“Trying to decide between vacuuming and weeding,” I mused in a text to my LAT friend.

“Certainly there must be a third option,” he replied.

“Sure….suggest one.”

“No way.”

A brief aside: if this conversation sounds like any couple, chatting about their day over the breakfast table it is, the modern version via text message. LATs, couples living apart together, by definition dwell in separate houses. Communication may be just as frequent as a traditional couple, but often it’s at a distance. No bickering over who’s doing the dishes or taking out the trash, no disputes over dirty laundry dropped on the floor or who’s turn it is to take out the dog.

I do things my way in my house, he does his in his. Maybe he’d choose to vacuum up the drifts of dog hair that have collected in every corner if this were his house; maybe I’d move the chain saw out of the front hall if his house were mine.

Because I was under no pressure to vacuum, I did exactly as I pleased and happily spent the morning out in our garden, on my knees pulling weeds.

Our garden – the pronoun is important here.

Another aside.

From the moment I stood up and moved away from my husband Wally’s death bed “we” changed to “I”, “ours” to “mine”. Literally, that moment. At the time I didn’t understand why I was so quick to claim ownership of everything that had been ours. In fact it’s never been about ownership, but rather it was a term of acceptance – of his death. Of the finality of what had just happened. And I’ve barely wavered in the two and a half years since that moment, unless it’s to acknowledge paternity. Our sons still feels right.

But the garden belongs to my upstairs family – son Ed, D-I-L Tracee, and three kids – and me. Although Wally and I had a garden in the same spot for over 40 years, in the seasons since he last dug a potato out there, which he did the last summer when he was sick, it has changed substantially.

That first spring Tracee and I built a series of concentric raised beds where Wally used to rototill for corn and potatoes. We used 12 foot long 2x12 rough-sawn, green hemlock boards (Viking delivers them) which we held upright with 2 foot lengths of rebar driven into the ground at either end. We dug down a few inches between the beds for paths, throwing the dirt into the new beds. The beds are 30” wide with the paths between them theoretically the width of the lawn mower.

It was all a muddy mess the first spring; we optimistically scattered grass seed in the paths, dreaming of thick green grass to walk on between the beds of vegetables. We filled some of the beds with twigs and branches and the dried up stalks of previous gardens with only a light veneer of soil on top. Hugelkultur they call it, with the woody plant matter acting as a sponge as it rots, holding moisture for the roots of the plants above.

The grass slowly filled in between the beds until this, the third year, it’s thick and luxuriant. Mowable, except that the mower barely fits in some places. Like most everything I’ve built over the years, there’s always an “except that….”. I’ve yet to build anything that works exactly as I planned. Still, good enough!

We have 23 beds of varying length, though most are about 20 feet long. I’ve finally learned to leave enough space between plants, so a single row of cabbages, broccoli, cauliflower and brussel sprouts fill two beds. The tomatoes, six on either side of a center wire fence take up an 18-foot bed, plenty of room to tie up their sprawling branches.

The biggest improvement this year has been the irrigation system we installed. Two beds of onions and one of carrots each have a doubled 50’ soaker hose laid out, with a row of plants on either side, four rows in total. The hoses are connected to a four-way hose splitter thing. Flick a switch to water each bed in turn. The water soaks right down to the roots. Next year we plan to split the incoming water supply in two and attach another four-way to run water to more beds.

Want to see how we did it? Stop by, Sleepy Hollow Rag Rugs, 217 Beach Road anytime there’s a vehicle parked out front. Someone’s home and will show you around.

The heart of the garden, though, has nothing to do with vegetables. That would be the long bed in the middle of our concentric beds, the ones you see from the road. Instead of hemlock boards this one’s framed with bricks, driven into the soil to form a zigzag raised border. Wally’s cousin Steve and wife Mig came over to help me, using old bricks Steve had saved from various jobs. In a couple of hours we had a long narrow planting bed laid out, waiting for the ashes we’d be scattering that Memorial Day.

Wally always said, “put me in the garden”, though sometimes “scatter me on the mountain”. Since the garden is at the foot of Frohock, the 453’ mountain that overlooks our house, the mountain he knew like his own hand, I think he’d be content with my decision.

This year it’s a satisfying tangle of large, ungainly plants like lovage, motherwort, Queen of the Prairie (the original of which he dug for me at an old cellar hole years ago), Bible leaf, yarrow, hollyhocks, tansy, and lots more that’s sneaked in there on its own.

Best of all, though, was coming home one day to a string of homemade prayer flags strung up on old cornstalks fluttering over the blue ceramic birdbath he’d given Tracee one year. Our 11-year-old granddaughter had been busy that day making flags with sayings like “Love you always Grandpa” and “Never forget you” and hanging them over his garden. Lucky Grandpa. Lucky me.

Blueberry Wingding

Summer must be winding down as we’ve moved past the Memorial Day Parade, Fourth of July Fireworks at the Beach, Strawberry Festival, Library Picnic and Auction to blueberry time.

Jane Hardy, LIA secretary, writes: “The annual Blueberry Wing Ding and Blueberry Pancake Breakfast by the Sea will be held at McLaughlin's Lobster Shack, Lincolnville Beach, 7-10:30 a.m. Your support of this event benefits scholarships for local graduating seniors and the Beach beautification flower projects of the Lincolnville Improvement Association. (LIA). There will be home baked blueberry pies, jams, and baked goods, a White Elephant’s table, and a raffle on 14 handsome prizes donated by local merchants and artists; drawing at 10:30 a.m. We hope to see you there!”

What better place to devour a plate of blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon or sausage, etc. than sitting on the seawall overlooking Lincolnville’s harbor!

Twenty Years Painting the Katahdin Landscape

Come to the library next Wednesday, August 7, at 7 p.m. to hear Lincolnville artist and business owner (Twin Brook Stretchers) Chris Polson talk about his hiking and painting experiences in around Baxter State Park. Chris will show stunning pictures of many of the locales—sites to which he had to hike with special gear—and pictures of the paintings associated with those adventures.  Please join us in our charming (air-conditioned) library for this very special program.

Youth Rally Night 

Crossroads Community Baptist Church is hosting a Youth Rally Night for grades 9-12 on Wednesday, August 7, 5:30-8:30 p.m. at Tranquility Grange, Belfast Road, about one mile north of the Center. Come for music, games, pizza and making new friends, getting together with old friends. For more information contact Britney Jackson, 763-3695 or Pam Grass, 322-3931. And bring a friend!

Pickleball

Remember, Introduction to Pickleball and Open Play is held Saturday mornings, 8-10 a.m. at the school tennis/pickleball courts. It’s free and equipment (paddles) is provided. For more information you can email

Good-bye to a Friend

When word got around that Bruce Bouldry, a Rockport boat builder, carpenter, and sailor was coming to the end after a recent cancer diagnosis the common room at Sussman House filled up with his friends and family. For three days those friends came and went, sat around the big table with Bruce at the head, remembering, laughing, and saying good-bye. Anyone who was there will cherish the memory of sharing this time with him.

Another aside. If, like me, you avoid the place, studiously looking straight ahead as you drive into the Penbay complex past the entrance to Sussman House, think again. I went there for the first time to see Bruce, full of mixed feelings about the purpose of a hospice facility – and quickly got over them. It’s not a scary place or grim in any way. Best of all was seeing how comfortable he was, secure that here he’d get the kind of care he needed. Bruce passed away peacefully at the end of those three days.