More Apple Picking in Alfred

Johnny Appleseed Ain't Got Nothin' on Me

Back in Texas, my family used to go to Fredericksburg for two reasons: to see my grandparents and to pick peaches. We'd always go to Marburger Orchard and pick Red Globe or Dixiland, depending on which was ripe. The best part was having my grandma's peach cobbler with a scoop of vanilla ice cream most likely from H-E-B. I can still see the casserole dish being pulled out of the oven with the crust just starting to turn golden and the syrup from the broken-down peaches bubbling up around it. I could never understand the people who bought their peaches at the grocery store because if they'd ever had a Fredericksburg peach, they'd never go back to those tasteless, hard peaches.

Today Spike and I went to pick apples in Alfred, a town southwest of Portland. It was the Shaker Hill Apple Festival with craft booths, a silent auction in a barn, and of course apple treats at the bakery. I've never been apple picking before, but I figured it was pretty much like my days picking peaches. Apples in the orchard were $1/pound so we bought as many as we thought we could reasonably eat and some extras so I could bake something. The temperature was a chilly 60ish with overcast skies, but the scenery made up for all that. The orchard is up on a hill looking down on an abundance of beautiful trees made even more amazing because the leaves in the area have started changing colors. We left with 5 pounds of apples, but on the way back to the car I had to have one. It was seriously one of the crunchiest, sweetest, juiciest apples I've ever had. I almost feel like today made my circle complete. I was able to go to an orchard and pick seasonal fruit in a setting that rivals the Texas Hill Country. Nothing can replace it, but it almost felt like home.

Don't Go Down-Cellar Alone

Texas can't have basements because of soggy ground and other stuff, I'm told. But virtually all the houses in New England have basements. Some people call them cellars. Our landlord, when speaking of the basement, will say, "Well, you know, I can't go down-cellar anymore. I can't drag the oxygen tank down with me." He's 85. And he's right - he has no business going "down-cellar."

You know that part in "Home Alone" when Kevin goes down to the basement to do laundry because he's being responsible? And it's dark and quiet and all kinds of creepy? Then the furnace kicks in and scares the living daylights out of him so he runs upstairs just as fast as his legs will carry him? Yeah, our basement is that kind of scary. I also know better than to go down there by myself at night. I take that back. I don't EVER go down there at night, period.

I thought I might give you an idea of what our basement looks like. It's been partitioned off so we have half and our landlord has the other. It would be very large if it weren't for the fence/wall in the middle. The first picture is of the stairs leading down - with no handrails mind you. The second is of our half. Down there is a 200 gallon tank used to hold oil since much of Maine is on top of granite. Granite is too hard to drill through, which means none of the houses have gas. It also means that we have to check the oil level in the tank every few months so we don't run on sludge. The last picture is of the furnace. And let me tell you, that thing will definitely have you screaming like Macaulay Culkin if you're not expecting it when it kicks in. I've been known to high tail it out of there on a hand full of occasions.

We're Still Here

This Labor Day weekend, Spike and I thought it might be fun to head down to New York City to see some friends - even if our friends didn't really have that much advance notice. The point of the weekend was to get out of town. I had a four day weekend and Spike had a 3 1/2 days off. Perfect for traveling, right? Wrong. Hurricane Earl had to make his appearance along the eastern seaboard, but it wasn't really an appearance north of Virginia and the Carolinas. But the Coast Guard wanted its people to stick close to home in case anything happened. So we stayed put.

The thing is, I knew we weren't going to be hit by this hurricane. I heard on the news last night that hurricanes hit Maine about once every 50-100 years. There is a downside to this, though. People freak out when they hear about it coming even if the forecast says that it will brush by. We had a tropical storm warning! And do you know what we got? A little rain Friday night. The streets were damp on Saturday morning, but we never heard wind gusts or the pelting of rain against windows. You know what would have happened in Texas if the weather had been like this? Nothing! Now I realize that the experiences and circumstances are different here, but most people wouldn't cancel big plans if the forecast was predicting "a brush with the weakened storm." That's like people putting their life on hold in Houston because there's something going on in South Padre Island or Brownsville. Ridiculous!

So yes, we're still here. In both senses of the word. We're still alive after a short rain on Friday night. We're also still at home trying to figure out how to spend the rest of this long weekend. Maybe we'll head down to New Hampshire where there's no sales tax or take a walk around town and enjoy the (still) beautiful weather.