Asterisks and Ampersands...and Operators 'From Away'....

My desk phone...I have no idea how to program the time, and Josie-Earl is responsible for an accurate date!

Last month I cussed at a stranger on the telephone.  I actually swore.  In front of my teenage daughter, no less.  Ugh.  What an awful example to set.

Here at The F.A.R.M., we occasionally take a hiatus from television.  I’ve cancelled the satellite dish service for months at a time because I thought the kids were watching too much TV, or were fighting over it excessively.  Terminating the service took care of the problem much more satisfactorily than constantly scolding them did—and it also reinforced the fact that when Mum says “Quit fighting over that thing or I’ll get rid of it”—she means it. 

But last September, facing a winter with rising expenses and reduced income, Steven and I cut non-essentials out of our household budget.  I called DISH Network and suspended the service. 

I reactivated it this Spring.  At that time, I told the customer service representative that our remotes hadn’t been working very well the previous autumn, and he assured me that if that were still the case, DISH would replace them.  He reminded me that for many years we’d paid an extra $5.00 per month for insurance, which would cover their replacement. 

I thanked the young man.  And we very slowly resumed the habit of turning on the TV to catch the news or watch a favorite sit-com.

But only the upstairs remote was functional, and that was sporadic.  Josie and Eli couldn’t watch TV in the living room, so they’d pile onto my bed to watch a show.  My bed is in my bedroom—and that’s also where my home office is.   This new arrangement wasn’t working (because when the TV was on, I wasn’t able to concentrate on working) so I finally called DISH to order two new remote controls.

The CSR—I’ll call him “Jim”– was very polite.  His foreign accent was strong, however; and that immediately put me on edge.  Too many times have I suffered through painful conversations where I’m not understood and I can’t understand what’s being said.  It’s incredibly frustrating.

I quickly explained what I wanted.  It was simple.  I needed my remote controls replaced.  They were several years old and the buttons didn’t work.  On one, the buttons had actually fallen inside the plastic holes.  On the other, they had to be manipulated with some degree of finesse in order for them to work.  And…I had insurance to cover their replacement.  Simple, right?

Nope.  Not even close.

I had to explain what was wrong with the units.  Not once, but over and over and over again.  I had to explain the TV set-up, the room lay-out, the system design.  No, we didn’t have two receivers.  Yes, the system had worked that way.

Jim wanted the Smartcard numbers.  The Smartcard was in the downstairs receiver and my phone wasn’t a ‘cordless’ model.  I sent Josie to retrieve it.  I read the numbers and explained—again and specifically—what was wrong with the units.

Jim wanted to send me ONE remote.  After all, the second remote worked sometimes.  Most of the time.  IF you knew exactly how to rock your finger on this button or depress your thumb extra-hard on that button—then it worked, right?  

Yes, Jim decided that we only needed one new remote control.

I got a little testy.  How much had I paid for insurance over the years?  $400.00?  $500.00?  Maybe $600.00?  And this young upstart was prepared to deny me a chintzy, cheaply-made remote control?  On what premise?  Of course his goal was to maximize returns for his employer!  I knew he’d probably sat through training courses like “How To Maximize Corporate Profits (i.e. Politely Bamboozle Your Customer) In Order To Retain Your Job”.  And I knew it wasn’t Jim who created DISH’s ‘Replacement Policy’.  But I paid for insurance, I had two substandard remote controls, and I wanted two replacements.  Was that unreasonable? 

Jim placed me on hold while he consulted his supervisor—no doubt ‘standard policy’ when dealing with a bamboozle-proof customer.  Upon re-entering the conversation, he informed me that yes—he would be able to send me that second remote.  I was elated and relieved.  I was very busy and while talking to Jim, I wasn’t getting my work done.  I was ready to hang up, but it wasn’t that easy.  First, Jim—with his strongly accented English--wanted to try to guide me in an over-the-phone ‘reprogram’ of unit that (sometimes) worked.

I was flabbergasted.  The remote was broken.  The buttons wiggled when they should have waggled.  Jim asked for a fifth or sixth explanation of what—EXACTLY—was wrong with the remote.  His voice was getting edgy and I wondered if his job was riding on whether or not he saved his company the cost of that second remote.  But I was beyond caring.   Every time he reworded and repeated his question, it sounded like he was challenging my honesty.   I’d already told him what was wrong!  I’d even offered to mail the remotes back to DISH—and he’d turned down my offer.  He’d already received approval for the second remote from his supervisor!  And…I BOUGHT THEIR INSURANCE!

“Ma’am, before I can send a second remote, I need to know EXACTLY what it does!”

I lost all patience and good humor.  With Josie listening behind me, I practically hollered.

“For *****’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you?!  Is this conversation being recorded for training purposes?  I hope so, because this is EXACTLY what NOT to do!  I’ve TOLD you what’s wrong; I’ve OFFERED to send them to you so you can see for yourself.  Now I’ve had it!   Are you going to send me two remotes, or shall I switch to Direct-TV?”

“Yes, ma’am, this is being recorded.  Yes, I’ll send you two remotes.”

“Excellent.  What date can I expect to receive them?”

“They will be delivered to your home on April 4^th.”

“Thank you!”

As if we’d never had a long, substantive (and slightly heated) conversation, Jim said, “Thank you for calling DISH Network.  Is there anything else I can do for you, today, ma’am?”

How could I not laugh at a question which exhibited such a total disconnect from reality?  Sheesh!

There was no package in front of my door when I got home from work on April 4th and I began to feel the burn of indignation.  However, Steven spied a small box on the side porch the next morning. 

I retrieved it.  Opened it.  Saw the new remote control unit nestled inside.

All by its lonesome.           

And yes, that fact prompted asterisks, galore.

Six Months of Wees

What now, Mum?  We're kind of busy, here...

The Pease Wees have been in residence at The F.A.R.M. for almost six months, and I’m often asked how I like having brother and sister micro-mutts for companions.  I was never a fan of small dogs, assuming they were yappy ankle-biters with excessive neuroses; but that’s been proven to be an unfair and discriminatory assessment.  The Wees have their quirks, for sure--but they are affectionate, cheerful and generally quiet dogs.  I’ve fallen head-over-heels for the little buggers.

Play with you, you say?  I think not....

Yep.  I love those foolish animals, practically to the point of idiocy.  I’m the Paris Hilton of Lexington…minus the youth, the sex appeal and the burgeoning bank account.   And I’m not alone.  My husband has come under the fuzzy bugs’ spell, as well.

Quite at home on the bed

I first realized the magnitude of his affection for the Wees a month or two ago.  Steven gets up at three a.m. before the rest of the household stirs.  He makes his coffee, packs his lunch, showers and dresses (not necessarily in that order)…and then heads to Stratton for his day’s work.  I usually sleep through the process, since I rarely go to bed before one a.m.  On this particular morning, I woke up to find that he’d returned upstairs to the bedroom and was sitting on the side of the bed patting the puppies and talking softly to them.  (Yes, they’ve graduated from proper ‘crate’ sleeping, to ‘snuggled up close on our bed’ sleeping.  See what I mean?  We’re Chihuahua chumps!)  Since Steven hadn’t been particularly enthralled with my birthday gift when my pal Saint first offered me the puppies, it warmed my heart to see him cuddling with them. 

Stevie holds Scruff securely while giving her a pre-chew bath.  Scruff gets an adrenalin rush by pestering the cat until he tackles (but never hurts) her.  Brother Saint  doesn't know whether to help her, or save his own neck.

For a minute or two, it did…

Giving Scruffy and Saint (the dog, not the pal) each a final stroke along their silky sides, my darling husband rose and walked toward the bedroom doorway.  The fact that he was leaving registered as he was half-way through.

“Excuuuse me???  You’re gonna love-up the dogs, but not me?”   The nerve of the man!

Saint, Scruff...and Curious

Steven stopped and turned toward me, his profile outlined in the doorway by the dim light coming from the hallway behind.

“Oh.  Sorry, honey.  I’ll come give you a kiss…”

I think that was the first time I’ve ever tried the classic “Talk to the hand!” gesture…but it was lost on the man in the gloom of a pre-dawn bedroom.   I pretended outrage, but I was secretly touched by his affection for the little devils who have wormed their way into our hearts.  Being cast aside for a bug-eyed little bitch (and her brother) isn’t nearly as painful as I thought it would be.

Saint considered eating a housefly

Today was the first day I’d been home without the Wees since they took a Delta flight up from Tennessee to Maine last December.  They had an appointment at the Carrabassett Veterinary Clinic, and I left them there this morning to receive their first rabies shots and to be spayed and neutered.  Back home and alone, I was surprised to realize that I missed the pitter-patter of their little feet.  Their temporary absence was necessary, though.  We have no intention of breeding wah-wahs, and we certainly didn’t want to risk a litter of “I’m My Own Grandpa” puppies.

Like a mother, I worried about them while they were gone and I couldn’t wait to have them home again.

What a schmuck…

To my relief, Scruffy and Saint came through their surgeries without a fuss.  At 4.5 and 5.3 pounds respectively, they are pictures of perfect (peanut-sized) health.

Saint and Scruffy--at home on my bed

Sisterhood of the Traveling Poo

Young Bull moose in "Moose-nook-you-must-look"

It all began with moose droppings. 

My maternal grandmother started something, and that something was called “Maine Moose Movements”.

Yes, Mammy made collectibles out of moose poop.  Trust me when I say that folks ‘from away’ will buy anything if it is ‘authentic Maine’.  You just can’t get any more authentic than hand-picked, freshly scavenged moose droppings.

Sometimes Mammy’s collectible poops were oven-dried, shellacked and strung as beads on a necklace.  Sometimes feathers and wiggly eyes and pointy beaks were added…and then the poops were mounted on small branches or rocks, where they resembled birds. (Okay…they didn’t resemble birds at all.  They looked like oblong brown turds with feathers stuck on them! But what else in this world (besides a bird) has feathers?  Nothing!  So, using their imaginations, most folks got the gist of it…it was as simple as that.)

Mammy’s Maine Moose Movements sold like hotcakes--which should not be confused with cow pies.  (That’s a completely different market.)

However, Mammy couldn’t make or sell Maine Moose Movements without the raw material.  Mammy needed an inventory.  A warehousing system.

I was—and my children were—her top suppliers.  We never went for a walk in the woods without casting about for the cherished offal.  I got into the habit of stuffing a couple of plastic bags into my pockets when we left the house…just in case.   

Yep, when a moose did his business—it was good for Mammy’s.

When friendship blossomed between me and some wonderful folks from Australia, they were quite naturally interested in stories of North America’s largest mammal.  Just as I was morbidly fascinated with tales of their bazillion poisonous spiders and deadly snakes, and their man-eating crocs and their killer jellyfish and that wild, aggressive bird that pecks people’s eyes out….so they were enthralled with the perils inherent in living side by side with seven-foot-tall, thousand pound moose. 

Bull moose in Lexington.  Photo by friend Buck Simpson

Yes, that’s right.  Moose in the plural is still moose; not meese and not mooses.  

Goose, geese.  Moose, moose. 

Cow, cows.  Moose, moose. 

The American version of the English language is adorable, that way.

In an attempt to familiarize my Aussies with moose, I sent them photos.  Photos of moose in their natural habitat, and photos of moose poops in their natural state.  And then…photos of poops wearing hats and tiny feather boas.  Poops in piles…and poops dangling from earlobes. 

Rescued moose at Gray Animal Farm-Maine

Family heritage is a wonderful thing.

So when my friend Dozy in New South Wales went on safari in Africa, she asked me what I would like for a souvenir.  Naturally, I said “Elephant poop”.  It was a joke.  I knew if I couldn’t send an alpaca wool ornament from the U.S. to Oz, she wouldn’t be able to send elephant dung from Zambezi to Maine.

The good news is: I was wrong.  Dozy found the perfect souvenir—a greeting card made out of dried, compressed elepoo!  It was wonderful, hilarious… the ideal gift to receive from Africa. 

A year later, Dozy went to see the King Tut exhibit when it came to Melbourne.  Always thoughtful and generous, she asked me what I wanted for a keep-sake, this time.

“Mummy poo, of course!” I snickered, knowing that was an impossible request but also knowing Dozy would get a kick out of my answer.  Little did I comprehend the tenacity of this woman, though!  Ten days later, a bag of scarab beetles (a.k.a. DUNG beetles) arrived in the mail from my friend!  They weren’t actual scarabs, but they were replicas made in Egypt….replicas of bugs that ate…mummy poo.  I laughed and cried at the same time.  What a great gift!  I was so overwhelmed that I tried to eat one. 

But that’s the story for another day.

Before I knew it, sweet Dozy was planning a trip to New Zealand for a long-overdue visit to her best friend’s home.  Fleetingly, I wondered…would my dear friend spend part of her well-earned vacation shopping for a gift that was in keeping with our theme?

Sure enough, she did it.  Dozy rummaged the shops until she found…

Kiwi kucka. 

Kiwi.  The flightless bird of New Zealand whose poos are (according to the package) very strong-smelling; making them easy to find on the forest floor—which makes it easier to avoid stepping in them. 

Just in case you want to make necklaces out of them, you see.

Only Dozy could find such a stellar gift.  It was not only hilarious; it was nutritional and educational!  After all, until I received her package, I thought kiwis were round, green and edible.  But apparently, only their poo is marketed as a delicious confection. 

There’s no way I can ever find gifts for Dozy to equal those which she’s given me.  The woman has provided smiles to last a lifetime.  But I have to try, right?  I mean…this can’t be a one-sided relationship!  So, in keeping with our theme, I thought perhaps she might get a charge out of this unique ‘confection’ dispenser.  As you push up on the legs… the tail moves out of the way, and…

Aw, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, so I’ll let Dozy do the ultimate analysis. 

 

Teen Voices, Stephen King, and a Big-time Bonehead Moment

As Bonehead Moments go, it was a doozy.


I was ecstatic to learn that Stephen and Tabitha King awarded a grant to the “Teen Voices” program at UMF so they could buy dozens of my Young Adult novel, Grumble Bluff, for their curriculum. It was thrilling to think that maybe—just maybe—one of the world’s most famous authors read something I wrote–and that he liked it enough to donate money so that other Mainers could read it, too.

Mt. Blue Middle School students added Grumble to their program, and I was asked to go to UMF to speak to the group of teenagers and their mentors at a Teen Voices dinner. I enthusiastically agreed. The coordinator asked if I’d consider speaking to the full student body of Mt. Blue Middle School in an end-of-the-day assembly, first. I said I’d be happy to.

The time and date were set last fall. I noted the details on my calendar. It was on my mind. On my ‘list’ of things to do. I was good to go!

I went. Last Tuesday at 1:15 pm, just as I was passing Jack’s Trading Post, I was filled with confidence. Excitement. I was early for the 2:00 appointment. I’d have plenty of time to set up my simple Power Point Presentation. I’d meet with the school’s librarian and establish a rapport. All was well.

My cell phone rang. I answered it.

A voice said “Karen! Are you okay? Have you been in an accident?”

Oh…my…God. You have no idea how badly I wanted to say “Yes”!

My confidence disappeared in a puff of smoke. Jody wouldn’t have asked me that question unless she believed I was late! But… I WASN’T late!

Was I?

Oh, my God! OH MY GOD! There were a hundred students sitting in a gym waiting for me! I was sure—positive!--my appointment was for 2:00 pm! But she was telling me that the middle school principal was preparing to send students back to their rooms to prepare for their TWO O’CLOCK BUSSES unless I could get there, PRONTO!

I told her I’d be there in five minutes.

I wasn’t sure where Mt. Blue Middle School was. I’d asked Jody for directions, and she told me it was located on “Middle Street, very close to downtown”.

I turned off Main Street and onto South Street. There were UMF students all over the place. They lived in Farmington! Surely they’d know where Middle Street was!

Nope. Clueless. After the fourth “detain and question” session in the middle of a crosswalk, one young man finally said, “It’s up there.”

And it was. I turned by the Legion Hall. I was still relatively calm. Still marginally cool. Still somewhat collected. I turned into the school’s driveway and parked the truck. In a hurry, I grabbed a copy of Grumble but left everything else and fast-walked to the school’s front doors.

Locked. The doors were LOCKED! But… they were expecting me, right?

I hurried to the next set of doors. One opened into a glass-enclosed vestibule. I could see real live humans on the other side. They could see me. There was a buzzer, of sorts. I pushed it. The woman within magically unlocked the door and…voila! I was in.

Triumphant, I stood before them, Grumble Bluff held before me as proof that I was a respected author and not some threat to students’ safety.

“I made it!” I crowed.

They stared at me in silence.

“Um…aren’t there 100 kids waiting for me in the gym?”

I was at the wrong school! It was the right road, but the wrong school. How many schools does one town need? I wondered—while feeling a pang of jealousy. We lost our precious Central School in New Portland school a few years ago, and yet--Farmington had more schools than you could shake a stick at!

I was told the school I wanted was a mile further down the road. A tingle of panic niggled at me. I ran back to the truck…and discovered I was parked on a one-way driveway. Naturally.

I maneuvered over and around speed bumps, raised crosswalks and snow banks until I reached Middle Street again, and drove the extra mile to Mt. Blue Middle School. In my hurry to get there I overshot the first driveway, so I took the second entrance and parked at the rear of the building.

Grabbed keys. Copy of Grumble. And trotted in high heels and skirt from one locked door to another! What was up? Since when had schools become fortresses? They were expecting me! WAITING for me! Sitting on bleachers anticipating my arrival! Why was I locked out?

Oh, man. By now I was hot. Sweaty. Upset and embarrassed. I spied a single steel door marked “Administration” and yanked on it. To my relief, it opened and I stepped inside.

A man looked up as I came to a halt in the middle of the room, out of breath and slightly agitated.

“Hi! I gasped. “I need to get to the gym!”

He raised his arm and pointed to the window…

“Okay. You go outside and…”

“NO!” I hollered—not really meaning to shout but definitely intent on getting my point across. I held my book in front of me, as if one glimpse at it would explain everything.

Taken aback by my spontaneous shout, the gent led me into the hallway.

“Follow these stairs up and around and when you get to the top, you’re there.”

I could have kissed him, but I saved my breath for the climb. Four flights of stairs brought me—gasping—to another steel door.

Which was locked. What the heck was up with that? And who puts a gym upstairs, anyway?

At that very moment, I came close to crying. But I was LATE and didn’t have time for such foolishness. There were 100 kids sitting on bleachers, waiting for my words of wisdom and inspiration! I trudged back down two of those flights of stairs. I looked at the door I’d passed on my way up. What did I have to lose? Tentatively, I reached out a hand and pulled.

Holy cow. The door swung open…

And revealed a dozen children practicing dance steps in the middle of the gym. The bleachers were empty. I sighed and walked across the hardwood floor.

A teacher separated himself from the dancers.

“Are you the author?” he asked, as if uttering a dirty word.

“Yes.” I nodded, despondent.

The teacher shook his head.

“You’d better go to the office,” he said, pointing to a door on the other side of the gym. “It’s down the hall and to your right.”

Oh, sure! NOW I got good directions!

It’s been 30 years since I was sent to the principal’s office, but it’s a feeling I hadn’t forgotten. I’d screwed up. It was unintentional, but that didn’t change the fact that I’d blown it. And for my sins, I was sent to the office in humiliation.

On the bright side—the program at the University later that night was amazing. Great attendance, wonderful feedback and participation, and I left there feeling like I’d really helped a group of young adults find some inspiration and hope. Afterwards, I’d been surrounded by a mob of young women with questions—questions about bullying, and about death… and life. It was an awesome experience.

And I made sure I was 2 hours early. Just in case.

Having a Village

Trantens' Too, Kingfield, Maine

On Tuesday my truck died in the parking lot of Tranten’s Too. I was on my way to work. I stopped to get a newspaper, a sausage biscuit and a Diet Mt. Dew (‘diet’ to offset the sausage, you see…) and when I came back outside and hopped into the truck, it wouldn’t start.


Just like that.

Vince was presiding over the Porch Crowd.

“Sounds like the fuel pump,” he proclaimed.

That’s what it sounded like to me, too

It takes the better part of a village to get a truck repaired when you live in Lexington and work in Kingfield. I called the Credit Union and Amy zipped down to pick me up and haul me the last half-mile to work since my skirt and heels weren’t conducive to hoofing it along the gravel ditches of Rt. 27. Once there, I called Poulin’s Garage, and Rick immediately drove up to town. After briefly playing with my truck, he called to tell me that he thought it was the fuel pump.

My Dodge...210,000 miles and every one of them is mine!

I was inclined to agree.

Rick said he couldn’t tackle my truck repairs immediately and that he understood if I took the Dodge elsewhere. What a guy! What a family! I called Hight’s Dodge dealership in Skowhegan to see what they could do for me. They said they couldn’t repair it for a day or two, either… but they COULD give me a loaner car to get me to and from work. That clinched the deal.

I called another Poulin man for his rescue services. Chris told me he’d send someone down from The Mountain as soon as possible with a tow truck to take my pick-up to Hight’s. My truck was in good hands.

Now, to get myself situated!

I tried to call my folks to bum a ride to Lexington after work that afternoon, but they weren’t home. I’m a fortunate woman, however. Like small-town folks all across Maine—I have a Village. Amy offered to take me to my mother-in-law’s house in New Portland—halfway home--and mother-in-law Celia said she would be happy to take me the rest of the way to The F.A.R.M.

That afternoon Mike, Hight’s service manager, called me.

“We think it’s your fuel pump, Ma’am,” said Mike, who has called me “Ma’am” every single time we’ve spoken over the course of the last 6 years. Whether we’re comparing notes about butchering hogs, discussing our teenagers’ driving habits, or hashing over the price of fuel pumps, Mike calls me “Ma’am”. I can’t talk him out of it.

“It’s your fuel pump, Ma’am…”

I tended to lean toward the same conclusion. I asked the polite young whippersnapper to order the part, to put the truck on his repair schedule and to please leave a loaner available for me.

When my mother finally returned home and listened to the message I’d left on her answering machine, she called me. She agreed to pick me up at seven a.m. the following morning and transport me to Skowhegan so I could pick up that loaner car…so that I could get to work on time…so that I could earn the money to pay for the fuel pump, and the repairs, and the towing.

The loaner car was a Chevy. It was gold. A sedan from 2004 with 4 doors…and electric everything.

I’ve never done the “electric everything” bit.

The first characteristic to strike me was the fact that the car’s under-carriage clearance was in the neighborhood of six inches. Maybe seven. That’s the depth of a small rut on the Back Road…and a wrinkle on the Spruce Pond Road. This could get interesting.

I unlocked the driver’s side door and lowered myself into the rig. The key Mike had given me fit into the ignition…but it wouldn’t turn. Nope. Not at all. Until I finally inserted it upside down, there was no starting that gold-colored car.

Once I got it started, I fiddled with the bells and whistles. I wanted to know where the wiper controls were, the front and rear defrosts, the headlights. The vehicle even had “cruise control”. Later, as I tried out that option, I managed to toot the horn a half-dozen times in a half-mile while having no control whatsoever of my cruise.…)

At last, I felt comfortable enough in the strange automobile to drive it from Skowhegan to Kingfield. It wasn’t until I was at the top of “Dump Hill” that I realized the loaner was running on fumes…and wishes…and a prayer or two, as well. I coasted to Tranten’s Too and parked in front of the store once more. I would have gone directly to the pumps, but I’d looked out each side mirror for an indication of which side the fill-up spout was on—and hadn’t seen it. So I figured I’d take a gander from the outside.

But I couldn’t get ‘outside’. Little did I realize… the car Mike had fobbed off on me was a Chevy reincarnation of “Christine”, that haunted and possessed Plymouth made famous by Stephen King.

Even with the key removed from the ignition, the radio continued to play. Seriously… the key was OUT. The car was OFF. There was no juice to the radio, but it played. And… the door wouldn’t open.

I pulled on the handle—and the whole lever mechanism threatened to fall out of the door. It would not open. At all. I was stuck.

I experimented. I played with the locks. I locked the doors. Unlocked them. It appeared that the passenger door might open, but that would mean I’d have to crawl over the console. In a skirt. In front of Tranten’s Too… one of the busiest and most populated little locations in downtown Kingfield.

I tried the window controls. I could open the drivers’ side window from the driver’s side controls—but I could only open the passenger side window from the passenger side door. It wouldn’t close from the same controls, though. The passenger-side window could only be closed from the controls on the driver’s side door. Would it be more acceptable (or graceful) for me to climb out of a car window (meaning I’d have to climb back in that same way) or over a console?

I didn’t have to make that crucial decision. By pressing the lever which locked ALL FOUR of the car’s doors, I could open mine! And by taking the key with me, I could unlock it from the outside to get back in, too.

I made it to work in the demon Chevy, and I made it home again. I learned how to placate the car so it wouldn’t lock me in while torturing me with endless Taylor Swift music. Mike eventually called me from the garage and told me “It was the fuel pump, Ma’am.”

Just like I’d figured.

From the breakdown of my pick-up to its picking up, a dozen people helped me. From Vince, with his sage words of wisdom, to the Trantens Too crew for letting me leave the truck parked in a prime spot for half a day. From Rick Poulin, who jumped to my assistance and then was such a gentleman when I didn’t hire him to do the repairs, to Chris Poulin and crew for promptly delivering my truck to the garage in Skowtown. Amy, Celia and Mum carted me here and there. Mike and the Hight’s crew did a great job with the repairs and loaned me the (evil) car free of charge, and Bobby Baker re-attached the rear-view mirror for me when I opened the truck door and found it lying on the front seat.

Yep, I’m lucky to have a Village, because that’s what it took to get my truck repaired.

That, and $640.00.

Plus the cost of towing.

Cataclysmic Perverters



My friend KK (please note the words on her T-shirt...and then those on Grahame's corresponding T-shirt.  :o)

My dear friend Grahame lives with his wife KK in New South Wales, which isn’t in (or even near) Wales—which is in Great Britain. No, New South Wales is in eastern Australia. Go figure!

Grahame drives a Mercedes Benz “E 430”; affectionately referred to as a “Benz” for those of us who are lazy typists.

To help some of you place my friend--G is the mate who sent me the bumper sticker that’s in my truck’s rear window, which many locals have commented on over the years. That bumper sticker says “Real Men Like Cats” and EVERYONE has asked who the “real man” is, or why such a bumper sticker is in the window of a WOMAN’S truck, or why in the world I like (or why the man referred to likes) cats! I never would have believed that one small bumper sticker could raise so many questions or start so many conversations--but I’ve enjoyed telling folks about my wonderful friend. (I wanted G to put a bumper sticker in his Benz window that said “Real Women Drive John Deeres” but--according to him—the Australian government won’t honor a Mercedes Benz warranty if the vehicle is festooned with bumper stickers. Can you imagine that?? It (almost) defies belief, huh?)

Grahame's 'other' Benz.  Note the sticker on the bumper... Hmmmm.... :o)

Anyway, Grahame’s Benz recently underwent an inspection and his mechanic informed him that the car needed catalytic converters. The rig has a dual exhaust system, so two converters were required for the job. G was quoted an astronomical price for the parts…upwards of $1,200.00 to $1,400.00 apiece.

Per.

Each.

Ouch...

Being a frugal Yank, I took immediate umbrage at such 'highway' robbery and suggested he look into after-market parts, thinking he might be able to get a better price for ‘off brand’ catalytic converters. Ever industrious (and conscientiously saving money for a trip to Africa) Grahame did precisely that. He emailed me saying he’d found the parts he needed online…for only $115.00 each. That immediately raised my suspicions. I was sure he could find the parts for less-- but at less than 10% of the price he’d been quoted? It didn’t make sense to me, and I had visions of car theft rings and stolen auto parts. But Grahame, safely tucked away in Oz, wasn’t worried about such things. He ordered the converters.

This amazing company also offered free shipping–but only inside the U.S.–so G asked me if he could have the Benz exhaust parts sent here to The F.A.R.M. so that I could mail them on to him. Of course, I said “Sure.”

And of course… there were delays.

It always makes me nervous when a company claiming to be American is staffed by operators who don’t speak coherent English. Don't get me wrong...I love the North Dakotan accent, ay? And an “all y’all” from Alabama brings a smile. But the woman who called me to explain the delay in shipping my friend’s exhaust system was barely comprehensible. It took me several “what?”s before I figured out that the company was replacing “Gruh-hay-mee’s corpulistic combustors” with a different brand of cataclysmic perverters. But! I was assured (I think) that they would fit his Benz every bit as well as those he’d originally ordered!

This same woman called Grahame in New South Wales. He couldn’t understand her any better than I could. And...he called me to compare notes and to laugh at the incomprehensible way the operator pronounced “catalytic convertors”.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t home when he called and my daughter Josie answered the phone. According to her… she could have listened to Grahame talk ALL DAY because his accent was so dreamy. But, as cool as his accent was…she couldn’t understand a word HE said.

“Mama, one of your Australian friends called,” she told me when I arrived home.

“Excellent! Who was it?”

“I dunno… Peter Daily? Donovan? I dunno….”

“Peter WHO? I know two Peters in Australia—but those aren’t their last names. Not even close. Did he leave his phone number?”

“No, I gave him your cell phone number and he said he’d try to reach you on that.”

I was very disappointed. And confused. Disappointed because I leave my cell phone off while at work, so I wouldn’t have been able to receive his call--and confused because I didn’t know who ‘he’ was! As much as I would LOVE to receive a call from either of ‘my’ two Peters, I couldn’t imagine what would prompt them to telephone me out of the blue.

The puzzle was solved when Grahame called again later that evening. We got a chuckle out of the fact that he and I couldn’t understand (and were irritated at) the strong accent of the Asian woman who called us about his catatonic diverters —but Josie had a difficult time simply understanding G’s name. And yet—my daughter “could have listened to him all day”.

Despite moments of doubt, the canonistic contenders safely made the journey from Maine to Oz. And contrary to my assumptions (which were based on past history) Australian Customs didn’t open the boxes, irradiate them, blow them up or forward them to Ali g with terse notes outlining proper procedure for accepting foreign mail. They just… sent them on their way to New South Wales. I guess I softened them up with the contraband potatoes, the Bakewell Cream that looked suspiciously like white powder, and the cell phone with two bullet holes in it.

Australian-born Grahame received the catalytic, catatonic and cataclysmic parts for his German car, shipped from the U.S. but sold by someone with a strong Asian accent. And regardless of my doubts, his mechanic said they were top-notch. They weren’t made out of tin foil, and they appeared to be new, with no hint that a cutting torch has ever touched them. Grahame was able to keep most of his pennies in his wombat bank and now his Benz doesn’t sound like a John Deere.

All is well in Oz.

Grahame with the 2 catatonic combustors I mailed all the way from Maine. 
(Please note the wording on his T-shirt, which corresponds with KK's in the above photo!)

Stuck Inside My Head...

It’s happened to all of us. There’s no escaping it…no one is immune.


You hear the first bar. Sometimes just the first two–or three–or four notes…and you’re stuck. Like a record that’s skipping, you have the same stanza of a song stuck in your head. It repeats itself over and over and over (and over and over and over) again. And again.

It’s enough to drive you crazy.

Before I continue with that line of thought, however, let me explain the previous paragraph for the benefit of the younger generation of readers. A “record” was a slender, circular disk of grooved vinyl which, when made to spin with a needle set into the grooves, produced sound. Often, that sound was music, but sometimes it was voice, or some resonance from nature or industry. Records were a technology that I (almost) understood and I hope youngsters will take the time to research this important invention from our past. For it is a fact: my generation grew up listening to music which emanated from a spinning vinyl disk when a needle was placed within its grooves.

Amazing, huh?

We used to have to lick postage stamps to affix them to letters, too. That’s how bad things used to be...

But back to my original topic; this “getting a song stuck in my head” business.

If you’re lucky, the song that gets stuck in your head is one that you like… although the down-side is that you’ll never like it again after the next three days’ worth of hearing it repeated internally inside your brain. The funny thing is—it doesn’t STAY in your brain! You find yourself breaking out in song in the most unlikely of places—and completely against your will! You whistle the song without thinking. You hum it when you’re supposed to be quiet. You even find yourself BREATHING in sync with the tempo of the song. How strange is that?

Yep. A few days with your brain stuck in a loop repeating “I’m too sexy” is enough to sour even the biggest fan of that amazing pop hit.

But what happens when the song that burrows into your psyche is a melody you despise? With words that irritate you beyond measure?

What if it is…the theme song of “Barney”?

If it’s not too late, close your eyes! Stop reading! Immediately! The purple dinosaur and his song are an insidious virus! Once you’ve been infected, you can be laid low for a week. A whole week! One whole week of singing, whistling, humming, breathing and thinking…

“I love you. You love me. We’re a hap-py fam-i-ly. With a great big hug…”

Oh, man!!! You didn’t close your eyes, did you? When—oh, when—will you learn to listen to me?

Yes, there was a time when I thought that the absolute worst song to get stuck in my head was the “Barney” theme song. Josie and Eli would torture me with it. Intentionally and with malice-aforethought! Their goal was to mess with my equilibrium. These seemingly innocent children would wait until I walked through the living room with a basket full of laundry in my arms, completely defenseless and unable to cover my ears, before piping up with the dreaded words. The despised tune.

Without a doubt--they can be evil little munchkins.

And yes, I felt guilty for hating Barney and his feel-good song and all things purple and saccharine-sweet. But I couldn’t help it. I did.

Hated. With a T-Rex-sized ‘H’.

As contagious as the Barney theme song was, though… there is a tune that has settled into the Pease Family Subconscious which is far more irritating. Maybe it’s because we don’t know the words? Maybe it’s because it is a song which is (we think) 200 years old? Maybe it is because—no matter how many times Steven, Eli and I forget the song and start to heal from the trauma induced by days and days of repetitive whistling, humming and breathing it…we still don’t know what it is!

It’s all Josie-Earl’s fault. She started it. She whistled it one afternoon two months ago while sprawled on the sofa reading “Clan of the Cave Bear”. I immediately picked up the tune (which seemed benign at the time) and whistled it back. I asked her what it was.

“I don’t know. Some Beethoven thing.”

Well, my “Beethoven” education was all about St. Bernards and drool. That’s it. No humming, no singing, no whistling, no breathing in tempo with a song. But now…that’s all I do.

Da-da, da-da, da-da, dee-dee-DUM. Da da dee DUM… da da dee DUM!

And over and over and over again. If you were unlucky enough to pick up the tune from my simple ‘das’ and ‘DUMs’…I sincerely apologize. I may have single-handedly killed your love of classical music. There’s only one way to escape having that song stuck inside your head.

“I love you. You love me. We’re a hap-py fam-i-ly…”

Sorry.

Slipping in 'Slippers'

My pride took a wicked beating last week, and I haven’t been able to straighten my right arm, since.


The Pease clan had been invited to Patty’s and John’s for supper. Beef tips in mushroom sauce, potatoes, and (I was told) a kid-friendly vegetable for Eli. Patty even made the point of extending a specific invitation to the Wees. She wanted us to bring the puppies.

Steve’s eyes lit up and he rubbed his hands together in glee.

“Ooh! Revenge! Can we get them to pee on HER couch? Or…how about on her BED?”

My husband doesn’t hold a grudge but he finds an inordinate amount of bliss in getting even.

I baked a loaf of cheddar and onion bread to contribute to the meal. We donned coats, scooped up the Pease Wees, and exited the house. Since the pups aren’t completely housebroken (as in… they have at least one accident every blasted day!) I put them down in the driveway so that they could do their ‘business’ before we began the 45 minute ride to the Cormiers’ house, which sits adjacent to their retail business (Kennebec Home Brew Supply) in Farmington.

As I contemplated the appropriateness of that run-on sentence, Josie’s cat Curious (aka ‘Munchkin’, aka ‘Sister-Kitty’) trotted by. Scruffy perked up mid-piddle and pounced in pursuit. I spoke sharply to the dog, but she ignored me. She was focused on tabby, and nothing was going to distract her. As the animals ran into and across the road, I ran after them. Scruffy needed to know that she was not to go near or into the road under any circumstances! As I ran across the snowy driveway, I yelled.

“You GET back here! RIGHT now!” I caught up with her…edged in front, turned her around…started herding her back. And then it happened. I hit a patch of snow-covered ice, my feet shot out to the left, and I came down onto my right arm. Hard. I heard the snap. Felt it in my head. My arm went numb for a brief instant, and then it was afire.

Steven and Eli stared at me, wide-eyed. Steven began to hurry to my side. I was embarrassed. Humiliated.

“I’m fine!” I snapped as I quickly got to my feet…my ears ringing and my vision blurring. But it only took a few seconds for my husband to figure out I wasn’t ‘fine’. He insisted we drive straight to the Franklin Memorial Hospital.

This is the portion of my story where I wish to point out the differences between men and women. Steven is the kindest and most nurturing husband I could ask for. He’s far better at fussing over me than I am at fussing over… anyone. And yet, as we drove to the Emergency Room instead of Patty’s house, he said:

“It’s no wonder you fell… going out in the snow and ice in your slippers, like that.”

Grrrr! They were Crocs. Not slippers.

The next day, Patty brought dishes containing the supper we’d missed sharing with them--all the way to my home in Lexington. She also brought me a pile of magazines. And a bottle of ‘organic dog conditioner’. Yes, now my puppies have ‘product’. Lord, have mercy…

But when I told my best pal Jack about falling on the ice?

“God, you’re an idiot. Could’ve smashed that thick skull of yours on your driveway... and who can afford to waste money on repairing asphalt these days??”

Friend Kay made a meal for the following night, and delivered it. She also volunteered to pick up my daughter at 5:00 a.m. and take Josie to meet the bus so she could help with the Special Olympics at Sugarloaf.

The response from my wonderful co-writer and friend, Saint?

“I feel horrible -- should never have sent you those killer beasts. The curse is working a little faster than I'd figured -- probably because of NO LEASHES.”

Josie-Earl hung laundry, fed puppies and shoveled snow (without complaint!) Colleen said, “Thinking of you & hoping you’re feeling better today! Sending you lots of love & big hugs.”

But my dear mate Grahame in New South Wales?

“Wanna arm wrestle? Betcha $2.00 I'd win, girlie!”

Yes, there’s a definite difference in how a man nurtures a friend, and how a woman does. Yin and yang…the perfect balance. The women ease a burden and bring physical and emotional sustenance—and the men make sure I don’t take myself too seriously. One sex invokes a warm smile…the other, a reluctant snicker.

Yin and Yang...

Steven and Eli were disappointed to have missed our evening out and I felt bad to have been the cause. But we’re re-invited for this coming Saturday, when Eli will finally discover what—exactly--is a ‘kid-friendly’ vegetable, and Steven can surreptitiously drop the Wees on anything upholstered.

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

Brillo meets Scruffy

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


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

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

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

No problem.

Thank God for wine.

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

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

Thank God for wine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Canine Christmas was hectic, but truly enjoyable.

Five dogs. Two Chrises.

And wine.

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

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

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

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