Japanese Beetles

I'm battling Japanese Beetles who each year munch the Rosa Rugosas by the front door.  I've developed a system which works well enough.  I keep a little jug of water secreted behind the jen-you-wine antique concrete Grecian urn which sits nearby and whenever I pass by I knock a few bugs into it and manage to keep ahead of the devastation.  The problem is that the bugs don't die.  For days.  Now, much as I loathe them, I'm not a psycho weirdo about it and I'm not really into torturing anybody. So this year I refined my approach.  I added multi-purpose detergent to the mix and in addition to being instantly lethal, adds an  aroma of cleanliness to my doorstep.  Yesterday during a pleasantly murderous half hour my attention wandered to the bumble bees covering the shrubs.  They rumbled up in the usual bumble bee way but when they reached the yolky yellow center of the roses they upped the pitch of their buzz and as they rolled about emitted a high bzzzzzz that was an hilarious bee squeal of ecstasy.  And it was then that my new guests appeared. I was forced to explain that their room was not quite ready mainly because I had been watching bumble bees.  As I said this I was frantically trying to push the jug of dead beetles back into their hiding place with my foot.  My guests seemed of a mind to accept my lack of professionalism and chalk it up to charming eccentricity and  I didn't want to jeopardize their good will by showing myself to be the slaughterer of innocents.  Sadly, I miscalculated with the last push of the jug and it fell over, engulfing their New York City shoes, which probably cost more than my car,  in a virulent bright blue Lysol liquid studded with the corpses of countless beetle bugs.  Apologies and explanations are pointless in a situation like this, don't you find?  "Welcome to Blue Skye" I said brightly.

Gardening et moi

I spent the morning digging in our neglected vegetable patch to put in some plants someone gave us as a present of sorts and which I felt obliged to plant.  I forked and spaded, sieved and raked, fed fertilizer and planted.  I put in pea canes, strung miles of green twine, gently tied loose knots so as not to injure tender stalks.  I squished slugs and slapped flies all while wearing a hat that made me look like my grandfather, a sweatshirt that was too hot and wellies that were cooking my feet.   Now here's what I want to know:  why would anyone want to do this?  Why, when there are perfectly good green grocers and farm shops would a person WANT to spend the morning doing this? All you end up with is your food covered in dirt and bugs. I simply don't get it.  At the farm shop everything is clean and washed and pretty.  Not wormy and sluggy and muddy.  Have you ever grown your own kale?  Have you? Huh?  Have you ever watched the little white worms float to the surface when you cook it?  How about have you ever noticed the little white worms AFTER YOU HAVE ALREADY EATEN SOME OF YOUR DELICIOUS HOME GROWN KALE?????  And don't tell me I didn't wash it well enough.  Trust me.  I washed it.   But of course, we're all organic now and I washed it in water.  Probably I was supposed to use aloe vera and the juice of freshly squeezed rosehips and fairy dust.  So.  I let organic farmers do my farming. That's what organic farmers are FOR.  And if you're going to give me a present, give me something that doesn't come with slugs included.

Living in Maine

It has been known for Maine residents to make snide allusions to our state slogan, "Maine.  The way life should be".  Such comments are usually made when we find ourselves trying to find our car under a mountain of snow or trying to start a generator in a blizzard.  But yesterday I found myself thinking of our slogan with nary a touch of cynicism. 

When we bought Blue Skye, the sellers told us that the appliances were all old and ready for the knacker's yard.  And so it was that one by one, dishwashers, refrigerators, stoves and freezers all ended their days trundling up the drive in the back of our pickup on the way to the dump.  But not the enormous Maytag washer and dryer in the basement.  These gentle giants have run many times daily for twelve years now.  A few years ago I stuffed an enormous comforter in the washer.  It was well beyond anything sensible to try and wash and the machine baulked.  I found the file given to me by the last owners and discovered that the machine had been purchased in Waldoboro 25 years ago.  It was not with a great deal of confidence that I telephoned the number to discover that the Maytag guy was still in business.   I  told him that I had "a complaint".  "Really?" he said.  I told him that my 25 year old washing machine had stopped working. I thought he'd laugh and tell me to go soak my head.   "I'll come have a look" he said.  "OK" I said, getting a pencil, when can you come?"  "I can come now, if you like" he said.  In about 20 minutes he arrived and in about 10 minutes the machine was sloshing away as usual.  Yesterday, a few thousand loads of laundry later, my dryer started making a screechy sound.  I called the Maytag guy."  I wondered if his phone had rung since I called the last time because he seemed to know who I was right away.  "It's the dryer" I said.  "It's doing this" and I imitated the sound.  "Well, I've got to come out that way today so I'll call in".  In less than 15 minutes his car pulled into the driveway.  And in less time than that, a pile of coins and a mountain of fluff were placed without comment on the top of the dryer and a new wheel doodad was installed and the dryer purred to life.  "You're a genius" I murmured.  "Naw," he said.  "I used to have one of these."  I wanted to ask how it had died, but it seemed a bit personal somehow, so I just said, "Well, thanks again".   No doubt the next owners will look at these antique appliances (and the wooden counter tops in the kitchen amongst many other things) and replace them with acres of stainless steel and granite and Maine will be a little less like life as it should be. 

Spring Spring Beautiful Spring

Apologies to all who clicked on my blog only to find that I wasn't there. I notice all my followers have disappeared, having nothing to follow.    I'm not sure where I was.  Under a snow bank somewhere I expect.  The inn was closed.  I was closed.   
But now it's spring, the blackbirds came back to me, the geese are nesting, cardinals tap at my window, nuthatches have set up house in the bluebird box and every day brings a new arrival to our feeder.  My breakfast table is again filled with guests and I've returned to my post in the kitchen, happily setting tea towels alight and pouring orange juice into my shoes. 

But this morning something happened that was so weird that I had to tell somebody and all my guests have checked out - so here I am.  I was telephoning through a credit card payment and apparently (!) misdialed and got instead an extremely chirpy woman who announced rather improbably that I had reached the palace of pleasure and pain.  I could hear sounds of somebody washing dishes in the background while she assured me that I was about to experience such delight and agony as to be indescribable.  I hung up but can't help wondering about her and about this peculiar world I find myself in.  There is nobody here but me.  Would she tell me to get a hammer and bang myself on the head?  Why would I do that?  Why would I require some lady busily washing her dishes to tell me to do that?  Please don't answer these questions.  Anyhow, I have to go.  My computer informs me that I've got mail.  It's from Anthony Weiner.  I wonder what he wants. 

Smoke Alarms are ringing

No doubt you have all had a nice weekend while I have endured a less than gratifying one here at chirpy, cheery Blue Skye.  Good manners preclude me from sharing with you the highlights of the last few days, for while my guests can and do review me with gay abandon all over the internet and beyond, I cannot respond.    Suffice to say that smoke alarms were involved along with a very cross woman wearing earphones and bunny slippers who berated your blogette at 7 this morning.  Now I don't know about you, but I prefer to have a cup of coffee before being berated.   In any case, you may want to revise your daydream of running a B&B in beautiful coastal Maine. 

Have you done your debate prep?  Are you ready to shout at the television on Tuesday?  All you Romney supporters can just oil your hair and slap on the aftershave and you're ready to go, whereas we have to urge  our reluctant candidate to show up and stay awake.  Like Burgess Meredith in Rocky,  we have to
slap his face and throw some water on him after a few minutes.  Come on Barack, you can do it.  Come on, bop him on the nose JUST ONCE.   Do it for the dog on the car roof.  Better yet, send  in Michelle.  Now THAT would be a debate worth watching for an electorate used to dancing with the stars and singing with the idols.  That the spectacle has little or nothing to do with defining who can lead the American people intelligently, with integrity and a vision worthy of this country, is overlooked.  But.  I'll be there nonetheless hoping that when Romney pulls out his ACLU card, Obama will do a Seinfeld "Really?"

What makes a duck laugh?

Everywhere you look here you see geese soaring back and forth across the marsh,  quacking ducks sound like they are laughing their heads off,  flocks of birds rattle the leaves and chipmunks tear back and forth across the lawns with their cheeks stuffed with whatever it is chipmunks stuff their cheeks with.  Soon we'll be splitting wood, putting away the flower pots and piling up the pumpkins. I adore autumn.  Yesterday we had two rainbows over the hayfield - I mean, come on!  How can you not love that??  All this poetic, autumn is so sad baloney is written by people who have never been to my house in autumn or who don't take my brand of anti-depressants - but that's another story.    As I write, two guests linger over the breakfast table and I linger over a final cup of coffee, trying not to see the looming mountain of ironing which covers my exercise bike.  

Political Conventions

After a fortnight of political conventions I'll just say this:  the democratic mob looked like a jollier one to be part of.  The Republicans looked crabby.  I grew up in a house where my mother was famous for inviting our friends to stay for supper without really considering whether there was enough food.  When we'd raise our eyebrows knowing that we had 5 pork chops for 8 people she'd say, " If all your friends are interested in is the food, they can go home and eat. Dinner is about more than food."  I don't know about you, but I'd rather be at the party than home alone with the door locked eating my own pork chop.