Since I last wrote a blog, I have moved to a townhouse in Brunswick, Maine, located on a large de-commissioned Navy base that has been transformed into a series of properties for sale and rent by a developer from Texas. It looks and feels like a former Navy base. It’s affordable, if not charming. I have no garden this year, just a few herbs. But there are numerous farmers’ markets in the area, and the produce is glorious. Not the same as growing your own, but I am appreciative of the quality and abundance. This summer tourists have overrun Maine. Everyone has apparently discovered “Vacationland”, the moniker on our license plates. New Hampshire’s license plate slogan is “Live Free or Die”. New Hampshire has a hard-core Republican governor. In today’s world, I think that means “Die or Live Free”.
Here on Brunswick Landing, the local tennis courts, of which there are several, have been converted to pickleball courts. There is a local Mid-Coast Maine pickleball group that now meets regularly on these courts. To be fair, the tennis courts were in disrepair and rarely used. So the pickle ballers came in and paid their own money to put in new pickleball type nets and erect little sunshade structures and plastic chairs where they can hang out between games. By the time we opened the windows in May, the pickle ballers were out in full force. They start at 8A and go till 6P. Tennis balls make a soft plop sound on the ground. Plop, plop, no plop. Plop, plop, plop… Pickleballs are hard plastic, like large ping-pong balls with holes, as far as I can tell, never having seen one up close. I’m guessing that’s why it’s called pickleball.
The game is like ping-pong on a (tennis) court. Apparently, it’s ragingly popular in Maine. It’s old people tennis. You don’t have to move as fast or as far; it’s easier to hit the larger ball with the larger paddle, etc. Not as elegant a game as tennis, but you can do it much easier and longer in life. Which is a good thing. So now I live, during the summer months at least, with the constant sound of pickle balls outside my window for 8 hours a day. It’s not a soft plop, plop. It’s a louder form of ping-pong and it never ends all day long. For some reason, the sound of pickle balls hitting pavement carries a long way. I may try to figure out a way to record it and share.
I listen, watch, and even read the news of the US and the world sparingly at the moment. I do subscribe to several online newspapers. I used to watch BBC News America, but with Katty Kay gone, it’s not the same (sorry Christian – where are you?). I am an NPR supporter and listen to all the broadcasts I can, local and national. But I am cautious these days. I have to take the news in small doses or I literally feel that I may not survive. I want to be informed, but…
This morning when I went to check email the online photos of the Redneck Riviera caught my eye. For those of you not in the know, it’s in Alabama, on the border of Florida. Alabama is one of the least vaccinated states in the nation. It doesn’t have much to offer in terms of tourist attractions, but the Redneck Riviera is one of them. The term is used proudly down there. I’m aware of it because of the Louisiana/Texas branch of my own redneck family, though I’ve not been there. If you dare to check out the photos of the thousands of people down there celebrating (what? The end of summer? The end of the world?), it will probably amaze you. The bars are open, the unvaccinated, unmasked people are dancing on the tables, and the hospital down the street has an ICU that is overfilled with COVID cases. Ventilators are in short supply.
How long before those health care workers simply walk off the job? Why are they even there now? I really take off my hat to them. I simply couldn’t do it.
When I was young, I loved horror stories and read all the classics. Edgar Allen Poe was a favorite. When I saw the photos today of the Redneck Riviera, I thought of his story “The Masque of the Red Death”. What’s going on down there is that masked ball in modern-day dress (read the story if you want to know more). Yet in this case, we all have a choice.
The Alabama state license plate slogan is “Heart of Dixie”. I wonder if it would calm the folks on the Redneck Riviera, in the heart of Dixie, to get out there in their Crimson Tide jerseys and play some pickleball? Here in Vacationland, the Mid-Coast Maine pickle ballers are giving free introductory lessons every Thursday. I haven’t yet put it on my calendar, but maybe I will.
