Sunday, June 17, 2007


I drove out to my parent's house yesterday, as my sister and her kids are in town and I had the day off. I was thinking about what my next post was going to be, since I haven't written for a while. The conclusion of The Sopranos made me think about my mother and her brush with the literary elite. Her summers are filled with making jam, relish and pickles, and working of the farm stand that she and my father operate. That hard work affords them 6 months in Florida, where she continues to work odd jobs to keep herself busy and help other people while my father tans and volunteers at various places. Maine, the so called vacationland, has attracted many people to come off the beaten path (or in our case Interstate 95, the only real highway in the state) and stop by the farm stand with the lure of signs stating fresh vegetables, jams and maple syrup and WIC Accepted. The signs are hand painted by my father, on recycled plywood from his failed bid for the state senate in 1985. She has met David Chase, writer of The Sopranos. "What is that show?" she asked me later. "It's on HBO," I tell her, which means nothing since my parent's don't have cable or a dish. There is no cable to be had where they live. Mom has also met Richard Russo, and Jennifer Boylan. Both authors are connected to Colby College, and while Russo is famous for having his novels made into movies starring Paul Newman (Nobody's Fool and Empire Falls), Boylan is mainly known for her transformation from man to woman, chronicled in She's Not There: a Life in Two Genders.

I love that my mom is not a name dropper. Name droppers seem to be people who cling to popularity by flashing their connections in the world, as superficial as those connections may seem. Mom treats everyone the same.

My own conclusion this week was finally finishing Six Feet Under. I balked at watching the last season, since I had heard a spoiler and felt at the time that I already knew what was going to happen. Still, it came across as shocking to me. I cried my eyes out, feeling old wounds open as I watched. I had the strange urge to call my sister-in-law in England, but even at my late hour it seemed too early there. I was in no state to talk, and couldn't even. I hadn't wept like that in some time. I started watching Six Feet Under about 4 months into my widowhood. I was unsure about the first episode, since I was still very fragile and upset by the smallest things. I was hooked by the dark humor and the humanity of it all, and relished it. I was having an affair with Netflix at that time, since my prescription to Lorazepam ran out and and I needed to try to sleep on my own and entertain myself when I wasn't. The show got weird at times, but it was true. I'm sad it's over.

1 comment:

Leucantha` said...

I would love to visit your parents stand. I think it would be very interesting to see a farm in Maine. I imagine it to be worlds apart from my little desert garden.

I thought of you yesterday as we visited the library. There were many kids unattended. My son enjoyed the visit though and we enrolled him in the summer reading program. I even found a couple of books during his story time.