go on and catch that little thing

Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play and pray in, 

places where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.  —John Muir

i don't know why it is, why some little, hardly noticeable, almost insignificant—although not to me—things in the natural world astonish and startle me, so much so that they actually can, at times, startle me silly. (what kind of an expression is that, startle me silly? it's ridiculous, that's what it is, but it's also accurate. when you feel silly you get all ticklish and giddy and wound up, don't you? now add a startle. that is my point exactly.)

in general, i don't think i startle much, or easily—i am not by nature a jumpy person—but if i turn my head or change direction, or if i bend down and this thing suddenly appears on the periphery of my vision, i realize with some surprise there is something i've not seen before, and it happens. it is when i am faced with a novel situation, say, i come across a place where light is striking an object just so, or something in nature seems different, like seeing a living creature where i least expect to find one, where i've previously never stumbled upon one, that i get that feeling of wow.

my garden. early august. early in the day. day lilies explode in every hue. an ordinary day. an extraordinary amount of weeds. bend down. pull up some of those impertinent weeds. then, on my way back to an upright position, there is this—my own sharp involuntary intake of breath. i am caught unaware and i can only muster a sense of delicious discovery because of—can you believe it?—a tiny wood frog. he's lovely and he seems so fragile, shyly peeking out from within the yellow throat of a tall, extra large peach colored lily.

maybe the simple scenario above is boring enough to prompt many people to yawn and fall asleep. maybe it's beyond boring. (i can understand that. after all, i didn't discover a mountain lion in my backyard.) maybe this type of thing happens a lot, is nothing new. but it's new to me. i have never witnessed a frog nestled inside a flower before.

at this point in my life i could easily fall into a deep well of cynicism—a nasty election season could also help nudge me right over the edge—and say i know all about this crazy world. i could say there is nothing left under the moon and sun that moves me, that surprises me. i've seen it all, done it all, there's nothing new and nothing really changes—it's all just life endlessly repeating itself.

but i don't fall; i don't even stumble. for some reason, i don't trip. i stand firmly on two feet and catch this small precious thing—a common, ordinary wood frog!—out of the corner of my eye. i stand there gawking like a nitwit and try to memorize the moment i first saw his small tan face.

because of the likes of him, i am still able to be made woozy—yes, even silly—with astonishment. i am happy with the discovery that there are things that continue to move me, get to me, that blaze with beauty inside a darkening world. it's such a little thing, but i get the message—there are a few surprises yet to be uncovered on this harassed old earth.

balm

hard to believe, but by the time early september arrives in coastal maine an evening fire in the fireplace or fire pit not only looks good, but also feels good. the nippiness of some down east end-of-summer evenings points out the fact that burning logs is not always just for the fun of it—for the loveliness of the crackling flames' red and orange displays—but for the practical matter of warmth, even in september, even if you have on socks and fleece.

i always feel a little—just a little—wistful as summer winds down, but i don't miss the high humidity and i do love fall. until recently i hadn't had socks on for months. a pair of flip-flops slipped between my toes and beneath my soles were the preferred, the most enjoyable, companions to my feet; but i say hooray to the possibility of an indian summer and then the crisp days ahead.

our summer visitors have long since packed their bags and suitcases and headed home to go back to their lives and their autumn routines. leaves are already starting to turn and, in many spots, dried and crinkled yellowish and brownish ones litter the lawn. boats will soon be hauled out of the water—sooner rather than later if a hurricane barrels up the eastern seaboard and gets uncomfortably close—and they'll be shrink-wrapped or stored in boathouses; the big yellow school buses rumble down the roads.

at its peak, this summer's monarda was a stunner—it grew to 60 inches—as were many other of the garden's blooms. somehow, though, the deep red naturalizing effect of the bee balm made it my favorite. not only the color, but the minty, spicy, oregano-ish scent was glorious—the bees and hummingbirds thought so, too.  i loved it when the scarlet flowers were filled with hordes of fuzzy noisy bees. it was like the balm had moving body parts and was chanting and swaying and stretching its limbs. but it was the bees doing all the work—little puppet masters buzzing from blossom to blossom— forcing the bee balm to perform in jerky motions as if it might just reach out and offer you a green hand.

what i was not thrilled about were the caterpillars that sneakily blended in with the leaves early in the season. they had me downright miffed because i thought the plant might be in trouble from the start. then came the beetles and tiny white worms—or some kind of larvae?—many of which i dispatched with a quick, efficient pinch. (i did a lot of hand washing this summer, that's for sure.) even with all the crawly critters, the plant did fine—more than fine, it was spectacular.

but the bees are now gone from the balm, and the stems stand as if frozen—a vision of things to come—topped with black, dried-out seed pods and crimson bits—the leftovers of summer. no more fiery display, no more razzle-dazzle. the buzzing has moved into the seven shades of phlox, where the bees and hummingbirds are finishing off the last sweet taste of summer before it finally comes to an end.

p.s. i miss you

~ the wobbly bridge sent from hannah's iphone ~

september arrived and a daughter left for england and italy; shortly thereafter we left, too—for sea bright and sandy hook—and there was simply no time to feel sad. our friends' son got married on a beach to the music of the crashing surf—an excellent choice, in my opinion, courtesy of hurricane leslie—which played on and on. from new jersey we drove to old saybrook, connecticut, and dropped by katherine hepburn's old neighborhood to visit friends from college.

then, at last, the time came. the time to feel sad. the time to allow myself—to indulge myself in—sadness. home again. my gaping suitcase spewing forth dirty laundry and small pink packets of tissue, one of many wedding souvenirs, labeled for your tears of joy, stared me in the face. i sat down in the middle of the floor in the girl's bedroom and pulled out one of those—mislabeled!—tissues; her belongings haunted me and wouldn't leave me alone.

yup, it was time. a little cry was in order.

once i shed the self-pity and left my wallow of sadness, i was myself again. i am not the type of parent who would—or even could—hold my kids back or pressure them to do or not do something because it's what i, selfishly, want. i say, let them go, let them fly.

and fly they did.

and fly she did. while she was at it, hannah sent me a photo of the wobbly bridge that spans the thames, with st. paul's above one bank and the tate modern on the other. a few years ago we crossed that same bridge together after spending the afternoon at the tate. we never experienced the wobble, though—too bad, that might have been fun—because of course they had fixed the bridge by then. (we used to have our own very tiny version of the wobbly bridge, known as the "crikety" bridge, here in freeport. but they fixed that one, too, and now it is no longer rickety and it doesn't creak. personally, i kind of liked the old one better.)

the days and nights are getting cooler, grandbaby is getting bigger, and i am getting the hang (again) of dealing with a quiet house.

and there is just one more thing i have to say: p.s. i miss you.

from the top

there it is up there. see it? the catch-it-while-you-can-summer? summer vacation that seems like it was oh-so-many weeks ago, and yet it wasn't really that long ago at all, was it? summer 2012, when the air at 3800 feet was clear, and the warmish/coolish wind naughtily whipped our hair into little tangles and it looked like those steely low-flying clouds might somehow be menacing, but they weren't—thunder storms blew by overnight heading east toward the ocean—as they inched near us and then away from us.

the tram at jay peak in vermont delivered the nine of us, plus a dozen others, smoothly and quietly to the top. and when i say quietly i mean it—not a squeal, scrape or grind from the engine or cables, or from wind teasing the cables, or from the compartment's shifting glass or metal or anything. no sign of gravity, just floating straight up the mountainside surrounded by silence. even the people inside the tram, when they spoke at all, used hushed, unmodulated tones, their voices as well-oiled and precisely maintained as the austrian-made mountain riding machinery.

once at the top we surveyed the vistas in every direction. we looked southwest toward big jay—connected to jay peak by a ridge—where back woods skiers can make their own way down the mountain without the hindrance, the nuisance, of trails. (a few years ago two brilliant, local guys were arrested and charged with clear-cutting a section of big jay in an attempt to secretly carve a ski trail on private land without anyone's knowledge, let alone permission. i ask you in all sincerity, how dumb can people be?)

after viewing some of my summer photos i wondered where did summer go? i know, i know, you're right—summer's not technically over yet so stop acting like it is. go enjoy what's left.

full throttle

on land or on sea, those two words may be used to describe how we might—if we choose—live our lives in maine, or elsewhere for that matter, where both the expected and the unexpected can pop up at any time. in maine we have bears, and we have pirates—oh yes we do—and we have lots of waves. i also have it on good outside authority that maine is an amazing place and that it stimulates all kinds of imaginings.

to some people—especially small visitors from the warm south—that's the good news. the bad news is that the summer air may feel a tad too cold (80 during the day, 60 at night—but just wait a few months!), and the sea may not be quite warm enough (66 degrees in the middle of casco bay in the middle of summer). oh well, you can't please everyone.

our gaggle of guests observed many wild beasts during their visit, beasts which presently live in maine, such as moose, bears, lynx, bobcats, foxes, coyotes, owls, and bald eagles, and those which once inhabited the state, such as mountain lions.

the animals were viewed—some "sitting pretty" with their eyes masked!—in their natural habitats in the large, forested maine wildlife park in gray. many of them are being rehabilitated, and hopefully will be able to return to the wild someday, and others are being relocated, having been rescued from precarious situations (raccoons stuck in chimneys, skunks slinking around under porches, bats inhabiting attics).

on another day a large population of pirates was spotted aboard a pirate ship. in particular, a pretty and very—argh, matey—tough pirate hung on for dear life in the wildly pitching crow's nest while attempting to hoist the skull and cross bones at the portland children's museum.

and then there are the people who can never get enough speed, and for whom "full throttle" is a somewhat meaningless concept because it merely states the obvious to them—they believe as much of life as possible should be lived at full throttle. i must say, i concur.

and that, my dears, is just a small sample of the simple pleasures which may be experienced on a wild ride in the fabulous state of maine.

three girls from texas

Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.  —Annie Dillard



there were once three girls from texas. one afternoon in july they (and james!) landed quite nicely upon our doorstep. i was glad that megan, astrid and willa (as in willa cather—is that great or what?—whose stories and novels about frontier life, and the early settlers on america's great plains, are rich and authentic and populated with intelligent and resourceful pioneer women) came to maine to spend many afternoons; they stayed with us for two glorious weeks.

when the girls (and james!) first arrived, it seemed as if the days stretched out forever in front of us and that we had all the time in the world to see and do the things we wanted to see and do: the portland waterfront, the children's museum, the maine wildlife park, some shops in freeport, a cruise around casco bay on denny's boat, a pool party, the all-day gentlemen of the road concert overlooking the ocean on the eastern promenade (that james and megan, and hannah and her friends, went to) and featuring mumford and sons and fireworks in the evening, a hop aboard mike bretton's lobster boat to watch him haul up a few traps and help him measure some lobsters to see if there were any "keepers", a backyard lobster feast, highly competitive games of ladderball, and a trip to vermont to visit the new baby and spend a couple of activity packed days at jay peak.

i had forgotten the boundless energy, curiosity, and high-pitched chatter of the five and seven year-old crowd, and even though i was exhausted every night—the second my head hit the pillow i immediately sailed into dreamland—i loved hearing the giggles and the make-believe play, and even the inevitable squabbles. the two little girls were completely delightful and endearing.

it never ceases to amaze me how children—and some adults—use their imagination and create a time of wonder for themselves. astrid and willa announced i had the biggest flower garden they had ever seen (an example of their sturdy imaginations—it is hardly that big). it seemed as if every few minutes during the first couple of days of their visit they were asking me if they could pick flowers. they wanted to fill jars and vases with bouquets and "make things pretty." i had to firmly but gently quash that idea and instruct them that the flowers, for the most part, were to remain attached to their stems so that we could enjoy—and be surrounded by—the garden's colors, instead of having to look at a barren backyard displaying sad decapitated stalks.

on their last day in maine, i made up a scavenger hunt for the little girls. they were to find things belonging to the natural world (bugs, a yellow finch, a hot pink flower) and also garden related objects (a blue flower pot, a garden sculpture, a watering can), all of it outdoors. astrid's and willa's powers of observation were wonderful. willa noted that there were little brown swimming things in rainwater that had collected in a stone pot. are those tadpoles? she asked. nope, those aren't cute tadpoles, i answered in an ominous voice as i peered into the water. i informed the children that the squiggly critters were in fact hundreds of baby mosquitoes, and, seeing as we have plenty of mosquitoes participating in the forest food chain around here, i promptly dumped the water out.



top photo credit: david stall

the lovely warts

the day started out like any other day—phone calls, emails, dirty dishes, weedy flower beds, a dog patiently waiting to be fed—but then it turned, veered in a different direction, and left me face to face with the biggest, grandaddy-est eastern american toad i have ever seen. his (?) body length alone—i measured—was nearly four inches and—oh my—did he have fantastic bumps and warts. i was curious as to which bumps were warts and which bumps were, well, just bumps. his skin was dry and densely patterned with them, sprinkled with wonderful camouflage—an assortment of raised, large, small, brown, white, and black dots. to my mind he was indeed a splendid piece of living art. (after a quickie consultation with google i still do not have a definitive answer about how one identifies a genuine wart from that imposter, the generic bump.)

crouched low against the foundation in corner of the deck beside a planter (a large circle cut out of the decking into which a three foot deep concrete cylinder was inserted, ending up a few inches below the level of the deck and filled with soil, compost and flowers) this cute toad sat motionless, even with me leaning down and thrusting a camera in his face. 

i confess i have left the planter somewhat overgrown but, as it turns out, this neglect was a good thing because it probably provided a nice habitat for him—and who knows who else—and since i rarely remove the dead leaves and stalks from the container, but merely cut them up and leave them to rot into mulch, he may have hidden out in there for years.  

in this warm, dry, sheltered spot, the toad sat absolutely still. he blended in well with the patch of chipping paint between the edge of the planter and the house, but he wasn't moving at all. i wondered, was the chubby guy okay? suddenly i experienced a slight panic as i tried to recall where and when the exterminator had sprayed the foundation to get rid of carpenter ants. i don't normally use chemicals anywhere and it makes me cringe when an ant infestation necessitates the use of pesticides. i held my breath as i stroked him gently on his side with my finger. he blinked and turned his head. i withdrew my finger and exhaled—phew, thankfully he was alive and well.

judging by his size, the toad was old—old for a toad anyway—and to have reached such a grand old age i guessed that, in addition to requiring a place to call home, he must also eat rather well. i picked him up and held him on the palm of my hand. i stared into his golden and black jewel-like eyes for a moment and then gently placed him back on the deck. a tasty supply of mouth-watering spiders, moths, centipedes, flies, worms, and slugs reside in and around the planter, allowing the residents of the area to become fat and content.

i studied the patch of skin where the toad had sat on the palm of my hand. did it feel itchy or tingly or irritated? did i notice anything odd? no—there was no evidence of warts or bumps or anything sprouting on my palm. what is it about toads and warts? why the loathing, the fear? i don't pretend to understand a toad's skin, the purpose of it, and yet there must be a purpose, a reason, besides the obvious one, for it to have developed the way it has. i don't find a toad's flesh at all revolting—in fact, i like it. ah, but there is humor at work here, humor, as well as practicality, built into those bumps, into the very workings of the cosmos, is there not?

why are some people utterly freaked out by warts on toads, convinced there is a connection between a toad's lovely warts and the icky kind people get? toads do occasionally secrete a mild toxin which may cause minor skin irritation—but never warts—in some people, and of course we know getting warts from toads and frogs is an old wives tale. and yet, toads, and toad warts, still remain unpleasant for a lot of people to look at. we view them as disgusting; they make us uncomfortable.

there it is: humans are frequently made upset, uncomfortable and uneasy by what is harmless, inconsequential, and unimportant to this existence.

i imagined that beautiful old toad sizing me up, getting a good look at me while i was getting a good look at him. would he be critical of me—turn his head away in disgust—if i had a piece of spinach lodged between my teeth, or if he saw a fleck of mascara smeared under my eye, or discerned a small, hardly noticeable, pimple on my forehead?

four fourteen

so this is it, this is what it feels like to be the male of the species, a male who's about to become a father. this is what it's like to be standing on the other side, to be on the outside looking in, watching the person you love pass through a range of stages and emotions—bored, uncomfortable, in incredible pain, distracted, apprehensive, jubilant, impatient—not being able to do much to help, and feeling somewhat invisible, useless, helpless.

a few words—kind, soothing words, softly spoken, mixed with a little humor—that's pretty much it in my bag of tricks, although i suppose that's better than nothing. after all, in the "old days", days not very long ago, i wouldn't even have been allowed this, to be here in the labor/delivery room touching my daughter's shoulder, her head, her hair, trying to come up with the right words to say.

earlier in the day—nine hours earlier, to be exact.....

i hear a ringing sound. ringing—is it that, or is it something else?

my sleep remains heavy and undisturbed on this night and into the early morning hours, the sleep of the dead, as they say. far, far in the distance i hear bells; no it's music—that's it, music, not bells—almost inaudible violins playing beside a river, and the sound is traveling along the water toward me. or is it the sound of guitars, both sad and sweet, that i hear? no, i was right the first time. they are bells, cathedral bells, high above this ancient city built with many hands and heavy sweat and ancient stones.

i stir. sleep lifts. i begin to come out from under muffled slumber and dreams. i realize it's not bells, it's the phone that's ringing, brrrring-brrrring-ing in my head. i have been waiting for this call for what seems like forever—twenty months plus another nine—since the beginning of failed effort, and then when the words infertility and IVF—harbingers of both horror and hope—were introduced, and IVF was considered and tried, failed, and was eventually successful.

when the call comes i am unprepared. i have been prepared for weeks, ready for the call, but now, on this morning when it finally comes, i happen to be in the deepest of sleeps. i am disoriented in my drug-like slumber. why is the phone ringing at such an odd hour? my fingers blindly claw at the table beside my bed. at first i can't find it; when i finally do, the numbers on the dated (translation: ugly—it really should be tossed), 1980's general electric, brown plastic clock/radio/phone shine a bright and cheery four fourteen at me. then i hear her tired, happy, slightly quavering voice. mom, we're at the hospital. my water broke at 1 a.m..... and i wish i had wings and could fly to burlington to be at her side this instant. i am still groggy when i say we'll be on the highway by eight and hang up the phone. but, suddenly, i am wide awake. for me, the world is going to be different from today onward. i am going to be a grandmother.

the drive to vermont feels endless. when we're within a half hour of our destination we have to stop to let alex and kevin's dog, montana, out for a pee, and fill up her food and water dishes before we can continue on our way to the hospital.

and here we are. after many hours of keeping alex company, three of us must leave the labor/delivery room with the bird's eye view of lake champlain—it's time for her to start pushing her baby out. we try to wait patiently. i feel abandoned, left out—once again, male-ish—like fathers must have felt until about 40 years ago when they were finally allowed into the inner sanctum of blood and pain and joy. i wait, staring at the old-fashioned wall clock, watching the second hand's annoyingly perfect round and round promenade, for this most modern of fathers to walk through the door of the waiting room—once he has cut the umbilical cord and done some bonding—and announce the birth of his baby. (i have honestly never glanced up at a clock or at a door so many times in my life.) it will be near sunset when the waiting is over.

i marvel. the tiniest humans, the newest arrivals on this planet, carry with them such small parts—miniature orifices, appendages and limbs—parts that have never before felt the earth's warm air, or their mother's or father's touch. their noses have never smelled this world or any world, nor have their tongues tasted warm mother's milk. their eyes have only known darkness, their ears only muffled vibrations.

in the morning light his eyes open and he gazes at his mother as she holds him in arms that have ached for him. i try to handle my emotions. i blink away tears and blow my nose. i am convinced his infant stare is deep and knowing, like that of an old, old soul. but, of course, that cannot be. that's impossible.

an old soul in a new body. why impossible? maybe it's not such a far-fetched idea. within even the tiniest of newborn babies, under the soft, delicate, brand-new skin, lies the ancient, the unknown, the unfathomable, some small inkling of what we are, where we come from, how we have come to be. hidden inside each infant is a kind of universe, the hint of a thing that is old, very old—the origin of us all—and also a foretelling of what has never been seen, but, in time, may be.

every baby is a beginning, but he also contains the possibility of beginnings—the possibility of life for the next generation—inside him. he is who he is, but he is also the past and the future combined into one. as he journeys into his new world, he brings with him an unbroken link to an old world—those souls in his line who existed before—and an extension into the future, to those who will exist in a time far off, a time which has not yet even been imagined.

welcome, my little boy. welcome.

retreat

this day is a maine day—an achingly perfect maine day. if perfection is a thing that's possible, that's achievable, if—at least to some small degree—it is, then this is it, this is as close as it gets. on a day like this day, the sun is always shining and the wind is always blowing a steady beat, but softly, gently. each breath of air is sweet and deep and never enough. sails are full, lives are full.

no tourist mobs on this day, but i do hear faint, indiscernible chatter that sounds like the steady rasping call of an unidentifiable shorebird insistently seeking its mate from across the water. in reality it is only cap'n fish's tour guide, chattering on and on about local facts and fictions as the boat cruise winds down and the small vessel returns to pier 1 in boothbay.

on a day like this day it is easy for me to withdraw into sounds and sensations, to be alone with my thoughts even while in the company of other people. i do that; i retreat sometimes. i am not ignoring the friends i am with—i explore, walk over the rocks, admire the rugosa roses, laugh with these danes on holiday, take some pictures, drink some wine, show them how to get at the meat of the very first lobster they've ever tasted—i am a part of the ongoing conversation, but i am also in my own world. i can do that, and i like it there.

retreating into a small interior oasis of being doesn't cause me to become oblivious to the things around me. quite the opposite—i am actually much more keenly aware of everything. how is that possible? i don't know. maybe it is because i am deliberately focusing on the small details of what is oftentimes overlooked—layers of bark on a tree, a lone lobster buoy bobbing near the shore, sharp mountain pine needle tips, a jagged crack in granite—that seizing the big obvious parts takes less effort.

before we meet up with the people we have come to see, we drive along the water where the road hugs the rocky shore. we pull over and go out on the rocks for a few minutes. the tide is coming in. there are no signs to warn me that this is private property because it is not. this land was made for all of us to enjoy—a window on the water for everyone. on the other side of the road the big houses stand tall and proud, with broad porches, gray, salt-weathered shingles, bright white trim, and thick velvety lawns that lead down to the winding road. these homes, like so many others with million dollar views of the coast, are occupied a mere few weeks in the summer and are not rented out. they are private, period. i think to myself, if i owned one of these i would lose myself upon the shore. no one would be able to find me.

we drive on. further along the narrow street there is an aptly named place called retreat; it's more to my liking—not a big house but a cozy bungalow—but the address, 55 grand view avenue, strikes me as inaccurate. it doesn't fit. the road is more of a curving lane than an avenue, and the view is lovely, but this is maine and i don't think grand sums it up the way it should be summed up. grand is the wrong adjective; it sounds too puffed-up. like an overused sobriquet, how many grands and greats can there be—roads and islands and towns and lakes (although i'm sure the folks in the big houses think grand is just fine)—in the state of maine? what is truly grand, what deserves to be called this? something rich in detail and scope, vast, mind-boggling on an almost unimaginable level. someplace like the grand canyon is aptly named; it is truly grand.

i decide to take a peek; i walk closer toward the little hideaway. the tiny building—gray, modest, plain—sits directly on the water. this bungalow, hidden on the ledges under the pines facing the water's edge where the sun sparkles and gems ride the waves, where rugosa roses and mountain pine shrubs thrive in the salt spray, is exquisitely simple. the view, although breathtaking, and painfully beautiful, is not grand. grand is for people from away—technically, i am one of those, not having been born on maine soil, but i believe i have the heart of a real mainer—but not for mainers. true maine is a land of hardy, gruff, sea-faring and farming folk and skilled artisans and crafts people, people who make their living from what the earth has to offer.

old maine, the genuine article, the highly sought after original, is a place of simple, natural pleasures. it is not lofty and full of itself. it is salt water, seagulls, spruce trees, lakes, rivers, mountains, fields, silence. but change is already here; it has been for a long time, and more is on the way. and yet, if you look hard enough you may be able to find a small piece of what came before, of what once was—and what still can be—the pleasurable lure of retreat in the real maine.

you're gonna rise up singing

Summertime, and the livin' is easy, fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high.....one of these mornings you're gonna rise up singing, then you'll spread your wings and you'll take to the sky.  —Summertime from the Gershwins' Porgy and Bess, lyrics by DuBose Heyward.

midnight wind, a howling and demanding wind, sucked air and tent fabric in, and then, in giant bursts, expelled them again, displacing oxygen like the lungs of a colossus, or a bellows of cosmic proportions. this was no weakling storm lashing at us during the height of summertime on a beach on prince edward island.

we were camping in the dunes on a lonely stretch of that lovely island in the late 80's, a thing unheard of in the united states due to strict dune preservation measures and laws to protect piping plovers and other birds nesting in the sand (probably isn't allowed in canada anymore, either) when a mighty gale and torrential rain blew in and pulled several of our tent pegs and poles out of the sand, toppling one side of the tent. needless to say, we survived in the tent (but of course in the tent....we would never abandon our campsite and head for the nearest hotel, well, not on that camping trip anyway), and the kids had great tales to tell when they got back to school.

a beach made of sand or pebbles or a bold rocky shore or any up close and personal view of the sea—doesn't matter where it is as long as it's not mobbed—i'd travel a distance to find a sea view like that.

where you'll find me in the summertime—where i'd like to find myself—could be the wild and blustery shore of embleton beach in northumberland in the north of england (where the signs on the motorway pointing you in a northerly direction actually say THE NORTH, and going south it's THE SOUTH). the huge, imposing, romantic ruins of dunstanburgh castle (this ground felt the likes of john of gaunt, and the wars of the roses) in the distance beyond the golf course didn't look that far, but as i walked on the beach i realized they were farther away than i thought. that walk was a long time ago, way back in 2004; i have every intention of walking there again.

or it could be on fox island, a hill of granite ledges and boulders—and not much else—deposited by glaciers, only accessible at low tide in phippsburg, maine. climbing and poking around up there is an annual thing i like to do to mark and celebrate the arrival—the essence—of summer. the rocks, wearing skirts of sticky seaweed, periwinkles and barnacles, show off exposed backs and arms and thighs tattooed with colorful lichens.

seagulls do a lot of screaming, and they'll steal your picnic lunch—i've even seen them tugging on tote bag and backpack zippers—if you don't watch out. have to keep an eye on the tide, too; it looks harmless but it's not. i leave enough time to get back when the tide turns, and i stay on the sandbar. a tempting shortcut beckons through the water, yet even for a strong swimmer who doesn't mind cold water, it is not recommended since the swirling waves can pull you under and away. if fog rolls in, foghorns—like the one at seguin island and another one at pond island—are some of my favorite sounds of summer—eerie and forlorn, but wonderful, if you like that kind of thing.

remembered beaches—crane, plum island, embleton, jasper, reef bay, singing sands, goose cove, sea glass, crescent, reid, kitty hawk, higgins, pink, seawall, tarpon bay, popham, gulfside, bamburgh—and all the beaches in between with names i can no longer recall; names forgotten, adrift, blown away as if by a distant sea breeze, but to whose shores i will always return in the sweet lullaby of memory, smiling and singing a little song of summer.

~ photo of the dunstanburgh castle ruins by ed montalvo.

snip, snip, gather them in

last week.....

the first day of summer. ninety degrees and steamy at eleven o'clock in the morning. not a typical maine day, no, not at all. joe cupo on channel 6 predicts three more days of this. i stand in the garden, glance around, shake my head. in addition to the heat, there's something else that's not quite right, something else that's off.

silence. dead silence. not a chirp, not a song, no buzzing of bees or dragonflies or the low hum of an incoming hummingbird over my head, no wind, only the faint burble of the little stream as it meekly shushes and tumbles, seeking its way through the forest.

i stare at them. they are starting to appear defeated, heads drooping low. i know if i don't take some action many of the splendid buds won't bloom properly, and those that do won't last. they will be seared and cooked right on their own stems until they're well done and finished. i mutter to myself this isn't good, not good at all.

it's too much for them. (it's too much for me. i don't know how i would deal with the heat if i lived in the south. james and megan won't see me visiting them in texas in the summer, that's for sure.) they will wilt, wither, waste away, if left alone to fend for themselves against the heat wave that's overpowering everything, myself included. but there's one thing i can do to save them—get the scissors and start cutting.

we don't get a lot of oppressive days like this along the southern maine coast—maybe 3 or 4 of them a year—and by oppressive i mean where there is no reprieve from the heat, no afternoon sea breeze, the humidity staying high and the temperature barely dipping and there's nothing to help air out the house and cool it down in preparation for yet another day of heat. we used to tough it out when there wasn't a breeze—we didn't even have an air conditioner in the bedroom until two years ago—but we've become wimpy. no, not we, me. i'm the wimpy one; ed doesn't mind the heat.

i grab an old pair of slightly rusty scissors i use for the garden out of a terra cotta pot on the porch where i also keep the garden trowels and some string. snip, snip, gather them in before they fall to ruin. i whisper to them, to myself, in reassuring tones, fill the basket, carry them into the cool house and put them in fresh water away from the sun. i have closed the shades and curtains—it is as cool and dark as a crypt. i don't like it; i would much rather be able to leave the shades open and live in the light.

the silky, multi-layered white flowers, with bits of deep pink hidden like little surprises inside their frilly ruffles, are my favorites. they smell particularly sweet—they make the whole room smell sweet. i don't remember its name, but that plant is my most prolific. i am having some trouble with the raspberry/fuchsia/magenta/rose ones—what color are they exactly? i get confused, almost color-blinded by all the names—way too many shades of pink—which are bush-like and exhibit fine green leaves but not many blooms. do they need more manure? more mulch? more love?

the name—peony. i like saying it even if it's just in my head.

what do meteorologists know. the next day a cold front from the north lands on our doorstep and brings with it some clouds and a breeze, and much lower humidity and temperatures. comfortable. shades up, windows open. (we are, as they say, on the leading edge of the front. just 25 miles south of here, and a few miles to the west, it's still sweltering.) my snipping was completely unnecessary; i could have left the peonies alone. but never mind—they keep me company indoors instead, where i see them both night and day.

this week.....

the inevitable falling of petals, the bottommost ones heart-shaped and crumpled and lying in a heap.

i would rather be in bed

~ today, maybe because i'm lazy or maybe because i'm busy or maybe because it's national poetry month, i'm re-posting this scribble of mine from last summer.


i would rather be in bed, in my hand we, the drowned,
flipping the pages of this mighty fine yarn about muscular danish
sailors and their lust for the murderous sea
but then i change my mind as i often do and find

i would rather be eating lunch with pear snapdragon
that silly girl who i love but who is too busy
to eat a crumb of this nice buttery tart,
warm and filled with lane's prince albert apples,
apples so fresh they practically sing about their past life
as round, juicy ornaments decorating a queen's garden.

i reckon i would rather be on a maine beach
hot sand sifting through my naked toes,
or washing my hands with finn's fruity soaps,
pink lather dripping down my arms and onto the floor.

i would rather be walking in the shade on tremont street
sharing a joke with buddha in boston or touching the fallen rose petals
in a graveyard along the thames where dusty springfield sleeps.
maybe i would rather snip lavender blossoms in chawton
and press them, dry and flat, onto a bookmark for you, my friend.

i would rather win than lose a midnight battle with scaly prehistoric reptiles
and small cats hidden in a wardrobe, a dream that leaves me sweaty enough
to turn on the air conditioner until they turn off the electricity due to high demand.
we plunge into darkness and heat, a three-year black-out.
when at last we're reconnected—for now anyway, until we really run out of juice—
nbc reports the heat wave is stuck in missouri.

wouldn't i rather plug the long, black skinny cord of the cd player into the wall
to hook up to my friendly neighborhood power grid for entertainment?

my act intensified, juggling cd's in a three-ring circus, my life, vexed,
trying to choose between chopin and lady gaga, or the fleet foxes
and joni mitchell, spinning, spinning, and making money under a well-lit bigtop.

~ i found the pink roses and fallen rose petals (june, 2011) in the graveyard where dusty springfield sleeps in henley-on-thames in the uk, a neighborhood oh-so-close to some of my favorite bloggers. 

fish

directly above my head a blue-green water world of thousands of hungry fish, including manta rays, whale sharks, groupers and wrasses, continues in a never-ending swirl of fins, tails, jaws, scales, mouths. for a short time i get to be a part of this world.

it's feeding time at the georgia aquarium's ocean voyager exhibit and the fish go crazy. huge buckets containing a feast of krill and pieces of fish float on the water and slowly release their bounty creating a wild feeding frenzy.

the staff at the georgia aquarium—the largest aquarium in the world they informed us—are knowledgeable and outgoing as they point out the highlights in each exhibit. we're glad that the day we're visiting we aren't being jostled by crowds of people; there is plenty of room to move. the staff can't explain the low number of visitors on this day, september 10th.

my favorites at the aquarium are the beluga whales, manta rays and sea horses. on second thought, make that all the fishy lives are my favorites.

we move along and enjoy each display of exquisitely unique aquatic creatures.

dining with dinosaurs

i never before imagined that i would experience such a thing—eating with dinosaurs, or, to be more specific, under dinosaurs—the kind of thing that is a unique, interesting, once in a lifetime occurrence.

a few weeks ago in atlanta, georgia, at a fabulous wedding reception for our dear friends' son and his lovely bride (9.10.11 was a very popular date for weddings this year) at the impressive fernbank museum of natural history, i enjoyed dining with behemoths for the first, and most likely only, time. oh what a night.

the dancing never stopped because the music never stopped. three (!) great bands played during the evening and, except for a break to announce the entrance of the the bride and groom and their wedding attendants and immediate families, there was hardly a pause in the music. the bands took turns playing and the music flowed seamlessly until one in the morning. everyone, myself most certainly included, had such an impossibly fun time.

a theme at the reception seemed to be hats, with crazy hats in the photo booth prop box and an even crazier variety of hats—including huge sombreros—whipping wedding guests into a booze inspired frenzy while trying to snag a hat as they were distributed at intervals later in the evening. we danced so much that my muscles were a little more than a tad tired the next day, and my right foot with the surgical pins in it had mild tingles and aches, too, but, man-oh-man, it was worth it.

i sat down every now and again to rest my tootsies, and when i did i took a moment to look around and ponder—how i managed even a little pondering with all the excitement and loud, loud music i don't really know—but anyhow, that's me and ponder i did.

as i looked up at the tail end of the gigantic beast above our table, i wondered as i pondered and pondered as i wondered about the remnants of this leviathan. then it struck me—not the beast, a thought. i thought holy crap (that too) i'm glad these are just old, dead bones! there's no oozy blood, no pea-sized brain, no mass of thick hide, no powerful muscles, no smelly teeth, no sharp claws, no hot breath attached to this monster.

but my mind works in weird ways and, out of nowhere, in flits this: ok, think of it—she was once a mother, a real mutha, with many offspring, and like her mother and all the dinosaur mothers before that, she, the large, strong, buxom, muscular lady high over my head, once cared for and nurtured and hovered over her frisky, young dinosaur brood.

whoa. i suddenly felt the need to gulp down a few big mouthfuls of my g & t. then i got up and happily, happily, danced the night away.

the streets of atlanta

i am caught unprepared for the streets of atlanta, with its many towering walls of mirrored glass reflecting the other walls of mirrored glass, reflecting the traffic, the blue air, the clouds, the pavement, the ultra friendly people. i have never been this deep in the south before. for some reason i don't think of southern florida or houston, texas as deep south because they hover on the fringe, but atlanta is deep in the interior of the south.

the atlanta, georgia brand of friendliness is politeness all sugary sweet southern style. am i hearing correctly? the beginning of every response to a question is a saccharine yes ma'am or no ma'am, yes sir or no sir. my northern ears equate these ultra polite words with sarcasm, mockery—is boston really that mean?—no, not at all. but southern hospitality does take some getting used to.

speaking of sweet, in atlanta food containing sugar is way more sugary and over-sweetened than at home—is it possible for sweet foods to be even sweeter? sweet tea is the norm (yuck—please find me a spot of good english english breakfast tea) and cookies, muffins and croissants are so over-loaded with sugar i feel my mouth and teeth and throat sticking with a slick film of sugar residue long after i swallow. (i become a bit obsessive and brush my teeth every time i get back to the hotel. i finally pop a toothbrush and toothpaste in my handbag just in case my teeth experience a sugar crisis while i'm out, but i never end up using them. i simply avoid foods which may contain overdoses of the sweet stuff.)

on the streets of atlanta i am at first unsettled by the smiling faces of humanity looking straight into my eyes and not turning away as i pass by on the sidewalk, strangers who then offer me greetings and salutations, unblinking and direct. i don't know what to say. i am dumbstruck. i shake myself out of my mini stupor and finally respond with a hi and a hello—short, simple, strange!—those friendly words of recognition.

i start to really get into this novel business of being nice, being pleasant, and i try to initiate the custom of greeting strangers first. it works. they greet me back.

i am satisfied; i am engaged. i am a real daughter of atlanta. the kind words, sugary sweet southern style, taste good coming out of my mouth.

pocahontas light

look at that—the tiniest lighthouse just ahead. pocahontas light is the smallest lighthouse registered with the u.s. coast guard. you can find it on echo point on the southeastern end of great diamond island.

but if you get to talking while you're out enjoying beautiful casco bay, watch out......

because the island romance is out there and she can sneak up on you real fast.....

bangs island mussels

perfect timing. on this gorgeous maine afternoon—all sun and warmth and light salty breezes—we planned to cruise out to an island in casco bay to celebrate my nephew's birthday with family and friends. i jumped aboard the amelia g. with denny and nathan and off we went.

as we motored past littlejohn, basket, and mackworth islands and up the presumpscot river, we encountered rafts of eiders, many cormorants and an osprey-in-her-nest.

the bay was filled with boats which were, like us, lazily enjoying some of the last beautiful summer days of the season. in fact, our blink-and-ya-miss-it summah is my biggest maine complaint (i only have a couple; the other one is maine winters might be just a tad too long—otherwise, to me, this is paradise) but i look forward to the crisp, color-filled days of fall.

on the way to diamond cove we decided to take a closer look at bangs island mussels.

denny pulled up next to the company's floats, located south of basket island, and we had a chat with the two people on board. their mussel business operates all year, with mature mussels harvested after growing for about 16-18 months until they are 6-8 cm long. we heard about bangs island mussels' continuing battle with thieving eiders, whose diet is mainly mussels—maybe denny can help do something about that starting in october?

later in the evening i ate bangs island mussels as an appetizer at dinner. talk about freshfreshfresh (they were harvested from those floats up there, practically just a spit away from my seat on the porch) and yummy.... love you maine.

mooned

after
golden
sunset down
east the summer
moon shows off a piece of
orange crescent increasing, glowing low
in the west—briefly sharing the sky with
mighty jupiter rising in the east—and
dropping fast in the dark above the
twinkling little city on the sea where the
atmosphere has scattered the blues left
the reds behind and your tangerine light
beams along dusty air eventually finding
us as we end our day bobbing
in ebony waves watching
your display and you
end your day
sinking into
black
night.