Unaware that Mr. Pop had been working to convince Frankie Carmichael that attending the Potato Blossom Festival, even if for a day, would be the best thing for his family, Molly believed she had succeeded in talking her father into letting her drive up with us to the Potato Blossom Festival. But who convinced who ultimately didn’t matter. What mattered was that Molly was going with us. As disappointed as she was about not being able to compete in the Miss Potato Blossom Queen Pageant, at that point Molly just wanted to get away from Watsonville, from all the pain and sadness foisted on her by Glenn and Marjorie. And Mick.
Barely one year earlier the festival was full of promise and excitement when Marjorie won the pageant. Molly was the proudest little sister I’d ever seen, and the Carmichaels the proudest parents. They boasted about their daughter’s accomplishments everywhere they went. What a difference a year made.
“Molly, I waited forever for Mrs. Garritson to get off the line,” I said into the phone. “I know she was annoyed at me picking up every five minutes, but really, she should have just driven over to Mrs. Burt’s for a visit and not tied up the phone for so long! I’m just calling to say that we are leaving at 8:00 a.m. sharp on Saturday for the festival. You’re still coming, right?”
“You know I am. Every minute I’m at home, I spend holed up in my room. I’m so mad at my father, I can hardly breathe when I think about it.”
I had heard the click of the hall closet behind her, the favored talking place of the Carmichael girls. I wondered how long it’d be before I heard Mr. Carmichael’s knock on the door. But at least he let her talk on the phone. Lately, when I’d called their house, he’d tell me Molly was busy with her chores and not available to speak. He never offered to take a message or invited me to call her back.
“So things at home still haven’t gotten better?” I asked.
“Nope. Well, maybe a little. I don’t know. They’re letting me go to Potato Blossom—the surprise of my life!”
“I’m so glad! I can’t wait to catch up. We’ll have two whole days of it! You know Mr. Pop. He can’t be away from the farm for more than two days at a time during growing season, or any season for that matter. I tried talking him into letting Mother and me stay a couple extra days, but no deal. See you Saturday morning?”
“I’ll be there. Can’t wait!”
The wonder of the Potato Blossom Festival was its timing, of course. It was held at the height of the blossoming fields. No better time to drive around Aroostook County than when the blossoms were at their peak. It was this sight that made me never understand how anyone could move away. As we drove up The North Road toward Fort Fairfield, the vast fields spread out before us like a gently rolling sea of lilac and green. Pinkish purple in some fields and creamy yellow in others, potato fields in bloom are truly a sight to behold. My parents had told stories of the POWs who once farmed these fields during the War. I didn’t remember ever seeing them, but I’d heard the story of the German prisoner who had fallen in love with a local farmer’s daughter and caused the biggest romantic scandal Aroostook County had ever seen. Until now, I supposed.
But I didn’t let my mind linger there long. Riding in the car for this long was too much of a treat. So different from the bouncing along in the old potato truck I was used to. I thought Molly and I were riding in style in our Ford sedan. Of course, Molly was used to more style than I was with her father’s new Buick Riviera, but to me the Ford meant luxury and a ride that didn’t scramble your insides with every bump like our truck. I can still feel the cloth seats. I loved the gray cloth interior in contrast to the black exterior. I thought it looked high class, but Mr. Pop bought it because he didn’t think it drew attention, not like Frankie Carmichael’s bright red Buick. Molly and I kept our windows down, at least for part of the trip to Presque Isle. It was a beautiful day as long as we were on paved roads. As soon as the gravel started, the dust was unbearable and we had to roll up the windows quickly.
The view mostly consisted of rolling hills and potato fields. The potato itself is so mundane, utilitarian really. Used in so many dishes to bind things together instead of being the star attraction, at least that’s how most people think. But being from Aroostook County, I think different. There’s nothing like new potatoes and freshly shelled peas with sweet cream. Add Mother’s homemade rolls and that’s always our first potato meal of the season. Eating what the sweat of your brow has nurtured and worked hard to produce is something only those who work a farm can fully understand.
Sure, the coast has its lighthouses and lobster boats. But even those can’t top the wide-open sky full of billowy cumulonimbus clouds with the flowing rows of potato blossoms, sun kissing every field in bloom.
With all the bad things that have happened in the past few days, Molly and I, not to mention Mr. Pop and Mother, needed the full orbed beauty of this drive north. A little more than an hour, the drive was the perfect length to leave behind the cares of Watsonville. I was thankful for a bright, sunny day to enjoy the vistas. We also got a peek at what the parade would have in store for us. The town floats for Mars Hill and Easton were both out on the main road in full view.
We kept our eyes peeled for moose and bear. Didn’t want that kind of encounter to end our trip early. Mr. Pop reminded us of when Pastor Murphy’s daughter Sharon drove home from church on a Wednesday night, she crested a hill on Foster Road and ran right into a young bull moose. It’s not hard to imagine who got the worse end of that.
“Poor Sharon,” Mother said. “It’s been two years, and she’s still finding pieces of glass working their way out of her.”
Mr. Pop glanced back at us in the rearview mirror. As soon as our eyes met, I giggled. Mr. Pop did too. Well, at least, he smiled. Ellery had a whole routine about poor Sharon picking the glass and “moose fur” out of her.
“She’s just lucky to be alive,” Mother said, unaware of the image of Ellery that was running through my and Mr. Pop’s minds. “Too bad her car wasn’t as lucky.”
“You two girls are unusually quiet,” Mother noticed with distinct curiosity in her voice. “Aside from your giggling, that is.”
“Oh, nothing to say really,” Molly said. “Just enjoying the sights. Been awhile since I’ve been up country. Certainly awhile since I’ve seen the fields in bloom like this.”
“We’re really glad you could come with us,” Mother said. “I know Mercy is awfully happy to have a friend along. It’s been hard for you two to have time together lately, so I hope this little trip will make up for that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Millar. It was nice of you to invite me along.”
“Nonsense! You’re like a sister to Mercy.”
“Mr. Pop, we’re almost there, right?” I asked. He had surprised us even more by booking a room at the Aroostook Inn. My mother loved nothing more than the privacy and elegance of a hotel room.
“Yep. Probably just ten more minutes,” Mr. Pop said, “and we should be there, fair and square.”
“Just what I thought,” I said. “Molly and I want to get a good spot on the main route where we can watch the parade.”
“Just so long as you help your mother and me take the bags to the room. Then you two can make hay while the sun shines!”
It was good to see a smile in Mr. Pop’s delivery of that line. His tone gave me a bit of hope. I knew while Molly and I watched the parade, he would be off to the Indian Rights Council meeting, something I couldn’t allow myself to think about.
Staying in a hotel, even for one night, felt so luxurious. We hauled our overnight cases up to the hotel room, since the room was ready, but didn’t have time to linger and enjoy it. We had to find a good spot on the parade route. Molly and I found a great place next to the local ice cream joint. Brilliant! Mr. Pop had given each of us money for lunch and an afternoon treat. As soon as we saw the ice cream shop, I elbowed Molly.
“I think we found our treat.”
She nodded back, before scanning the crowd that had gathered. I wondered when Tommy Birger and his family would arrive as well.
“So Mol’, what’s your favorite part of the parade?” I chimed in with my own. “Mine is seeing all the old farming equipment, even those horse-drawn plows and diggers.”
Every year Mr. Pop would point out the equipment to me, talk me through their functions and how they’d been so innovative at the time. All I could do was thank God I didn’t live back then. Farming was hard enough work today.
“I like the town floats,” Molly said. “Definitely. Watsonville always has a good one. I’m looking forward to seeing our entry this year. Of course, the float with all the Potato Blossom Queen contestants used to be my favorite.” Her voice trailed off with a measure of sadness.
I wrapped my arm around her shoulder.
“Let’s not think about that today,” I said. “Not Glenn and Marjorie, not Mick, not the Indian Rights Council.”
I waved my arm, widened my eyes, and let my best ringmaster voice ring out. “We need some good ole fashioned fun. Let’s take in the sights, the smells, the sounds, the people, everything but what coulda’ been. Deal?”
“It’s a deal, as long as you stop talking like you’re in some silly movie.”
I laughed. Of course, Molly and I had no idea what people in silly movies talked like. Going to movies was off-limits for good Baptist girls, though we knew all about the glamorous stars.
Not long after we’d found our spot, the old-fashioned cars starting coming down the boulevard. The parade’s grand marshal was a boy about nine or ten years old. I remembered hearing about him a couple months ago when I was in town. Bud told me about an article in the Watsonville Chronicle about him too.
“Molly, hey! Remember me telling you about this kid?” I asked. “He had to have some big operation down in Portland and the whole community was doing a fund-raiser to help pay for it? Looks like he’s on the mend. I don’t remember what kind of operation, though.”
“It wasn’t an operation,” Molly said. “He got polio, a bad case, and needed some special device to help him walk better. The whole town rallied.”
Our parade neighbor, evidently a local, overheard our conversation and filled us in on the details of his illness and the town’s help. Polio was bad business. Mother took part in at least two walks for polio with a bunch of Watsonville mothers. We filled up a few of those March of Dimes cards and turned them in at the hardware store.
After the grand marshal car came the politicians. First came an old Model T for the mayor of Fort Fairfield, followed by all the surrounding communities’ mayors, including Watsonville’s, riding in a variety of antique cars.
“I suppose most of them are heading over to the Indian Rights Council as soon as they’re done with the parade,” Molly said. “Wouldn’t want to be in that room today.”
“Me neither. But we’re not supposed to be thinking about that. Remember our deal?”
“Hey, there’s Governor Cross,” I said. “I bet he’s nervous about the election in September. Mr. Pop says he wouldn’t be surprised to see Mr. Muskie win. Wonder if Governor Cross is going to the Indian Rights Council. I’ve heard Uncle Roger talk about being in meetings in Augusta with him.”
“Look who’s breaking our deal now!” Molly said, with a laugh. “Oh, look! Here come the Clydesdales. I love them.”
I loved them too. So beautiful and yet cloddy, with their fur fluffing around their ankles as they pulled the old-time fire engine.
Although I hadn’t been able to keep my end of the deal—not only talking about the Indian Rights Council but by thinking nonstop about how I wish Mick could be here with us—the parade was all kinds of fun, from the Clydesdales and old farm equipment to the men dressed up in Civil War uniforms from the Battle of Gettysburg.
By the time the parade ended, Molly and I were tired of standing and glad to find a nice spot to sit and eat our lunch. We started roaming the festival grounds for the best eats and across the yard I spotted Chef Barone.
“Molly, there’s the chef from Nelson’s!” I said, pointing to a white-tented table across the street. “He’s the guy I told you about, the one who hired Joseph.”
I took Molly’s arm and dragged her across the street. The closer we got, the aromas began to intermingle. The divine smell of all things fried from the Elm Tree Diner booth captured me. They had the best fresh-cut, deep-fried french fries. Add a basket of fried clams with some freshly mixed tartar sauce and Chef Barone had serious competition. I smelled, before I spotted, the annual Rotary Club booth with the buttery goodness of fresh corn on the cob served alongside lobster rolls. We’d already made eye contact with Chef, so that’s where we were eating whether or not we were tempted to go elsewhere. Besides, I’d eaten Elm Tree food and festival food my whole life. Italian food was a real treat, something new in the county.
“It’s the broccoli lady, hello!” Chef Barone said. “Welcome to Nelson’s at the festival! I’m sorry; I can’t remember your name, although Joseph talks about you all the time.”
“Mercy, it’s Mercy,” I said, putting out my hand. “And this is my friend Molly. It’s wonderful to see you, Chef. How’s Joseph doing at the restaurant?”
“You can ask him yourself. He just went back to the car to grab another tablecloth and a couple of aprons. This is my first time at the festival, so I’m learning how everything is done. I hope you girls are hungry. My lasagna is delicious, and so is my eggplant parmesan.” He brought his curled fingers to his lips and gave them a rapturous kiss. “I have some delectable greens for a salad, or you can get wilted spinach as a side dish. What’s your pleasure?”
“I don’t know about Molly, but I’m going for some lasagna.”
“You’ve had lasagna before?” Chef asked.
“Only once. But I loved it!” I said, my eyes grazing the choices in front of me. “And I’ll take the spinach with it, please. I may not smell broccoli, but I do love spinach. It’s one of my favorites. If I can’t have fiddleheads, that is.”
“Ah, yes, fiddleheads,” Chef said. “I keep hearing about this mysterious vegetable. Only in season in the springtime, right?”
I nodded.
“Joseph has already promised to take me into the woods and show me what it looks like and how to harvest it. A fern, they say, just a curled-up green fern? Curious!”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “But it’s the best-tasting fern in the world.”
“And for you, young lady?” Chef turned to Molly. “What would you like to have today?”
“The same for me, minus the spinach. I’ll go with a salad please.”
“Good choice, good choice! There are picnic tables right over there and sodas for sale at the booth across the way. Then come back and say hello to Joe. Although, you might want to wait till the crowds die down.”
We paid Chef and thanked him. Quite a line had formed behind us. For Chef’s sake, I hoped Joseph got back soon to help. I also needed to find Mother and tell her to try Nelson’s for lunch as well. She’d been anxious to meet the man who hired a boy because he smelled her broccoli.
“Molly, I’ll take our lunches to the table and you grab drinks, okay?”
“Sure; what do you want?”
“I’ll take a Grape Nehi. Thanks!”
It felt great to sit down after standing for over an hour watching the parade. Mr. Pop always said how standing around made people more tired than actual hard work. And he was right. As I bent over to rub my calf muscle, I broke my own promise once again and thought of Mick sitting in a cell. That active boy, so used to spending days foraging in the woods and working in the fields, so used to walking and running miles and miles, now confined to a ten-by-five cell. I shuddered and wondered how exhausting just sitting would be for him. Jesus, be with him, I prayed silently while smiling at Molly’s triumphant return with the two Grape Nehis.
As soon as she sat, I began pointing out the people I pretended to have noticed while she was gone. But it wasn’t hard to do. Watching the people at the festival while we ate lunch was great entertainment. As I pushed worried thoughts about Mick out of my mind, we spotted a guy with an enormous handlebar mustache.
“If only the festival had a mustache contest,” Molly said. “He’d be a shoo-in. Oh, there’s your mother.”
Molly pointed across the yard from where we ate lunch. Sure enough, there was Mother talking to her friend Mrs. Brown and another woman I didn’t recognize. But each of them looked crisp and fresh, beautiful in their best summer dresses and polished shoes. I tried to get Mother’s attention with a wave, but she didn’t notice. Her skirt swished as she turned back into the crowd. As good a farm wife as my mother was, never did she seem more in her element than when she was dressed up and being sociable. Mother may have spent the past twenty-five years on a farm, but at heart she would always be a town girl, where shops and restaurants and festivals and friends kept life more vibrant than growing broccoli and providing flowers for the communion table.
Molly and I had just started to plot out the rest of our day just as I noticed Joseph was back at the Nelson’s booth.
“Hey Joe,” I yelled over to him, unwilling to get up from the picnic table yet. “How’s it going?” The lunch crowd had died down, so Joseph came over to our table and sat for a minute.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to be here,” Joseph said. “Heck, three days ago I didn’t expect to be anywhere. I definitely never expected to be spending my days cutting broccoli. I’ve cut so much, I’m not sure if I can ever eat broccoli salad again.”
“So it’s working out okay, then?”
“Yeah. I like it. Chef doesn’t seem to care if my skin is red or brown or purple. I figure it’s ’cause he’s from New York. No wonder Glenn likes it there.”
“Heard anything from Mick or Uncle Roger?”
“Since I got this job, I haven’t had time to do anything else. I heard Roger stopped by to talk to my folks, but I was at the restaurant. It’s good not to be around for all that. I’m so glad I’ve got this job.”
I smiled at him. “I’m glad you’ve got it too. We’re all so proud of you.”
“Not sure what there’s to be proud of,” Joseph said. “Pretty sure Chef Barone had no idea what he was doing, hiring someone like me. Most people are just waiting for me to punch a hole through something, but Chef says he sees something in me. And it almost seems like it’s something special he sees.”
“Almost seems like Someone was looking out for you,” I said.
“Right. I was thinking maybe it was you. Or your dad or mother. I mean, she did take the phone order for those broccoli. Did she put him up to this?”
I laughed. “I meant Someone with a capital S. You know, God.”
“Oh, right,” Joseph said. “I don’t know about that. But Chef does have two expectations for me as his sous chef. That’s what he calls me. It means assistant, but it sounds better. It’s French.”
I didn’t know, but I nodded as though I did.
“I’m supposed to ask any question that pops into my head, and he says I’ve got to go with him to church this Sunday. He wants me to go to church to learn about Jesus, I guess,” Joseph said.
I wondered what our minister would think about that. I was sure it wasn’t a Baptist church Chef Barone attended. But as I watched Joseph’s face, I noticed he never grimaced or hardened as he spoke about church. This was the first time I’d ever heard him say the name Jesus. I realized I’d never heard Mick say it either.
Joseph noticed my smile and shrugged. “But anyway, either it was God or your mother. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, I guess.”
“Joseph, I promise you: my mother is not God, and she never talked to Chef Barone about hiring you. Goodness, she’d never even heard of him before that phone call. But definitely, it sounds like Someone is looking out for you.”
Joseph turned back to Nelson’s tent. Chef Barone pointed to his wristwatch and waved him over.
“I gotta get back,” Joseph said. “Gotta do some cleanup and then prep for our supper service. Maybe I’ll see ya later.”
“Sounds good, Joe.”
Molly had been unusually quiet, but I figured it was a bit awkward for her. Her being seen with a Maliseet could be very bad news for her, if that news reached back home to her dad, at least. I could tell Joe was sensitive to that too, something he wouldn’t have been just three days ago. Perhaps being invited to ask questions and go to church was doing something to him.
Molly and I ate the rest of our lunches in silence, a silence broken only by the noise of the chatter at tables around us and the sounds of kids laughing and crying and the little boy behind us begging his parents to get him ice cream.
“Mol’, let’s get an ice cream and head over to the baseball game,” I said. “We’ve got to cheer on our Watsonville Sluggers. Ellery says they’re really good this year. Even beat the Mattawamkeags.”
“Yeah,” Molly said, “and their pitcher is really cute too.”
Mercy raised her eyebrows. Molly having eyes for another could be good news for Tommy Birger.