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Three topics today, food, a new way of offering something to others, and our trip to Campobello Island in New Brunswick last week which are the photos below.
On the way home a few days ago we made what has to be a new pilgrimage stop at the Riverside Take Out, a roadside food operation run by two men - partners in business and in life - who have provided some of the best food in my recent memory, and they have been diong it for the last nine years. They are only open during the Spring into Fall Season and I cannot give less than a multiple star rating and the recommendation that if passing through Machais Maine please do not pass up the opportunity to eat here at one of their picnic tables or in your car if raining. I do recommend their haddock in any of its menu offerings and, especially their french fries - the best I have ever had anywhere !!! Finish with their ice cream and your food day is complete. (Route One just north of the Machais bridge.) The first photo is of their place. Do not be put off by its appearance as we are talking of some of the best Downeast Maine has to offer.
Secondly I am reading a book on the subject of nature by Carl jung put together by Meridith Sabini, a woman who apart from her work as a psychologist believes that if something we want to get rid of can be used by someone else, try to make sure that it is given where it can be best offered. She wrote an article for a website called "Conversations" on her experience with reusing the possessions of a neighbor who died. I have put the article in its entirety at the end of this post and highly recommend reading this wonderful story. In this age of bad and friehtening news being the staple fare of local and world news, this is a ray of hope.
The site of "Conversations" is worth a visit - Click here:
http://www.conversations.org/index.php?op=about
And, this week's photos -
A New Pilgrimage Site
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Three images of Lubec, Maine taken from Campobello Island
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Three images of a few of the flowers on Campobello Island
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God lights the ground of a
new day,
And the rising fog is
Love's Incense
To awaken our senses to
the Present Moment.
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Above and below, the Roosevelt Summer House on Campobello
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The Dumpster: by Meredith Sabini
by Meredith Sabini, Dec 5, 2007
“We can’t use these.
They look like heirlooms!” Gina, a guest at my holiday gathering, holds up one
of the elaborately embroidered napkins from the buffet table. “Where’d you get
them?”
“Out of a
dumpster. The tablecloth and those candleholders were in there, too.”
“You can’t be
serious! Why would they be in a dumpster?” The shock in her voice carried
across the room, and others looked up.
It’s common that
women ask where something came from, especially if it’s an attractive article
of clothing or new addition to the house. But to name a dumpster as the source
of anything, especially an object of beauty, is completely unexpected.
My explanation
created an atmosphere of mystery. The tale was so unlikely that later my
friends joked that perhaps I’d dreamed it.
The red napkin, tablecloth, and candlesticks all belonged to
Mrs. Cybulski (not her real name), a widow who had lived down the street as
long as I’d been in the neighborhood, about twenty years.
Except to water
her yard, she didn’t go out much. And when she did, she stayed near the house,
as if the tether fastening her to life had retracted, pulling her toward an
eternal home.
One day, I
noticed a full-size dumpster in front of her bungalow. I assumed it was for
yard debris or trash from some renovation project. But soon strangers appeared.
On my daily walk, I could see them scurrying around the property. A boy about
twelve sat on the porch, looking morose. His expression evoked a twinge of
anxiety in me that perhaps Mrs. Cy had died.
I called over
haltingly, “Is she gone?”
“Yeah, she
passed.” It was hard to tell whether he was upset at losing kin or just sulky
at having to help with an unpleasant task.
Through the large
plate glass window I could see a woman balancing stemware between her fingers.
A man about forty emerged from the back door, his arms piled high with what
appeared to be bedding. I waited nearby to see if he was really going to
deposit it in the dumpster.
Reluctant to
intrude yet curious, I introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Meredith, a neighbor down
the street. Sorry to hear about Mrs. Cybulski. Was she your grandmother?”
“Great aunt.
Ninety-one. Had a good life,” he said, and proceeded towards the dumpster, our
conversation apparently over. He placed the neatly folded sheets and blankets
down carefully, as if this were now the room in which they would be kept. I’d
seen dumpsters full of discards of all kinds, but never one like this, packed
like a trunk for an ocean voyage.
I stood fixed to
the spot, bewildered by the odd juxtaposition of sudden death and business-like
calm. The nephew soon appeared with the next batch, which he stacked on top of
the previous one in the same perfunctory manner. Considering his lack of
feeling, I figured I could peer into the dumpster without offending anyone. A
wooden daybed, surrounded by perfectly decent household items, was pushed up
against one side as if, at any moment, someone was going to recline there with
a book for an afternoon read.
I dislike seeing
things go to waste and the daybed was just the ticket for my guestroom; the old
upholstery could easily be replaced. But asking to save something from the
newly departed seemed crude. Was this merely social propriety, or a primordial
instinct out of which taboos arise? If the nephew wasn’t especially grieved by
his aunt’s death, perhaps he wouldn’t be upset by my request to salvage a
motley piece of furniture. Hesitantly, I ventured, “I wonder if I could offer
to purchase that daybed from you, if you’re planning to get rid of it?”
“No, but take it.
You can have it.” He marched past me without looking, without missing a beat.
And I walked inside my first dumpster.
I’ve been to
archaeological sites, know the sun-bleached whiteness of bone, the tea-colored
stains left by earth. Here, no layers of soil obscured the find. To get to the
daybed, I had only to move the piles of bedding. Her hall closet must now be
empty, for here were ironed sheets, blankets, table linen, and the kind of
embroidered and crocheted cloths that are found in old women’s attics. When I
saw these, my own mourning resumed.
Evenings at my
grandmother’s had been spent with the two of us huddled together on the divan,
working needles of colored thread through squares of muslin, as she taught me
how to give shape to the birds and flowers we ironed onto future kitchen
towels. The few I have left are like gold to me. My grandmother and Mrs. Cy
were of the same generation.
When our
grandparents died, my brother and I had to deal with their belongings. It was
the late ’70s, a time when the perennial battle between spirit and matter was
once again inflamed. Caving in to the pressure not to be attached to things or
hold onto the past, we gave away too much and sold the rest for a song. Objects
imbued with our ancestors’ mana slipped through our fingers, going to strangers
who cared not for their spirit but only their matter.
Into the dumpster
were going similar artifacts of a lifetime. I didn’t know Mrs. Cy well but this
desecration had to stop. I had recently taken a religious vow of voluntary
simplicity and was deeply committed to reducing my over-consumption by keeping
existing goods in circulation and tending them with care. I could not stand by
and watch while usable things went to molder in landfill. The nephew was headed
in my direction with another load and I decided to press my luck.
“Are these linens
and bedding going too? I would be glad to give you something for them as well.”
I pointed to a stack at the foot of the daybed.
“Oh, I guess you
can have them. But I would make sure they get laundered.”
Was it her death
that contaminated them, or her life? Trying not to sound snide, I assured him I
would wash everything, and began stacking the linens atop the daybed. Among
them were an old-fashioned lace coverlet, a fine damask tablecloth with a dozen
matching napkins in their original box, and pure cotton sheets with laundry
tags at the corners. Laundering did not seem to be the issue.
After setting
aside these things, I walked home to get my truck. When I came back, neither
the man nor his son looked up, much less offered to help. I dragged out the
daybed. Metal springs and horsehair filling made it heavy, but, with leverage,
I managed to hoist it onto the flatbed. I decided that I would return for the
rest after the relatives had left.
By five o’clock
their car was gone. I pulled open the huge doors of the dumpster. I was
stunned. It looked as if Mrs. Cy’s entire household had been packed inside.
Perched at the top was a faded green Chesterfield. I would not have been
surprised to see Mrs. Cy’s angry ghost hovering just above it.
Dressed for this
venture in jeans and work boots, I approached with an apprehension that went
beyond social propriety or legal concerns. What had happened to Carter when he
first opened King Tut’s tomb? Didn’t he die soon thereafter?
The dumpster was
full. Between strata of useless items, treasures emerged: several tiny Indian baskets, a lovely handmade
cotton quilt in yellows and greens, a pair of tin folk-art wall sconces, an
antique brass lamp with a fluted glass shade, circa 1930, a huge red tablecloth
emblazoned with white stitching. Dainty tea towels appliquéd with delicate
purple flowers. And kitchenware of every type, as if all the drawers had been
simply turned upside down. Lawn clippings. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich
in a ziplock bag, white bread still springy.
I lost track of
time in this coffin-world. From the position of the sun, it looked to be early
evening. I was tired. My hunting and gathering had been bountiful. My truck
clanked with its cargo of fireplace tools, a chaise lounge, a Jade plant in a
glazed Chinese pot.
The next morning I
went back. As I climbed atop the pile, a planter box tipped over, spilling fine
dark soil on Mrs. Cy’s navy wool coat. Nature’s pull to compost was strong; I
paddled against its tide. A jar of strawberry jam fell out of a damp cardboard
box and broke open, adding stickiness to the task. A peculiar magic associated
with life’s passing demonstrated itself, as contents that had been securely
bound and held as long as their owner drew breath began to give way.
More treasures
emerged from the massa confusa: red napkins to match the tablecloth unearthed
yesterday—the napkin Gina held up; a small cut-glass bowl on a sterling silver
base; a garment bag containing fancy cotton dresses and petticoats dating to
1910 or 1915; a small box carved out of a walnut burl. Then, from a nondescript
shopping bag, the most astonishing find: a satin cloche hat beaded with pearls
and two antique silk shawls, one champagne-colored with long fringe, the other
deep rose.
As I handled
these, tears welled up at their beauty, and their abandonment. Were these items
part of her wedding trousseau from the old country? By shoving them into the
bag, had the nephew or his wife turned their backs on the family heritage, the
way my mother and father also turned away from their old world backgrounds?
Mrs. Cy’s shawls,
pearl hat, and antique dresses would go into my grandmother’s cedar chest
alongside her dishtowels and my other grandma’s black lace mantilla. The
heritage of womanhood resides in heirlooms like these, saved for special
occasions and stored where the bright light of day can’t dull their radiance.
The threads of these garments touch the flesh of one generation, then another,
and the next, weaving life’s warp and weft.
Mrs. Cybulski’s
things took up residence in my house. The tin sconces were hung above the
fireplace, the quilt went on a wall to brighten a room. The brass lamp shed its
years of oxidation, the burled walnut box drank up lemon oil. I did wash all
the linens and blankets, not to rid them of any lingering odor of death, but to
honor them with freshening. When this rite of renewal was completed, I lit the
candles in the sconces and said a prayer for Mrs. Cy. I wished her well on her journey
and thanked her for this unexpected beneficence. I apologized for disturbing
her relatives and hoped she’d understand.
Certain events do
resemble dreams. They are like a pebble that falls into a lake, the ripples
slowly spreading until the entire body of water registers its impact. Or a
bracken fern, tight and compact when it first pokes up above the ground, later
uncurling to great width. And so it has been with my encounter with the
dumpster parked down the block many years ago. It still ripples throughout my
life like a dream unfolding in all directions around a central stalk.
My ancestors also
were first-generation immigrants, who arrived in this country with only what
they could carry. The little they came to own was theirs for a lifetime.
Anything that broke was repaired; chairs and sofas re-covered, tables
refinished. Objects did not come and go but remained stable, adding to the
stability of the world. What I have of theirs contributes to the weight of my
being.
It is common these
days to lament how materialistic we have become, but I do not believe this is
accurate. It seems to me that we have not yet begun to value matter. Much that
is made today is not intended to last and cannot be repaired. Mana is unable to
fill our possessions. Lacking substance, they cannot become proper vessels for
spirit. We may ask where objects come from, but they no longer have stories to
tell. They too have lost their roots. How, then, are we to leave tangible
mementoes of ourselves when we go? What will be left to caress?
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Some Humor:
Peace and serenity,
Bill Lagerstrom
