In My Little Town

After getting back to Maine this spring, it was hard working up the bile for a rant. This place can just exude calm, which happens to be the antonym of rant. Eventually politics and the economy were up to their old tricks and it was time to weigh in. But today, I want to offer a word or two about this great place my great-grandfather left England for, the State of Maine.

We live in a small village near a small town on the coast of midcoast Maine that sees a tourist trade for the high season from July 4 to Labor Day, and little after and before that. Summer can be (relatively) frantic as you pretty much make your money by Labor Day, or you move back in with Mom and Dad.

There are lots of small businesses, shops and restaurants, our own weekly newspaper and until recently our own King. King Brud, the hot dog guy, but I digress. The town has it’s traditions, including an International Rock Skipping Contest, a Windjammer celebration, 4th of July fireworks, lobster boat races and a raft of stuff that can make you miss this place with an actual ache when you have to go. There’s a reason Mainers still say, although it hasn’t been the official tourism tagline for years, “Maine. The way life should be.”

Just last weekend I had one of those Maine moments that make you realize we’re in a very special place. Last Spring, we set up a second raised bed garden across the road and added pickling cucumbers to it. By July, I had enough to make a dozen pints of dill refrigerator pickles and did. By September I had enough to make another dozen quarts and did.

By last weekend, I had about twenty huge cukes, actually two inches in diameter, and decided they were too big to pickle. My wife said why not put them in a big bowl out front with a sign that said “Free Cukes.” Occasionally passing the big steel bowl, I noticed the pile getting smaller as the day wore on. By morning there were only two left, and they disappeared quickly.

A young couple I'd never seen before was walking the peninsula and asked if the cucumbers were grown right here. They were, I told them. They said they’d eaten them with dinner and they were great.

“Do you like pickles?” I asked.

“Sure!” they came back.

I ran into the house and grabbed a recent vintage quart of dill slices.

“Take these, we have lots” I said,

With hearty thanks, they walked off with a jar of pickles wedged under an elbow. Hours later they drove by as we were throwing a cocktail party on the lawn and handed us a huge gorgeous bouquet of wildflowers they put together and drove off laughing.

When I showed my wife and told her what had happened, we both had the same response.

“Maine. The way life should be.”