August. “Bringing my air mattress and scoping out a friendly floor.” The text popped up one day last week, reminding me all over again that this was indeed August, the end-of-summer-better-get-up-to-Maine month. Having just said good-bye to my dear childhood friend and her family after their annual Camden visit, I wasn’t surprised at how fast the summer was going.

Three sisters-in-law, on my side and on Wally’s, are due up this week. Luckily at either end of the week. There are two from his side along with the air mattress-toting niece, and one on my side along with a nephew I haven’t seen in years. Unlike the old days when we had people sleeping all over this house, teenagers hooting and hollering half the night, the kitchen overflowing with food, the barn fridge (today’s “egg fridge”) packed with beer and soda, sausages and bowls of pasta salad, this should be a much more civilized week. Everyone’s got a place to stay. We might even eat out a time or two.

There’s a bit of a frantic feel to this summer, don’t you think? Traffic backs up, in and out of town, the Beach is as crowded as I can remember, and the restaurants are being strained to the breaking point. At one popular place the other night the owner had to come out and tell the folks waiting to be called in that they’d run out of food. At another, so short of staff, would-be diners were setting the tables, wrapping the silverware, and pouring the water. Blame covid for part of it; indoor dining capacity is still being enforced, and there’s no help to be found. Seems as if everyone’s got a “Hiring” sign hanging out front.

Hopefully everyone in the business of serving visitors is making money. And hopefully, local wages for “hospitality” workers, as the media insists on calling them, are going up along with the general prosperity. Taking care of people on vacation – cooking for them, cleaning up after them, keeping them entertained – is hard work.

Reveling in our new-found freedom from masks and indoor restrictions this summer’s relative freedom may turn out to be short-lived as we’re learning that Waldo County’s covid spread is “substantial”; apparently the dreaded community spread Is already occurring. An outbreak at Waldo County Hospital is being investigated according to today’s Bangor Daily News. We’re dividing into two camps: the vaccinated and unvaccinated, one side blaming the other for the resurgence. And unlike mask wearing, there’s no way to tell if you’re interacting with an unvaccinated person.

So much to worry about.

But also so much to be grateful for.

How about the guy, renovating a house near the Beach, who sent over a couple of his crew to climb up on a neighbor’s barn roof and replace some shingles that blew off this spring. The barn owner asked, “How much do I owe you?” greatly relieved to have the repair made. “Nothing,” was the reply, “Just pay it forward.”

Grateful the day last week when my truck slid backwards into the ditch at the Moody Mountain Road-High Street intersection, the result of a standard shift driving lesson gone awry. With one front wheel and the opposite rear wheel each two feet in the air I envisioned a two hour wait for AAA. But within minutes a guy came along, slowed down, saw my distress and said “I can drive that out for you.”

Bingo. First try, he put it in 4-wheel drive, the one good wheel caught and he drove it out in two seconds. Gave it a quick look over for any damage, and off he went. Thank you thank you!!

Yesterday the two aunties arrived, as my niece and I both think of them (though she’s a whole generation younger than them and me), and as always, we were so happy to see them. It’s bittersweet for them, I know, coming to the place where for so many years it was their baby brother greeting them with hugs. Having lived in this place without him for the past four and a half years, I’ve made it mine. The places he occupied have moved inside me as I’ve turned “our” house into my house.

The two sisters – the aunties – have outlived their three siblings – two brothers, including my Wally (Buddy to them), and their eldest sister, mother to the niece asleep on my Murphy bed as I write. They’re well into their eighties and come together once a year thanks to the love of one very caring granddaughter-in-law who drives her husband’s grandmother to Maine to see her sister. No need to follow this tangled thread of relationships. It’s family, and most of us can go down this rabbit hole, especially In August when they all show up.

Everyone wants to see what’s new around here, the in-progress hen house, the re-organized shop, the photo of last June’s high school graduation. Since that’s the screen saver on my computer, we’re all in the little front room that they remember as Wally’s den. 

One thing leads to another; a couple of old family photos prompt the familiar tales passed down and re-told every time we’re together. Wally was so good at those stories; I do my best to tell them as he did. And then, as they inevitably do, the sisters are remembering their own stories of foster care. The eldest, just three or four, waking up in the middle of the night needing to pee. The room is pitch black; she’s missing her mother, doesn’t know where the bathroom is, crying, and finally, peeing on the floor. We – the niece, the granddaughter-in-law and I – listen raptly as this nearing 90 year old woman takes us back to that awful moment in her life.

It could have happened yesterday. They remember the various families they stayed with, a baby boy and his siblings at one house, how they fed him bits of the bread and molasses that was their dessert. That baby is an old man now, I think, wondering briefly how his life turned out.

We saw them all off later in the day. There’ll be only occasional phone calls with the one who is contentedly ensconced in her Augusta apartment, feeding scraps to the crows every morning, faithfully reading the Kennebec Journal  to stay informed. I keep track of the other in faraway Virginia with her frequent Facebook photos, always with a great-grandchild in tow.

Next up, later in the week, my brother’s family will arrive, and we’ll share stories and laughter, look at photos, tell each other our news. August in Maine.

Blueberry WIng Ding

“The Lincolnville Improvement Association hopes everyone in the community will join us at the Lobster Pound Restaurant this Saturday morning from 7:00 -10:00 a.m. for blueberry pancakes, sausage or bacon, juice and coffee. You can eat inside or outside.

“Homemade blueberry goodies will be for sale including pies, jam, muffins, scones etc. Try your luck for a chance to win one of eight prizes at our annual raffle to local restaurants, inns and shops. Lastly, the white elephant section will have with something for everyone: antiques, jewelry, knick knacks, tote bags, flower pots, etc.

“Proceeds from the annual Wing Ding go towards scholarships for Lincolnville students. This past year that amounted to a $1500 grant to each of four graduates!”

A service for Dave Barrows will be held at Fletcher Cemetery on High Street, Saturday August 14, at 3 p.m. with a reception to follow at the Community Building in the Center.  All are welcome.

Garlic Harvest

My favorite crop each year is garlic. You plant it in October, right along with the daffocils and tulips, and watch it sprout in the spring. By June it’s sending up funny-looking scapes which you should snap off as that supposedly makes the bulbs grow bigger. You can make pesto out of them or stir fry them. By the end of July it’s time to pull the plants, about 150 of them.

I spent a few pleasant hours sitting under our ash tree, peeling back the outer skins and twisting out the stem, leaving beautiful clean bulbs of garlic, pink, purple and white.Last year the garlic I’d stored became infested with an insect. I keep it in a mesh bag, hanging in the pantry and have never had a problem. Blame it on the pandemic, but tiny worms infested every single bulb. This year I examined each one as I cleaned them and found a few with a little hole that I suspect may be where something laid its eggs. I held them out; we’ll eat them first, and maybe put a couple in a separate bag to see if they do indeed hatch something.