Big Wind Regatta at the Harraseeket Inn, Freeport, Maine

This posting to GAG is by way of an announcement, I suppose. I made the acquaintance of the most wonderful of Maine ladies. Nancy Gray, owner of the Harraseeket Inn in Freeport, is generously hosting a fund-raiser for the Friends of the Highland Mountains.

A gala event is being held at the Inn on June 5th, and Mrs. Gray is not only providing the beautiful conference room, but she is serving a sumptuous buffet meal, too. For a small, $10.00 donation, guests can look forward to hors d’ouevres and a cash bar at 5:30, followed by the meal. There will be several brief speakers during supper, and then we will have the premiere showing of the DVD, ‘Save the Mountains of Highland, Maine’. After this awesome video, our guests will be entertained by a bit of Big Wind.

Yeah, that’s me. I’ll be performing a little ‘stand-up comedy’. Oh, Lord. Here we go again! How do I get myself into these things???

See, there’s a reason why I’ll put myself through this agony yet again. When I’ve concluded the entertainment portion of the evening, we will wrap things up by auctioning off some awesome items donated by generous people from all corners of this state, and even a few friends ‘from away’. I am humbled by the generosity of so many people who are dedicated to preserving the wildlife, ecology, environment and quality of life in these western mountains of Maine. And it’s a proven fact: people tend to spend more money when they are happy. Therefore, I will make a complete and total ass of myself beforehand.

It’s all for a good cause. Really. That’s what my friends keep telling me.

Sigh…

Those who care to spend the night in this elegant Inn can also take advantage of the special rates Mrs. Gray is giving to our friends. Rooms, each normally rated at $235.00 on a Saturday night, can be reserved for a mere $95.00, and that price includes a full, hot buffet breakfast and afternoon tea. Check-in is at 3:00 p.m. and check-out at 11:00 a.m. If you’d like to reserve a room from this block that is being set aside for us, please do so before May 10th, and reserve under the name ‘Turbine Wind Power’.

Wow. The awesome generosity of the people of Maine humbles me every time. Wow.

Come down to Freeport. Eat, drink, learn some facts about industrial wind, and see me have some fun at my own expense… and maybe at the expense of the Windustry.

Big Wind... can I say that it blows? Come find out if I dare. June 5, 2010, 5:30, at the Harraseeket Inn, 162 Main Street, Freeport, Maine 04032. (To make reservations, please call (207) 865-9377) Hope to see you there.


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P.S. Please tune into Maine Outdoors, the North Woods Sporting Journal's live, interactive radio show on Sunday night, 4/25, from 7:00 to 8:00 p.m. for a discussion about mountaintop industrial wind and it's impacts on the pristine mountains of Maine. I will be the guest of host V. Paul Reynolds, and I encourage you to listen and call in. This is a wonderful opportunity to spread the facts about Big Wind to the people of Maine. WVOM-FM, 103.9 and WQVM-FM 101.3.

Not Your Average GAG Posting

On Saturday, April 10th, from 4:30 to 6:30 p.m. a group of friends is putting on a benefit spaghetti supper at Carrabec High School in North Anson. Vicki Anderson of New Portland has Stage Four lung cancer, and the costs of traveling for treatment are burdensome. Please help support our neighbor by coming out and joining us at the school.

At 6:30, following the meal, I will be performing a bit of 'stand-up' comedy to entertain the crowd. That's my intention, anyway, and I'll give it my very best. Life seems cruel at times, but laughter is the best of tonics.

Please join us for a delicious meal, a few giggles, and some other fund-raising opportunities. Your participation will be greatly appreciated.

More details will follow as we get closer to the date. Thank you.

I mean it. Thank you.
Kaz

Valentine's Day Contest (aka Photo Caption Contest)

AND WE HAVE A WINNER!!!

Crookedpaw, a friend from down-country, has been crowned the winner of the NAME THAT PHOTO CAPTION contest. The winning entry? Heck... now I can't see the comments section to quote him exactly... hold on, my friends, while I figure out how to do this. (Rocket science is not my bag...and this simply HAS to be rocket science!)

I'm back! The winning caption is: 'That's the last time I play Twister with Edward Scissorhands!'

Yahoo!

Hey, guys and gals... I really appreciate all the fun and original entries you gave me. I love that you came over to GAG to play. I am grateful to the intrepid Ali g who had such a hard time choosing the winner, but who hung in there until he'd painstakingly separated the wheat from the chaff.

And Wade? You, my dear boy (and good friend) are the CHAFF!! Hehehe. Hopeless, that's what you are. (FYI, Grumble Bluffs are STILL on sale at Tranten's! You walk by them almost every day! Ahem... that's all I'm saying...)

Thanks again, my friends. :o)



Okay, okay... not every Pease is a terrible photographer. I purposely cropped this photo. In an effort to renew interest in my photo caption contest and give poor, bored Ali g something to do, I am adding another topless photo of Karen Bessey Pease. But how do you know it's me, you ask? Trust me... it I was going to choose a body to attach my head to, it wouldn't be this one. To begin with, it would be about 20 years younger! And I would simply whittle down from there...

So, take your pick and captionize a pic! Give either of these photos a caption, add it into the comments section down below, and then, STAY TUNED. The winner, chosen by the persnickety Ali g, will be announced on 2/14/2010. The champion photo labeler will win an autographed copy of Grumble Bluff! These fine tomes are valuable beyond measure, so be sure to enter now.



ORIGINAL TEXT:
This is actually a photo caption contest. Posted here and to the right (unless you're on the opposite side of the screen and facing in my direction) is another professional photo of me, author Karen Bessey Pease. This photo needs a caption. A good caption. A funny one. Look at the picture closely and see how creative you can be. I'm thinking of using this shot for my author bio on the back cover of Grumble Bluff,so put on your thinking caps and see what you can come up with!

(I had a teacher in third grade, Mrs. Beane, who always said the 'thinking cap' thing. It seemed appropriate to use here until I realized she used it on THIRD GRADERS!)

Oh, well. The contest runs until Valentine's Day, and the winner will be announced on Sunday, February 21, 2010. (Oops, meant 2/15/2010...sorry to those who read the original text.) Our very own Ali g will be judging the entries, but he has assured me that bribery WILL NOT WORK. There will be NO FAVORITISM! No NEPOTISM! No DESPOTISM! No PRIAPISM! None of that, nuh-uh! He has promised me he is above such things! (He has also stated FOR THE RECORD that he prefers Chardonnay, and that there is a 34 HP farm tractor with detachable bucket and PTO and a three point hitch on his wish list, but those facts hold NO RELEVANCE WHATSOEVER as it pertains to this contest.) What a guy!

Create the best title and win an autographed copy of Grumble Bluff. I'll even throw in a signed photo of myself to use at your discretion! (But how will you know it's me? And what would you discreetly use a photo for, anyway?)

Come play on GAG. You're guaranteed to grumble or grin!

Titles Are Clear-Kut Innovations (aka TACKI)

For those of you who are fans of my Irregular column ‘Observations From The F.A.R.M. (Fresh Air and Room to Move)’ please check out my pal Jack Ramsay’s blog, The Down Under Dunder, or DUD. (Jack and I are masters at this game! GAG… DUD… The cunning we possess when coming up with titles for our creations is mind-boggling! Remember, it was Jack who wrote that excellent children's story about the circus cow who wowed audiences with her extraordinary juggling act. The title was, if I remember correctly, Balls on a Heifer. And of course, I am the best-selling author of the tale about the hirsute creator of custom-designed portable under-the bed toilets; Hairy Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Yeah… Jack and I? We know what we’re doing in the ‘title’ department!)

Some of you may remember the Scotsman from his guest appearances in my column and on Grumbles and Grins. But if you missed him (and I assume the ONLY reason you missed reading ‘Observations’ or GAG was due to a terrible, debilitating illness) then you have an opportunity to catch up, right now!

Please travel to Australia via the cyber-highway and spend a few moments with my pal, writer Jack Ramsay. You won’t be sorry.

He’s an idiot, but don’t take my word for it. Jack is the expert on idiocy, here. Go check him out.

Christmas at the Hill Place

I wrote this poem three years ago. My parents, Chuck and Jo Bessey, were hosting their yearly Christmas party in Elliotsville Township, the place of Dad's birth, and Mum asked if I would write a poem for the event. I wasn't invited to the party... but I was more than happy to mark the occasion for them in my own special way. Each of the decrepit, aging and feeble characters in this poem are real live people; my aunts and uncles and aints and carbuncles... the Besseys and our extended family, all of whom I love dearly.

Even if I'm not ever invited to their stinking Christmas parties...

It’s Christmas at the Hill Place, and friends have gathered near,
To eat good food and have some fun, and drink some Christmas cheer!

Chuck and Jo spiffed up the place-- Decked halls and strung some lights,
And sang some Christmas carols, while doing it... (Yeah, right!)

Their guest list was impressive-- The township’s fabled few!
Aristocrats and noblemen-- a majestic, royal crew.

Drinks were drunk and food was et; off-color jokes were told.
(They’d never do that publicly, with reputations to uphold!)

At last, with filled-up bellies, they leaned back in their chairs.
They’d help Jo clean her kitchen, but no-one really dares.

Such an esteemed gathering, surely warrants gifts!
Jo sent Chuck to go get them, out through the snowy drifts.

Several truck doors then were slammed-- too many to make sense...
Then Chuck came grinning sheepishly. “Guess mine’s the one with dents!”

He placed a pretty package beside them on the floor.
“The first one to guess what this is, will surely get some more!”

Even noble folks like these do love to get nice gifts.
This fierce new competition was sure to cause some rifts.

Bob, in a bright new muscle shirt of red and green and gold,
Said, “Do we get a hint or two-- If I might be so bold?”

Jo smiled quite beguilingly, “Of hints, there’s none, I fear.
“But you can use your senses-- of touch, and sight, and ear.”

Jim-- who hates to come in last-- thought he’d go shake the thing.
But when his bad knee held him back, said “Wife, I bid thee-- Bring!”

But Marilyn was tuckered out. “Jim, you’ll just have to wait.
“Once my meal has digested, then I’ll accommodate.”

Clowes stood up, approached it, and felt it up and down.
“I’m good at guessing packages... I cart them all ‘round town!”

“This one here is pretty.” He sniffed along the border.
“Reminds me of the whiskey our pastor likes to order.”

“’Course, I, your humble servant, would never tell a tale...
My job is confidential, when I deliver mail!”

With rosy cheeks, Clowes sat back down, and Patty slapped his knee.
“Your loose-lipped indiscretions will be the death of me!”

Fred was next to take a guess. He turned it round and round.
“It must be something awful soft-- for I can’t hear a sound!”

Prue said, “Your total deafness, I truly can’t abide!
“It clearly makes a little sound! At least, on my good side!”

At that, Dick hollered, “What was that? And Chuck, he queried, “What?”
And Jay said, “Boys, I think she said, she’s got a little butt!”

Mary Ann, and Rose, and Jo just rolled their eyes around.
This crowd would surely not divine the gift based on its sound!

Sisters Beve and Flora thought they would try their luck.
Between them, they had four new knees! In their chairs they weren’t stuck!

Together they approached the box, they looked it up and down.
Of dignity-- they had too much to sniff it like Clowes Brown.

Flora laid her ear on it-- With tongue, Beve took a taste.
“Reminds me, Patty, of school lunch, we made for kids to waste.”

The siblings gave up quietly. Was it food, or clothes, or toys?
Their brains were just too tired from raising all those boys.

Mickey gave Dick one quick jab, then Dick poked Roy and Bob.
“I guess it’s for us men-folk to tend to this-here job!”

Now all the women rolled their eyes, Geneva, she did knit,
While Mary Ann smoked quietly-- Dick really gave her fits.

These lusty men, they stroked the box. They tipped it to and fro.
They turned it up, they turned it down, they lifted high and lo.

“Mickey, what’s it look like?” Dick asked his friend to try.
“How the hell do I know? Like you, I’ve got one eye!”

Mary Ann said dryly, “Don’t bother to ask me!
I’ve got ‘em both, but out one side is all that I can see!”

Chuck said, “Hey there, Leroy! Take a guess and get your wish!”
Well, Leroy gave a mighty snuff and said, “It smells like fish!”

“Fish are best when smoked, you know... and that is what I do!
But fish is all I smell these days, so the rest is up to you!”

A light bulb flashed in Skeeter’s head, where mostly screws were loose.
“By gorry, chums, I’ve got it! It’s frozen cuts of moose!”

“Well if it is,” said Peter, “then Jo’s the one that killed!
“We know by now that Chuckie-Poo, surely ain’t that skilled!”

“I’ll have you know,” drawled Bessey, “in case you dopes can’t figger,
“I’ve recently misplaced the thing that used to pull the trigger!”

By this time all the Bessey’s guests-- the brave, the fine elite,
Had taken turns to figure out the gift there at their feet.

Not one of them came even close, none had the slightest notion.
No help forthwith from sight or sound, or taste, or smell or motion.

At last these valiant townsfolk, these Besseys and their kin,
Threw up their hands, surrendered, and asked what was within.

All eyes then turned to look at Jo, to find the answer sought.
She looked back at them blankly, and said, “Good God, I forgot!!”

What a Night Before Christmas!

It's Christmas: A time for family, for giving and for tradition. And in this household, it is a time for writing poems!

A few years ago I wrote a poem to read at my family's Thanksgiving feast. It was a silly ditty that showcased each of the family members gathered at my parents' home that day. The poem was a big hit, and what started as a one-time occurence has snowballed into a tradition. A tradition that I once considered uniquely mine.

I have written at least one Christmas poem each year since 2,000. Sometimes I write one to commemorate a gathering of the Peases, and occasionally my Christmas poem features the Bessey side. These poems are not serious attempts at poetry. They are simple rhyming verses made up on the spur of the moment, designed to entertain my friends and my family members.

But what I once thought was my own stamp of originality on the Besseys' holiday season has been proven to be an older family tradition, instead. It is one that makes me proud. I have discovered that my uncle, George Bessey, and my grandfather, Arthur 'Bappa' Bessey, were writers of silly ditties, too. As many members of my family once did, George and Bappa worked for Great Northern Paper Company back in the 1950's and 1960's, and lived for weeks and months at a time in that company's woods camps. The winters in our northern forests were long and desolate, and these two men passed their leisure time composing poems to delight and entertain their fellow loggers, cooks and clerks. As you will soon see, their senses of humor were rather ribald. (Finally! I have an excuse! It's a genetic predisposition! Phew...) The town of Ste. Aurelie which is referenced in this poem is in Quebec, just over the border from Big Six Township. St. Zacharie is just south of that, west of Maine's T5 R20. Rumor has it that the delights beyond the boundary were irresistible, even for a jolly old elf.

Many of Uncle George's and Bappa's poems were published in the GNP's newsletter, the Pittston Farm Weekly. I invite you to visit Pittston Farm's website. The farm brims with history pertaining to Maine's once-great logging industry. That same history is the story of the Besseys. My family.



With Christmas less than a week away, I thought I would share one or two of those old poems with you. The river drives are over. The snow-bound logging camps in the woods are gone now, too, and so are Uncle George and Bappa. I miss those men every day. But I have their written words, and those words--those verses--make me smile.

Just like they used to.

Merry Christmas.

What a Night Before Christmas!‘
by George Bessey
circa 1960?

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 Fat Lady

Well, the fat lady must have sung, because it’s over. The comedy show for charity at Nostalgia Tavern is a thing of the past.

Thank God! Cripes, at this stage of the game, I’ll thank just about anybody! In fact, I spent a good part of this post-show Saturday doing exactly that.

There are so many people who contributed to the success of the evening. And I’m speaking of success in the monetary sense…not critiquing my own efforts on stage. Good heavens! I cannot believe that there are people in the world that do that type of thing for a living!

I know I looked like Larry The Cable Guy, but with a bigger bust! (But not by much…) And I probably sounded just about as bright! But HE never looks nervous! Larry never has a joke fall flat! And HE can get away with wearing shirts that have the sleeves ripped off! Crimeny… I caught heck for letting a bit of cleavage show! And it was just a BIT! As long as I wasn’t bending over, that is…

There should definitely be some kind of law stating that one’s parents be barred from witnessing such a spectacle! No way in the world should it be permitted for my mother to hear me say ‘fart’ in a crowd...let alone allow her to hear me actually let one slip! (Because I do that when I’m nervous, you know! Sorry...too much information? Well, I’m working on those muscles as we speak!)

And a girl’s father should never, ever hear her discuss wayward testicles that might or might not get caught between the slats of a wooden chair. He’s not supposed to think I even know what those little buggers are! And I DON’T!! Not really!


But worse--far, far worse—is the ‘Grandmother Quotient’. What kind of society do we live in, where it’s okay for a ninety-three year old woman to hear her (once) beloved grand-daughter talk about nakedness, wet tee-shirt contests, getting body parts caught in zippers, and HORNY MOOSE??? Aw, Mammy!

I simply wanted to die.

However. A quiet, graceful, dignified death was denied me. Of course it was. I am the queen of the Bonehead Moment, and it is my lot in life to open my mouth, and suffer the consequences.

I do manage to raise a lot of money for charity that way, though…

So! The show is over, the money is being tallied and will soon be disbursed, and my one remaining nerve is shot. I’ve probably alienated my family, a couple of my local friends, and even my best pal half-way round the world. Am I a bona fide, unqualified success, or not?!

Of course I am.

But for the record…I have never broken wind, I don’t have a single clue about manly body parts, and I have never—not once in my life—participated in a wet tee-shirt contest. Nor have I been naked, nude, bare, exposed or unclothed. Them’s the facts, Mam.

Mam? Mammy? Aw, come on! It was for CHARITY!! It was for Alzheimers and…something else! I forget what it was…

Heh.

Thank you—every one of you—for coming out in the cold rain, the wind and the sleet in order to help me support the ‘wrinklies’ and to assist me in settling the debt owed to my pal Jack.

It’s over. And he is soooo going to pay for that!

Laughing Alone

I’m always talking about how beneficial laughter is…how it releases mood enhancing chemicals into our bodies, changes our perspectives and generally turns the seemingly unbearable into not such a big deal, after all. Laughter is amazing, and I’ve spent a good portion of my adult life trying to share those marvelous benefits with others.

I’m not only a teacher of the magical properties of glee, though—I’m a student. I discovered first-hand what a difference shared giggles could make to my existence. Laughter and the ability to look for--and find--the humor in most situations, has saved my life. And--if I’m to be honest—it has saved my sanity, too.

But what happens when something is wrong, and there is no one to laugh with? What happens when you have a problem that you can’t talk about, that you can’t share? What do you do when you really, truly need to laugh…need to cry and scream first, but need then to close it out with a bit of hilarity? A little sarcasm, or self-deprecation, or a touch of irony?

How do you laugh when you feel alone?

Shared laughter is the best, without a doubt. But I believe that an emotionally competent person needs to be able to self-heal, too. Face it. We can’t always be lifted up by others. In a perfect world, that would be possible. But this old world is far from perfect. And we need to take care of ourselves because, ultimately, I am the only person I can depend on, and you are the only person you can depend on. Ultimately, it is up to us to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and start all over again.

I have been in a foul mood for three days. Mad, yes. Sad… a bit. Down in the dumps? Try a New York City garbage barge! Grumpy, depressed, bummed out. That was me. Mrs. Grins was nothing but a great big grumble!


I blame a man, of course. Heh. See? I feel better, already!!!

Aw, a man wasn’t the original problem…but a man could have made it better. A man could have been attentive, supportive…he could have given me a few moments of his time and consideration, and the whole three day grizzle-fest could have been avoided. Or at least…alleviated.

But, no. He was too self-involved and self-important to put forth the effort to make someone else feel good.

They really can be dillweeds, you know?

But I am Karen Bessey Pease! Author of excellent young adult fiction and a superbly written newspaper column! I make people laugh every day…and if I can do that, then I could surely find a way to lift myself out of the doldrums! Right???

Absolutely!!!

So, how did I do it, you ask? Well, I started by looking at photographs last night. Pictures of peaceful scenes from here at home on The F.A.R.M., and others I’ve taken around the neighborhood and the state of Maine, at large. I pulled out photos of friends…cherished people that I have shared laughter with, in the past. Some of the pictures were uplifting simply because of the smiles on the faces of the people caught by the lens. Some brought a grin for the memories they induced. One caused a chuckle, because the photo inspired a scene in one of the sequels I’ve written for Grumble Bluff.


Have you ever seen the facial expression of someone who is considering the option of sea-sickness? Oh, I felt empathy, all right. But standing a safe distance away, I could also feel a whole boatload of mirth!


Those photos were enough, last night. They eased a burden that had been pressing on my diaphragm, keeping me from drawing a free and easy breath.

But I wasn’t in the clear, yet. I was still a little grumpy this morning…still a mite dejected. I was simply not back to my carefree, fun-loving self. And that’s never good. One of the worst things about a foul mood is its contagious properties. If I bark, if I am snippety, if I lose my cool and say something unkind, then my whole household suffers. My mood is transferred post-haste from me to my husband and children. And that’s never good. If I’m feeling pithy or pithed off, I want to keep it all to myself, and not suffer the guilt of infecting the rest of the Grumbles with my murk.

I’m selfish, that way.

So! It was time for Round Two of my self-induced therapy! I graduated from photographs to the written word!

It’s most likely a bit conceited of me to say that I think I’m funny. But…I do. And this afternoon, when I made myself stop working on my assigned tasks for an hour, I opened my ‘documents’ file on the computer. There, at my fingertips, were several hundred columns, letters and poems that I’ve written over the years. Many of them are unrecognizable by the titles I gave them, so when I opened them, they were a surprise. But unwittingly, I opened some doozies!

I write about real life. Real life that is sometimes embellished or exaggerated…for I am a simple woman and my life is not very exciting. But that ability to find the humor in the mundane, the idiotic and the pathetic is what this writer—this woman—is all about. If I have any kind of legacy to leave, I hope that is it.

I trolled through the files, reading about a husband who picked up a dog turd that he thought was a rock. I read about a son speaking into a wall-mounted box of utility knife blades, thinking it was an intercom. I perused a story of a daughter who would only eat honey when she discovered it was bee SPIT instead of bee POOP. I was reminded of a dog who could pick up stones in his viscous drool. A mother who has never farted. And aunt who unknowingly hit a chicken with her car and drove fifteen miles with it squawking and flapping in the grill of her car. (She thought she was incredibly popular, so many people waved to her that day!)


And I read about a burly woman who got stuck in her seat at Fenway Park and single-handedly screwed up a 'wave'.

And lastly, I read the FOASS letter.

That is one document that I did NOT write. I was the recipient, instead. The FOASS letter is the most insulting and loving letter I have ever received. It was written by a friend…a friend who called me every name in the book, and then some. A friend who knew me well enough to know that I would take it in the spirit it was intended. A pal who knew that I would be uplifted by foul words and rudeness, because I would recognize that only a true friend, only a best friend, could tell it to me like it was and be secure in the fact that I would understand the sentiment within.

Relationships evolve. They change. We all know that. When we are young and naïve, we think that the first blush of infatuation will always exist. We believe that an intimate friend will always be nearby--giving us an ear, a shoulder, a hand. But as we mature, we realize that each relationship has a honeymoon phase. Sometimes the relationship grows and strengthens and the bond is made fast. Sometimes events and other people get in the way, and the connection stretches and thins. Occasionally, it even breaks. That is one of the vagaries of life. Nothing ever stays the same.

But I have the stories of life on The F.A.R.M. I have the photos, the poems, and the old columns. And I have the FOASS letter. Right at my fingertips, so I can pull up a little self-imposed therapy… a little laughter, a bit of self-deprecation, and a smidgen of irony.

Life can be tough. But laughter can always, always make it a bearable journey. And quite often, it can make it a hell of a ride!

Cover Your Mouth When You Yawn!!!

Freak accidents. We never expect them…that’s why they are labeled thusly. The phrase says it all.

Death is never funny. It isn’t. And the closer a person is to the victim of a fatal accident, the less amusing and the more tragic it is.

I consider myself a woman with a lot of empathy. A great deal of sympathy. More than my share of compassion. And yet, at the same time I have found myself chortling in fascinated dismay and yes—almost glee—when learning of certain ‘freak accidents’.

None of us wants to die. It is human nature to hold on to the tenuous and fragile strings that secure us to life with everything we’ve got. But we ARE going to die. It is inevitable. Some of us will die soon, and many of us will pass on in the distant future. But if I had my choice between a lingering illness, or long-term pain, or an existence where--because of the frailty of mind or body--I was affecting the quality of life of my loved ones who WERE healthy and who DID have a long and promising future…well. I guess I’m saying that I’m the kind of girl who would rather have her end be swift, unexpected…and even something that might be thought of as funny, after the pain and shock wore off.

Am I a sick mother (wife and daughter), or what??

The following is an excerpt from a newspaper article a friend sent me. I don’t KNOW that it’s true…but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was.

A circus dwarf, nicknamed ‘Od’, died recently when he bounced sideways from a trampoline and was swallowed by a yawning hippopotamus waiting to appear in the next act. Vets said Hilda the Hippo had a gag reflex which caused her to swallow. More than 1000 spectators continued to applaud wildly until they realized there had been a tragic mistake.

Well, NO WONDER we can’t get homeowner’s insurance if we own a trampoline! No wonder!!

Okay. You’ve read it. I dare say, you’ve read it twice! And I’m betting that a good percentage of you--whether you’d openly admit it or not—got a chuckle from that article. Maybe even a hoot! It has an aura of mesmerizing horror to it, doesn’t it? I mean, come on!!! Out of all the ways a human being might envision his eventual death, would this scenario ever, EVER cross his mind? We picture car accidents, or cancer, or house fires or diabetes. But we never, EVER foresee bouncing sideways from a trampoline into a yawning hippo’s mouth!!! I DARE you to tell me that possibility has crossed your mind!

I dare you!

I admit it. I giggled and tee-heed for five minutes after I read that. Sure, I feel sympathy for Od’s family and friends. What a terrible thing to have happen! One minute, little Od was bouncing away, light and free, doing somersaults to the delight of his fans, and the next…Hehehehehe.

I’m sorry! I am! See? I’m a sick woman! But Holy Hippos, Hilda! It simply boggles the mind!

And I’ve gotta tell you…I feel bad for poor, humble Hilda. There is no way that creature could have foreseen those particular consequences when she succumbed to the irresistible urge to yawn! Think of it! She’d no doubt seen Od’s high-flying acrobatics countless times! While he might have been keeping the crowd enthralled, Hilda was simply bored. Big deal! Once you’ve seen one bouncing, springing, leaping dwarf, you’ve seen ‘em all! She can’t be blamed for giving in to the urge to yawn. There was certainly no malice aforethought when she opened those massive jaws and inhaled. There was no way she could have known that that deep lungful of revitalizing air would be accompanied by a side order of dwarf. No way!

I, myself, have yawned and inadvertently inhaled a black fly in the spring of the year. I’ve inhaled a cookie or a bread crumb. Once, I even yawned in a piece of macaroni and whistled in panic for two minutes until the offending pasta was expectorated. But to the best of my recollection, I’ve never yawned and accidentally swallowed a circus star! Not a muscle man, nor a bearded lady…not even a dwarf. I am almost positive I would have remembered!

Almost positive!

Rest assured, now that I know such things are in the realm of possibilities, I shall make it my custom to cover my mouth each time I yawn. Without fail, and that’s a promise.

But Hilda didn’t have that option, did she?

Aw, heck. No, it’s not funny that Od met his demise in such a way. (It’s NOT! I’m sorry!!! I’m really TRYING not to snicker! I AM!) Ahem. Death is never humorous. But death IS unavoidable. And if you’ve gotta go--if you’ve gotta leave this earth in some manner—why not have it be in such a way as to inspire a smile in another? A laugh, a snort, even a chortle? Od was an entertainer, after all. He liked to ‘wow’ the crowds.

I’d say the man was a complete and absolute success. He left at the top of his game. After bouncing sideways.

That’s all I’m saying. Hehehe.

Meadow Muffins and Bonehead Moments

It has once again been proven.... we country folk are easily entertained! What better way to spend an autumn Saturday then to attend a meadow muffin contest!

Someone from 'away' might ask what a meadow muffin contest is. Is it a cooking contest, similar to a chili cook-off? Is it held outdoors, in someone’s meadow?

Well, yes, it is an outdoor event. But no-one is baking pies in order to win a blue ribbon. Think cow pies instead.

That’s right! We Mainers know how to make the most of a good BM! As a fun way to raise money for charity, we like to pit our knowledge of the bovine gastroenterological system against that of our friends and neighbors! A section of field--or meadow, if you will--is divided into grids and fenced off. (Imagine a bingo card with MEADOW MUFFIN across the top and numbers 1-12 down the side, creating 144 square blocks of earth.) People 'buy' a square of ground inside the paddock, say D-3 for example, and then settle in for the show. The object of the game, of course, is to have the cow deposit a kucky cookie in the square that you paid for, thereby winning you a prize.

It’s not unheard of to arrive with your family in tow and a picnic lunch in a basket. Lawn chairs are set up, and the anticipation grows. The air is festive, and the excitement is contagious. Once Bessey, the heifer (the queen of all the cows) is released into the paddock, the suspense is a palpable thing. Will Bessey graze for a while, increasing the tension of the crowd? Will she give the spectators any warning before she makes a pattie placement? Will she perhaps stop and pose for a second so that everyone can witness the grand finale? What happens if she’s ambling along, calmly regurgitating and chewing the contents of one of her four stomachs while flopping the flap, and it lands in more than one square? (Cows can do that, you know. Their manure manipulation maneuvres are magnificent.) The potential variables of the extravaganza are endless, and add to the fun and excitement of the day.


Alas, all good things must come to an end. Bessey, in fine form and with little more fanfare than a quick crook of her tasseled tail, makes her meadow muffin at last. The crowd crows with delight, the cow is praised for her fine form, and the winner is cheered.

Even though the contest is over, the day is not quite done. The fence comes down, and beautiful Bessey is led back to her stall in the barn. The cow pie is offered to the winner of the contest. When the champion declines the gift with all good grace, someone else takes care of the muffin removal. The spectators pack away their left-overs, load up their trucks with camp chairs, blankets and kids, and head through the field towards home. The sun dips low on the horizon and a whippoorwill calls across the now-quiet meadow.

Are we cheap dates, or what??

Yes, I appreciate that we can have a blast doing something as mundane as watching a cow chew her cud and waiting with anticipation for her to drop a doodle on a patch of grass. I love the fact that a community can join together to raise money for a worthy cause, and do it in a way that is inexpensive, hilarious and fun. I think it’s fantastic that you can make some money betting on the bodily functions of a half-ton cow!

And I gotta say it--I love any cow named Bessey.

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This Bessey will be doing her bit for charity on Friday, November 27, 2009 at 7:00 p.m. (No!! Not THAT!!! Sheesh! I'm nowhere NEAR that regular...) To benefit Alzheimers (Maine Chapter) and Franklin Home Health Care, I will be performing 'Bonehead Moments' and 'I Love Ya Man...But Get a Grip!' at Nostalgia Tavern in Kingfield. Tickets are $15.00 per person, or $25.00 for a pair. Only 100 are available, and they are going fast, so please contact me if you would like to attend this evening of comedy. Tickets are also available at Nostalgia Tavern and Tranten's Store in Kingfield. During intermission, a character name in a Grumble Bluff sequel will be auctioned off. Here is your opportunity to have your name immortalized in a novel that takes place right here in the western mountains of Maine! Raffle tickets are also on sale for a quilt made by my 93 year old grandmother, and the winner will be drawn that night, as well. These are available at the Kingfield Woodsman Restaurant (where the quilt is displayed), at Tranten's Too, and at Narrow Gauge Realty.

Please join me for an evening of fun and help support these worthy organizations. I'll do the grumbling, and you can do the grinning! Call me at (207) 628-2070 or email me at roomtomove@tds.net for tickets!

Bonehead moments... Whose bright idea was this, anyway? Come discover the answer at Nostalgia Tavern! (He is SOOOOO going to pay for this!)
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For those of you who are discering readers and followers of GAG, I'd like to take this opportunity to assure you that I DO know the bovine in these photos is NOT a COW. HIS name is Blue, and he is one of the steers at home here on The F.A.R.M. I DO know the difference, boys and girls! Cows don't have HORNS, after all! Sheesh...

Laughter...The Best Medicine

I’ve learned over the course of many years that laughter can be a life-saver. Sometimes, existing in a state of harmony with the world and those around us is nigh impossible. Things go wrong. People don’t live up to our expectations. Once in a while, we don’t live up to theirs. It sometimes seems as if strife is as commonplace as breathing.

But breathe, we must! And drawing breath comes much easier when our chests are free of the tightness caused by conflict, sorrow or worry. That’s why laughter is so good for human beings. It causes those constricting muscles in our torso to relax, and loosen up.

If you’re lucky, those are the ONLY muscles that will loosen up when you laugh.

I made someone pee her pants, today.

I’m actually quite proud of myself. Oh, I’m not pleased that this woman had to spend the rest of her workday afloat in seas of brine! Certainly not! I truly feel BAD that she had to field questions from her co-workers like, ‘Did someone bring a baby in here?’ and ‘Do you smell soggy diapers?' I’m quite distressed that she had to spread a garbage bag on the seat of her SUV for the drive home from her office. It’s terrible that she had to go into the store on her way there for a gallon of milk and a box of Depends. And I’m terrifically upset that she was wearing a beige skirt rather than something dark-colored which would have hidden a damp stain! Certainly, I’m not happy about ANY of those things.

Certainly not!

And yet, I still find it hilarious! Every time I think about the fact that she actually LAUGHED SO HARD SHE WET HERSELF, I go off on a round of giggles! When I picture the woman who shares her office crinkling her nose and looking into her garbage can for a used, disposable diaper, I start in with renewed snorts. Imagining my friend sidling past shoppers in the market so that she wouldn’t present them with the back of her sodden skirt causes my sides to ache.

It’s not funny, but it is hysterical!

And geez, I don’t know about my friend, but I sure feel better, now!

Of course, it’s not always appropriate to laugh. And naturally, when it’s NOT fitting, that’s when we feel the strongest urge to guffaw until we gag.

On November 27th, I will be performing a ‘stand-up’ comedy routine in a local tavern to benefit charity. I love to make people laugh, but I am NOT a comedian, and so this prospect scares the dickens out of me. And trust me when I tell you…I have good reason to be scared!

You see…I’ve done this before.

In March of 2001, I was asked to entertain the public at this very same tavern--only that time, the event was to benefit my small, hometown library in New Portland, Maine. I was to read portions of a manuscript I’d written titled, No, I’m not Pregnant, I’m just Fat (But Thanks So Much for Asking!) And that’s just what I did. I stood on stage and read select portions from my little, unpublished book…and the crowd of nearly 100 went wild. To my amazement, they LOVED it! I had them falling out of their chairs, they laughed so hard! I’m still dumbfounded when I think about what a success that evening was.

To my surprise and delight, the owner of a bar up north in Stratton heard about the event, and she asked me if I would come to the plaza and do the very same thing. Riding high on the triumph of that night, I said yes. Of course I would come! I was a rising star!

I was the Big Dip, and there are no two ways around it.

What the proprietor neglected to tell me was that my ‘act’ would directly follow another. I arrived at the establishment, ready and raring to go. Inside the lobby, I noticed that the swinging doors to the pub were closed. But emanating from behind those doors were the sounds of raucous laughter and enthusiastic applause!

‘Excellent!’ I thought. ‘Someone is warming them up for me!’ The bouncer told me that the first show was almost over, and he invited me to sit on the sofa to await my turn on the stage. I did as I was told. I looked around for something to read, but all there was on the coffee table was the local telephone directory. It was no big deal, really. Instead of reading a magazine, I opened my manila folder and once again looked over my manuscript. The manuscript I’d written about being fat.

All of a sudden, the doors to my right swung open and a stampede of approximately forty men poured through. Leading those men were two women. Two naked women. Well, I should be precise, shouldn’t I? Those ladies most certainly were NOT naked. They were bedecked in g-strings, pasties, and high heels.

Nope. Not naked, at all.

I just about had a cow!

Don’t get me wrong…I have nothing against nakedness! We Lexingtonites run around naked all the time! But never, and I repeat, NEVER would we be caught in the nude in high heels. It simply isn’t done! Rubber boots for when we’re mucking out the stalls, sneakers when we’re mowing the fields--but never, ever heels!

Holy smokes…

Well, of course, I was immediately nervous. I looked at the wall behind me and saw the poster I’d overlooked. A bachelor party! That made sense! These women were strippers! No wonder the crowd had sounded so enthusiastic!!

And now that the show was over, they weren’t content to let the ladies leave. They crowded round them, practically falling over my feet and their own as they tried to get their phone numbers, tried to book them for ‘private’ parties…it was all quite ridiculous, really.

All that commotion over high heels! Pfft!

Well, I was completely overlooked. No matter that I, too, was a woman! It was apparent that those two girls were in a league of their own. I couldn’t compete for that male attention. No way! I had sturdy combat boots on, for Pete’s sake, not stilettos! While I wore a ‘C’ cup, I would never, ever fit into a size ‘G’ string! And the closest I’ve ever come to wearing pasties was the time I had atrial fibrillation and was hooked up to an electrocardiogram machine. And that time…well, those ‘pasties’ simply weren’t positioned in a seductive way, that’s all! Wires sprouting from metal nodules didn’t have the same effect as dangling tassels…I was sure of it!

I picked up the telephone book. I mean, those girls were standing with their alphabetized floss directly at eye-level! As curious as I was as to what-all good it did and where exactly it disappeared to, I couldn’t stare. That would be rude! And so…I pretended to be engrossed in the Yellow Pages. Never have I looked like such a dipstick! I smiled politely when one beefy, red-faced man tripped over my glossy black boots and landed in my lap in his attempt to get near enough to one of the dancers to give her switch a toggle. I scuttled sideways as another gent realized I had the best view in the house, and he plopped his sweaty bum next to mine.

I was completely and totally out of my element!!! Embarrassed, uncomfortable, at a loss with what to do or say. Seriously…what kind of conversation could I hold? I couldn’t talk about the weather, because it was COLD, and I was NOT going there! And the scenery? My view consisted of an intricate shaving pattern displayed three feet in front of my eyes. Oh, and a tiny little mole.

Holy cow! I wanted my mommy!

And then, I was saved. The owner of the bar, my friend, appeared at my shoulder. She invited me inside. She had the bouncer hustle the girls to their changing room, and she escorted the wild and wooly men back into the saloon. They watched the starlets forlornly as they were led away, and then grudgingly returned to their seats.

And in moments, I was on!



Can you picture the scene, at all? Can you imagine my discomfort? Here I was, frumpy Karen, dressed in bulky sweater, heavy jeans and thick-soled boots…and what was I doing??? I was talking about the trials and tribulations of being FAT to forty sexually turned on, recently turned down men! Oh, and three women. I don’t know if they were turned on or not…I simply noticed that there were ONLY THREE WOMEN in the whole audience!!

Jumpin’ Jehosaphat!

Nobody laughed. Not one person clapped. Even when I got to the parts which had made my first audience SCREAM…not a single soul made a peep. I could smell the frustration, feel the annoyance and hear the disappointment. Even, the disgust.
I mean, get real!!! They’d just been entertained by dancing, sashaying, tasseled, stringed beauties in high heels who offered lap dances, and I was cracking jokes about being FAT!!!

Arrrgh!!!

Never, not once in my life, have I been so humiliated. I wanted to die! Those thirty minutes that I forced myself to stand there on stage comprised the most agonizing, excruciating mental torture I have ever endured. And when I finally got out of there…when I finally reached the safety of my truck and slammed the door shut, I swore I would never, not in a million years EVER, put myself though that again! There was no force on earth that could compel me to stand up in front of strangers and open myself up to that kind of humiliation, again.

Have I mentioned…I’m doing a stand-up comedy show for charity on November 27th?

Yeah…that’s says a lot about my gene pool, doesn’t it?

But, you see…something happened. Something wonderful. That strong force I just swore that had no power? Well, it does. Laughter has a power that is beyond reckoning. I closed that truck door, turned the key in the ignition, shifted into first gear, and before that vehicle pulled out onto Route 27, I was laughing my ass off. I was crying, giggling, screaming with hilarity. Oh, my God!!! I could see myself from the perspective of those forty men. Who needs a cold shower when you have Karen Pease? Got the horn on? Aw, just stick her in front of a mike and see what THAT does for you! Instant deflation! Bromide with boobs!

Oh, my God!


The distance from Stratton to my home in Lexington is almost forty miles. On those snowy spring roads, in the dark of night, it took me more than an hour to get home. And I cackled every single mile, every single minute of it! And by the time I reached the peaceful security of my little homestead, I was okay! More than okay…I knew that that painful, horrendous experience had great value and huge potential. I could just imagine how many others would get a chuckle from that event as they lived it vicariously through me. Sure, it was awful! But it was also funnier than hell.

Laughter. It’s a gift, it’s a tonic, it’s a life-saver. It is truly the best medicine there is. Laughter’s side-effects? An occasional pulled muscle in your side. A load of creases and crinkles in your face. And a lightness of spirit, a hope for the future, and yes... a rare wetting of your pants.

Have I mentioned, I’m performing a stand-up comedy routine for charity on November 27th? I invite you to come out and laugh with me.

And just in case...bring your Depends.

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The show mentioned above is to benefit Alzheimers Association (Maine Chapter) and Franklin Home Health Care. All proceeds will be donated in Jack and Alison Ramsay's names.

The F-Bomb!

There was a time not so long ago when my children were always saying funny things... mispronouncing words, misunderstanding their meanings, and the like. It was part of learning how to communicate verbally. Now, apparently, the roles are being reversed, and I’m the one who doesn’t always understand what’s being said.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the computer proof-reading the chapter of a children’s tale I had written. My thirteen-year-old daughter Josie came into the bedroom and plopped onto my bed behind me, listening half-heartedly to the news that was on CNN. I can usually block out extraneous noise when I’m writing, but something about one particular news story grabbed my attention.

The Prime Time anchor read from the tele-prompter.

Earlier today, a woman in a shopping center dropped the “F-bomb” in the midst of fellow shoppers. An off-duty fire inspector was nearby, and asked her to refrain from doing it again, as there were children nearby. Enraged at the inspector, the woman began letting more “F-bombs” fly until finally, the officer arrested her and escorted her from the building.

I turned from my computer in amazement.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! You mean you can get arrested for farting in public, now?”

Josie looked at me incredulously, and then collapsed onto the pillows, giggling hysterically.

“Mum,” she gasped, “The F-bomb means she said the F-word!”

Well, THAT wasn’t what I’d been picturing, let me tell you! The mental image I’d had was one of a young mother who was out for an afternoon of shopping, which had been preceded by a lunch at a nice little restaurant. A restaurant where she’d probably consumed a cup of chili with beans followed by a broccoli quiche. At the shopping center, well, nature took its course like nature so often does--despite our wishes to the contrary--and the woman broke wind.

Admit it, it’s happened to the best of us. Muscles that control such things simply have a mind of their own at times, right? Most of us quickly walk from the spot of detonation, hoping that someone else will get the blame. If you’re really quick-witted, you might even scowl contemptuously at another passer-by or give them a reproachful glance, thereby fully depositing any guilt squarely upon another’s shoulders.

But not the star of my misunderstood news item! No, SHE stayed in place and bravely suffered the fallout from her bomb. And then, when this stranger, this FIRE INSPECTOR, called her to the carpet on it, did she blush in embarrassment and apologize, as most of us would do? No way! I’d been convinced that this woman possessed remarkable, incredible powers! I’d heard of being “mad enough to chew nails” and “mad enough to spit” but this woman, I thought, could flatulate on command! After all, she was “letting F-bombs fly!” That was something to almost—but not quite—be envious of.

And the fire inspector’s involvement? Well, in my scenario, he was concerning himself with the public welfare! A build-up of methane gas can be combustible and thereby dangerous to those humble citizens who pay his salary. Perhaps a woman who haphazardly threw around MY kind of F-bombs SHOULD be removed from public areas! But not arrested, no. I thought that was taking things a bit too far. Give her some Bean-o or Gas-X, but don’t give her a criminal record for loosing her pucker string in a crowd.

My brief vision of “The F-bomb That Could Have Leveled a Shopping Center” went up in a puff of smoke. (Sweet, nice-smelling smoke, like you’d get from incense or something…)

It was clear to me that I wasn’t “up” on the latest slang.

It could be argued that someone saying the F-word in public SHOULD be reprimanded. I acknowledge that there is a distressful increase in distasteful--and sometimes downright foul--language that is casually uttered these days in public, in print, and on TV. But arrested for it? I’m not sure. I guess without witnessing the whole scenario, I can’t give a firm opinion on it--although getting thrown in jail for it doesn’t seem very American to me. And arrested by a fire marshal? I don’t get that. An off duty fire marshal? Nuh, uh. It seems to me like he wanted some attention or notoriety from the incident because chances are it wouldn’t have escalated into a “letting F-bombs fly” scene if he’d chosen to handle the situation in a manner that wasn’t so antagonistic.

The bottom line is, I don’t know.

What I DO know is that my mother never would have dropped an F-bomb—not my kind nor Josie’s, not in public nor in the privacy of her own home! She was and is a lady, and in the house where I grew up, to say “break wind” in the vernacular was to utter a four-letter word. You didn’t say it. You didn’t drop it. And you didn’t let it fly. And you NEVER misunderstood what she was talking about, the way I misunderstood the CNN reporter.

I only hope that I can be half as good an example to my daughter as Mum was to me. But I despair. Josie’s already perfected the art of blaming the dog.


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This 'Observations from The F.A.R.M. (Fresh Air and Room to Move)' column was one of two I wrote which won 3rd place in the Maine Press Association's Better Newspapers contest. The photo was taken in Trantens Family Grocers' parking lot this afternoon. I have no idea what this lovely lady's name is, but she looked to be perfectly capable of dropping a F-bomb.