ridgelines.

I also know that the corporate wind lobby is worried. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t waste their time in this manner.

And…I believe that the corporate wind lobby is dirty.

That being said--I also believe they are uninformed. Behind the ball. Wrong. I am far more active in this effort than their statistics show me as being.

If there are folks from the wind industry who want to know my stance on grid-scale wind developments on Maine’s mountains, they need only call me. My home number is (207) 628-2070. My email address is roomtomove@tds.net. I am an open book, and I will not be intimidated by the very corporations which have infiltrated my state--and my federal--government.

This isn’t solely about industrial wind. Not anymore. It is about right and wrong. It is about corruption. Indoctrination. It involves the fabric of the very foundation in which we Americans believe.

I had a wonderful, happy day with my daughter. Feel free to add that to my stats.

Wind, Work, and Winning....

2011-04-06T23:11:00.012-04:00

It’s been an interesting few days in the world of wind. (And in case you're wondering... I just like that photo, okay? Hehehe....that what my teenage son looks like when I ask him to fold laundry and there are 'unmentionables' in the basket...)

Sunday saw a large gathering of Mainers at the New Portland Community Library for our regularly scheduled Friends of the Highland Mountains meeting. We had some new attendees, which shows that ‘word’ is getting out about the true impacts these industrial-scale wind projects will have on the surrounding areas.

We ‘tended to business’ and also finalized plans for our latest fund-raising effort, to be held at Webster Hall in Kingfield on April 23rd. We are excited to announce this latest family-friendly event. Derek Small, owner of Granite State Zoo, will be bringing some of his exotic animals for an interactive and educational show. Wow. What a great opportunity for locals who are used to communing with moose, black bears, coons and white-tailed deer! Instead, we’ll be introduced to… well-- things like what you see in the photos below!

This is Medusa. I’ve promised our members that if we raise $750.00 from this event, I’ll drape Medusa around my neck. (If that's against some kind of 'zoo rule', it won't be my fault, right?) And if we raise $1,000.00, I will also hold something large and hairy and tarantula-ish. Those of you who know me, know that I HATE spiders. And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.

Since April 24th is Easter, we thought we’d combine this event with a food sale, so that people don’t have to do as much cooking on the holiday. If you’ve a hankering to learn something new, interact with some exotic creatures, and pick up some delicious food for Easter, please join us at one p.m. on Saturday, the 23rd.

On Tuesday, several of us drove through the pouring rain to Augusta to testify in support of a bill sponsored by Senator Tom Saviello: “LD 793-- An Act To Protect Ratepayers While Enhancing Energy Independence and Security.” It is hoped that the members of the Energy, Utilities and Technology Committee will come to the conclusion that Maine should pull out of the Regional Greenhouse Gas Initiative and the ISO NE, and no longer allow the PUC to commit us to long-term energy contracts.

Today, FHM experienced a victory. We were on LURC’s agenda for the first time since Highland Wind LLC resubmitted their wind development permit. We’d put forward a motion for LURC to review the ‘associated facilities’ under their traditional scenic standards as allowed by law, rather than those less stringent standards which the ‘generating facilities’ must be reviewed under.

Highland Wind had submitted a written objection to our motion. Today their representatives, along with an attorney for the Conservation Law Foundation, argued long and hard in an effort to convince the Commissioners to deny our request. Attorney Bill Plouffe, representing the MATC, spoke in support of our motion. After careful consideration, the Commissioners voted unanimously in favor of our request.

In the coming days, I’ll explain in more detail what this means for the Highland Wind project and our opposition. But for now… I’ve got to prepare for the ‘pre-conference hearing’ scheduled for nine a.m. tomorrow morning in Augusta.

One thing I will say: the people who have come together to fight for what they believe is right are a source of inspiration to me. Twenty-five members of FHM drove all the way to Bangor to attend today’s meeting. I sat in the audience and looked around me, and I realized I was surrounded by friends. By goodness. By dedication and integrity.

We’ve already won.

Testosterone-Smelling Ears

2011-04-03T00:27:00.008-04:00

Here I go again. I’m up on my sturdy soap box decrying frivolous and fraudulent law suits once more. When are we going to put a stop to what has increasingly become a common-place occurence?

What, you might ask, has raised my hackles this time? Well, I’ll tell you. I read in the newspaper that a man has filed a lawsuit against a couple who own a stallion. It seems the plaintiff saw a horse in a paddock on the side of the road, and he decided it behooved him (punny, I know...) to take some food to this horse. For the record (and I say that with great jurisprudence) this horse did not belong to the plaintiff, and the defendants have stated that they did not give the plaintiff permission to feed their animal.

I’m sure the plaintiff started out with good intentions. Most of us like the feeling of companionship that comes from hand-feeding an animal... it's a “communing with nature” ideal. Maybe the man was a cowboy-wannabe, or perhaps he’d had a favorite pony in his youth and seeing the stallion brought back fond memories. Whatever the reason, the man made a conscious decision to stop and feed this horse.

Unfortunately for him, the decision wasn’t a wise one. You’ve probably heard the expression “bite the hand that feeds you.” Well, the stallion involved in the lawsuit had a different take on that saying. He “bit off part of the ear attached to the head of the man with the hand who fed him.” And apparently, the man took exception to that action.

It is believed that the stallion, being a stallion, was enraged by the man’s scent of testosterone and that’s what caused the animal’s agression. I’m not sure, really, what testosterone smells like. I don’t think I want to know, but our virile and noble stallion most definitely recognized the odor. Personally, I think the plaintiff should count himself lucky that his ear smelled more like testosterone than any of his other appendages did, and walk away from the episode feeling lucky that he got off as lightly as he did. He should humbly take this as “a lesson learned.” There is a reason we mothers are constantly harping at our little boys to “go wash those ears!” We’re trying to protect them from painful lessons in the future.

No matter how hard I try to stay non-political (what?????) I simply have to assert my opinion, here. You all know how I feel about how our court system is misused and abused by people suing others over things they shouldn’t be suing for.

“Try having some personal responsibility!” I inwardly scream.

“Whatever happened to the word ACCIDENT?” I silently protest.

“Get a real job,” I mutter to myself.

I, too, have been injured by a horse. More than one, actually--now that I think about it. When you hang around animals, especially big ones, you’re bound to get hurt. But I’m recalling one time in particular. I was on my friend Patty’s mare, and she was plodding down the Princess Road, back in the days before it was plowed in the winter. In the woods off to one side, a skidder started up, spooking Deagon and causing her to rear. Once she’d dumped her burden in the snow, she high-tailed it for home, which was over the other side of the hill at Deer Farm Camps. My hip and back were injured in the fall, and I can still feel the effects of that spill, thirty years later.

If I’d reacted the way this plaintiff has, I would have sued. Darn tooting! After all, I should have been warned in advance that Deagon was a big animal and that she could respond to unexpected stimuli in unanticipated ways. No doubt about it-- I should have taken those people for everything I could get.

Don’t you think?

No?

Me, neither.

So, yeah... I think the horse-feeding, testosterone-exuding, lawsuit-bringing guy ought to reconsider his actions. I think he should apologize for feeding an animal that didn’t belong to him. He should drop the suit and make amends to the horse’s owners for dragging their names into the public lime-light. He should take responsibility for his own actions, and chalk the incident up as one of life’s unique experiences-- a really good story he can tell his grandkids, one day.

And... I think he should shower regularly, and wear a hat.

Writing With (the patience of a) Saint

2011-03-31T23:12:00.012-04:00

The following GAG post is comprised of two "Observations from The F.A.R.M." columns. The first segment was published on February 23rd, and the second portion will be printed in the April 6th edition.

I’m going to attempt something new. Something I’ve always wanted to try-- but I never had the opportunity until recently.

I’m going to write collaboratively with another author.

There are worries involved, of course. My co-author and co-conspirator is an older gentleman by the name of Saint. He is a native Midwesterner and grew up on the plains without the sheltering embrace of ancient mountains. He’s a Vietnam veteran, and the father of eight. Children. Eight children. You heard me, right? Saint has eight kids. Yep.

Saint has also traveled all around the globe. He is incredibly intelligent, articulate, and experienced in the ways of the world. And he raises Chihuahuas. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the species, Chihuahuas are similar to dogs, only much smaller.

My friend is a sailor, a teacher, a husband, son and brother. He’s also wicked sharp when it comes to computers—guts and all.

So you can see how much we have in common.

Hmmm.

Nope, Saint and I are as different as night and day. Steel and mercury. Hard-headed man of the world and soft-hearted country girl.

This could be painful. I mean, how will two such diverse people work together productively, and in harmony? In what genre will we write? In what style? Should we showcase our distinctive techniques, or should we attempt to make our manuscript appear as if was written by one author?

And what about that? That! Right up there! I wrote “appear as if it WAS written”. Do you have any idea what Saint will do if I write that into any manuscript of which he is a part? I’ll start getting lectures about ‘future conditional’ verbs or phrases or some such garbage…and we all know—the English language is Greek to me. He’ll insist I should have typed “appear as if it WERE written”--and I’ll get testy, and he’ll get cranky and superior… and we’ll both get returned to our corners by the referee as we Google like mad, trying to prove the other wrong.

And yes. Saint is usually right. Just like Jack is usually right. I wonder, sometimes, why I even take a stand.

I suppose it’s the Irish in me. I hate to admit when I’m wrong, and I simply can’t back down without a fight.

Or, how about this? Perhaps I make those mistakes purposely, because I am a nurturing woman, and I realize that the male ego needs a boost on a regular basis. Maybe I’m doing it so that my pals can feel good about themselves, which is the very least that a kind and caring friend should do!

That’s it! I’m sure of it!I must remind them to thank me for that.

So, yes. Saint and I have decided to co-author a manuscript. First, we’re going to take a practice run, and write a short story together. Just to see how things pan out. Just to see how well I can work with an irascible, funny, smart, way-too-confident gent...and to find out if Saint can handle basking in my exceptional glory. (Lord, I’m brave when he’s not around!)

Truthfully? I have every confidence that we will pull it off. It was just about one year ago that I read his novel, affectionately referred to as “Eggless”. Rarely have I read a book which caused me to laugh out loud, but “Eggless” did exactly that. Not since consuming James Herriots’s “All Creatures Great and Small” and delighting in the images of lighting cow’s farts afire have I giggled and tee-heed like I did when reading about the exploits of the young characters in Saint’s vividly written novel.

Any man—any writer—who can bring me tears of laughter is a treasure, and I intend to keep this old timer around for as long as I can.

In the meantime, let’s keep this “irascible, cranky, superior old timer” bit between us, okay? Saint is as prickly as a porcupine and he doesn’t waste his energy in attempting to be diplomatic. He says what he thinks, and when we emerge from our corners, it’s “no holds barred”.

I find that incredibly refreshing. Maddening, but refreshing. I hope you’ll stay tuned. Perhaps we’ll bomb and go up in a puff of smoke. Or maybe, just maybe, we’ll make some magic, together.

Saint will know. He (thinks he) knows everything!

***************************************

Well, I did it. I co-authored a short story with my friend, Saint. If you read my February 23rd "Observations" column, you’ll know that I had some misgivings about writing collaboratively with this man. I was extremely excited to have the opportunity to create a novelette with Saint, but I felt some anxiety, nonetheless. I had concerns about genre and style. About content and grammar.

And…I worried that he would be critical. That the two of us would get ‘testy’ with each other.

Of course, the presumption was that Saint might be the “challenge”, for we all know I am the most easy-going woman in western Maine. Laid back, calm, a joy to work with and a pleasure to be around. Just ask (almost) anyone! (Better check with me first, though, okay?)

Regardless of my easy-going nature, I didn’t know if Saint would find that I was easy to work with. Would he think I was fun? Focused? Professional? That my writing was half-way decent? I surely didn’t want him to regret saying he would co-write with me.

And trust me… if he DID regret it, he WOULD say. Ouch.

So, being the kind of woman I am (you remember….laid-back, calm, a joy and a pleasure… Oh! And candid! Let’s not forget candid!) I asked him. Straight up.

“Hey, Saint? How much pleasure, joy and calmness did I bring to your life when we wrote a story together?”

This is what he said:

“Dearest Kaz...

“OK, I have to say the pleasure, joy and calmness I found writing with you has been nothing if not immeasurable. Your punctuation alone merits more than the occasional raised eyebrow – and I don’t think there’s any question that when it comes to Big Wind you exude a certain air that leaves no doubt but that the Big Cheese is in the house.”

Yes, that was his response. What the heck did that mean? Was that a compliment, or an insult? Oh, brother. I’ll let you be the judge. He continued…

“To my non-Kaz peeps...

“Hi everyone. I’m Eugene Saint – not to be confused with Saint Eugene who (they tell me) is another guy altogether. So, here’s the deal...

“What some folks like to call “collaborative effort” others might call “milking the old guy for a freebie”. Nevertheless... apparently I agreed to this. In my own defense I don’t remember a thing – they said they had pictures (and historically that’s been my Achilles Heel) so she had me by the proverbial [YOUR WORD HERE]. Of course I capitulated for the sake of harmony and thereafter we wrote a short story called Bee Dazzle (hey, it sounded like a good title at four o’clock in the morning).

“While my admiration for Kaz’s ability to put pen to paper is second to none, I have to admit keeping her in a near-Earth orbit proved a daunting task. She’d write herself into a corner and I’d throw my body on one for the good of the squad. You know the routine. Thus we progressed through 22k words – the results of which weren’t half shabby. Naturally you’ll understand my reticence to mention exactly whose half was the shabby part but suffice it to say... it wasn’t for lack of punctuation.

“Continuously setting the bar lower, we seem to have reached some common ground upon which to begin our new endeavor – a full-length novel. I have no idea what it’ll be about but my guess is it’ll be something happy, sad, terrifying, delightful, hot, cold and otherwise real mid-life crisisy (if you catch my drift).

“Cranky? Me? Ha! I laugh. Bite your tongue, womans.

“Saint”

I had to giggle (and bite my tongue) when I read that—for it is pure, unadulterated “Saint”. He’s the only one who calls me “womans”, too. I imagine you can now understand my trepidation. It takes a lot of fortitude to stand toe-to-toe with such self-possession and orneriness. But I survived, and came out the other side unscathed. Almost. I’m not quite sure how to respond to the “Big Wind” crack, yet, but I’ll figure something out. I always do.

Our short story is available to read online. It is unedited, and in its pure, raw, first-draft form. No editing, no tweaks or changes. We had no outline and didn’t really “collaborate”, per se, either. I would write a few hundred words, and Saint would read it for the first time, pick up the story from there, and run with it. I would do the same. It was a challenge, but a fun one. For me, anyway. Who knows about the crabby old geezer down in Tennessee?

Will we survive co-authoring a full-length novel? Who knows? I’d like to think we will because, after all, in addition to those other stellar attributes, I also possess a world of patience. The patience of a "saint". And obviously… I’m going to need it.

Big Wind and Big Cheese, indeed.

*************************
Top illustration by Eugene Saint (who was, apparently, the model, too...)