Hey hun,
Alert the media because Hurricane Grams has officially landed Downeast! I got here alright, but it was a helluva rocky start. Traveling up this way was like exercising a muscle that I haven’t used in a long time. Of course, driving through Boston is always like volunteering for a heart attack, but navigating the ancient network of highways up north was more of a mental workout than I expected.
It was after dark when I finally got off the highway and wound through foggy, entirely UNLIT backroads. It honestly felt like I was setting myself up to be Corpse No. 1 of a crime show, maybe Murder, She Wrote! I am in Maine, after all. Well, actually, I wasn’t going to mention it, but I ate a very suspicious tuna melt at a diner off Rt. 1N for lunch. I think it was more mercury than mayo, if you know what I mean. So, if I go missing and you need to search for my bones, just keep that in mind.
But, the place where I’m staying is just freaking adorable. The lady who rents it out runs a minuscule post office out of the lower half of the building, and then I’m in the attic. It’s a one-bedroom with a little kitchen in the back, a cozy living room, and a bathroom featuring the world’s most antique toilet. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s perfect for what I need.
I know, though, that the real news (or “tea”, as I’ve been told the youth call it these days) is whether or not I’ve met up with Trevor. And yes, I was actually invited to join him at his house for dinner the day after I arrived. You know, I have to admit that I was nearly shittin’ my pants with nerves, which is ridiculous, I mean I’ve already met him, for Pete’s sake!
The dinner party included him, his taxidermy friend Julian, and Julian’s wife, Eve. I have to say that I don’t know what I was so frightened of. Right away they were so lovely and welcoming that I felt like I had known them forever. The meal was definitely casual, but still delicious. Trevor had fried up a bunch of fish he bought off the docks, and of course there was a healthy stack of french fries – with pickles for balance.
We talked about how long Julian and Trevor had been friends (too long to think about without getting a headache), how they had met (at recess, reaching for the same bug to terrorize the teacher with), and where Julian and Eve met (high school sweethearts only separated for a few years). Of course, they asked me plenty about my home and life. Naturally they were all very interested to hear what Denise was up to, and so on and so forth.
I know that Trevor’s been a widower for some years, but he’s definitely fully transitioned to a bachelor decor. It could be described as eclectic – there’s a lot of woodworking projects on display, a full corner of the living room has been dedicated to enough fishing rods to clean out the ocean, and the coffee table featured a full collection of various magazines and half-read books.
After dinner, Trevor took us on a booze cruise of his workshop out back. When he flicked the lights on, I saw so many beautiful birdhouses hung all over the walls and splayed out on several benches. There were many in various stages of being completed, some very elaborate and others extremely simple.
I could easily see that he spent most of his time there at a work bench where a section of counter was worn down and surrounded by a scattering of tools, all in easy reach. Right above, on a shelf next to an empty beer can sat an old, paint-splattered radio. It was all just as he had described in his emails. It was almost like visiting a movie set!
“It’s really just a hobby gone out of control,” Trevor said, “I started selling the birdhouses because I needed the space to make more.”
He asked me what I thought as I was inspecting one that stood open on a set of hinges. The inside was sanded smooth, with a few ledges that would make it easier for birds to hop in and out. The outside was a work of art with tiny blue shingles and a little railing sturdy enough for fat little songbirds.
Well, of course I told him I thought they were wonderful and he seemed pleased with that. He and Julian invited me to tag along to their little market booth this weekend. And I think I will!
If anything, I can shop around and collect some bespoke whatsits and whatnot. Maybe I’ll come home with a taxidermied something to show Harold just what’s in store for him if he doesn’t stop swiping at my ankles–ha! I’ll let you know how the day goes, and until then I’ll be “chilling” out in my attic getaway and people-watching downtown.
Love,
Grams