Dear Readers:

Forgive me if you’ve heard this Christmas story before; I’m a shameless recycler of everything old, including my own writing. Maybe I read this at one of the Library Christmas programs. I don’t find it in my old Pilot articles. But, with a few changes, here it is as I found it, tucked away in the back of my computer:

The Headless Peacock

The headless peacock is once again securely clipped to a branch of our Christmas tree as it’s been for every year as far back as I can remember.  It’s an old glass ornament with little springs for legs attached to a tiny clamp; I have only the haziest memory of what its head looked like or when it was lost. Our kids were always puzzled by such tender handling of this fragile remnant of my childhood. Why did I insist on putting a broken ornament on our tree?

It joins the glass balls grown colorless with age, their glittering surface long since chipped off, a frayed yarn angel, and a tiny mirror painted with the manger scene. “Those are 100 years old,” I tell our grandchildren, “They were your great-grandfather’s when he was a little boy.” I pick up another broken ornament, a silver and purple spire that topped our tree when I was a child, set it gently back in the box. Only my father was tall enough to put it in place each year. I wonder what “great-grandfather” means to these children, or if they have any concept of 100 years ago. Lately, I have to concentrate to “hear” my father’s voice; I used to think I’d never forget.

Our tree ornaments are a family history of sorts – the bread dough ornament with “Andy 1985” written on the back, has become so moldy it no longer leaves the box; the several teacher-themed ornaments, some engraved with my husband’s name, were gifts of long-since grown up students; the handmade, sequined angel that accompanied my uncle’s annual gift of a Readers Digest subscription. And then there are the elaborate, but somehow uneven, beaded Styrofoam balls my mother made in her later life, their clumsy construction revealing her failing faculties. They make me uneasy, even as I hang on to them year after year.

Christmas, for those of us who grew up celebrating it, is a touchstone thick with layers of meaning. Here in Lincolnville we start the season singing carols around an improbably huge and roaring bonfire, built on the Beach on an always blustery December night. My child-aged self started the season singing those very same carols – all verses, and by heart – under the direction of my grammar school’s music teacher, Miss Margaret Davenport. The words I learned so thoroughly as a little girl bring me to tears at least once a season. In the crowded church on Christmas Eve, the same carols are sung with such precision that I’m pretty certain most everyone else in Lincolnville had a Miss Davenport in their background.

Then there’s Christmas food. A couple of weeks ago our son Ed asked on his FB page for menu suggestions. His family couldn’t attend the party at the L.I.A. after the bonfire, and Ed was planning a little party for the five of them at home.

Over 25 people responded to that post. Here they are, all together, stream-of-consciousness of childhood memories: “those prezeley things w/christmas m&ms squished into slightly melted Hershey kisses, deviled eggs, ham, mince meat pie, pillsbury rolls, Pimento cheese!! Or those cheese balls covered in chopped nuts. And those buttery crackers!!! My grandmother bought the ones with the elf on the box. You'll love it. Don't forget the mallomars and ribbon candy; Pigs in a blanket, stuffed dates, angel food cake, s'mores, gingersnaps, Waldorf salad, macaroni-bologna salad, Welsh Rarebit! Or pear and grape salad (upside down canned pear half, covered with cream cheese & mayo mixture and topped with grape halves, sitting on a bed of lettuce...looks like a bunch of grapes; And the jello salad right?! I loved that when I was little; How about fruit ambrosia or as recipe calls it Five Cup Salad with mini marshmallows etc; Homemade fudge (the kind with fluff in it -- yumm! - tiny little sandwiches (ham salad and egg salad I am sure - whole nuts that you have to crack - and in Nebraska we had molded lime salad with shredded cabbage and carrots and celery and that salad with mandarin oranges, whipped cream and some other stuff I can't think of ... and then hot cocoa with tiny marshmallows with cookies to top it all off. Doesn't sound very appetizing today but boy did we love it then.”

When did it become conventional wisdom that fruitcake is horrible? Christmas is summed up for me in one food: my mother’s fruitcake. I treasure the recipe card written with a red pen in her faint, tiny script. Like most of the recipes she wrote out for me early in my marriage, it’s missing a few crucial steps or ingredients. I like to think she left them out assuming I’d know.

I’ve made her fruitcake every Christmas for 46 years. I should have kept a record of all the changes I’ve made to that original, battered little card. In my early, earthy years I used whole wheat flour, molasses instead of sugar, and dark raisins instead of golden, then baked it for hours in the woodstove oven. Bit by bit I returned to her recipe, until today the only thing I change is adding walnuts along with the fruit.

 This Christmas Tom, an old Lincolnville friend of ours, is baking my mother’s fruitcake out in Seattle, with the addition of some booze: He writes: “I used a lobster pick to poke holes into the cake. I placed the holes about ½ “ from the end and about 1/2 ” from the side. Then I made a diamond shape along the top of the cake. This resulted in holes about 2” apart along each long side with a third row down the middle to make sort of an “X” pattern. I filled a shot class with Brandy and then used my turkey baster. I was able to squirt a little bit into each hole with some puddling up as well. It took the full shot to fill all the holes. I wonder if you could use the coffee stirrers that are hollow? I will let them sit for a week and repeat the process. That will be all the moisture they will get. On the first cake, I was too vigorous with my poking. I went completely through the cake so there was a bit of wasted Brandy on the counter top. The second cake I stopped before getting all the way through. I used a little bit less Brandy. Probably because the holes did not let any of it get onto the counter top. I sipped the remainder. I much prefer Wild Turkey.”

 People take their Christmas food really seriously.

 So we come to Christmas morning. How lucky you are if you have little ones in the house! Ours, of course, all grew up a couple of decades ago, yet Wally and I easily conjure up the shades of three little boys, bouncing up and down at the top of the stairs, waiting for the okay to come down. That was after we built the fires, made the coffee and milked the cow, so you know they were really, really wound up.

 All of us have childhood Christmas morning memories of our own. Mine include my shadow, the inhabitant of the room next to mine, my little brother Bill. We hung our stockings together Christmas Eve, then went to bed full of excitement, me cuddled up with my Nanny who along with our grandfather “Da” had made the trip up on the El from the Southside to spend Christmas with us. Da slept in Bill’s room when they visited, and Nanny with me.

 I wish I could re-create those Christmas mornings with my brother. I see us creeping down the stairs to find the wonder of the tree. I think our parents put it up after we’d gone to bed, but there’s no one left to ask now. I remember the electric train Christmas, a sound like running water reaching us upstairs in our rooms, then finding that magical little train going around and around the tree. I wonder what Bill remembered about those mornings. I never asked.

 But when our boys were little, my brother had a lot to do with Christmas morning. I hesitate to say we were poor, for we really weren’t. We just didn’t have much money. Everybody wore hand-me-downs, and the toys were all second-hand as well. Bill would arrive a day or two before Christmas Eve, making his way up the Eastern Seaboard through December’s bad weather, delayed flights, and terrible roads. Our parents were living in Camden by that time, so if Bill was to have Christmas with family it had to be on my terms – in Maine!

 He came carrying all sorts of bulky toys – mostly Fisher-Price set-ups: the Farm, the Parking Garage, the Airport, the only new toys the boys ever had. One year Ed decided all he wanted for Christmas was the Exploding Bat Bridge. He must have seen it in the Sears Catalog, but nobody around here had any idea what it was. Bill to the rescue; he found it in a DC toy store and carried it to Maine, Santa-like.

 Christmas evolves, each year building on the one before. When we were little the excitement was almost unbearable as the big day approached, the day after, a let-down. As a young mother I was shocked at how much work it was to recreate the Christmas my mother had put together. All that baking, shopping, cleaning, decorating. Some years I was too exhausted to even enjoy it. The day after was a relief.

 This is my 72nd Christmas, and I love everything about it – the baking, the decorating, the gathering of family, but best of all, the remembering. My memories are mostly good. I hope yours are too.

This Tuesday, December 13, is needlework time again at the Lincolnville Community Library. Everyone is welcome to come between 4 and 6 p.m. to work on a knitting, sewing or other handwork project. This is a great time to come to the library to chat, share projects and relax with friends.  Plus there is always someone happy to help. 

 Then, this Saturday Dec. 17, 10 a.m. to noon, Julie Turkevich will be at the Library showing children and their parents how to make holiday snow globes. All the necessary materials will be provided, but participants may bring photos of themselves, a loved one or a pet to personalize the globes. Photos should be no larger than 2 inches wide and 3 inches tall. There will also be plenty of paper, ribbon and decorations for making gift tags and ornaments for the season as well. Like all of Julie’s Saturday morning craft projects, there’s no charge. For more information, call 763-4343 or email.

One day last week Coral Coombs took her fourth grade class to Breezemere Park via the trail that leads through the woods to the school. With Rosey Gerry as a guide the students found the Fletcher Sweet apple tree planted there in memory of Clarence Thurlow. As part of their study of apples they were learning about Lincolnville’s unique variety, discovered around 1810. A farmer named Jonathon Fletcher first recognized he had a good-tasting apple growing on his land and naturally named it for himself. The children were surprised to learn that if you plant an apple seed you don’t get a tree that bears the same apple as you planted. To do that you must graft a live branch or scion onto another tree to carry on the specific variety.

 Since we have two granddaughters on the school basketball team Wally and I went to a recent home game; sitting on bleachers watching middle school sports brought back all sorts of memories. Although the other team, Hope as it happens, had a significant height advantage and kept a huge lead throughout the game, the Lynx girls never let up, playing with energy and everything they had until the final buzzer sounded. We were proud of them all.

 This Friday, Dec. 16 is the PTO’s movie night at LCS, a Christmas movie marathon, in fact. Kids are reminded to bring their sleeping bags and pillow, and wear PJs, so they can settle in and watch Frosty the Snowman, Charlie Brown Christmas, and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I’m jealous; we never had “movie night” back in the day.

There were three obituaries for Lincolnville people this past week. First, Michael Cardner, who lived with his brother Tony on Heal Road for many years. His mother, Carmella, cared for both her sons, who were handicapped throughout their lives, until her death. Many knew Mike as the young man who loved to wash the windows of Camden’s Main Street shops.

Avis Rainfrette, longtime Lincolnville resident, ran the popular Patchwork Barn on Beach Road for many years; that’s how I knew her.

And Audrey Post lived at the Beach several years ago with her husband Ollie Post. I always enjoyed running into her in later years, such a nice woman.

As always in our small town, hearing of the the death of one of us affects us all. Chances are we knew him/her personally, or at least knew who the person was. I’m sure we all pause for a moment to silently offer our sympathy to the loved ones who are grieving.

LBB Pick of the Week

An errant Muscovy duck kept the Lincolnville Bulletin Board humming for a few days. It all started like this:

“Hi all,  I came down Youngtown Road this morning early and there was a Muscovy duck sitting right on the side of the road in front by the Inn… He was still there tonight when I came home..has someone lost him??”

“If I were the Inn, I'd invite him in for some really good food.... And let him curl up by the fire in the bar”

“He could invite friends for Turducken!”

 “He lives next door to the inn.”

 “He needs Clancy the Policeman( ie McClosky's Make Way For Duckings ) to help him cross the street.”

“It appears he just bought the big one and may not be down for breakfast...!”

“When I went by he was in the road but moving towards the yard. He is the pet of the persons who live next to the inn. I imagine if he is dead it isn't a joking matter to them.”

“if they gave a hoot about the duck it would not have been in the road and in situation under the truck in which it found itself. So much for breakfast” [in fairness to Muscovy duck owners everywhere, these guys have a mind of their own – very hard to keep home]

“Now I feel really badly,  I wish I had just followed my gut and picked him up off the road...”

“I have just heard that he is ok and well! thank goodness!”

The end of the story, what one person called “the Saga of Daddy Duck”, came when he appeared on Facebook, happily settled in with Elderflower Farms’ hens. Evidently his demise on the road was fictional, and it was his owner who delivered him to the safety of his new home.

Addendum or what actually happened to the duck:

As soon as this story went up I had a call from a Youngtown fellow who filled in the details between “duck dead under a truck” to “living happily ever after at Elderflower Farm”, a real flaw in the LBB saga. This guy was heading out for some sand for his driveway the other afternoon when he spotted a large white bird – he thought “osprey” or “sea gull” – flying up from the field behind the Youngtown Inn. It flew across the road, but couldn’t maintain altitude enough to clear the trees, made a U-turn and descended rapidly, right into the grill of the guy’s truck. “I want to make it clear,” he said. “The duck hit my truck; I didn’t hit the duck.” The guy stopped and the bird ended up under the truck. It appeared bloody about the head, severely injured, though alive. Then along came the state police who put on his blue lights and got out to investigate. Everyone stood around trying to decide what to do about the duck while maybe 40 cars came by (it was quitting time and everyone was heading home). Here’s where our LBB poster must have seen the apparently dead duck. Eventually the bird’s owner came along and tried to pick it up. Instead, Mr. Muscovy Duck stood up and headed back into the field, none the worse for his adventure. That’s when someone in the crowd must have suggested that Briar Lyons might take the duck, well away from traffic. Oh, and that bloody head? That’s just Muscovy decorations, something like turkey wattles.