Teen Voices, Stephen King, and a Big-time Bonehead Moment

As Bonehead Moments go, it was a doozy.


I was ecstatic to learn that Stephen and Tabitha King awarded a grant to the “Teen Voices” program at UMF so they could buy dozens of my Young Adult novel, Grumble Bluff, for their curriculum. It was thrilling to think that maybe—just maybe—one of the world’s most famous authors read something I wrote–and that he liked it enough to donate money so that other Mainers could read it, too.

Mt. Blue Middle School students added Grumble to their program, and I was asked to go to UMF to speak to the group of teenagers and their mentors at a Teen Voices dinner. I enthusiastically agreed. The coordinator asked if I’d consider speaking to the full student body of Mt. Blue Middle School in an end-of-the-day assembly, first. I said I’d be happy to.

The time and date were set last fall. I noted the details on my calendar. It was on my mind. On my ‘list’ of things to do. I was good to go!

I went. Last Tuesday at 1:15 pm, just as I was passing Jack’s Trading Post, I was filled with confidence. Excitement. I was early for the 2:00 appointment. I’d have plenty of time to set up my simple Power Point Presentation. I’d meet with the school’s librarian and establish a rapport. All was well.

My cell phone rang. I answered it.

A voice said “Karen! Are you okay? Have you been in an accident?”

Oh…my…God. You have no idea how badly I wanted to say “Yes”!

My confidence disappeared in a puff of smoke. Jody wouldn’t have asked me that question unless she believed I was late! But… I WASN’T late!

Was I?

Oh, my God! OH MY GOD! There were a hundred students sitting in a gym waiting for me! I was sure—positive!--my appointment was for 2:00 pm! But she was telling me that the middle school principal was preparing to send students back to their rooms to prepare for their TWO O’CLOCK BUSSES unless I could get there, PRONTO!

I told her I’d be there in five minutes.

I wasn’t sure where Mt. Blue Middle School was. I’d asked Jody for directions, and she told me it was located on “Middle Street, very close to downtown”.

I turned off Main Street and onto South Street. There were UMF students all over the place. They lived in Farmington! Surely they’d know where Middle Street was!

Nope. Clueless. After the fourth “detain and question” session in the middle of a crosswalk, one young man finally said, “It’s up there.”

And it was. I turned by the Legion Hall. I was still relatively calm. Still marginally cool. Still somewhat collected. I turned into the school’s driveway and parked the truck. In a hurry, I grabbed a copy of Grumble but left everything else and fast-walked to the school’s front doors.

Locked. The doors were LOCKED! But… they were expecting me, right?

I hurried to the next set of doors. One opened into a glass-enclosed vestibule. I could see real live humans on the other side. They could see me. There was a buzzer, of sorts. I pushed it. The woman within magically unlocked the door and…voila! I was in.

Triumphant, I stood before them, Grumble Bluff held before me as proof that I was a respected author and not some threat to students’ safety.

“I made it!” I crowed.

They stared at me in silence.

“Um…aren’t there 100 kids waiting for me in the gym?”

I was at the wrong school! It was the right road, but the wrong school. How many schools does one town need? I wondered—while feeling a pang of jealousy. We lost our precious Central School in New Portland school a few years ago, and yet--Farmington had more schools than you could shake a stick at!

I was told the school I wanted was a mile further down the road. A tingle of panic niggled at me. I ran back to the truck…and discovered I was parked on a one-way driveway. Naturally.

I maneuvered over and around speed bumps, raised crosswalks and snow banks until I reached Middle Street again, and drove the extra mile to Mt. Blue Middle School. In my hurry to get there I overshot the first driveway, so I took the second entrance and parked at the rear of the building.

Grabbed keys. Copy of Grumble. And trotted in high heels and skirt from one locked door to another! What was up? Since when had schools become fortresses? They were expecting me! WAITING for me! Sitting on bleachers anticipating my arrival! Why was I locked out?

Oh, man. By now I was hot. Sweaty. Upset and embarrassed. I spied a single steel door marked “Administration” and yanked on it. To my relief, it opened and I stepped inside.

A man looked up as I came to a halt in the middle of the room, out of breath and slightly agitated.

“Hi! I gasped. “I need to get to the gym!”

He raised his arm and pointed to the window…

“Okay. You go outside and…”

“NO!” I hollered—not really meaning to shout but definitely intent on getting my point across. I held my book in front of me, as if one glimpse at it would explain everything.

Taken aback by my spontaneous shout, the gent led me into the hallway.

“Follow these stairs up and around and when you get to the top, you’re there.”

I could have kissed him, but I saved my breath for the climb. Four flights of stairs brought me—gasping—to another steel door.

Which was locked. What the heck was up with that? And who puts a gym upstairs, anyway?

At that very moment, I came close to crying. But I was LATE and didn’t have time for such foolishness. There were 100 kids sitting on bleachers, waiting for my words of wisdom and inspiration! I trudged back down two of those flights of stairs. I looked at the door I’d passed on my way up. What did I have to lose? Tentatively, I reached out a hand and pulled.

Holy cow. The door swung open…

And revealed a dozen children practicing dance steps in the middle of the gym. The bleachers were empty. I sighed and walked across the hardwood floor.

A teacher separated himself from the dancers.

“Are you the author?” he asked, as if uttering a dirty word.

“Yes.” I nodded, despondent.

The teacher shook his head.

“You’d better go to the office,” he said, pointing to a door on the other side of the gym. “It’s down the hall and to your right.”

Oh, sure! NOW I got good directions!

It’s been 30 years since I was sent to the principal’s office, but it’s a feeling I hadn’t forgotten. I’d screwed up. It was unintentional, but that didn’t change the fact that I’d blown it. And for my sins, I was sent to the office in humiliation.

On the bright side—the program at the University later that night was amazing. Great attendance, wonderful feedback and participation, and I left there feeling like I’d really helped a group of young adults find some inspiration and hope. Afterwards, I’d been surrounded by a mob of young women with questions—questions about bullying, and about death… and life. It was an awesome experience.

And I made sure I was 2 hours early. Just in case.

Having a Village

Trantens' Too, Kingfield, Maine

On Tuesday my truck died in the parking lot of Tranten’s Too. I was on my way to work. I stopped to get a newspaper, a sausage biscuit and a Diet Mt. Dew (‘diet’ to offset the sausage, you see…) and when I came back outside and hopped into the truck, it wouldn’t start.


Just like that.

Vince was presiding over the Porch Crowd.

“Sounds like the fuel pump,” he proclaimed.

That’s what it sounded like to me, too

It takes the better part of a village to get a truck repaired when you live in Lexington and work in Kingfield. I called the Credit Union and Amy zipped down to pick me up and haul me the last half-mile to work since my skirt and heels weren’t conducive to hoofing it along the gravel ditches of Rt. 27. Once there, I called Poulin’s Garage, and Rick immediately drove up to town. After briefly playing with my truck, he called to tell me that he thought it was the fuel pump.

My Dodge...210,000 miles and every one of them is mine!

I was inclined to agree.

Rick said he couldn’t tackle my truck repairs immediately and that he understood if I took the Dodge elsewhere. What a guy! What a family! I called Hight’s Dodge dealership in Skowhegan to see what they could do for me. They said they couldn’t repair it for a day or two, either… but they COULD give me a loaner car to get me to and from work. That clinched the deal.

I called another Poulin man for his rescue services. Chris told me he’d send someone down from The Mountain as soon as possible with a tow truck to take my pick-up to Hight’s. My truck was in good hands.

Now, to get myself situated!

I tried to call my folks to bum a ride to Lexington after work that afternoon, but they weren’t home. I’m a fortunate woman, however. Like small-town folks all across Maine—I have a Village. Amy offered to take me to my mother-in-law’s house in New Portland—halfway home--and mother-in-law Celia said she would be happy to take me the rest of the way to The F.A.R.M.

That afternoon Mike, Hight’s service manager, called me.

“We think it’s your fuel pump, Ma’am,” said Mike, who has called me “Ma’am” every single time we’ve spoken over the course of the last 6 years. Whether we’re comparing notes about butchering hogs, discussing our teenagers’ driving habits, or hashing over the price of fuel pumps, Mike calls me “Ma’am”. I can’t talk him out of it.

“It’s your fuel pump, Ma’am…”

I tended to lean toward the same conclusion. I asked the polite young whippersnapper to order the part, to put the truck on his repair schedule and to please leave a loaner available for me.

When my mother finally returned home and listened to the message I’d left on her answering machine, she called me. She agreed to pick me up at seven a.m. the following morning and transport me to Skowhegan so I could pick up that loaner car…so that I could get to work on time…so that I could earn the money to pay for the fuel pump, and the repairs, and the towing.

The loaner car was a Chevy. It was gold. A sedan from 2004 with 4 doors…and electric everything.

I’ve never done the “electric everything” bit.

The first characteristic to strike me was the fact that the car’s under-carriage clearance was in the neighborhood of six inches. Maybe seven. That’s the depth of a small rut on the Back Road…and a wrinkle on the Spruce Pond Road. This could get interesting.

I unlocked the driver’s side door and lowered myself into the rig. The key Mike had given me fit into the ignition…but it wouldn’t turn. Nope. Not at all. Until I finally inserted it upside down, there was no starting that gold-colored car.

Once I got it started, I fiddled with the bells and whistles. I wanted to know where the wiper controls were, the front and rear defrosts, the headlights. The vehicle even had “cruise control”. Later, as I tried out that option, I managed to toot the horn a half-dozen times in a half-mile while having no control whatsoever of my cruise.…)

At last, I felt comfortable enough in the strange automobile to drive it from Skowhegan to Kingfield. It wasn’t until I was at the top of “Dump Hill” that I realized the loaner was running on fumes…and wishes…and a prayer or two, as well. I coasted to Tranten’s Too and parked in front of the store once more. I would have gone directly to the pumps, but I’d looked out each side mirror for an indication of which side the fill-up spout was on—and hadn’t seen it. So I figured I’d take a gander from the outside.

But I couldn’t get ‘outside’. Little did I realize… the car Mike had fobbed off on me was a Chevy reincarnation of “Christine”, that haunted and possessed Plymouth made famous by Stephen King.

Even with the key removed from the ignition, the radio continued to play. Seriously… the key was OUT. The car was OFF. There was no juice to the radio, but it played. And… the door wouldn’t open.

I pulled on the handle—and the whole lever mechanism threatened to fall out of the door. It would not open. At all. I was stuck.

I experimented. I played with the locks. I locked the doors. Unlocked them. It appeared that the passenger door might open, but that would mean I’d have to crawl over the console. In a skirt. In front of Tranten’s Too… one of the busiest and most populated little locations in downtown Kingfield.

I tried the window controls. I could open the drivers’ side window from the driver’s side controls—but I could only open the passenger side window from the passenger side door. It wouldn’t close from the same controls, though. The passenger-side window could only be closed from the controls on the driver’s side door. Would it be more acceptable (or graceful) for me to climb out of a car window (meaning I’d have to climb back in that same way) or over a console?

I didn’t have to make that crucial decision. By pressing the lever which locked ALL FOUR of the car’s doors, I could open mine! And by taking the key with me, I could unlock it from the outside to get back in, too.

I made it to work in the demon Chevy, and I made it home again. I learned how to placate the car so it wouldn’t lock me in while torturing me with endless Taylor Swift music. Mike eventually called me from the garage and told me “It was the fuel pump, Ma’am.”

Just like I’d figured.

From the breakdown of my pick-up to its picking up, a dozen people helped me. From Vince, with his sage words of wisdom, to the Trantens Too crew for letting me leave the truck parked in a prime spot for half a day. From Rick Poulin, who jumped to my assistance and then was such a gentleman when I didn’t hire him to do the repairs, to Chris Poulin and crew for promptly delivering my truck to the garage in Skowtown. Amy, Celia and Mum carted me here and there. Mike and the Hight’s crew did a great job with the repairs and loaned me the (evil) car free of charge, and Bobby Baker re-attached the rear-view mirror for me when I opened the truck door and found it lying on the front seat.

Yep, I’m lucky to have a Village, because that’s what it took to get my truck repaired.

That, and $640.00.

Plus the cost of towing.

Cataclysmic Perverters



My friend KK (please note the words on her T-shirt...and then those on Grahame's corresponding T-shirt.  :o)

My dear friend Grahame lives with his wife KK in New South Wales, which isn’t in (or even near) Wales—which is in Great Britain. No, New South Wales is in eastern Australia. Go figure!

Grahame drives a Mercedes Benz “E 430”; affectionately referred to as a “Benz” for those of us who are lazy typists.

To help some of you place my friend--G is the mate who sent me the bumper sticker that’s in my truck’s rear window, which many locals have commented on over the years. That bumper sticker says “Real Men Like Cats” and EVERYONE has asked who the “real man” is, or why such a bumper sticker is in the window of a WOMAN’S truck, or why in the world I like (or why the man referred to likes) cats! I never would have believed that one small bumper sticker could raise so many questions or start so many conversations--but I’ve enjoyed telling folks about my wonderful friend. (I wanted G to put a bumper sticker in his Benz window that said “Real Women Drive John Deeres” but--according to him—the Australian government won’t honor a Mercedes Benz warranty if the vehicle is festooned with bumper stickers. Can you imagine that?? It (almost) defies belief, huh?)

Grahame's 'other' Benz.  Note the sticker on the bumper... Hmmmm.... :o)

Anyway, Grahame’s Benz recently underwent an inspection and his mechanic informed him that the car needed catalytic converters. The rig has a dual exhaust system, so two converters were required for the job. G was quoted an astronomical price for the parts…upwards of $1,200.00 to $1,400.00 apiece.

Per.

Each.

Ouch...

Being a frugal Yank, I took immediate umbrage at such 'highway' robbery and suggested he look into after-market parts, thinking he might be able to get a better price for ‘off brand’ catalytic converters. Ever industrious (and conscientiously saving money for a trip to Africa) Grahame did precisely that. He emailed me saying he’d found the parts he needed online…for only $115.00 each. That immediately raised my suspicions. I was sure he could find the parts for less-- but at less than 10% of the price he’d been quoted? It didn’t make sense to me, and I had visions of car theft rings and stolen auto parts. But Grahame, safely tucked away in Oz, wasn’t worried about such things. He ordered the converters.

This amazing company also offered free shipping–but only inside the U.S.–so G asked me if he could have the Benz exhaust parts sent here to The F.A.R.M. so that I could mail them on to him. Of course, I said “Sure.”

And of course… there were delays.

It always makes me nervous when a company claiming to be American is staffed by operators who don’t speak coherent English. Don't get me wrong...I love the North Dakotan accent, ay? And an “all y’all” from Alabama brings a smile. But the woman who called me to explain the delay in shipping my friend’s exhaust system was barely comprehensible. It took me several “what?”s before I figured out that the company was replacing “Gruh-hay-mee’s corpulistic combustors” with a different brand of cataclysmic perverters. But! I was assured (I think) that they would fit his Benz every bit as well as those he’d originally ordered!

This same woman called Grahame in New South Wales. He couldn’t understand her any better than I could. And...he called me to compare notes and to laugh at the incomprehensible way the operator pronounced “catalytic convertors”.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t home when he called and my daughter Josie answered the phone. According to her… she could have listened to Grahame talk ALL DAY because his accent was so dreamy. But, as cool as his accent was…she couldn’t understand a word HE said.

“Mama, one of your Australian friends called,” she told me when I arrived home.

“Excellent! Who was it?”

“I dunno… Peter Daily? Donovan? I dunno….”

“Peter WHO? I know two Peters in Australia—but those aren’t their last names. Not even close. Did he leave his phone number?”

“No, I gave him your cell phone number and he said he’d try to reach you on that.”

I was very disappointed. And confused. Disappointed because I leave my cell phone off while at work, so I wouldn’t have been able to receive his call--and confused because I didn’t know who ‘he’ was! As much as I would LOVE to receive a call from either of ‘my’ two Peters, I couldn’t imagine what would prompt them to telephone me out of the blue.

The puzzle was solved when Grahame called again later that evening. We got a chuckle out of the fact that he and I couldn’t understand (and were irritated at) the strong accent of the Asian woman who called us about his catatonic diverters —but Josie had a difficult time simply understanding G’s name. And yet—my daughter “could have listened to him all day”.

Despite moments of doubt, the canonistic contenders safely made the journey from Maine to Oz. And contrary to my assumptions (which were based on past history) Australian Customs didn’t open the boxes, irradiate them, blow them up or forward them to Ali g with terse notes outlining proper procedure for accepting foreign mail. They just… sent them on their way to New South Wales. I guess I softened them up with the contraband potatoes, the Bakewell Cream that looked suspiciously like white powder, and the cell phone with two bullet holes in it.

Australian-born Grahame received the catalytic, catatonic and cataclysmic parts for his German car, shipped from the U.S. but sold by someone with a strong Asian accent. And regardless of my doubts, his mechanic said they were top-notch. They weren’t made out of tin foil, and they appeared to be new, with no hint that a cutting torch has ever touched them. Grahame was able to keep most of his pennies in his wombat bank and now his Benz doesn’t sound like a John Deere.

All is well in Oz.

Grahame with the 2 catatonic combustors I mailed all the way from Maine. 
(Please note the wording on his T-shirt, which corresponds with KK's in the above photo!)

Stuck Inside My Head...

It’s happened to all of us. There’s no escaping it…no one is immune.


You hear the first bar. Sometimes just the first two–or three–or four notes…and you’re stuck. Like a record that’s skipping, you have the same stanza of a song stuck in your head. It repeats itself over and over and over (and over and over and over) again. And again.

It’s enough to drive you crazy.

Before I continue with that line of thought, however, let me explain the previous paragraph for the benefit of the younger generation of readers. A “record” was a slender, circular disk of grooved vinyl which, when made to spin with a needle set into the grooves, produced sound. Often, that sound was music, but sometimes it was voice, or some resonance from nature or industry. Records were a technology that I (almost) understood and I hope youngsters will take the time to research this important invention from our past. For it is a fact: my generation grew up listening to music which emanated from a spinning vinyl disk when a needle was placed within its grooves.

Amazing, huh?

We used to have to lick postage stamps to affix them to letters, too. That’s how bad things used to be...

But back to my original topic; this “getting a song stuck in my head” business.

If you’re lucky, the song that gets stuck in your head is one that you like… although the down-side is that you’ll never like it again after the next three days’ worth of hearing it repeated internally inside your brain. The funny thing is—it doesn’t STAY in your brain! You find yourself breaking out in song in the most unlikely of places—and completely against your will! You whistle the song without thinking. You hum it when you’re supposed to be quiet. You even find yourself BREATHING in sync with the tempo of the song. How strange is that?

Yep. A few days with your brain stuck in a loop repeating “I’m too sexy” is enough to sour even the biggest fan of that amazing pop hit.

But what happens when the song that burrows into your psyche is a melody you despise? With words that irritate you beyond measure?

What if it is…the theme song of “Barney”?

If it’s not too late, close your eyes! Stop reading! Immediately! The purple dinosaur and his song are an insidious virus! Once you’ve been infected, you can be laid low for a week. A whole week! One whole week of singing, whistling, humming, breathing and thinking…

“I love you. You love me. We’re a hap-py fam-i-ly. With a great big hug…”

Oh, man!!! You didn’t close your eyes, did you? When—oh, when—will you learn to listen to me?

Yes, there was a time when I thought that the absolute worst song to get stuck in my head was the “Barney” theme song. Josie and Eli would torture me with it. Intentionally and with malice-aforethought! Their goal was to mess with my equilibrium. These seemingly innocent children would wait until I walked through the living room with a basket full of laundry in my arms, completely defenseless and unable to cover my ears, before piping up with the dreaded words. The despised tune.

Without a doubt--they can be evil little munchkins.

And yes, I felt guilty for hating Barney and his feel-good song and all things purple and saccharine-sweet. But I couldn’t help it. I did.

Hated. With a T-Rex-sized ‘H’.

As contagious as the Barney theme song was, though… there is a tune that has settled into the Pease Family Subconscious which is far more irritating. Maybe it’s because we don’t know the words? Maybe it’s because it is a song which is (we think) 200 years old? Maybe it is because—no matter how many times Steven, Eli and I forget the song and start to heal from the trauma induced by days and days of repetitive whistling, humming and breathing it…we still don’t know what it is!

It’s all Josie-Earl’s fault. She started it. She whistled it one afternoon two months ago while sprawled on the sofa reading “Clan of the Cave Bear”. I immediately picked up the tune (which seemed benign at the time) and whistled it back. I asked her what it was.

“I don’t know. Some Beethoven thing.”

Well, my “Beethoven” education was all about St. Bernards and drool. That’s it. No humming, no singing, no whistling, no breathing in tempo with a song. But now…that’s all I do.

Da-da, da-da, da-da, dee-dee-DUM. Da da dee DUM… da da dee DUM!

And over and over and over again. If you were unlucky enough to pick up the tune from my simple ‘das’ and ‘DUMs’…I sincerely apologize. I may have single-handedly killed your love of classical music. There’s only one way to escape having that song stuck inside your head.

“I love you. You love me. We’re a hap-py fam-i-ly…”

Sorry.

Slipping in 'Slippers'

My pride took a wicked beating last week, and I haven’t been able to straighten my right arm, since.


The Pease clan had been invited to Patty’s and John’s for supper. Beef tips in mushroom sauce, potatoes, and (I was told) a kid-friendly vegetable for Eli. Patty even made the point of extending a specific invitation to the Wees. She wanted us to bring the puppies.

Steve’s eyes lit up and he rubbed his hands together in glee.

“Ooh! Revenge! Can we get them to pee on HER couch? Or…how about on her BED?”

My husband doesn’t hold a grudge but he finds an inordinate amount of bliss in getting even.

I baked a loaf of cheddar and onion bread to contribute to the meal. We donned coats, scooped up the Pease Wees, and exited the house. Since the pups aren’t completely housebroken (as in… they have at least one accident every blasted day!) I put them down in the driveway so that they could do their ‘business’ before we began the 45 minute ride to the Cormiers’ house, which sits adjacent to their retail business (Kennebec Home Brew Supply) in Farmington.

As I contemplated the appropriateness of that run-on sentence, Josie’s cat Curious (aka ‘Munchkin’, aka ‘Sister-Kitty’) trotted by. Scruffy perked up mid-piddle and pounced in pursuit. I spoke sharply to the dog, but she ignored me. She was focused on tabby, and nothing was going to distract her. As the animals ran into and across the road, I ran after them. Scruffy needed to know that she was not to go near or into the road under any circumstances! As I ran across the snowy driveway, I yelled.

“You GET back here! RIGHT now!” I caught up with her…edged in front, turned her around…started herding her back. And then it happened. I hit a patch of snow-covered ice, my feet shot out to the left, and I came down onto my right arm. Hard. I heard the snap. Felt it in my head. My arm went numb for a brief instant, and then it was afire.

Steven and Eli stared at me, wide-eyed. Steven began to hurry to my side. I was embarrassed. Humiliated.

“I’m fine!” I snapped as I quickly got to my feet…my ears ringing and my vision blurring. But it only took a few seconds for my husband to figure out I wasn’t ‘fine’. He insisted we drive straight to the Franklin Memorial Hospital.

This is the portion of my story where I wish to point out the differences between men and women. Steven is the kindest and most nurturing husband I could ask for. He’s far better at fussing over me than I am at fussing over… anyone. And yet, as we drove to the Emergency Room instead of Patty’s house, he said:

“It’s no wonder you fell… going out in the snow and ice in your slippers, like that.”

Grrrr! They were Crocs. Not slippers.

The next day, Patty brought dishes containing the supper we’d missed sharing with them--all the way to my home in Lexington. She also brought me a pile of magazines. And a bottle of ‘organic dog conditioner’. Yes, now my puppies have ‘product’. Lord, have mercy…

But when I told my best pal Jack about falling on the ice?

“God, you’re an idiot. Could’ve smashed that thick skull of yours on your driveway... and who can afford to waste money on repairing asphalt these days??”

Friend Kay made a meal for the following night, and delivered it. She also volunteered to pick up my daughter at 5:00 a.m. and take Josie to meet the bus so she could help with the Special Olympics at Sugarloaf.

The response from my wonderful co-writer and friend, Saint?

“I feel horrible -- should never have sent you those killer beasts. The curse is working a little faster than I'd figured -- probably because of NO LEASHES.”

Josie-Earl hung laundry, fed puppies and shoveled snow (without complaint!) Colleen said, “Thinking of you & hoping you’re feeling better today! Sending you lots of love & big hugs.”

But my dear mate Grahame in New South Wales?

“Wanna arm wrestle? Betcha $2.00 I'd win, girlie!”

Yes, there’s a definite difference in how a man nurtures a friend, and how a woman does. Yin and yang…the perfect balance. The women ease a burden and bring physical and emotional sustenance—and the men make sure I don’t take myself too seriously. One sex invokes a warm smile…the other, a reluctant snicker.

Yin and Yang...

Steven and Eli were disappointed to have missed our evening out and I felt bad to have been the cause. But we’re re-invited for this coming Saturday, when Eli will finally discover what—exactly--is a ‘kid-friendly’ vegetable, and Steven can surreptitiously drop the Wees on anything upholstered.

A Plethora of Puppies (aka A Canine Country Christmas...)

Brillo meets Scruffy

The holidays are over and winter finally seems to be setting in. God and Mother Nature worked in tandem to create a little magic, and at the last minute we had a white Christmas to allay my children’s fears. We didn’t have enough snow for our “sliding after dark in pajamas” tradition, but there was enough snow to make the landscape (and the teenagers’ dispositions) sparkle and shine.


On Christmas Eve we invited family and some new friends to The F.A.R.M. for supper. Three years ago our oldest son Guy created a wonderful family tradition. He arrives ‘home’ early on Christmas Eve day and prepares the meal, which is a wonderful gift for his mother. I find I invite more guests when I’m not doing the cooking…

Guy with Saint and Scruffy on his shoulder, Lucy on the arm of the chair, and the long-suffering and good-natured Boone, who (with Brillo) had to put up with the 3 puppies

This year, there were 14 humans and 5 canines in our home on ‘the night before Christmas’. The Pease Wees, the newest members of our household, were joined by their cousin Boone, Guy’s sweet dog. Cousin Brillo, the Labradoodle, was in attendance too—arriving with my sister Chris and staying with us for a few days so Chris and her husband Chris could travel to Cleveland to visit Chris’ family. Meaning the family of the other Chris, since this Chris’ family is here. Of course, now that they’re married, Chris’ family is Chris’ family, too. Two Chrises. One family.

No problem.

Thank God for wine.

But I was talking about dogs and not how many Chrises were Christmasing with us. The fifth canine to round out our party was Lucy, my friend Patty’s 7 month old Jack Russell terror. Jack Russells are an active breed. Always moving. Always jumping. Wiggling. Burrowing. Terrier-izing.

I didn’t realize how mobile the little dog was. The kids and I had pushed all the living room furniture back to the walls to make room for the tables in the center of the floor. We sat on sofas and chairs and enjoyed Guy’s hors d’oeuvres and Patty’s homemade wine while staying out from under the cook’s feet. All of a sudden, Lucy jumped onto Chris (one of them) and continued bouncing over the top of everyone else, springing from one sofa (and lap) to the next chair (and lap) to the next sofa (and lap) without ever touching the floor. Round and round in a circle she went, over duck tenders and around pesto pizza and under homemade cheese-its. Jack Russels aren’t large dogs, but they are solid. And their feet are quite pointy. Sharp. Wicked picked, in fact! Our new friends were quite taken with the gymnastic abilities of Miss Lucy as she knocked food out of hands and drove air out of tummies. I’m sure we impressed these newcomers to the point of ‘no return’.

Thank God for wine.

Guy and Josie on the (new) sofa (see towel...) and Lucy, Boone and Brillo on Guy and Josie.

Wee puppies and not so wee puppies tested the patience of the adults—both human and canine—as they teased for snacks, darted in and out of harm’s way, and generally confirmed the rumor that The F.A.R.M. is a zoo.

Eventually, the house quieted. Most of our guests stuffed themselves with good food and fine wine… and went home. Remaining to hang stockings with us were Guy and Patty…and the 5 dogs.  Oh, yeah.... and the 3 cats.

Stevie and Scruffy (Stevie never touched her [he actually loves the Wees) but Scruffy has felt the claws of Josie's cat Curious before...I thought this expression of ANTICIPATION was hilarious.)

I have a very patient and long-suffering husband. He puts up with a lot. I’m the one whose friend gave me the Wees, causing our household to revert to a nursery again after years without puppies or small children. It is my life-long friend and my family members who bring dogs to our parties.

It’s my side of the family that brings wine.

The living room had been put to rights. The tables and chairs taken care of, the dishes washed and dried…We sat on sofas and in chairs chatting, winding down, relaxing in the glow of Christmas tree lights and candles. Steven and Eli were on the big (new) couch, Josie and I sat on the love seat, Patty was tipped back in the recliner, and Guy was propped in the armchair. Dogs were lounging by feet and in laps. Suddenly, Eli spoke.

"Dame Scruffy of Dingleberry Bog" (bottom) and "Saint Baxter of Soggy Bottom" (top)

“Lucy! LUCY! Papa! Ahhhh...um…you might wanna MOVE, Papa!”

Eli’s words sunk in at the same moment that Lucy’s pee soaked in. Steven jumped off the (new) couch, pulling the seat of his britches away from his…seat. Lucy bounded off the (new) cushion behind him–her task complete; her bladder empty. Pal Patty perked up. A seasoned dog owner, she’s attuned to the change in tenor of the mood in a room when a human realizes he has been piddled upon.

I could have sworn Ricky Ricardo was in my house. “Looo-cee!” was repeated several times as Patty ran for paper towels, Guy belly-laughed and Josie tittered, Eli breathed a sigh of relief that he’d been on the other end of the sofa, and Steven went to take a shower and change his clothes for the second time on Christmas Eve.

It was interesting to watch the ‘host’ Steven as he attempted to curb his tongue and his temper after ‘the incident’. Had one of the Wees done such a thing on our (new) couch—especially when Steven was sitting on/in it—we would have been witness to a much more colorful display of emotion. Choice words, facial contortions…it would have been a far more interesting show. But ‘host’ Steven loves friend Patty and he didn’t want to spoil the Christmas mood. And he didn’t. What a guy.

Our Canine Christmas was hectic, but truly enjoyable.

Five dogs. Two Chrises.

And wine.

Downeast Humor-Compliments of Tim Sample, the Harraseeket Inn and Friends of Maine's Mountains

The New Year has come and gone.  Already, 2012 is almost 'old hat'.  Martin Luther King Junior Day is a week away.  Ground Hog's Day... less than one month.  And St. Patrick's Day--one of those harbingers of Spring--is only 2 1/2 months from now.

By that time, we'll have cabin fever.  We'll be sick of the cold, the snow, the short days and the long nights.  We will have had our fill of shoveling and plowing, of filling the woodbox and taking out the ashes and splitting kindling.  We will long for humidity.  Warmth.  Dry floors.  Cool tempers.

Please join Friends of Maine's Mountains as we work to raise money for a good cause while also working to dispel the winter blues.  Maine's premier Maine humorist, Tim Sample, is performing a live show to benefit FMM on Saturday, March 17th.  I hope to see you there!

The Bucket List

Karen’s Log:


Star Date--New Year’s Eve.

Two Thousand Eleven.

Lexington Township, Maine… somewhere on the 45th North Parallel…Earth…Milky Way Galaxy.

The crew is restless. Edgy. Almost…pains in my @$$.

The new year—2012—begins in just a few minutes. And…everyone wonders….

What will the year hold? Will the world end on December 21st, as many people believe? Will concern about that possible happenstance change the way any of us live our lives?

And if so… how?

Well, I (Karen Louise Bessey Pease, a.k.a. Kazza, Kaz, Mama, Mum, Sweetie and Honey) for one, intend to create a “Bucket List”.

For those of you who don’t know what I mean by “Bucket List”; it’s simple. A “Bucket List” is a list of things which you hope to do, say, accomplish, experience or survive before you “Kick the Bucket”.

Yes. It’s a list of things you want to do before you die. But making lists is easy. I also intend to start checking off some of the items!

 think I’ve led a life which has been relatively unselfish. I’ve asked very little of others unless I was willing to give in equal measure; and when I had to ask at all, I tried to repay their generosity with something “in kind”. It’s always been a matter of pride, I guess. I don’t like feeling like I am indebted to anyone.

But there’s no way a Bucket List can be completely unselfish or philanthropic. Not really. After all, it is a compilation of things I want to do–not things I want for others. Yes, sure…I want world peace. But if I’ve got less than 12 months left on this planet, it’s beyond my ability to make “world peace” happen. Realistically—wouldn’t that be a complete waste of time? Especially since—when the world ends of December 21st–all those warring factions are destined to go up in smoke right alongside me?

And really… how boring would it be if we had world peace? It’s unrealistic. It’s against all things natural. Take a good look at this planet. How many sentient beings live in harmony with other sentient beings? It’s a dog-eat-dog world.

So. Even though I truly don’t believe the Mayan Calendar is the be-all, end-all…. Still, I’ll use this opportunity to write a first draft of my bucket list. It will undergo changes and revisions, sure. Life is like that. Nothing is set in stone. But this list will be a start. Something for me to refer to–and aspire to follow.

BUCKET LIST (not necessarily in the order of importance…):

#1: Pay off the mortgage on my homestead. I would love (LOVE) to gift my husband with the security of knowing that—no matter what befalls us—we would not lose our home, a place which gives him such peace and satisfaction.

#2: Have a novel make the New York Times Best Sellers’ List—mostly so that I could afford to pay off the mortgage and give my husband that security.

#3: Get a pilot’s license. I’d prefer to learn how to fly a chopper, but with only a few months to devote to the prospect, I’ll settle for learning to fly an airplane. I’ve been told it is easier and cheaper.

#4: Meet my friend and co-author, Saint. That’s all. I just wanna stare at him across a table and tell him how he’s enriched my life over the last few years. Also… I’d like to show him what good care I’m taking of the puppies he gifted me for my 48th birthday.

#5: Spend 4 months in Australia…riding cross-country on motorcycles with my pal Larry and visiting all the Aussie friends I’ve made in Queensland, New South Wales and Victoria. That would be the ultimate vacation, and a dream come true.

#6: Sail on the ocean. A schooner, windjammer, clipper…catamaran or sailboat. I just want to feel the sea breeze, ride the swells, be at the mercy of (and try to conquer) the power and might of the ocean.

#7: Since this is my fantasy, I’d like to add this: Hundreds of Maine citizens have been working their buns off in an attempt to bring common sense to the energy policies of this state. Friends of mine have suffered health problems caused by improperly sited wind turbines. They’ve suffered loss of property value and quality of life, as well. I would love to be able to witness the citizens of Maine taking control of this issue and creating an atmosphere where common sense, science, economics and EMPATHY govern our energy plan.

#8: World Pease. I mean…“peace”, of course.  And learn to ski. Maybe. 

#9: It would be really cool if I could write something which would change people’s lives for the better. I would love to know that my thoughts and words had a positive impact on others. (It would also be great if that ‘writing’ made me a good chunk of change, so that I could pay off the mortgage and give my family that wonderful kind of security…See #’s 1 and 2 on my Bucket List.)

#10: Climb Mt. Katahdin. And (I’m really reaching, here—but it’s my fantasy!) not see a single wind turbine from the summit.

Now that I’m on a roll, I can think of a dozen other “wants” for my list, but I’ll settle for ten. If I could accomplish just half of my goals, I’d be completely content to vaporize along with the rest of you on December 21, 2012.

In truth, a Bucket List is something we all should have... something we should create and then strive to fulfill. I don’t believe the world will end next December. But I know for a fact that no one–not a single one of us–knows when we will die. It might be tomorrow or 50 years from now. We should live like there is no “tomorrow”–even while responsibly planning for it.

World Peace? Hah! I can’t even get my teenagers to quit sniping at and sparring with each other!

But I am going to make it a point to work towards the goals on my Bucket List. I’ll fly an airplane. Meet Saint. Tour Australia. Write a Best Seller. And give my family some peace of mind and security.

Next year—THIS year—will be great.

Happy New Year. Happy 2012.

Merry Christmas from The Besseys

In 2009, I posted some Christmas poems written in the 1960's by my Uncle George Bessey and my grandfather, Arthur "Bappa" Bessey; who worked for Great Northern Paper Company at the time.  These poems were published in the "Pittston Farm Weekly"--GNPC's newsletter.

Two years ago, in an attempt to preserve family history (and make it entertaining, too...) I made voice recordings of most of these poems and burned them onto CD's for my closest friends and family members.

And then... I forgot about them.

The last two years have been unlike anything I've ever experienced-- or intended to experience.   I've been busy.  Preoccupied.  Right out straight, if truth be told. 

But what takes precedence?  Work?  Community involvement?  Activism?  Or...should 'family matters' be what really matter?

Christmas comes but once a year.  And I think once a year is 'just about right' for how often a Bessey family poem should be read.  And enjoyed.

I hope you like this holiday poem which was written by my uncle George Bessey, published in GNP's Pittston Farm Weekly, and passed along to me and my kin to be enjoyed by you and yours.

Merry Christmas, from the Besseys of Maine to You.

********************************
What a Night Before Christmas!


‘Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except Santa’s spouse
Who, with shabby old house coat and curlers in hair,
Was making S.C. wish that he wasn’t there.

“So the children were nestled all snug in their beds!”
She shouted at him as she waved some blonde threads.
“Now, patience, my dear,” pleaded Santa with pain,
“If you’ll just let me speak, I’ll try to explain.

“I left here on time, albeit quite shivery,
Intending to make the Christmas delivery.
But before my first stop, it became crystal clear
That ahead of my sled were eight crazy reindeer!

They bypassed the houses where I planned to go
And finally dumped me right out in the snow
Where, what with my wondering eyes should I sight,
But a house full of girls—and a single red light!

“ ‘Hey, girls! Look who’s here!’ I heard one exclaim.
And there rose such a cheer I was glad that I came.
They dusted me off and invited me in,
And their boss introduced them to me with a grin:

‘Here’s Pat, Midge and Fran and a loser named Vixen.
She’s red-headed, drives a Rambler and voted for Nixon!
Here’s Connie and Cuddles and Bubbles and Joyce.
Now look them all over and then take your choice.’

“Now, my dearest, you know that I could not agree
To take one and not all of them…up on my knee.
So I said to their leader, ‘It would be a crime
If I didn’t give all of your girls equal time.’

She chuckled and said, ‘You’re a helluva gent!
And I lingered with them till my ear was quite bent,
Then before I departed, I gave them their toys:
Five sables, three bobcats, a beaver and a golden decoy.

“Despite what you think, there’s no reason to doubt
That I planned to continue my regular route.
But when for my list, I ventured to look,
What should I find but a little black book!

To hunt for my list I knew would take ages,
So I used in its place that little book’s pages.
And though (as you know) I’m quick to see,
The first address led to the Auberge at Ste Aurelie.

“Now, the names in that book included ‘Annette’,
‘Beatrice’, ‘Lilli’ and a yummy ‘Yvette’.
But just which was which? There was no guessing whom
Until they all took me to their dressing room.

And there I discovered Annette had a mole;
Bea really was blonde; and Yvette wore a scroll
Tattooed on her thigh that caused me to pause;
For on it was written ‘J’adore Santa Claus!’

“The evening rushed on in a dizzying whirl
As the little black book led to girl after girl
In Greenville and Jackman and St. George and St. Zacharie
And each of them had to eggnog and nutmeg me!

And I’m not to blame if their clothing was scanty
Or if they were all simply wild about Santy.
Thus it was that the sun rose over Maine
At the very same time I was leaving the I.P. Chain.

“After that, Sugarplum, your jolly old gnome
Hopped into his sleigh and headed for home.
Now I’ve told you my story with patience and care;
So I’m sure you’ll excuse that bit of blonde hair!”

“Indeed, I will not!” Mrs. Santa shot back.
Then without a word, she went straight to his pack
And dumped out a doll you’ll not find on a shelf!
Said Santa, quite weakly: “It’s just a new elf.”

“A disgrace to your calling—that’s what you are!”
Mrs. Santa came on like an angry hussar,
“There’s only one way to undo what you’ve done—
Now don’t argue with me! I’m sending our son!

He’s the symbol of everything you ought to be:
Love of family, clean living—in short—decency!”
“My gawd!” muttered Santa to this revelation,
“That pantywaist kid will kill my reputation!”

But although Santa pleaded, his wife remained firm,
Shouting, “Take off that suit, you philandering worm!”
In a twinkling their son made ready to go;
Candelabrum in hand and dimples aglow!

“Now be careful, my precious, and be a good boy,”
Mrs. Santa said kissing her bundle of joy.
'Twas then Santa shouted, his voice rather messy!
“Give that little black book back to bachelor George Bessey!

And so ends our story, as Santa said, rather meekly…
Happy Christmas to all—A la Pittston Farm Weekly.

The Pacific by Peter Watt

Few things brighten my day more than finding a yellow ‘parcel notification’ slip in my mailbox and then going to the Post Office to pick up a package from Australia. Last week my local Postmistress handed over a wonderful surprise—an autographed copy of the latest novel written by my friend Peter Watt.


These days, I rarely take time to read for ‘fun’ but I’ve been anxiously awaiting the publication of The Pacific. This most recent novel is a continuation of the legend of the Kelly and Mann families, which began in Pete’s novel Papua.

I read The Pacific in 2 days.

I’m always pleased by the authenticity of Peter’s novels. Every writer knows—heck, every reader knows—that a good book will remain as only a good book unless its author knows what he or she is talking about. To create a great book, the author has to have done extensive research… or ‘lived’ his or her story. Peter’s fans have the advantage. He is a man who does extensive historical research, and he has lived a life of adventure in addition to being a former advisor to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. The man isn’t blowing smoke—when it comes to the backdrops and time periods of his novels, he knows his stuff.

In The Pacific, Peter takes us to exotic locations. Queensland, Vietnam, Papua...there were few places on the globe which remained unscarred—literally and figuratively--after World War II. As in Europe, many countries in the Pacific were deeply embroiled in the intrigue, the terror and the scrabble for survival.

Ilsa Stahl is an American war correspondent who is taken captive by the Japanese after being plucked from the sea following a plane crash. Perhaps worse--Ilsa is set to be turned over to the Nazis due to past activities carried out by her German step-father.

But she is the daughter of Jack Kelly, the sister of Lukas and the cousin of their closest friend, Karl Mann. These Papuans of Irish and German descent each find themselves with a mission: to bring Ilsa to safety.

War is hell and for those involved, death hovers--never far away. The Kellys and the Manns do not escape unscathed from the battles fought in the jungles of Indochina and the South Pacific.

It might be the height of summer Down Under but up here in America it’s the first day of Old Man Winter’s domination. Grab The Pacific and settle in for a good read. Better yet—start at the beginning of this saga, with Papua and read all the way through. Then (because you won’t be able to help yourselves) give the Duffys and the MacIntoshes a try, beginning with Cry of the Curlew. A major motion picture is in the works for that series and I can’t wait! For twice the enjoyment, be sure to read it before it hits the theaters. If you visit Peter’s website, you can order your own autographed copy.

Merry Christmas and a blessed and happy New Year to you all!