Stopped For Not Speeding--Part Duh...

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.

The Landlubber in All of Us....

I have a friend who is a sailor. A man who is at home on the open ocean. A man who talks about ‘following seas’ and jibs and rudders and companionways. His language is made up of ‘fore’ and ‘aft’, of ‘bow’ and ‘stern’, and of ‘port’ and ‘starboard’.
In truth, that’s all gibberish.


I am a landlubber. I’ve only been in an ocean-going vessel once--during the summer of 1979--when my grandfather arranged for us to accompany a lobsterman on his boat as he checked his traps. We never got further than a mile away from Gouldsboro’s shore. Still, it was an exhilarating experience for me.

For me… but not for Grankie.
He was okay on the ride out. We motored along at a decent clip, and Grankie sat on the stern gun-whale, as content as could be. But I didn’t want to sit. I wanted to stand. I wanted to lean out over the sides and gaze at our wake. I wanted to feel the rise and fall of the waves underneath my feet. I wanted to be a part of the experience, and not just a spectator to it.

Our captain was an older man, and not given to idle chatter. He had a job to do. Upon spotting buoys emblazoned with his distinctive ‘colors’, he would cruise up alongside, grasp his ‘stick’ and snag that buoy by its rope directly underneath the waterline.

Obviously, you can tell I’m a landlubber by my use of the word ‘stick’. But I don’t know what else to call the captain’s staff. And in reality…the poor man had no ‘staff’. On his lobster boat, he was a ‘sole proprietor’…

Anyway, once the captain snagged that line, he hauled it onboard and somehow hooked it onto a winch. (Please forgive the technical phraseology which I’m using. It can be a bit intimidating, I know…) He’d start the winch’s motor and drag the lobster trap up from the ocean floor--and once it surfaced, he’d pull it onboard the boat. Inside the wooden trap were treasures never before seen by this girl from the western mountains of Maine.

Crabs of every size and hue. Starfish. Shallow-sea creatures for which I had no names. And of course… lobsters. The lobsterman would grasp a crustacean by its segmented back, take a ruler from his pocket and measure it. His ruler wasn’t a simple straight-edge, either--but rather, it had adjustable thingies fore and aft (note the mariner jargon, here) which would quickly tell him if the lobster was a ‘keepah’, or a ‘tossah’. (Okay... the word I was looking for just came to me… Calipers.) If the little bugger was long enough, from eye socket to the rear of its body shell, he went into the hold. If that distance was less than 3 ¼ inches, he got tossed back into the sea.

The experience of being on a real Maine lobster boat was priceless. From the captain’s expression and judging by the number of lobsters he threw back, ‘priceless’ didn’t equate ‘profitable’. The man spoke even fewer words on the way back into harbor than he had on the way out.

It was on the return trip that I noticed that Grankie wasn’t talking, much. He was a man given to garrulous discourse—a treasure-trove of exciting but exaggerated tales--so his reticence was palpable. He was gripping the gun-whale so hard that his knuckles were white. Luckily, white is a color which doesn’t clash with others, because his gills were pea-green. I stood in front of him, facing the stern (and Grankie)-- my feet planted shoulder-breadth apart as I rode the waves. I jibber-jabbered away… excited about my first trip into the Atlantic Ocean. He tried to smile. Made an attempt to speak. And finally, he took a deep breath and muttered, “Big Kay, Little Ay…If you don’t sit down and shut up, I’m going to barf.”

My grandfather was seasick! We hadn’t even ventured out into what I would consider ‘the open ocean’ but Grankie was having all he could do not to up-chuck, right there on the deck of that little lobster boat. His eyes beseeched me not to tell the captain… so I didn’t.

Instead, I stepped away from the man, trying my best to calculate the maximum distance of projectile vomiting.

Grankie survived he trip without incident and made me proud. I kept one prized starfish—the best of the bunch—as a souvenir of my excursion. And this landlubber--proud of her accomplishments and her ‘sea legs’--proceeded, the very next day, to fall off a cliff on Cadillac Mountain.

The voyage out to sea? No problem. No wooziness. No sea-sickness or nausea.


The concussion from falling off (okay… running over) a twelve foot cliff? That had me listing to port for three days.

*************************
PHOTOS:
A lobster boat in harbor
Me... the land-lubber
Grankie, my son Guy (1984) and Mammy
A lobster buoy
Grankie and Mammy--1981
Somewhere I have a photo of myself on that lobster boat, holding a starfish... but I can't locate it to scan, so I've posted a pic of me at the same age (one month later) with my Appaloosa, McDuff

Red Tape Venom and Vitriol

Below is an op-ed from today's edition of the Sun Journal. Frankly, I was stunned by the emotion evident in this opinion piece. This is not the type of balanced and level-headed article one expects to read in a newspaper:

Don't tell me you sold all your shares in Red Tape International, the leading producer of the red tape used in government.

Sure, it made sense to sell at the top of the market, knowing every governor in the country has vowed to reduce or eliminate its use, including our own.

Who knew, however, that while the governor was preparing to burn great piles of it on the Blaine House lawn, some legislators would be intent on wrapping more job-killing red tape around a seemingly bright spot in the state's economy.

Perhaps the market for red tape is not yet dead.

Several lawmakers already have submitted legislation designed to slow down and add more steps to locating a wind turbine in Maine.

Several weeks ago, former governor and current wind-power developer Angus King visited our offices to talk about the project he hopes to complete in Highland Plantation.


King came armed with a couple of props in a box, two 6-inch binders stuffed with paper, representing the research his firm has generated to meet state standards and requirements.

The cost of that paperwork: $5 million. That's all money spent before a project is approved or sited, money that would simply be lost by the company's investors if the project does not proceed.

King wasn't complaining about that, simply making a point that wind projects are not spread willy-nilly across the landscape.

The new legislation has not yet taken shape, but it is expected to have the usual components of red tape — more steps, more time and more expense.

It has been filed on behalf of wind-power opponents who really don't care how projects are killed, as long as they are killed.

Ironically, Maine's Wind Energy Act of 2008 was an attempt by Gov. LePage's predecessor, Gov. John Baldacci, to cut red tape, speed up the process and create jobs for Mainers.

It sets up limited areas in Maine where a well-defined process can be used for siting wind projects. In other words, it was designed to cut red tape.

Here's where you can go; here's what you need to do. Simple.

What's happening now is more illustrative than surprising and shows why red tape always multiplies.

Like many issues government handles, this one is contentious. If a legislator or even a constituent doesn't want something to happen, there is always another study, report, hearing or regulation that can be done.

It is always better to have more information than less, right? And the Legislature has always been generous with its red tape.

Time, however, is money. And, of course, money is money. Every new step, new report, new expert or new hearing adds a little delay or expense to a project.

Until, of course, you reach a tipping point where the project becomes unfeasible.

In 2008, Maine made a decision that was, and continues to be, supported by Maine people — push forward with wind power.

If the current Legislature thinks wind power isn't good for Maine, it can repeal the Wind Energy Act.

What it should not do is simply wrap wind power in more red tape.

And here, below, was my gut-reaction to this op-ed, which I submitted as an online comment to the article, as well as sending an abbreviated copy to the newspaper for its printed edition. Chances are slim-to-none that they will print it. We've learned that the hard way.

This is one of the most biased and offensive op-eds I've read on the very serious topic of mountaintop industrial wind. And it shows exactly how worried the wind lobby is.

Wow.

Yes, John Baldacci wanted to get rid of red tape for his wind lobby pals. It was job security for this former governor who hopes to keep his 'hand' in the renewable energy field. It was protection for his friends who make millions from our tax dollars. It was self-protection, all the way. They'd suffered a loss at Redington, and the wind lobby wanted to make sure that that did not happen again.

It worked, too, didn't it? How many wind developers have been denied a permit since that time?

I find it unconscionable that this newspaper expects us to feel bad for Angus King. And has Mr. King really, honestly spent $5 Million dollars? I'd like to see proof-- for just a couple of months ago, he was quoted as having spent $2Million. Could the $5 Million be the triggering number to ensure he receives our subsidy money? Before the editorial board uses figures in the millions of dollars, they owe it to their readers to require proof. And besides... are we seriously supposed to NOT oppose a misguided and terribly expensive plan simply because one developer made a poor judgement call and invested in something which is ONLY a good investment due to the government's largesse with tax-payer money? OUR money? Mr. King's partner, Rob Gardiner, stated in a Highland meeting that wind energy could not exist without huge subsidies, and would not support itself. Sorry. I can't raise a lot of sympathy for wealthy individuals who are selling Maine's quality of place in order to fill their pockets. Mr. King should have thought ahead and considered the independent thinking and common sense of those people whom he led for 8 years.

Why the venom and vitriol in this op-ed? Why would the editorial staff or the publisher have a problem with Mainers trying to work within the system established for us? We were not allowed to have a 'say' before our government decided to foist an expensive and dangerous wind energy plan on the state of Maine. The wind lobby has been brainwashing the public for years. When citizens decided to look into the FACTS about industrial wind, we were stunned. The paltry benefits this plan would provide are greatly overshadowed by the huge negative impacts. Regular citizens, without the wind industry's money for media blitzes and advertising campaigns, have been trying to educate our fellow Mainers. We have few options and outlets. We speak in meetings. We write letters to the editor. We share resources and distribute literature and talk to our neighbor. We ask people not to believe US, but to do their own research. We believe that knowledge is power, and power is something that our industry-controlled government has slowly taken away from us.

Why would this newspaper castigate Mainers for trying to change a policy which we truly believe to be one of the biggest mistakes-- and yes, scams--to come along?


The staff is attempting to influence our new governor, without a doubt. By manipulating his desire to cut 'red tape', they are hoping that he and the new Legislature will disregard these protective bills which will be coming up for vote. In my opinion, this is a low blow, especially coming from a news medium.

Billions of dollars are at stake. Wind opponents are showing their courage and conviction, and the bills which have been submitted are there for all to see. The wind lobby is nervous, and they will be stepping up their PR and attempting to scare Mainers into supporting mountaintop industrial wind. Expect to see ads saying that 'wind' will counter the effects of globla warming... something which experts are showing to be a misleading claim. Expect to have them say that wind energy will increase our national security. Poppycock. When does a nation need the most power, and the most reliable power? Where there is an emergency! Increasing our load of unreliable and intermittent and very expensive electricity will certainly not help America protect her borders. Expect the wind lobby to try to make us feel guilty. Frightened. Irresponsible if we don't support their plan, and brave, 'green' citizens if we do. Expect them to tout jobs... temporary construction jobs, and short term local 'booms' during development. Those same 330 construction workers would be kept gainfully employed in repairing our infrastructure, which is needed to bring millions of people to Maine to spend their tourism dollars. Once our iconic mountains are covered with 350 miles of 40 story turbines, those tourist will go elsewhere. This wind plan is self-perpetuated loss for Maine's economy in the LONG-term.

This op-ed is just the beginning. As Mainers see more of these types of sarcastic and anger-filled articles, they can rest assured: the wind lobby and its supporters are getting worried and desperate. Mainers are known for staring down the bullies and doing what is smart, and what is RIGHT. I urge you to educate yourselves on the topic of mountaintop wind energy. The truth will blow you away.

Respectfully,
Karen Pease
Lexington Twp., Maine
www.windaction.org, www.windtaskforce.org, www.highlandmts.org, www.stopillwind.org, www.realwindinfoforme.com, www.windfarmrealities.org ... and many, many more.

The Essence of Maine

In the January 2011 issue of DownEast Magazine, there is a section called “Maine In Your Words”. People from every corner of the country and every walk of life described their perspective of this state—they told what Maine means to them. The myriad responses were touching, and telling. Maine is simply unique. We already have what so many others are craving.

I feel blessed to be interwoven into the fabric of this wonderful region.

The DownEast article coincides with the submission to Maine’s Land Use Regulation Commission of a revised permit application for the Highland Wind project. Just hours ago, I read the press release provided by Angus King and Rob Gardiner, the two principals of Highland Wind, LLC, the developer for the project. The statement is everything I thought it would be; pure public relations fluff.

The interveners and interested parties in this project have attempted to be factual when speaking to the public and the press about industrial wind’s huge impacts and negligible benefits. The developer, however, has continued to mislead the public.

As pertains to mountaintop industrial wind energy facilities, our exposure of many of the original ‘selling points’ as being deceptive has caused wind developers to change tactics and revamp their rhetoric. In addition, I believe efforts to educate the public have resulted in some of the changes in Highland Wind LLC's revised proposal.

The major difference to the application--outlined in the press release--is that 9 of the original 48 turbines have been removed from the project, which also results in a reduction in the amount of access road construction and permanent clear-cutting which will be necessary if the permit is approved. While I oppose--and will continue to oppose--this project in its entirety, I believe this is a victory for those Mainers who have been working to preserve our natural resources and quality of life, and promote common sense, economical decisions regarding our energy future. Before we ever went to public hearing to present our case, the developers recognized that their project was flawed. Make no mistake: It still is. But this is an indication that the developers acknowledge that fact.

I do, however, find it very ironic that Highland Wind LLC now proposes to forever protect the Stewart ridge from industrial wind turbines, when just a few short months ago, they were prepared to fight tooth and nail to have the original project approved in its entirety. Theirs is certainly a professional public relations campaign.

In the coming days and weeks, the permit application will be reviewed by the LURC staff, and the public. And when the time comes we will show why, based on sound science and economics, this project should not be approved. We are ready, and we are resolved. More importantly, we have the truth on our side.

Here is another irony. Former governor Angus King, project developer for Record Hill in Roxbury and the mountains in Highland Plantation, was quoted in that DownEast article. “Define the essence of Maine in a sentence.” Most people could not comply. Maine’s ‘essence’ is multi-faceted, whether speaking about its majestic ocean and mountain vistas, its pragmatic yet generous inhabitants, or its abundant and diverse wildlife. Some who responded to that question simply went on and on. And others, like Mr. King, managed to define Maine’s essence in two or three succinct sentences.


"It’s common sense, independence, understatement, and values. It’s one of the few places left that you can rightly say has character, both in its land and its people." Angus King

In this instance, I agree with Mr. King’s words, if not with his actions.

Here are a few more quotes from that article. The ‘Maine’ these people speak of is the Maine which those common-sense, independent and value-infused citizens our former governor spoke of are trying to preserve.

“A state that beckons us through serene natural beauty, rather than manufactured attractions.”
Bill and Jean Steer, Flat Rock, North Carolina


“Pappy’s description of Maine: ‘Son I have seen the whole world and thank almighty God for bringing me home again.’ ”
Thomas M. Gaubert, DeSoto, Texas

“It is where the toxicity of modern life washes off, and I recharge. I get to breathe air and hear sounds that are still as our maker intended. In Maine, life still makes some sense.” John Blankinship, Cornwall, New York

As a writer, defining the essence of Maine should come easily. I love this state, and I have an incredible affinity with my fellow ‘natives’, and with those who came here ‘from away’ because this state and her people are incomparable. But as I sit here digesting the new information in the Highland Wind LLC permit application, and as I recognize that life here in Maine will never be the same for me, whether we succeed in our opposition to this misguided plan for our mountains, or not, I am kerflummoxed. The ‘essence’ of Maine is too far-reaching, too remarkable, for me to define it in a sentence or two. But for tonight, I think one word will suffice.

Maine is….home.


************************************
Photos:
Sunflowers and a tire swing in Lexington Township, Maine
Borestone Mountain from the Onawa Trestle, Elliotsville Township, Maine
Kayaking in Greenwood Pond, Elliotsville Township, Maine
Snow at first light--Lexington Township, Maine
Bigelow Mountain, 1950's (Franklin Sargent photo)
Peace at Pease Brook (home) Lexington Township, Maine

Friends... Just a Click (and 10,000 miles) Away

If you follow Grumbles and Grins, then you know about Jack Ramsay, my Scotsman pal who lives Down Under. You know what a great friend he is, and what a colossal pain in the neck he can be. You know Jack proof-reads my writing and gives me (really sad, pathetic) advice. You know he makes me laugh. Makes me mad. And then...makes me laugh, again.

You might remember that I performed a comedy show last year to raise money to donate to charity in his and his wife Alison’s names. Many of you even autographed the poster I had printed of him, which is now on display at Frog Hollow, Karana Downs, Queensland. At least, it had better be on display… That was artwork at its finest!

You also know about my buddy Larry, who traveled 10,000 miles north to Maine last summer for a month-long visit. It just so happens that he lives on Russell Island-- off the coast of Brisbane, and only one hour away from Jack and Ali’s mainland home.


My two friends had never met. They’d never heard of each other until I talked to one about the other, and to the other about the one. It only seemed natural that the two should meet. I mean… if I love them both, then surely, they would love each other!

So, when Larry left Maine, he had Jack’s phone number and address in his possession, and he promised to look Jack up when he got home. I didn’t really hold out a lot of hope that my two friends would make a connection, though. Larry Gilles is as laid-back a man as I’ve ever known. Totally self-confident and completely calm and peaceful. He does things at his own pace.

Much like that of a turtle.

And speaking of turtles, I’ve rarely laughed as hard as I did the night that Larry told me how a turtle broke his foot. It’s true. If ever you think, “Gee… I’d better stay away from _______ or I might break my foot!”…. well, I’ll bet the image of a turtle was not what popped into your head!

I’m not talking big turtles, here, either. Not like a Galapagos Turtle--which can weigh up to 400 pounds! Or even the North American Alligator Snapper, which can grow to 100 pounds at maturity. Nope… I’m talking normal-sized turtles. They kind you keep for pets when you’re a kid. Benign, plodding--and known more for retreating into their shells than for their aggressive, bone-crushing behavior.

Yep. A normal sized turtle broke the foot of strapping, six-foot-three-inch tall Larry.


But see, this was an extraordinary turtle—even though it was tiny in comparison to my Aussie mate. The turtle which snapped his bone in two was a FLYING turtle. I know, I know… I was a tad incredulous, myself. I mean, really! How naïve did this man think I was?

However, as accomplished a story-teller as Larry is, he doesn’t exaggerate. He doesn’t fib. The man is so bloody honest it’s scary. If you don’t think you can handle a truthful answer, you do NOT want to ask that man a question. Nope.

Larry was riding his motorcycle cross-county one night when he saw the headlights of a car traveling at speed towards him. Seconds before the bike and auto met, the car’s tire barely grazed the edge of the shell of a turtle who’d been hurrying across the road since sunrise of the previous day. Pinched between bitumen and rubber, the turtle was launched into the air… catapulted to connect solidly with the top of Larry’s boot-clad foot.

There are many more details to this legend than what I’m able to repeat. That’s because I was doubled over, laughing so hard I couldn’t hear his narrative. It’s always been a failing of mine…this propensity I have to get hysterical over silly accidents. It’s not that I didn’t feel bad for my friend. I’m sure getting a tarsal bone busted by the armor of a terrapin was terribly painful.


Ah, but the images! A big bruiser of a biker… a mean, sexy machine… both brought low by a wee little turtle. Did the poor tortoise have time to pull himself inside his shell before he struck leather-coated flesh? Or were his scaly little arms and legs flapping wildly as he tried to ascertain his natural aerodynamics so that he could come in for a smooth landing? What expression was on Larry’s face in that split second prior to impact, when he realized he was about to be undone by one of the most benign reptiles on the planet?

Did he have time to articulate his impression of the event about to take place? Truth be told, there probably wasn’t time enough for words which contained more than… oh, maybe four letters, or so.

Months later, I’m still giggling. My son Guy once had his big toe broken by a lake trout from West Carry Pond… but I’d never heard of a man getting his foot busted by a flying turtle. Those Aussie men! Always gotta get one up on us Yanks!

Anyway, I digress. To my delight, Larry really did call Jack and Ali when he returned to Australia in August. Tickled pink to make the connection, the Ramsays invited him to their home for the weekend, and the three of them bonded instantly and had a grand time. And, I dare say, they consumed enough alcohol to pickle a pig.

Larry and Jack share the same core values, and they both have an excellent sense of humor. They are both brutally honest—and I have the scars and the laugh lines to prove it. But more than anything, Jack and Larry are both very dear friends of mine—and knowing that Jack, Ali and Larry truly liked each other gives me a warm glow, way up here on the 45th N latitude..


This weekend, Jack and Ali are traveling to Russell Island, where—I have no doubt--Larry will be the ‘host with the most’. In some small way, I’ve helped enrich the lives of these three folks Down Under, simply by being the first of many things they have in common. I’m grinning ear to ear as I think of the fun they’re going to have with each other.

And I’ll admit-- since I share that propensity for being honest—I’m a little bit envious, too.

Kazza, The Notorious Spud Smuggler

Christmas is over, and I am taking a break from packing away the decorations to post a quick poem to GAG. This is not a holiday poem, but it was a gift, of sorts.

I have a very good friend who lives in New South Wales, Australia. Ali g is currently visiting family in Africa with his lovely wife, and even though I haven't spoken to him for a couple of weeks, he's been on my mind, nonetheless.

Last summer it came to my attention that this man only ate potatoes which were frozen and came from a bag. Well, that revelation was astounding to this girl who began her life in northern Maine, a place famous for its logging industry and its potato-based agriculture. I couldn't believe that my friend had never experienced the epicurean delights of a potato that had been mashed, baked or stuffed straight from its glorious, raw form! It was my duty, as his favorite gal from Maine, to make Ali g a connoisseur of les pommes de terre!

So, I sent him some.

Alas, there are party poopers the world over. Apparently, it is taboo to mail the products of a farming woman's labor and love across international borders. For, instead of potatoes, my friend received a notice from Australian Customs. Instead of a nice side dish of Maine taters, Ali g got a letter telling him that his carton of potatoes had been confiscated and destroyed!

Exactly how does one 'destroy' a potato? I've simply GOT to know what Customs did to my pertetters! Surely, the act of peeling, boiling, mashing and then EATING a potato would ensure the complete eradication of a tuber! Would't it? Just imagine all the tax dollars that could have been saved if Australian Customs had allowed nature (and a simple country girl) to handle the issue!

I was worried that my impulsive act had embarrassed my friend, and I wrote him the following ditty by way of apology. But Ali g is far tougher than I gave him credit for, and he has a marvelous sense of humor, besides. What did he do upon receiving my poem?

He promptly forwarded it to the Customs Office in Sydney! If those good folks didn't recognize my name before, they've got it memorized now! Thanks, Ali g. I believe this makes us 'even'.

Never let it be said that I don't learn from my mistakes. No posting taters Down Under! Got it!

I miss you, my friend. And never fear; I'll find a way to provide you with an authentic Maine experience. What are your thoughts on fiddleheads? Sauteed in butter and garlic? Hmmm? Keep an eye out for a package once you return home, won't you?

Heh.

Kazza, The Notorious Spud Smuggler

There once was a farm girl from Maine
Who danced in the nude to make rain.
When needing some sun,
Then naked she’d run
(Nude dancing and running were pains.)

But she was a maiden devoted.
Her spuds, while with dirt they were coated,
Still needed attention--
And that’s why I mention
Just what all her nudeness denoted.

And then came the wonderful day
When this Kazza turned over the clay
And pulled from the ground
Potatoes so round…
They’d been incubating since May!


The goddess then took four young spuds
And washed from their skin-- dirt and mud.
In paper she wrapped…
T’was newsprint she’d scrapped…
And packed them to mail to her bud.

See, Ali's a funny old geezer…
Eats taters he pulls from the freezer.
They’re already sliced,
Or shredded or diced
He swears they’re an appetite pleaser.

But Kazza, that girl from the hills
Knows frozen spuds can’t give you thrills.
She did her utmost
To mail through the post
Potatoes, quite whole, with no frills.

But the Customs man checking Down Under
Did heft Kazza’s parcel and wonder
If it held cocaine
That was grown up in Maine…
(Do you grow it? Or is that a blunder?)

Well, anyway, Customs had cause
To check that box shipped into Oz.
Potatoes they found…
Who knew they were round?
And dimpled and brown? Were they flaws?

This girl who did farming while naked
Promoted potatoes whole bak-ed.
Not pulled from a sack
Piled on pan, slid on rack…
She wanted that concept forsak-ed!

But Aussies don’t grow their potatoes…
At best, they can raise some tomatoes.
They’d rather eat fries
Or ‘chips’, I surmise…
To eat with their pasta al fredo.

The Customs man sent him a letter.
He said, ‘I must keep your pertetter.
It is contraband
I’m slapping your hand!
These veggies are doomed for the shredder.’

The SWAT team was thusly deployed
And Kazza’s potato-- destroyed.
When assumed it had died,
That spud-- it was fried
And Customs, those chips they enjoyed.

Now Ali's distressed, it would seem.
His whole life it had been his dream…
Potato skins crisp
Were now will o’ the wisp…
As were bacon, and chives…sour cream.

But Kazza will not let him down!
Those customs guys gave her a frown
They dared confiscate
Food meant for his plate,
And caused her to look like a clown!

She knew that her heart--it held purity!
What nerve—to make her feel dir-ity!
So spuds she did pack
In her carry-on sack…
She’d chance it with Homeland Security!

They patted her down in the lobby.
It seemed an unwarranted jobby!
Her bra could not hold
Potatoes so bold!
Perhaps it was more of a hobby!

The x-ray guard then let her through
She sat down to put on her shoe.
They called out her flight--
The timing was tight!
To make it—through airport she flew!

She was the last one on the plane.
Getting frisked was a heck of a pain!
As the plane reached the skies
She—dismayed-- realized
Her potatoes were still back in Maine.

So Kazza, now quite empty-handed
In Australia much later she landed.
She promptly was cuffed,
In a prison bus stuffed…
For leaving her carry-on stranded.
********************************************

Oh, and Ali g? I've sent you another amazing gift while you've been traveling. I know you'll like it! It's called 'rain', and I danced my butt off to deliver it to your home. Phew! I'm exhausted. And COLD!

:o)

You're very welcome.

Innocent Until Proven Crazy

“Man Admits Crawling into Outhouse Pit–Again”

Hey, I don’t make these things up! I've been known to exaggerate once in a while—to use a little literary license--but pure fabrication? Nuh-uh. This is an Associated Press headline from Portland, Maine, dated September 3, 2009.

“A Maine man caught peering up at a girl from below an outhouse toilet seat four years ago stands accused of crawling into another pit toilet…’

Well, yes! I can see where, once a body has experienced wading through other peoples’ waste products, it would become addictive. Old habits are hard to break, and a thrill like that one simply begs to be repeated.

Ugh. With headlines like these…who needs tourists?

I suppose none of us actually ever INTENDS to use those rest area privies, but it sure is nice to know they’re there. Just in case. Because sometimes…you simply can’t wait.

Here is some incentive to do just that. This incentive is called, “There might be a REAL LIVE PERSON UNDER THERE!” Holy smokes…

The Privy Prowler initially said he “crawled into the waste-filled pit to retrieve a T-shirt…”

Okay. Let’s assume the man was telling the truth. I agree, it’s a stretch; but here in America a person is presumed innocent until proven guilty, right? Therefore, it must also be supposed that a man is considered sane until proven to be a STARK RAVING MAD NUT CASE. Let’s say our accused really did drop his T-shirt into that small hole. That begs the question, why did he have his shirt off in the first place? Or, if he didn’t, what was he doing dangling his spare over the chasm of septic delight? Wouldn’t anyone with one iota of common sense say to themselves, “Hmm. Since I have to stand here holding my T-shirt aloft in a cramped, enclosed outhouse, perhaps I should close the lid over the hole.”?

However it happened, we are assuming our model citizen did, in fact, drop a T-shirt into the pit. My first reaction? LEAVE IT! It’s just a T-shirt! Lying in human poo! Run away, as fast as you can! And enjoy the heck out of yourself while recounting such a hilarious story.

But wait. We need to give our prowler every benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the T-shirt is special. Perhaps it’s one of a kind, or it has sentimental value. (Mutters Karen, “Then don’t take it into a public outhouse where there is a HUGE possibility that you’ll accidentally drop it into a small ten-inch hole!”) And, ah…for the record, I did NOT go and measure one. I relied on my husband’s excellent recollection of the mundane to give me that gem of lavatory trivia. I know for a fact that he once measured the posterior of someone very close to him while trying to craft a homemade toilet seat.


But that’s a long story for a different day. (Please stay tuned…)

So, the T-shirt was special. Irreplaceable. Then, here’s an idea! Get a stick! Rest areas are always tucked amongst the trees. Post a guard on the outhouse door and go find a branch. Poke it down into the hole. Pick up the shirt. Pull it very carefully out of the abyss.

And then throw it away, for crying out loud!!! Along with the stick! Good heavens! Where do these people come from?

Maine, you say? Ahem. Well. Excuse me for a moment while I try to think of a snappy comeback…

It really doesn’t matter where these people come from, does it? Really? That’s not the point. The point is, our hapless young man didn’t think of the tried and true Stick Retrieval Method. Not everyone is 'privy' to the wealth of knowledge that this country girl has amassed over the decades. (Pardon me, for I do love a good pun…) And without that primitive tool at his disposal, the lad had no other option. The T-shirt MUST BE SAVED! Throughout history, there have been tales of men just like him, who have tossed caution to the wind and dived into the trenches, sacrificing themselves for the greater good.

I hope caution smells better than a pit privy, but I’m standing up-wind, nonetheless. No sense in taking chances, after all.

And there you have it. One man’s battle to save his T-shirt. The back of the outhouse simply had to be entered. That great mountain, Old Smokey, was revealed in all its glory. (Of course, it only smokes intermittently and for a short while, and just on really cold days. Again…I haven’t witnessed this phenomenon first-hand, but relied on Mr. Grumble once more--this time on his experiences with taking the dog for her morning walk on our bitterly cold winter days…)

What? Some things are notable and worth documenting, that’s all! Sheesh.

Moving right along…

Voila. A completely believable story. The spare, irreplaceable and sentimentally valuable T-shirt was accidentally dangled over a small hole while the lid was inadvertently left in the 'UP' position. The T-shirt dropped like a stone, giving our hero no opportunity to take a pre-emptive swipe for it. A stick was not to be found within a half-mile radius of the rest area…for we all know such things are fairly scarce in the Pine Tree State. The local fire department, which usually responds to these public service calls of distress, was busy rescuing a fellow from underneath the head in a fishing trawler, where he had descended in order to retrieve his priceless gym socks. And so…naturally, our misunderstood gentleman had no choice. He had to reclaim his T-shirt by whatever means necessary.

Really…it’s what any one of us would have done.

Alas, our hero lost the battle, and emerged from the cesspool empty-handed. I think we, the benevolent taxpayers, should make it up to him. I think WE should give him a new T-shirt to replace the one he lost.

An orange T-shirt. With matching pants. I’m thinking he’d look good in orange.