My Island Guru

Living here on this
Island for nearly 40 years,
I still don't know which mountain is which.
You knew.
I didn't have to remember.
I had you.

I carried the notion
That you would
Live
Forever.
The ageless,
The tireless
Workhorse.

This summer
I will
Climb each
Summit,
And with each step,
I will remember you,
My Island Guru.

Post Script:  My husband and I purchased, renovated and opened the second B and B in Bar Harbor in 1984 and named it The Cove Farm Inn.  Bed and Breakfasts  were the rage.  It was the perfect fit for my husband.  As a native of Bar Harbor, he explored every nook and cranny of the island from the time he was a young boy until this past summer of 2016.  He shared his passion of MDI and Acadia National Park with the guests we welcomed from all over the world. He was referred to as "The Island Guru."  Visitors returned year after year.

a charmed life

Despite the fact that we have far fewer souls in the house, our mornings are carefully orchestrated all because of the shower situation.  Three teenagers can hijack the hot water tank, leaving the adults with a steamy bathroom and not much else.

The other day our daughter announced that she takes a 30 minute shower.  Really?  I wouldn't know because at 5 in the morning I am still in bed fighting for those eight hours of required sleep; dead to the world.  However, it is a fact that the youngest sons have been known to take two or three showers a day using a new towel for each new watery experience.  How dirty can you get in a few hours?  I use my towel for 7 days.   One week.  Ever heard of save the environment?

This morning there was a guest in the house which meant less hot water to go around.  Literally, I ran into the bathroom and into the shower.  The upstairs water had been running for two minutes-tops.  Today was shampoo day which meant an extra 45 seconds in the shower.  The soapy mesh puff met my entire body at record speeds. This is all so typical. I rinse, turn off the water and am wrapped in my towel.  From start to finish it takes about 2-3 minutes.  There is NO loitering in the shower in our house if your age is over 50.  Seldom do I allow myself the pleasure to linger under the misty spray.  I am too sensible.  I think of water shortages world-wide. Plus we spend a lot of money paying for water.  Let's safe when we can.

I am dressed. I put make-up on and my hair is dry. My husband has taken his turn in the shower.  We epitomize efficiency; from bed to bathroom to kitchen in less than ten minutes. Pouring boiling water over the coffee grounds, I still hear the upstairs shower going.  Eight minutes ago the tail end of my shower was lukewarm.

"How is it that you never run out of hot water?" I questioned my son after his lengthy shower.  "It makes no sense; my shower turned cold."  I offer, "You must live a charmed life."

"I don't know," he says, "I guess I do."

Wisdom of Years

To have a bad memory is a writer’s curse and perhaps a grand daughter’s curse too.  Sometimes I think that if I could step through the threshold of my grandmother’s apartment just once more, it would all come gushing out.  All of it.  The smells. The words that passed between us.  The stories.   I remember the cool darkness in the heat of the summer. Windows closed and shades drawn to keep out the heat.  My grandmother’s life was orderly and tidy (for the most part) so it was easy to negotiate through dim light.  

My grandmother was older than my grandfather, by a few weeks.  Sometimes my young mind gave this fact credence to their failed love.  They barely shared words.  Unspoken, I was my grandmother’s ally. Did this rob me of a deeper relationship with my grandfather?  For no good reason I was afraid of him.   One of my earliest memories of him or maybe it was the repeated stories I heard were of my grandfather cradling me in his arms and singing, “Ba-Ba Black Sheep” gently in my ear.  He was a tender man, but later sadly, I kept my distance.

Together alone, my grandparents' days were dimmed by their silence, as they rambled through rooms on opposite sides of the apartment.  There are some things that are hard to forget.

Today marks my grandmother’s 122nd birthday. It is my hope that those accumulated years have helped two souls gain wisdom, understanding and healing to find the peace and love they both deserve.

Home

How would my life be today if I never left?  

“Are you ever coming back?” my father asked after I told him that I got a teaching job in Bar Harbor.  I felt pretty lucky really.  Most of my friends who graduated with degrees in education were working in retail or banks.  Jobs in the field were scarce.  It was either move to Virginia to teach or move within my own state.

“Course, I’ll be back.  ‘Teach for a couple of years and then apply down here.  Ya, I’ll be back.” I replied.

My parents visited me in Bar Harbor.  I had been there only a few weeks, but somehow everywhere we went one of the twelve people I knew surfaced.  It gave the illusion that I knew everyone.  Truthfully, my world was two compacted spheres:  school and home.  Home had become a third floor apartment.  A one bedroom.  Upon first glance it was all I needed.  

I became lonely except for the times that I ventured down the steep set of stairs and into the living room to watch TV with the landlord and his family.  Soon I was apple picking at Merrill’s or eating a burger at Jordan’s. Slowly, my life expanded. Bar Harbor became home.

Today I sit in my mother’s kitchen.  I can venture into the living room where my father and I watched countless Red Sox games.  I can stand in the exact spot when I told him I would be back.  Regrets?  I have none.  Living in the same state bestowed me with the gift of coming home and caring for my parents when they really needed me.  

I love my husband.  I love my children.  My job.  The island where we live.  Most of all, I love the fact that there are two places that I can call home.  I am blessed to return to both.

Is it Different?

My mother at 43 gave birth to her last child.  My sister Bethany, a feisty sort even at three years old tested my mother’s common sense, at least from the perspective of others.   In the dead of winter with fingers stiff and numb, my mother regularly hung the clothes on the line.  One particularly cold day, she could not get in the house. Bethany had locked the door.  My mother became a negotiator on the frigid side of the door.  This was only one incident of many that helped fuel others’ perspective that having a baby in your 40’s and raising a child into your 50’s and 60’s is crazy stuff.  

At nearly 60 my youngest is 14. A daughter.  I am not so sure that I am approaching late age motherhood as gracefully as my mother did.  The world was different when my mother raised her last.  War was happening across the expanse of the earth.  Far away. News came days later via newsprint or through mail. Today the globe has shrunk.  Every little decision made has instantaneous repercussions.  The internet is a blessing and a curse.  Our lives are no longer private.  Boundaries are blurred. There is some real disfunction out there.  All these elements, in my mind, puts my daughter at risk.  Much of my brain space is spent in my desire to protect, which at times robs me from the joy of mothering.  

The mamas of today balance the wonders of the world with the dangers of the world.  Did my mother worry as much as I do? She made it look so easy and so much fun.

Stories On The Ceiling

Has the past invaded my brain? Worry makes a commanding appearance as I pour over old photographs. It's past midnight and I'm just too excited to sleep. The images don't so much make me meloncholly anymore, like they did after my parents' died, but now they create a fury of stories.  Stories that bind our family together. I forget worry.

These tales never grow old. Despite the fact that the same stories have been retold through the decades-laughter swells and throats ache holding back emotion, realizing change is inevitable with the passage of time. Stories may just be the only constant.

(This photo was certainly taken by my mother, who was the slowest photographer ever. Her care in capturing the shot never translated to quality. My mother had a thing for ceilings! Inevitably intended subjects were cut out of the shots. This photo was taken at my great aunt's house. Auntie and Gene lived on Cumberland Avenue in Portland. We visited nearly every Sunday after church. This image is a New Year's gathering probably between 1963 and 1966. My Aunt Karen has her back to the camera, while my father smokes at the table (acceptable for this era) and my sister laughs distracting her from posing.

In The Present

Under the canopy, our squeals echoed. The posts outlying the rotunda were "safe" as the cousins played tag, our feet clicking on the flagstone. This while the adults tended to adult things.  Every once in awhile I would glance  over and see my mother and my Aunt Karen bent over cutting grass with hand shears or lugging water in the heavy galvanized pail we found in our cellar. Uncle George emerged, tall rubbing his back after crouching to plant the red geraniums. Once a year they tended to the past; while we remained in the present piercing the air in delight.

Life's Etchings

It has been nearly a decade since my husband held his father’s hand for the last time.  His father was an old Mainer set in his ways.  “You need a haircut!” were words for every boy and man whether he knew them or not. His thoughts no matter what they were would spill into the air. He was opinionated and stubborn, yet there was a soft side to this burly brisk man. 

 As soon as the children poured out of the car at camp, he scooped them into his arms and found a place to sit.  With food. One of his favorite places to sit was on the porch at camp.  His chair an old green plastic one was set at the head of the table. The table and chair situated just so to watch the comings and goings on the pond, affording a long view of water leading to the mountains.  With a child or sometimes two settled onto his lap, he sipped water while scooping ice cream or pudding into gaping mouths. The grand babies were assuredly sustained by love, food and camp.  Later, the children would line up to be flung into the air by his strong arms, little legs dangling, dragging to and fro through the cool water. The air pierced with squeals of delight beckoning a turn, “Grampy! Grampy!” On some days, the older grandchildren accompanied Grampy down the end of the pond taking turns with the oars. The orange life jacket hiked up beyond their oversized ears.  The boat trip often included releasing grumpy, loud bull frogs down to the far end of the pond so there could be some sleep from dusk and into the dawn,at least for one night.

When not by the water or chopping wood, Grampy would sit in his green chair at the grey formica table to sip coffee, whoop Grammy at Yahtzee and eat green pimento olives straight from the jar with a tiny delicate fork.  

Even after all these years since he left this world, the table and chair remain.  I rub my hand on the surface of the table where he sat.  The finish worn and scratched.  I feel a lifetime etched into this place, telling of a man who has created a legacy of traditions for generations to come.

a gathering

The smoke followed me wherever I sat.  I'd change seats and the wind would shift.  My decision to stand was a practical one, so that I could easily avoid the smoke with a shuffle of a few steps to the left or to the right.  The fire kindled easy conversation as we talked about things like knitting, Gatorade flavors, sun screen and bug repellent.

Maybe the fire did not ignite some ancient longing to gather around a blaze and talk, but something did.  Maybe it was the first weekend that we have had late spring worthy weather, maybe it was the fact that this place holds such family history since my husband has been coming to this spot since he  was three or maybe it was that most of my children and significant others were gathered here.  Nothing makes us happier; our already big family is growing. And you know, this is just the beginning.

Adjusting

Is it just me, or is everyone going about a thousand times a minute? Everything is bustling in town after a long sleepy winter. It seems to happen overnight.   Most people are adjusting to the fast pace of a summer in Bar Harbor.  I won’t see my children on a regular basis. Everyone will be working. They will come and go while Jerry and I adjust to eating alone.

Some days I long for stretches of time alone with my husband.  Yet, the reality is I will miss the phone calls, “Can you come pick me up?” The plans, “I have a track meet on Thursday and practice all week.” The athletic antics, “I’m gonna dunk.” I may not miss the dirty dishes piled up in the sink or the long, long showers of teenagers, but I will miss everything else.

Exercise Fun

 

     Photos courtesy of Angela Dalrymple

Although it was a weekend the alarm was set and  I was up before it went off at 5:45.  We were all off to a 5K Color Run.  Water bottles filled, bananas on board, we drove over an hour to get there. Gabrielle and I have been walking everyday.  A little over three miles? No problem.  We let our long and leggy girl run the race and come in second for woman, while the rest of us brought up the rear.  Walk, walk, walk, jog, walk, walk, walk, jog.  There was not really any rhythm or method, but whenever I felt the urge; I jogged. It was fun exercising amongst a crowd. The rain waited until the afternoon.  I'd say the day so far has been a success! My First 5K.

it's all about timing

“It’s late,” my husband whispered, “We better get up.”

Forever and always, I have hated getting out of bed, especially in the dark.  This morning.  Dark.  Jerry crawls over me and out of bed.  Meanwhile, I pull up the comforter and settle in for at least fifteen more minutes of sleep, rest-I don’t know, I’ll take it.

Watching my husband pour our coffee, I have an odd sense.  The kids and felines of the house have internal clocks.  No kitty visits this morning and it is strangely quiet in the house.  “What time is it?” I ask as I put toothpaste on the brush.

“I screwed up,” my husband began, “it’s still early.” Knowing my possible reaction he continued, “It’s a good thing. Now we have all this time.”

I drag my now tired body out of the kitchen, feeling  lost in a battle between spring forward and fall back.  Burdened with the fact that I have just lost an hour sleep, I have all I can do not to slip back under the covers fully dressed with my shoes on.

Space

Change isn’t so bad, is it?  My mother moved the furniture around every few months infusing a “brand new” perspective to each room.  I wasn’t married long when I tried this.  “What was wrong with the way we had it?” my husband asked, just a bit dazed as he walked through the door.  He dropped his lunch box and began to push the furniture around into position.  Each piece moved easily under his strength as though they were destined to remain in “their place.”

Fortunately, for my husband  our present home does not offer many options in the furniture moving department. (Gosh, maybe he designed it this way! I never gave it a thought until now.)  All of us dusted and cleaned.  We put unused items in storage and created areas of interest with photographs and mementoes. And yes, we did move a few pieces of furniture. Together, we created a space that is comfortable for family gatherings.  

We have lots of family gatherings-every chance we get and for any excuse.  Not only do our eight children attend, but there are also a few significant others that join in.  Sometimes it is pretty noisy in this great room with all the laughing and talking.  Often, I sit back in silence and just watch. And think, We’ve created quite a brood.

In Celebration

 Animated, my co-worker was telling me yesterday about early life in his marriage.   He surprised his wife with two little calico kittens.  He carried each in his large pea coat pockets from the old barn where they had lived.  Presenting one in the palm of his hand, his wife cooed in delight.  As she was bonding with one, he surprised her with the other. He had never been a cat person, but I think that experience converted him. Paul proceeded to tell me about every cat he and his wife have loved in their long marriage.

As he was sharing, I was thinking about all of our cats.  Growing up we had a multitude of cats.  Always.  Like Polly who got stuck in the chimney and George who survived a through and through wound (we think from an arrow) or Frosty who lived to be more than twenty years old. My brother remembers them all and the stories bind us in our love.  The tales go on forever.

My husband and daughter through the years have brought home nine cats.  They each have their own personalities and quirks. For instance, Maggie likes to drink directly out of the faucet and gives kisses when I ask on my nose and lips.  Abbie, a tiny calico  squeaks rather than meows and gave birth to Harry (named after my father) a long sleek gray beauty who can’t seem to get enough of me. Our big calico Julie Jewels robs shiny things. We had named her Julie long before we discovered her affinity for jewels.  What a delightful alliteration: Julie Jewels-and so appropriate too. 

Then there is Charlie, our gentle old-timer is thirteen years old. Duke a long haired marmalade is a bit of a brute swatting others away from the food dish. The last to join our family is Lilly, a feral born in a wall.  She is more than two years old, but remains the size of a kitten. She has adjusted just fine to our crazy house filled with teenagers.

Each morning we are surrounded by cats. We wouldn’t want it any other way.

The Absence of Justice

Sometimes bad things happen,

Innocence

Confused by guilt.

A mother speaks out:

All parties

Move forward.

Be positive.

A mother speaks,

The Power is all-powerful,

And

Deaf.

When will

There

Be

Justice?

My Babysitter Sister

“Want to go to the beach?”  she asked.

Gripping the phone, I couldn’t believe that she was asking me.  I had a few friends in the neighborhood, mostly boys who I climbed trees with and batted a ball around the neighborhood.  Much of my time was spent bent in the field across the street picking  wild strawberries or huckleberries or trying all day to lift a kite high into the sky. I walked to and from school each day to be alone. The bus ride was too loud and took longer than walking. I watched the world function-meeting the same cars in the same place each day.  There was a predictable routine.  A comfort.   And my time alone was treasured.

I hung up.  

“When’s she coming to get you?” my babysitter sister asked.

“Don’t know.” I answered.

“What do you mean?” she bantered.

Looking down at the floor I whispered, “I don’t know.”

“Well, you just have to be ready.  Here let me help you. Find your bathing suit.”

Pulling opened my top drawer I searched among my socks and underwear.  School had barely locked the doors behind us.  It took tossing clothes around two drawers and making a mess to find my bathing suit.

“Got a towel,” I heard my sister yell.  

After hunting for my one pair of flip flops, I came to see my sister hand sewing something as she sat at the kitchen table.

“Maybe we should call Brenda’s mother,”  she suggested while pulling the needle through the cloth.

The phone rang and rang.  No one answered. “‘Must be on their way.” I stood and looked out the window anticipating their arrival. For the longest time.  I waited.  I was so excited.

After an hour or more my sister dragged the yellow wooden stool out to the garage where I could see Brenda and her mom as they drove in the driveway.

“You have to be ready,” she reminded.

On the stool wearing my bathing suit, cover-up and flip flops I sat swinging my legs thinking that this new vantage point would magically make my friend appear. I hung on tight to the beach bag in my lap that my sister had just made me for the special occasion. I sat some more.  Every ten minutes or so I heard the door creak open. "You OK?" It broke the silence and the growing pain.

As time passed, my sister suggested that maybe they aren’t coming. “Maybe they don’t know where we live, huh? Come in the house.”

Shifting in my seat, I swallowed hard and said, “No they’ll be here.”

That day I learned that not everyone says what they mean. As painful as the day was for me, my sister pulled me through. This is a story about love and devotion and my sister.

Among the Lucky

After working  over nine hours, my husband walked through the door covered in sheet rocking mud. His hands white in spots.

“Let’s go!” I said. “Eddaejia has an appointment.”

He had other ideas.  “I’m not going.”

“I haven’t seen you all day,” I replied, “I missed you.”

I moved closer to him so I could look in his eyes, smile and give him a hug.

“Sometimes, the car is the only place to be quiet and alone,” I reminded. “I love being with you.”

It is true.  I love being with my husband, at least most of the time.  After decades and decades of marriage, we still like each other.

My daughter recently got engaged.  She has been asking about our wedding that took place more than thirty years ago.  While fielding questions and searching my memory for answers, I was reflecting about how very fortunate we are since our marriage came ten months after we met.  Sometimes relationships never make it to long term.  We can be counted among the lucky.

Almost

Inside we were safe and warm.  The waffle iron steamed and hissed, maybe in objection to the howling wind and drifting snow outside. Our plates were filled to the edges with homemade waffles.  The butter melting into the maple syrup made a sweet, buttery mix.  I stirred the topping gently with my fork and carefully put a piece in my mouth.  The buttery liquid dripped down my chin and onto my favorite gray wool sweater.  Wetting the corner of a towel and absorbing the sweet oily trail that lined my front, I inched near my husband who was sitting on a stool at the counter and had two odd shapes of waffle stuck to his fork.  I imagined leaning in close  whispering, “Maybe I won’t go.”  and then I would seal that wish with a gentle kiss on his ear.

Hesitating, I said nothing and walked away.  He’d be mad, I thought. It is so cold.  I don’t want to go.

Family traditions are so important.  Sunday waffles lure my adult children home.  We tell stories.  We laugh.  And we eat.  This particular Sunday, we had made plans to walk, but the snow and ice came.  We would try to snowshoe.

The wind was biting.  Elizabeth and I were wrapped in scarves in a futile attempt to cover skin. Jerry pulled the soft fleece neck warmer, above his chin.   Aaron had no gloves and tucked his hands in his sleeves.  The field had areas that were drifted while exposing patches of crusty icy snow.  We trudged one by one through the open field in the expected snowshoe kind of waddle.   Chins down against the wind.  For a time I moved with my eyes closed.  My nose ran, it was so cold.   Finally we reached the woods-protected from the wind.   The trees were heavy weighed down with snow-the trail  swallowed by bending trees  a natural arbor overhead.  Along the trail laden trees touched us as we passed dropping puffs of powdery snow.  It was truly a winter wonderland.  I stopped. I listened.  I watched my family ahead and realized that I almost missed this.  

Saturday in Maine

It’s Saturday morning, the dried beans slip through,

My fingers search for small stones,

We grew up on Saturday night beans

Swimming in a blend of molasses and spices,

Red hot dogs snapping with each bite.

On Saturday night

The double decker percolator bubbled

Coffee

Strong

Black,

Plates filled with

Saturday night beans,

Lawrence Welk on a snowy screen

Waltzing with an old robust woman,

Her lipstick smiles back.

The house captures the smell,

And the tradition,

Our plates filled with

Saturday night beans,

Pandora rocks

As we dance in embrace

And both smile

As we remember both growing up

In Maine.

The Ordinary

We walked everywhere and when we were not able to make the journey on foot, we would hop on public transportation.  Later, when I was older, I rode my bike miles and miles to a friend's house in Saco or a longer distance to Fortune's Rocks near Biddeford Pool.  It took me so long to ride my three speed up and down the hills to the beach that I was not able to stay, but for a quick bare-footed walk on the sand, until I had to turn around and head home before it got dark.

When I visit home, I  feel much like I did during those early journeys on my bike.  It takes so long to get home, I  am never able to linger, explore all the crooks and crannies to recall details of my past life in Biddeford.  Not having lived there in over three decades now, the changes make it hard to remember.  The big historic tree in front of my grandmother's apartment was cut down.  The changes are not all bad, many once empty store fronts have new life now as restaurants have opened and my beloved city is being revitalized as a center for the arts.

When I was little, I would most often walk throughout the city with my grandmother Caroline.  We would visit Butler's where extra attention was given to my grandmother's carefully wrapped in lamb skin feet.  The shoe attendant would take great care in helping my grandmother get the  perfect shoes with the most comfortable fit.  I would walk up and down the sweeping staircase of this small department store slipping my hand down the shiny wooden banister my heels clicking on the large tiles as I landed at the bottom of the stairs.  Once the shoes were purchased, my Grandmother would take me to Woolworth's a door or two down from Butler's for a whirl in the soda fountain stools while I waited for a sundae or a colossal banana split. The price was set in accordance with the small tag found inside the balloon of my choosing that hung like a bunch of bananas above our heads on each stainless steel column that lined the counter area.  The draw of the colorful array of round balloons must have sold a number of banana splits each day, for while my Gram and I sat there we heard the pop of many a balloon the only way to pay for your split.

With a full belly, the walk home seemed long. Sometimes we would stop at a shop near the Thatcher Hotel where they just sold undergarments.  My grandmother would pull a dark green curtain aside while a woman with a short, graying hair and a tape measure dangling from her neck would follow my grandmother.  I would wait patiently until they both emerged.  Everyone would talk in undertones, a parcel was quickly put into a brown paper bag and we would head for home.  After a morning of running errands, my grandmother would arrange her bed for an afternoon nap.  The coverlet folded down at the foot of the bed and then removed so it would not be dirty or wrinkled.  I don't actually recall napping, but we would snuggle in her bed and she would listen to my hours spent with Sister Mary Natalie my first grade teacher at St. Mary's School and she would tell me of the two weeks she spent with my aunt as they traversed this great country with two little kids in the backseat.  It sounds like an adventure, one that my grandmother cherished.

As I age, it is the moments spent  growing up in a bustling little city in southern Maine where running ordinary day to day errands with my grandmother, buying shoes and spinning in a soda fountain chair are what I cherish.  It is the slowing down and the taking time that help to forge the memories.  I went cross country in a big old jet plane, but I don't remember much.  Pardon the cliche:  There's no place like home.