Spunkerfly : July 2014

Lean on me;/

Darling Be Home Soon- Joe Cocker Cover 1969
Cathedral- Crosby, Stills & Nash
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Kennebunkport, Me. July's end 2014

I love Maine. My brother lived here for years- some years ago. He gave me this term. You ready? People who love Maine are...wait for it...Maineyiacs! Elbow, elbow. Hey it's summer-you must have some corn! I am a Maineyiac. We have been here for a month with one week to go and I am sad beyond words to leave. Seriously, if I weren't a person who hates long bouts of bitter cold, I could live here for sure. The music, the people, the food, the vistas, the people, the people. Yet, it is cold. As it is in New York, I start to bottom out by the end of March, by April I'm done for. I have PTSD. Post Traumatic Snow Disorder. The climate isn't all that different in Maine, and the people so wonderful, I would do it. Yet, I've been watching myself for years. That last stretch of about 4 more weeks of winter Maine maintains while NY thaws, would make me light myself on fire and toss my own ashes.* I will remain, God willing, a 'summer person.' That's what they call us. Summer people. Amongst other things. Ha, here's one. On the beach one day this charming lady from Canada, told me a kid from Massachusetts insulted her son. Her son asked him to build a sandcastle and the child said, "No, thank you." "Can you imagine? Who says that?!" I hated to admit that my oldest says it to anyone who comes within in twenty feet of him for any reason. Yet, I agreed with the Canadian woman, of course it's perculiar, but arent we raising peculiar? Anyway, I was proud that my son wasn't afraid of boundaries and said thank you. So I found this to be a rather small gripe. Well, small for me, it got her miffed. She put her hand up to her face-shielding her mouth so that only I could hear, "...that's why they call them Massholes." Haha. I couldn't believe it, I'd never heard anything like that. I didn't agree, but I am fond of word play. How great. "Is that right?" I asked. "Oh, you can bet ay, big Massholes."

Everyday, except for the two times we had visitors and it poured (that put an end to having visitors;) it's been a beautiful Maine day. Sunny, hot, breezy, with cool nights, breathtaking sunsets, flying bugs the size of small planes-yikes and oh, I almost forgot, ticks. I pulled one, like a hysteric out of my ankle while shaving, bad move. Then one from my ear, while driving. One from Henry's ear, a nymph. That's another sorta problem. Nothing, anywhere with anybody comes without a trade-off.

I've never seen so many cemeteries. Along with the staggering beauty of the homes dated 1810, 1709, 1645. I was struck by the amount of cemeteries. Everywhere you look there's another headstone with a persons name on it; in front yards, side streets, hiking trails. Each with an attribution rubbed out over time, (naturally, because it doesn't seem like anyone has died here since 1904?) less the words, 'DIED' 'Blessed God' and a date somewhere between 1535 and 1848.

Being a horrible person, I did briefly wonder if they weren't all legitimately from that era. Was it possible that some people found a family member had flat-lined and asked, "So, where should we bury Dad?" Hmm, here's good." (Son, picks his eye tooth and points to a spot near the end of their property line.) "Pick up a solid stone rectangle-scratch 1842 into it, no one'll know the difference." Then Pops is buried toe-up in the front yard looking like a piece of Americana when really he's circa 2013. It was just a thought. Relax. I quickly realized I was savagely irreverent. Bad, bad Sue-sue.

Listen, burials aren't cheap and they sure do add to the history of a place.

That said...when it's my time? *Incinerate my person and spread my ashes out over the NoPa. If you don't know what NoPa is, it's not your job, so don't bother trying to figure it out. Simply no burials for me. Property lines change. Nobody's going to build a road around this gals tombstone- so keep your money in your wallet family- or spend it on a flight to NoCal and cast me asunder.*

Short break for my WILL AND TESTAMENT-If indeed cash becomes too tight for flight- I might not mind (my dead self might not mind) being scattered in the ocean by Ogunquit, Me or Fortunes Rocks, Me. Which is remarkably similar to parts of the craggy Northern California coast and where I am spending the summer with my family now as we did two years ago. Kennebunkport, Goose Rocks Beach, Gooch's, Cape Porpoise, Kennebunk, Portland. Southern Maine. It is heaven. Heaven with a lot of cemeteries. My mind has changed from thinking of them as spooky to ubiquitous and as regular as living. To live is to die. It's so much more personal and intimate to have the plots on your property. It shows lineage and pride. As well, the plots make a fine juxtaposition amidst the salt of the earth Mainers I've encountered whom I've found royal at the art of living. They are lobster men, they are gentiles, they are kayaking, praying, painting, writing, gardening, crafting, creating, communicating, building, biking, fishing, harvesting, eating well, surviving long cold winters that blossom into stunning summers. They are living abutted to those that have earned their mortality by doing the same- generation by generation.

History is shouting out. Sometimes quite sadly. Upon closer inspection, I've too often found a headstone with the date etched stating the departed didn't live past 23 or worse that they died before they had the chance to lose their first baby tooth. What our forefathers did to get us here...how they endured spending an entire day churning butter had me staggering. Losing a child? Children? How can I not be flooded with reverence? What holy grace. My favorite cemetery, (there's a sentence I never thought I'd hear myself say), is the Hutchins Familys' on Arundel Rd, in Kennebunkport. Strictly fascinated by that family. It seems they were hit hard in 1840 and 1848. They lost, from what I gleaned four children, one 3yrs and 3mos. My six year old pointed it out and added, "Hey, that's how old Henry is!" Our youngest is 3yrs and 3mos. I looked at him differently. I wanted to know how those parents endured, what caused all of those deaths? What saved them? My research has come up empty. Many old families have donated tons of acreage to preserve the land by creating The Conservation Trust. It's a fabulous testament to their character. I met a woman on a trolley ride who had not a tooth in her head but was proud that her great-granddaddy donated all of their inheritance to the people living and visiting "Vacationland." I had to look away. Does it get any less selfish? I would pick my having teeth over the masses enjoying great-granddaddy's backyard any day, and twice on Sundays. I'll work on that.

Goose Rocks Beach

I went for a run yesterday morning. "Run" may give you the wrong idea. I'm more a dancer, walker, spinner with some running mixed in than a straight-up runner. I'm like Billy Elliot out there. (Currently playing at the Ogunquit Playhouse.) Likely, I looks insane. But who's on the road? Not many. Mostly me. And other Maine-iacs. I put on my playlist, (this morning was Songza's 90's work out jam...who had it better than us coming up in the 90's. Awesomely bad, "uhuhuhuhuhuh Let me clear my throat!") and hve the time of my life. People are so friendly. Everyone smiles and waves. It's pristine. I like the country. I never want to leave.

The Sugar Shack
"Like a kid in a candy store"

However, Portland is no slouch. What a fabulous city. Aside from the great museum and that it's on the water. It's like hipsters on steroids. So much cool. The Freedom Farm where we are staying, I will dedicate an entire post to. Suffice it to say, it came with a turntable. Portland has a great little shop, Strange Maine, (pictured below), where I picked up some epic LP's everything from Lovin' Spoonful to RunDMC. There were two guys outside talking about astrology, hello!? Speaking my language much? Later, we stopped at Two Fat Cats Bakery, cause my oldest is a sugar addict, and we enablers. The guys in there were too cute for words. So young, with requisite beards, they created all these delicious fresh baked yummies made with locally sourced ingredients. Turns out their Woopie Pies were voted best in the country or something. I'm not huge on sweets, I've never actually had a Woopie pie, but I had one that day. Yes. And more yes. Award them.

"This reminds me so much of Brooklyn," I said to the cashier. He looked to be about 30 with his heavy beard, but was probably closer to 22. He also looked 5'2"/180lbs with his heavy beard but was probably closer to 5'8" and 135lbs.

"Oh, yea," he smiled, his voice was kind and groovy. "It's kinda similar with the locally sourced

Gettya LP's on

ingredients and all."

"They're shaving their beards in Brooklyn," I whispered. "Just.. noticing that. Was there recently."

"Oh, really?" he laughed, stroking his massive reddish face-fur, "thanks for the heads up."

"Yea, I think you've got like 4 months max left with that," I said quietly with a wink that said he would thank me later.

"So, will it be just the Woopie pies and the brownie?" he asked, laughing.

Haha. We have fun. I'm glad he didn't give me any advice. :D *I don't want to know what they call people from New York. Actually, yes I do! I hope it's just as hilarious.

Oh! Another thing, well there are so many more things, but everyone has an American Flag. Ours is rolled up on it's side in the garage on Long Island getting all kinds of filthy. With the amount of history and country pride, one, (this one) could feel like a gosh darn commie. What a disgrace. Here, in patriotic Southern Maine, Old Glory is out and about. She's hanging off of cars, mailboxes, trucks, garages, barns, boats, lit up on poles...and of course marking too many a headstone in those beautiful, sacred cemeteries.