InnBlog #1

The Stump Lady

2007-01-29T09:45:00.000-08:00

The cold winds showed up today. Blowing down from Canada like a fleeting wounded animal. Angry.... Bitting.... Bitter.....Oh, wait a minute, that's my mother-in-law. (just kidding Joann)

I remember the words of my favorite childhood cartoon character, Yukon Cornelius. "Weather not fit for man nor beast" My fingers are cold just thinking about the outside weather. Almost stiff, they constantly strike the wrong keys on the keyboard, mis-strike, backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, mis-strike again, backspace, backspace. Slow down Nelly.

My office seems to have collected a number of printers. First there was the generic printer, fax, top feed model, the one that they give away with a new pc purchase. But that wasn't enough, so then I got a color printer with a flat bed that could scan, fax, print and copy, the kind that looks like a small photo copier. That was sweet. But then I needed more quality in the color print so I got a color laser printer. Big old beast of a machine. But then that one needed more memory, ching ching, and then I decided it should duplex, ching ching ching, which required another tray. I can hear the virtual cash register ringing all the way across the country. And of course, the original printer needed only one ink cartridge but the laser needs 4. All four cost twice what my original printer cost new. They call this progress. I call it peeing upwind.

But what makes this printer fiasco so amusing is that all three are still connected to my computer, each being used for something different. Two on the floor and one on a table next to my desk. And the laser is out of black toner so I am using the original printer I bought.

The cold wind brings more than low temperatures. It brings time to think. Time to muse and reflect on all the really trivial things around me. The burned out lamp on the south side of my sign. The ice in the parking lot. The bag of salt on the side entry way. How much insurance do I have. Is it too early to have a drink. Where is the body buried. Who knows about it. Am I the only one outside of that strange family that knows the truth. How the lady lost her leg.

The winter days here at the Inn are lingering far too long. Although I really can't complain. Winter didn't set in until just a few weeks ago. How often in the first week of January do you go for a walk on the beach. How often do you see people surfing on the coast of Maine in January. Truly the universe has come to a complete stop. Too many people actually buying that damn staples easy button. And what do they think will really happen. Push my buttons and I'll show them a thing or two.

Alright, I am just cranky. 8 1/2 hours of daylight isn't enough to keep the seasonal depression disorder away. But.....a couple glasses of wine helps.

The wine also helps to not think about the stump lady from the country store. As I drove home that day, I felt like I relived her story, minute for minute, hour for hour and day for day. You wouldn't think someone that large could walk about the Maine woods endlessly. I guess the weight came after the leg left. Odd trade if you ask me.

It was during that time when she was out looking for the lost outtahstatah. She was following a old fire road near Bald Ledge Mountain. Not a real mountain, but a pretend one. Only about 1200 feet high, but way back in off the main dirt road.

She had come across an abandoned trappers camp along the lower ledge. The door was weathered shut and the glass had long fallen out of the windows and all that was left in the window was a shredded dirty rag that once served as a curtain. The door opened with some difficulty and fell apart in her hands as it opened. She knew no one was in there but being the typical Mainer she went in.

The cabin creaked and groaned with each step as if trying to speak. Light streamed through the missing roof shingles and garbage lay about the floor as if some left in a hurry. A large brown old grain sack lay in the middle of the floor. She stared at it. It was full of something bulky with odd bumps.

As the Mainer inside her told her that this was a good idea, she kicked the sack. With a mind numbing crack, the sack folded up around her her leg like a vicious creature. Steal teeth ripped through the rotten cloth like paper and with one deadly crunch as if in slow motion, tore into her leg and snapped the bone like a pretzel.

She knew exactly what was happening as she watched it happen.

The old feed back contained a large bear trap, open and set. Waiting for someone to step in. Why it was left this way, no one would ever know. There are two kinds of traps. One that uses two flat bars that close around the leg of the unsuspecting animal, pinning them in place until the trapper comes back.

The other kind are those with teeth that grab hold with a vengeance. A trap meant to inflict serious damage and possibly even death so it didn't matter how long it took the trapper to return.

The rusty trap has most likely been set for years, hiding in the old sack in the trappers camp. The combination of the size of the trap, the teeth and the rusty metal and the distance back to the main road was what proved to be too much for her leg.

Dragging herself, slowly inch by inch, she made her way back out the fire trail until she reached the main road a waited for someone to drive by. It took 36 hours to make it out and by that time, the leg become so infected that the the only option was to loose it.

She didn't seem all that upset with the loss, she actually seemed to enjoy telling the story. What I didn't notice during that time, was all the old crotchety folks has stopped talking to listen. When I finally turned, one looked at me with sharp gray eyes that were as odd as the story.

"She says it was a trap, we thinks she just got hungry, thats what we thinks"

The Country Store

2005-11-20T14:32:00.000-08:00

There were about a half dozen crusty old farts sitting around a cold pot belly stove. A couple of sticks of wood lay around the stove, probably left over from the year before. This was a country store where the eggs in the cooler were right next to the shot gun shells and worms were one shelf under the milk. The kind of store I was used to as a kid. Everything and anything. Packed so tight you should diet before entering just so you can get through the isles.

Orange hats hung from lines draped across the ceiling, each held with old aged brown wooden cloth pins. .99 cents written in pencil on each one, held with a safety pin.

Behind the counter was a rather large woman, not the pleasantly plump kind, but the Oh my god kind. It took a whole minute to see the bunch of her. When my eyes dropped below the counter, I stopped looking. She was sitting on a stool and missing an important feature, two legs. I mean she had one, but the other wasn’t there. The brown stump protruded out from under her dress. Omar, that’s what I think they called the man. You know, the tent maker. Her stump was like an old loaf of brown bread with the wrapper pulled tight. You want to look, but try not too. I guess if she was trying to hide it she wouldn’t let it hang out.

The place was still quiet. All faces, carved with time were still glued on me. “Just lookin for some coffee” I said loudly, trying to act casual and in my best Maine accent. Seeing it I moved in close. One pot, dirty with coffee stains, but hot and black. Yeah. Scored. “Supp” I said to the farts. They nodded and went back to their conversion.

Taking my coffee to the counter I paid the one legged woman and then leaned in close, and under my breath I asked. “You been around here long?”. “Shaw-enuff” She said. (translation- Sure enough) “ You remember the fella back a few years, outta statah, lost in the woods” I asked. Her face light up with a smile, but then became saddened.
“Fa-showa – fa-showa” She said (another translation- For sure, for sure, it’s a Canadian thing)”yup, yup, yup, yup” She nodded her head back and forth. “I was out there, too, lookin’ for him. For days I walked around. Up the mountain and down the other side. From the tote road to the state road, from the fire break to the old mill, walked- I did. Me an all the folks around heah did.”

“So you knew him?”

“No, I just couldn’t stand the thought of the poor fella wandering out there, tryin to find his way out.” You could tell that she was a true kind sole, one leg and all. She really felt for the guy.

“You remember the family?”

“Fa-showa – fa-showa” (see translation)

“Odd, huh” I urged her to talk more.

She leaned in on the edge of her stool. “Thems more than odd. They were down right pretnear weird. I looked because they acted like we would never find him. They didn’t have a lik of hope. Even after a day. They just carried on and on. Had their panties in a wad and just didn’t stop. I went out because I knew we could find him……..” She paused for along time, reliving the moment. “Turned out I was wrong…..after they went home, I still looked. That’s when this happened” She waived her stub around in the air. Too much…..I didn’t want to look. But you know I did.

The ride back was quiet. No talk radio. Just my thoughts and the road. At least she confirmed my hunch. That man didn’t just get lost. There was more to it.

And of course there is the strange story she told me next. Her missing leg……….

The trip North

2005-10-24T06:25:00.000-07:00

The alarm rang far too early. Once, twice, three times my hand slapped the snooze. Each time another nine minutes slowly ticked away. Why nine? How about five or fifteen? Who choose that standard? When I finally opened my eyes for good that day I was staring into the bottom of a cup of coffee. Bold and Cold, probably left over from the day before, but who’s checking. Caffeine is still caffeine. Beep, beep, beep, the new coffee for the day was ready in the breakfast room. Ohhhhh, now that’s nice java I said a loud to myself. Little bit of half and half, now I’m ready.

Changing my mind once again about what to serve for breakfast, I checked out the fridge. Ham, nah, served it yesterday, Sausage…. I don’t feel like it, bacon……now we’re talking. Pepper crusted thick sliced, smoked with just the right amount of fat to meat. Sweet mama, this looks good. OK, so its bacon, what else. Who’s coming I thought, and when are they coming down. I couldn’t remember. I had to go to the office to see how many rooms were full last night. 4. So that’s eight people. No, there are additional guests in the Marlborough suite. That’s nine. Back to the kitchen. On the counter I find a note under a flower vase. “Matt, I invited my friends to breakfast, Kate and the boys, Julie and her sister too. I hope this is not too much of a bother.” Ok so that’s nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.” “But how old are the boys and will they want PineCrest Benedict with béarnaise sauce on my Mediterranean muffins?” “Forget it, pancakes, everyone gets pancakes.” A long silent thought…….”No, I would fix the boys pancakes and everyone else gets the good stuff.”

I had to wrap up breakfast quickly. I was going to take today and drive into the mountains and snoop around for a while. I “map quested” a few locations mentioned in the old news paper article. I would head out of Gorham through Standish and on up to Limington. From there I would cut over into the hills south of Cornish. These road were the light grey lines on the map. You know the grey that means you should think twice before driving on them. Any lighter and they would break up, which means a dirt road. No, not dirt, unimproved. Technically, a field is unimproved. The brush in the corner of the yard is unimproved. Do I drive there?

I would do my best to find some of the places. In the article there was a quote from a general store owner. The store was supposed to be about a finger width away from RT 25 on the map quest directions. Who does these directions anyway? Have they actually driven the roads or is some computer program just guessing?

I didn’t get away until late. I would have to rush if I was going to get back before 3:00 PM. Check-in. I know, I know, Amy could handle check-in, but I have this control issue to deal with and I have to do it. Not that there is anything different. The guest comes in, they sign the card, pay and go to there room. After a brief stint on some directions, they go on their way. I would have to try and get back in time.

I stopped at the Cumberland farms to get some gas. $2.59. Wow, I thought, what a bargain. How sad is it, when $2.59 is thought to be a bargain. It seems like just a few years ago, in Fairfield Ohio, I filled up for .79 cents a gallon. I filled my tank for just over 8 bucks.
I headed north. Twists and turns and turns and twists. The road kept me from driving my usual speed. Too fast. Just barely finding the cutoff from RT 25. I bounced westward on 15 until I came across what used to be a general store appeared around the bend. It was right out of a Steven King novel. Grey and weathered with broken shingles peppering the sides. A standing seem metal room, rusted with patches of tar keeping most of the weather out. Each side shingled with several falling off to reveal a lighter shade of brown underneath that had been protected from the shingle. Overgrown grass sprouted along the sides of the building with a height that could hide several kids playing hooky from school. The parking lot featured a dozen large potholes. Each pot hole filled to the rim with muddy brown water. Not sure how deep each one was, so I drove around each one. You never know when a pot hole might open up and swallow your car. In a place such as this, its better to err on the side of caution.

I stepped gingerly out of my car and jumped over another mud puddle to the steps of the general store. Walking in and looking for the main register, I noticed that everyone in the store was quiet. Not a peep or a clink coming from the kitchen. They were looking at me.

For whom the bell doth toll......

2005-10-08T11:15:00.000-07:00

Dong.....Donggggggg........Dongggggggg. The aluminum mixing bowl rang like a bell into the quiet morning kitchen air. Dongggggg.......Dongggggggggggg......Dongggggggg. With a rhythm and meter all of its own, each large brown egg cracking into the bowl left a musical death toll. The sound rang like a bell telling the horrific tales of death to the eggs left behind in the gray egg box. Certainly they knew this morning would come. Finally, when duty called, to stand up straight and join the world after being knocked silly on the edge of an aluminum mixing bowl. Patiently waiting in the bottom of the bowl for the wire whisk of ultimate religious conversion. When light and dark become unified with a little salt, pepper and cream, settling into a hot frying pan from hell to prove that purgatory could really exist. One minute....Two....Three..... Patience, soon finding forgiveness on a plate decorated by the heavens. The maple glazed sausage acting as sentinels, entreating the olfactory senses of things to come, the mix of alluring fresh fruit like ladies in waiting.

I wonder if he had his last meal. You know, the guy that family murdered. They ones who came in for a picnic. Drove in from all over the US, for one night in my BB. I bet he didn't have a good time. He came for the dogs and all he found was a rusty old spade this his name on it. Probably written in coal. Accident, most likely not. Planned, more like it. I had searched some old online newspaper articles. I started with last year at this time. To much of this seemed like an anniversary. A time to remember where they hid the body. A time to dig it up and move it someplace else. That's what I guessed. Seemed logical. It answers the questions. It would prove why every one was whacked out. This was the story the grandpa was telling in his silent way.

I went back another year in the newspaper search. Looking for something. Anything. Of course, what if I found something. A missing person report. What would I do then. I had no proof. Just an old article and family on a picnic. Not even circumstantial. Just enough to get me knocked off by the same spade. Smacked on the back of the head. And left to start pushing petunias next year. Worm food. To dust I will return.

Nothing the year before. How about three years ago. Four. Five. Six......There it was, six years ago a missing person report. A family camping out in the western hills of Maine reported their uncle had gone out in a canoe on Rangley lake late at night and never returned. His boat was found on one of the beaches. The lake was dragged for three days the police report said but officials never found the body.

There it was, in black and white on my computer. But the names didn't seem to match. Hmmmm, that shouldn't matter. Names can be changed. Could I prove this? I would have to find someone who was there at the time of the search, show them a photo of the family and see if someone recognizes them.

"Did you enjoy your breakfast?"" Can I get you some more coffee?" Sure, I can give you directions to Old Port" "Its only a few minutes away"

Late Night Return

2005-09-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

It was half past twelve. The family rumbled back in, tracking dirt and bits of leaves and twigs throughout the hallways. I'm not sure they noticed. I would have to clean this before my wife spotted the mess. If not, I would certainly hear about for at least 3 days, maybe more.

I was just wrapping up the details for breakfast the next morning when I overheard the sister. "You're in this just as deep as I am. I can just as easily hang you out to dry as I can come back year next year." The sounds grew muffled and I heard no more.

Breakfast came as it does every morning. It was a particularly good one this morning. Each plate looked like a photo from one of those food magazines you see at the doctors office. Really, it looked good enough to eat. So there I was, doing my thing, serving each guest. There was a lot of talk going on at the breakfast table, about nothing it seemed. When I set the plate of breakfast in front of the Grandfather, he looked straight at me and said with perfect clarity. "Thank you so much for this, it looks just wonderfully" I nearly fell on the floor. A man who seemed to have lost reality, now was as coherent as I. How could the man who was guided around the Inn, like he was in a fog, not uttering a word, suddenly seem so rational and awake.

It was at that moment I knew that what I saw was only a facade. An act, on each person who sat in the dining room. An act designed to show the world that everything was as it seemed. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a family getting together to visit and catch up. Once a year. For three hours. Driving in from all over the country. For a cookout. Two days on the road for a three hour hot dog and coke.

But I knew different. I could guess, but I would have to investigate to discover the truth. My guess is the family committed a horrible act. Last year, two years ago or several. They were returning to re-commit themselves to silence. The were reaffirming a bond of fear that kept each person in a dark quiet place. A bond that was so strong that the Husband could only bury himself in the tv, not really aware but pretending nothing else mattered. A bond or fear so strong that the grandfather was willing to spend every day faking some sort of mental illness, just to avoid the truth. When I looked into his eyes I knew the truth.

The wife of the dad and mother of the son knew the truth too. Maybe she didn't leave as he told me. Maybe this was part of an act designed to reaffirm the story which took years to fabricate. The only reminder of the truth was this yearly cookout in the mountains of Maine.

The was only one answer to the question. What could be that horrific, that a family would go to this much trouble to keep it a secret. It had to be murder. Nothing else would be worth this much. Nothing else would send an old man into shock. Nothing else would send people into some sort of mental hiding place. Nothing else would bring this many people to the mountains of Maine for three hours.

Nothing.

The locals from Away

2005-09-17T13:54:00.000-07:00

Just as they came, they disappeared into the night. The rain beat down on a dark parking lot with only two familiar cars parked. I sat for a long time thinking about the strange occurrences that had happened that afternoon. It would be a while before the family would return so I had the luxury of puzzling in quiet for a few hours.

As with every guest, I try to steal a few moments to sit and talk. Ask some innocent questions. Or at least they may seem to be innocent. The single dad with his wired son. He was unsure of his address at check in. I recall him trying very hard to remember which one to to use. "Don't worry about it" I said, "Happens all the time". I could hear the satire echo in my mind. Who doesn't remember where they came from that morning........

At last, in the upper dining room, over a big black cup of coffee, dad started to relax. With each sip of coffee he talked more. Until a picture began to emerge. One for the story books. "My wife left us last month" He said. "She had the job, insurance, checkbook and took care of all the bills" "ooooh" I replied not sure if I wanted to open up this chapter. But....after all what else have I to do.

"Left huh" I said. Using a perfect mirroring technique to not really ask questions but to urge him to continue.

"Yes, she took care of everything. But left us with nothing. We had to move out and find an apartment. I only had enough money for one month rent. When I get back I will have to find some work" a long pause " I don't know" He said straight into the bottom of his coffee.

"More?" I said, refilling his cup. "I wonder who's paying for this room" I thought to myself.

"I can barely take him anymore. I apologize if he gets out of line." he said

"Hey, I got kids too, I know what they can do."

"No..... You don't." " If I give him his medication to early than we can't go out tonight, if I give it to him to late, than I won't be able to go to sleep tonight."

"Wow, I said, that's gotta be tough"

The dad shook his head. I felt for him, really I did. But this story just added to my confusion of the family and their history. Now we add a beaten dad, left with an over medicated son, no place to go, one month rent money and the best thing is to spend a chunk of his rent money on a room in my Inn. Good thing I had the sisters credit card. I was guessing at this point that she might pick up the tab. It turned out later that I was right.

I was going to have to find out more about this family. The quiet grandpa, stilled with an unknown trauma, the domineering sister who control's everything even the conversion, the sports fan husband who knew nothing of sports and the dad caught up more tragic events than bad romance novel. All traveling across the country for a one night cookout and returning home the next day.

I had made up my mind that I would wait up for them to return and see how there cookout went. A cookout indeed. Hidden away in the western Maine mountains was more than a charcoal fire and a couple of wieners.

When I return, a twist, they have returned to the Inn and I of course was listening.

The Opening of the Top of the Crest

2005-08-11T11:04:00.000-07:00

Today the new mattresses arrived for the "Top of the Crest". This a new space on the third floor of the Inn which will be used next summer for longer stay guests. The Top of the Crest has two bedrooms, Bathroom and fully equipped kitchen.

I have been wondering again about the Family who arrived for a single night from all parts of the county. They toted along an elderly man who spoke very little. Either by design or by some mental deficiency was he unable to speak. But his eyes said more than he ever could have. It appeared as though he was attempting to communicate by just looking. I starred at him quietly only for a few moments. But it was enough for him to tell me that he had a story to tell. Was this seemingly last minute trip just a circumstance or was it planned well in advance and by design. My mind wandered about this. The silent aged father figure, the young tired brow beaten dad with the equally tired son suffering from over medication. The domineering wife and yet another submissive husband who showed the most interest in watching the latest sports scores. He seemed to watch anything sports but knew nothing of the teams. Carrying on in a relentless tirade about players from bygone years and teams that no longer existed and cities that no longer had pro games. Did he watch the same game I did? It was in front of him but he saw nothing. Just like the grandfather, he saw everything but could show you nothing. Beneath all of this was an underlying fear.

Fear of what I thought. I had to pose some innocent questions to each in some privacy and then compare the answers.

When I return, I'll tell you the answers to some disturbing questions I had not asked.

2005-08-11T02:47:00.000-07:00

It has now been 6 weeks since we took over the PineCrest Bed and Breakfast Inn. A plan that took several years to create sprung into action in just a few short weeks .

So here we are, in Gorham Maine, the only Inn in town, a beautiful 1825 home, convenient to all and known to none. I believe that everything happens for a reason although the reason may never become fully known to us. Why did we end up here when so many other attempts failed. Yes, I'm aware that Edison invented 2000 ways not make a light bulb. But in the end, we have light don't we. Ok, In this end, we have an Inn. And guests. So that's a step, right.

The list of Inns we've looked at over the years was to say the least, long and interesting. From abandoned beautiful properties in the middle of nowhere to smelly-not-so-nice ones in the middle of everything. (Names left out to protect the guilty.)

What you will find here in this InnBlog are my thoughts of this adventure. I don't know, but my wife and I may be the youngest innkeepers in the state of Maine. Certainly my assistant innkeepers are. Abby, age 9 and Zoe, age 7, have become our assistants in "All-Things-Inn" They help with cooking and serving, cleaning and even have the arduous task of playing with the guests children.

I may even write about some strange guests, like the family who showed up for a night on a seemingly secret trip. They came from all over the US, for one night, some driving a dozen hours to get here. For a cookout? I don't think so. I think they might have committed some horrible act and rejoin each other once a year to re-commit their code of silence. What did they do? Why the secret trip. I know. I will tell more in the days to come.

InnBlog, out.