In your own back yard

A few weekends ago I almost made another trip to Wiscassett, but found I simply did not have the energy. This is one of the reasons I “very rarely do anything for pleasure these days,” as I said in an earlier Note: I simply do not have the psychic or physical energy. This is a sad commentary on my life at present, but there you go.

However, I decided I had sufficient energy to pay a visit to the little art gallery in the town where I work, Hallowell, which is a ten-minute drive from where I live in Gardiner. Despite spending at least six hours every weekday in Hallowell for the past 2 ¾ years, I have partaken but slightly of what it has to offer. The post office – where I have my post office box – the cunning little card shop, Paper Kicks, that has a nice selection of cards a cut above the assembly-line selection at the local drugstores, Lucky Gardens, the Chinese restaurant where I get take-out about once a week, and where they know me by name (Mehody), and know to cut the sauces, Slates bakery, where I occasionally get a bagel and cream cheese and, during periods when I’m finding it a major challenge staying awake and alert, cups of coffee with enough cream and Splenda to completely disguise the fact that it’s coffee (which I don’t actually like), Boynton’s Market, a 70-year-old institution in the town, though there is really nothing special about it, it being your basic mom-and-pop corner grocery, where I get an all-but-daily candy bar in the never-ending battle to stay awake and alert.

These are the establishments in Hallowell that I frequent. But there is much more to this little town, which historically was a bigger deal (and was bigger!) than its next-door neighbor, Augusta, now the capital, and obviously both bigger and more important. Hallowell had at one time a thriving ship-building industry (it is located on the Kennebec River, which empties into the sea 25 miles away) and also exported huge quantities of ice, and of granite. My little library, built in 1880 to look like a English country church, is made of the local granite. There is still a Granite Hill, where you can still select a hefty chunk of granite, to do whatever with.

In the second half of the 20th century Hallowell was best-known for its many antique shops, but most of those have disappeared. Today it’s given itself over to a lively arts scene, including frequent live music at places like Higher Grounds (coffee house/bar) and The Wharf (good old fashioned bar); as well as several shops that feature jewelry, pottery, bags, woven wall hangings, etc. by local area artisans.

But on my Saturday afternoon outing I limited my dip into the arts to the Harlow Gallery, which as usual was exhibiting the work of Maine artists. I’ve seen a lot of excellent paintings at this little gallery, confirming in me the impression that there are lots of folks out there who are very talented, making beautiful/interesting/amusing art, who will never be rich or famous. I always wonder how these people survive. Do they all have day jobs?

I also visited John Merrill’s Book Shop, a second-floor walk-up. As you would expect of a writer and a librarian, I love books, and bookstores. John Merrill’s is everything a used bookstore should be: slightly claustrophobic with narrow aisles, crammed shelves reaching above your head, lots of little hand-written signs, the occasional nook with a chair where you can sit down and read. Traditionally, I’ve had to restrain myself when visiting a bookstore, but being in Starving Librarian mode, with virtually no discretionary funds at my disposal, and living in a very small house, with virtually no more room for bookcases, I didn’t find restraint so difficult. Still, I was glad to finally visit the place (after 2 ¾ years!), and John – whom I know because he comes to preview our books before we have a book sale at the library – encouraged me to use him as a resource, for those occasional items that I might want to add to our collection, but that are out of print.

Finally, I had lunch at the new restaurant in town, Joyce’s. It is on the river side of Water Street (Hallowell’s Main St.), and it was very pleasant, sitting out on the covered terrace, looking out at the water gliding by, at the tree-covered opposite bank. I splurged and had the lobster pie, which could more properly be called lobster soup. Very tasty – my God, I do love lobster – but the puff pastry topping was an annoyance. Why do chefs do such things? You can’t cut up the flaky pastry because it’s sitting atop liquid, and you can’t really eat around it. Had to lift it gingerly out and set it on my bread plate, sawing loose a bite every now and then, to accompany a spoonful of the sweet, creamy soup.

My experimental glass of wine was the perfect degree of dry. All in all, I was glad I had managed to overcome my torpor, and "do" Hallowell.