As a child I ate canned peas; I guess everyone did unless they had a garden. Even when we did, my dad grew mainly tomatoes and corn, maybe cucumbers and lettuce. Nobody I knew bothered with peas or potatoes. Potatoes were cheap – why grow your own? And peas were just too much trouble.

So we ate the dreaded canned peas; I hear people speak of them with the same disdain they use for fruitcake. I keep quiet, for I loved them both.  But, to be honest I haven’t tasted a canned pea in years and years; ever since frozen vegetables came in – the 50s maybe? – canned peas disappeared from my mother’s shopping list, and so from mine.

Not long after becoming an adult, that is, in charge of my own household, I became a gardener and started growing peas. They were right: peas are a lot of work. Every phase of pea-growing is tedious. They need a fence to climb and cool weather to grow. They’re hard to pick, hiding deep within the tangle of vines that cover that fence, and then you’ve got to shell them. A day’s picking can take an hour to shell. You might end up with a bowlful, a few cups to freeze or to watch your family devour in a couple of meals.

Peas, it turns out, are the pivotal point in a Maine gardener’s life. “Got your peas in yet?” says the neighbor up the road, and the frost isn’t even out of the ground.

One year Lyford Beveridge, our mailman, told me he’d put some peas in the previous fall and up they came in April. Wonder if he was messing with the new folks on his route. Having peas on the table for the Fourth of July is still a point of pride for many. I’ve only met that test one year, but then I always blame our always-later-than-the-neighbors garden on our spotty sunshine here in the middle of the forest.

We had a pretty good pea year this summer, though it’s never as good as I want. There’s an issue with the random nature of commercial pea seed that’s been going on for years: a packet of seeds isn’t consistent. Other gardeners say the same thing. My favorite variety, Green Arrow, is hard to find, and even it can’t be counted on to be true to itself.

And then there’s the sun thing. You plant peas in a double row on either side of whatever you use for pea fence (another issue for another day). That gives you two nicely spaced rows of those tangly vines, making picking marginally easier. But, in this, my 47thyear of growing peas, I learned something new. I noticed that all the plants end up on one side of the fence. The ones on the nether side quickly figure out life is better on the sunny side and sneak through the wire mesh of the fence to join in the fun. It’s a mess where the sun shines, double the number of vines. But this year I’d planted a second pea bed running in a perpendicular direction to the main rows, and everybody in this bed stayed on their own side of the fence. East-west meant sun on both sides all day, north-south, not so much. Hmmmmm.

Growing, picking and shelling peas is only the beginning. That part I could handle. No, got to be honest here, I always figured out the fence and planted the peas, Wally did all the weeding and picking, and we both shelled. Then days and weeks would go by while the vines turned brown along with the pods we’d missed, until the peas inside rattled drily in the hot summer breeze. “When are you going to take down the pea fence?” he’d say nearly every day, irritation creeping into his voice. He invariably reminded me that peas were my thing: he firmly believed they were too much trouble. If I wanted peas, yes he’d help, but only to a point. In the end, if I stalled long enough, one day he’d clean up the whole mess, drag the vines out into a pile and toss the chicken wire to the side, a bit passive aggressive, I thought. Oh, the games we played.

So here I am this summer.  As the last (wo)man standing, I guess you could say I’ve won the game, though it doesn’t feel like victory. The messy, moldy row of vines is mine to clean up; he’s not going to rescue me this time. The morning was foggy and cool, though the soil was bone dry. Typical of peas – they mess with you at every stage of their lives – some of the vines were still growing, putting out blossoms, forming tiny pods; should I leave them in another week? Could it be a sign of growth in myself, of change certainly, that with no one left to clean up after me, I began methodically pulling up vines, stripping them of any remaining pods and piling them into the wheelbarrow?

With nothing but time looming ahead each day, I’m finally enjoying the work, every phase of it. The feeling of urgency, to rush through a chore, to get the next thing done, is melting away. With only myself to answer to, with so many of life’s obligations behind me – growing old isn’t all bad – work, tasks become a pleasure. My fingers feel each pod; some are smooth, moist, fragrant like a baby’s skin. Those peas will be sweet. Some feel pebbley, thick. The peas inside will be starchy. Then there are the pods that have turned translucent, every pea visible through the thin skin, like the back of my own hands, bones and veins revealed. The rest have dried to crispness; their peas will make good soup.

An afternoon at a friend’s camp this past week-end was truly a glimpse into the past. There were three of his adult children along with one of mine, plus their spouses and their collective eleven offspring. Missing were our spouses, his and mine. Life has a way of adding and subtracting.

So. Eleven young children between 2 and 12, in and out of the water, running precariously down the wet dock, leaping into the water, yelling, laughing, splashing. Fishing poles were introduced at, we hoped, a safe distance from those tender young bodies, bobbing and ducking in the water, the only casualty suffered when one of the dads was hooked in the ankle by an errant cast.  He put up a pretty brave front, working the barb out with a pair of pliers. All agreed, better him than one of the youngsters.

We mark the days of summer here in Lincolnville by our annual events: Strawberry Festival, Lincolnville Band concerts, Library Picnic and Auction, Family Block Party, and now, coming up this Saturday, the Blueberry Wingding. Isn’t it nice to live in a place with two events centered on when the fresh berries come in??

The LIA (L’ville Improvement Association) has held its Blueberry Wingding on the second Saturday in August for the past several years.  A blueberry pancake breakfast is served at Rick McLaughlin’s Lobster Shack on Ferry Road at the Beach from 7:00-10:30 a.m., while outside all sorts of blueberry goodies are for sale. Breakfast for adults is $9 at the door, or $8 if you call Lee Cronin, 236-0028 before Saturday. Children are $5 at the door, $4 in advance.

The highlight of the morning is the drawing for seven gift certificates to local businesses:

Lobster Pound: $100 g.c.

Copper Pine: 2 $25 g.c.s

Inn at Ocean’s Edge: 1 night

Chez Michel: $50 g.c.

Whales Tooth Pub: $50 g.c.

Youngtown Inn: $50 g.c.

Bay Leaf Cottages and Bistro: 1 night and breakfast

This recent NY Times article about Freedom’s Lost Kitchen restaurant mentions Lincolnville ceramicist Meghan Flynn. Check it out.

Frankenstein Tryouts

Summer will soon be over; if you’re looking for something fun to do this fall, how about acting in a play? “Midcoast Actors' Studio will hold auditions for Frankenstein, a new adaptation of Mary Shelley's classic penned by director Erik Perkins, on Thursday, August 17 from 6:00-9:00 p.m. at Troy Howard Middle School, 173 Lincolnville Ave. Belfast. Auditions will consist of cold readings from the script. There are many roles available for men, women and children. Performances will run October 20-29 at the Crosby Center in Belfast. For more information please email midcoastactors@gmail.com or call 370-7592.”