The Brighton Bulletin #4

From the desk of C.C. Bass — Keeper of Brighton’s Conscience, Unofficial Historian, and a woman who believes details matter because details are where the truth likes to hide.

Hello again, dear.

June has arrived. At last.

The lilacs have bloomed. The garden gloves have come out. The lake has reached the temperature where certain overly optimistic residents insist it is “refreshing,” which is a word New Englanders use when they mean “painfully cold but we refuse to admit defeat.”

Brighton has settled into that lovely early summer rhythm. Windows are open. Neighbors are lingering on sidewalks. Children are counting down the final days of school as though they are serving a sentence.

All very charming. Mostly.

Because while June may bring sunshine and strawberries, it has also brought flying lettuce, competitive pie bakers, and a reminder that enthusiasm should occasionally be paired with common sense.

Let us begin.

The Lettuce Incident. Yes, We Are Calling It That.

I never thought I would write the following sentence: Lettuce caused a traffic incident on Lakeshore Drive.

And yet, here we are.

A certain farmer — whose name I will not mention because he is a good man, an excellent grower of produce, and already endured quite enough commentary all over Main Street on Saturday morning — may have been slightly overambitious while loading his antique truck for the Farmers’ Market.

Now, I admire ambition. I admire dedication. I admire a person who looks at a harvest and thinks, The people of Brighton deserve every last leaf.

What I question is stacking boxes of lettuce so high in the back of a vintage vehicle that one strong breeze turns Lakeshore Drive into what witnesses described as “a green snowstorm.”

Lettuce leaves everywhere. In the road. In windshields. Floating through the air like some sort of overly healthy parade confetti.

Naturally, drivers were startled. Brakes were applied. Horns were used. Words were spoken that I sincerely hope were not overheard by children.

The result?

A three-car pileup.

Thankfully, no one was hurt, unless you count several heads of lettuce and a considerable amount of pride.

The only person who benefited from the situation was Opal Misham, whose tow truck had its busiest Friday afternoon in recent memory.

Opal, when asked about the incident, simply said, “I’ve hauled worse.”

Which raises questions I am not sure I want answered.

The Strawberry Baking Contest Is Officially Interesting Again

Good news for every baker in Brighton who owns a rolling pin, guards a secret family recipe, or has ever stared across the Strawberry Festival tent and thought, Maybe this is my year.

It actually might be.

Because Maeve Carpenter of the Brightside Bakery will not — I repeat, will not — be competing in this year’s strawberry baking contest during Father’s Day weekend.

I know.

Take a moment.

For those unfamiliar with the history, Maeve has won this contest so many times that the announcement of first place had become less of a surprise and more of a formality.

“Congratulations to—”

Maeve. It was always Maeve.

Strawberry pie. Strawberry tart. Strawberry shortcake. That strawberry cream creation from three years ago that I still think about occasionally, though I refuse to admit how often.

This year, however, Maeve has graciously agreed to step aside and serve as a judge.

A wise decision. A generous decision. A decision that should have perhaps been suggested approximately four festivals ago. But we are grateful nonetheless.

So dust off your recipe cards, Brighton. Preheat your ovens. Call your grandmothers. The field is open.

On the Subject of Porch Furniture

I have noticed something.

And before anyone says, “C.C., why are you noticing people’s porches?” I will remind you that porches face public streets. If you did not intend for them to be observed, you would have built them in the backyard.

There has been a significant increase in porch improvements throughout Brighton.

Fresh paint. New cushions. Hanging baskets arranged with suspicious precision.

One particular home on Maple Avenue has replaced a perfectly adequate porch swing with what appears to be a handcrafted model that looks like it belongs in a magazine.

Now. I am not saying there is a reason. I am not suggesting anyone is attempting to impress anyone.

I am simply pointing out that people do not suddenly invest that much effort into outdoor seating unless they are hoping someone will sit there.

Possibly with them. Possibly at sunset. Possibly holding lemonade.

Again, I am only observing.

There is something about June evenings in Brighton.

People linger longer.

A five-minute errand takes forty-five minutes because someone stops you outside the Country Store. A quick walk becomes a conversation by the lake. A simple hello turns into an invitation to sit awhile.

We spend all winter rushing from warm building to warm building, heads down against the cold.

Then June arrives, and suddenly we remember that we belong to one another.

I saw three people stop to help clean up lettuce on Lakeshore Drive.

Three.

Without being asked.

One brought a broom. One brought bags. One brought absolutely no useful equipment but offered moral support, which is also very Brighton.

That is the thing about this town. We notice your mistakes. We will absolutely discuss them. But then we will show up with a broom.

The Strawberry Festival Needs Volunteers

The annual Strawberry Festival arrives Father’s Day weekend, and volunteers are still needed. Yes, needed.

I know some of you are waiting until the last possible moment to sign up because you believe “someone else will do it.”

Dear reader. You are someone else.

There are booths to staff. Tables to decorate. Games to organize. And, most importantly, strawberry desserts to manage with the seriousness they deserve.

Please contact Town Hall and add your name to the list. And if you sign up early, you may even get your preferred assignment. Wait too long, and you may find yourself directing parking in a reflective vest.

I am not saying this from experience. Except I am.

I walked through the Farmers’ Market this weekend.

Yes, after the lettuce incident. No, I did not make jokes. Everyone else had already made them.

There were strawberries piled in little green baskets. Flowers spilling over buckets. Neighbors arguing pleasantly about whether rhubarb belongs in pie. (It does. I will accept no further discussion.)

And I found myself thinking about how much of life comes down to knowing when to hold on and when to let go.

Hold on to traditions. Let go of always needing to win.

Hold on to pride in your work. Let go of stacking one more box when the truck is clearly full.

Hold on to the people who matter. Let go of the idea that everything has to stay exactly as it has always been.

Brighton changes a little every year. New faces arrive. Old traditions shift. Someone else wins the baking contest. And somehow, somehow, it is still Brighton.

Until July, dear readers. Secure your produce. Perfect your pie crust. And remember — if lettuce begins falling from the sky, please pull over safely.

With warm regards and a healthy respect for cargo limits,

C.C. Bass

P.S. I have heard there are already seven entries in the strawberry baking contest now that Maeve Carpenter is judging. Seven. Amazing what hope can do.

P.P.S. The farmer involved in the Lettuce Incident has installed additional straps on his truck. He told me there will “never be another situation like Friday.” I believe him. Mostly. I will still avoid driving behind him when cabbage season begins.

Sylvie Kurtz’s Brighton Village series captures all of it: the romances that sneak up on you, the mysteries that won’t let you rest, and the community that holds it all together. Love in Brighton Village and A Brighton Village Cozy Mystery — two series, one village, endless reasons to stay.

Come Home to Brighton →

The Brighton Bulletin
A newsletter from the world of Sylvie Kurtz’s Brighton Village series.
sylviekurtz.com

You’re receiving this because you love Brighton as much as C.C. does.
Which is to say: unreasonably, completely, and without apology.