Char and I took off for the lake as soon as our respective shifts at Tanglewood were over. We needed to hustle to get ready for the party at my parents summer place on what is now known as “Dickens Road”. In those days it was just plain “Fire Road 63”.
We had given directions to our co-workers at Tanglewood: “It’s just a mile and a half down Hope Road from Petunia Pump”. Petunia Pump served for at least a century and a half as a public well with a cast iron pump covered with a cupola. This local landmark got it’s name because it was decorated in the summer with wooden boxes filled with petunias.
Along the way we stopped at the Center Store for wine, beer, chips and wooden matches for the pit fire I’d planned. The little convenience store, “kitty corner” from Petunia Pump is in the heart of what we jokingly referred to as “Downtown Lincolnville Center”. It had been purchased a few years back by a couple of older folks from “away”. Bill and Jessie Warrington had recently renovated the old two-and-a-half story Victorian that had been built in the era of President Lincoln. To most local folks it was still known as Knights Store.
Bill Warrington sat perched on his stool behind the glass topped counter smoking an endless chain of cigarettes and looking relaxed with his chosen retirement in the sleepy Maine village. His black cardigan sweater was pulled over a wrinkled blue shirt covering his bony frame. Even in the heat of the summer, he felt the cold, so the sweater was a permanent feature.
Regarding Char and I, he peered over his black-framed reading glasses perched at the tip of his pointed nose and flipped a strand of long black hair away from his forehead. “What can I get you kids?” his raspy, but friendly tone escaping in a half wheeze, punctuated with a smokers cough.
“Bacteria Bill” as he’d been nicknamed due to his lack of attendance to personal grooming and hygiene, had remarkably attained nearly instant acceptance in the little town with his easy manner and laid-back approach to absolutely everything.
The place was neat enough, but still had enough stray dust and randomness to qualify as an authentic country store. Its mainstays were beer, wine, bread milk and eggs, but an ever expanding array of exotic beer and wine choices brought folks from towns as far away as Belfast, Searsmont, Camden or Appleton for the selections. Low walk-in coolers lined the back walls next to pin-ball machines and blinking neon beer signs. Antiquated ice cream coolers with heavy white sliding doors served as partitions, separating the customers from the cigarette and candy shelves. The original white tin ceilings were mostly intact, though yellowed from years of neglect.
As an afterthought, Bill and Jessie had tacked on a small addition for serving take out ice cream in the summer. During the summer months, barefoot kids and adults alike made the trek from “Breezemere Park” at Norton’s Pond for the cold treats offered at the sliding glass window.
“Just the beer chips and wine for now, Bill”, Char announced, fishing her wallet from the depths of her handbag. “You got any wooden “strike anywhere” matches, Bill? I couldn’t find ‘em” I added. Bill pointed a bony finger at the shelf over the canned goods and I followed it, locating the matches. Chatting pleasantly as she always does, Char asked about Mary, Bill and Jessie’s ten-year-old daughter. “Oh, she’s around someplace, probably riding her bike” Bill responded as he lit another cigarette, well before the last one was finished. “Party at the lake, I bet!” Bill guessed knowingly. He’d seen my sisters and I take advantage of our summer place at the lake over the last few years, often hosting family get-togethers, parties with our friends and even a couple of wedding receptions.
We had given directions to our co-workers at Tanglewood: “It’s just a mile and a half down Hope Road from Petunia Pump”. Petunia Pump served for at least a century and a half as a public well with a cast iron pump covered with a cupola. This local landmark got it’s name because it was decorated in the summer with wooden boxes filled with petunias.
Along the way we stopped at the Center Store for wine, beer, chips and wooden matches for the pit fire I’d planned. The little convenience store, “kitty corner” from Petunia Pump is in the heart of what we jokingly referred to as “Downtown Lincolnville Center”. It had been purchased a few years back by a couple of older folks from “away”. Bill and Jessie Warrington had recently renovated the old two-and-a-half story Victorian that had been built in the era of President Lincoln. To most local folks it was still known as Knights Store.
Bill Warrington sat perched on his stool behind the glass topped counter smoking an endless chain of cigarettes and looking relaxed with his chosen retirement in the sleepy Maine village. His black cardigan sweater was pulled over a wrinkled blue shirt covering his bony frame. Even in the heat of the summer, he felt the cold, so the sweater was a permanent feature.
Regarding Char and I, he peered over his black-framed reading glasses perched at the tip of his pointed nose and flipped a strand of long black hair away from his forehead. “What can I get you kids?” his raspy, but friendly tone escaping in a half wheeze, punctuated with a smokers cough.
“Bacteria Bill” as he’d been nicknamed due to his lack of attendance to personal grooming and hygiene, had remarkably attained nearly instant acceptance in the little town with his easy manner and laid-back approach to absolutely everything.
The place was neat enough, but still had enough stray dust and randomness to qualify as an authentic country store. Its mainstays were beer, wine, bread milk and eggs, but an ever expanding array of exotic beer and wine choices brought folks from towns as far away as Belfast, Searsmont, Camden or Appleton for the selections. Low walk-in coolers lined the back walls next to pin-ball machines and blinking neon beer signs. Antiquated ice cream coolers with heavy white sliding doors served as partitions, separating the customers from the cigarette and candy shelves. The original white tin ceilings were mostly intact, though yellowed from years of neglect.
As an afterthought, Bill and Jessie had tacked on a small addition for serving take out ice cream in the summer. During the summer months, barefoot kids and adults alike made the trek from “Breezemere Park” at Norton’s Pond for the cold treats offered at the sliding glass window.
“Just the beer chips and wine for now, Bill”, Char announced, fishing her wallet from the depths of her handbag. “You got any wooden “strike anywhere” matches, Bill? I couldn’t find ‘em” I added. Bill pointed a bony finger at the shelf over the canned goods and I followed it, locating the matches. Chatting pleasantly as she always does, Char asked about Mary, Bill and Jessie’s ten-year-old daughter. “Oh, she’s around someplace, probably riding her bike” Bill responded as he lit another cigarette, well before the last one was finished. “Party at the lake, I bet!” Bill guessed knowingly. He’d seen my sisters and I take advantage of our summer place at the lake over the last few years, often hosting family get-togethers, parties with our friends and even a couple of wedding receptions.
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