Memorial Day in Camden

Memorial Day.

Before the tourists show up.  Before the mob scene in Thomaston every July 4th and before the giant commercial endeavor that is the annual Rockland Lobster Festival.  Memorial Day is an intimate, small-town celebration of heroes and each town honors its own.

In Camden, there is a small ceremony on the Public Landing

Then comes a parade, led by an Honor Guard and the Cub Scouts.

They paused here by the village green to lay a wreath at the veterans' memorial.

A moment of silence; a trumpet player stepped from the ranks of the high school band...

...and played Taps while the wreath was laid.

The rifle salute nearly caused Wilson the Agoraphobic Goldendoodle to spontaneously evacuate.

Then the parade moves on.  Thing Two is there in the center with the tenor sax.  By the time this day is out the kids from Camden Hills will have played for ceremonies in Rockville, West Rockport, Camden, Rockport and Lincolnville and marched in two parades.

There were old cars...

...and the Little Leaguers...

...and every single damn fire engine in the town department...

...and time to say thank you.

Middle School Band Concert 11/15

This.  Was.  So.  Painful.

Saint Patricia, the new guy is not.

Only four more to go, if I can convince Thing Two to stick with it.

They're baaa-ack

Remember these guys?

Worked out great last year.  We're doing it again.  

Would you believe the couple who owns them has named every single one of them?  There are, like, two dozen of them.  Must be weird taking a packet out of the freezer that's marked "Q-Tip" or "Mr. Freckle."

Le Weekend

It was that sort of weekend.

In the low 80s, light cool breezes, not a cloud in the sky.

Everything deciduous bathed in shades of springtime green.

The sort of weekend when you take the cover off the boat and open up all the hatches.

The sort of weekend when you air all your bedding and do seven loads of laundry and almost don't have to use the electric dryer, except you only have so many linear feet of clothesline.

You know you shouldn't set out your basil because it could still freeze, but it's that sort of weekend, and you just can't resist.

The sort of weekend you just have to play outside.  

On Saturday, Thing One turned 15.

(He got a full set of Grundens for his summer job, but the biggest hit was this coffee worship t-shirt.)

And on Sunday, Himself and I marked 17 years of matrimonialocity.











That sort of weekend.

All good.

Aria

The middle school chorus teacher just had a baby daughter which she named Aria.

I am a mean and horrible person, I know, but the thought of using musical terminology for kids’ names strikes me as gut-bustingly funny.  I mean, if Aria gets a little sibling might it be named Recitative?  Wouldn’t G-Clef be a great name for a hip-hop artist? 

I’m almost sorry I’m done having babies because I would happily endure another infant if it gave me the opportunity to say “This is my daughter Fermata.  Would you like to hold her?”

Honeybees

Today is one of the first really warm, sunny weekend days.  Our usual two pairs of rose-breasted grosbeaks are back.  The chickadees, nuthatches, mourning doves and finches are crowding the feeders.  The ticks and black flies are out in force, but I decided to risk it because my front walk and flower beds have been taken over by crabgrass and dandelions and were long overdue for some attention.

It's been a very long time since I've seen so many honeybees as are out and about.  The dandelions were positively boiling with them.  This is a good sign.

I wonder if they're wild, or if someone nearby has gotten a hive?

They were placid and perfectly content to share their space, even let a nosy human get right up to them with a camera.

I confess, many times I paused and waited for one to finish burrowing in his blossom and shuffle off in search of another.

Then would I heartlessly dig the dandelion out by the root.

There are still plenty to go around.

Things I Have Inherited from my Mother

My mother was an avid houseplant person.

Me, not so much, but I took hers on a temporary basis that seems to have become permanent.  Kind of like the cat.

She had an amaryllis bulb which I perched on my sunny kitchen windowsill and tossed some water on every week, and it seemed perfectly content to sit there and send up green leaves.  

A few weeks ago, it pushed up a stalk with a bud on it.

And it bloomed on the anniversary of my mother's death.

Bob the Bus Driver

The kids’ school bus driver is named Bob. 

Bob is a retired cop from New York City.  He has some great stories, which he only tells to kids who would appreciate them.

No one f*cks with Bob.  Seriously.   No one acts up on Bob’s bus.  He doesn’t yell.  He is just Bob.

If Bob arrives at your stop in the morning, and you’re not quite there, if you hustle he’ll wait for you.  If not, he’ll leave.  Even if he sees you coming.  If you don’t break at least a trot, he will drive away.

The bus stop at the end of our road is on a busy east-west thoroughfare along a stretch with blind curves coming and going.  Over the years there have been some pretty close calls as people have come barreling along a little too fast, in their 6.30 a.m. fug, and encountered a stopped school bus. 

My personal favorite involved black ice and a loaded dump truck laying about sixty feet of rubber while the car behind the dump truck did a 180.  I wasn’t sure exactly what message Bob conveyed to the truck driver – it was tough to lip-read from across the street, through the bus window and all the smoke – but I was very glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of it. 

Yesterday morning when Bob stopped for the kids, the car following the bus pulled way over onto the shoulder and up alongside the bus, like it was going to pass on the right, before it finally stopped.

Bob actually got off the bus to face down the driver.  I think if I’d been the driver I would have wet my pants.

Bob is awesome.

The kids are in good hands.

Track season

This spring has shaped up to be an awful lot like this winter:  rainy and in the 40s.  It's May and we still need the wood stove to take the chill out of the house.

But spring sports shall not be deterred, so short of a downpour, the track meet will go on.  Thus we stand for great lengths of time in the cold and damp.

These things are chaos.

See the kids with the blankets?  They were the smart ones.

Here, by the way, is a wind turbine that the high school students spent eight years raising half a million dollars to erect.  It was just installed, and the jury is still out on whether or not they'll see some sort of return on the investment.  Seems to me the cost benefit analysis was a little optimistic, but time will tell.  

So far no talk of bird strike.  My bet is there's some poor facilities guy out there every morning at 5 a.m. with a flashlight.

This is Camden.  We must keep up appearances.

Here's Thing Two tearing it up.  

She has potential.

Thing One is a good sibling - not only did he go to watch, he helped with measuring the long jump.  

And then we all came home and ate steaming bowls of lentil stew by the fire. 

Amen.

The Seventh Subaru

Over the years there have been two Legacy wagons, one ancient Legacy sedan, two Outbacks and most recently a Forester.

Now there's a new Legacy sedan. 

Have these ever come a long way since 1991.

(Is it bad when you walk into the car dealership for only the second time - the first being more than three years ago - and the manager says he remembers "doing battle" with you the last time?)

Anyhoo.

When you and your babies have been in a car that's crunched good and you've suffered no ill effects, and a vehicle has pulled out of more than one icy road scare, you develop some serious brand loyalty. 

And now, for the first time in fifteen years, I own a vehicle that doesn't scream "MOM."

I think I love it.