The weeds, even the deep rooted ones, give up easily in the dry soil. The September sun is warm on my back as I scoot along the garden bed, pulling up the random weeds that found space among the onions. The onions themselves are safely twisted into strings of baling twine and drying in the shed. “Best onions in years,” I tell my daughter-in-law, my partner in this summer’s garden.

Late summer smells – tomatoes, basil, and especially Sweet Annie – waft over me as I work. Do you know her? Sweet Annie? A tall, incredibly fragrant plant– or pungent (you decide­) – Artemisia annu, is a medicinal herb, but for me it will forever evoke the Common Ground Fair. Branches of the feathery stuff are for sale at every farmer’s booth, young women wear wreathes woven of it as crowns on their long hair, its scent mingles with the competing smells of curries and barbecue, dust and fries.

Long ago a friend gave me a plant, saying I’d have it forever. As its Latin name promises, sweet annie is an annual, but a relentless re-seeder. It crops up everywhere, and when small looks a lot like the carrots and cilantro and asparagus ferns it’s hiding among.

“Find all the Sweet Annie,” I tell the grandchildren, who are learning the names of everything that grows in our garden. Once you know the smell it’s easy to find, and they do.

The Fair looms large when September comes, once the sweet annie is doing her thing in the garden.

“I doubt I’ll go again,” says a friend, whose wife died just a year ago. “She loved it so.”

Wally and I got there last year, a miracle it seemed at the time. He could actually walk the Fair well enough after a summer struggling out of wheelchair to walker to cane, his only concession to weakness was riding in on the tractor-pulled wagon. We both missed the long walk through the pine forest to the gate, joining the excitement building in the steady stream of people heading in the same direction. We always arrived before the gate opened at 9, while the September air was still chilly.

Common Ground Fair has seemingly mutated as often as our marriage. We kept meeting ourselves at every age around every corner. The Social/Political Action tents were his favorites where he refreshed his bumper stickers each year and chatted with old friends manning the many tables. My preferences ran to the build-a-house-with-straw-bales kind of display. We watched the parade of garden vegetables wistfully, remembering our own little ones, and later our grandchildren dressed as radishes or ears of corn or garden pests. Who doesn’t love the garden parade?

He longed to join the Morris dancers, thought he’d look sharp with all those ribbons and bells. Every year he told me. He grazed admiringly among the dried beans in the Exhibition Hall. I liked the timber hewing, the stone working. We both scoured the craft tents thoroughly, making sure we saw every single exhibitor. We always had a sum tucked away each year “for the Fair” – a piece of pottery, a wooden cutting board, a handwoven wool shirt for him, a painted silk scarf for me. One year it was the giraffe marionette that hangs in our front window, another an anatomically-correct needle-sculpted doll. Our Christmas-in-September presents to each other.

As we grew older and, positively staid in our fleece vests and sneakers, we both admired the style of the younger fairgoers, their dreads, their layers of colorful homemade clothing, their heavy leather boots. The babies bundled up in thick, knit sweaters, perched on a dad’s back and our eyes met, saying without words, ‘remember when that was us?’

My fingers twitched at the sight of handspun hats, remembering the feel of fiber twisting through them during long evenings at my spinning wheel. Though he never said, the milk cows with their full udders must have made his fingers twitch as well. For each year, as the Fair moved to new quarters – Litchfield to Windsor and finally, to Unity – changing with the new century, we were changing too.

The heady feeling the year we set the boys free to roam without us; the year there was no longer a cow in our barn; the years without any sons living at home; and finally, the years when we might run into our own grandchildren come to the Fair with their parents. Of late there hasn’t been much new to us at the Fair, or rather, not much we hadn’t tried. Preserving food, growing pigs, heating with wood, making compost – old hat. Spinning wool, making cheese, home birth – been there. Just like our marriage, comfortable and predictable, and just intriguing enough.

So I’m thinking a lot about the Fair this year, the first without Wally, without his warm hand to hold, the head tilted down to hear my comment about this or that familiar exhibitor, deciding what special thing to bring home from the Fair.

The day children claim to dread, the day parents long for is at hand; tomorrow, Tuesday, Sept. 5, the yellow buses will once again roll around town, picking up children – back packs, lunches and all. This is the day parents are out with cameras or phones to record another milestone in their children’s lives. 

From the relative calmness of a grandmother’s perspective I’ve seen both sides: heard the confession of a granddaughter admitting she’s looking forward to the day; summer has been getting a little draggy, a bit boring lately, she says. And even a mom wishes she had a few more formless days to spend with her children before they plunge into the whirl of school days, sports, and afterschool activities.

The community is invited to Visitors’ Sunday, Sept. 10. The service begins at 9:30 and will be conducted by Reverend Richard Hanks who is serving as the Bridge Minister while the congregations is in the process of selecting a settled minister. 

The church, which is located at 18 Searsmont Road/Route 173, in Lincolnville Center, is affiliated with the United Church of Christ and supports the UCC statement: "No matter who you are, or where you are on life's journey, you're welcome here...to explore your faith, to meet new people and strengthen your personal relationship with God."

The 1821 meetinghouse, home of the UCC, has the original boxed pews, balcony, upper pulpit, and old glass windows, a real treasure; it’s listed on the Registry of Historic Places, yet is fully handicapped accessible. Music is an important part of the worship service, and the congregation enjoys singing both contemporary and old time hymns. Connie Parker is the principal organist. Guest musicians often play for special events and at regular Sunday worship.

Following Sunday’s service there will be a coffee hour held in the Community Building. The church has substantially renovated the Community Building since accepting ownership as stipulated in the deed when the town built the new school and had no use for the building. All are welcome. For more information call 763-3800.

Old-timers’ Luncheon

Monday, Sept. 11, the Old-timers will gather to have lunch together at the Lobster Pound as they’ve done in the spring and fall for many years now. Who are these “old-timers”? Well, pretty much anyone who lives in Lincolnville, or grew up here, and/or considers themselves part of the community. Do you have to be born here? Have lived here for years and years? No, not really. If you’d like to come and didn’t receive an invitation (which are sent to last year’s participants) come along anyway. People start to gather at 11:30; lunch starts at noon.

Healthy Beaches

Every Monday morning throughout the summer Lincolnville residents Richard Glock and Bob Olson wade out into the Bay at Lincolnville Beach to take samples of the water for Maine Healthy Beaches, a program that ensures Maine’s salt-water beaches are clean. The samples are tested at the UM Cooperative Extension office in Waldoboro. See tips for how beach-goers can keep the water clean here. If the results show too high a bacteria count the green Healthy Beaches sign is changed to red, warning swimmers to stay out of the water. Bob and Richard have taken their samples every week Memorial Day through Labor Day. Thanks to both!

An LBB Sampler

Here are a few examples of what makes the Lincolnville Bulletin Board fun to read:

 “My grandmother has a very large crab apple tree that is ready to harvest! Hundreds of crab apples! If you're interested in picking some, send me an email!”

“I'm finally facing the fact that I never, never will use my mother's china and silverplate.  (See picture of both.)  Is there someone who would love it and give it a good home?  Make an offer, it will go to the Red Cross for hurricane relief.”

 “Our son is staying at our camp on Coleman Pond. A runaway red canoe showed up right next to our camp. We are located ... off Slab City Road.”