The other day I spotted the little feral cat I’ve been feeding since last fall slipping into a corner in the barn loft where I’d never seen her before. Aha! She must have kittens after all. She’d been looking suspiciously lumpy in the glimpses I’d had of her the past few weeks, and then not, but I didn’t hear any tiny kitten cries, so hoping for the best, I assumed she’d lost them.

 But the way she was sneaking into that corner was a dead giveaway. Any owner of a barn, a real barn once full of hay has mice and bats and probably snakes underneath; it surely has a feral cat or two. And the odds are always on the side of those cats being female.

 One year we had so many feral and semi-feral mothers that we ended up with 23 kittens to give away. Which we did. Then we got serious about trapping the mamas and getting them fixed, no easy task. In the end we trapped the big Tom who was visiting from across the brook and had him snipped, then let him go home to wherever he really lived. “Turned him into a consultant,” Wally always said when he told the story.

 So this morning I wasn’t surprised to see two all black kittens playing near that corner. I took the two little grandsons aside and told them a secret their big sister, away for the week-end, didn’t know: “We’ve got kittens!”

 Naturally, they scrambled up the ladder, their dad leading the way, to ferret out those babies. Suddenly, the mama frantically cut across the lower loft, watching me with big eyes, daring me to do something. “Too late,” I told the boys, “she’s already moved them.” And so she had. So far we haven’t found her new nest.

 When it’s time to give birth, cats find a safe place. In my experience it’s usually in the back of a closet, preferably on a favorite piece of clothing. Wally loved the leather vest he got at the Common Ground Fair many years ago. Only he and I knew why it had a peculiar shaped stain on the back; nothing was going to stop him from wearing it, not even afterbirth.

 Women nest, too, though for us it often takes the form of intensive house cleaning or nursery-decorating. I woke up in the middle of the night not long before the due date for our first and decided to strip the paint off the nursery floor. It took several cans of ZipStrip, me on hands and knees with a scraper, with nary a thought about how those fumes might be affecting the unborn.

 I’ve written these past months about crazy intensive cleaning, about intricate gardening projects, about digitizing endless stacks of old records to preserve the town’s history – about all kinds of work made to fill the empty days and give me a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Now for the topper. Going through every single thing in this house with a critical eye – does it stay or does it go? I’m turning this place upside down and inside out.

 We – my middle son, wife and I – have decided to divide the house into two, upstairs for them and their three kids and three cats, and downstairs for me, my dog, cat and two birds. It means I’ll move out of the upstairs rooms and take all that stuff downstairs. They’ll sell their house and move into the renovated barn loft and all the upstairs rooms.

 What would Wally say? We all agree: “No way!”

 But he’s not here, is he?

 The plan started like one of those light bulbs we used to see in the comics. Our daughter-in-law was weaving, finishing up the rug Wally had started, and thoroughly enjoying it. I’d begun eyeing her as a possible replacement weaver, and I think she was seeing herself the same way. One day she was reluctant to stop and go home. “I could just stay here,” she said. Bingo. The idea was born.

 It took me all of 24 hours to conjure it up and flesh it out. This is a big house, much bigger than it appears from the road. Lots of rooms, lots of barn, lots of space. Ever since the boys moved out some twenty years ago the upstairs rooms have only collected clutter. Except for our bedroom and the occasional guest, nobody sleeps up there anymore.

 I ran around from room to room, out to the barn, and back again, mentally measuring, putting a granddaughter here, her brothers there. That could be the kitchen. Windows in the back, a staircase in the front. Renovating, adding on, creating new space makes my heart race. It drove Wally crazy, but ultimately, he always said “sure, go ahead” when I came up with a new idea – weaving shop, sunroom, office/workroom, greenhouse, garden shed, sauna.

 All that day I kept stopping myself. The first rule of widowhood is don’t make any big life-changing decisions in the first year. The upstairs of the house full of life? Footsteps, laughing, shouting, arguing, music, TV. Coming home to lights on. Children running down the stairs, climbing the apple trees, harassing the hens, always underfoot. Going upstairs for spur-of-the-moment dinners, the school bus every day, Fritz traveling the stairs between my house and theirs, terrorizing their cats. It sounded wonderful.

 And wait. There’d be help as well: with the wood, the lawns, the snow. I can stay here, grow old looking out my own windows at the treeline he loved. And the two brothers and their children – the cousins – will still have this place to come back to.

 But what if a new man came into my life? How would that work? Well, I live in a two-family house. It’s how I come, who I am. Life, it turns out, is about change. Deal with it if it happens.

 Everything felt right no matter how I framed it. Assuming, that is, if the young family in question thought so too. And they did.

 So many details to nail down. First off, check in with the other two sons, who both said “great idea!” Check in with Frank Therio, the town’s Code Enforcement Officer: “Fine, go ahead.” Talk to the lawyer, talk to the bank. Have a plan drawn up. Find a builder.

 But first of all, clean out. Everyone we’ve told, and anyone who stops by gets a tour of the future upstairs house, reacts the same way. “What are you going to do with all this stuff?”

 Give it away. Throw it away. Move it out. Re-nest. Go from eight rooms to four. People do it all the time. It’s just that I never have.

 Move out the stuff to make room for five more beings. What do I think Wally would say once he’d really thought it over? “Sure. Go for it.”

Best Wishes to Jodi

Jodi Richards Hanson’s friendly face has greeted visitors to the Town Office for some 20 years. She’s been the town’s Finance Director and Deputy Treasurer for much of that time, as well as General Assistance administrator. For many months last year she was also Acting Town Administrator as well while David Kinney was recuperating. Jodi, born and raised in Lincolnville, has accepted the job of Finance Director for the Town of Camden. We’ll miss her here and wish her all the best.

The Library book group invites everyone to join in the discussion of The Signature of All Things by award-winning writer Elizabeth Gilbert on Tuesday, July 18 at 6 p.m. The novel tells the powerful story of Alma Whittaker, a pioneering botanist in the early 1800s who travels the world doing research on evolution. 

 The group’s book choice for the August 15 meeting is Grandma Gatewood’s Walk: The Inspiring Story of the Woman Who Saved the Appalachian Trail by Ben Montgomery. 

 Anyone may participate in these discussions, even if they have not read the current book. It is also a great time to share ideas for future reading choices.

Lincolnville Women’s Club Picnic

The LWC is having a picnic Tuesday, July 18, 11:30 a.m. at Camden Hills State Park, at the Pavillion on the water side. Bring a salad or dessert. Admission to the park is free to Maine residents and if you’re over 65; $4 if under 65. After eating everyone will drive up Mt. Battie to enjoy the view.

 The LWC is active throughout the year, raising money for a Lincolnville student scholarship, donating to Lincolnville’s Christmas by the Sea celebration and to the three churches in town, as well as for flowers at the Beach. One popular feature lately has been gathering for lunch at local restaurants during the winter months, a great way to get out and see one another. All Lincolnville women are welcome to come to the picnic, and perhaps join the Club. Contact Edna Pendleton if you’ll be at the picnic, 763-3583.

Summer Picnic and Auction

Every summer for the past five years the Library has put on a picnic supper and auction at the Boat Club at the end of July: Sunday, July 30 this year. The menu includes pulled pork, veggie beans, rolls, salads, watermelon, cookies and lemonade. Rose Lowell bakes the pork, the beans and the rolls in Arabella, her wood-fired oven, and Kathleen Oliver makes the wonderful hand-size cookies for dessert. Organizers of the picnic are asking for some hearty salads – grain, pasta, potato, green or fruit – to round out the meal. Volunteers are also needed to help with setup, serving and clean-up. To donate a salad or volunteer to help email questions@lincolnvillelibrary.orgor call 763-4343.

 It’s a fun community event, starting at 5 p.m. and followed by a Rosey Gerry auction of donated items and services. The meal is $10 for adults, $5 for children, and under 4 or over 90 year olds get in free.

Windfern Concert Coming Up

Windfern Ensemble, Maho Hisakawa, flute, and Nathan Hillman, viola, will be joined by pianist Patricia Stowell in a free concert Saturday, July 29, 7 p.m. at Union Hall in Rockport.

Coming Up on the Middle

Corelyn Senn writes: “It feels like summer is really rushing by. It is interesting to me: In winter there seems to be very little to mark time going by; things just repeat themselves: it snows and then it doesn't snow and then it snows again, it is cold, there is a warm up and then it is cold again; it repeats itself until it finally ends. Now we have spring and summer and there are so many things to mark the passing of time: we are past the lady slippers, forsythia, the lupine, the flowering trees. We are in berry season but strawberries are almost over. The birds that sang so loudly every morning are still while they feed young, only the robin is raucous in the morning, the titmouse has gone completely silent although I see it, the thrush sings its quiet song in the evening. Soon the birds that came through going north will be heading in the opposite direction; those that didn't mate are already thinking about it. The wood frogs are long since gone and there is nothing to replace them as my vernal pool has gone dry. I know there is still a lot of summer to go and autumn is a beautiful season but there is still a sadness in it as it goes by.”