Notes from Maine - 2024/11/10

Mom and I went to Frosty’s Donuts yesterday. It’s a little donut shop that has lived in Brunswick since 1965. Although Bob and June Frost passed the shop along to new owners more than 10 years ago, the recipes remain the same. Everything there is delicious. They expanded for a while and then contracted during COVID. You can only catch them open a few days a week, and you have to get there before they sell out, but it’s worth a trip.

Last summer, my sister bought us Frosty’s t-shirts. She said that if we wore them into the shop, we would get a free donut. Today, we finally tested that promise.

“My sister gave us these t-shirts and said that if we wore them in here we would get a free donut,” I said to the person behind the counter.

Another person appeared on my left—I think one of the owners—and asked, “Who told you that?”

“My sister.”

“Was it April Fool’s Day?” the owner asked with a big smile.

I’m still not sure of their policy, but we both got free donuts. In fact, they were out of jelly donuts (Mom asked for a jelly) but they went in back and made one just for her. Wonderful place. I’ll wait until we get clarification on the real policy before I try to claim another donut. I don’t want to take advantage of their good nature. We did leave a tip even though there was no charge.

After that, we went to make shadow puppets at the library. A friend of mine was hosting the event—mostly kids but all ages were welcome. We took the opportunity to check out some DVDs from the library while we were there. The library has a great selection of movies and TV shows and they don’t need to be back until the end of the month. 

At home, the house is still somewhat of a mess. Projects are going full swing, so tools litter the interior landscape. Sometime this week I’ll switch from construction to cleanup. I don’t think there will be a lot of visitors for Chip’s party, but the kitchen needs to be firing on most of its cylinders in order for people to prepare a decent meal. 

I woke up this morning convinced that I was sleeping in my Uncle David’s room. When I lived at my grandparents’ house, I stayed in Uncle David’s room—it was still called that even though he had moved out decades before. Next year, I will be as old as he ever reached. In his fifties, he was struck by a van while riding his bicycle. After he died, I lived in the room named for him for less than a decade, but it’s still the room I’m convinced that I’m in most mornings when I wake up. With my eyes still closed, I imagine the wood paneling and aging carpet. The windows didn’t have any weights or cords—just little thumb clamps to hold the sash either up or down. In the winter, the windows would rattle at the slightest breeze. 

I reached out to touch the desk that should have been next to the bed. That’s when I realized that I was in my house. David’s room is long gone. Everyone who used to live there has moved to the cemetery behind the convenience store on Route 27. For the first thirty-five years of my life, that place was an immutable landmark. No matter what else happened in the world, you could return there and gain perspective from a vantage point that was outside of human frailty and the churn—the endless churn of constant change. When my grandmother died, twenty years ago, the last rope was cut and we were set adrift. But I still wake up thinking that I’m in that room. It was boring, confining, and too hot, but it was as solid as concrete. 

I thought that after twenty years in this house I would have roots that deep. By the time I finish this kitchen (less than 10 years from now, I’m sure), I will have lived in this house more than half of my life. With my eyes closed, I’ll still be in Uncle David’s room.