I do not do good with facts, tending to get them all comfabulated somewhere, and to back it up with paper, well there are a dozen places I could have put those pieces of paper...in my living room alone. But I shall endeavor. The box full of all my old stuff from my lives gone by is the best place to start I think. A dozen little pictures flash through my mind of me putting bits and pieces of my life in it. I was born in Bridgeport General Hospital, located in Bridgeport, Connecticut. that is from my birth certificate and a hospital certificate with my footprint on it.  I have a baby book that chronicles my life up to grade school which I do not really remember. I was healthy and loved, from the entries I read in it. I have several pictures of my birthdays from this time period; I was spoiled too.
            I entered school in Center Annex School, in Seymour Connecticut, grades K-2. I have class pictures with those grades on them with the name of the school. I was cute and for some reason always laughing, go figure. I remember moving to Maine after that and living with my grandparents for a time. I have the class picture that says I went to school at Jefferson Street School during my third grade with a certain teacher from that class but that is a different story. My grandparents have long since sold the house, and  the school is no longer there, sadly. Long after I had moved away I fell down the marble stairs of the front entryway of that school and severely sprained an ankle. I figured it was a parting gift.
            We moved to Orrington, Maine in the middle of the school term, so I was not in Old Town a whole year. I have my brother's fifth Grade picture which says he was in South Orrington Elementary Fifth grade. He did not move to Orrington alone, much as he would have liked to have gotten rid of me, I just had to tag along. I do not know why mother gave me his pictures, I think to get them out of her drawers. I have a few more class pictures of different grades through the years in Orrington, I had a lot of hair.
            I participated in our country's bicentennial events as per the Orrington newsletter dated...OMG! 1976! I demonstrated the fine art of dipping candles. the picture of me in frontier garb working over a vat of hot candle wax is too grainy and yellowed to tell what the candles looked like but I think they were ok, little skinny maybe. I graduated elementary school in June of 1978. I have the graduation announcement stuck in my baby book
           I have a bit  more stuff from high school then I did my junior high years. A program from the basketball games at the Bangor auditorium, John Bapst High School letter from doing the rally squad, (think pom pom girl) Finally a copy of my high school diploma, which is stuck in the baby book with my eight grade graduation announcement. I have tenderly preserved my next document a DD-214 which says I joined the military on June 20, 1981. I remember that day and the bus ride that took me from my life as a daughter, sister, child, to my life as a sailor, wife, mother, and friend.

An Autobiography of My Life, by Me

I remember...with a factual back up ...I can do this, although I am much more able to do it when I have all my switches on. Maybe not at 4 in the morning, although I am usually up at that hour Wednesday I would be at work as evidenced by three years worth of time cards for Wed, mornings, compliments of the Piscataquis Observer. I do not do good with facts, tending to get them all comfabulated somewhere, and to back it up with paper, well there are a dozen places I could have put those pieces of paper...in my living room alone. But I shall endeavor. File box is a good place to start. I was born in Bridgeport General Hospital, located in Bridgeport, Connecticut. that is from my birth certificate and hospital certificate. I was enrolled in Center Annex School K, 1, ans 2. I have class pictures with those grades on them with the name of the school. I remember moving to Maine and I have the class picture that says I went to school at Jefferson Street School during my third grade. I remember a certain teacher from that class but that is a different story. We moved to Orrington, Maine, so I was not in Old town  a whole year. I have my brother's fifth Grade picture which says he was in South Orrington Elementary Fifth grade. He did not move to Orrington alone, much as he would have liked to have gotten rid of me, I just had to tag along. I participated in our country's bicentennial events as per the Orrington newsletter dated OMG! 1976! and I graduated elementary school in June of 1978. I have the graduation announcement stuck in my baby book, along with my high school one dated 1981 from Brewer High School. I have tenderly preserved my next document a DD-214 which says I joined the military on June 20, 1981 and was discharged on February 29, 1984. Let it be said that there is no moss growing on this rolling stone, my son's birth certificate says he was born on March 6, 1984. It was really a rather busy week for me. 
 I was married on June 23, 1984, and moved to South Carolina after that. So says the wedding announcement in the paper can't tell which paper though since I only have the article clipping. I had my daughter on July 27,1985. We left South Carolina for Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. I have the plane tickets still. On a side note, if you ever get the chance to live in the Caribbean...take it. The pictures you see in the movies and magazines are nothing compared to the real thing.
Left Cuba, kicking and screaming, for...Beeville, Texas. There is no document to prove I was kicking and screaming, but I really was; I just did not want to leave. However Beeville is where my youngest son was born. Shortly after which we were transferred to Pensicola, Florida. We lived there for a few years and the last year there we were lucky enough to experience our first hurricane, we were so amazed by the experience we had to repeat it again. I have clippings.
After the second hurricane my husband was transferred to North Carolina, kids school records. Three days after arriving there,  I experienced the third hurricane. That was nauseatingly fun. So much so that a few months later I tried again. I am the only person alive I think that has experienced 4 hurricanes in the space of one year's time almost to the day. Hurricane Erin in August of 1995,Opal in October of 1995, Bertha in July of 1996, Fran in September of 1996. There is a list somewhere of those hurricanes having struck Florida and North Carolina I am sure. I really hate hurricanes now and if I am ever in another one, I am going to get drunk and pass out, waking up after the storm has passed so I do not have to see it or hear it. I left my husband in July of 1997 and moved to Maine. Rental agreement and then later on school records of the kids. Divorce in 1999. Married again in 2005, moved to Dover in my own little trailer in November of 2005. Enrolled in college in January of 2010 and was on the Dean's List that first semester. Got knocked off the second semester by Chemistry. I was back on the honor roll for the third semester but not enough to pull up the C in chemistry that I received my second semester. There is something inherently wrong about adding letters.  Sewer pipes blew up, have the bill for that one, and that brings me here to today, where I live next to my river, surrounded by all the little bits and pieces of the proof of my life, kinda like all those picture negatives no one ever knows what to do with, that are just lying around, collecting dust, waiting to be a memory.

A Memory of Boot Camp

   As I stood there in the bright morning sunshine, I watched the long black car pull out of the parking lot, speeding off down the road towards the interstate. I was able to glimpse the back of my son's head in the rear window. He was turned around watching me with a stillness that belied his near panic at finally being shipped off to boot camp. Superimposed over this scene was another just like it some 30 years ago, almost to the day, when I was the one in that long black car, turned around looking out the window at my father. He who was the one standing there in the rain watching me being driven away. I bowed my head a moment and asked God to take care of my son, I no longer could. I had done my job and it was now his turn to live and learn and oh what an adventure he was going to have. If he survived boot camp. I wondered as I walked to my car if my father had said the same kind of prayer for me. I will have to ask him next time he calls me.
    Boot camp I thought about it as I had not for the last 30 years. How young I had been, naive. Just because you have graduated from high school does not make you an adult. I vividly remember seeing my Dad out the rear window of the greyhound bus. He was standing there all hunched up with his raincoat on, the day appropriately raining. I put the palm of my hand, fingers spread, upon the window. The last act of my childhood.
      I watched as Dad pulled his hand out of his pocket; palm up, fingers spread, he returned the gesture. The last act of a father to his adolescent daughter. I stayed turned around; watching until I could no longer see the crumbling old greyhound bus station, built of brick and mortar, standing sentinel there on the end of the bridge. I watched long enough to see my father wipe his face and slowly turn away.  I turned around then and thought about the new adventure I was going on, how it all began with this bus ride.
     It was a nice bus as buses go black leather comfy, squishy seats. I woke up as we were pulling into the station in Portland, did I mention the late night party the night before? My friends, being my friends, wanted to make sure I got off to boot camp in the right frame of mind, which was namely, hung-over. They had gone to great lengths to ensure that I would only remember the important parts of the trip. Getting on the bus, and then getting off the bus. Luckily, upon arriving at the indoc center in Portland, there were other hung-over teenagers getting off the bus with me; if I was in the wrong place, I would not be the only one. We were really a motley looking crew that is for sure.
     We were immediately met by a man wearing a tan uniform who hollered a lot. I wondered if he had throat lozenges in his pocket. He caught me wondering and wanted to know if I was retarded, his words not mine.   “No sir,” I said, at this point my eyes almost fell out of my head looking at him, “I am not.”
     “Then why are you not paying attention?”  he asked me, looking me straight in the eye.
     I swear the only thing I could think to say was, “because I like a challenge sir!..?” So NOT a good move. For the rest of my overnight stay in Portland, I was known as, ‘The Girl Who Liked a Challenge.’
     Portland was the place that a potential service member began their screening by any chosen branch of service. Think of it as separating the wheat from the chaff. That is where our teeth were initially examined, yup, I had some. We spoke to a psychiatrist. Yup, most of us could put three words together to make a sentence. There was a marine wanna-be that had to have the questions repeated a couple of times, he still passed though. Did I mention I was going in the Navy? A lawyer went over the final service contracts with us; yup I really did sign my name on this, this, and this, line. They sent us to a hotel while they typed everything up. Fortunately there was one of us of legal age to buy alcohol, and again we showed up at the office the next morning, miserable and motley looking.
     We were again counseled on contracts, we saw the doctor one last time, and then we all gathered in the blue room. I do not know if that is the name of it or not but the walls were deep blue, the carpets were deeper blue and the furniture was even bluer. The only contrast was the gold and brass accessories and the American Flag. We all had to stand and be sworn in to our perspective branches. Then handing us our orders and shaking our hands we were welcomed aboard the fleet, hustled out the door, and sent to the airport.
     The airport was interesting. I was excited because it was my first plane trip.  It was not a good experience. We were almost half way to Orlando when we hit a thunderstorm over the Carolinas. I do not know what the storm was like down below, but in our little plane above, the women and some of the men were screaming. things were falling out of the overhead racks, babies were crying, and I was writing my last will and testament. It was short document as I did not own anything.  I held the hand of a little old lady sitting next to me for the longest time.  When the plane finally landed in Orlando, everybody was still crying and hugging, even the stewardesses. They hugged the pilots. The fellow who met the plane asked how the flight was. I really wanted to say, I like a challenge, but I could not quite get it out of my mouth through all the blubbering. I believe he understood, “Not Good” though.,

Pipes Away!

 
     A year ago I bought my .19 acres on the Piscataquis River from a guy who out bid me at an auction put on by the town. The town claimed the property when the people living there in a different trailer had the misfortune of having a tree fall on their trailer; not being able to afford a new trailer, they had let the property go to the town. I hired a fella to demolish the old trailer and clean up the lot, which he did. He was also supposed to move my trailer to it and set it up, which at the last minute he could not do. Now I have to pay another person to move my trailer and set it up. He gets it moved over there but then he tells me he doesn't set trailers up. My son-in-law says, "I will do it for you, just make me meatloaf."  I thought for a minute and yup ok sounds good to me.
     I did not know that was the beginning of my downfall. I had originally paid the first fella to set the trailer up, then I had paid the second guy as well, but they don't do the setting up. My son-in-law tried to help and sort of got things level but not being a plumber, his pipes fell apart less than a couple of days after he swore it was all set. He tried to fix it the night they blew apart but I was pretty sure, when he went out with the duct tape and a flashlight, that he was out of his depths with the plumbing. My money for getting everything set up had run out since I had paid everyone to tell me that they do not 'do' setting up trailers, and my church finally agreed to help me out and that brought me to Greg, my plumber.
     Greg is a very nice man and a licensed plumber and he did the work of setting up my sewer lines and waterlines and insulating everything for me with heat tape, all for the grand total of $524.67. He came under  bid he says. I believe it. He was paid the bid anyway. I have been living in the trailer happily flushing ever since, up until about 3 weeks ago.
     Three weeks ago, I was admiring my beautiful clean river. I am not foolish to think that the water was drinkable clean but it was getting there, until I came along. As I am hanging out the laundry, I hear the distinct sounds of running water and after looking around I see water coming out from a pipe that is jutting out just over the edge of my river bank which is a fiftyish foot almost-sheer drop, and oh my, the pipe is coming from the direction of my trailer. I ran in the house and after filling up the washer and hitting the spin cycle, I then ran back outside to watch. Oh what a sight, and then WOW what a smell. At first my reaction is to do nothing, what is one person's raw sewerage, really? Then about an eighth of a second later, I realize that I cannot do that, so I call my friend Jay.
     Jay is a really nice fella and is good friends with my husband. When my husband became tied up out of town, Jay told him he would help me out if I needed it. Well, I was thinking that I needed it about then. So the next day that Jay has off, he comes over and takes a look at my pipes. "Geez, Leisa all your pipes are good, no leaks or anything. It is the pipes under the ground and those belong to the town. They are the town's sewer lines, they must have burst or broke or something. The town has to come out and look at them, this is on them."
     "Are you sure Jay," I ask, "because once I call the town I can't pretend I didn't." Jay nods and tells me he is sure. So I call the town. They came right out. I was really impressed with the speed of their response. Most ambulances don't even have that kind of response time.
     The town tells me they are only responsible for the pipes leading up to the first stub(the end of the pipe that hooks into the main line). "Ok," I ask, "where is the first stub?" The town guy looks at my lawn and rubs his chin for a minute, consults a paper and looks at my lawn again then points to a spot about 6 inches off the road onto my lawn. The rest of it is your pipes, he says and by the way the stub and accompanying pipes are listed as 5 1/2 feet down.
      At this point I call Greg, my plumber. Greg, comes right over. It is after all his name on the original permit that says he made sure everything was up to code, and the fact that I was maybe hyperventilating on the phone may have had something to do with it as well. I now have Jay, who is arguing with the Town Plumbing Inspector about who's pipes are where, and Greg who is trying to explain things to my son-in-law, who had come right over with my daughter and then tried to tell me what the plumbing inspector, Jay, and Greg the Plumber, have all told me, already. I am crying and my daughter is trying to tell me my son-in-law will take care of everything (Remember he is the one who tried to fix the pipes with duct tape). I may have cried harder at that one.
     The long and short of it is, that we have in the course of digging up my whole front and back yard looking for a pipe that is 5 and 1/2 feet under ground, found a septic tank. Which means that I am not hooked to the town sewer system. The tank is old and rotted, the tank lid having fallen apart and dirt is falling in to the tank. Did I mention the tank is under my trailer...literally? Now I have to hook up to the town sewer system and start paying a bill. Greg the plumber who felt bad, is only charging me 75.00 to turn all the sewer lines around from the back side of the trailer to the front. The town says I am not in any trouble. I am thinking at this point if I am, so is the plumbing inspector, and the town. My husband has told me to put a lid on the tank, have the lines hooked up and he will take care of everything when he comes home, maybe next February.
     The situation is still ongoing and each day seems to bring a new chapter to the saga. There are four trenches of varying lengths and depths in the front and back yards as well as a several holes, all of them at least four feet deep and some deeper. My father called a few days ago and I told him about what was happening. After I finished, there was a long pause, and all Dad said to me was, "You have what is known as 'a fluid situation' on your hands."  He could not even say it with a straight face...

Childhood take 2

      Childhood. We all have one and it is always with us. It is at the back of our subconscious every single day. The events in our childhood affect us in everything we do. We all have many memories of all the things we have done, the good, the bad and sometimes the things in between that are neither good nor bad but just are. For instance, I can remember dressing up every Sunday morning to go to church with my mother and father. I remember having to put on these little white gloves that looked just like my mother's bigger gloves, a little beret which matched my coat. I must have done that for a long time when I was growing up because every Sunday I still feel the need to put on a pair of white gloves when I go to church I do not know why, especially at Easter.
      Easter was a big deal at my house while we were growing up. It was almost as much fun as Christmas. We always left out a plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. Not knowing what the bunny liked to drink,we tried something different every year. Funny thing was he seemed to drink everything we put with the carrots. Each year we would get a basket with candy toys and cards in it. Every year a new dress, tights, shoes and a little coat or sweater. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. My brother, who did not get a dress, got a new suit with a tie, and shoes. Our coats were always big enough for us to use the following year for winter. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. I am not going to lie, I liked the candy too. The baskets we kids (there were only the two of us) had on Easter morning were always guaranteed to make us squeal with delight upon waking and seeing them at the end of our beds.
        One Easter, my brother and I, still being young enough to believe in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and all such magical creatures, had decided to camp out under the big picture window in the living room to wait for Mr. Cottontail. We had each grabbed our blankets off our beds and hidden behind the orange recliner with matching rocker next to the window. My brother had built a most excellent bunny trap, complete with box, string, and stick, and put it in the middle of the floor.  Rusty, who is the smarter one of the two of us, had figured out how to make a periscope of sorts from a cardboard tube and a couple of mirrors, and we were all settled in for the night with all of our 'surveillance equipment,' every now and then sticking it up over one of the window sills in the room. We were whispering to each other so the bunny would not hear us; of course, the arguement about who got to work the periscope may have given us away. We soon heard some rustling around outside the window. I do not know why but we got it in to our heads that it was a robber and not the Easter Bunny. Never saw any two kids move so quickly to their bedrooms, jump in their beds, and pull the covers up over their heads. As I was almost asleep, I thought I heard whispering and some quiet laughter from my parents' bedroom and I wondered if maybe the Easter Bunny had made it. It was enough to send me off to the land of colored eggs and candy for the night, happy that Mr. Cottontail had made it to my home.
      Looking back I believe, maybe, Mom and Dad got tired of waiting for us to go to bed; so they were hurrying the process along without seeming to have anything at all to do with it. I am quite sure Dad sneaked out the back door, going around the house, crept up the driveway and scratched at the screen in the window a few times, then did it again, just for good measure. He then sneaked back into the house, waited a few minutes or so, probably about the time it took him to smoke a cigarette. That is all the time it would have taken for Russ and I to fall asleep at that point in the evening. I am not sure when I figured out what Dad had done, but all that sneaking around was most assuredly the reason I hung on to believing in the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus an extra year or two. I remember waking up the next morning and there being a basket at the foot of my bed with a little candy in it, and a necklace too! A new dress with tights and shoes, a new coat with matching hat, and a snowy white pair of gloves with a little matching handbag. Hearing my brother hooting in his bedroom, I figured he got something equally as nice.
      I have carried on the tradition of squeaking out an extra year or two of belief in holiday magic by allowing my kids to camp out under the Christmas Tree waiting for Santa, or sleeping in the living room next to the plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. They in turn have carried on the traditions to my grandchildren. I caught my daughter buying bunny feet on sale last year after the season, and she said, "they are getting older Mom, I gotta do something or they will figure it out this year, I think." I paid for the feet. She is carrying on that same tradition started by accident so many decades ago, with the bright idea of waiting up to meet the Easter Bunny, making the children believe for just another year or maybe two, that there is magic and mystery in their world still, along with a new suit and tie or a new dress and tights, shoes, and a new coat that is just a little big with a little matching hat.

Making the Magic Last

     Childhood. We all have one and it is always with us. It is at the back of our subconscious every single day. The events in our childhood affect us in everything we do. We all have many memories of all the things we have done, the good, the bad and sometimes the things in between that are neither good nor bad but just are. For instance, I can remember dressing up every Sunday morning to go to church with my mother and father. I remember having to put on these little white gloves that looked just like my mother's bigger gloves, a little beret which matched my coat. I must have done that for a long time when I was growing up because every Sunday I still feel the need to put on a pair of white gloves when I go to church I do not know why, especially at Easter.
     Easter was a big deal at my house while we were growing up. It was almost as much fun as Christmas. We always left out a plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. Not knowing what the bunny liked to drink,we tried something different every year. Funny thing was he seemed to drink everything we put with the carrots. Each year we would get a basket with candy toys and cards in it. Every year a new dress, tights, shoes and a little coat or sweater. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. My brother, who did not get  a dress, got a new suit with a tie, and shoes. Our coats were always big enough for us to use the following year for winter. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. I am not going to lie, I liked the candy too. The baskets we kids (there were only the two of us) had on Easter morning were always guaranteed to make us squeal with delight upon waking and seeing them at the end of our beds.
     I remember one Easter we had just moved to Maine and to our new home in Orrington. My brother and I, still being young enough to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and all such magical creatures, had decided to wait up for the nighttime visitor. We had each grabbed our blankets off our beds and had camped out under the big picture window in the living room. My brother had built what he thought was a most excellent bunny trap, complete with box, string, and stick and put it in the middle of the floor.. We had camouflaged ourselves by hiding behind the big orange lazy boy chair recliner and the matching lazy boy rocker that were in the living room. Rusty, had stationed himself behind the recliner on one side of the room, and I, behind the rocker on the other side. Rusty, who is without question the smarter one of the two of us, had figured out how to make a periscope of sorts from a cardboard tube and a couple of mirrors, and we were all settled in for the night with all of our 'surveillance equipment.' Every now and then sticking it up over the window sill of the picture window or the one other window in the room that faced the driveway. Mom and Dad had gone to bed what seemed like hours before, leaving us to our own devices. I am not sure how wise that was, but they had done it. We were whispering to each other trying to be quiet so the bunny would not hear us. Of course, the arguement about who got to work the periscope may have given us away at some point. My brother may have been smarter but sometimes he was not very bright(make two dummy). By and by we heard some rustling around outside the window in the snow. I do not know why but we got it in to our heads that it was a robber and not the Easter Bunny,( teach him to only make one). Never saw any two kids move so quickly to their bedrooms, jump in their beds, and pull the covers up over their heads. Well I do not know about my brother, but I was certainly under the covers. funny thing was, as I was almost asleep, I thought I heard whispering and some quiet laughter from my parents' bedroom and I wondered if maybe the Easter Bunny had made it. It was enough to send me off to the land of edible grass and chocolate peanut butter eggs for the night, comfy and secure in the knowledge that Mom and Dad were on patrol.
     Looking back I believe, maybe, Mom and Dad got tired of waiting for us to go to bed; so they were hurrying the process along without seeming to have anything at all to do with it. I am quite sure Dad sneaked out the back door, going around the house, crept up the driveway and scratched at the screen window a few times, then did it again, just for good measure. He then sneaked back into the house, waited a few minutes or so, probably about the time it took him to smoke a cigarette. That is all the time it would have taken for Russ and I to fall asleep at that point in the evening. I am not sure when I figured out what Dad had done, but all that sneaking around was most assuredly the reason I hung on to an extra year or two of believing in the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus. I remember waking up the next morning and there being a basket at the foot of my bed with a little candy in it ...AND A NECKLACE TOO! A new dress with tights and shoes, a new coat with matching hat, and a snowy white pair of gloves with a little matching handbag. Hearing my brother hooting in his bedroom, I figured he got something equally as nice.
     I have carried on the tradition of squeaking out an extra year or two of belief in holiday magic by allowing my kids to camp out under the Christmas Tree waiting for Santa, or sleeping in the living room next to the plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. They in turn have carried on the traditions to my grandchildren. I caught my daughter buying bunny feet on sale last year after the season, and she said, "they are getting older Mom, I gotta do something or they will figure it out this year, I think." I paid for the feet. She is carrying on that same tradition started by accident so many decades ago, with the bright idea of waiting up to meet the Easter Bunny, making the children believe for just another year or maybe two, that there is magic and mystery in their world still, along with a new suit and tie or a new dress and tights, shoes, and a new coat that is just a little big with a little matching hat.

The Paper Route

               Traveling. I have always loved to travel. I think there is a bit of Gypsy blood in me somewhere back 10 generations ago or something. My ex-husband has often referred to me as a bloodsucking vampire to the kids so maybe I really am from Romania. My happiest times are on the road to somewhere I have never been. I love the adventure of it all, it is a good thing too, as nothing I ever do is simple. I even took a part-time job traveling all around the county (Piscataquis) and two others to boot; delivering newspapers to area businesses. I look forward to that day all week long. It is my one time of the day when no one can reach me. No one can demand things of me. I get to drive a brand new truck, that someone else has put the gas in, and all I have to do is drop off bundles of papers while I am yakking at people about the weather, politics, how little I know about sports. It seems simple enough, but as I said before,I never do anything simple.
               It begins on Tuesday night, when I have to get to bed early. Like at 8 or 9 in the evening, no later really, or I am tired the next morning when there are some long stretches between some of those stops. I am used to staying up until about 10 P.M. so a few hours earlier is rough to try and get to sleep when your body says, "Wait, I am not done yet!" Eventually my brain stomps on my eyelids and drifting off to the land of no bills I go. To be awakened at 3:30 A.M. by my alarm clock which sometimes forgets to go off. I do not really have a whole lot of luck with alarm clocks anyway. I have lived here in town for about 6 years now and this is my third one, the fourth one is going to be here soon, I can tell. Luckily I have a plan B in case my alarm does not go off. That would be Chad.
              Chad is the other driver of the truck. He goes up north to the plant up in Presque Isle and picks up the bundles, getting back into Dover around 4:15 in the morning. He is a nice fella and I enjoy our mornings together, such that they are. He is also a volunteer firefighter for our town, is a dishwasher at The Nor'easter Restaurant here in town, and is gay. Chad also has Cerebral Palsy, and I admire his dogged determination to live life no matter what is happening with him physically. I have never heard him complain about his disease, now that I think about it. He is the best front half a person can have on a nightly relay. He calls me every Wednesday morning at 4 to make sure I am awake. Most of the time I am. My body having become accustomed to waking up at 3:30 every Wed. morning now, does so automatically. I usually have the coffee set the night before so I only have to push a button to get it going in the morning as it does not require too many brain cells to do that. I grab a big travel mug, fill it, and run out the door. Since I live about a five minute walk away from the office, I stroll on over there to meet him and take over the truck, the papers, sign for my check, and take him home. I have learned to ask him if he has gotten everything out of the truck because once in awhile he leaves something in the truck and if I do not ask, I will have to turn around and go back, to bring what ever it is he left in the truck back to him.
              Once I have the truck and have dropped him with all his stuff off, I head out of town. About a mile down the road, I remember to turn on the radio. I happen to listen to inspirational music and being the mother of teenagers, who prefer what ever that crap is they listen to, this is the time when no one argues with me about what is playing. Chad usually has it set for me when I get in. It is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. He likes late seventies disco music, go figure. I usually turn the volume to blow-out-what-is-left-of-my-eardrums level. People can hear me coming shortly before they see my white truck pull into their parking lots. Doesn't bother me and I think God might get a kick out of it as well.
              Many mornings on my walk down the street, and my drive out of town I have seen things that maybe need to be looked into a little bit. The other morning Dr. Chasse's back door was left open and I was worried that someone had broken into it. Neither Chad, nor I, could remember the police non-emergency number so we swung over there since it was on the way to Chad's house and knocked on the door. No one answered, so we called the sheriff office instead. Hope everything was all right. I found the window to the WDME office next door shattered one time, that was another call to the police, but they were on top of things that night and had all ready dealt with it.
              McDonald's is the last place of business that I pass on my way out of town as I am headed into Sangerville. I have one stop before I get there though and that is where I pull out all the bundles that were stacked in the back nice and neat, until I take a corner on two wheels and send them flying all over the back of the truck. We have a flashlight in the truck because most of the time, we cannot see the labels on the cover papers in the dark. So I grab my flashlight at the first stop that I make and find the next half a dozen stops worth of bundles, bringing them up front, I bag them up. I get to the last one I want and, after reading it, I learn I have just thrown out the wrong bundle to the store that I am at. No problem, I switch the bundles and thank my lucky stars that I have not driven off yet. there have been times that I did not catch it and had to turn around and go back ten fifteen and fifty miles even.
              Whilst I am singing along with the radio, and trying to miss the nightly obstacle course of potholes the size of small ponds and dead putrefying animals that litter the road as if a war had gone on (Why do they always seem to be skunks and porcupines?), I think about all the stuff going on in my life in the past week. Like how my teenage son at home is giving me more gray hairs than the other four combined. Worrying about my daughter and how tired she is, the knuckleheaded grandchildren and that zoo that they have over there Nine puppies on the first litter my daughter's dog threw out. Then Mama dog decides she doesn't want to feed them. So to bottle feeding we go. I thought having two babies with bottles was bad! Wow!  OH MY GOD!...There goes the turn off for Sangerville, darn it now I have to go around the long way. Man I need more coffee I think to myself. I will get some in Guilford in a bit. I have to really hurry now because my coffee cup is getting a bit empty.
              After hitting the next few drop offs, I pull into the A.E. Robinson's in Guilford. It is a pretty big gas station with a garage attached to it. It is actually Irving's now but everyone still calls it Robinson's. Norma works there on my delivery day and is pretty nice, she gives me coffee and the occasional donut. Her warm smile and bellowing, "HEY ! Good Morning! How are you?" never fails to put a smile on my face. I refill my coffee cup here. I like my own cup as it is bigger than the ones that the store has. The newsprint being real fresh has all ready blackened up my fingers, so I give my hands a good wash and head on over to Aunt DeeDee's Restaurant across the street, waving bye to Norma and the smattering of customers, mostly loggers and construction workers, that are there.
              Aunt DeeDee's is actually the mother of one of my son's friends that he chummed with while growing up. She is pretty nice. She has the most beautiful window boxes I have ever seen. They must have 10 different kinds of plants and flowers crammed in them. They are full of deep purple petunias, dark green ivy, tiny white alyssum, geraniums(red and white) marigolds, daisies, pansies, all of them in a blanket of color spilling over and flowing all over the ground. Looks rather like the flower fairies threw a party, had too much fun, and threw up all over the front of the building. She is a baker as well, and does a darn good job at it too. Yup I have tasted her donuts, they are really good. Don't know why she does not sell her donuts in Robinson's, hers are better. I bought a cake platter at a yard sale a few weeks ago for a couple dollars. It was beautiful polished stainless steel and heavy crystal cover. Very stately and elegant. I was baking up a storm since I bought the darn thing because it was too pretty to leave empty, and being that I want to lose 15 or twenty...ok seventy pounds, that platter was sabotaging all my best efforts. So I gave it to her in honor of her opening her shop. As well as a bundt pan that I never use. She gives me a slice of cake or a donut when I go in there now. Freaking cake platter still gets the last word in.
               I now strap in because I have a long stretch to get to Abbott from Guilford, and by now the radio is not playing songs, it is playing the morning devotional sermons. That is ok with me because I am not so perfect that I cannot use a little preaching. Ever notice how people on the radio are in complete control at oh dark thirty in the morning? I mean the only people up are delivery drivers and cops. Who is going to pull over and try make a call to a pre-taped radio show? Abbott has just a few stops the last one being The Abbott Bakery. They are the makers of the famous 'Skidder Tire Donut'. It is a yeast donut that is about the size of a skidder tire, duh, and for those that do not know how large a skidder tire is, I have seen them made into playhouses for kids. The tires stand about four to five feet in diameter if not larger and the width of the tire is about three feet or more across.  I came out of there one morning and since it was the beginning of March and the stairs were iced up; I fell and hit the back of my head on their stairs. I did not sue them however as I really hate paperwork. They give me donuts now in the mornings, often saving me a bag of day old skidder donuts they sell for a drastically reduced price.The elderly lady that works there happens to be the grandmother of the previously mentioned friend of my son's. She and I and DeeDee sat together at our sons' graduation. I was kind of disappointed that they did not bring donuts but that was kind of wishful thinking anyway. Good thing too, as I am on a diet.
              After heading out of Abbott I head on north to Monson, that is where Gail works. It is also the starting point or the ending point depending on your perspective, of the Appalachian Trail or a major stopping point I am never really sure. I cannot tell you how many backpack clad hikers I have seen walking up and down the streets of Monson. There is a pay phone on my last stop there. I found a wallet with large sums of cash in it laying on the sidewalk once, and not wanting it to be stolen, I turned it over to the sheriff's office.  I called the store up at the same time that the owner of the wallet, who was from away, was there looking for it. He had no car as he had hiked into Monson and wanted me to bring it to him. I almost said it was just a little hike compared to the one he just made, but I refrained. I did not want to make the citizens of Maine look bad. One of the sheriff's took pity and brought it up to him, cash and cards intact.
               I head out for Shirley. It will take me awhile and I sit back for the drive, singing my songs and looking out for moose. Moose have got to be the stupidest animals in God's creation. Moose look like something the Creator threw together with all the left over spare parts that He had because He did not want a mess up in Heaven. They are, however, unbelievably large; with the largest of them often weighing well over a ton. I inadvertently raced one, one morning after I had left Monson, headed for Shirley. He had to lower his head to look into my truck driver side window. I still remember seeing the dumb look in his eyes as he was trying to figure out what kind of animal was running next to him making all the racket. Ever see a moose running one way with his head pointed another way? I decided to be merciful and let him win the race. That is as close as I ever want to get to one ever again. The males sometimes cannot tell the difference between a female moose and a human. That is not an exaggeration, it has something to do with the doe pee that hunters put on and overly musky perfume as well. I hear about a different 'attack' every couple of years.
               I head to Greenville after I leave Shirley. There are a few stops there and then I turn around and head back to Guilford and from there head into Parkman. Along the way I have a few stops that I stop at to take pictures at various times of the year. I have gotten some really stunning photos of the sunrises, Moosehead Lake and what ever that bog is at the lower end of the lake. The water laps at the road every spring. I wonder what will the people on the far side will do if it ever floods over. I have a certain waterfall that I stop at in the fall because the back drop of stunning colors next to the rushing water is just perfect. this year I swear I am going to get rid of the hose floating around in the bottom of the falls. It ruins my shot every freaking time. Mom likes that picture of the falls. I send her a new one every year. there are some spots along this stretch of the drive that offer some stunning photo opportunities around sunrise, weather beaten old farmhouses standing alone in the fields, fog blanketing the fields, various wild animals eating in the fields, crossing the roads, thinking about crossing the roads. I laugh everytime I pass one rather new cluttered up house. I once saw a red fox mother barely more than a kit herself carrying a dead rabbit down the road, I assume back to her litter of kits. She trotted just as proudly as she could tripping over the damn rabbit the whole way. The guys at Jamieson's Pizza Shop, located in the town, laughed when I told them what I had seen. Said that they knew of her. They had been watching her since she was orphaned real young; not to hunt her, but they were rooting for her to survive. They admired her gumption and her courage. It was even mentioned about leaving fresh kill by the den to help her out when she birthed her litter. I sincerely hope she stays away from chickens, ducks, and geese. Her reprieve would then be over. those grizzled old hunters tickle me to listen to their wild stories. I plop a paper in front of Harris's Drug store and it is my last stop before heading back out of town. Harris's looks like an old five and dime and in fact I think it was. I have never been in there but I have heard there is still the old counter where you can order an ice cream soda. I keep meaning to find out.
              The drive to Parkman is about forty minutes or so in which time I am thinking about my grocery list, how much homework I have to do, and if there is a way I could study and drive without killing someone. I crashed the truck once at the top of the hill just out of Greenville proper. I hit some black ice and the last thing I saw was a log truck, down the road a piece, barreling towards me. I got my truck turned around and headed back to town in the nick of time, pulled in the first parking lot I came to, and called Jeanette, the office manager, at home because I could not remember what I was supposed to do. Jeanette, who upon answering the phone, told me to, "call the police, dummy." In my defense I had hit my head and all I could think about was how I was going to get fired. Chad had come in that morning from up north and said how this was the last run with this truck. We were getting a new one and this was being traded in. Apparently as I totaled the truck, the boss got more on the pay out than he would have for trade in value. He was happy enough I guess. I still have my job so maybe. I blame Chad, he jinxed me.
              Parkman is usually where my bladder lets me know that I have had quite a bit of coffee by now. I also have to wash my blackened fingers again. It makes me wonder because I have to wash my hands to go to the bathroom, then I have to wash my hands again. There is a brand new country store there that sits upon the place where and old one burned down. It is the kind of country store where all the old men in town gather in the mornings to sit and share stories of glory days gone by. A few of these old men have lived in this same town all their lives, and grown up together. They know each others stories better than the tellers of them do. I often wish I had a tape recorder so I can record these stories. The men are funny, charming, and quite the rascals sometimes. They are the remnants of an era, I can can only dream about and barely remember the last vestiges of myself.
               I wave good bye and with a friendly, "Have a good day!" to the room at large, I leave Parkman and wind my way in through Cambridge and out towards Harmony. Cambridge is beautiful for a small town. The center of town is an s-curve that has steep little knolls at both ends of it. Recently a log truck missed the corner and plowed into the side of the only store in town that sits in the middle of that set of curves. There is a spot just outside of Cambridge as one is headed to Harmony, where there is a picture post card shot of a very large hill on a lake's edge. There are always geese and ducks on the lake in the fall, on their way south. I have gotten some great shots of that too. I love to get shots of the geese swimming across the lake and leaving little trails in the water behind them. I always dream about starting my own post card business, then I think about the trouble the post office is in and I put that dream away. Snail mail is a thing of the past, sadly.
              Harmony is a small town down the road ten or twelve miles or so. One of the town managers got it in their head that putting in a turn-around on that stretch of nothing was a good idea. Everyone else is having trouble figuring out why, but the town went ahead and ok'd it. I think it is a waste of money everytime I see it.
further on down is the Lakes Family heating oil business. Sad affair that one, he got upset with her for leaving him and for one reason or another shot his ex and their two kids then himself. My eyes fill up everytime I pass the place because of the stupid waste of life.Harmony has a free fair and they like to think that they can compete with the County Fair in Dover. They are constantly taking down the County Fair's posters,  and putting up their own. It aggravates me since I am the one who put the County Fair's signs up to begin with. Someday I am going to return the favor in a big way.
              From then on it is up a hill down a hill with a blind corner thrown in there between them for good measure. It is not too bad in the summer but the winter is some real white knuckle driving. My truck is modified with an extra leaf spring to compensate for the full load of the papers. By the time I receive the truck to do my route the weight is substantially less, so the back end of my truck gets a little bouncy. In the winter when I hit frost heaves, potholes, and what not, it is difficult to control the truck sometimes as the back end has a tendency to fish tail and it threatens to spin out. I have taken some of those hills at about fifteen miles an hour due to snow and ice but thanks to studded snow tires, I can get up the hills ok, albeit slowly. It is about twenty five minutes on that stretch in the summer, and in the winter I have taken upwards of an hour. When we have fall mornings it is stunning to look down across the mountains and see the vivid colors splashed all over the mountain side against the back drops of green pine trees and deep blue azure skies. I came down across that stretch my first winter of driving and was blocked by a milk truck stuck in the snow across the road. I had a bag or three of sand in the back, and a shovel. I wanted to help the guy out more but I was just in his way. By and by the farmer came along with his very large tractor and pulled him out. In the mean time I handed out papers to the cars that were backing up and we all had a good discussion about the state of affairs, how the guy got that way, and where we were all going to. I have kept extras in the truck since then, just for that reason. I come into Dexter at about 7:30 A.M. or so. the business are starting to open up, school buses on the road, and people. I have to really hurry now as my coffee is empty again, and I make my stops so I can get to Noah's Landing. There is a bakery there that all though not as good as the ones on the front half of my journey, is pretty good for the back half. Sometimes they give me a donut and a small coffee on stormy days. I am always grateful. Rite aid is the last stop and if it is before 8 A.M. then I know that I am on time for the rest of my drive to Newport.
               I stop at P and L Groceries which is the last big bundle of the day, the rest are small and doubled over. My drive is well past half over and now thoughts of home are percolating through my mind. Home and my son, and school and wishing I had only taken five classes and not six as I am not giving any of them the  attention they deserve. But I step on it and hit the three stops in Newport, the third one being Irving's, which is right next to Dunkin' Donuts. I usually pull through there and get a coffee, they know the truck now and sometimes throw in a couple of munchkins with it. I slide them a paper for their lunch room in return. The last stop out of town is dropping off the advertizing free copies at Varney's. I always I wonder if it is Brent Varney that owns it.
               I see a lot of police on the next stretch so I buckle up and head for Dexter, just as fast as the law will allow. About half way to Dexter, I call my daughter on the company cell phone and yak my way through a couple of towns. On the Dexter side of Dover, I stop at the Log Cabin and they usually have something for me to test out. I am a guinea pig to them. I do not care; they have the best bread this side of Dover. I leave and head over to Garland, drop off the final two bundles and head home. Garland store is always trying to tempt me with their double chocolate cheesecake muffins. Oh wow! Some days I forget I am on a diet and buy one. They are so freaking good. Home awaits, and with it the final paperwork, the cleaning out the truck, and dropping off the cell phone. I elect to walk home, mostly because I am trying to lose weight and the fresh air and exercise will do me some good. It is just about lunchtime and I need to eat something healthy for a change.