Notes from Maine - 2022/09/25
The air was perfect this morning. Clean and crisp. There was a hint of fall, but the bright sunshine promises afternoon warmth. When I make coffee, I put a dash of “Cake Spice” into the grounds. That’s what the air smelled like this morning—Cake Spice. My grandmother used to make potpourri in the fall. She collected rose petals from the Rugosa that took over the south side of the barn. She dried the petals in the barn on big screens and added in all kinds of spices and some aromatic oils. When it was ready, she tied the potpourri into little sachets to sell at the fair that her club put on every summer.
That fair was fun.
The club members would all contribute food and crafts and they would take over the gym of the Belgrade Central School on a summer afternoon. There was a pie table and a cookie walk. My grandfather would set up a “fish pond” where kids would hook little gifts wrapped in tissue paper. One year my grandmother gave her recipe for Italian Sandwiches to one of the other club members. Instead of getting the good rolls from Damon’s on Western Ave, this person had made the Italians on HOT DOG ROLLS. That scandal marked the last time my grandmother trusted anyone else with making the Italians. The club could ask $1 per sandwich if they were made correctly. They couldn’t afford to lose that revenue.
Some of the club members tried to treat the fair like it was a big junk sale. They would bring in books or knick knacks with little price tags and then stage them over near the craft table where Evelyn had the knit hats.
In the winter, my grandmother would hook rugs. Each summer one rug would be raffled along with quilts and afghans that others had made. Sandwiches aside, I think that’s where most of the money came from.
I’m not entirely sure where the money ended up. I think the club would pick a charity or maybe support the school. I’m struggling with the name of my grandmother’s club. I want to say it was the Kennebec Valley Mothers Club. Although recently, someone told me that it was just KVMC, and they never officially agreed on what the initials stood for. Who told me that? Was it my sister? Maybe I’m making that whole thing up. Those initials (KVMC) also belong to the Kennebec Valley Medical Center, so perhaps that whole thing is a false memory?
The internet doesn’t know anything about my grandmother’s club from fifty years ago. If we’re not going to document the important things, why bother with Wikipedia at all?
Speaking of those hooked rugs, what am I supposed to do with them all? She raffled a bunch, but my grandmother also kept a bunch. At one point, my grandparents had a whole room dotted with handmade rugs. There are scenes of pinecones and distant trees. There are paisley patterns and big flowers. Right now they’re all rolled up in storage upstairs. I don’t want to use them—the dogs would damage them too much. Hanging them turns them into dust magnets.
My father had one on his wall in Virginia. After decades of indoors smoking, he sent it to be cleaned. It came back with renewed colors that were too vivid to be trusted. Now that same rug is monotone once again—hanging in Dad’s house. It hasn’t been cleaned in at least 25 years.
Anyway, that’s everything that went through my head as I did my outdoor chores this morning. It’s amazing what a deep breath of fresh air will remind you of.
