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In my not-so humble opinion, this post will be most effective (affective?…I looked up the difference and honestly either works in this situation) when read whilst listening to White Winter Hymnal. If that doesn’t immediately make sense, it will once you hear about what happened over my first 24 hours in Carlisle, ME. Either the Fleet Foxes or Birdy version will do. Let me know which you chose. I’ll sort you accordingly.
Walking into Carlisle is sort of like walking into one of those Christmas villages they sell at Target or Michael’s or Hobby Lobby if you’re a lil bigot with bad taste. And that’s just facts. But still, you’ve got to give some credit to whichever intern somehow snuck this past the salaried buyers and into stores.
Why yes, that is a rainbow…rooster 😉
With our feet-a achin’, we decided to stop in the first place that looked at all open in the town square. Thankfully, it was a bar. Looking down the road in either direction, things were quiet, but warm. Does that make sense? It looked lived in, but not by me. It was like visiting your best friend’s house. You knew the smells weren’t your own, but you still knew them. You recognized the spots in the wallpaper that were faded, except you don’t know what happened to make them that way.
Fall is already almost over here. The chill would have thrown us inside if the smell of beer hadn’t. We walked in, a honest to goodness jukebox playing, and were met with not a few stares. I’m not saying the needle skipped or anything, but if a record player was present who knows what would have happened.
Lillian’s was as warm as it was unwelcoming, the assumed locals crowded near the bar rail. A few housewives played pool in the back while the bartender, Lillian herself, held court with a whiskey bottle and the remote control. I think I should have known then, really. I mean, who still watches American Idol?
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