Mary Travers, God bless you.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Wellsa, if that don't beat all! When we went to mornin services ovah to church we couldn't help but notice this. Seems some scalphoogins have vandalized the seamen statue.
And if that aint a pretty decent likeness of Hatch Gross I'll eat that gimme hat. Thank heavens the summer complaint has mostly left.
When I snapped this picture there was a couple from Massachusetts that looked a mite confused, but I just smiled and acted like it always looks like this. They probably thought I was senile.
No one's dared to mention it to Hatch yet, but we kinda like it. Saves taking up that collection and it give the statue a modern look. You know, I 'spect somehow Rose and I will be to blame for this. Have a lovely sunday, you folks. Git out and enjoy this pretty weather. Love, Lurlene oxoxo
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Ain't it true. You never do know what you will find at the corner of Route 1A and the Flamingo Hill Road. Not too far down the pike you'll see a very large sea creature on top of a building. Bless your heart if you been drinkin', cause it is some big, as you can tell. Wiggy paid big bucks for this 'art' and he's awful proud of it. We ain't quite sure what it is... but Wiggy says it's a crab and so a crab it will be until we find out otherwise. Rose thinks it may be from the Crustozoic Era. I think it maybe escaped from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and come to rest on the rooftop there at Wiggy's and he didn't have the cash to have it exgerminated. In any case, we had to share this with you. Stuff like this, you just can't make it up. Love, Lurlene. oxoxo
Friday, September 11, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Proper Attire
My Great Uncle Junior was a scruffy old curmudgeon. A classic mean ol' bahstid and he said just what he thought, although sometimes it was what you call a mite backhanded. He swore like a pirate and he smelled like wet wool, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and George Washington Chewing Tobacco. He was a master whittler, friend to all children, and the bane of anyone with even the slightest inclination toward self importance. He was a native.
Mainer standard issue uniform: Green dickies, gum rubbers, three days of stubble and a gimme hat.
Needless to say, he was not much for society and avoided all enterprises that required clean clothes and language. Of course, that included church. Now, that is not to say that Junior didn't read God's word or know scripture. His mother, my great-great grandmother was a Methodist and put the fear of God straight into him, I'm sure. He had a well thumbed bible and it was well loved, too.
His wife, Lorena, who everyone called Bubbles, was a saint. Junior married late in life and was happy all his days with his choice, though it puzzled us greatly.
Aunt Bubbles, his one and only sweetheart was probably the most inappropriately named woman I ever knew. She was thin and pale,quietly morose and very pious. She did love going to church and went up to her home town Catholic church every Sunday, about 45 miles away.
They were married for 35 years and when she passed away at 79, Junior decided that he needed to start going to church. It just seemed like the right thing to do. But Junior didn't drive and was born and bred a Methodist, so the Catholic church was out, so off he went, one Sunday morning to the new church up over on the Snigtop road with all the pretty windows and the beautiful white paint, the closest one to walk to.
We all didn't know much about those new church folks, us being mostly heathens, but that was Junior's choice and we didn't interfere. Whatever gave him some comfort was good with us, he'd been pretty lonesome without Bubbles.
So in he went, after walking the two miles to the church (in the rain) and he sat up back in his dickies and his gum rubbers and a yellow slicker, dripping on the pretty new gold carpet. When he got home he didn't say much about the sermon or how it went, but he did say he'd introduced himself to a few folks and was going back. Which he did. Several times.
And then he stopped going.
Eventually curiousity got the best of me and I ventured a question one afternoon while we were having tea and a few boughten cookies.
I asked, "Why did you stop going to that new church?"
Wellsa, he looked at me and he said, "Lovey, I aint quite sure. I just didn't get a good feeling about it. "They was good enough, and I went a few times, good singing, nice enough preacher and he had a pretty young wife. The kind that looks at an old mollusk like me as if they smelt something like bad scallops.. ya know?
I said, "Oh yes... I know the sort."
"She told me the next to the last time I was there, that I should have myself a talk with God during the week to see about what He thinks might be proper attire for a fella to come to this church wearin'."
I said, "Oh?"
He went on, "So I did."
And I said, "Well, a'coss you did."
And he said after a long pause, "Ayuh."
So then...since he was not going to go on, I had to ask. "What happened when you went back, Uncle Junior?"
"Wellsa," he said, "I went back after my talk with the Lord and straight away that preacher's wife come straight up to me after the service and looked me up and down and said, 'I thought I asked you to speak to God and ask Him what is proper attire to wear to this church?"
"Well? What did you tell her?" I said.
"Well, I smiled awful nice to the pretty lady and said, "I did ask, Ma'am, but He said He didn't know cause He said he'd never been here."
Mainer standard issue uniform: Green dickies, gum rubbers, three days of stubble and a gimme hat.
Needless to say, he was not much for society and avoided all enterprises that required clean clothes and language. Of course, that included church. Now, that is not to say that Junior didn't read God's word or know scripture. His mother, my great-great grandmother was a Methodist and put the fear of God straight into him, I'm sure. He had a well thumbed bible and it was well loved, too.
His wife, Lorena, who everyone called Bubbles, was a saint. Junior married late in life and was happy all his days with his choice, though it puzzled us greatly.
Aunt Bubbles, his one and only sweetheart was probably the most inappropriately named woman I ever knew. She was thin and pale,quietly morose and very pious. She did love going to church and went up to her home town Catholic church every Sunday, about 45 miles away.
They were married for 35 years and when she passed away at 79, Junior decided that he needed to start going to church. It just seemed like the right thing to do. But Junior didn't drive and was born and bred a Methodist, so the Catholic church was out, so off he went, one Sunday morning to the new church up over on the Snigtop road with all the pretty windows and the beautiful white paint, the closest one to walk to.
We all didn't know much about those new church folks, us being mostly heathens, but that was Junior's choice and we didn't interfere. Whatever gave him some comfort was good with us, he'd been pretty lonesome without Bubbles.
So in he went, after walking the two miles to the church (in the rain) and he sat up back in his dickies and his gum rubbers and a yellow slicker, dripping on the pretty new gold carpet. When he got home he didn't say much about the sermon or how it went, but he did say he'd introduced himself to a few folks and was going back. Which he did. Several times.
And then he stopped going.
Eventually curiousity got the best of me and I ventured a question one afternoon while we were having tea and a few boughten cookies.
I asked, "Why did you stop going to that new church?"
Wellsa, he looked at me and he said, "Lovey, I aint quite sure. I just didn't get a good feeling about it. "They was good enough, and I went a few times, good singing, nice enough preacher and he had a pretty young wife. The kind that looks at an old mollusk like me as if they smelt something like bad scallops.. ya know?
I said, "Oh yes... I know the sort."
"She told me the next to the last time I was there, that I should have myself a talk with God during the week to see about what He thinks might be proper attire for a fella to come to this church wearin'."
I said, "Oh?"
He went on, "So I did."
And I said, "Well, a'coss you did."
And he said after a long pause, "Ayuh."
So then...since he was not going to go on, I had to ask. "What happened when you went back, Uncle Junior?"
"Wellsa," he said, "I went back after my talk with the Lord and straight away that preacher's wife come straight up to me after the service and looked me up and down and said, 'I thought I asked you to speak to God and ask Him what is proper attire to wear to this church?"
"Well? What did you tell her?" I said.
"Well, I smiled awful nice to the pretty lady and said, "I did ask, Ma'am, but He said He didn't know cause He said he'd never been here."
Saturday, July 25, 2009
there's feet walking the way I mean to go
Malvina Reynolds. revolutionary, singer/songwriter singing
No Hole in my Head as a guest of Pete Seeger.
She is truly a Rose and Trout kinda lady.
No Hole in my Head as a guest of Pete Seeger.
She is truly a Rose and Trout kinda lady.
Malvina Reynolds: lyrics No Hole in My Head
Notes: words and music by Malvina Reynolds; copyright 1965 Schroder Music Company, renewed 1993.
Everybody thinks my head's full of nothin,
Wants to put his special stuff in,
Fill the space with candy wrappers,
Keep out sex and revolution,
But there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.
They call me a dupe of this and the other,
Call me a puppet on a string, they,
They don't know my head's full of me
And that I have my own special thing,
And there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.
I have lived since early childhood
Figuring out what's going on, I,
I know what hurts, I know what's easy,
When to stand and when to run,
And there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.
So please stop shouting in my ear, there's
Something I want to listen to, there's
A kind of birdsong up somewhere, there's
Feet walking the way I mean to go,
And there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.
Everybody thinks my head's full of nothin,
Wants to put his special stuff in,
Fill the space with candy wrappers,
Keep out sex and revolution,
But there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.
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