The road, an avoided but available alternate route on most evenings, beckoned me with a quiet voice.
It sounded remarkably like my Significant One. It was a simple question: “Can we go up Old County?” I answered yes, or the voice in my head did, without prompting, directed toward the empty seat beside me.
When she is around, we must drive by the house where she grew up at least once. It looks vastly different, but the bones and structure are familiar. If we were ever called upon to see the house before a teardown, we could positively identify it for the undertaker. “Yes, that’s her,” we could say.
The yard is overgrown and looks a little like 1313 Mockingbird Lane. For those who didn’t watch television in the ’60s, that’s the Munster’s house.
It’s on a slower road, and I was traveling with the windows down for nostalgia. While it was ninety-two degrees, the self-initiated thirty-seven-mile-per-hour speeds over the cracked macadam were enough to move the air through the cab, keeping me from overheating.
Excessive humidity was lacking, so I channeled my twenty-year-old self. That was back when having an air-conditioned car was only a pipe dream. I cranked Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” and slowly meandered by the old digs. Not one to gawk; it was simply the drive-by I was seeking— nothing too nosey. She wasn’t with me, so braking or commenting was unnecessary.
I motored slowly up the hill that stole the last whimpering breath from the automatic transmission in my 1975 Pontiac Ventura. She loaned me the two hundred bucks to replace it—I paid her back on the installment plan and let her use the car often, so she had skin in the game.
Yes, America, there was a time when you could buy and have a transmission installed for two hundred dollars. I got it from a junkyard and had a filthy-fingernailed mechanical genius install it in his home garage—it worked perfectly for three more years.
Those were the days.
I noticed three distinct but separate scenes on that road—each Americana diorama included people chatting outside, seated in lawn chairs.
I guessed their homes were not air conditioned; very few in Maine have central air. Grabbing the tail end of an evening breeze, ever so slight, was enough to force a designated family member out to the overhead storage in the garage to grab the nylon-webbed aluminum chairs, freshly coated with dust from the long winter.
Plaid shirts, untucked, with shorts a little too tight but still cooler than jeans or work clothes, they chatted as I drove by, unfettered by the passing traffic—just talking.
I saw beers, glasses filled with something that looked like iced tea, and a few indiscriminate smoke signals from cigarettes lazily burning back to the filter between the fore and middle fingers of the conversers.
It was nothing and everything all at once—a snapshot of a hot night in America with the dishes left to be scrubbed a little later.
I suppose some of them might have discussed riding to Jimmy’s for an ice cream cone, but not right yet, and maybe not at all—indiscriminate chatter about things that didn’t matter, with snippets of some tidbits that did.
I ended my private tour at a stop sign that I’d rolled through hundreds of times. Back then, it was triangular and only mentioned yielding.
The off-course cruise took me only three minutes, maybe four. It was refreshing, a tour of my youth, some of which I mispent and some of which I invested wisely.
Gordon Lightfoot’s “Sundown” came on next, as if planned all along. Maybe it was.
Goodnight, from the Jagged Edge of America.
TC
*If you’ve considered supporting the writing you’ve read here, on Facebook, or the other places where my words are sometimes found, consider joining my supporters at the BuyMeACoffee App (yellow banner). At least subscribe to the Newslog to receive the writing in your inbox. My writing remains free to read on the Socials, of course. More books beyond the three are forthcoming, and I hope you buy them all. If the world knew the percentages small-time authors gleened from writing books, they’d be surprised, and not in a good way. This is where I try to make my living—Warren Buffett warned against it, but who am I to listen to a billionaire? Joining the Royal Order of Dooryard Visitors allows you to give monthly support for the entertainment, but one time donations to the cause are most appreciated. So many have helped, and I thank all of you for reading, regardless of all this talk of shekels and dinero. TC
This is one of the best books I have read in years. It has tenderness and warm, gentle humor - and several laugh out loud spots. Give yourself a gift and read this. You will better about life.
Amazon Customer October 9, 2020
Amazon
I loved every bit of this book. I’ve been following the Bangor Police page and then Tim Cotton’s page on Facebook for years now. I think of it as a tiny little piece of my day that I can count on to make me feel something – usually something good, comforting in some way, occasionally a wee bit of sadness, but sad in that wistful way that a person appreciates. This man writes the way I often find myself thinking in my own head. He points out all the commonalities that we have as people, rather than the differences. The differences he writes about are the superficial ones, and the ones that make us interesting. I stretched this book out for quite a long time, reading a chapter or two in between other books. It’s a great place to turn when a person wants to occupy their minds with something peaceful that helps us to understand the world and our place in it just a little more.
Unhappy July 1, 2020
Amazon
I’ve enjoyed Tim Cotton’s stories and ramblings on Facebook (or The Book of Faces, as he calls it) for a while now. And having a whole book of his musings is the reading equivalent of binge watching Netflix (something I’ve only recently learned about during the lockdown). Cotton talks about the little things and he tells it like it is. But it would be a mistake to say he has ‘no filter’ – he most definitely has a filter and it’s a filter of kindness and compassion. I liked Chapter 5 ‘The Cop’ best. It’s more fictional than the rest, and I hope it’s a hint of a novel to come?
Wrenn December 30, 2020
Amazon
I have read this book 4 times now; the first 2 times I read it slowly, trying not to let it end too soon. I decided to read a few other things after that – Hamlet, Great Expectations, A Time to Kill, A Time for Mercy, Little Women. The entire time I was reading those books I longed to go back and read The Detective in the Dooryard again. When I picked it up for the third time, I felt like I was sitting down with an old friend I hadn’t seen in years, the kind you know so well you can pick right back up where you left off. The Detective in the Dooryard is a collection of stories, some about Tim Cotton’s experiences as a Bangor, Maine police officer and Detective; some are about memories of things that shape us all into who we are today. Tim often references music, mostly from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. Just the mention of a song’s title makes me remember growing up and coming of age during those years, and I am immediately taken back to people, places and events in my past – some good, some bad, but always just as clear as if I were there. Tim’s writing is so descriptive you feel as if you are there inside each story as well; some of his writing actually takes my breath away. There is a lot of humor, wry sarcasm, wit, and deft handling of sometimes difficult subjects. This book is the touch of your Mother’s hand on your forehead when you’re sick, your favorite treat as a child; it’s coming home. Can’t wait for the next one
Hannah January 6, 2021
Amazon
This book is like a warm hug. I honestly don’t want to put it down, but I also don’t want it to end. The struggle is real. It is not a mystery that you think you can figure out and refuse to put it down to prove to yourself you’re smarter than the author, but it feels so good and real you want to read more. Maybe I’m biased because I grew up in Maine and Tim Cotton’s lyric writings immediately put me back in the Maine woods and setting sun as I try to get every bit of light to take in the last bit of beauty from the day. It really is poetic, and funny, and relatable. You don’t have to be a big old sentimental Mainer like me to thoroughly enjoy this book, you just have to be a human living in a chaotic world looking for a happy release. Would I recommend this book; YES, SIR! Will I be giving up my copy any time soon, probably not. I know I’ll pick this book up whenever I need a warm hug, a feeling that I’m home in Maine snuggled up on my gram’s homemade quilt, and a moment of happy calm. Pick this up and enjoy! You’re welcome!
