Category Archives: Cranberry Blogs – Life in New England

Stories about where I live and what I like about New England

Semantique

Mon ami en vacances a Paris me connaissant pas un mot de francais.

A son retour, il a proclame avec enthousiasme:

“I learned how to ask where the bathrooms are!”

“Ah. Bon. Ou est la salle de bains?”

No. No! “Ou se trouvent les toilettes?”

D’accord. Je ne pouvais pas discuter avec ca!

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Thanks Yanks

Here in New England, when the gardens start to overflow, is one of my favorite times of the year. Relatives share their food before it spoils, neighbors leave treats at the door and country roads have home grown garden centers. Beautiful green zucchini for bread, yellow squash for stir fry and beautiful red tomatoes for spaghetti sauce. It doesn’t matter how much they weigh, frugal yanks all across the county are charging ‘two for a dollah’. Our money goes far during the ‘Honor System’ self check-out season. I can’t wait to taste the wonderful meals these beautiful, affordable, local, fresh vegetables will make…

I just need a little help from a friend. “Hon! Richie!? Look what I found doing errands today…!” This time of year my love grows by leaps and bounds.

Rorschach cloud

The sun set at 8:30 with a gorgeous periwinkle sky and fluffy pink clouds last Friday. The images were directly in front of my husband and I as we drove down the Interstate. I wish I took a photo but rather, this is the conversation I memorialized:

“The sky is so beautiful! The clouds even look like cotton candy figures.”

My husband’s response was spot on with what I saw, “The large cloud in front of us looks like a lady.”

“Yes!”

He went on, “Her hair is blowing behind her.”

I loved that he saw what I saw, “Exactly! She’s bent at the knee, her right arm is behind her and she’s beautiful.”

His retort was as honest as his first two comments, “She has perky boobs too.”

I couldn’t disagree. We were driving right towards that bosom. Their full colorful glory was on the herizon.

Day of Mothers

I am still lucky enough to spend the day before Mother’s Day with my Mom. I brought her a flower centerpiece, a balloon and an offer to drive her to the local church thrift store.

Hours are every Saturday morning, rain or shine. The weather was overcast and the sky was ready to open up at any moment. The bargain basement is only a few miles away but there’s a long desolate road in the middle called “the strip”.

Halfway to the thrift, we see a man walking along the strip. I beep at him which scares my mother to death. I wave with a smile and my mother doesn’t comprehend such behavior.

“You know him!?”, she finally asks after getting back into her own skin.

“No. I guess I’m like Dad. It was a friendly impulse.”

My mother says more than she does on most trips. She lets out a long, exasperated, disagreeing sigh.

I respond accordingly, “Maybe we should go back and ask if he needs a ride?”

My sweet mother about chokes, shifts in her seat and I can feel her evil eye as I smirk into the windshield. Even though she’s 86, I still love to get her ire up. I am a good daughter but the instigator of the family.

I think I’m funny. My mother does not. At all. Although she was lucky enough to spend a day with me.