Notes from Maine - 2023/11/19
I went to Chip’s party yesterday—lots of fun. For years and years, Chip had his pre-Thanksgiving party at my house. Having them here was more practical. The scope of party expands and contracts from year to year. Sometimes it’s a cozy twenty, and other times there will be more than fifty people sitting down for a meal. With no kitchen here, it made sense for Chip to host the party himself again.
Unfortunately, when the party is at Chip’s house, there are no auxiliary activities. Over the years at my house we’ve had a potato cannon competition, walk on hot coals, ninja warrior course, mechanical bull, mountain bike trials, lumberjack events, go kart races, bonfire jumping, slack line, and mini golf, to name a few. Amy (Chip’s wife) has forever banned the chanting of, “Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip!” because it always ends in an injury.
Still, it was a great time. There are some people who I only see at Chip’s party, and it’s nice to catch up. While I was gone, a crime may have been committed. Over the years, I’ve found this neighborhood to be very safe with only a couple of exceptions. Credit cards used to send out checks that you could use. I haven’t seen them in a while. When Todd was living here, someone drove down the road, stealing all the blank checks. They used those checks and then were later caught and prosecuted. Todd had to fill out a form with a police report to dispute the charges if I’m remembering correctly.
Another time, I was moving a pallet that roofing material was delivered on. A person pulled over and asked if I needed the pallet or if they could have it. I said I had plans for it and I dragged it about a third of the way down my driveway and left it there. The next morning, it was gone.
Unless I’m forgetting something, that was it. Mail theft (identity fraud, I suppose), and a stolen pallet. But when I got home from Chip’s party yesterday, I looked for a package that should have arrived. Nothing. Checking the tracking, it says, “Delivered, Left with Individual, November 18, 2023, 11:11 am.”
I wasn’t here at 11:11am. I was at Chip’s party. I asked the horses and the dogs—no answer. I talked to my neighbors to see if anyone saw anything—nope. I don’t know who the individual was, but it wasn’t me, and I don’t have the package. I know this sort of thing happens all the time elsewhere (porch pirates, and such), but I’m struggling to think who could have accepted this package from the mail carrier. Maybe it’s just a mistake. I’m expecting something else today, so I’ll try to catch the carrier to see if it’s the same person who delivered yesterday. Meanwhile, I’ve already filed a claim. That box had parts that I need to finish one of the pinball machines, and I’d like to get that done. When I’m not writing or working on the kitchen, repair work is my relaxation.
Meanwhile, I’m thinking of my Aunt Barbara. She has a milestone birthday tomorrow, so please send happy birthday thoughts her way. Years ago, I thought about all my aunts and combined them into a character I named Madelyn. Growing up, the sisters all struck me as independent, resourceful, intelligent, fierce, and funny. And Barbara is insightful—she sees you, and does not hesitate to remind you of your own strengths when you forget or doubt them. A compliment from her is something you can trust as truth. I tried to imbue Madelyn with the qualities of my aunts, and I ended up with a character I loved, and could not predict. Later, I combined the three Madelyn books in to one volume called, “Alone for the Apocalypse.” It’s one of my favorite series.
I keep staring out the window, waiting for the mail. It’s Sunday, so they will pull into the driveway to deliver the package. I already have my shoes on. I’m primed to run out there, like a crazy stalker, so I can ask about yesterday.
