The poet laureate of Mahoosuc Mills strikes again, and who could blame him. If Shakespeare had had the pleasure of partaking in one of Babe’s homemade, fresh-from-the-oven, maple glazed donuts, I’m sure he’d have written a sonnet about it. Thankfully, Charlie stepped in to fill the gap. Here’s his latest. Maple Glazed Doughnut Down to the mill, If you punch in early, ‘Round about ten Your stomach gets squirrel-ly Someone’s elected To go, make it hasty And bring us all back Some coffee and pastry Muffins, of course, Are a popular pick And danish are usually Polished off quick The guys all have favorites They never outgrow, For me, it’s the Maple Glazed Doughnut On …
Charlie and me had a great time on Saturday night. We went to a dance down to the VFW. It was a fundraiser for the artist collective that our niece Caitlin belongs to. I don’t know exactly what an artist collective is, but she seems to have a lot of fun with it so it can’t be half bad. The band wasn’t the usual deal we’d go in for, you know rock n’ roll oldies. It was this Latin-type band up form Portland. Oh, what a cute bunch of young fellas, wicked talented and very energetic! When it come right down to it, Charlie wanted to blow the whole thing off. “I’m tired from workin’ …
After a certain age, your body changes. You and I know this to be true. The fat in your butt inches it’s way ‘round your stomach. That extra plumpness that was keeping your breasts perky has headed south for the duration, taking up permanent residence on your inner thighs. Your hair migrates from where you want it to someplace else, where you don’t. Then there’s the feet. Women, like me, tend to get bunions caused by shoes that are too tight, too narrow or too high. In short, they’re cute, but impractical. Hey, you have to suffer to be beautiful, right? Men get what Charlie and his friends call “old man feet.” I don’t even …
The warmer weather brings all sorts of creatures out of their hidey holes. The chipmunks are making a ruckus in the yard and we have 100% occupancy in our bird houses––five in all. Down to the A&P, I’ve spotted many a young buck in his spring uniform of choice: shorts, t-shirt, flip flops and a polar fleece vest. His female counterpart is wearing flip flops, too, usually with skinny jeans, a t-shirt and a big scarf. A variation of this getup is to substitute UGG’s for the flip flops and short-shorts for the jeans. Apparently, these young folk subscribe to wardrobe averaging. Meaning summer clothes, plus one winter item equals a legitimate spring ensemble. For …
Ida Leclair discusses how husbands work on special projects at the most inopportune times.
This time of year in Maine, it’s not unusual to see big groups of wild turkeys walking through the neighborhood. They make their rounds every morning, like it’s one of them progressive dinners, going from house to house, chowin’ down under every birdfeeder on the block. Generally, how men feel about squirrels on birdfeeders, that’s how women feel about turkey’s under ‘em. Squirrels are cute and fuzzy, but let’s face it: turkey’s are just plain ugly.Velociraptor, I call ‘em. Even the baby ones are none too cute. One turkey would be more than enough, but you get fifteen or twenty of ‘em together in your yard and boy, that’s a whole lot of ugly. These …
Few weeks back, Charlie’s out mowin’ the lawn. I’m putterin’ around the kitchen, you know, cleaning the stove top, excavatin’ the vegetable bin, when I happen to look out the window and see Charlie doin’ the two-step around the yard. Weird, I thought, but gee, he can move pretty fast for an old duffer. Later, I see him bending down, lookin’ under our big viburnum, the one by the bird house my niece Caitlin give us. When he comes in, I ask, “Charlie, what the heck were you doin’ out there?” “Mowing the lawn. What did it look like I was doin’?” “Gettin’ ready to audition for “So You Think You Can Dance?” “Very funny. …
I can’t believe it’s the end of August! No way, no how! I don’t care how hot or muggy it’s been, I do not want summer to end. I do not want to see a mum or apple cider or apples in general, unless they’re in a pie at someone’s cookout. I, for one, have not forgotten what a bear last winter was, and I want to hang on to the sunshine, the smell of Coppertone, fresh-cut grass and the feel of a warm breeze on my skin as long as I possibly can. It seemed like it went by in a blink of an eye, didn’t it? That’s what happens when you’re busy. This …
Boy, I’ll tell ya, things are always changin’ down to the transfer station! So much so, it’s hard to keep it all straight, one week to another. They take #1 and #2 plastic, but #5? One week yes, the next week no. Keep the plastic caps on the bottles? No, now you’re supposed to take ‘em off and put ‘em over there. I secretly wonder if, late at night, they don’t have a good laugh at our expense, as they mix all the recycling together and toss it into the compactor. Pretty cynical, I know, but the thought has crossed my mind. Oh, it’s just too much rigmarole for me. But Charlie, thank God, he …
Well, we had an incident up to Dot and Tommy’s camp this weekend that was wicked embarrassing. It’s really Charlie’s story to tell, so I’ll let him. After all, he is, by default, the Poet Laureate of Mahoosuc Mills. Stinkfoot, by Charlie LeClair Sunday, Ida, me and Scamp We’re up to Dot and Tommy’s camp All the gang were comin’, too Tommy planned a barbeque His plans, alas, were all in vain When darn, if it began to rain “Bring the food in!” Tommy cried And we were forced to move inside There we ate, and all was well ‘til some of them complained of smell I thought the hubbub was excessive But soon the …
