Yes, this piece was written for my blog, but I put it on Facebook. The thing about Facebook is that they limit your reach for whatever reason, so I am placing it here on my Newslog, just in case someone has left that other fickle social media playland. Be well. TC
It’s likely because I have watched too much world news for a few days. After the balloon debacle, I paid more attention to the sad situations surrounding all of us. I found myself dragging my feet a little bit.
I tuned in more often than usual to get additional information about the Ohio-based East Palestinians with the poison in their air, soil, and water. Then I had to hear that Putin and the communist Chinese have suddenly found a way to get along. I have a strong hate for communism; I am unapologetic.
Collectively, they only get along to hate us more fervently. The enemy of my enemy is my friend; that’s a fact you can stick right on a bookmark and review from time to time. It’s a consistent truth in the world’s geopolitical scheme of things.
As for East Palestine, Ohio, I think those folks want to live their lives like the rest of us; you know, without being poisoned.
I have watched with interest how the community has handled this. I am impressed with them. I put myself in the shoes of someone who owns a home there; what can they do? No one is buying your house, and you can’t just pick up and move away from a mortgage. Bankers tend to chase you down for that. Frankly, it makes me sad.
I know there are things about America that wear on the nerves of those around us, but overall it’s been very good to me.
If it was as bad as “they” say, why would millions want to sneak in yearly?
I’ll tell you this, if I weren’t lucky enough to be born here, I’d sneak in too. People outside see us as a light. I believe that. Overall, we have been. I hang my hat there. Proudly, I might add.
But we have to have some semblance of order. Imagine being the folks in Texas watching the parade of illegal interlopers cutting across their backyards and clogging the infrastructure; don’t tell me you would accept that. You’d be enraged.
Half of us don’t want a neighbor’s dog to poop in our backyard. A third of those will call the cops before asking the neighbor to pick up the stool. I know this for certain. I’ve been to the calls.
It’s easy to think that everything pretty much sucks.
Our outlook on the world’s condition doesn’t take long to become dark and gray. Prices are high, people are pissy, and I find it difficult to wrap my head around the fact that, collectively, we can’t find a way to get along.
I needed a reset.
It came in Aroostook County. Sure, I saw my family, and that was grand. But our stop at a convenience store for a pound of butter and a robust paper bag put me over the top.
After a drive down Rt 2 for breakfast, I told my son I needed to pick up some Houlton Farms Butter.
About a mile later, he said, “Pull into Cameron’s. Right here. They usually have it, and it’s a nice little store.”
I did what he said.
From the backseat, I heard, “Gramps, why are we stopping here?” Her dad said, “Grampy wants some butter, honey.” She must have bought it; she’s seen me eat butter on her mother’s homemade biscuits. It’s probably not pretty.
Houlton Farms Creamery butter, and chocolate milk, are legendary in most places north of Augusta. It’s hard to get because they can only make so much. That’s how it should be with good stuff; that keeps stuff good.
The store had the feel of all the wonderful little stores I entered as a kid: neat, clean, freshly-painted surfaces and a smiling lady at the counter. I’d accept a smiling man, of course. But it’s my memory, and that’s how it used to be. The sandwich prep area was shining. Even the pizza ovens gleamed.
I headed for the milk cooler and found three pounds of HFC butter. It comes in one-pound blocks, uncut. The perfectly handprinted informational card on the cooler was specific. “Only One Pound Per Customer.”
This proclamation took me down a notch because I am not returning there for a while.
I complied. I’m a rule follower. And while it seemed like some small figment of communism had infiltrated Aroostook County, I knew the reason for the rule. They wanted me to have more, but they couldn’t keep up with demand; that’s capitalism. Rife with a chance for more profit if they can find some employees. And we are still close enough to COVID to blame it all on that. Everything else is.
I grabbed my pound of butter and a quart of their chocolate milk. I needed a chaser for the butter. There are reasons that their chocolate milk is so good, but you can do your own research. You should do it in the summer when they sell ice cream at the stand. So good.
The lady at the counter was pleasant and asked if I wanted a paper bag. I did. I wanted it more than the butter. I could see the various-sized paper sacks to her right. They were neatly kept and cordoned off from one another based on size and purpose.
The bag was thick and sturdy, a beer bag. I wonder why my local grocer can’t get bags that won’t rip open in sixty-three seconds, but the folks at Cameron’s in New Limerick, Maine, have it figured out. Someone at Hannaford’s should give them a call.
I digress.
I blurted it out, and I couldn’t help it. “I love your store; so clean. Just like the stores I went to when I was growing up.”
She smiled, “We’ve been here a long time.”
“Well, it’s my first time here, and I like it. I commend you.”
“Thank you!” She was still smiling. She was probably confused about why an old guy was so excited to get butter and chocolate milk. But it was the bag that topped it all off. I saved it. I can use it several times with no fear of tearing.
That was the end of our time together. I walked back to the car, stored the butter in the way-back to keep it cold, and exclaimed to my son that it was one of the most excellent stores I’d been to in years. He agreed.
He was slightly confused about why the interlude was crucial to my outlook. But that’s the way it is. I told him that the bag was excellent and that I could use it again. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was suspicious of my glee.
As a world-class hater of communism, Russian aggression, and a world gone crazy, the supplement that I needed was some perfect butter, chocolate milk, and a clean roadside emporium of childhood memories. Oh, and a perfect paper bag. The lovely lady didn’t hurt, either.
That’s how simple I am. I am unapologetic. If I weren’t born here, I’d sneak in, too, probably from the Canadian side. Aroostook County is where the good butter and paper bags are kept.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
TC