Life lessons...

In high school I had a friend named Jamie of whom I was particularly fond. We'd often eat lunch together, laughing and talking about boys. Then, as it sometimes happens in life, we went our different paths. She went to college, got married, moved to Cape Cod, had two daughters. I thought of her often, but we had little contact.

Then a few years back we re-connected on Facebook. Social media has many a drawback, but there are wonderful things about it, too, like reforging old bonds.  Not too long after we started visiting on Facebook, I mentioned that my Flirt poodle had a puppy that was looking for a home.  Jamie was looking for a small dog to join their family, and they next thing I knew she and her husband were coming to adopt the pup.

I liked her husband the moment I met him. Tall and rather quiet at first, I soon learned he had a good sense of humor, a curious mind, and a deep love of his family. He enjoyed looking around our little farm, meeting the animals, and asking great questions.  Jamie explained that Harry was raised in the city of Lynn, and had not ever had much exposure to farm animals before.  He had a twinkle in his eye every time he came here, most especially when we would go spend time in the pasture. The goats would go through his pockets looking for treats, and his grin would brighten the whole place up a few notches.

Three years ago Jamie announced to her many friends and family that kept up with her on Facebook that Harry had been diagnosed with cancer.

They jumped right in to fight the good fight. And Jamie told us about it every step of the way. The medical treatments, the successes and disappointments. And how they chose to tackle this particular challenge. They decided to make memories.

The next thing we knew, they'd both retired. They went to Europe. They went to Iceland. They bought the cutest little retro looking camper you've ever seen, and they took off. We got to see it all. The wild horses, the buffalo, the national monuments. The ocean side walks, the rocks they climbed.They posted hundreds of "selfies," side by side, grinning, with amazing backdrops. We got to see the cozy camp grounds where they, along with their two little dogs, would cook and chat and laugh, relax and enjoy each others company. Chris and I had the opportunity to join them one time while they were camping in Maine. Burgers on the grill, dogs in laps, laughter and chatting all around. It was sweet. Every time they came to Maine they'd stop by. Rachel and I would groom the dogs, Jamie and Harry would bring us home made beach plum jam and other treats, and we always were richer for the time spent together.

Jamie and Harry were the sort of couple that everyone hopes to be. Totally comfortable together, supportive of one another. Jamie funny and outgoing, Harry a little more reserved, but obviously delighted to watch his wife's antics. They touched each other a lot... his arm around her shoulder, her hand on his leg. Warmth radiated from them.

This fall the Facebook news told us that they were not planning any trips. Harry chose to go on Hospice care. The posts never showed any self pity; each was full of courage and joy in the time they had together.  Harry started his next journey on October 17th. He was home, in the arms of the woman he so clearly loved and admired.

I am so grateful to have had the chance to spend some time with my old friend, Jamie, and my new friend, Harry. They have taught me much as they shared the story of the last three years. How to embrace all the good in life, how to be courageous as the sand in the hourglass dwindles. They took every step with deep love, and took the time to share with others how they lived life to the fullest while they could. You left us inspired, Harry. Thank you.

Visitor...

There was a knock on the door around 1 PM today.  My daughter opened it and said to me, "You have a buck!"

The man at the door was familiar. We have "rented" bucks from him before. Today he brought me Bon Homme, a buck born last spring. He was in the back of a pick up truck, with a cap on it. The bed was full of hay, and there was bucket of grain to keep the goat entertained. He looked a little worried.

Charles said, "He is not used to being led." I asked, "So, how are you planning to do this?" He said, I'm going to grab him and start walking. I went ahead, opening gates. 

My goats were in the far pasture. They must have smelled the new guy, because their heads snapped up, and they began to call, "Baaa?"

Running, they headed in our direction.  We brought the buck into the pasture. The donkeys saw us coming and began to bray.

The buck is terribly handsome. The dirty looking parts?  Male bucks in "rut," (ready to breed) urinate on their faces and legs to make themselves more desirable to the does. To humans, the scent is unpleasant. To does, it is irresistible.

My girls think he is the best thing since sliced bread.

Tonight they are all tucked up into the goat cozy with piles of hay. A big rain storm is headed this way, but the goats are snug and plotting kids for spring.

Bon Homme is a welcome visitor.

Project with a capital "P"...

It always goes something like this. My sweet sister will call and say, "Hey, what are you doing the weekend of ___?  Can I come visit?" We love her visits, so the answer is almost always a resounding "YES!" She lives about a 3 hour drive from here, so it's not like she can just drop in anytime.  As the time for her stay with us approaches we will have conversations about what we might do while she is here.  In the summer we might plan a beach day, or a kayak adventure. Sometimes we organize exploring some local antique stores, or a fun lunch out. But at some point she always says, "Let's just do nothing."  I roll my eyes.  Doing "nothing" is not really in her repertoire. The next thing I know we are on top of a mountain or something.

When Deb is here,  she always finds a project to make my life better. They tend to be rather ambitious and not a lot of fun, but the end results are usually excellent.  This weekend she decided my pantry was a problem. And as usual, she was right. The pantry is a dandy little space, but it tends to collect items that have no real home, and soon the shelves are overflowing. Also, I had TOO MUCH STUFF. Some of my stuff gets used for parties and such, (extra dishes, glasses, silverware, platters) but some of it was just overkill. "We are going to edit." My sister told me. I knew that was necessary, but also knew it would be painful. Letting go of stuff is hard.

Here is a picture just after we started. There is one empty shelf. We took everything off the wooden cabinet, took some measurements, and asked Chris if he might help us change things up. Then we went off for some adventures. When we got back the old wooden cabinet was gone, and a brand new wire shelving unit was ready to go it's place.  I had some attachment to the antique wooden thing, and it had lots of character, but it really wasn't very good at storage.

This morning, bright and early, we removed everything from both the other shelving units. There was vacuuming, scrubbing, and organizing for the next few hours.  No one organizes quite as well as my sister. Where I would have been standing around scratching my head and wondering what to put where, she was up and down off the ladder, moving and stacking, tossing and grouping. It was awesome to see.

Here is what my previously tidy dining room table looked like after we stacked STUFF all over it. The kitchen counters were piled high, and even the living room furniture had piles teetering on them. It was a little grim. We kept plugging away, and then the tide turned, and suddenly I could see order growing out of chaos.

There are still a few things to do. The top of the freezer needs to be sanded and repainted, and there is an old book shelf behind the door that houses bottles of liqueur. A new shelf is on order. By next weekend the room will be completely in order.

I can't wait for my sister to come visit again!

The Lost Kitchen...

You don't have to hail from Maine to have heard of this tiny, out of the way restaurant. It has been written of in the New York Times, as well as many national magazines. Reservations are so highly prized that hopeful diners must enter a lottery by mailing a 3"x 5" card to the restaurant during a small window of opportunity that is open every springtime. Last spring our daughter and son in law sent one such card to The Lost Kitchen. To their delight, they received a phone call a few weeks later, and chose a date to enjoy a meal at one of the famous tables tucked inside an old mill in Freedom, Maine. The restaurant received cards from every state in the US, and more from 106 countries! Imagine our excitement when Rachel and Evans invited us to join them. All summer, Rachel and I thought happily about the September Saturday that we had reservations, and as the time grew near, our anticipation escalated.

The drive to Freedom on windy, country roads, was lovely, even in a light rain. We started out by visiting the wine cellar where Evans chose beverages for us to enjoy with the meal.

We were seated at a comfortable table, and had a little time to look around. Great care had been taken with the lighting, and the room was illuminated with a warm glow. Candles flickered on old beams, and there were lovely touches everywhere.

 To be honest, I had expected the atmosphere to be a little ostentatious. To my delight, I was wrong. The building and staff were all warm and welcoming. Soon the room was filled with the sound of happy conversation. It was plain to see and hear that every soul there was feeling jubilant. The air was infused with a feeling of joyous anticipation. It was almost a holiday feeling.

I sat back and took it all in, relishing being in a special place with three of my all-time favorite people in the world.

I knew the food would be excellent, but I honestly couldn't have ever expected just how perfect and beautiful it all would be.

These little things were Mangalitsa pork sliders. I have never put anything quite so delicious in my mouth before. 

The chef, herself, served us much of our food. She had a whimsical look on her face when she presented us with a tray of these little glass hens. "Pick a chick," she smiled. Each tiny chicken contained a mouthful of lemon thyme sorbet. Icy cold, and fresh. 

There was incredible cold soup made with the last of the seasons tomatoes, jalapeno peppers and cilantro. It tasted like summer on a spoon. Then the most beautiful salad I have ever seen. It tasted as wonderful as it looked.

This was followed by scallops, nestled on a bed of grits.

Then there was a buttermilk pound cake, served on a bit of custard. Topped with whipped cream, golden raspberries and baked plums. The chef came around and droozled warm caramel sauce over each serving. I nearly swooned.

And just when we were all filled with incredible flavors, pushing back our chairs to groan quiet, happy, groans, they came around with warm-from-the-oven cookies, and a bowl with fresh local apples and the sweetest little grapes.

I sort of floated out. The rain had stopped, the evening was soft and warm. We had just had an experience. It was so much more than a meal. The people, the building, the feeling of being a part of what the chef has created there. It was inspiring, uplifting, a delicious treat for the senses. The Lost Kitchen. Found.