no fire in it, the weather being too warm to justify wasting wood, but a group of older men, their faces weathered from years of challenging the sea for a livelihood, gathered around it in seats they probably claimed all winter long. Spencer was among them.
Most of the lobstermen were family men, like Ike Bower and Levi Carver; a few had children standing between their knees or sitting next to them. There may have been some women who accompanied them to sea, perhaps even one or two who piloted their own boats, but they obviously didn’t feel the need to attend the association’s meeting. I recognized fathers of students I’d taught years before, and many whose names I didn’t know but whose familiar faces I’d seen around town. In the back of the room was a row of young men, who were obviously uninterested in my speech, and who began whispering to each other while I spoke. I recognized Levi’s son, Evan, whose photograph I’d seen in his mother’s kitchen. And another boy who might be Linc’s son, he looked so much like the association president.
“The success of our business district has a direct effect on the prosperity of the town as a whole, on all of our lives,” I continued, hoping to recapture their interest. “If the merchants fail, you and I will have to travel out of town to purchase goods and services that are conveniently nearby right now. But if they do well, Cabot Cove as a community will have greater means to help safeguard, perhaps even improve, our quality of life, our schools, parks, libraries, and cultural and recreation services.”
I saw I wasn’t convincing them. They were getting restless, looking away, tapping their feet impatiently. What would persuade them? I tried another point of view.
“We’re so used to seeing lobsters,” I said, “we don’t think of them as anything exotic. But they’re a delicacy the world over. The article I’m hoping to write will show how Cabot Cove’s lobstermen work to provide the meal that Maine is famous for. You’re the heroes of the coming festivities. It’s the lobster festival, after all.”
One of the young men, who wore a red plaid shirt under a brown leather vest, gave a loud yawn and stretched his arms over his head. I was grateful to see several of the fathers turn around to glare at his rudeness. Evan, who sat at the end of the row, reached over to poke the heckler on the knee.
“What?” he said, poking back. “I’m tired. I’ve been up since dawn. And this is a waste of time. I got places to be.”
“I won’t take up more of your time,” I said, “but I imagine your families would be very proud to see your work profiled in the newspaper for everyone to see, neighbors and visitors alike.”
“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, we get the point,” Linc said from behind me. “We don’t care what’s in the paper—well, most of the time—but the real question is, who’s willing to take Mrs. Fletcher aboard for a day so she can get the facts straight for her story?”
Silence greeted Linc’s question.
I was afraid my petition was going to be tabled. I’d had enough experience in local organizations to know that if that happened, it would mean the request would never get voted on in time to do the Gazette and the festival any good. I don’t know why the article had become important to me. True, I didn’t want to disappoint Gwen—or Evelyn Phillips, for that matter. And it wasn’t just a matter of pride in dealing with a less than enthusiastic response to my little speech. But as I’d mustered my arguments, I began to see the validity of them. If the lobstermen declined to participate, even in so small an undertaking as cooperating with the local newspaper, our town would be the less for it. Of course, if they sold their lobsters ahead of the festival and we didn’t have enough to feed our visitors, that would be a lot worse.
“We’re all in this together,” I said. “We’re a community, putting on a community
Most of the lobstermen were family men, like Ike Bower and Levi Carver; a few had children standing between their knees or sitting next to them. There may have been some women who accompanied them to sea, perhaps even one or two who piloted their own boats, but they obviously didn’t feel the need to attend the association’s meeting. I recognized fathers of students I’d taught years before, and many whose names I didn’t know but whose familiar faces I’d seen around town. In the back of the room was a row of young men, who were obviously uninterested in my speech, and who began whispering to each other while I spoke. I recognized Levi’s son, Evan, whose photograph I’d seen in his mother’s kitchen. And another boy who might be Linc’s son, he looked so much like the association president.
“The success of our business district has a direct effect on the prosperity of the town as a whole, on all of our lives,” I continued, hoping to recapture their interest. “If the merchants fail, you and I will have to travel out of town to purchase goods and services that are conveniently nearby right now. But if they do well, Cabot Cove as a community will have greater means to help safeguard, perhaps even improve, our quality of life, our schools, parks, libraries, and cultural and recreation services.”
I saw I wasn’t convincing them. They were getting restless, looking away, tapping their feet impatiently. What would persuade them? I tried another point of view.
“We’re so used to seeing lobsters,” I said, “we don’t think of them as anything exotic. But they’re a delicacy the world over. The article I’m hoping to write will show how Cabot Cove’s lobstermen work to provide the meal that Maine is famous for. You’re the heroes of the coming festivities. It’s the lobster festival, after all.”
One of the young men, who wore a red plaid shirt under a brown leather vest, gave a loud yawn and stretched his arms over his head. I was grateful to see several of the fathers turn around to glare at his rudeness. Evan, who sat at the end of the row, reached over to poke the heckler on the knee.
“What?” he said, poking back. “I’m tired. I’ve been up since dawn. And this is a waste of time. I got places to be.”
“I won’t take up more of your time,” I said, “but I imagine your families would be very proud to see your work profiled in the newspaper for everyone to see, neighbors and visitors alike.”
“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, we get the point,” Linc said from behind me. “We don’t care what’s in the paper—well, most of the time—but the real question is, who’s willing to take Mrs. Fletcher aboard for a day so she can get the facts straight for her story?”
Silence greeted Linc’s question.
I was afraid my petition was going to be tabled. I’d had enough experience in local organizations to know that if that happened, it would mean the request would never get voted on in time to do the Gazette and the festival any good. I don’t know why the article had become important to me. True, I didn’t want to disappoint Gwen—or Evelyn Phillips, for that matter. And it wasn’t just a matter of pride in dealing with a less than enthusiastic response to my little speech. But as I’d mustered my arguments, I began to see the validity of them. If the lobstermen declined to participate, even in so small an undertaking as cooperating with the local newspaper, our town would be the less for it. Of course, if they sold their lobsters ahead of the festival and we didn’t have enough to feed our visitors, that would be a lot worse.
“We’re all in this together,” I said. “We’re a community, putting on a community
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