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..."