Summer Fallow

The autumn is coming, or is here. There is no way to know. The farmer rushes, for he knows in his bones what is to come, as do we all. His daily exertions — never mighty, always steady — will yield their dividends if the cold dead hand of fortune does not intervene. One does not dwell on such things, except on the Sabbath, when you are not among them.

The fall is bittersweet for any man. The year is old enough to provide, but the reminder of the fresh strong exertions of spring, gone forever into the ground, are arrayed all around. The exhortation: “You will never see its like again” is the beginning of something, too.

What can you look upon, from a pinnacle, exactly?

CUSTO SE ICE

When I was a kid, gas stations were few and far between. You’d have to travel a little way to get to one. I remember, forty years later, the Sunoco Station in the town I grew up in. We’d always drive past to get to another one. They had the usual signage on the old concrete block building, but it had fallen into disrepair. They used to repair automobiles at service stations too, and this place was no exception. It had two bays, with illuminated letters over the big bay doors that read CUSTOM SERVICE.

But not forever. The wind or snow or ice or just plain gravity had gotten to three letters, and for as long as I can recall we’d drive by and say aloud: CUSTO SE ICE.

I think’s it’s great to be noteworthy. That place certainly was; I remember it after all these years. But I remember Lee Harvey Oswald too. Remembering ain’t the whole thing.

People derive certain impressions from all sorts of things about you. And in business, those cues you give, and some that others give about you, might determine if you eat three squares a day.

I make and sell furniture. I give out all sorts of emanations about the whole state of affairs. This is one of them, come to think of it. What sort of impression does it give? I don’t know.

I don’t know because I’m not you. I can ask you, but you might lie. People don’t like telling the truth always, if the truth hurts. In a former, much more rough and tumble business I worked at, I’ve been told terrible things by perfectly happy customers who thought yelling was the way to get a discount, and I’ve had people tell me everything was fine while they were searching for our replacement. You can’t always tell what people are thinking by what people are saying. Ultimately, you have to try your best, listen as hard as you can, and trust in yourself.

I don’t give an impression, but you might get one, is the short answer. Let me give you an example.

I’ve written many times about promenading in Bristol, Rhode Island. It’s a lovely, quiet place, full of salubrious and friendly people. On our last trip, we were walking down the street, and we passed Muzzie’s Attic on Hope Street. It was in an old building, and had the look of a place that has 11 things in a 10 thing bag. Bursting. And in fact, it had burst right out onto the sidewalk a bit. My wife espied that little putti birdbath, and its attractive price, and said she must have it.

We had our own little putti with us, and taking him into a store filled with small items, including … shudder… porcelain, was out of the question. So I went in alone to pay.

The place was old and cluttered; but cluttered in an interesting and Victorian way. It was absolutely clean and shipshape. It didn’t look ritzy. It looked like someone cared about it. I met that someone.

The lovely lady that took my credit card returned from the terminal with a question, which is never good. Well almost never.

“I’m a Sullivan too,” she offered, and we chatted a bit about our fuzzy but similar lineage, and other such topics. I was in a bit of a hurry, but she neither shoved me out the door nor wasted my time. In short, I got what I wanted, and I got a pleasant impression of her, her family, and her lovely little store full of treasures.

I see that dish of water in my garden every day. It reminds me of:
-My little son
-My lovely wife
-A pleasant afternoon
-Summer
-Bristol, Rhode Island
-A pleasant woman
-A pleasant store

I’ve forgotten about the money it cost. Go to Muzzie’s Attic if you like pleasant people and interesting things. Go elsewhere for:

CUSTO SE ICE

Stop Me Before I Chatham Again

You know, when you try to go with the zeitgeist, the vibe is always a moving target. That’s a picture of Mr. Whalevedere, and I bet the town fathers thought they were a wild and cracy bunch when they put this ouside the town offices. It’s kinda charming in its own right. But it’s not hip. Hip replacement hip, really.

Here’s the Chamber of Commerce information thingie in Chatham. It’s right downtown and gives just the right impression about the place. There’s an old joke about New England towns:
“I never go to public bathrooms in New England.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m afraid if I take it out, someone will paint it white and hang shutters on either side of it.”

Colonial houses can appear very chaste and elegantly plain. But get your hands on five starfish, and you’re a whimsical trainwreck.

Here’s the shopping district, looking sorta medieval on steroids. It has that rarest of things in it: Art galleries with pleasant but not kitsch paintings. Art should be looked at through a window with real muntins first. Check.

You’ve got ’til Columbus Day to stroll in the fine weather. After that, it’s Katie Bar The Door until Memorial Day. Hurry up.

Archie Tecter Is Alive And Well And Living In Chatham

On The Porch

It’s Sunday. Sunday’s lovely. The children and parents alike are in their pajamas still. Work never really stops for such as I, but there is an extra portion of downtime built into the day.

There is a period between Labor Day and Columbus Day when Cape Cod is literally perfect. The sunshine still has the power to warm your bones properly, but never hits you like a hammer as it does in August. The flowers still bloom. The sun doesn’t get as high in the sky, and so the flat, washed out effect of the midday is tempered into a kind of vibrant illumination only. The mosquitoes are losing interest.

The tourists have fled. Park on the street. The shopkeepers are glad to see you again. The ocean has reached its benificent peak, before its long languid slide to icewater. The weather has turned, and all the haze has fallen out of the sky to linger above the grass in the long morning, or hangs in the twilight like the smoke from a million elves’ chimneys.

The tree branch will hang over my bairn as he waits for the bus tomorrow, the leaves tinged with red and yellow, reminding me that the year, and the boy, is slipping away down the calendar. Let us linger in it all today.