Polecats and Other Vermin

pole·cat  (plkt)
n.
1.
a. A chiefly nocturnal European carnivorous mammal (Mustela putorius) of the weasel family that ejects a malodorous fluid to mark its territory and ward off enemies. Also called fitch.
b. Any of various related mammals of Asia, especially Mustela eversmanni of central Asia.
2. See skunk.

When I lived in Boston, I used to meet my friends  at a local cantina on Thursday nights that was sort of an eclectic Tex Mex joint with southwestern and local art on the walls and spicy food.  It had hanging pendent lights and served margaritas in thick, sea green glasses rimmed with salt.  Back then, if one of my buddies had leaned across the polished wood table and said, "Hey, guess what?  Fifteen years from now, you will be living in a ramshackle house on five acres of over grown land and your two ungroomed terriers will get sprayed by skunks as often as four times a year.  I would have laughed.

"No way, that's not possible.  Skunks only exist in books, "I might have said. "Besides, why would anyone want a dog?"

Does it seem like we personify them a bit?

Years later as I lay, not awake, in bed waiting for for my terriers to come back inside, I heard a screech.  Mac sounds like tires pealing out when he is in distress.  That was the sound times two. There was ferocious snarling mixed with squeaking .

 "Dan," I shook him.  "Wake up!!!"  It was his turn to deal with the dogs.  "Something's wrong; wake up!!!"  He woke with a sluggish wave of his hand. Then rolled over to fall back asleep. I  pondered whether to lightly place a pillow over his face, but I decided I needed him for winter.  The man never startles for some reason.  He slowly climbed out of bed like a zombie to do my bidding and teetered out into the dark.

The next thing I heard was, "Oh, no!!!! Arggggggh."  should have stayed in bed and pretended to be asleep. Instead,  I had to know.  Back then, everything in the country was new.

I Rule the Pool

This t-shirt was hard won.

The other day Dan and I were on the couch side by side and our son, who shall remain nameless (let's call him "D") was discussing helmets, from his position fixing some mechanical thing on the floor.  He mentioned how he liked the Eagles.  I don't know if this is fortunate or not, but I suddenly formed a distinct image of the Eagles in their home uniforms, the angry squawking bird on the helmet, and the kelly green and white.  How did I know this?  I used to think about Banana Republic boots on sale and now I can tell you who Vinnie Testaverde is.  This isn't saying much, but I know what "Good in the Pocket" means.  I even know to say things like, "It's first down" when someone asks what's happening in the game.  That's not right.  It's like I suddenly know Chinese for no apparent reason.

Perhaps I know all this, because you cannot live in Maine without getting sucked into sports.  It's in the blood and it's the talk of the town office. You have to know who's winning what.  Everyone's son or daughter plays a sport.  My husband's family is no exception to this sports mania.

You may be surprised to learn that I have won the Mitchell family pool more than once (four times to be exact, but who is counting?).  This is mostly beginner's luck with a boost from the Las Vegas odds.  The pool started off so innocently and back then it was Dan and his folks, who graciously invited me, because I was new to Maine and I was Dan's enfianced.  Little did they expect after they took pity on me that first week when I made abominable decisions, that I would make such a comeback.

At present, our pool has grown to twelve strong and our members are spread across the country as far West as Seattle and L.A. and as far East as, of course, the Mitchells.  Anyway, I'm playing around with technology and want all you city gals who love your Kate Spade bags, but who married country men to stand a chance in the blood bath that is the family football pool, so here's a bit of advice.  Incidentally, this irritates everyone in my pool and especially my father in law, who spends a chunk of spring break watching high school basketball tournaments at the Bangor Auditorium, but here it is none the less.  Go to the following two web links for your picks and then get back to shopping.  I hear there's a sale on at old Navy in Augusta (we call that mall, "The Acropolis").

For good picks:
Option 1: A bunch of expert guys' opinions

Option 2: The holy grail; the original source

Yard Poor and Canning Rich

There, I did it.  I revealed the soft, white underbelly of my existence:  my hideously over grown, under cared for garden.  I feel better now.

My neighbor (rest his soul) is not here to stroll over and scrutinize my yard, pointing out this or that weed  as I nod and clench my teeth into a fake smile.  Back before he passed away, I feared his judgement and kept things somewhat respectable... and now well, you can see what happens when the house next door is empty and your side yard is out of public view.  It's not very Yankee of me, I know, but I had to show it to someone.  I needed you to know.

It's remarkable that a garden this ramshackle can produce these.

They're not that pretty, but I have been canning up these tomatoes none the less.  In past years I have been much more productive with the farm wife kitchen persona.  This year ,so far, I have made sauce (which may or may not be worth the effort the way I'm doing it with a food mill).  http://www.foodinjars.com/   appears to be a pretty good blog about canning, if you want to dabble in putting up your crops.  I tend to use the Ball Blue Book of Canning a lot ( an unfortunate name, I know).

Here's a shot of why I'm procrastinating the salsa I need to get started on.

Our 1937 Estate Fresh Air Oven stove appears charming, but it's bordering on useless.  You can see that the burners are crowded on the left and that's all  the room you have to use the big boy for canning jars.   Forget about making supper (note: I did not say dinner) while you process your jars.

As far as the expression, "yard poor" goes, it's based on something my sister used to say when she lived in L.A. (not to be confused with Lewiston/Auburn).  I would visit her and she would drive me around places like West Hollywood and point out how all these young professionals would be living three people to a cramped apartment, yet they would still have shiny, black Porches parked outside of the building.  "They're car poor.  It's all about status." she told me.

Diminutive Lawn Adornment

 I feel the same way when I drive down the road perpendicular to ours.  There are three families living in double wides right next to each other.  Manicured doesn't begin to describe the spectacle of their adjacent lawns.  It looks like each one has laid out astroturf and cut in kidney shaped, cedar mulched swimming pools as gardens.  There are flowers that grow in rounds like a constant, choreographed fireworks display all summer long.  Right now there is a well orchestrated round of sedums and mums, arranged like wall paper with borders.  One of the lawns sports a series of deer statuettes that lead to a small pond in descending order of size.  The tiniest fawn appears to be sipping from the man made water source; perhaps gazing at its own reflection?  The only thing that comes to mind when I take all of this in on my way to the town store for pizza is, "I would rather spend my time dipping shingles.  At least I'm not yard poor." Hence my heinous excuse for a garden.

See you tomorrow for a freshman take on sports.

How did I end up here?

Lately, I've been thinking...What would have happened to my life if I had stayed in one of the many places I used to live; St. Louis, Boston, Portsmouth?  Chances are I might have married a stock broker who liked to "back pack" and been a manager for a technology head hunting firm.  We would have had money, cars, maybe a nanny. 

The only photo my son would allow. Can you see the t.v. reflection in his glasses?


 But I have to say that Dan changed all that.  One day we were pulling out of the dentist's parking lot and heading back to my chic new condo in Portsmouth and he asked, "If you could be anyone you wanted to, who would that be?"  It took me by surprise.  I fancied that I was a person of depth, in reality I was dumbfounded.  "I dunno," played in my head.  Who was I?  Who did I want to be?  I thought I knew, but no one but Dan had ever asked.  And then the words slowly stumbled out, "a teacher I guess."

Fast forward ten years.  If you don't plan on moving to Maine, then don't fall in love with a Mainer.  Here I am a teacher, married to a restoration carpenter, and fixing up a 180 year old farm house.

       Dan, the other love of my life, doing what he does best: 

working in  his shop and talking with his hands.

There is a lot more I could tell you, like how I sort of want to be a gardener, but I never weed, so the gardens are overgrown with massive corn stock looking stalks, or how we have tumble weeds for dust bunnies blowing around the house, but I'll save that for future musings.  For now though, suffice to say, I'm here, it's beautiful and I guess I turned out to be who I wanted to be.  I'm often happy.