From Your Lips...

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


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

It’s not recommended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHOOOOSHHH!

Yep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My friend snickered from over by the sinks.

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

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

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

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

“REST”? Not hardly!

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

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

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

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

What the hell???

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, my God.

You Are Not Welcome Here

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Pease asked them who they were working for.

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

Mr. Pease said, “Oh.  Iberdrola, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Abundance of Aussies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that an Australian accent?”

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

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

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

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

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

Spandex--It Ain't For Sissies

I discovered something about Spandex. It’s airtight.


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

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

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

It was a free-for-all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I couldn’t move.

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

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

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

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

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

You think waxing is the way to go?

Try SPANDEX-ING.

It ain’t for sissies.

*************************

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stopped For Not Speeding--Part Duh...

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


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

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

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

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

And that made my husband mad.

All that aside—there’s a point I want to make. On the Monday after that Friday night event, my husband called the police station in an attempt to have the large fine dismissed. He was told to mail the ticket in with his insurance card and the court would take it ‘under advisement’. So that’s what Steven did… and he’s been anxiously checking the mail ever since, waiting to find out what the final judgment will be. Hoping that the system isn’t as screwed up as we think it is.

In the meantime, I learned via that little-understood-but-well-known super highway called ‘small town scuttlebutt’ that someone has flown to our defense. It’s been repeated out and about and here and there that a friend read of our experience in the Irregular and wrote a scathing note to the Rumford police department protesting the ‘incident’. He not only wrote a note—he sent it! (Since the gentleman may wish to remain anonymous—not receiving credit for his charitable act--I’ll just refer to him as “Drew”.)

Drew’s actions tickled the heck out of me…so I told Steven what he’d done.

My husband stopped in his tracks. He stared at me. He asked, “Drew? Have we received notice that the ticket has been dismissed, yet?”

Oops. I suspect the chances of that happening may have plummeted. But I realized something. We are lucky to have friends who will fly to our defense when we need defending—and sometimes, even when we don’t. Folks like us who live in communities like ours are blessed. There are no two ways around that fact. We’re among the lucky ones.

We might have points taken off our licenses unnecessarily and we might pay ridiculous fines, but by golly—we’ve got each other.

And that’s priceless.

Stopped For Not Speeding

I recently had a speaking engagement in the small western town of Woodstock—aka Bryant Pond. While I often travel to such things alone, this trip was different. Steven came with me. It’s been ages since we’ve spent the day in each other’s company and I looked forward to the jaunt.


Knowing my propensity for getting lost; Steven had a friend at work ‘google’ the directions and with print-out in hand, I navigated for my husband.

The trickiest part was following the directions through Rumford, with its rotary, high volume of Friday afternoon traffic, and its painted-on-the-tar road signs. That’s right. The arrows pointing the way to Rt. 2 are painted on the pavement; at every little intersection, dog-leg and corner. We wound our way through town and laughed; saying we hoped we’d be able to see the signs when we came home after dark, so that they would guide us back across the river.

It was 9:45 before we were back on the road. It had rained and there were scattered areas of fog hanging close to the ground.

We’d never been to Woodstock, and we’ve rarely driven through Rumford; certainly, not at night. We hit the bustling mill town at approximately 10:15 p.m. As we left Route 232 and merged with Rt. 2, I leaned forward in the passenger’s seat… self-appointed “Arrows-On-The-Tar-Spotter”.

Steven drove cautiously; worried that if we didn’t take the correct road, we’d get turned around and stuck in the downtown area, swallowed up for hours by the metropolis alongside the Androscoggin River. Laugh if you will but this was serious stuff; and I refuse to go down alone. If I got lost, my husband was coming with me!

He couldn’t see very well. It was dark and foggy, and the road was wet. The glare of the town’s sodium vapor lights reduced the visibility through the sand-pitted windshield. The headlights of the car behind us shone into the mirrors, reducing Steven’s vision even more. He slowed down as I squinted to find the road signs leading us along Rt. 2. I leaned forward to get the “google map” directions from the dashboard, but as I did, the seatbelt locked up, trapping me and preventing any forward movement. That seatbelt is temperamental. If I cough or move even the slightest bit, it locks and there is no coaxing any slack out of it. The only way to prevent strangulation is to unbuckle, let it retract all the way, and then pull it out again.

I unbuckled, took the page of directions off the dash, and sighed.

“I suppose I should buckle up again.”

“Yep. Especially since there’s a cop riding my bumper!”

I rolled my eyes, knowing he couldn’t see in front of us, to say nothing about what was behind. Steven loves to spout doom and gloom—he’s a glass-half-empty kinda guy. But I complied. It is the law, after all—even though I disagree with it.

I’d barely snapped the buckle into place when Steven said, “Yessuh! I told you!” before pulling off into a small parking lot. Blue lights flashed behind us.

“Oh, for crying out loud. What’s that all about?”

I was glad Steven was driving. I’ve never received a traffic ticket, and I don’t intend to start now. He parked the Blazer and started digging for his license and I tried to open the glove box for his registration—but was strangled and held in place by the seatbelt, which gave an ominous ‘click’ as it locked and tightened.

In any other circumstance, I would have quickly unbuckled my seatbelt, sitting there in a stationary car parked off the road. But in my mirror I saw another police vehicle pull up behind us—this time an ominous-looking Suburban. Rumford Police’s version of a paddy wagon, I suppose. This seemed to be over-kill for whatever our infraction was… a plate light out? Tail-light? What else could it be?

Not only did an officer walk up to Steven’s side of the Blazer, but another approached cautiously on my side. What the heck was going on? I decided to find out. I rolled down the window and poked my head out. The officer shined his Mag-light in my face and stood far back, hugging the side of the Blazer. I understood the protocol, but it irritated me, nonetheless.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked with a smile. No response. My ears tuned in to what Mr. Grumbles was saying to the officer on his side of the rig.

“What’s the problem, officer?”

“You were driving 18 miles per hour, sir,” came the response. Steven’s eyebrows rose.

“What’s the speed limit?”

“It’s 25 m.p.h.” the public servant answered.

I could feel static electricity as it began to emanate--snap, crackle and pop—from my husband’s aura.

“It’s 25 miles an hour… and I was going 18?”

“Yes, sir. And hugging the curb.”

“So, let me get this straight. You stopped me because I was NOT speeding, AND I was staying on my own side of the road?”

“Honey…” I poked him in the shoulder as I gave that cautionary word. I leaned past Steven to speak to the primary officer in charge. “I had a speaking engagement in Woodstock. We’ve never been there… and we’re just trying to find our way back home. We were going slowly so we could see the arrows painted on the road. Honest!”

Why I said “Honest!” I don’t know. There was no reason for anyone to doubt the veracity of my statement. The policeman gave me the same attention he’d award to a pesky mosquito. He ignored me—brushed me aside.

“Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”

Snap, crackle, pop from the driver’s seat while two vehicles-- blue lights flashing—drew attention to the violent law-breakers in the 15 year old Blazer.

“No. I haven’t.”

“You haven’t had a beer or two?”

The air was heavy laden with ticked-off-man. I poked said man again, and his voice remained somewhat polite as he once more informed the young officer shining the bright light in his eyes that he had not been consuming alcohol. None. Not one beer, not two. That he’d been in a crowded room, enthralled as he listened to his wife speak. (Okay, okay. I have it on good authority Steven didn’t doze off, and that’s close enough to ‘enthralled’ for me!)

“License, registration and proof of insurance, please.”

Damn.

I unbuckled, risking the wrath of the law and a stint in the slammer. It was the only way to reach the glove box. I knew what I would find. Registration; yes. Insurance card; yes. But not a current insurance card. The day before—on Thursday—I’d remembered my truck registration expired at the end of July. I’d assembled the paperwork to license it, but realized that Steven and I didn’t have the most recent copy of our insurance cards in our possession. I called my agent and asked that she fax them and she did. But a new card didn’t get placed in Steven’s Blazer. My ‘bad’. I knew our insurance was current, but I couldn’t prove it.

The cops went back to their cruiser to ‘call us in’. They must have communicated our apparent harmlessness to the SWAT team in the Suburban, for their strobes were extinguished and the paddy wagon drove off. Reinforcements weren’t needed. We were just two boring old farts who hadn’t even had a drink on our first date in two years.

All we were was…lost.

The ticket for not producing a current insurance card was $171.00. The cab of the Chevy filled with blue smoke as we drove across the bridge and away from Rumford.

I had to laugh—and did. It was par for the course. Who else but my husband could get stopped—by FOUR cops, no less!--for driving cautiously, AND land himself a $171.00 fine?

Do I know how to show a guy a good time, or what?

A Gentleman Caller

I love human beings.


No particular make or model holds pride of place. I simply love “people”. I find them fascinating.

No two are alike. We each have unique features, habits, and personalities. That particular uniqueness is, perhaps, what I like best. To communicate well with people, it’s necessary to be open-minded, able to listen, and willing to accept those who are different than we are. Sometimes we’re as different as night and day. And that’s when our interactions are the most stimulating!

I answered the ringing phone, yesterday. There are times when that sound brings me instant irritation, especially when I’m under a deadline. That was my state of mind yesterday afternoon. I’d just finished a lunch meeting, and had sent my guests on their way. I cleaned up the kitchen and washed the dishes before sitting down at my desk to catch up on the day’s chores.

The telephone rang. I sighed.

“Hello?”

“Yes, is this Jennifer?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. This would be a very short interruption, indeed.

“No, I’m sorry. This is Karen Pease. You must have the wrong number.”

“Oh, dear. I apologize. I’m returning a lady’s call, but I couldn’t quite make out all the numbers from the answering machine message.” The elderly man’s gentle voice conveyed his disappointment.

“Ooh, I hate it when that happens!” He had my commiseration, for sure.

“Are you at 628-2070?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Oh, dear...”

He really sounded quite dismal. And so… I thought I’d give him suggestions for how to find the lady’s number. I asked him whether or not he had a computer and if he knew how to use it. He informed me that he’d enrolled at UMA for computer classes, and had already completed one course. Proud as a peacock, he told me that it would be the 5th ‘senior citizen’ class he’d participated in at the college. He sounded so tickled with himself that I smiled. I have a hankering to return to school, myself, and I told him so.

It’s amazing how we humans communicate and connect. I spent the next 40 minutes having a delightful conversation with an 88 year old man who was a complete stranger. Note “was”, in the past-tense. We’re not strangers anymore. Before we hung up the phone, I discovered he was a WWII veteran, he’d been married twice, and he had seven children; two of whom had master degrees and one who is a doctor. He urged me to return to school if I wanted to, but told me to never disrespect myself for the fact that I didn’t have a college degree. He told me I probably had more common sense than many college grads, and used one of his daughters as an example! Oops…

He’s still good friends with both his ex-wives. They share children, and when there is a family affair, they all co-exist in harmony. My gentleman caller said he gave each of his ex-wives a unique gift. He paid for their cremations, recently. I had to laugh at that one, and did. We chuckled for several moments about his “thoughtfulness”. In reality, it WAS a considerate gift. He doesn’t want his children to be burdened with such a chore when their mothers pass away. He arranged everything so that all his kids will have to do is make one phone call, and someone else will take care of those sad details.

I found myself admiring him.

And Jennifer? She was an old love from his past… someone he met at a dance hall. A woman who was exciting and compatible and lovely. My poor gentleman came home to find a message on his machine from her, saying that she’s single, and she’s been thinking about him… so she did a little digging and found him. Would he please call her back, if he was interested in reconnecting?

What a conundrum! He was thrilled, happy, and kind of, well…charged up about it! I learned a couple of private details about her that made me giggle and blush. Details that made me want to say “You GO, Gramps!”

So, I said exactly that. We laughed some more.

But… he couldn’t understand her number, and he was afraid she wouldn’t call him back.

I assured him that she would. That he must be pretty special if she went to the trouble of finding him after so many years. I encouraged him to ‘google’ her and see if he could find out where she lived, which would enable him to call directory assistance, if her phone number wasn’t posted on the web.

And then, I asked him to let me know how he made out. Ah… no pun intended.

He gave me sweet advice, made me laugh, and caused a lump to rise in my throat, all in the space of 40 minutes. Forty minutes that I couldn’t spare—but I’m so glad I did. What a guy!

I never even got his name.

It's Not Easy Being This Not Cool

Okay. I’ve faced facts. I am not cool.

People (under the age of 20) kept telling me that, but I didn’t want to believe them.

I was sure I was cool! Hip. With it. All that! (Good lord, and to think people actually talk that way!)

But the evidence establishing my non-coolness kept stacking up.

I don’t paint my toenails. Or my fingernails. And I don’t understand why anyone else would, either.

I don’t use mousse in my hair; and if I eat mousse, it looks far more like hearty stew than light pudding.

I didn’t know there were shaving creams for men; and shaving creams for women--or that there was anything wrong with a girl’s legs smelling like Gillette. Last time I raised my calf to my nose, it smelled just fine. The occasion is imprinted on my mind, in fact; due to the excruciating charley horse that crippled me afterwards.

I thought “product” was a result, and had no idea it was actually hair goop. “I FINALLY have some product!” said the teenager after arriving home from a shopping trip with her girlfriend (called ‘BFF’ by the cool crowd).

Whatever!

And then, there was today’s business with the gentleman caller. He came over to the house and brought a movie to watch. With my daughter. In the living room. On the couch.

Now…it was hot this afternoon. It was 85 if it was a degree. We have a large sofa, a love seat, an over-stuffed chair, a recliner and a Canadian glider in the living room. The room easily seats eight. Easily! It made absolutely no sense for the both of them to sit on the same piece of furniture. None whatsoever. There were three vacant seats, each equally comfortable and made soft by an excess of cat hair. There was no reason for the girl and the gentleman caller to sit on the same couch--and certainly, not on the same HALF of the couch.

And I said so.

Apparently, that’s not cool.

There was also no reason for them to go for a walk, either. We live in the woods. Once you’ve seen one tree, you’ve seen them all, right? Sometimes you can’t even see the forest around here, for all the trees we’ve got that look identical. So there was no earthy reason for them to go for a walk. Not without the girl’s younger brother AND the visiting labra-doodle in tow, anyway.

The four of them had a lovely time on their walk…but I rated a look that said I was far, far, far from cool as I handed her the leash and pushed her brother out the door behind them.

Apparently, it’s cool to wear jeans that are so tight you can ping quarters off them, but I had to mention the snug-fitting apparel before finding that out.

The jeans are cool. Mentioning them in the same sentence with quarters—not cool.

I have been informed that it’s also not cool to hang out my upstairs bedroom window saying, “Sheesh! How long does it take to walk someone to his car, anyway? Time to go home, kiddo! Chop, chop!”

Way not cool. Waaaay! I’m so ‘not cool’ that my youngest son, before he even has any serious interest in a particular girl, has informed me that he’ll never invite one over to our house. He says I’d scar the poor thing for life.

He exaggerates, of course. I might be ‘way not cool’, but I’m harmless. My intentions are good. And really, I can’t be held responsible for my lack of coolness. If my girl had shown up downstairs in baggy jeans and sweatshirt, with legs that smelled like Gillette, and limp, product-free hair, unpainted toes and fingers, and with a plan to stay inside the house and ALONE inside her personal space (five feet in all directions would have been sufficient), I would have shown those teenagers exactly how cool I could be.

Scarred for life? Hah! They ought to try having MY job. It’s not easy being this ‘not cool’. I’m exhausted…

Coming Soon: "The Pacific", by Australian Author Peter Watt

     Australian writer and adventurist Peter Watt is one of my favorite authors . In addition, I am fortunate to be able to call him a very good friend. And so, it gives me great pleasure to announce the imminent release of another historical novel by this fantastic story-teller. The Pacific will be released this coming November, and I can't wait to read it.

     If you have not yet had the opportunity to read and enjoy the ongoing dramas of the MacIntoshes and Duffys, the Kellys and the Manns--don't delay! I recommend you begin with Cry of the Curlew and follow the adventures of these unforgettable characters from the very beginning, when the ancient continent of Australia was being populated by immigrants who were jostling to make their mark on the land. It's a treat you shouldn't deny yourself.
     I recently finished reading To Ride the Wind, so stay tuned for a review of Pete's most recent novel. It was every bit as good as those which preceded it. My only complaint? My teenaged daughter, Josie-Earl, decided to read it at the same time, and I constantly had to hunt for where I'd last left-off, as the darling girl would move my book-mark. It was a minor aggravation, but it was nice to be able to talk about the adventue as we read it together.
     Here is a blurb about The Pacific. Make sure you get a copy when it becomes available-- and if you'd like to have yours autographed by the author, just go to Pete's website and order one directly from my Aussie mate. His penmanship isn't half-bad!
                                          

As a war correspondent covering the Second World War, Ilsa Stahl isn’t afraid to be on the front line. But when her plane goes down in a terrible storm over Papuan waters and she is taken prisoner by the Japanese, she has every reason to be terrified. Particularly as they plan to hand her over to the Nazis.

When Jack Kelly discovers that his only daughter has fallen into the hands of the enemy, he will stop at nothing to save her. Even if it means risking the life of his only son, Lukas. No one knows Papua the way they do, they may be Ilsa’s only hope but time is running out.

Meanwhile, Major Karl Mann is sent on a secret mission to Indo China that will see him embroiled in Ilsa’s rescue mission in ways he could never have imagined.

This sweeping saga continues the story of the Kellys and Manns, following Peter Watt’s much-loved characters as they fight to survive one of the most devastating conflicts in history – the war on Australia’s back doorstep.