Welcome to Autumn and Brimfield, Maine

Fall is swiftly fleeing, autumn leaves streaming from her colorful heels with winter's wind in fast pursuit. Here in Maine, snow has come and gone with a promise to return soon. This morning I walked my son to the bus and found Jack Frost had graffitied our truck, affectionately known as The Beast, in lovely silver-white swirls and crystalline swoops. Old Man Winter's calling card has arrived here in New England.

When I began working on a freelance writing career, I found most of the stories bubbling to the surface of my creative cauldron revolved around my experiences in life and family. Bored with writing a constant operatic warm up (you know: Meee, me, me Meeeee,)I created a cast of characters and set them to play out their lives within a world very similar to my own. Mike and Mary were born as was the Small and sleepy harbor town of Brimfield, Maine. These stories are meant to be read aloud in the spirit of Garrison Keillor or Stuart McLean.  However, I have read as well as listened to both Keillor and Mclean and have enjoyed the tales equally.

While the following story may not be seasonally pertinent, I think the worries, cares, successes and perceived failures will resonate with all times of the year and many readers locked in the daily struggle of living, loving and laughing. So please, come, sit at my table. Can I get you a coffee? Tea? Something a little, well, more? The fire is in the hearth, cookies cooling over there on the counter. Come, sit, and let me tell you a story.

Wishing you joy and luck on this day and every other, but most of all I wish you laughter. After all, a sense of humor is the only thing that makes sense at all. -Rebecca

 

Spring arrived in Brimfield, Maine on a Saturday morning riding a capricious, sea-scented breeze.  The winter had been full of long nights and cold days.  But on this day, memories of ice fishing and snowshoes, blizzards and sea smoke melted away with the last of the gray snow banks. 

From the stately painted houses on Main Street to the country cottages and farmhouses of the western boundaries, mothers everywhere banished the last remains of the mythic New England winter.  All over town windows were thrown open, porches swept, flowerbeds raked and countless boots, hats and scarves were packed away in bins and boxes by the winter weary Brimfieldians.   New England was ready for Spring, and it seemed Spring was ready for New England.

Perhaps the penultimate harbinger of spring had arrived just this morning. 

“Birdfeed Battle, Bears ON!” declared the local newspaper.  “Morris-1, Greeley’s birdfeeders-0.”  Greeley was Mrs. Glenna Greeley, local librarian and town matron.  Morris was a black bear with a taste for birdseed and a penchant for breaking and entering. 

“Go get ‘em Morris,” said Mike to his paper.  

Mike Sullivan was Brimfield’s pediatrician and no one was happier to see the tail end of winter than he was.  Mike was weary of the gray skies and solemn moods, of colds and the cold.  He understood poor old Morris, just woken up from a long nap, hungry and eager to be out and about.  Mike was tired of the unique claustrophobia that came with the annual hibernation all Northerners must endure.  

Rather than an epilogue to old man winter’s deep freeze, Mike welcomed the fine weather as a prologue of what was to come.  It was the kind of April morning that spun dreams of sun drenched beaches, backyard barbeques and ball games governed only by weather and streetlights.  It was the kind of April morning that made people restless and itchy for something, well, something more. 

Mike leaned back from the yellow enameled table ignoring the creaking protest of the old chair.  He stretched his hands behind his head and sighed.  Life was good.  He had his favorite chair, his favorite newspaper, his coffee, his family and most importantly he had absolutely nothing to do today.  He closed his eyes for a moment, drinking in the warmth and light streaming through the kitchen window and allowed his mind to wander back to a similar day many years past now.

Mary and Mike Sullivan lived here in the town of Brimfield with their three children in one of those proud, painted ladies on Main.  The Sullivans were “from away” as they say - “They” being the generations of tough Mainers born with the sea in their blood and ingenuity in their bones.  It has been almost 16 years since Mary found the house one sleeting, winter afternoon.  A freshman reporter for the Boston Globe, Mary had followed a story concerning the declining fishing industry to the small harbor town.  She had spent most of that morning unsuccessfully gathering information from the notoriously tight-lipped Mainers when she wandered past Sixty-Four Main Street, the “For Sale” sign poking above a two foot snow drift. 

Mary was instantly entranced. The porch had drawn her in, its wide wooden bulk wrapping its arms around the blue Victorian in a white gingerbread embrace.  But it was the grand staircase and stained glass windows that had captured Mary’s heart and soul.

“Buy it!” she had told Mike, “It’s perfect.”

Mike hadn’t been so convinced.  While Mary was charmed by the turrets and slated roof, Mike worried over ice dams and leaking rafters.  Where Mary smelled lemon polished history in the old oak paneling and lavender in the sun soaked kitchen, Mike caught the distinct scent of cat and something else.  Formaldehyde wondered Mike? 

But Mary had wanted the house and Mike wanted Mary.  So, on a blustery spring day, the couple moved into Sixty-Four Main and spent the next decade polishing and plastering the old Victorian while working their way into the hearts of the close knit community.

Mike took a job as the town doctor, with an office just down the block - house calls as needed.  Mary kept on at The Globe but transferred to the local paper when Margaret was born.  After Alex was born two years later, Mary freelanced for a number of local papers chronicling the trials and tribulations of small towns and family life, eventually becoming a syndicated columnist.  The town had been good to the Sullivans and the Sullivans worked hard to repay that kindness. 

But on this shining Saturday morning, Mike wasn’t worrying about cats or renovations or doctoring.  He had nothing ahead more strenuous than wondering what kind of fancy new bear-proof feeder Mrs. Greeley would try this year.  Today was a day of possibilities, a day where anything – or nothing- could happen. 

Nothing is exactly what this doctor ordered, thought Mike as he glanced through the headlines. 

“Morris is winning already,” said Mike to Mary when she wandered into the kitchen with her section of paper and a cup of tea. 

“Hmmm?” she asked and joined him at the little yellow table.

“Morris, the bear.  Got Old Lady Greeley’s Ultra-feed 4000 in under 12 hours.  Think that’s a new record.” Mike laughed.  “Saw a big box from Amazon at the Post Office yesterday.  Whaddya’ bet that’s an Ultra 5000?”

“Mmm,” said Mary and sighed.

Mike watched her over the top of the paper with a wary eye.  “You all right?”  Something told him his day of nothing was sliding into something.  Many years of marriage had given him a kind of sixth sense when things were about to go sideways and Mary seemed to be in a sideways kind of mood. 

“It’s nothing.  I’m being silly.”  Mary sighed again and the slapped her section of the paper down onto the table.  “It’s just, ugh.  It’s that Lauren McAlister.  She really fries my cookies,” said Mary, fiddling with her mug of tea.

Mike smiled.  “I think you mean burns your cookies.”

“Whatever.  She drives me crazy,” mumbled Mary.

“What did Our Lady of the Haughty Attitude do now?” asked Mike.

“Ugh, just because her husband is the Mayor she thinks it is her job to be the social conscience of the world.”

“The whole world?”

“Well, maybe just the town but don’t underestimate her.  Total world domination is on her To-Do list.”

Mike put down the Local Happenings section of the Coastal News.  “So what is the new crusade?  Whooping cranes?  Yellow-bellied sap suckers?  Can’t be spotted owls, we did that last year- still have the calendar.”

“Vegetables,” said Mary, head in her hands, pout on her face.

“Vegetables?” asked Mike and laughed.  “Is she for or against?”

“I guess that depends on where you buy them.”  Mary got up from the table and moved across the kitchen.  “She joined this co-op.  They bring you different vegetables each week.”  Mary pulled a bag of green beans from the freezer and banged it on the counter.  “Lauren was going on and on about how great the produce is and how co-ops reduce your carbon footprint.”  She banged the bag again.  It sounded like a sledge hammer.  “So, I got to thinking.”

Oh boy, thought Mike.  Sideways.  He gestured for Mary to give him the bag and she brought it over.  “What are you thinking?” asked Mike, working the block of frozen vegetables loose with his hands. 

“What do we do for the environment?” asked Mary, hands on hips.

Mike blinked.  “What do we do?  Well,” Danger warned Mike’s brain.  Defensive positions.  “We recycle.  We have a compost pile,” he said, “and the Molly never get new shoes.  Hand-me-downs are an institution in this house.”

Mary took the bag from her husband.  “No, Mike, I mean really do something.  I spent years writing about other people doing things, but what have I done?  Haven’t you seen those bumper stickers plastered on every carpool car? “Go Organic! Buy Local!”  Sylvia Brooks has one that says “Eat vegan and nobody gets hurt.”

Mike snorted and shook his head.  Sylvia Brook’s husband, Burt, was the town butcher.

Mary poured the beans into a glass bowl.  “How can I hold my head up in the carpool lane when our kids think vegetables are naturally frost-bitten?”

“So, you want to join a co-op?” asked Mike

“No.  I want to do her one better.  I want a garden,” answered Mary.  “If she can buy them, I can grow them.  That will put Our Lady of the High and Mighty in her place.”  Mary shoved the bowl into the microwave and pressed start.  She turned to her husband.  “What do you think?”

Now, it would be a full year later, over a pint of Guinness at Smith’s Pub, when Mike would recall that one question - “what do you think?” - and mark it in his memory as the point where everything had gone terribly wrong.  He would tell the story of Mary’s garden with the kind of sentiment men reserve for survival stories, hunting escapades and college drinking tales.  But on this morning, Mike could only register one thought - Run!

Mike felt it coming like a bad head cold.  He recognized that look, that unholy light shining behind her eyes.  It was a light that said many weekends would be lost in the name of family bonding.  It was a light that said cancel your golf game, Mike.  It was a light that said run, Mike, run!  Husbands and children for themselves!

That same light had shone a year before when Mary had embarked on her Zen period.  She had filled shallow bowls with sand, tiny stones and rakes and moved all the furniture according to the principles of Feng Shui.  One night, after a long evening of house calls, Mike thought he was crawling into bed only to fall into the laundry hamper.  The next night Mike tried to put his socks into Aunt May’s potted palm. 

Mary went on to tie little silver bells to all of the doors and windows.  Every time a breeze blew or a door opened there was supposed to be a light, energy cleansing chiming throughout the house.  With three kids, a dog and an ocean breeze, the house sounded like the test room at a miniature gong factory.  The cat had not come out for months. 

Breathe, thought Mike, returning from his gong-filled memory.  It’s only gardening.  How bad could it be?  Mike smiled, relaxing.  Gardening might be just the trick to keep Mary busy this summer.

“Sounds fantastic,” said Mike and kissed her on the head. 

Mary let out a long breath.  “I am so glad you get it.  Lauren said her husband Cliff didn’t understand any of this but I told her with you being a pediatrician, for God’s sake, of course you would understand it.”

“Of course I understand,” said Mike returning to the table and his paper.  “You know me, Mr. Environment.”  Mike ignored Mary’s raised eyebrows.  He was warming to the idea. 

On Sunday, Mike purchased a Farmer's Almanac at the Tractor Supply for his wife - his contribution to the cause.  He gave it to her that night along with two seed catalogs bound together by a red ribbon and a card. 

The card said: I love you Mary, Happy gardening.  Love, Mike. 

Monday morning, Mike followed the smell of French Roast into the kitchen to find Mary at the table.  She was wrapped in a fuzzy pink bathrobe, her seed catalogs spread out before her, coffee in hand.

“What do you think about escarole?” asked Mary.

“Escarole?” asked Mike, fumbling with the coffee pot.  “You want to grow snails?”

“Escarole, not escargot,” said Mary, shaking her head. 

“Oh,” said Mike.  He poured the coffee into a mug with a blue painted handprint on the side.  “Sure.  What’s escarole then?”

Mary smiled and made a check in the catalogue.  “I was thinking I need a theme- maybe Asian,” said Mary, flipping the pages.  “I can’t wait,” she said. 

“I am sure what ever you do will be wonderful,” said Mike and he kissed his wife on the head and spent the remainder of the chilly morning congratulating himself on a job well done.  His beautiful wife was happy and his golf game was safe.

 

 

Thank you for joining me in the inaugural post of Brimfield, Maine and the town's character and characters. Look for part two of Mary and Mikes adventures in gardening tomorrow, same Bat time, same Bat channel. Of course now I have dated myself as ancient and totally uncool. But wait! Batman is cool! Batman, bow ties and fezzes- they're cool. Good thing Retro is always back in style. Now where did I put those legwarmers and cassette tapes? The kids will love them!  -R

 

P.S. If you would like to listen to a master storyteller at work please visit Stuart Mclean at http://www.cbc.ca/vinylcafe/  You won't regret it!