Happy New Year, Lord Trumpleton!

By David Grima | Dec 28, 2019

I spent Christmas Eve with the Wise Man, the Lord Prez Reginald K. Trumpleton himself, who paid me a special visit in his presidential hang glider, Rudolph One, dressed in a Santa suit.

The glider landed like a silent night on top of the concrete towers at the foot of Mechanic Street, where I am forced to live. The Prez was in somber mood.

“Why doesn’t anyone like me?” the poor fellow asked, after I had offered him a cup of lukewarm cocoa.

“What do you mean nobody likes you?” I righteously demanded. “Look at all those people who attend your rallies all the time. Surely they love you to pieces?”

Lord Trumpleton still looked downhearted.

“You do realize I have to pay them to show up? It’s the same people at every rally.”

I was dumbstruck. I had no idea. Quickly I changed the subject, knowing full well that the Lord Prez is occasionally prone to these unnecessary fits of low spirits.

“Well, how about the Peach Mint,” I asked brightly. “You seem to be doing all right with that, surely?”

“I don’t know what to think,” he replied. “They told me at the White House that I am not entitled to even a lawyer in the House hearings. How can that be legal? It’s a hoax!”

“Well,” I said, “It’s a bit like a Grand Jury handing down an indictment. Grand Juries are held with only the prosecutor present, and then the jury votes to indict or not, based solely on what the prosecutor says. Naturally enough, most Grand Juries vote to indict, but it is the trial in court that gives the actual verdict of guilty or not guilty, and the defense is allowed to have lawyers and such in the courtroom.”

The Lord Prez looked hopeful. “You mean they never allow the defense to have representation in a Grand Jury? Huh. You might think Rudolph would have mentioned that.”

I was puzzled about why the Lord Prez seemed to be getting advice from a reindeer, then I realized he meant his personal attorney, Rudolph “Julius” Caesar.

Warming to my theme, I went on. “You know that you have a real friendly court in the Senate. Why, there’s not one of them there with the nerve to vote for a guilty verdict. Moscow Mitch has promised them coal in their stockings if they so much as think about convicting you.”

The Lord Prez smiled. I think I had managed to lift his poor spirits a few degrees.

* * * * *

As Maine enters its third century of statehood in 2020, I have found myself idly wondering what changes might be ahead for This Great Place. Here are some approximate ideas that have occurred to me in the past year.

First, we might at last get a really decent state flag. I have made my opinion about the current flag quite clear. It resembles a blot of ink on a sheet of paper, and can no more be told apart from most other state flags than a rabbit can be distinguished from a flock of hares at a thousand yards.

(Do you like that one? I have decided we also need more expressions of down-home folk speech in our new century, too. But I promise I’ll work harder on them than I did on that.)

Personally, I favor a return of the first Maine flag, the simple Pine Pree and North Star on a blank background which lasted from 1901 through 1909. Santa brought me one for Christmas, and I am insanely happy with it.

Next – at least it was going to be next in my list – we need to tackle climate change. However I recently saw a headline that declared “Camden to tackle climate change”, so I guess the rest of us don’t need to bother about that any more.

Third, it is almost inevitable that men will finally be allowed to compete for the honorable title of Maine Sea Goddess at the Lobster Festival.

After all, if we can at last have a female governor after all that waiting, surely the time is also ripe for a Mr. Sea Goddess?

Fourth, while we’re on the gender subject, how about some guys waiting tables at Moody’s Diner? I did make a possible identification of a 14-year-old lad behind the cash register there the other day, but in all my years of pie and coffee I have yet to be waited on at table by a chap, a fellow; you know what I mean.

Nothing against the ladies, of course. Far from it. They manage perfectly well. But we must be prepared to move Maine joyfully into its third century, using all the modern notions we have been taught these recent years.

Fifth, we need more people from Iraq to visit Morse’s Sauerkraut, which is down in Waldoburg.

Iraq, you say? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.

They have a couple of maps on the wall by the door, and customers are encouraged to put a pin in the location where they are from. I think I counted three pins in Nevada, although it gets a bit hard to tell down by the state line. But on the world map Iraq seemed to have only two.

So, Iraq or Nevada, it’s clearly a toss-up which place has sent fewer people to Morse’s. Either place could try a little harder, I think. A perfect project for the third century.

Well, that’s my current list of improvements we might expect in the coming decades. Not sure how long it will take to tackle them all, but I think it’s a modest enough list.

* * * * *

Saw a sign the other day that I thought read “Fresh Christians Just In,” which I thought seemed like rather a nice idea. Thought maybe it was sort of connected to that magazine editorial calling for the poor Lord Prez to be Peached In and Put Out, on account of his wandering hands and other liabilities.

(I have tried to raise this subject with him a few times, but have found him strangely reluctant to take me seriously.)

But no, I had misinterpreted the sign. It actually said “Fresh Christmas Trees,” which is significantly and undeniably a different idea altogether. Hard to imagine Christmas trees being taken seriously as a meaningful political base for anyone.

* * * * *

Well, that’s about it for my weekly nonsense in 2019. Oh, just one more thing. I am absolutely ticked off as can be to learn it is no longer possible to buy Stone’s Ginger Wine in the Great State of Maine.

This delightful product is a great little treat from the Olde Country, which I used to consume only at Christmas, and which I used to buy from a shop in Historic Downtown Bath. (I hang my head humbly and in shame at confessing to shopping elsewhere, but it was nowhere to be had in the Beloved Lime City; nay, not even in the Blessed South End.)

Drove down Saturday to get the annual potable, only to be told it is no longer available. The only way I was able to overcome the horror that threatened to overwhelm me at this news was to buy a jar of Branston Pickle instead.

It’s not the same thing, but it has its uses on toasted cheese. That, and the Marmite I got at Morse’s.

In the end I offered some of each of these foreign delicacies to Lord Trumpleton, but all of a sudden he announced he had to leave. Something about needing to steal all the children’s presents before dawn, he muttered, as he sped out over the lighthouse and turned south.

“Happy New Year, Lord Trumpleton!” I yelled at he vanished behind Owls Head. “The best is yet to come!”

David Grima is a former editor with Courier Publications. He can be reached at davidgrima@ymail.com.

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Comments (1)
Posted by: Mary A McKeever | Dec 29, 2019 14:51

David, you have strange bedfellows!  Happy New Year!  Interesting ramblings....

Mary "Mickey" (Brown)McKeever =;0)......

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