CRABBY AT CHRISTMAS

This is a story about my nurse-sister, Ann, who told it to me over breakfast, recently. (If I've mixed up a few names or names of places, forgive me, Ann; the story is still true...) We were discussing how, after 35 years away, it still strikes me as something wonderful: big, lazy snowflakes swirling around, the week before Christmas. Gorgeous blue lights adorning each tree in the park, at the end of Maple Street; Mom putting up the Christmas Manger Creche, with the same Baby Jesus (left out till Christmas Eve) we grew up with and all the remembered ornaments, familiar-again scents and sounds of a New England holiday season.

Ann was unimpressed, having just gotten off another rugged night shift in the ER. Too many psychotics demanding turkey sandwiches and chips-- while they waited for admittance into the psych ward.

"I get it. You are totally stressed. Still, it's amazing, being back here, after spending the past few years in mid-town, L.A., with homeless peeing in the trash cans outside my building; or gangs practicing holiday "shots", up and down La Brea..." I tell her.

"Yeah, well...I'll be glad when the season's over," Ann rolls her big blue eyes, thinking I'm a sap.

"Try to focus on stuff you do love about Christmas...seriously," I say, sounding like the ex-teacher-social worker I am.

"I do remember one Christmas, in the Peace Corps...my friend and I had gotten some time off for the  holidays; we'd saved up all year' to go into the only major town in Lesotho. We hitchhiked under the summer sun, me in my knee- length skirt and backpack, he in his best townie clothes, all the way into the city. We had scored reservations for a couple days--just get hot showers, room service and  time in decent beds. But, suddenly, in the midst of unpacking, HE began to get nostalgic for his family, back in the village. I couldn't believe it! We'd been planning this trip for months! Finally, on Christmas morning when we woke up,he couldn't stand it. I couldn't afford another day by myself,either, so I had to pack, too. I was so pissed!
On top of that, there was no traffic coming into or going out of the city on Christmas. We were stuck...on the road, fighting heat exhaustion,literally for hours. Mid-day, a carload of tourists from South Africa showed up and offered us a ride. They were in a party mood and offered to take us all the way into the mountains, to the village of my friend. They wanted to see "authentic Lesotho"! The problem was, MY village was about two miles off the main road, and not in his direction. So, they took me to where I had to peel on to a footpath and trek the two miles back up to my village. Merry Christams...what a pain!

"I had my backpack still full of "treats for the weekend"--mostly canned stuff and whatever junk food we had been able to procure. Also, all my toiletries and clothes for the city weekend getaway...what a joke! So, there I was, this sixty pound pack on my aching shoulders, exhausted, dehydrated, feeling abandoned, upset, in my best skirt and sandals, slogging in the sweltering sun, alone on Christmas Day, in Africa.

"Suddenly, I hear all this pot-banging, and really high voices coming down the road. About fifteen little kids--with spoons and pot lids-- yelling "Happy! Happy! Happy!" dancing down the path, directly toward me.

"You have to know how little this village had--the poorest of the poor--their culture had been squashed out of them by invading people for years--the kids had the big bellies and bigger eyes you usually see on t.v. Dressed in scraps of rags, barefooted, dusty, they came up to me, surrounding me and grinning.

"Happy Happy Happy!" they sang, all the while banging pots--their version of a Christmas morning celebration.

"I growled, something, like, "Get away! I just want to get back to my hut!" or something equally crabby.

The kids knew me from classes that I taught at their church.I wasn't just some random stranger.
They all got quiet. The smallest boy reached into his torn pants pocket.I thought he was going to pull it inside out, asking me for a coin. Instead, he took out a fuzz-covered hard candy. He took a step toward me--the big blonde American with the stuffed backpack, sweating and swearing on the village path.
He held out his grubby little hand and offered the candy to me.

"Happy, happy!" he smiled.

All the kids burst into cheers and started banging their pots. I looked down at that raggedy kid and his lint-covered candy. I burst into tears."

(At this juncture, I burst into my own tears. Then I laughed.I could "see" Ann, the tough blonde American in her best skirt and sandals, her ass-length hair streaked with African sweat, her backpack off-kilter and weighing her down, her boyfriend jouncing in a jeep with a bunch of tourists,their weekend ruined; her swearing as she slogged home...I could see it, feel it, smell it...)

"Those little kids started to hold up the bottom of my pack, and push my butt up the path...just singing and banging the pots. When I got to my hut, I opened my pack and took out all the weekend supplies, plus my wallet, and anything else I had in there that I knew they could use. The rest of the afternoon, in my yard, we celebrated one of the best Christmases I've ever had...me and fifteen of the grubbiest, poorest kids on Earth."

Ann put her teabag into her boiling cup of water and proceeded upstairs--to continue wrapping gifts.

(Merry Christmas, my sister. I'm glad you are home from Africa.)

Merry Christmas to us all--Happy, Happy. 

ITS COMIN' ON CHRISTMAS

Like Joni Mitchell penned in "River", I feel I need "someplace to skate away on..."

My parents' house is beginning to be filled with decorations,baking activities, packages and people, on an hourly basis. Because I haven't mastered which doorbell is back and which is front (still)--and that is further complicated by the dog giving me an amused look, then running to BOTH doors, in random order--while voices from upstairs, downstairs and the celler laundry room  instruct me on which door to answer--usually with an added chime from the house phones (their are MANY extensions and mobile phones in this house)...I am more than a bit rattled. Of course, it doesn't help that I'm usually upstairs, online, writing, answering e-mails (or contacting publishers, presses) and seeking full-time employment. My mind is in the ethers and my hearing attuned to the laptop. (Not the doorbells.) Between the delivery persons and the visitors, this place is rollicking! 

UPS, USPS, the local florist, and various political organizations all seem to be converging on the vortex of Maple Street. I am attempting to be of some small service. (I admit: some of the boxes are mine...)I help Dad haul in packages that are bigger than both of us. (Mostly ordered by Ann-the-Generous, for the extended family.) Sometimes, though, Dad gets macho on me and insists that HE can haul in the boxes himself. Since I now outweigh him by several kilos (smile) and am almost his height, this isn't often true. But for sure, only one of us, plus the giant packages, can fit through the screen door and the hallway door and the living room door--at least simultaneously.

My strategy is the "drop-the-box-and-go-into-a-crouch-and-push" position. (I'm sure there's a corresponding yoga pose...)While Dad looks on in great disgust, it still beats his "tottering-in-pain-bending-the-aching-back-haul-up-into-the-house" curls. Of course, when Ann is home, she merely orders us all out of the way, mustering her nurse-as-WonderWoman muscles, and flips the packages onto her shoulders;proceeding directly upstairs to her bedroom. It's pretty amazing. (Makes me feel like the dim-witted interloper I probably am...smile.) Somehow, we've retrieved it all from the front porch before any masked bandits. HOARDERS isn't scheduled to film here, anytime soon, either.

The "secret wrapping sessions", with half-closed doors, rustling paper and the occasional jingle-jangle of decorative sleigh bells, fills the hallways. Last weekend, Ann bribed (paid) my youngest niece to help her finish the third round of wrapping. (Luckily, Mer was in need of fast cash.) 

Of course, I am of no use whatsoever. It has been (since childhood) the family joke, that "K.K. wraps like someone from an adult workshop"-- they haven't meant elves' at the North Pole. It's not politically correct nor even very nice, but I've come to accept the title. I mean, I over use tape of any kind --resorting to duct tape in a pinch. My talents are two dimensional. Oh, I write a helluva card, even a gift card might contain a poem or anectdote; but when it comes to actual wrapping...well...it's lucky Mer is still around to help.How many Christmases past have I been told, "We can't figure out how a visual artist like you can be such a lousy gift wrapper???" I haven't figured it out, either. All I can say is: thank God for the invention of gift-bags! 

As fast as the presents come in, they are delivered; strict warnings attached not to open till Christmas. But, they ARE delivered. The energy coming off this enterprise is palatable. It's a kind of factory-sense to the operations. I'm sure the North Pole Business Model is at play, somewhere. For reals.

My family is generous, as well as fierce. Gift-giving is a way of loving. It just gets overwhelming (to me), sometimes. Even as I am a definite recipient of that genrousity and amazed at how, for decades, it continues to be passed along.

 Now, we are beginning THE SEARCH for the perfect Christmas Tree...

     

THANKS GIVING EVE

There have been many

OCEAN, BEACH, SEA, WATER, TIDE, MIST,FOG (perfumes)

For whatever reason this past week, I've been yearning for a new scent in my life. CK ONE used to be the old favorite, followed by HALSTON, (for heavier dates.) But then, it seemed that every twenty-something I'd run into was smelling exactly like a Calvin Klein ad torn from ROLLING STONE or MARIE CLAIRE magazine...(HALSTON was great, until I received three notes from friends,informing me that their mail carriers objected to my scented letters...) Clearly, it was Time for a Change.

I took this quest quite seriously.What is more essentially feminine than a perfect scent? (Though I've never been anyone's idea of a "girly girl", I am, still, essentially female.I like to smell good.) So,which perfumes expressed my soul? What secrets did I want to share, without uttering a word? What images, to stir, in the midst of strangers? (While still not clearing an elevator?)

Growing up in the era of musk oils and sandalwood, floral scents never seemed to reflect my inner being-- that's what wearing perfume is all about, right? Patchouli was just "too too"...(bringing up memories of college friends who eschewed deodorant (sometimes, soap) in favor of the thick clouds of resin).Cleaner scents of citrus and mint just didn't last. I didn't want to smell like a candy-store, either.

The quest continued, forever forward: waterfalls, hidden pools, moonlight, wind, rainclouds...Unfortunately, nobody has perfected the craft of bottling these essences. Still, I could dream. I could sample. I could follow the forever out of reach visions...the odors of Heaven...sigh.

Even as I find myself far from the nearest beach, my craving "for ocean" continues to roar. Search engines direct me to "beachy-sounding" products; however, upon close inspection, the perfumes tend toward Farmers' Markets, rather than surf and sand. (I don't crave apricots and vanilla...nor even honeysuckle and melons....cinnamon and apple are best in desserts....and I don't want to smell like a cucumber...) I have found myself on travel sites and dive shop sites, seeking the scents of the waves. All to no avail...

Do you remember the Seinfeld episode, where Kramer slips into Calvin Klein's office, attempting to sell the idea of "The Beach"--only to be escorted out. Several months later, a date of Jerry's shows up, sporting a cologne that EXACTLY captures the scent...Oh, how I fantasized about that perfume.
I have sought it for decades; each time disappointed. (Rain, tropical forests, magnolias and jasmine, honey- suckle, roses, lilacs and coconuts are NOT beach scents. Not really.) I am seeking it, still.

I want the crash of the waves. I want the sand and cold fog. I want the sound of gulls; scents of shells and wet stone. Tide. Mist. Rushing water and foam...a slight sting of salt; ozone and sea-spray...is this so difficult to understand? Perhaps...sigh.  Perhaps.
(Quipsters remind me that a day at the beach can also smell like hotdogs; dead fish; tarballs; sunscreen; and oil-slicks.) Okay. Maybe. Sometimes.
 But I am dealing in desire. Dreamtime; hearspace;fantasy.

So, if there are Spirits of the Holidays reading this blog...seek out an Ocean/Beach/Coastal Eddy splash for under my tree....

If I can't be at water's edge for Christmas, at least I might carry the scent.   

AVOCADO BLUES

Growing up in Massachusetts, I was drawn to stories of struggling artists in big cities--how they began to understand themselves; how they escaped their hometowns; how they found which Big City to escape to; and finally, all the details of their daily existence. It mattered less to me what their final contributions to the world ended up being. More important: how, who, where and why.

Something every artist seemed to possess, whether in a fifth floor walk-up in NYC or a Paris attic, was an avocado plant. Like some sort of exclamation point, standing on its head: a woody, single stalk, reaching forever skyward. The first green leaves "the point"; maybe "the point of no return"; or, "the point of it all"...hmmm. Whatever the symbolic meaning, avocado plants, grown from single seeds, sprouting a long, white root in a glass of water while balancing on three toothpicks, well, this was real-world magic. The perfect house pet for starving artists around the world. If you really were an artist, you could grow one. You had to grow one. It was like, well, Cosmic Law.

When I got to school in New York, it was upstate; far from NYC walk ups. Still, at college, I was led to believe that I would BE the artist who would make it. Excellent mentors; access to the best studios; adults who maybe smiled at my drive, but who,nevertheless, propelled me forward, honestly hoping I was right. It was a kind of gift. For a while...

They never fed us avocados in upstate New York, at Wells College, in the seventies. The first time I ever had guacamole, though, was in my paramour's cottage, just after our first break-up/make-up, during a late snowstorm. I attempted to salvage that wondrous pit...much as I tried to salvage the relationship (the first adult connection I was to experience, and the one that has scarred me, since). I learned about the- three- toothpick- balancing -act- above- the- shot- glass- full- of -water. The proper depth to hang the semi-dry "seed" and how one should change the water every few days, until the white, thready taproot appeared.

(People were less sure about the next step, though. And without proper instruction, I always ended up with a rapidly decomposing taproot and a bald head slightly poking it's top above the dirt.)

 Much like the relationship that cold spring, my avocados always began with miraculous strength. Then, they dried up, and left only headstones of defeat, in the dirt.

When I fled to Los Angeles and lived in several artist communes during the hey-days of Performance Art, growing avocados in coffee cans was either a.) quaint and literary or b.) quaint and romantic. Not quite "edgy enough" and way too domestic for the radicals I hung out with...I soon gave up the practice. However, in my heart, I always knew: if I could grow a successful avocado plant from a pit, I truly would become the artist I always dreamt of.

Several relationships, cottages, lofts, farms, condos and beachhouses later, the nurturing of the plant evaded me. At one point, as the Head Teacher at the UCI Farm School, an entire class of sixth- graders sprouted avocados for me for Christmas. Dutifully, they wrapped their successful projects in colorful paper and metallic ribbons, presenting them to me at the annual Parent and Kid Solstice Party. I was touched...but my touch was death to all the avocado plants. Some suggested that it was the incense (Nag Champa) that I insisted on burning during meditation. Others suggested maybe I just wasn't watering them enough. Or, too much. Or not giving them the proper sun. Or shadow. Or warmth. Or coolness. One very wise third- grader from Sri Lanka told me: "Maybe you just aren't good with things in pots."

Maybe.

And it was true: indoor plants never bloomed for me. Even caged animals I tried to keep, died horrible deaths far too soon. (Not from neglect, but from accidental causes--mostly stemming from paranoia about accidental causes...sigh.) My best friend presented me with a wax cactus plant--a candle that was so cunningly made, people often watered it when staying over--believing surely I would kill a cactus, too. I'm good with candles. It outlasted even the Farm School, and moved away with me, back to Los Angeles, where I started up with the avocados again. (My first solo loft on Detroit Street, mid-town, the Miracle Mile: what better place to grow an artist's trademark?)

Alas, it wasn't to be. I sure ate enough guac and sliced avocado on my salads, but sprouting a plant: nada.

So, with a kind of fatalism (and irony that I don't usually possess,) I ate the avocado my Mother brought home from Hannaford's (three weeks after she bought it.)

"Most of them were so mushy--but this one's really hard and fresh! Here!" she handed it to me triumphantly. When I left it out on the kitchen table to ripen, no one in the family believed I would ever really eat it.

Finally, it did ripen and was soft enough to make guacamole. It was not L.A. street vendor style, but, it did remind me of my previous 35 years on the other coast...sigh. I couldn't bring myself to toss out the pit. I  washed and dried it like an infant. I put it on the windowsill for a few days. Then, begging three toothpicks and my Father's best whiskey- sipping- shot- glass, I propped the pit and waited.

"What the Hell is that?!" Dad asked the first morning he saw it over his breakfast. "Don't tell me it's some kind of alien experiment!" (He was serious. In his eyes, like the rest of the family, I'm still "that weird junior high schooler doing alien investigations at the kitchen table"...)

I assured him it was a terrestrial agricultural attempt.

"What are you doing with that thing?" My niece inquired while sipping a Capri Sun after geometry class.

Again, I explained the venture.

"But why, Auntie K.K. ?" she scowled at the pit.

"All artists keep avocado plants. It's just...something we do," I sighed, trying to convince myself that I was still historically significant.

"It's gross." Ann blew in, dropping her keys and fifty pound purse on the table, almost spilling the glass.

When we went to the Highland Games for six days, I forgot about the pit. It was on the way home that I realized this. Yet again, I had "killed" something I loved. How many of the avocado race would fall prey to my mindlessness?

"Well, we didn't know what we were supposed to do--so, we kept changing its water--every day," Mom and Dad informed, me when I walked back into 88 Maple.

"Unbelievable," Ann rolled her eyes. 

"Look!" I pointed to the bottom of the pit. Whatever watering they had done had made the critical difference. On the bottom,a tiny crack had appeared. And from it's creamy depths, something that resembled a maggot was hanging.

"Gross," Ann, the nurse, said.

I thought it was beautiful.

For three weeks, the taproot made its way downward. When it hit the bottom of the shot glass, even my Mother agreed, I needed to plant it in real dirt. Dutifully, she took me to the cellar. There, amid Christmas boxes, old sleds, Dad's abandoned "worm box", were about fifty  planters of all sorts and sizes. 

 "Help yourself," Mom took one step out of the room, then, coming back, insisted I use a large tin vase with  flowers painted on it. (Beggars don't bite the hand that hands them the pot.) I took it into the backyard and rooted up some soil from a terra cotta planter that once held geraniums.

Inside, I placed it on the windowseat in the diningroom, where the sun hung around all day.

"You know, all the nematodes and insects that are hibernating this time of year are in that soil are going to wake up. You are now giving them a warm, inviting habitat..." Ann indicated the Ant Farm, that I had created.

In horror, I removed the painted pot (and avocado) to the front porch railing. Safely back outside.

For two weeks, I watered it, talked to it, and waited for it's little brown skull to produce at least one spike. Nothing. I could only pray for the taproot under the soil. (But, it was getting sun. It was airing out.) Nothing alive had crawled from the dirt. It had other plants to commune with. All seemed balanced in its natural new world.

Until the next "accident". Early frost. Bane of New England. A white coating over everything, one morning in October. In horror, I ran out to the porch. Yes. The lovely tin painted pot with its tiny avocado head just peeking from the new dirt was covered in ice crystals. (I felt like a funeral sounds.)

Once again, I had accidentally destroyed what I had been so carefully nurturing. What the Hell was wrong with me?

"What the Hell is wrong with you?" Ann saw me bring the pot inside.

"There are no more bugs in here," I told her, plunking the pot on the windowseat, in the pale sun.

"No avocados, either," she said.

I couldn't give up.

I reflected on the rough road wild avocados have...how they fall from trees, sometimes hundreds of feet high; the fruit is ravaged by raccoons and possums and people; the pits then scarred and ripped, tossed asunder. And yet...a few manage to go on to the next incarnation in their fruity lives. I knew because I had shared a wonderful artist's cottage with a leather craftsperson, who worked for the studios, outside of  Burbank. Close to the L.A. river (which would horrify any New Englander), an avocado tree that was seventy -five years old, guarded our back yard. (I knew the raccoons and possums and skunks and humans who would steal the green treasures. I knew the life-cycle of those pits that survived.) So, maybe, my pit, too, would pull through.

I could only hope. Pray. Duck the jarring comments of my family; about how California has fried my brain, for sure.( And wait.)

Yesterday, coming into the diningroom to water the pit, I noticed : a weird shadow against the sunny window.

Upon close inspection, I discovered: FAITH is something short, brown, with a fuzzy topknot of bright green!

Somehow, my avocado has sprouted! An inch of growth overnight! I shouted to everyone who was home, including Maeve-the-Wonder-dog! (Only Maeve seemed to share my enthusiasm--much like she shared my guacomole...) None of them had attempted to sprout this particular fruit for four decades, without a single success. None of them had attempted to own the "self" they dreamed about since childhood. They had all become successful in their professional lives. They had all created solid realities in New England. Only I had run off; run away; always chasing "something" I could never quite catch. The avocado was the symbol of exactly that.(Cue cheesy music...) Maybe.

Today, it is still green and reaching upward, sitting safely on the windowseat, in the sun.

(I did, however, see a fruit fly take off from the pot...)

Only time is gonna tell.

       

THE MEAT RAFFLE

Perhaps there have always been meat raffles--somewhere. However, not where I've been. So, it was with much trepidation that I allowed my sisters to "sign me up for Saturday night".

Sacred Heart of Jesus School's annual holiday meat raffle.

Ann went on to tell me that it was free; they served clam chowder and endless coffee; no minimum spending demanded; it would benefit our old alma mater: Sacred Heart School; and the family went, as a group.

Dad and Mom would be very disappointed if I didn't go.(Even though Mom had already bowed out of attendence, choosing to stay home and "babysit the dog while you all go and have a good time".)

The other side of it, however, which was barely hinted at, was that our family was notorious for winning far more than was neighborly--mostly because nurse-sister Ann almost subsidizes the entire affair herself, armed with enough one dollar bills to choke the proverbial manger donkey. But that was held from me until I agreed to attend.

"One year, Kevin had to bring his truck, to pick up all the meat!" Ann grins. "But don't worry; Dad takes most of the turkeys to the local food bank, or the VFW...Hey, everybody wins!"

Well...since no one could hold it against us if "everybody wins" and the proceeds  go to Sacred Heart ...I didn't see a way out.

"Can I ask Helayne? She isn't doing anything on Saturday night..." I try to make my eyes as appealing as the dog's.

"Yeah, yeah, I don't care," Ann lights a Marlboro and grimaces. "It's open to the public."

So, on Saturday night, armed with assurances that I won't have to look at tables of raw meat spread out like a morgue, and with an old friend by my side, I accompany the Clan, to the gym, where every science fair, basketball game, Christmas pageant, band concert, choir recital or theatre extravaganza of my early years, took place.

Upon entering the building, most everything was as I remembered: the hardwood floor a bit more beat up, the bleachers maybe smaller, but the super-sized- folding- tables, (identical to the ones in the Church basement, down the street), seemed to be the ones I  had left, back in the sixties--still hopelessly stained; constructed of some brown material that was supposed to resemble wood. 

The stage at the front of the gym was the same stage I had played on in the WIZARD OF OZ and A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS. (This year, they were going to reprise JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR. My cop brother, Kev, had made the original props, a few years earlier...four generations of our family had sweated at this school and it was still ringing us in!)

The odd scents of clam chowder and frozen meat mingled with steam heating. (Not the smells I associate with gyms, but, this has always been so much more than a mere phys ed. room.) 
My family march in, a bit early.
We take up one whole table, on both sides. Helayne, ever the good sport, slides in between me and my Father; her purple coat covering her, neck to toe.( I am immediately aware that I should have dressed in several additional layers.)

"Maybe snow, tomorrow," Dad says, rising for a bowl of  "chowdah".

"But not tonight," everyone reassures me, laughing as my teeth chatter. (I should be on stage, with the pork loins and Butterball turkeys.)

We all line up; recieve a styrofoam bowl with about an inch of clam chowder at the bottom. Dutifully, we eat from plastic spoons and sip the equally tepid coffee, as the guys on stage tease the crowd.

"Ladies and Gents, this is how it works--we raffle items in a group, one after the other. You buy a ticket for a dollah, for that group. We keep pulling numbahs til all the items are claimed. That's the end of that raffle. Then, you buy anothah ticket for the next group--UNLESS it's a special raffle! We do that throughout the evening....those are two dollah tickets..."

"What do you get in the special raffle?" I ask Ann.

"That's your ribs and lobstahs!" Everyone around the table answers. (My taste for lobsters, and ribs, is well known.)

"But what we really are shooting for is the bacon." My sister Bren instructs me on Minns Family Meat Raffle strategy.

(What is it about bacon?

I have never been a true fan.

To my palate, bacon is bacon; whatever you add it to simply gets a baconian flavor on top of whatever else is in the dish. Yes, I like it with pancakes and eggs; maybe on a club sandwich; but really, the national obsession with bacon has never fully flowered in my mouth. )

That doesn't stop the family. 

"You don't get it--they get bacon right from local farms--it isn't Stop and Shop cling-wrap meat, it's...wonderful!" Ann rolls her eyes in a sort of ectstacy.

Up and down the table, my sibs, sibs -in-law, and various familial friends, nod in agreement.

I take another sip of the cooling chowder.

"You know how they made the chowdah this year?" John, a family friend leans into me.

"No," I shrug, clueless.

"Well, you've probably noticed, it isn't home-made, right?" he shakes his head.

"Yeah," I glance down, suddenly suspicious.

"They got every kid at Sacred Heart to bring in a can of soup--Snow's, Campbells, Chunky, you name it...then, the ladies in the kitchen just poured all the clam chowdahs together, into one of those giant pots...that's what we got...notice-- nobody's going up for seconds..." he takes another slug of his Sam Addams Summer Ale.

(I noticed.) "Well, it's free, so," I push the white bowl with the white spoon and the remaining white liquid toward the end of the table, where the trash collectors are making their rounds.

"It's lame," John says.

"Here we go!" The MC spins the wheel. The sound of clicking numbers covers even the whispering kids in the gym. We clutch our first dollar tickets, all thoughts of chowder forgotten.

People close their eyes, praying (I'm sure.)
The wooden Blessed Mother, holding the wooden Baby Jesus, stares down over the crowd, from her perch on the wall. (The other side of the gym holds up Saint Joseph.) I point this out to Helayne, who didn't attend Catholic School.

"You know, as a kid, I used to worry about St. Joseph. I mean, at night, when they turned off the gym lights, he was always alone...at least Mary and Baby Jesus were together..." 

"You are so odd !" Ann hisses across the table.

"Number eighty-seven!" the MC shouts into the mic.

"That's me!" My sister-in-law rises, screaming.

The gym politely applauds. Our table joins in the screaming.
 An old guy, down from us, mutters, "Damn Minnses--they always win everything!"

(I turn my chair, just a bit more towards Helayne.)

My family "high-fives" each other.

Laurene returns with a fifteen pound, frozen turkey; wrapped in plastic and resembling a bowling ball.

"Great way to start the night!" Ann and Brenda slap her hands as she sits down, across from me. Even Dad tips his baseball cap.

"Damn Minnses..." I hear the old guy mutter again.

Pork loins go up for grabs. "Loose meat"--which is defrosted hamburger--in plastic "sacks"--kelbosis and Italian sweet sausage--yards of the stuff--get carted from the stage--while the turkeys are hauled away every few minutes. 

"I told you we win!" Ann hands four pounds of  thawing hamburger to Brenda. "Thanks--I'm making chili--I have guests, tomorrow!"

Dad rises in a wave of hoots and hollars, to claim his bird.
I duck down, just a bit lower.

My fear of having to stare at defrosting meat, has begun to manifest, for real. Behind us, on an empty table, my family has begun to pile its winnings: five turkeys, several bags-o-meat (hamburger); a couple pork loins; some pot roasts; maybe a mile of Italian sausages, kelbosi coiled like snakes in a bag; one side of ribs. ( NO lobsters...)
It's embarrassing. 

The old dude that muttered about us has finally stopped; he scored a sack of hamburger. Now, he's finishing a fourth bowl of  chowdah (and a beer) and is totally caught up in the raffle fever. He waves several bills in the air, trying to catch the eye of the ticket sellers as they blast past.

Suddenly, the MC says the magic words: "This is a special raffle--for the bacon!"

Every single hand along both sides of our table rises. (Even Helayne is bidding on the meat!)

"Here, here!" My sisters and father and sister-in-law flag down the ticket sellers as they rush between tables. 

There are only so many numbers on the wheel and so many tickets for each drawing.(There is also a limited supply of bacon.)

"That seller has completely ignored our table!" 

"She's only selling to her kids--over there--have you noticed?"

"I'm going to report this to the Principal--she's sitting with another nun--you can't tell, because they don't wear the habits--but they live together, still. Sister Gloria will put a stop to this!"

"Over here! We need tickets, over here!"

I haven't raised my hand. My sister Ann shoots a dollar bill across the table. "It's for the bacon!" she reminds me.

I slide her bill back. Reach into my wallet. Take a dollar out.

We get our tickets.

They begin calling numbers. 

Nobody at our table wins.

There is much sadness and grumbling accusations about favoritism and how ticket sellers shouldn't be allowed to bring their families to the raffle. 
Sigh.

But we keep betting (and breaking the odds).

Behind us, the mountain of meat grows ever higher.

"Number 1-5-1 !" The MC shouts.

Everyone groans.

Suddenly, Helayne is yelling into my left ear. Ann screams. Laurene is up and stabbing her finger on to my ticket. Bren and Dad and all the family friends join in:"YOU WON! YOU WON!"

Shocked (I never win anything-- and that's the truth.), I rise;making my way to the stage.
(Just like graduation in eighth grade or my seventh grade science fair. Feels EXACTLY the same: blood pumping, cheeks flushed, people hollaring, heart thumping, and the Baby Jesus smiling down at me from the gym wall.)

I take my fourteen pound turkey and return to the Clan.

"You really won!" Bren smiles at me for the first time all evening. 

"Aren't you glad you came?" Laurene grins. Ann laughs. Helayne thumps my back.

"You know, it's kinda nice, how your family does this stuff, together," she says.

I glance around the table.

(It's kinda true.)

"Here, you haven't won anything yet--we have seven turkeys piled up behind us--Happy Thanksgiving!" I hand my old friend the frozen bird.

"You don't have to do this," Helayne protests.

Dad, Ann,Bren,Laurene, all the family friends nod at me.

 "Yeah, I do, " I laugh.

Helayne graciously accepts the bowling ball.

The raffle continues.

At the end of the night, everyone drives their cars up to the front of the school, packing their winnings into the trunks, for the ride home.

"Damn Minnses--they're always lucky, " I hear a voice call out to us, from the dark. (Can't tell if it's angry or congratulatory. This is Gardner. It often sounds the same.)

"Well, how was your first meat raffle?" Ann asks, lighting a cigarette.

"It was fun, " Helayne good-naturedly lifts her turkey.

"It helps the school, anyway," Ann puffs.

"They need to upgrade the chowdah, " Bren slips into her car, with Dad and his buddy from the city council. 

"At least Dad's pal won something," she adds.

(Mr. Aries holds up his sausage and turkey and loose meat.)

They sort what's going to the soup kitchen and VFW and what's going to Kev and Laurene's freezer and what's coming home to 88 Maple. 

( I can't help but wonder: did our Celtic ancestors divide the spoils in a similar fashion, after their hunting parties?  Probably. Brrrrrrrrr.)

"Too bad., though. Nobody got the bacon," Ann puffs and waves, as she peels out of the parking lot.

Too bad.         

GHOSTS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE

The fog almost obscured the turn in the road. Coming from between the maples, it was dense and white as a sheet.

"Brrrr....ghostly beings wander these woods!" I make the expected musical sounds, as Ann tools down the street.

"Wanna check out Jaffrey?"  She opens her window. Cigarette smoke out. Ghostly fog in. Fair trade.

"Jaffrey?!" ( Town of our childhoods--all the great aunts and uncles on Mom's side of the family had taken root there. Most worked in the match shop--and like a secret club scattered throughout the town--most had lost at least one finger to "the machines". I always knew we had arrived when I would notice the people with the missing digits...)

"Uncle Chris' camping area got sold, but the new owners are still running it. Town drained the lake, got rid of the snapping turtles and stumps--people swim there now," Ann peels around a tight turn, sending fingers of fog whipping past.

(I still dream of the terrifying outings in the paddle boat--baiting lines with raw bacon--hooking snappers for aunts and second cousins to make into soup. I always felt bad for the turtles, until their razor-edged beaks broke the surface and their beady eyes laid curses on us all...)

"People actually swim there, now..." I shake my head, disbelieving.( I also wonder where the snapping turtles relocated.)

No time to ask.

As we head over the hill , into the center of the town, I spot a group of people, huddled at the base of a streetlamp. Their clothes are mismatched and raggedy. Their hair covered by big hats.

"Early Halloween?" Ann flips her cigarette butt out.

Too fast for me to identify, we approach a light at the corner. Another group of people, equally outlandish in their costuming, appears to be deep in conversation. (There is something weirder than their dress.)

"They aren't moving..." I crane my neck as the light switches.

"Hey, there's more--in front of City Hall--maybe it's a party--" Ann points over her arm.

I strain, focusing, watching for a hint of movement.

"O MY GOD!"

As we drive past City Hall;  a silent, unmoving population greets us--some with arms extended in a frozen wave--others, (including a Nun) simply facing the road.

Ann gives a shudder.

My mouth is wide."Look at their hands!"

Poking out where fingers should be, long strands of straw, clawing at the fog. (Or the fog is clawing at the straw--either way it's a creepfest!)

"They're everywhere--check out the bridge!" Ann slows to a crawl.

I roll down my window.

(The air is moist and cold,but I don't care...)

All along the street front; outside stores; in couples or groups of three and four; some solo, poised clear across the bridge and over the river that splits the town in two; lined up against every fence; every stonewall; under lamps; streetlights; across driveways and parking lot turn-ins: as if the entire town of Jaffrey, New Hampshire has been transformed into scarecrows! Everywhere we look we are greeted with the same sight.

"I don't believe this!" I thump Ann on the arm.

She's too engrossed in the spectacle to even care.

We drive the full length of the town, to the outskirts of Silver Ranch stables. The dummies have taken over the place...

"This is just too, too creepy..." Ann races the engine, does a u-turn, and we head out of town.

The lone Nun seems to wave.

I have now told everyone,in Gardner, about what fills the streets of Jaffrey. I feel like I'm in a real life "Invasion of the Body Snatchers. No one believes me.

  

"I'm telling you--there are at least three hundred scarecrows--not just in a bunch, like outside the Library or the school--I mean everywhere--taking over the town!" 

"Must be some kind of contest--"

"Can't really be that many--you have to be exaggerating--"

"You writers see everything creepier than it really is--come on!"

"Oh, it's just Halloween decorations!" (This last from Mom, whose family used to live there.)

"Do YOU ever remember decorating like that?" I ask her.

"Well, Halloween wasn't such a splashy thing in those days..." Mom smiles, strangely.

Two weeks later, I have rounded up the second "Ann" in my life. I've been informing her of the weirdness just over the state line.

 "Wanna check it out?" she gamely asks.

Of course.

So, once again, I am meandering out of the stunning forest and down the road to Jaffrey.

(It's peak-experience foliage weather: all the reds have blasted away in the storm and left the trees with blazing yellows and psychedlic oranges. I feel like my eyes are on fire...) But this afternoon,

as we head over the hill, into Jaffrey, everything is empty.

"I don't see any scarecrows..." Ann-Marie squints through the mist on the windshield.

(I don't, either.)

But as we move past the Library:  on the very edge of the lawn: I see her!  

(OMG, she's moved!)

"Stop!" I grab Ann-Marie's elbow. "It's the Nun!"

Ann-Marie, ever practical, sudenly has a higher pitch to her voice, "I saw her! I saw her!"

We continue down Main Street,eyes peeled. But they've disappeared. Downtown is deserted.An evacuation? (Yet, the Nun WAS there-- in a different spot, but, she exists.)

"Maybe someone in town can tell us what's going on." 

Ann-Marie pulls into one of four vacant, FREE parking spots, in front of the two stores that seem to be open. (It's worth walking midst zombies just for this experience.)

We bounce out, into the warm rain, and head inside.

An extremely cheery, twenty-something woman (and her lone canary) meet us at the door.

"I'm Jessica--welcome to The Vintage Rose, on Main Street!"

Jessica has a musical voice, lots of energy.She is more than happy to show us her local, sustainable gifts, collectibles and, in case we didn't notice: blossoms. (The air is redolent of, squeaky, hardwood flooring and hand-made paper.)

Ann-Marie and I are politely intrigued. It's a cool gift store--not a tourist trap. (Nary a bottle of maple syrup in sight...) I pick out a candle formed into the shape of a black crow. (Unbeknownst to me, so does Ann-Marie!) All Halloweenie gifts are twenty percent off. (I'm sure we look like a pair of witches--we are sporting Massachusetts plates on the suv, out front...) Finally, I can't stand it anymore. I figure Jessica is as safe as anyone I'm likely to meet ,to ask the Big Question.

"What's up with the scarecrows?" I smile, paying for my candle, "Where did they all go?"

"Ohhhh...we have to take them down after two weeks..." Jessica hands me change, and the lovely gift bag.

"Before Halloween?!" I feel my eyebrows rise.

"Yes..." Jessica sighs, leaning on the counter of Bee products and hand-crafted cards.

"But why BEFORE Halloween?" I push.

She drops her voice,"Well, a couple of years ago, some college students came into town and lit the scarecrows on fire--nobody wants to risk having their business go up like that! You can imagine..." Jessica looks sideways, as if a college student might be lurking,behind the hand-thrown stoneware.

"I CAN imagine," I agree.

"But where do the scarecrows come from,originally?"

Jessica leans forward, conspiratorially,"It's the town's thing...I moved my business here a couple years ago....the town collects old clothes and then, two weeks before Halloween, they haul in bails of  hay from  local farms. For three dollars each, anyone can choose a costume,sticks and straw, and make a scarecrow. They get put up all over town--it's pretty eerie, especially if you come into Jaffrey over the hill." 

"You were right!" Ann-Marie sighs, clearly relieved.

"Tell my friend--about three hundred of them--right?" I hop from one sneaker to the other.

"Three hundred and ten, to be precise. We keep a couple of the best ones up, in the middle of town, by the Library, but for a while, well, you couldn't tell the people from the dummies..." Jessica hands Ann-Marie her purchase.

I make no further comment.

SPAGHETTI DAYS

Spaghetti and meatballs have always been my favorite comfort food--trumping even chocolate. I know I should prefer haggis and shaved lamb or some Nordic fish chowder, but, I don't. Maybe there was a Gerbers' Babyfood version of meatballs in my past. (Surely, Franco-American and Chef-Boy-Ardee made appearances over the years--especially in college.) And ,when asked what my final meal  might be if I was headed for electrocution (it was THAT kind of party...) I only hesitated a moment between  full-on- authentic-Thai  and spaghetti . (Guess which won?)

Something about the combination of garlic, olive oil, onions, peppers and meat--or that steaming, bubbling giant pot on the stove, promising a reward if one could (or would) just leave the top on and let everything simmer for a couple hours... Even in my vegetarian days in L.A., I would often choose a vegan version of this classic, trying to mask the omitted ingredients with a smile of Planetary Consciousness. (It rarely worked.)

This morning, Mom was up at dawn, as usual. She and Dad were already reading the local, morning news,( the  national news blaring on the other side of their papers), their coffee cups drained, as I limped downstairs.The dog wagged her tail expectantly, but didn't get up from her warm spot on the rug. Outside, the raggedy wind promised a chilling day, even if there were patches of sun. I could feel winter in my bad knee. (I was looking for an excuse not to do the morning laps up at the college track... )I hobbled to the kitchen for breakfast.

As I approached the stove, something more powerful than a sibling's rude shove woke me! Already bubbling, sending up bursts of tomato fireworks, The Giant Pot beckoned. Flooding memories of coming home in exactly this kind of nippy weather; my nose just starting to run from the cold; the rush of warmth from the kitchen; the curtain of aromas from the sauce, enveloping me--ahh--

Mom calls from the parlor, nonchalantly: "Spaghetti for supper...I was going to make American Chop Suey, but we are out of ground beef..."

(American Chop Suey???!!! What an oxymoron! Blahh! Yick! Ugh! I thank all the Spaghetti Angels in Heaven for this blessing of the missing meat!)  I am almost giddy as I sip my first cup o java at the kitchen table.

"You know, she doesn't make her own meatballs anymore..." Ann has followed me downstairs, the dog yipping at her Crocs.

"What?!" I am pulled from my pseudo-Italian reverie.

"Nope...she buys them, frozen, from BJ's...then she slips them into the sauce, half-way....I'm just warning you..." Ann begins to make tea.

I am horrified.

Years before,away at school, I begged Mom for her spaghetti and meatball secrets. (A recipe I could call my own. Something that no matter what, would be able to feed an army--or a cozy couple.) Mom refused.

"You'll never be able to do it--" 

"Come on, Mom!" I was in New York, calling from a pay- phone in my dorm.

"You should have watched me when you had the chance--you've seen me make it a million times but you never paid attention..." 

"Please! It's the only thing I ever wanted to learn to cook!" I was begging...embarrassed, but desperate.

"Well, I don't have an actual recipe...so I can't give it to you..." 

(Now, I wander around,  in this epoch of Foodies, one of the few American adults without a recipe of my own.) I know it shows as surely as the Mark of Cain...

"It's evolved...now she does different things to the sauce," Ann sips her tepid tea.

"She's always done different things--"

"No, I mean REALLY different things..." Ann rolls her big blue eyes.

"Such as?" I am totally flabbergasted.

"Well, for one thing, those damned BJ's meatballs--and then, if she doesn't have any more salted herbs, well, just forget it," Ann shuts her eyes completely.

"Salted herbs?"

"They only make them in Maine--" Ann glances towards the ceiling.

"In MAINE?" 

"Lewiston...and they only make so many each season..." Ann stirs her tea.

"Lewiston, MAINE?!!" (How long has this been going on? I don't remember any "salted herbs" around 88 Maple Street, growing up...)

"A place called Mallots...I think that's the name...yup. She tried ordering them over the phone, last year when she ran out, but they said it wasn't economically feasible to send them up on dry ice...so we had to have sauce without the real recipe for months...I'm telling you...you do NOT want sauce without the salted herbs."

"What's the big deal? I mean, is it garlic in salt, maybe rosemary?" I sit down, worn out already.

"Yeah and basil and thyme and God knows...it is just an integral part of the process," Ann sips more tea.

"And if there's no salted herbs--" I can't choke out the rest.

"Then ...well...it's just like the meatballs...I'm warning you, is all. Sorry, kiddo..." Ann shrugs in a decidedly "nurselike" way.

"We were just up there!"

"I know--but it was too late. Did you see any salted herbs around?" Ann demands.

"I didn't even know we were looking," I am so sad.

"Well, I was looking...but then, I know how to cook," Ann grins and leaves the kitchen, her hand around the  mug of tea.

I move to the still simmering pot on the stove. The tomatoes are roiling. The flecks of green and olive are bouncing around, ricoccheting off  the sweet sausage links already in the brew. Transparent onions slither in and out of sight. I let the steam fog my glasses and fill my head. (Salted herbs or BJ's meatballs, it still smells like home to me.)

BRANCHING OUT

"You can rake the leaves in the front yard..."

Dad announces this more as a warning than as an invitation. Clearly, HIS job is raking leaves in the back, sides and (at least part of ) the front lawn. You'd think we had a spread the size of the Ponderosa the way he speaks, but, no, it's only a small, regular suburban yard. Still, it's HIS.

This means that I use the regulation- City- dispersed- only- brown- paper- leaf- bags. (No obiquitous "yard bags" allowed.) The City has specialized trucks that pick up the brown bags, once every few weeks, during the season, and the bags, along with the leaves, become instant mulch. (I guess the mulch gets delivered somewhere it is needed...perhaps I assume too much?  Hmmmm.) In any case, only these bags, approximately my height and width, are to be used. And they are to be stuffed to the topmost inch...then....compacted as much as is humanly possible...then, filled again, to the topmost inch. That wouldn't be such an issue except that my arms do not reach further than halfway into these paper bags. Stepping inside would rip them apart. Leaning too far into them would result in either, another wide tear at the top, OR my becoming part of the mulch. My only remedy is to partially fill the bottom, then, lay the sack on its side and shovel leaves into it, like it's a big mouth. When I fill it, I can squash the leaves about two feet down, but that's the limit. Dad looks at me skeptically as I haul the paper bags out to the leaves.

"Get the leaves under the bushes--your father can't reach those!" Mom has her own orders.

Out front, we have a giant maple tree on one side of the lawn. Against the front porch, on either side of the  steps, two huge banks of rhododendrum bushes are rooted. They were only about four feet tall throughout my eighteen years at this place. Now, they are about ten feet tall and their stems have become tree trunks in their own right. It is fairly easy for me to duck and actually to "get inside" these bushes. Raking them out is also fairly easy. Dad is a foot taller than I am, so I can see it would be problematic for him and his arthritic back.

So, I rake out what looks like one bag of leaves. I rake and rake and rake. Suddenly, this enormous mound is covering the front yard. There have to be five paper bags worth of dead leaves, now pulled out from under the bushes. I go back to the garage and ask Dad for extra bags.

"You know, we have to pay for these..." he clearly does not believe I have worked long enough to warrant the extra bags.

I don't argue. Just haul them out front. As I begin to shovel from the pile into the bags, a gust of wind barrels down the street. Suddenly, street leaves, gutter leaves, neighbors' leaves all combine! My perfectly raked mound is scattered and mingled and quadrupled on the lawn! (Then it hits me: you have to consider the wind like wave sets on the ocean; there are spaces between waves...a good surfer or kayaker knows to watch and wait....)So, I start to track the rhythmn of the wind. I'm feeling quite delighted with myself as I fill the fourth bag up and place it gently at the base of the maple tree. A handful of leaves remains on the walk. I surreptiously knock them into the gutter, knowing the next gust will take them down the street and out of my hair.

Suddenly, Dad is next to me, tapping my shoulder.  "It's against the law to rake into the street."

"It's only a handful of leaves!" I feel my face burn in exasperation (and guilt). There's no arguing. I step into the gutter and rescue the unlawful vegetation.  I toss them into the opened bag in front of me.

"You can fit half as much, again, in these bags!" Dad begins to squash the leaves down, demonstrating my wastefulness. (While also keeping an eye opened so I don't break another leaf law.)

We knock heads, arms; I get leaves between my teeth, (meanwhile inhaling the scent of earth and rain and whatever bugs have tried to hide in the compost), but we do stuff more vegetation in. Sweat begins a slow crawl down my back and between my spikey hair strands. Dad doesn't stop. His dried-apple doll cheeks are flushed but he matches me, armful for armful. I can't believe how competitive he is!

"Wait!" Dad grabs my aching wrist. "When you get a stick, you have to snap it to just the right length, or it prevents more leaves from squashing down--watch me!"  He wrangles a four inch twig out of the bag, reduces it to halves, then shoves it back.

Now I have to sift and snap and break and re-inter, as I lean over, practically falling head first into the bags. I am careful not bonk my bald father's head with my rake, or elbow, or whatever else is sticking out at the moment he dives in...And so we spend the afternoon...between gusts. (He already knew about the "wave sets"....)

Finally,we line up the last bag and he happily tucks over the inch at their tops, I collect our rakes. The lawn is spotless. The steps and front porch will stand my Mom's muster. Even the bushes have had their "heads" brushed off and are denuded of debris.

Just as I head back up to the garage, there is a tremendous blast of frigid air. The mighty maple out front, witness to three generations of Minns family members, (tapped for sap on more than one occasion  during a history project or science fair), home to several species of birds, shudders. A cascade of scarlet, orange-pink and fading yellow drop like a coverlet over the entire lawn. The front steps are quilted. The rhododendrum bushes look like they are wearing blankets. Even Dad sports several maple leaves on his shoulder.

"Let's call it a day," Dad sighs.

I agree, following him into the garage and wondering where they keep the aspirin.        

 

DOWN OFF THE FARM

"We'll pick you up around eleven," cop brother Kev leaves the message. It's Columbus Day; one of the ickiest holidays on the calendar. I need a pick-up...

Around eleven-thirty, I am in the Taurus, showing my dysfunctional Ipod to niece, Mer.
"You screwed it up," she rolls her eyes in sixteen- year- old- disgust.
"I did everything the software told me to do--in the right order--then I did everything YOU told me to do--also in the correct order--" I tug at the earphones.
"You screwed it up--" Mer sighs at me, the computer dyslexic.
"I even synched the pod with the music!" I feel like crying.
"Maybe it's the Ipod..." my kind sister-in-law offers from the front seat.
"No way, Mom, K.K. screwed something up--I'll come over and see if I can fix it--when I have a chance," Mer flips the Ipod back to me.

"What a great day for apple picking!" Kev jumps into the front seat and waves to my Dad as we pull out of the driveway.
Dad looks like he wants to say something, but, we don't wait.

"This is where we've been taking your nieces for over ten years!" Laurene cranes her neck, assuring me.
Mer is silent. "Dad, can you crank up the music," she interrupts her mother.
I am like the family dog, cracking the back seat window, feeling the rushing autumn air, happy to be going apple picking. (I should be a little guilty, I suppose, after years of protesting Columbus Day as a gateway genocide to Native American culture...but my protests are more interior these days.)

The road to Quabbin Resevoir is lined with brilliant colors. Trees up here have already turned y and are showering us with fiery reds at every gust.
"They have a petting zoo, swings in the trees, raspberry patches, pumpkins, home-made doughnut machines, a gift shop--" Laurene begins reciting.
"Yeah, Auntie K.K., they also have apple everything--pies, cider, cobbler, turn-overs, caramel and candy apples--and the most perfect pumpkins for carving--" Mer is warming up to the field trip.
"Your brother carves pumpkins like a pro--" Laurene gently taps her husband's arm.
I see him grin under his moustache, in the rear view mirror.
"Yeah, but not as good as me!" Mer crosses her arms across her thin chest.
"I think you should carve one that looks like your class photo--" I offer.
'Auntie K.K.--that's mean!" Mer slugs me in the side, ungently.

Finally, we arrive.
There are about sixty cars crowding the gravel lot, outside the barn.
I see a stall with almost-perfect pumpkins lined up on risers; some raggedy squash that have stems resembling dreadlocks; signs, everywhere, explaining that we need to "take a bag" and then go into the adjoining orchard, "fill the bag", bring it back and "pay for it". The bags are huge...over a bushel...and cost ten bucks.
I hand Kev three bucks, explaining that I've promised to bring apples back to 88 Maple Street, for Dad. Kev snatches an empty and heads for the trees.
By now, we are trailing four or five other groups, all headed down the same worn path through the meadow.

The day is bright. Cool winds punctuating the sunny morning. The spicy scent of fallen apples surrounds us in surprising puffs. Off in the distance, small mountains sport the flaming trees. The sky couldn't be more blue, nor the clouds more incandescent. I am almost skippingly giddy, as I follow my family through the orchard.

Then, turning past the first bend in the path, we come to a pile-up: all the families in front of us have stopped moving forward.

I think, perhaps, there is a downed tree--or someone fainted. Then, the murmuring begins.

At first, it is the guarded talk of adults, above the heads of the five and six year olds. Then, it spreads to the ground, where younger kids are beginning to notice something's amiss. Finally, a tot ,about four, points to the outlying orchard in front of us: "Daddy, where are the apple trees?"

Good question.
What we are faced with are rows upon rows of empty, stunted trees, still clothed in green leaves and barren "sticks". Not a single red orb is evident. (And, there are hundreds of trees! ) But we can smell the fruit! It's thick as freshly pressed cider on the air!
There have to be apples here!

The adult silence is broken by a single, loud CRUNCH.
A six- year- old girl has sat on the ground, waiting for the adults to figure out the next move. Reaching a foot off the path, she's discovered: all the apples.
Biting into a particularly juicy piece of fallen fruit, there is another "crunch" and we all stare.
It's a kind of cartoon Garden of Eating scene...It's the God's truth. The kid discovered the secret.
Suddenly, most of the other groups march back down the meadow path and head for the barn, empty sacks at their sides, angry murmurs on their breath. My family moves farther into the orchard, as usual. My clan is sure that somewhere, hidden, if only at the most remote edge, there is ONE TREE still sporting apples.

There is no tree.

"Here!" A man in a wife-beater tee-shirt (sorry, that's what they are still called in L.A. where I've lived for most of my life), lots of bling, and mirror- shades, hollars to all of us.
"Here, up at the top--I see them!"
Whomever is still in the orchard rushes to the One Tree.

Kev gets there first. He reaches up and up. He snaps off what, at first, looks like a primo specimen.
"Thanks!" I tell the undershirt guy.
"No sweat!" he smiles, puffing out his chest a bit more.
"Gross!" Kev flips the apple to me.

I catch it, thinking there's a bit of bird mess on it that can be rubbed off...
Oh no...this is something that makes the baby, in the movie "ERASERHEAD", look like a beauty...(Maybe a nuclear accident would leave fruit like this behind...maybe not...) This apple has a stem thick as my pinky finger--but--worse--the stem is covered in what looks like skin--apple skin--a conjoined twin, not fully formed! (Maybe, in fruitworld, this is not such a freakish abnormality.) However, in our world,it is weird enough to both revolt and delight. I stick the apple-thing into the pocket of my hoodie. (If times get rougher, I can always build a stand on Maple Street and charge the neighborhood kids a quarter- a- peek...)

"We could make pie out of the windfalls, just cut off the blemishes..." Laurene says, sighing beneath the squatty trees.
The problem is, many little- mouthed animals--mostly human--have already been foraging under the trees. For every apple that looks intact, a quick scan reveals one or two "bites" on the bottom side. (No one was making pie out of these left-overs.)

"This sucks," Mer scowls as we leave the orchard.
"Maybe on the other side of the street--near the petting barn--" the ever- hopeful Laurene coaxes.
We cross the dirt road. We head to the sounds of braying donkeys and clucking chickens.
Kev whistles to us to stop.
"The guy in the pumpkin stand says we can't go up there--that orchard's closed to customers."
"I told you this sucks!" Mer kicks at some yellowed grass stalks.
"Mer! You used to love coming here! " Laurene admonishes.
"Yeah, well, that's when I was little--"
"That was last year!" Kev tells her.
"That was when there were apples in the trees!"
Mer has a point.
"I heard the crop was early this year--" I offer, remembering the local news; remembering Dad's weird look as he waved to us, this morning.
"We come up here every Columbus Day Weekend," Laurene says sadly.
"Well, we came this year, too. At least we can pick up some pumpkins," Kev herds us back to the barn.
Everybody that isn't peeling out of the dirt parking lot is heading to the barn.

Inside, the scents of cider and warm, doughnuts swirls around. There is a brisk trade in carmel apples, turn-overs, pies and maple syrup. I suspect the economy has forced this. It's now an apple-themed bakery operation and not a pick-your-own business. Oh well. More power to the people.
Kev points to a stand holding about fifty bushels of various pre-bagged apples.
"That's what happened to the trees," he sighs.
"Well, grab a bushel. We can still make pies," Laurene scouts the MacIntoshes.
"You'll take some to school, right?" Kevin asks Mer.
"I'll eat them AFTER I get home from school--I don't want to have to pop out my retainer at lunch--it's embarrassing," she informs him.
"Grab a bag--we drove all morning to get here," Laurene nudges Kevin.
I look at the prices.
SIXTEEN BUCKS A BUSHEL! (Like the over-blown used- car prices in this part of NE, the "slightly bruised windfalls" are expensive shockers!)
"We came all this way..." Mer pouts.
Kev pulls out his wallet.
I pull out mine. Apple turn-overs for Dad and Mom. It's the least I can do...besides, they are only ten bucks. ( I really want a taffy apple, but it will torture Mer with her retainer on...so I push back my guilty desires.)

"Crank the music up, Dad," Mer scarfs half a cider-donut and ties her hoodie tight around her face.
The music cranks up, effectively canceling conversation in the back seat.
I crack my window, letting the autumn blow between us.
Still happy; realizing, even amid the rotting windfalls and scraggly arms of the emptied trees, there are worse ways to spend Columbus Day.

Maine Redux

There are no crowds.

The Old Colonial Motel mostly caters to displaced Arcadians, down for a "holiday", and disgruntled dog owners, seeking a room with a pooch privileges.
Maeve waits atop the second bed, looking out the picture window, past the balcony, waiting.
(It's the only time the entire trip that we leave her.)
She isn't happy, but she isn't howling, as we lock Ann's room and head out for dinner.

When we return, Maeve is joyful. Until Ann tells her, "it's Auntie K.K.'s turn to take you down to the beach"... (Seems like it was just my turn a few hours earlier...still...Ann has paid for the vacation....) I hook up Maeve's scarlet harness, avoiding her peace-sign- fabric- lightweight- and waterproof- hand- designed- collar-with heart-shaped- tags. (This dog has more bling than I do.) I unroll the super long, scarlet walking leash--while Ann reminds me: "Maeve hates other dogs. Especially the small ones."

"What if I see another dog on the beach--" I am suddenly very concerned.
"Hold Maeve back. Step on her leash if you have to. She'll look like she's going to be friendly, maybe even allow a mutual butt sniffing, but--"
"But what?!" I panic, glancing out the misted windows.
"She'll go for the throat...or the nose--" Ann calmly informs me.
"Not Maeve?" I can't believe this. The dog weighs about twelve pounds, max. She's seven years old and hardly ferocious. (I have put my fingers between her teeth, retreiving a stuck piece of rawhide, to no reaction) No way would this dog attack--well--maybe a duck or a goose--but that's it.
"She's an only child, Karen. She doesn't play well with others." Ann opens the motel door for us.

Outside, the rain is only a soft fall. (It's still cold as Hell, though.) I am armed with another baggie on my hand and have buttoned my jacket all the way up. My hoody covers my head but does nothing to keep my glasses clear. I peek around the parking lot, on the alert for invading dogs. The parking lot has begun to fill, but no one is walking around.
Maeve, again, refuses to do more than a quick pee at the bottom of the stairs. Immediately, she turns, bolts past me and heads back to the comforts of her mother. I am nearly knocked on my butt as she scuttles up the staircase.

"That was fast--" Ann says, smoking at her kitchenette table, mixing Maeve's dinner. Victoria Stilwell, on ANIMAL PLANET, is admonishing lax puppy owners on t.v.
"Maeve doesn't like the beach--" I drop the sopping leash.
"She doesn't like rain...I know she's gotta poop. She always poops at this time. She knows the schedule..." Ann looks at Maeve lovingly, but sternly. (Ann looks at me with contempt.)
(I feel Victoria staring at us all, from the t.v.) I pull off my hood and sit.
"I guess it's up to me..." Ann moves from the table, grabbing the leash and coaxing Maeve outside.
(Ann's got on her capris, CROCS without sox, a short sleeve, madras peasant shirt, and her cigarette. I am freezing, just watching at her.)

Ten minutes later, she returns. Maeve bouncing in, tongue lolling out the side of her adorable mouth, clearly feeling much better, proceeds.
I ask the inevitable: "Did she poop?"
Ann answers with the obvious: "Of course."

A beaten woman, I return to my single room. I take off my wet clothing. I pull on a thick sweatshirt, bought earlier. MAINE is embroidered across my sagging chest. I click on the t.v. (ANIMAL PLANET is advertising fatal attractions: people with wild animals for pets and how the animals ate them.) Unfortunately, it isn't showing until next week.
I flip stations. I find a horror film on FEAR.NET.

Later in the evening, I hear Ann and Maeve, happily descending the outdoor staircase, then returning. Maeve hasn't barked--even as other dogs and their owners begin to arrive. Ann converses with new arrivals, greeting them as they pass, truly non-chalant. My sister is such a nurse!
(I am decided: in the morning, I will buck up and take Maeve for a beachwalk.)

At six a.m., Ann knocks, Maeve in front of her. Both have sandy feet.
"We've been up since four--must have walked three miles. We met the huge sheepdog two rooms over, the Aussie shepherd, the crazed poodle--"
"How did Maeve handle introductions?" I sit up on my bed, shocked at Ann's good humor.
"I yelled to the owners not to come too near; she's a diva and doesn't make friends. They listened..." Ann lets Maeve off her leash.
The dog immediately explores my kitchenette and bathroom, then returns, smiling.
"What about dogs off leashes?" I scrutinize Ann, looking for any cracks in her too-cool fascade.
"I hollar--the owners come running," Ann scans into the cold but clear morning. "Only a few pea-brains off leash...I hate owners who aren't responsible and make people without dogs hate people with dogs!" Ann moves to the open door, lighting a Marlboro. Maeve watches every move.

I pull the covers up to my chin--just a wee bit horrified that people, and their dogs, are passing by, waving. Ann smiles, wishes all a "great morning", continues to puff in the doorway.

"You hungry? Breakfast at this rennovated schoolhouse--it's a restaurant-- they have an amazing buffet on weekends..." Ann clips Maeve and walks outside.

"We taking her?" I jump from the bed, sprinting for the shower.

"What do you think?" Ann answers, pulling the motel door closed behind them.

Maine Squeeze Part One

ER sister, Ann, has one last summer fling every year: she takes a last weekend in Maine.
Earlier in the summer, she rents a huge house about two miles from the Bush family compound and plants the entire clan for two weeks. (Somehow, my forever Democratic familia, esconced so closely to the Evil Other seems fantastical, but, it is truth. I have now been a living witness to the fact.) But that is the beginning of summer--when the mosquitoes roar and the touristas are known by their sizzling skin. When the first leaves in MA begin to show off their colors and the nights are beginning to carry the scent of woodsmoke, it is then that Ann heads up north for a final summer good-bye. Honky-tonky Old Orchard is the destination. A hotel that allows dog owners access to a beach and all the clean towels beachy dogs require.

So, on Friday, she packs up dog,Maeve, about five tote bags of Maeve's "stuff", her own one piece of "personal luggage"--and me, the oldest sister. (This year, Mom begged off because of not feeling "up to it".)
Other little sister, Bren, begged off--still slightly put out because my moving back in put her out, literally, while she's between houses.
When Bren found out Mom had reniged, suddenly, Bren wanted back.
"Why didn't you tell me it was just you guys?!" Bren called Ann on Thursday night.
"Too late," Ann shook her head, stubbed out her Marlboro (cigarette choice of nine out of ten smoking nurses...)and scratched the dog.
Bren hung up, seething.
Oh well...

"I don't think Bren's too happy with me--" I look out at the torrential downpour flooding the turnpike.
"She's upset because she found out too late about Mom not coming--" Ann passes a slow moving van, swearing under her breath and lighting another Marlboro red.
"Yeah--what's up with that? I feel kinda bad," I reach behind my head rest and scratch Maeve's chin.
"Ma wants us to "bond".
"What?!" I am incredulous.
"Don't fight it--" Ann peels around a slower-moving Fiat. "Fix it again, Tony!" she chuckles as we pass the car in a wave.
(We are bonding.)

By the time we arrive in Old Orchard Beach, the sky is a dirty marshmellow. Maeve jumps from Ann's jeep, landing in a puddle. There are no other cars at the dog motel. We are it.
"Take her down to the sand--here's the poop bag," Ann holds out a baggie. It immediately begins to fill with rain.
I have no choice. Maeve must do what Maeve must do and Ann must unpack all of Maeve's accoutrements.

Rain rushes down the inside of my leather jacket, into my jeans. I am miserable. I pull my collar up only giving a more direct route to my backbone. Maeve, too, is distracted. Macha dog, she raises a hind leg and squirts the rusting trash can, on the edge of the lot.

"Take her way down there!" Ann yells from the balcony.

Ann has sherpaed two bags on each arm, a backpack and purse (which weighs fifty pounds--according to my father's last guess) and something that resembles an alligator trap, up to the balcony. The cigarette is still clamped between her lips. Her sunglasses keep her waist-length blonde hair out of her eyes. Her CROCS slap the wet, outdoor carpeting on the balcony, as she makes her way to her room. (Also Maeve's room.)

Maeve hasn't listened to Ann. Maeve hates the rain. She isn't too thrilled with the incoming tide, either. I have to pull her,and her fifty foot "running tether", down to the edge of the water.
I try not to watch as she squeezes out a tootsie-roll, then bolts back, in a direct line, for the motel.

I don't know why I am so embarrassed at doing the "right thing", but I am. I turn the baggie inside out, close my eyes, locate the "present" and grasp it in the plastic-clad hand. I am shocked at how hot it is--tiny or not! Rapidly, I twist the bag closed and avoid even so much as a whiff of waste. Thankfully, another green, rusty barrel, is about three yards away, on the beach. I toss the package in a wide arc and make the shot. (Ahh, freedom!)

Allowing Maeve to think she's headed back, out of the rain, I walk out toward the waves with a loose leash.

Then, I truly inhale.
Atlantic seasalt. Freezing mist. Waves smashing the sand below my Uggs.
No oil rigs here. No big haulers. Not so much as a single paddle board. Just gray, empty anger of the sea. Clouds that make me want to pull out a paintset. Cold, clean sand.
This is Maine as I remember it. Off season. My glasses fogged over. Lips trembling. My hair in freezing clumps.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

Suddenly, I flash on girlfriend Gail, not seen since college, telling me of her travels all over the planet. One night, somewhere in Europe, on the edge of a similar scene, she whipped off her Burberry and held out her arms to the wind--wanting the drilling rain to enter her consciousness. Wanting to feel exactly this: alive. (Where have you landed, Gail? Do you ever think of me when you watch the sea?)

Maeve barks me to reality. She is pissed off. Why don't I get myself back where it is warm, dry, there are assorted doggie treats and her mother is waiting with a fluffy blanket?
I hustle. (I am getting re-trained by everybody in the family, including the dog.) Maeve stops to pee in a puddle...which I find a bit over- the- top...then sniffs a crab shell. Deciding it is beneath her interest, she continues down the sandy path, pulling me as if I were a sled and she a Husky.
(Cavalier Prince Charles spaniels are like this...and she is pure.)

"You have the single. Maeve and I will share this room." Ann throws me a towel for my head.
Maeve has already claimed one of the beds. (I know when it comes to sleep, though, she will hop onto Ann's. They've worked this out for seven years.) I don't argue. I'm happy these days to sleep by myself. A kind of luxury.

"Lobster for dinner?" Ann thumbs through a directory.

I brighten, taking the towel with me to my empty room. The door is unlocked. Ann has dumped my backpack on the floor, by my queen-sized bed. I flick on a light--as much for warmth as for brightness. It is still chilly inside; damp as only beachside rooms tend to be.

The room has a big t.v. A bigger bed than Ann's--who has, as always, generously paid for everything up front. There is the kitchenette--with coffee maker and frig and microwave and everything someone crashing at the beach (or hiding from the law) might need. I open the windows to let the salted air seep in. Banish any taint of closed-in-ed-ness.

Maine still smells the same. Four decades later, my nostrils confirm this fact. I whistle for no reason, (then stop, realizing, this IS a dog motel; even if I am happy.)

"Lobster, corn on the cob,baked potato...hot drawn butter...home made bread..." I am singing as I head for the scalding shower.

"And salt water taffy and lighthouses and clam chowder...hurry up, " Ann hollars down the empty balcony. "We want to beat the crowds..."

I LOVE A PARADE...sort of...

The 225th anniversary of Gardner, MA, and my Dad's in the purple convertible, at the front of The Parade...my LT. cop Little Bro is also on duty...with the rest of the town's police crew...at the end of the route. Me, I'm stuck, on a two inch curb, in lotus position, my back against my mother's knees, as she sits in her lawn chair, cheering for... everything. (Not much has changed in thirty-five years...)

The day began when one of my best buddies, Judy, showed up, morning-chirpy, as usual, just in from Connecticut, with husband and family in tow, waiting down the street for us. Her daughter, a beauty I was about to meet, accompanied her up the hill to 88 Maple Street, to rouse me from slumber and get my butt into gear for the Big Event.

My parents were delighted, as usual, to see Jude. My Mom gushed over her teen-aged daughter; my Dad shook everyone's hands; the dog shed and licked and jumped on any human she could wiggle between. (Meanwhile, my sister, the ER nurse, slept unperturbed in her daylightslumbershift, unaware and uncaring, behind closed doors. My other sister was well esconced in Marlboro, nursing a sick bf and hiding out. Cape Cod brother, twin to the Marlboro Maven, was busy with FEMA, somewhere in NE and had no time for parades--even if it was the biggest the town ever had and probably would have-- in our lifetimes. His family was happily digging clams and playing pirates, far from the maddening crowd. ) But, I was caught.

Now, on some level, even as I re-integrate into NE doings, a part of me was happy to be surrounded by friends, family, neighbors--all mostly sober, coherent and up for The Event. The weather cooperated by being at turns sunny and cloudy--offering enough warmth that one could sneak by with a sweatshirt but not broil under a wrathful sky. The Parade, itself, was handily passing right by the end of Maple Street. In fact, one of the big review stands,complete with local t.v. coverage, was set up exactly at the end of Maple Street. It was an easy walk--and left no excuses.

Judy had come to collect me, so I could walk just a wee bit farther and meet up with her parental units--whom I hadn't seen since escaping Gardner. I was nervous; though I knew they had liked me as one of Judy's close, high school buddies, that was then... Also down the street: Judy's husband of all the years I'd been away--the co-maker of their seven kidlets. We hadn't met and I was a bit torn about that intro. (I shouldn't have worried--about anything. The Karmic Road continues to unfold in front of me...)

AsI follow my willowy, blonde friend (and her raven-haired daughter) through the massing crowd, people are kind. Everyone allowing us safe passage. Balloons and flags--hundreds of flags--kids in strollers, elders in walkers, teens smiling (something that, even in Gardner, is rare)abound. No ipods in sight! No boom-boxes blasting from sidewalk denizens. No cars parked with their motors and stereos busting down the windows of the surrounding buildings. Not even screaming aircraft or ghetto birds overhead. I am getting honestly high from the small town vibes and excitement. It's both unnerving and energizing!

Then, I hear the rumors rippling through the crowd: They can't toss candy from the floats!
No beads or balloons, neither!
Faces, (not only of kids), begin to fall. I ask Judy if she knew the reasoning? (I mean, all our lives, parades in Gardner were filled with salt water taffy and penny candy and lollipops tossed-- sometimes literally-- at our heads, if not our collective hands.)
"Lawsuits--people around here are really into lawsuits these days..." Judy whispers sadly.

Before I become depressed, her Mother and Father see us. I am immediately thumped on the back, hugged, my arm held and not let go, kissed on both cheeks, hands shook and re-shook, and introduced to Judy's three sons (the others are serving in the military, overseas, bravely...)and husband. What a reunion! (What a relief! )Her sons are handsome and appropriately "cool", as only teen-aged boys forced downtown in their Mom's home turf, can be; her husband gives me some honest hugs and more honest laughs...we seem to be on a similar head vibe about (at least) obvious issues. (Plus, he's cute-- just a bit greyer than the photo of him and Judy I've had in my possession since college days. )But, in too swiftly moving minutes, the Gardner Fire Department screams a warning that the Big Event is about to descend upon downtown and I have to extricate myself from Judy's family-- to find my own. Waving good-bye, I begin the climb uphill, to Monument Park, and my Mom.

I am shocked to see people lining the hillside, and the park, four deep along the parade proper. However, people let me through...no grumbling....no shoving...no jockeying for position. (How unlike L.A. events where you can be knifed for brushing too closely against a stranger's back...however innocent the contact might be.) I keep reminding myself: this ain't L.A.

I scurry through the park, dressed in my black hoody and torn jeans, but now with proper NE hiking boots. (I am blending...slowly.) The park is as I remember it, back in the day. Now, though, a small, bandstand, painted with clouds (by the boy I played army and went fishing with, four decades back: Mark Lore) is at one end. I admire it for a flash, but have to keep moving. (Possibly I might just get a glimpse of the beginning of the parade, with all the politicos in town--including Dad--and then be able to sneak home...)

As I make it to the other end of the park, the announer bleats: "Here come the council members ..." And so they arrive.
Some of them, like Dad, in the driven purple convertible; others walking and shaking hands, like a St. Pat's Day extravaganza; some of them, like my cousin, have held other offices --including mayor--most of them I know from their families I'd grown up with. For me, it is this very weird,moving, blast from the past: like an army of soldiers from one's life, walking in front of one, just out of reach. A Twilight Zone episode...I shake it off and, when the break next comes between marchers and floats, I sprint across the street.

I find myself on the edge of Sacred Heart School--the setting of my most recent novel. Like a movie set--it roars up in front of me: the old convent, now used by everyone but nuns; the empty space where the red brick building loomed for the older students; the yellow brick "new building"-- no longer new, but the actual site of much of the action of the novel...o how I'd like access to those rooms...but the parade is building momentum and I have to look for Mom. (I'd promised.) Besides, I'd spent about forty minutes with Judy's family, downtown; it is only fair.

Passing hundreds of happy paraders, literally, a skinny arm snags my sweatshirt and I am pulled down, on to the curb.
"I almost didn't recognize you, K.K.!"
Mom's voice hollars above the crowd. She pushes her lawn chair backwards, leaving about two feet of sidewalk clear. Two older people, one on each side of her, grin, staring at me.
"You remember your old neighbors, the Fishischers,don't you?" Mom points to the people around her.
I sort of do. (Pretend I REALLY do.) Shake more congenial hands. They marvel at my almost white hair (no mention about the spikes nor blue sunglasses) and comment how I ,"still look the same--except of course, the hair !"
(I wonder how that is even possible--I was twenty when they last saw me--oh well.)
I plunk down on the two inch high curb,my hiking boots and short legs stretch in front of me, my butt on concrete. (At least it is in the shade.)
I notice the high percentage of Older People around me. I notice the civility of the lines and lines of Younger People, too. It seems most of the town's teens have been incorporated as "Civic Workers"--sporting flourescent yellow tee-shirts and camo pants. They are "keeping order" by walking up and down the Parade Route. Some of them have walkie-talkies. Most don't. (Is this the New Order in town? It's a little scary--but I can't let my imagination flow with that...maybe it's just a way to "Motivate Youth"? Hmmm....)

Pretty soon, horses, followed by Mummers, followed by Fife and Drums; elaborate floats float by; the community college with a huge inflatable globe; Habitat for Humanity :banging walls up on a flatbed and getting enormous cheers (Gardner has a Habitat for Humanity! Wowza!); sadder floats from some of the local churches, echoing the drab colors and severe settings of New England Spirituality at it's strictest--but still part of the parade--come in turn; a local gym, with free weights and elipticals, manned by two guys in Oakley glasses and buzzcuts, joined by NE- sized women, all working out to loud music; historical re-enactors marching in barefeet and shooting blunderbusses; all the VFWs and Eagles and Lions Clubs and Masons and every other civic group in Gardner; school children from the private schools and the public schools in town, their faces shiny and serious, until they see people in the crowd they know, then, enorous grins and waving; a few terrified dogs on leashes; Ronald MacDonald, or his faux counterpart, atop the highest float; a giant, ill-constructed birthday cake; the Michelin Man; antique autos; mini-cars; too many frighening "clowns"; and every once in a while, someone tossing handfuls of salt water kisses and penny candies across the asphalt and into the crowd--skittering low--a ton of it, bouncing off my new hiking boots, in the gutter.

Instead of a mad scramble, with people ripping the goodies from each other's hands, neighbors pass candy to neighbors and everybody shares...it is amazing and chilling to me. (Had I really been away from this reality for so long?) When the crowd breaks into "God Bless America" and no one seems to smirk or shake their head ironically, it hits me: This IS the REAL DEAL.

An organic, community farm passes out produce: apples from their trees.
"Only for the kids, sorry," they announce as they walk along the crowds.
(However, far as I can see, only adults actually reach their hands out for the fruit...)
One float passes out frisbees, but only to people they know--which causes some grumbling--but they pass by quickly. A contingent of Vietnam Vet motorcycle riders get a huge ovation ..and then my High School Wildcat Band...much larger than when I played flute in the 70's...but with the same repetoire--more heart than talent(Ever hope-filled.) boldly passes. The crowd roars its approval. (Other area bands perform, but none get the same applause.)
"GLORY TO GARDNER!" the crowd joins in unison, the song lifting on the cool wind.

I have to admit, a lump that isn't salt-water taffy grows in my throat. I see forty- thousand people , twice the size of the town, cheer, applaud, thump each other on the back, come together and honestly be entertained. It is showered on by the continual fall of golden and raspberry leaves, mixing with the confetti from the DJ float. (Gardner has a DJ?!) Scents of woodsmoke, lake water, mowed grass and apples permeates the crowd. (It is my past meeting with my present, in innocence; and I'm not yet too jaded to respect that.)

As the last canon blasts and the final clean-up-at-the-end-of-the-parade makes it's way down Central Street, everyone begins to disburse. No angry shoving. No mad dash for a parking lot. Just, people stretching, smiling, moving in clots and couples, happily away.

"Well, it wasn't the Rose Parade," Mom says, taking my arm even as I carry her lawn chair,
"but it was quite an Event."

I had to agree.