By B. Maebush Stevens with an introduction by Jacqueline Lapidus
Introduction
Barbara Stevens-poet, memoirist, musician (flute and piano), tennis player, teacher, former restaurateur and retired postal clerk-is known nationwide as “Maebush.” A participant in former Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky’s Favorite Poem Project, she has given many readings in Provincetown and at Boston University. Her portrait adorns one of the Cape Air nine-seater planes that shuttles between Boston, Nantucket and Cape Cod.
Known as a local character, Barbara may have been born in New Bedford, but she was Mae’d in Provincetown. After forty years of living in that magical place, Maebush is one of Provincetown’s most memorable voices. Stevens weaves tales of fun and sun-yet the true heart of her work is her evocative recollections of Provincetown’s old timers, fisherman (and women), drag queens, and all the activities that for centuries have made the village a haven for a broad spectrum of marginal individuals.
Maebush is also no stranger to the theater. She has performed in “Approaching Simon,” “A Streetcar Named Desire,” “Bringing It All Back Home” at the original Provincetown Playhouse, and the Provincetown Theater Company’s production of Studs Terkel’s “Working.” Her most recent stage appearance was “Raggedy Ann and Andy,” a children’s production in which she played King Koo Koo of Looneyville (type-cast, no doubt). This summer Maebush will appear in the “Vagina Monologues”, at 7 p.m. every Sunday in the Unitarian Universalist church in Provincetown.
The following Maebush poem was, she says, written in the middle of the night in mid-January (“It just poured out of me”) the year she retired from the Provincetown Post Office. The toughness and tenderness of her observations, her sharp sketches of the human comedy’s trip and characters, involve and reflect us all. Read it aloud to bring out the flavor.
Forty years ago, this sandlot of sole and catfish vinha d'alhos, flounder and wonder plucked my heart. Viewing that Boa Vista horizon for the first time was a thrilling sensation that has not weakened, even after all these seasons.
Away from the stressed, overcrowded cities and to your open arms I came seeking sanctuary, blessing and bliss. You were my lighthouse to life.
Seeing the faces of my aunts and uncles in your openness, how could I leave? Looking into the joyous smiles of your accepting children's faces laughing up at me with love, how could I leave? And those wise old-timers like Scary Jack, Cockaloo, Colonel Corn, Zorro, Mary Spaghetti, Joe Bucky, Claytina, Jiggums, Tee Basil, Dr. Foo, Harmony, Mary Hot Times, Ironman, Bottles, Honka, Blackfish, Boston Charlie, Kelly, Doucha--all sharing moments of leisure on the meat rack with a joke of a sea story, how could I leave?
From the Back Beach to the Monument, your spaces, spices and graces flood me with smiles. Oh, P'town of pristine acid-clear memories so real, so right, from sunrise to salty sunset, a place for a mysterious gathering of spirits who put a spell on me. Small, sweet and scary in your loveliness you seduced me to stay. I had no choice in this matter of pro life. It was live here amidst your life-giving Atlantic tides or die.
So let me revamp your seasons according to Maebush.
Springtime: from the early morning smells of frying dough (malasadas) to the "Honey Wagon" taking another load away, to the sound of hammers and saws, painting and polishing everywhere, made by the lumpas preparing town for the season to come. Lots of help-wanted signs and college kids looking for rooms to rent, yard sales, vacancies.
If you just wait a minute on any street corner, you might hear something like this: "Hey, nice girl." "Hi, nice boy." "Say, Pard," "Don't you get savage with me just 'cause I'm the finess' kine"; or, "Hi, Dahlin'. Where you live to?" "I had dessert last night at Cookie's Tap and it was cum sola." "That guy on the meat rack was some cunnin'."
From Eddie's Coffee Locker to the Moors, the smell of boats unloading their catch of the day, to that pungent, fresh odor of good fish going to market. The wafting in the air of fried clams and vinha d'alhos being cooked for families like the Squids, the Squashes, the Did-its, the Linguiça Band, Mookoo, Tilles, Towanda, Spawns, Barshi, Dousha, Mike Moon, Sants, Pinky, Dory Plug and the Jazz Gardas. Sweet bread, trutas, linguiça, chouriço, squid stew, kale soup, bacalhau and lots more and all "Sum Good"...and here comes Memorial Day.
Summertime explodes with a bang. Full-blown streets, the time of making money and five jobs to do it in. Fourth of July Parade, the Blessing of the Fleet, Carnival Week and the harbor fills up with boats and the fish fly in, in schools and school is Out...! Yikes!
Hot, party time from Race Point to Wood End to the vast acid clarity of Long Nook. Nonstop thriving. Lines out of the post office. Lines out of the A&P, four deep at the bars, you can't even get "flagged" if you wanted to. The "trons" working three shifts and four jobs. The beaches packed to the max and No Parking, No Parking everywhere. Bikes speeding down Commercial Street head-on into traffic. Tits and ass, suntan lotion, skates and skin everywhere skin, skin, more skin.
"Only in P'town" as they say, from the Dune Shacks to Stormy Harbor where wild cranberries nudge beach plums into jelly, jelly rolls of surf rollin' in the tides of life and death. The streets abound with flowering freaks and fools, and full-blown idiots comin' up thru the pavement...They stream out of the A-House alley like herring, cluttered and all in a rush, hellbent on having a good time, so get out of their way, Mary!
Artists standing, sitting, lying down painting, painting, painting, painting everywhere. The mix of gay and straight, seas and sand, strength and beauty. Astounding. Remarkable.
More characters than mackerel like Flinks, Fat Francis, Joe Bones, Jimmy Peek, the strawberry man, Cull, Two guns, Bongee, Beata, Frenchy, Pombie, Jill Mona, Peewee, Popeye, Freddy Bubba, Speed, Kelly, Burgundy, Nick the Greek, Sheik, Tony Cheroot. Fishing boats and the Boston Belle from Boston, the Hindu, Bay Lady and private yachts all sharing the harbor's busyness. With fluke, flounder, tautog, scup, haddock, baby blues and tuna all angling to the promise of light at the end of the tuna, and yes, Labor Day arrives. Hallelujah, sigh the workers. Augustitis no more. Yea!
Fall: Schools open, and while the horse chestnuts fall from the trees, the tourist nuts split in the breeze. We downshift and the wiser, older tourons arrive for the best time of the year. The weather perfect, the spaces open up to us anew. Time and space for us to play and all those "coudeeshkas" have left. Hand me that coisa over there! Excuse me, but where is your cozinha and don't you put the "fitzaidas" on me, Mary!
Fantasia Fair, Women's Week, Single Gay Men's Week and here comes da "Tinka" flying into the harbor, runnin' from the big bad blues, chasing them right to my fishin' pole. The blues chasin' me to your safety nets. The blues blowing me home after catching a tub-o-fish, smiling all the way and sharing my catch with townies and washashores alike, Schatzi, Whitey Pommbie, Big Hee, Colonel Corn, Mary Fat, Blue, Stretch, Squeakee. So rich this place, so wistful and oceanic.
Winter peels back the onion layers of your soul, so garlicky it mushrooms into a quiet tone poem. Cold winds blow in and the Atlantic's blue/black waves crash over the dike and breakwater, offering a challenge to any. Year-rounders and fireplaces open up your nose to the intimacy of home and hearth. When it snows and you're out walking, you experience the virtual reality of a picture postcard.
Cozy and cool, now you get to visit with your friends. Potlucks, poker, cribbage at the Vets, chess....All kinds of time to just be with your pals like Tina Turner, Jimmy Pardy, Maggie Jigs, LaLa, Sonya, Molly, Mucca, Ms. Thing, Davidarose, Scottie, Dixie, Sahdji, Tish, Billyjean, Ms. Ray, Gilly, Feather, Chicklet, and Parky the Parkessa, Rubber, Vanille and Mary Dugan.
Seeing your pals, having a laugh and a drink of good cheer, you know that you are truly home at last. Thank God and the Great Spirit who smiles down on his pearl, Provincetown. This game isn't over yet.
So what if I've fallen--after 40 years
I'm leaving just to prove that inertia is true.
The force moving me away from your loveliness
Is a crazy Indian,
Who is walking with a wolf on a leash in Central Park.
She is sending me smoke signals
To reconnoiter and recover
The child in me, my soul, my life