A woman in Lewiston needed a bedbug.
It didn’t have to be a particularly impressive bedbug, displaying an exceptional talent for bloodletting or an especially attractive exoskeleton.
In fact, it didn’t even have to be alive.
It’s not as if Misti Oliveira wanted the thing for a pet or something. Which is good, because bedbugs make lousy pets. They’re all but impossible to train, which means they jump on guests and suck their blood.
I’d intended to spend this month writing about Christmas here in Mahoosuc Mills. You know, visions of maple sugar plums and all. But I just need to get something off my chest.
Contrary to popular opinion, I have nothing against water.
This naturally occurring substance, in both its solid and liquid forms, is essential for making a decent highball. It’s also useful for extinguishing inadvertent fires. And I’m certain the season on delicious Maine shrimp would be greatly curtailed without an ocean full of it.
So, put me down as cheerfully admitting to carrying the water for, um, water.
My uncle Steve used to refer to Maine in December as being “ Dark as a pocket.” Maine poet Holman Day was partial to the phrase “Dark as a cellar shelf.” Feel free to insert whatever colorful local term you like. My point is that this pervasive darkness, this “Timmy’s-trapped-in-the-well” gloom we always experience here in Maine for the first three weeks in December is a daunting proposition by any name.
Mahoosuc Mills is just buzzing this week! Everyone’s busy getting ready for our Down Home Holiday Festival. It used to be the Down Home “Christmas” Festival, but we are now “politically correct.” The St. Hyacinth’s Christmas Bazaar is part of the festival. I guess we should change it to “Holiday” Bazaar, but hey, we’re Catholics! Who are we kidding?
Politicians lie. When they do, people shrug. It’s expected.
Economists get it wrong. People shrug again. Normal folks don’t believe those silly predictions in the first place.
Car dealers. Lawyers. TV pitchmen. Celebrities accused of sexual impropriety involving golf clubs. Shrug. Shrug. Shrug. And shrug again. Only a fool would take anything they said seriously.
I’ve had an unusually busy schedule of performances in the past couple of months. I’ve been looking forward to a bit of “down time” at home with family and friends at Thanksgiving.
Well, Thanksgiving has come and gone, so we are now officially in the midst of the holiday season. I’m going to jump right in with a gift-giving tip for you and your friends that is guaranteed to make Christmas shopping more fun.
See, the Women Who Run With the Moose (that’s me and my friends, Celeste, Rita, Betty, Dot, and Shirley) have known each other since God was in diapers, so it may surprise you to learn that we do not exchange gifts at Christmas.
I have great memories of Thanksgiving, and most of them involve my mother in an apron, doing just about everything. Oh, I sure do miss her.
My Dad would help her get the turkey into and out of the oven, and he’d carve. He’d cut up the turnip, too: a job for a man, and maybe his chainsaw. My sister Irene and me would peel the potatoes and stuff the celery with cream cheese, sprinkling a little paprika on top. But my mother did all the rest.
Every now and then some seemingly random incident in my life will kick off a series of other random events which, when viewed with a bit of hindsight, all seem to be weirdly connected, as s if some unseen director (cue “Twilight Zone” theme) is manipulating my day-to-day reality from just offstage. I know, I know, talk like that tends to suggest that I might benefit from a bit of R-and-R in a more controlled environment with some of those nice folks in the clean white coats. All kidding aside though, you’ve had this happen to you, right? Right?