Loonies

I'd like to think that Maine has exclusive rights to the wonderful loon, but sadly it's not true. Other states apparently are allowed to host them, there's a franchise in Europe, and Canada must have a few, since their one-dollar coin has the queen on one side and the bird on the other and is bilaterally called the loonie.

Some aficionados here pay $20 extra for the loon license plate, some buy elaborate mailboxes. I understand the desire to capture the magic. The loon's sleek and painted body, its need for pure water and solitude, its eerie call, and most of all, its amazing dance are reminders of things we're losing. When we still had our camp in Smithfield, there were three or four pair on the lake, and every once in a while, quite rarely actually and usually in the late evening at the end of summer, they'd gather in a circle and go crazy, or so it seemed. The water was in a froth, the air full of calls and screams. There wasn't any danger around (the supposed reason why they do it), just a primitive, or joyous, or mating, or migratory, or drunk-on-life dance.

On the day we saw this mailbox, we also saw the real thing, four of them floating and diving, dignified and leisurely, like bankers on holiday. All propriety, no savagery, much like the civilized folks who try to capture them.

Laundry

I used to tease a certain member of my family about her laundry obsession. Now that I'm doing a bit of whites and colors myself, I might re-consider my position.

It's not the wash cycle, which is boring in the extreme. It's the drying, ie, the obscure satisfaction gained from hanging clothes outside. Obscure because I haven't figured it out yet. Here are the elements:

1. Planning all week for a sunny day, or morning, or afternoon, or please just an hour.
2. Taunting the electric dryer.
3. Taunting the power company.
4. Taunting George Bush?
5. Watching the sky for rain showers.
6. Taking down the sheets and wrapping your head in them to experience the smell of sunshine.
7. Getting into a bed with clean, air-dried sheets, drying yourself with a clean, air-dried towel, putting on clean, air-dried tighty whities, etc. etc.
8. Making your grandmother proud.

Is that enough for pleasure, or epiphany? You'd think so, although there is the unmanly embarassment, and twenty years of comments, which will take a while to undo. At least I resolve not necessarily to tease when my helpmeet starts the laundry before breakfast.

Self-Reliance

The fridge mostly died on the weekend. Using the freezer (which still worked, barely) and the ice chest, we managed to save nearly everything except some leftovers. Of course, even throwing out that bit of pasta and one last serving of tuna salad bothered me a little.

Throwing out a whole fridge, however deceased, should have been worse. But we never really considered repair. Well, I did, briefly, but the thought of trying to find someone on a Sunday morning, waiting days for a service call, and probably it couldn't be repaired anyway, and then what about the Chicken Fajita frozen pizza and array of condiments? So we did what everyone does and went to Lowe's (open 8:00 to 7:00). Less than 24 hours later, decay departed, life resumed.

So what happened to Yankee ingenuity and thrift? Wouldn't it have been more satisfying to get the old brown relic repaired? After all, I called appliance repair back home in Massachusetts, when the heating element of the oven shorted out. And in Maine I'm more inclined to try to fix things myself, as if the heroes of the 19th century - Emerson and Thoreau and all the rest - were still alive to help. But of all the conveniences of our convenient lives, fresh food always to hand is sacrosanct, and anything that interrupts our ability to make ice must be rectified, ASAP. We believe in Freon, even in self-reliant Maine.

Daylilies

For the part-time gardener, daylilies are the perfect plant. They grow anywhere, need almost no care, last for years, and winter over nicely. The flowers are gorgeous; the foliage stays green all summer and covers large areas where otherwise we'd have to plan for something else, probably risking the agony of defeat. Lilies trump both hostas and ferns, our other standbys for square-foot maximization.
Your serious gardener probably doesn't bother - too easy, too common, they grow in ditches by the side of the road, for heaven's sake! Gardening, like life, should be a constant struggle against the elements, insects, too-much or too-little hydration, and in-laws bearing petunias in pots, and bringing one's rare roses or orchids to flower year after year, with military precision and planning, apparently guarantees the thrill of victory.
I'd rather observe than battle. You see your life in the arc of one flower: the vigorous morning, opening to dew and hummingbirds and energetic growth; the afternoon sun and full flowering of your ambition and maturity; the gentle evening and its contented wilting and spent stamens; night-time, when you humbly fall to the grass and sleep. Your younger brother does the same the next day, and your nephew, your daughter, your third cousin twice removed. This daily miracle pleases me more than any prideful campaign of cultivars.