The man of the house is a grilling king. He did not only the all-American favorites--sliders with cheese and hotdogs--but also shrimp, haddock and chicken. Eileen fixed a great big salad with corn off the cob and avocado, plus fresh slaw, and they served corn tortillas with fixings, the perfect wrap for the tender shrimp. My sister-in-law Therese brought a fancy retro Rhubarb Refrigerator Cake that her Mom used to make--it was like a pretty pink mousse layered with ladyfingers. We also had piles of sweet Maine strawberries and whipped cream.
Other grace notes of the day:
- Dan's brother John whipped up hotcakes for breakfast from a locally made Fiddler's Green Farm mix--served with fresh fruit and a big side of wit and humor at his farmhouse table. When I told him how much I loved them, he joked, Oh, I'm going to make the blog.
- Dan and I listened to music and talked about art and writing on the drive to the barbecue, as the road rose and fell and we passed old homesteads and a general store, mountains and valleys and families at picnic tables by the water. [Punchy had spent the night, to her delight, at her cousin's.] I have been bursting into tears fairly often--at the sound of John Denver's "Annie's Song" on my Spotify playlist, because my parents heard it in the 1970s when they took their only plane trip together, to Bermuda--and my Dad called my Mom Annie sometimes. [Her name was Anne.] The tears fell when Bob Dylan sang. And when I told Dan I think music may be the most important art, more important than painting or writing, because it touches so many people and changes the course of their lives. It is so universal. It has moved me to my soul ever since my parents pulled out the "Happy Birthday" record; ever since I had my first transistor radio; and especially ever since I listened to my first albums, big, black and vinyl, in my bedroom as a teen. But then we agreed that seeing a painting once can also change you forever. And writing? What about a little book called The Bible? Dan asked. And Shakespeare? And the philosophers? As a writer, I would like to touch people, stir their feelings, paint a picture with words and change the course of their lives, too. I'm no Bob Dylan but I do feel deeply. Am I crying because I'm eating less chocolate and fewer sweets? Am I more vulnerable and out there without the shield of sugar? Am I tender because my sister's husband died, and I'm more keenly aware of our mortality? And because I am 56, the age my mother was when she died?
- Many of our older nieces and nephews--and of course, Figgy, who stayed home for work and school and is watching our beloved furball-were missing. But it was nice to see the ones who were there: Taylor and Will, young men making their way in the world after college; Kyle, still in high school, and our niece, Maine Strawberry.
- Mike's mom came; that's Judy, a great cook who makes that lobster stew I referenced. Over the years, we have enjoyed her jars of applesauce and pickles, too. She grew up in Maine, the youngest child in a large family. I always love catching up with her and she calls everyone Dear, as old-time Mainers often do. I like that.
- The night sky was beautiful, streaked with light and colors and popping fireworks as we wound our way back from Bangor to Belfast.
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| Punchy, 10, left, and her sweet cousin, Maine Strawberry, age 11. |
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