For that thou dost feed us
I voluntarily submitted myself to being hauled around 11 gardens in Rockland in the blazing heat on Saturday, part of a fundraiser for the public library. One thing stands out, a valuable discovery among the ordinary flora of this fine city, a species of lily called Bela Lugosi lurking secretively in the tiny yard in front of The Old Granite Inn.
Will definitely have to plant some of those up here on the roof of the southern grain tower, next to my collection of antique European spider webs. Perhaps in those black urns I mentioned the other week. If they truly live up to their name, these Lugosi flowers will bloom after nightfall on All Hallows Eve.
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I erred in referring to the green football stuck in traffic lights by the rec center, the other week. After wintering (and springing?) in that elevated spot it is now gone, perhaps never to be mentioned again.
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Speaking of being human, it is difficult when one has grown up in a semi-Asberger’s condition to know when it is acceptable to mention to other people that they are being way too loud. The degree of social ineptness that has given me such difficulties over the years makes it hard to know when I am at risk of crossing the line in these matters.
For example, a couple of Saturday nights ago I was wrenched from my sleep by a howling and hooting from across the harbor that had nothing to do with wolves or whales, but rather the highly lubricated electronically enhanced nocturnal caterwauling of fellow human beings giving themselves up to the moon at a certain drinking house.
This is not the first time my sleep up here has been prevented by such untimely public howling. Last summer what appeared to be a wedding party at a certain South End eating establishment produced enough noise to trouble the dead. I can testify to this.
Does one summon the forces of law (and what passes for order) under these trying circumstances, or simply wish them all the worst luck in the world?
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Driving my dented hearse down to breakfast on Sunday morning, I was asked to collect a surplus Banana Cream Pie from my passenger’s house after having eaten my poached eggs. How, I asked myself, was I going to remember to do this?
My normal tactic under these circumstances is to quickly think up an abbreviated picture or idea to attach to the task, to help me remember it. In this case I chose the initial letters of said pie, BCP, and committed them to that special place in my poor head where such things are stored. This was a mistake, for all through breakfast I found myself reflecting on the Book of Common Prayer instead.
Certainly this book contains some lovely stuff, especially Rite One which includes such transcendently beautiful post-Eucharistic words as “…we most heartily thank thee for that thou dost feed us in these holy mysteries…” For that thou dost feed us. Is it any wonder such things overwhelmed my attempt to remember to pick up a simple piece of pie?
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Talking of eating, on Friday last I attempted to eat my lunch on the granite benches overlooking the harbor and breakwater at the foot of Samoset Road. ‘Twas not to be, for over 100 cars were lined up like patient steel horses side by side along the street, filling almost all of it, and people dressed for tourism were milling about in quantities.
So I ended up parking the hearse in the shade of a broad chestnut tree at the cemetery opposite the hotel entrance, and I ate my lunch with the peaceful dead. They are so much less troublesome anyway, and seemed happy to have me there. In exchange for their pleasant company I placed one of their flags in a better place, so that it did not lie on the grass any more but stood upright beside the veteran named Brown who was buried beneath.
(The flags they sell to decorate graves these days do not always seem to fit the old flag holders.)
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I saw Democrats but no Republicans at the midway in Thomaston, early in the afternoon on the Fourth. Had the Rs simply abandoned the field in order to regroup and return in waves? Or had the Ds carried the day? I know not how things played out politically during the parade, as I have not attended for years. As someone greater than I said a long time ago, nobody goes there any more. It’s too crowded.
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The other Sunday, much in the same vague way I found myself visiting 11 gardens this week, I found myself in a summer camp building on a tiny island in the middle of Damariscotta Lake. On the shelf in the kitchen above the cast iron water pump was an old jug with a stopper in it, containing the ashes of generations of the island’s owners, and labeled with the relevant dates and names. What a simple arrangement.
(By the way, Fabulous Bob forgot to bring the hot dogs, and we were obliged to telephone to Camden for them. By the time they were delivered, Phil had burned the sausages to a carbonized ruin. There were more power boats, party boats, cruisers, cigarette boats, jet craft and even floatplanes on the lake that afternoon than you could imagine, each with its own roaring engine and crashing wake. It would have been far quieter, and much easier to get hot dogs, if I had stayed up here in the South End, in the west grain tower.)
David Grima is a former editor with Courier Publications. He can be reached at email@example.com, but not when he is trying to sleep.