Resolutions, What Else?

My first resolution is to stay on the island. This is highly measurable. Next New Year's, will I be living here? Yes: I am a brilliant an self-sufficient adult, move forward two spaces. No: I am living with my parents and obviously need to regroup- move back three spaces.

Second resolution? Continue the good work drinking in an intelligent manner. Sticking with only champagne or some slight variation on it for New Year's? Good job.

There will be other resolutions to follow, but really, I am three prosecco flutes into the night, and spelling/typing is a challenge.

Happy New Year's!

I need to dance.

Moving Out, Moving On...

It is amazing how saying goodbye to one person can buoy you, while saying goodbye to another leaves you bereft. Over the holiday I took the opportunity of being off-island to remove personal belongings that were still in my former boyfriend's apartment. After the break-up three months ago, all has been cordial, if superficial. Obviously I have been wrapped up in life on the island; free at last to embrace it fully, to wander at will without worrying about getting home to spend virtual time with my partner. I ended the relationship with no regrets, and until the last few days, little enough reflection beyond a deep relief.

While I was intrigued by the narrow boy, he had no bearing on the dissolution of bond- and when the Doc and I broke up, the Dark had not yet set foot on the island. Distance was reason enough cancel the contract, and we left it quite simply at that. Sometimes you just don't need to go beyond the tip of the iceberg- you see the ice, hear the sound of a ripping hull, and can safely say you are fucked without thoroughly examining the extent of the damage. So no conversation of guilt and recrimination, just civility and the earnest intent to remain friends. It is a comfortable lie, and an easy end to a two year trial.

Saying goodbye to someone after two months- that is a labor indeed. Two months is just enough time to become smitten in spite of yourself, and not enough time to get bored. In sixty days you have discovered details, can list off little charms, have developed a heightened sensitivity to their presence. After sixty days, you might find yourself wanting the luxury of sixty more- or six more- or whatever you can get. I rushed back to the island ahead of schedule, hope a fluttering song bird in my rib cage, so that I might get two or three more hours.

Better judgment did prevail. I made the late boat, getting home the evening before I had originally scheduled. But I did not pick up the phone to let him know, to see if he was still here, only two miles away. Because we had already said our goodbyes. And it was a full-stop "goodbye," not a soft and sweet "aloha." And he would need to pack, to spend the last of the hours with his family. Grown-ups are graceful: grown-ups let go. And dammit, this is me, letting go.

So tonight, the next-to-last night of 2008, I will claim this face-saving victory as my cold comfort. Back to thermals, back to buttoning up, back to bound hair. Resilience, you know, is a virtue.

Huh. Sounds like someone's at the door.

Christmas Eve With the Grim Reaper

I did finally leave the island, sledding my suitcases down to the landing, handling the sled's painter like a dog leash at the Westminster Kennel Club dog show: "No, no heel! Not nip my heels! Heel!" I got a good early start, so no one was witness to the first part of the trip, when I was still struggling to balance two large suitcases on a plastic sled meant for a grade-schooler. There was even time to grab my mail, which I had not checked in two weeks. Getting on the boat, I thought I had dodged the bullet of riding the same boat as the Dark and his dad. He and I had said our goodbyes the night before, and I did not really care to spend forty minutes pretending to be mere acquaintances.

Of course they were taking the morning boat. They were just the last to arrive.

And I spent forty minutes pretending to be an acquaintance, while he buried his shapely head in a National Geographic. God love me, I had brought the collected poems of Emily Dickenson- for a measure of solace. Books become talk on the mailboat, and soon it was "Oh, whatcha reading?" and "Emily Dickenson? Why Emily Dickenson?" I couldn't bust out with "I am preparing my soul for the descent back into passionate, yet asexual spinsterhood," so I settled for "Taking a chance over vacation to get my New England Studies back on... thinking about my thesis..."

I am fairly certain his environmental science major did not include the study of Emily Dickenson, so I daresay the Dark, overhearing, did not jump to the conclusion "damn, she is going to miss me." Unless poetry is now so seldom read that one assumes the reader must be tending to a raw heart. Next time I should brown bag the cover or stick to Robert Frost. Ugh.

That was only the second stage of the journey (yes, I will count the sledding as the first). Next I had to drive the beloved, yet unregistered, uninspected Jeep some fifty miles to the family homestead while not being caught by the authorities or busting the slack rear wheel. It was tense, but I made it.

I settled into the guest room, where my mother and aunt had erected my late grandmother's fake Christmas tree: I didn't have a tree on the island, and they felt I had earned one. In the afternoon we left to go visit my surviving grandmother, who has now been in an assisted living facility for a year. Our departure was only slightly delayed when I took my time putting on my boots, finishing up my Sanka, etc... Uncle Charlie seemed to be in no rush, so I saw no reason for me to do so. Turns out everyone else was in the van waiting, and Charlie wasn't going on the trip at all. Sometimes I suffer from a false sense of complacency.

Happily, nothing will jar you from your complacency like a visit to an assisted living home. I may be on the verge of thirty, but my grandmother is verging on ninety. She has been a lot happier since moving to the home: she dances, she plays Beano, she flirts with one of the male workers, and now includes "young men" on the list of things she wants us to put in her casket. They rate right up there with her cane and "cross words." Last year, as my mother and aunt were agonizing over the decision to farm her out, I told them it would be like old-age boarding school. I mean hell, the greatest increase in STDs is in the geriatric set. It is nice to see her happy; to see her outside the context of the family household, where despite everyone's best intentions, she became the burden she never wanted to be.

And it is also wholly depressing, as proof that if I do live a nice long life, this too too solid flesh will sag and fail... eventually to resolve itself into ash and steam, if not dew. I have spent the last month haranguing and corraling children, rambling all over the island alone and in company, pressing my lips to equally vital lips- how could I not be aware that I am approaching my prime? That I am well into it? Just as my grandmother had her prime, skating with young men, casting sideways glances while making a quip... every so often shades from her youth flash across her face, a face not unlike my own.

Today she once again used an expression we hadn't heard in a while, upon unwrapping some Christmas gifts: "Boy oh boy, aren't I glad I didn't die last night!" Once in a while, I have moments, generally outside during a walk, when I think "I could go now, and be okay with it- no regrets..." In those moments I feel saturated in the beauty of this life- but of course when I return to my laundry, the prospect of compost and cat litter, or think about something I don't have (hello masculine companionship!), the joie de vivre slowly drains out, leaving me less obviously soppy. Which is just as well. Because while it was wonderful, boy oh boy, aren't I glad I didn't die last night!

Just What We Needed: A Swedish Princess

Two days later, I finally dug out from the solstice storm. I don't mind wading through snow to get to the road, so digging a path from my house to the street hardly seemed much of a priority. Add to that the fact that the good snow shovel seems to be missing, and we have the perfect recipe for a procrastinated chore. Today, after rolling out of bed at nearly eleven o'clock, I decided I would finally insert my Yankee spine and spend some time character building. Of course, this raises the question: "can character be built so late into the morning?" If I had really wanted to make it a worthy day, I should have been up at five, clearing my driveway with the heaviest shovel I could find. As it was, it was well past noon before I had braided my hair, baked some scones, picked out appropriate layers and ascertained that no, the feather-like plastic shovel was not going to descend from the heavens. It was lost, and as I have mentioned previously, 'tis the season to get over losing good things.

We got quite a bit of snow. Had I mentioned that it was a blizzard? God's truth, NOAA's honor. Still, it wasn't that bad. I just hate shoveling snow. With metal shovels. As I made my way down the drive, cracking through the surface layer and using my hands to throw aside that top sheet of two inches, I reflected on my Scandinavian origins. My people were made for this- all well adapted to snow, life in the cold climes, blah blah blah... Yet in three generations, through interbreeding with Baltic people and New Englanders (supposedly also hardy), and an increased standard of living, America had spat out me, a lackluster twenty-something who kept up an uninterrupted inner-whine during the hour it took her to shovel a pitifully narrow walk from the road to the nearest (and most dangerous) ramp into her house.

It occured to me during this time that the Swedes in my family moved from the Frosted Fatherland (Sweden should be a motherland, I know, but I crave alliteration like a sweet) to New York City. NYC. Where there are road crews and shit. Probably roads crews of Norwegians, hardy Norwegians, built to shovel snow. Swedes are built to contemplate snow. My step-grandmother was a prime example of Norwegian snow-shoveling. She shoveled her own snow with apparent good cheer (and in skirts) until she was well into her seventies. My grandfather (the first generation Swede-American) had a heart condition, so this Pan-Scandinavian pairing worked well. I have been putting off having an actual adult physical, where they draw blood and tell you to stop eating so much cheese, so I don't know that I have a heart condition. But I suspect that shoveling snow with the heaviest shovel in the world is enough to give me a psychosomatic one.

The worst thing is living "in town." People tend to drive by and bear witness to my snowy labor. They smile, laugh internally and think "she is using the wrong kind of shovel... does she know that?" The shovel I am so maligning is a heavy metal and wood deal, with a plow-like scoop shape. Would have been great if I had used it every twenty minutes during the day-long storm. Still would have caught on the uneven gravel surface of my driveway, but it would have performed better than this afternoon. This afternoon, I looked like a woman doing the doggie paddle in a serious survival situation. Eventually, however, I triumphed.

And then I went snow-shoeing. I did mention I don't mind wading through snow, right? After a year, it was time to take my snow shoes, Christmas presents from '07, on their maiden voyage. I yax-trax-ed it up Annis Hill, and turned down the road to Point Lookout, the island's private summer colony. Securing the snow-shoes to my boots, and throwing the yax trax into my back pack, I headed off into the world of privilege. I love people who can abandon homes for 10/12ths of a year, because it means those of us who cannot afford a vacation can at least spend some quality time wandering around on private roads. The universe finds balance.

Now if only I could keep mine. Some of you may recall last year, when I planted my face on the ice while endeavoring to skate. I split my lip, and got a nice subtle scar for my trouble. The other night, during the storm, the Dark was adding to his footage of people randomly running through the woods, and got me to participate. It was snowy, and he had set up the shot so that it was a down-hill run. Of course I fell. The other day, doing a pirouette in my living room, I no sooner got through the first 220 degrees, when I found myself sprawled on my ass. I fall. I have even been designated by the Dark as a faller.

Tonight was no exception. I got down to the Point landing, got to taking pictures, and when I went to get some shots of interesting drift patterns, I failed to attend to the fact that the drifts were built up over huckleberry bushes. And that the drifts were deep. First I was up to my thighs, and then I was on my back, up to my nose. Or nipples. Whatever was the highest point of me at the time. It is a good thing I enjoy looking up at the sky, and that normally (the skating incident, and okay, the Champlain incident aside) I fall backwards. I am getting pretty philosophical about it all. In fact, I have a growing suspicion that I am literally falling for the island. And when I take it a bit further, and refuse to accept my own gracelessness, I come to the obvious conclusion that the island is actually sweeping me off my feet. With that first scar, it marked me as its own. I succumb, dear island!

Continuing on this island bride theory, tomorrow I will test out my ability to communicate with woodland creatures through song. Or pack to go home to my family for Christmas. If I don't make it off the island, I probably just fell on the way to the boat.

I will make it home- maybe!

Winter Solstice

Tonight is longest night of the year, and it arrived on the island riding the winds of a blizzard. I spent the earlier part of the day performing the pleasant labor of baking when there is no pressure. I threw together some pizza dough for later, used the verging-on-over-ripe bananas for banana walnut bread, and got to work making and bottling lemon curd for island neighbors. There may have been a nap in there somewhere... I have moved an armchair into the kitchen, rendering it more or less the most functional room ever. Because really I can do work sitting in a comfy armchair, my feet up on a stool. Lap=laptop=work. Everyone accepts the truth of this commutative property. The key is I can't allow myself to curl up in the armchair. With anything remotely resembling a blanket. Fetal position + blankie = sweet sweet slumber.

About an hour before night closed in, the Dark arrived at my door, ready for his second hike of the day. I stripped down and re-layered for the storm while he foraged in my kitchen, pleased that I had carried out my plans to make banana bread. Once I was fully bundled, we headed out into the brunt of the storm, which had worsened since his earlier trip to Seal Trap. My plastic sled in tow, we made our way up Annis Hill to the Champlain trail head, where we stashed my sled at the side of the road and headed into the woods. With the variation of weather, season, and light, I could never grow bored of this place. The huckleberry underbrush looked soft with the snow; enrobed in white, the spruce seemed taller- looming over the path with a magic that promised potential danger or delight. Even in the forest, the wind scoured the land, shrieking through the thinner areas nearly undiminished. This was not a gentle evening, but since I was well-clad and warm, it was strangely peaceful. In the last light of this shortest day, the island again turned to a more sepia-tinged shade of grey. Champlain is slightly bald at the top, mostly ledge, huckleberry, and scraggly spruce that look a little sheepish, like they knew they should have left the party an hour ago. The world was wild at the summit, and I tilted my head back to watch snow sheet across the sky.

It was the peak of the island, the peak of night for the year. And yes, the peak of the affair. At some point you have to pack up the picnic, get out of the water, or come in from the cold.

We made our way back down the mountain, this time at a slower clip- ever the lover of the ephemeral, I need some stillness to take in the transition. Emerging on the road, we recovered the sled, debated the best method of descending the hill (seated or on stomachs), and let gravity carry us down to my house.

After a time, he was back to foraging in my kitchen- this time for supper: I was assigned the task of making cocoa. Having warmed up and replaced some calories, we rebundled to go in search of the Tall. The storm had gained in power as night took hold, and the walk toward town was wicked, but conditions weren't quite white-out. By the time we reached the post office, we spied familiar headlights approaching, the Tall, in the nearly-clutchless truck. Together they needed to head back to their place, to literally keep the homefires burning. While the Tall could have managed this on his own, we three have been walking on the tension wire of a bizarre love triangle. Hooking me up with his friend was a gas in theory, but the Tall found it less appealing in practice: he and I have traded off feeling like a third wheel.

As we arrived at my house, I was deposited with a quick kiss goodnight just outside of the truck, and off they went, making their way up the steep hill, the snow closing in behind them.

In a week's time this portion of the year will be over: no more holidays, no more boys of Autumn- they will return to their respective homes out West to work the ski season. Long nights have never bothered me- every year I watch winter approach with a sense of comfort, that the dark is a blanket thrown over the earth, reminding us to rest and reflect. To dream with eyes open.

Now to accept that the dark will recede.

Four Years of Study- Worth Every Penny...

Gussied up for the Xmas Pot Luck

Once a year I pull my theater training out of the closet, dust it off, and put it to work. At least that is the case in my life here on the island. After Thanksgiving it becomes painfully clear that "wow, we don't have a lot of time until Christmas" and that the school's annual Christmas Show will not, in fact, happen on its own, and can't be canceled- however much we might wish it. Traditionally, the show is fobbed off on whatever fresh-faced and civic-minded newcomer has washed up on the isle's shores for the winter. Last year that newcomer was me, and really I had no way out since I had a degree in theater, and was being paid to be useful in whatever way necessary. This year I wanted a way out, but found that that particular Christmas wish was not going to be granted. This year's Christmas miracle turned out to be finding a staple gun when I needed it.

Thankfully, I was relieved of picking the material. We have a new music teacher who comes out once a week, and she brought in the script and canned accompaniment for "Christmas at the OK Corral." It concerns the town of Snowy Gulch, and one villainous grump by the name of Bubble Gum Bart, who threatens to cover the town in bubble gum if they carry out their holiday festivities. Logically, the townsfolk wire Santa a request for help, who sends the Candy Cane Kid; everything gets talked out, a saccharine ballad is perpetrated, and there's a ho-down. Classic New England Christmas fare. And it was my job to make sure it actually happened.

A few words about our school: we have eight students, spanning grades K-8. In this group of eight children we have two sets of brothers, and another student is half-uncle to one of those sets. The male to female ratio is 6:2, a vast improvement over last year's 6:1. You would think that working with only eight children would be a dream- with so few students and so many adults (two to four, depending on the day) surely the days must glide by in a pleasant atmosphere of scholarly inquiry.

You would be wrong, asshole.

It is like homeschooling the most disfunctional family of all time, except we have no control over their home lives. And the whole one-room schoolhouse thing is all very romantic until you realize you can't hit them with rulers. Eight kids will make the noise of eighty, and there's no handy principal with an office, or guidance counselor, or special ed room, or oubliette. Though perhaps we could find an old well...

The only thing to do, given the personalities involved, was to divide and conquer. I ruthlessly excluded one of my students from almost every blocking rehearsal, staging him fully upstage, behind a large set piece. His blocking was simple and, per his request, he never had to dance. He could be kept out of the tedious blocking rehearsals. Not typically a fan of exclusion, I will embrace it whole-heartedly when it means avoiding disasters and migraines. The process was still pretty ugly, but by the time I plugged the student back into the rehearsals with the other kids, the larger group all more or less had their act together. Of course, the little kids still loved to turn upstage to sing to the back wall, generally miss their cues, forget their lines, and totally lose track of what they were supposed to be doing. If they didn't come by those habits naturally, I guess I would've had to have staged it.

To get everything to come together, I had to move beyond the use of my teacher voice, and into the use of my director voice. My mother wondered what the distinction is between the two, and I think it was good to have the opportunity to elucidate the difference. A teacher's voice will be strong and angry, but will have a undertone of weariness and frustration that hints at her proximity to the breaking point, or at least incipient alcoholism. A director's voice promises that the director will crush the actor's ego, extract the blighted soul, and then have a nice cuppa.

Either my director voice is rusty, or the kids are semi-impervious. Nonetheless, we made it through, and there were moments when they paid attention, but by and large it was an exercise in controlling chaos. When set before an audience, they were adorable and didn't yell insults at one another across the stage. The audience laughed and cheered, and as I stood backstage to help with quick changes, I couldn't help but laugh and grin, and think "Oh, my kids are the loveliest lovelies!" Which is proof that the holidays render me somewhat soft in the head.

The Dark wanted special credit on the program for his efforts to keep me on an even keel: "It's just for the kids: I am doing it for the kids."

A Wandering Mind

It is Sunday again, and often times Sunday seems the most opportune day of the week to go adventuring. It's become a bit of a habit of mine to swing by the church first to offer up some prayerful communiques to the universe (thanks for the life I've found, thanks for not yet crushing me for the sake of an ironic joke...), and then move on to whatever course seems likely. Today I retraced a trail the Dark had just introduced me to, happy to be alone so that I could dawdle as I liked, lost in an interior life rivaled only by Walter Mitty. The workaday world falls away, and there's just the curiosity of what wonder will be around the next bend- a shapely bit of ice, a shaft of light, and always, ever, the sound of the creaking spruce, threatening to fall.

Sadly I am no naturalist. Moss is just so much carpet in the cathedral; a tree a dryad; a bog a place of blonde grass concealing dark waters. Growing up, I devoured folklore, not nature guides. So when on my own, straying from the path takes on new meaning- crossing a bridge entails unseen trolls, and blow downs are evidence of giants, or of vicious winds released from knotted rope. This doesn't mean I literally believe in the host of creatures folksy and mythical, but that I am firmly a fan of imagination. These woods are my Arden; these shores my Illyria.

Walking, and solitary, I can give myself over to it- signs, portents, stories; my head swims in metaphor, and words, always so many words-

So in love with the world was I,
I promised myself I never would die...

Today, as that macabre scrap flashed into my mind (talk about tempting Fate), the rustling thunder of wings burst out of the limbs above my head, and a maddened crow swept toward the thoroughfare: one for sorrow. I had not noticed the black of the bird in the black of the boughs. Taking off so quickly, so close, it sounded like a much bigger bird, an owl, or a hawk- or more birds, a murder.

Is it not a wondrous thing- to be a girl, alone on a path through the darkening woods?

Goddamn, It's Windy!!!

I suspect that when this house was renovated, the insulation was skimped upon, since its was to be primarily a seasonal home. At any rate, I finished and put up the new window quilts in the bedroom last night, and was pleased to feel the decrease in the draft from the windows, but couldn't help but notice the cold air oozing from under the baseboard of the exterior wall. I know: I should have shut this room off and moved to the back, South-facing bedroom, but the scale of this one is much more human, its shape more furniture-friendly. And yes, the wind sounds even louder here, which is usually a charm to my ears. Since I am commmitted to this front room, the added bonus to the new curtains is the increased privacy. Ill-fitting muslin curtains were not the most discreet option ever, though they were, as the saying goes, "better'n nawthin." Of course viewing is a two-way street, and now looking out the windows to see street and water traffic will be more cumbersome. I am still adjusting to the dining room having curtains.

As for last evening, I did not, in fact, make gingerbread. After an afternoon spent working, then wandering about in the weather, I was not up to digging out, and gingerbread should be shared. Instead I started decorating the house for Christmas, stringing lights around my windows between the panes and the window quilt panels. In happy coincidence, the dining room quilts are backed with slender white stripes on a red background, so the result is pretty festive when you look from the outside world. I hung a delightfully fake evergreen garland along my banister, then wrapped it in colored lights. For now, the tree-topper is perched on the newel post.

Alright- I just got brave, went downstairs, turned on said lights (since it is still dark out), and made my breakfast: oatmeal w/ maple syrup and dried cranberries, and a mocha. I will face the dishes when the temperature in the house is somewhat more reasonable. I did duct tape the insulated curtain tight to the door frame in the kitchen. The wind is shrieking through, miserable, miserable, but slightly less miserable now, for the quilted hanging. If anyone was wondering, I would like tapestries for Xmas. Now I am ensconced once again in my bed, thankful for Tempur-Pedic matresses, down comforters, and the polar fleece blankets I put between the flannel sheets... my place was still warm! Breakfast in bed is pretty fantastic on a cold day, even if you had to get up to make it yourself. So glad computers and work became so lap-friendly. Let the week begin...

What's in a Weekend, or, Waiting for Snow on a Sunday

From the vantage point of last Thursday, it seemed like this weekend would be slow, sweet, and rich like molasses; now, however, it is Sunday morning, and with the school's holiday show coming up and the December fellow retreat this week, I have a lot to accomplish before I can head out on the mailboat Tuesday night. Happily, on the weekend you can accomplish things after a leisurely cup of coffee and gentle puttering. So it is that I am up, showered, dressed, and indulgently blogging, my little red coffee cup to one side, my faithful feline companion to the other.

Now that I look back over the weekend in order to recount it, it has been rather pleasantly reminiscent of molasses. I devoted my Friday night to potato leek soup; and incidentally, myself. After a day of running back and forth from the school to my house, choreographing, teaching and report writing, I sent off my monthly report, and took a walk down to my adoptive island family. My mother had sent me advent calendars, and included one for the little boys of that household. It seems I talk about them a lot, and I suspect this is her way of thanking them for winding up the ol' biological clock. If only children would magically spring out at the age of seven, adorable, on the verge of reading, and with a sly sense of humor like my favorite little blue-eyed boy.

(side note: here is the anticipated snow, in the smallest of flakes)

Anyone who has read this blog at all knows that I love walking. Friday's walk was at the very edge of dark, which now coincides with the mailboat arrival. It steams in, running lights on- the colors gently suggestive of the season, red to port, green to starboard. Given the paucity of daylight, the evening stop is all business: some nights it seems they barely even tie up. Under cover of the deepening twilight, people bustle to move cargo, and to get The Mink back on her way uptown. It is all more or less year-rounders and workers now, and it is a pleasure to watch the swift and purposeful exchange of people and goods, morning and night, a cycle of certainty. The boat and store hours, they are the measure of the island's pulse.

I always slow my pace to watch the evening ritual, whether I am on the road just above the landing, or at a distance on Kennedy's field, looking South down the thoroughfare. I am a voyeur, but a very prim one. I like to watch the mundane traffic of this place: the boats coming in, barges carrying in concrete trucks; my neighbors heading to get their mail. I like lit windows at night, not to see into, but just because they offer proof that people are warm, fed, housed. Signs of life in a sleepy place. The beauty here verges on gratuitous, but never grows tiresome.

I have digressed from potato leek soup. My walk did come to an end, though not before I passed by the narrow boy, silently making his way from the store to his house- well after the rush of the mailboat. It should not come as a surprise that he gets his groceries on the off-hours; given his position at the store he has the means, and invisibility is exactly his style. We exchanged hellos without breaking stride, and I continued home with just my moon shadow at my side, pleased to have encountered him, to have had a simple look into his life.

Ending a walk is always a little melancholy- parting from the world outside is such sweet sorrow. A kitchen does offer its comforts, though. I completed the last of the evening's tasks, re-sending the report that did not, in fact, go through, returning a phone call from the uptown man. He was hoping I would find my way off the island sometime soon; I want nothing more than to stay put. Perhaps over Christmas break when I have to be off island. Or some Saturday, when the Dark has receded, I can show the Uptowner why I am so elusive, why I never want to leave. A day's hike should suffice.

My head in the clouds, my top-rated list playing on iTunes, I finally got down to dealing with my leeks. Soups, I have been told, are the key to sensible cooking for the single person. You make a sizable batch, freeze the bulk of it in small portions, and after a few scattered evenings with a large pot, you have a treasure trove of easy meals. Always sounded good in theory. After years of living by myself, I have finally made baby steps, and now have both chili and potato leek soup standing by. Maybe (if tonight doesn't include any company or outings), I will add some onion soup to the inventory. At any rate, rocking out and preparing for future culinary laziness is not a bad way to spend a Friday night on the island.

Saturday was about the continuation of curtains. The Dark headed off-island to run errands, though he promised to be back in time for a hike, and this left me with seven hours of chores-y goodness. By eight I had taken out the trash and compost, and was well into burning the paper waste to Christmas tunes. Fires are festive. My mother called to set up an evening mailboat drop-off of Christmas decorations, bless her, bless her, bless her. Meanwhile, the island was well into receiving its first dusting of snow: the flakes having settled and stayed, the gold of the long grass was no longer in competition with remnant green. Under the eastern light of morning, the world was tinted a distinctive sepia.

At nine, I booted and buttoned up for the journey to the post office. If I send out netflix on Monday, I will have the new DVDs in by Saturday, in time to commit whatever craftiness I have planned for the weekend. The walk was just as delicious as one might expect of a walk through the first Saturday morning snow, so squeaky underfoot. My world, as bounded by the horizon, shared only common landmarks with the world of sixteen hours earlier. And one other pleasant parallel; as I neared the post office, a slender figure in a black hooded pull-over raised a hand in greeting as he headed up the steep incline of his driveway. Seeing him anywhere other than the landing, when he works with me at school, or at the home of our mutual friends is like spotting a coyote. Fairly rare, and somewhat fascinating.

The day continued to unfold in a pleasant fashion. I worked with pins, needles, and hot iron in front of the television. At noon I had lunch; at three I met the mailboat and picked up two boxes and a storage tote, which (when stacked up) exactly spanned the distance between my down-stretched arms and my chin (when tilted toward the treeline). Christmas frieght safely stowed in my car, I stopped at the crowded store and purchased beer and ice cream: the perfect selection for the school's Health teacher. As I stood over the ice cream freezer, the Dark sidled up, and we nonchalantly formalized the assignation to hike. We'd only had the opportunity for eye contact at the landing. How lucky am I to be in a position to set up a date through the corner of my mouth while I choose between Ben and Jerry's and Hagen Daz? Life is pretty damned good.

Once home, I had the time to paw through the boxes of Christmas goodies before he came knocking at my door. With her awesome sense of timing my mother called shortly after he arrived, so I got a chance to thank her and ascertain that yes, she had glimpsed the Dark at the dock in Stonington. And she got to ascertain that yes, I was currently in his company. Again with the nonchalantly coded conversation. This has been the winter of a-million-and-one tiny intrigues. Or perhaps that is simply the gist of island life.

Before it got completely dark on us, the Dark and I headed up to Black Dinah, taking a road that goes up behind two trap shops and across the forlorn homestead of the former park ranger (now in indefinite exile), before turning into an old footpath. Black Dinah is an easy hike, and a rewarding view. We watched the boats steaming full throttle back to Stonington, and further out, the boats heading into Matinicus. Matinicus Rock Light blazed intermittantly at the edge of the world, its white light a contrast to the quiet red beacon of our Robinson's Point. It is a pleasant thing to climb up a hill on a chilly evening: it is even more pleasant when you climb with someone you can lean up against for heat; when kissing is an allowable liberty. Soon however, the cold creeps from the boulder to your buttocks- and dinner seems somehow more urgent than dalliance. We went home before any of the ships made it to port.

And now? It is past noon, the world is whitening at a steady clip, and I have students to meet, and chroeography to create. Yes, this weekend has smacked of the subtlely sweet- maybe I will find time tonight to make some molasses-rich gingerbread in honor of a putterer's favorite ingredient.

A New Chapter in Island Education

In each monthly report for my job, I must write a section on "integration into the community." This November, this surprisingly pleasant November- I integrated in a new way, one which no matter how tempting, I will not write about in my report. Admittedly, my immediate supervisor would be as pleased as punch. I think she intentionally hires reasonably attractive and smart young women for the express though tacit purpose of strengthening island gene pools. Twenty percent of fellows get suckered into staying. Of course nowhere in Fellow Orientation do we cover drinking, drugs, and sex. Okay- I confess: this year during the informal periods when new fellows were left alone with old fellows, yes. We talked about drinking on island. But now? Now I have reached an unknown shore. Or at least one that was left off the official map. So let us explore the landscape of island intimacy.

First comes the talk. Fully two months before the Dark even set foot on the island, I'd learned that the Tall was planning to "sic" him on me. I wasn't even single at the time, but the Tall had decided that it would be amusing, and (in a distance relationship himself) that he could then live vicariously through his friend, and get some. Shortly after the Dark landed, it was suspected that we were seeing each other. I am fairly certain that by this time, we had in fact, been properly introduced.

Then came the gifts. I have cataloged them before, but such riches deserve repeated inventory. Apples (hand stolen and delivered to my door); wild cranberries from a bog on the Eastern Head (though obviously not from the Park); firewood, which appeared like magic while I was off-island one weekend; homemade applesauce, a hostess gift for when I served dinner in return for the firewood. By the time he brought me to see the whale carcass, overwhelmed by the need to reciprocate, I had promised to knit him a hat- one which I immediately started, since I was convinced that it was the only route to protecting my virtue: "I know it is not sex, but a hand-knit hat is a very fine thing indeed! It will keep you warm for much longer!"

Talk and gifts are all very well- but they are window dressing. It doesn't much matter what people say, or what tokens are exchanged. What matters is how two people rub together, figuratively speaking. And literally. After all the food and hikes the Dark and I were getting along quite well. Saturday night, we slipped away from the crush of the highly successful cribbage tournament and returned to my house to watch a movie. It was, quite overtly (between us), a date. The movie ended and we embarked on that most sacred of post-sexual-liberation activities: making out on the couch.

Now some people may do this silently, hunkering down to business like all those serious people eating bland food in glum Danish paintings of the 19th century. I can't. Sex has to be talkative, and I mean talkative like a play by George Bernard Shaw. Or at least Oscar Wilde, maybe Noel Coward. So it was, somewhere between layers of clothing, our discussion came around to condoms; more specifically the availability of condoms on the island. Because we have exactly one store. And they carry exactly two boxes of Trojans (3packs). They live behind the counter with the medicines and tick nippers. If I wanted to purchase the aforementioned prophylactics, I would have to address my next door neighbor and the chairwoman of the school board (who happens to be the cashier): "Sue, I'd like both packs of Trojans please." I would rakishly arch my eyebrow as I emphasized the quantity, and I am sure my face would not betray even the slightest hint of blush.

Yes. Today I ran right out to do that. Of course if I did need to purchase condoms here, I am fairly certain they would not be in season. The Dark and I considered placing a friendly wager on when they likely expired. I had thought '89, but he was pretty sure he'd stolen condoms from the store during his teenage years, and that the current crop would only date from the mid/late '90s. It was good of him to share the info with me, or who knows what I would have lost on the bet.

Of course beyond the logistics of safety, there is also the matter of discretion. Where to park his truck? How should we time leaving events so it is not obvious that we are leaving together? Very important details, here...

Finally there is the parental factor, which comes into play when I inevitably run into his father (again, there are about 50 people on the island for the winter). The Dark, a very legal 27 years old, claims his father is oblivious, and I hope that this is so... nonetheless, I catch a glimpse of the man and I feel like a juvenile delinquent, and am gripped by an urge slink ever so quietly away.

And so it is that I have begun a personal history on the island. Heaven help me.

The Diverse Pleasures of a Dark Day

Obviously some of the accounts on this blog are fictitious, because I like to make up illegal happenings for the sake of "spice..." This post in particular is shaded by a recent lecture given by an administrator for the Bar Harbor Whale Museum which touched on the illegality of interfering with sea mammal remains... Islanders are far more law-abiding than I would ever make them out to be. And you know, life much less salacious. Finally, the boys of autumn really require more specific identities, so let them be the Tall and the Dark.

It is a truth universally recognized that the best way to experience a late November squall is from the comfort of a cushy chair, before a fire, with a hot drink and a good book. Today was such a day, and- gift of gifts!- the squall coincided with Saturday. I got up late and put blankets in the wash. Cats are picturesque and warm reading partners, but they are always leaving their fur behind. I puttered about in gentle productivity until two in the afternoon, when an assertive knock sounded on my door- and an increasingly familiar pirate-like face looked in through the glass.

Amendment: it is a truth universally recognized by book, bath, and cocoa lovers that the best way to experience a late November squall is from the comfort of a cushy chair, etc... but there are those who think it is best to hike through the woods to a beach where there's a whale carcass. Truth be told, I had nothing better to do that I couldn't put off, and I love a good walk through dramatic weather- it is like being in a book! Before we embarked on the adventure, the boys headed out to run some errands, giving me a chance to change out of my Laundry Day ensemble of pajama bottoms, ex-boyfriend shirt and athletic socks, and switch into my Stormy Hike clothes (the union suit- it is all about the union suit and layers).

When they returned, we piled into their petite, nearly-clutchless truck and bombed down the road as far as the store, where I posted the new book club notice and got a few vital ingredients for my evening meal. While I shopped, the Dark edified the population of the front room with a reading from Uncle Henry's take it or leave it section. Someone had rolls of drier lint- free for the taking! Amazing what some people are willing to give up. Drier lint makes excellent kindling.

The part of the island we were headed to, Seal Trap, is not a part of the park, but it is on the way. As we rounded one of the road's many curves, the Tall, who was driving, brought the truck to a shuddering halt, and backed up- having spotted some fascinating scat. He opened his door, leaned as far out into the road as he could without actually falling, while still giving the firm impression he was, in fact, about to get literally shit-faced. After some inspection, he declared it was probably left by a coyote with digestive problems. That settled to his satisfaction, he shifted his weight back into the truck, and commenced sweet talking: "come on baby, give me some clutch..."

Obviously it was going to be an afternoon of high adventure.

We parked at the trail head, but ventured down to Moore's Harbor first to see what recent storm surges had washed up. They found some joint compound buckets, all ready for in-home agriculture. They threw them up into a field to retrieve later, and decided we'd walk along the shore to Seal Trap, since it wasn't high tide.

Now a downeast shore is not a sandy thing. At best it entails gravel: at worst it is nearly vertical granite ledge, skirted with barnacles and seaweed. The obvious implication is that it's decidedly more interesting to travel this way than on the trail through the woods. So we scrambled, slipped, climbed and jumped most of the way around the point, then cut through some trees to the mouth of Seal Trap. At long last, we reached what I could only assume was our destination, though "whale carcass" had seemed to imply more than a slick of whale grease and a scatter of bones. Their eyes wide, and jaws ever so slightly slack, the boys took in their loss. Damn the hungry ocean for reclaiming the carrion it'd spat up in summer! Looking longingly at an unattainable bone that poked out of the water five feet from the nearest rock, they hypothesized that either the body had slipped out into the mouth a little further (good for snorkeling next summer), or had been pushed to the back of the cove. Setting their hopes on the latter, as children set their starry-eyed hopes on Santa, we tromped back along the strand to the terminal end of the Trap.

And so it was that they hit boney, blubbery gold. There was the mini-leviathan, the minke, in all of its fibrous, rotting glory. The Christmas of my canopy bed and the complete set of Nancy Drew mystery novels was a distant second to their pleasure in locating the storm-tossed remains. The twinkle in their eyes and flash of their knives was worthy of the night sky in winter- a new constellation: Squalus Corpus. With admirable determination, given the smell, the Tall began to saw at the sinew still holding the head to the body, while the Dark held the skull steady. Once they had freed the massive cranium, they began to drag it up to the woods, where the ocean could not further fracture it or carry it away. Though it was only a distance of about fifty feet, it was over rock and sea weed, and through spruce. By the time they had wrestled it (still trailing flesh) to where they saw fit, they were both sweating and breathing heavily.

This major goal accomplished, the rest of the hike was all about the sheer animal enjoyment of being out in severe weather. We rounded Trial Point, and all cover was gone. The gale blasted at us from the open water of Penobscot Bay, one unending howl from the Camden Hills venting its wrath on the unbridged islands. From this vantage point I could see South clear to Matinicus, Criehaven, and Matinicus Rock Light. By this time, the vault of the sky was growing dark, and what light had graced us this day was failing. As I ran over the ledges and popple stone beach, I would stop to lean into the bluster, seeing how far I could trust the force of its breath. The waves came in large breakers, frothing the with the rabidity of the weather system. It was delicious.

Night chasing swiftly on our heels, we made our way forward, leaping along the ledges as the best foot placement presented itself, a quiet single file trio with hats on and hoods up. I am not particularly athletic, but from a childhood spent on the Maine coast I am fleet of foot over rocks: there is little that I enjoy more than the focus and grace it takes to properly gage where to land, the power demanded from one's thighs, the sheer ballsy belief in one's own balance. It is a dance, and I am a very good dancer. The cold, the wind? The best accompaniment. Seldom does professional adulthood afford the opportunity to indulge in the raw pleasure of having a body. But today I had a storm, and a strand of stone.

I was sorry to turn back inland to the proper wooded trail- though I confess, I was beginning to tire. We still had a substantial way to walk before we could get back to the truck, and my eyes were straining to find stable footing. Instead of walking straight to the trail head we went back to Moore's Harbor for the buckets. As we emerged onto the road from the Harbor we heard a throaty bark from the woods. Clearly we were not alone in the immediate area.

Returning to the truck, the Tall and the Dark took their separate stances, both at a distance and back to me. I nonchlantly searched the area for indications of who was also on the Seal Trap path, quickly noticing an abandoned windbreaker on the ground. Once they finished their business, we piled back into the truck: "come on clutch..." As both the Tall and the Dark went around to the engine to pour brake fluid where it didn't belong (but would do the trick), I spied a familiar quadriped of sturdy build trotting down the road with a growl, followed by three shapes, upright. I hopped out of the truck, and entreated the dog with a soft "Diego!"

With the exception of my labrador love, the newcomers didn't note me at first, but the ringleader greeted the brake fluid boys with "we were going to try to scare you, but you didn't come out where we expected..." Once they noticed me, the conversation shuddered to a halt like the clutchless truck, sputtering in fits and starts. From one particularly narrow silhouette, the silence was emphatic, verging on abyssal. While the Tall made small talk, the Dark came around to my side to pat the dog and offer me water from his bottle. Eventually the group came to the consensus that we should probably stop standing around, and we continued on our parallel paths with separate modes of travel: three crowded cozy in the cab of the truck, the other four on their ten feet.

It was fully night by the time the boys dropped me off at my driveway, the Dark stepping out to allow for my exit, and to suggest we meet later, the swarthy and the fair, with little height between us.

There is also a truth universally recognized concerning dark and stormy nights; even the bookish lass and the outdoorsman will agree.

That is to say: it is imperative to watch the X-Files with no lights on.

Change of State

I'd rather freeze than boil, yet freezing... when it hits 32 degrees, oh how the world feels it. And the island, a microcosm itself, slows- the brooks get sluggish and glassine, morning breaks and the thoroughfare barely even suggests the breath of the tide and current. For the time being, the wind has blown itself out and bereft of leaves, the trees stand still, stark.

This year the cold came on quick, a snap from the arctic chasing away the foggy wraiths of our final warm spell. Weather, like death and heartbreak, is an inevitability which, no matter how you prepare for it will always come as a shock. For weeks I had been romanticizing winter: the sledding, the snow fights; but in all of my imagining- the gentle drift of snow falling n the moonlight, the twinkle of stars in crystalline skies- I failed to fully recall the pain of cold, how it feels when the cells of your cheeks and fingers begin to freeze.

Time to acclimate, as the Northern body always does: the temp that makes me pull on a parka today will see me stripping down to a tee come March. As I walked to the landing this morning I watched Brimstone Island float above the line of the Southern horizon on illusory wings of water and light. I will fall for the trick, and make my peace with the harsh wonders of a slow, dark season: cover my cheeks and widen my eyes.

I am only left with one question: would one's lips freeze to a flask?

Howling Cold

The Sunbeam was in harbor last night- I had gone down to the landing to pick up a couple of packages off the mailboat, and saw it steaming in up the thoroughfare, silhouetted by the sunset. My neighbor called on behalf of the minister to let me know there'd be a service at 7 and socializing after. By the time she called, it was fully dark, I was getting dinner in the oven, and there was nothing, not even dominos and baked goods that would entice me out of the confines of this house. I stayed in, watched DVDs from net flix and knitted a heel flap on my second sock.

This evening magic hour has hit again; the ledges on the islands to the North are stained pink, the barren trees are empurpled, and the roiling water is a color that can only be described as goddamned cold. The wind's a harpy that won't let up. So I am not going anywhere tonight either. Didn't particularly want to leave the house this morning. Got up, made scones, climbed back in bed, fully clothed, to curl up under a polar fleece blanket until the very last moment. Nothing would have made me happier than a conference call with my advisor:

"Wind's too demoralizing for library hours."

"Yep."

"See you next week."

I could have stayed in, swathed in the opiate embrace of L.L. Beans blanket, and choked down a few scones before gently drifting off to sleep- a place where the wind is a whisper, and where my legs never ache with chill. That's what I would have liked, for sure. Instead I drew on two layers of wool socks (one pair rising above the knee), swaddled my head in a hat and scarf, threw on my Carharrt, mittened up, and threw open the door like I was facing enemy fire. Bowl of scones nestled under my arms, I made my way through the gale to the town hall.

The up side of the cold gale is that the warmth of buildings gains a new and feverish glow. I was, consequently, quite pleased to arrive at my destination. The boys were already there, waiting for me to show up, baked goods in tow. They themselves were ducking out of the weather, hiding from their morning's work (which was going to be substantially colder than mine). We made small talk- I thanked them for the fire wood that had mysteriously arrived on my porch while I was away, noting that I probably owed them dinner. The young man that I am seeing (according to island authorities on the subject) has really done a bang-up job insinuating himself into my good graces- delivering apples, cranberries, wood. My head might even turn a little before he leaves the island. Perhaps the gossips are just ahead of their time: it is hard to not be swayed by fancy presents.

So whether it is attraction or etiquette, I recognize that I need to roll up my sleeves, dial his number, and issue the guys an official dinner invite. It may have to be for Friday night- there is no way in hell I feel up to company tonight, and I host book club tomorrow. Hopefully I will feel up to entertaining for the second night in a row and after a school field trip off-island. Having grown up on the Little House books, I know I need to make hay while the sun shines (even if it is not warming), and there is no doubt I will miss them when they are gone. No more deliveries to my doorstep! I will not be forced to socialize and act like a normal single twenty-something.

While I may have moaned about November in the past, as of this year, I cannot gripe. As Thanksgiving charges at us like a juggernaut, I begin to realize how empty the island will be this winter. This morning the library was full of people, enjoyable people, who will leave in a mass exodus on November 30th. Even one of the lovable local twenty-something boys will be gone again- I am now opposed to the swordfishing industry on the sole ground that it will reduce the number of my drinking buddies by 20%. Bastard'll be fishing out of Puerto Rico for the month of December. The extra rub is, of course, that most people are going someplace warmer; and although I wish it on them for leaving us, that place is not Hell. Still, some might say Florida is pretty damned close.

People Move to an Isolated Island for a Reason.

Finding a place to hide...


I am off island today, and though I am warm and secure in the bosom of my family, I am being oppressed by my own dense introversion. In prior posts I had mentioned having a second date with the uptown man? Well, he has tried to get in touch with me, and set something up- but here it is, the day of the potential date, and I have been ruthlessly elusive. I did not call, I did not write- I am a complete ass.

This morning I am telling myself that I will call once I have thoroughly analyzed this Diana-like tendency toward flight. I am always guy-shy, and I am almost pathologically phone shy. In a normal week I might have marshalled my energies and prepared some sort of response, but this week was so intensely social that I failed completely to measure up to the lowest standards of etiquette. How is it that I have had such a terrible time responding to what was a perfectly reasonable invitation? Who wouldn't want to be squired to a speakeasy evening in a nice restaurant?

Me, it would seem.

I packed the clothes for it, make-up even. Could probably manage to dig up decent shoes in the archives of my wardrobe past.

But I don't know where I would find the energy to put on my bourgeois extrovert. After a week of seemingly non-stop social interaction on island, my dealing-with-peeps/presentability reserves are at dangerous lows. Especially given the need to deal with masculine attention. Seriously, I don't know how accomplished flirts do it. I expect that they are not INFPs. Do you know how much guile, patience, and tolerance for awkwardness it takes to not kiss someone after a late-night hike? Or after a nice dinner and a walk in the fog? It takes serious ovaries to put down my size six foot in a way that is tactful-ish and not teasing. I am not quite at the point where I will just bust out with "Nope. No Sugar. Nice try, wrong mark." I clearly need a new pair of Docs.

After one whole week of cat and mouse, this spinster is wiped. I love hikes, walks, tree climbing, cranberries, dinner, and interesting company, I just don't like the underlying implications and expectations. Perhaps for those who know me, it is less than surprising that I prefer the quiet narrow boy, who would probably just as soon elude me! We could carefully ignore each other and be perfectly content.

And I might get some fricking work done.

All Tuckered Out

The hectic pace of this week never lessened. I don't know how there manages to be so much happening on an island of sixty some-odd people, but I do know that I am one tired woman. Now where was I? Moonlit hikes, tree climbing, clinging to my inner Yankee?

Yes, that sounds familiar. It has been a whirlwind. I believe that Tuesday night I stayed in. Wednesday I retraced my steps up Champlain, climbed the tree alone and in the light of day, then got down into the small bog and harvested about a quart of cranberries. While contorting myself to stay dry, I noticed a large tupperware box, a geo-cache stashed by sundry Greenlaws. I am so good I found it without looking it up or using a GPS. I got back down the hill before dark- which is to say I was back in the cozy confines of my kitchen by 4pm, and quickly set about cleaning and freezing the goods. Made some more tortillas for dinner, called my girlfriend to see about some us time. Just as I was about to head out the door, the guys of autumn showed up to invite me for a night hike later, since the moon is nearly full. I told them they'd know where to find me. In the meantime, they had to go to a meeting.

All was quiet at my friend's house, just a few of the local guys quietly drinking beer- her sons were in bed, but quickly made excuses to come downstairs when they heard me come in. Shy of appearing in front of me in boxers, they hitched across the floor to the bathroom on their bottoms, with their tee shirts pulled over their knees and legs. They lingered downstairs as long as they could get away with it- one of them hitching his way under the table, another trying to hide in a closet. I got a satisfying hair ruffle in on the one under the table. I am fairly certain he is squarely to blame for the amplification of my biological clock in the last year.

Eventually our quiet party of four became a mellow party of six, and the evening moved into later and later territory. At about 1:30 I began my walk home. That was the exent of my night hike, since the guys never materialized after the meeting.

I did see them this afternoon, however, when they led the school on a hike in the park. Three adults, seven kids, two and a half hours- not sure how many miles. It was a pleasant outing, and my kids were on pretty good behavior. Even so, both men asked if the students were normally so... energetic, and then gave me their condolences.

By the time we got back to the school, much of my body ached from the increasingly raw weather: at the school and store, I dodged issuing the dinner invitation the men were so clearly after. I went home, put a potato in the oven to bake, and drew a bath. Baking a potato and taking a bath are very compatable tasks. Draw the bath while you prep the potato; you soak, it bakes. In about an hour, you've got warmth back into your bones, aches out of your muscles, and dinner is ready.

I did some reading for book club, took a delicious nap, then grabbed my knitting, hopped in my car, picked up one of my students and drove to the meeting of the Occasional Knitter's Society. As of tonight I have the cuff and heel flap of one striped wool sock completed. Now it is time to embark on the turning of the heel. The Society meeting was a fertile one tonight, I learned important news- our local chocolatier announced that she and her husband would open the cafe on Monday nights for complementary tea and coffee, so that people could gather to play cards, etc... people will more likely than not bring baked goods as well as their shining faces, since this island seems to revolve around food.

Tonight I will contemplate what I will make for tomorrow night, when I go out- I have reason to suspect I will get rather hungry, and so I should plan something tasty.

When I finally got home, the light on my machine was blinking- Suitor #1, calling to pin me down for weekend plans. I have been meaning to get back to him, but the week has been so busy, and the scheduling for the weekend such a source of irritation (Sunday boast are no longer running, and I have to be in Rockland Monday morning- ergo I may have to go off Saturday, when I really don't want to go off at all), I have been avoiding the issue all together. I am a poor date- I hate phones, I do not respond to much of anything in a timely manner, and I am far and away too crotchety for weekly interaction. Not to mention I fiercely love being on the island, and will only leave it under some amount of duress.

Darkness has slipped over the world, and while I may not be content to stay indoors all the time, I am damned well content to just stay on the island.

A Surfeit of Moonlight

After the companionship of the weekend, I fully expected the week to sink quickly into the deep quiet to which I have become accustomed. It should not have come as a surprise that I was wrong. One of the dashing young men of fall came calling Monday night, hard on the heels of Ms. Webster's departure. It was well into the evening when I welcomed him in, took possession of the cranberries that were the purpose of his visit, and offered him a beer. We made conversation until the call began to get awkwardly long, and then- enterprising man that he is- he suggested a hike, which I readily took him up on. The moon is waxing, and the weather has continued to be blessedly mild. It was a crime to sit indoors.

Taking to the night, our tongues loosened again, tripping easily as we made our way up Champlain. When we reached the top- a broad hill with a view somewhat obscured by spruce- he made it clear that our ascent was not yet complete: "we have to climb the tree."

I made it clear that I am afraid of heights, but gamely made the climb nonetheless. So it was that late on a Monday night, I found myself up a spruce atop Champlain, gazing to Stonington in the North; Swan's, Frenchboro, and MDI to the East; and the Camden Hills to the West. We must have stood together in that tree for half an hour. The world gleamed in sleek blues and silvers. Finally, I confessed I only had so much natural insulation against the wind, and we began our descent. Before we left the top of the hill, he showed me a cranberry bog, so I would know at least one convenient place to get my own. Upon arriving back at my house, I dished up some soup, and we passed some more time in the intimacy of my kitchen. Just past midnight, he headed out to his truck, warm with thanks, but not kisses. In the course of our conversation it came out that he is indeed a scorpio- this very seductive November personified.

Tonight I headed out myself, just in a modest loop- to visit the field, to walk down a private dock suspended above a gentle high tide, to lay in the grass edging the thoroughfare. I brought my cocoa. And my pride. The former keeps a body toasty, but the latter...

I came home to a message on my answering machine- an apologetic uptown man, who thought I might already be in bed, so he said he would write me a note. The written message was alerting me to an event this Sunday, at the selfsame restaurant he had taken me to; crazy people were taking it over and turning it into a speakeasy- dressing up would not be deemed inappropriate. The password would be "swordfish."

All of this is a pretty distraction. In the morning I will need to rub the visions from my eyes, and remember the fact that I need to prepare for a future that will be more akin to a moonless night. All play and no work makes Jill a regretful girl. Kisses and speaking glances put neither money in the bank, nor credentials on the curriculum vitae. Time to pull together my inner Yankee.

Sonata of Society and Solitude

It was not a long weekend- veteran's day falling on a Tuesday this year- but it felt it. Friday night I headed off-island with the smallest of my overnight bags, dressed in clothes of comparative sophistication and wearing mascara. And maybe even the subtlest of eyeshadow. I watched the narrow-bodied young man who receives freight for the store get mauled and cheek-kissed by the arriving store manager, a French woman who takes full advantage of her country's customary greeting. I had the pleasure of watching the slightest slip in the stoicism of his blue eyes. While I was jealous of her for the sake of contact, I am just as happy to not inspire that look of weary acceptance with a hint of misery.

At this point in the evening, I considered my sartorial and grooming labor worth the effort. See narrow boy. See narrow boy see me go uptown on a Friday night. What think you of that, narrow boy? Do you think of that? I doubt it. But given the election, hope is not dead in America.

Of course I was also dressed up because I was going out on what was likely to become a date. Pity the man whose date is pining for the freight boy. He took me to a nice restaurant (candles, prosecco), and a walk along the beach in the unseasonably mild November fog. He took my arm. He has called for a second date, and given his intelligence and humor, and generally winning ways, I will accept and tamp down my ambivalence toward dating and men. I obviously feel more comfortable with absolutely unspoken and unrequited longing. You may call me Nikita Tuzenbach (that was for you Ms. Beauregard).

I went home to one of the one-true-loves of my life, who had traveled up to her parents' place, which is a handy posting house for someone on their way to the boat company. We talked and laughed well into the small hours, then woke a little while later to catch the early morning mailboat back to my island. Upon arrival cleaning commenced, food was made, naps were taken. The latter interlude was broken by the shrill peal of the rotary phone, which I lunged over my friend to grab. It was an invitation to dinner from a couple of young men, which I gladly accepted. Though I had cleaned out and restocked the fridge, my desire to cook was still at a minimum. And the young men in question are attractive personalities.

That evening was also dark and close with fog, but the house we were visiting was cozy and bright with the laughter of seven twenty-somethings. The hospitality was not to be beat: lobster, pasta, Screech... I'd brought along dessert, a cranberry cottage pudding with butter sauce. We played cards, made crass jokes, told stories of bloodshed, pain, poor hospital service, and crazed homeowners. Glances were warm and the mood was expansive.

And Gentle Reader (the one who wasn't there)- when one of the young men indicated I should take a seat on his lap? I did. And asked for a pony and a dutch oven. He has an expressive open gaze that twinkles with or without drink. A soul as wise as he is appealing, he took no liberties, and the light snuggling was nice, though eventually I felt propriety rear its ugly head, and I moved to the floor.

The evening came to a close, my friend and I gave a ride to one of the other single women on the island, recently returned for the winter. She first asked "were we expected to spend the night?" and then attempted to draw out information about recent drama on the island. She got a terse response about looking for zebras.

Sunday dawned with the weight of work on my shoulders, and five hours after I had finished a breakfast of coffee and popovers, I had also finally finished the grade reports for my seven students. Ms. Webster kindly left me to my toil, appearing once in a while to rub my shoulders, or inquire why I had squealed with dismay. Once reports were handed in, I made some hearty hot sandwiches, and having satiated our stomachs, we set off on a walk.

This fall I have often trod the road to the park, stopping just short of it at Moore's Harbor to lay on the grass (ticks be damned), or the shore (sea fleas be smote). Bearing sensory witness to the island's journey from evening to night even as the year moves from autumn to winter swells my heart like nothing else- and the sheer gravity of beauty makes it difficult to contemplate ever leaving: if I can't or won't, my sincere thanks to friends who make the trip and refresh my soul- giving me a break from solitude, while also reminding me of its pleasures. Like a beloved movie shared with a new viewer, my routine benefits from fresh eyes.

Consolation

The very word is like a bandaid, grabbing hold with that percussive "c," wrapping you in the vowels, soothing you with "s" sounds, and then closing neatly on the "n." It is a beautiful word- in my mind right up there with the worthiest of names: "Charity," "Prudence," "Grace," and one of my all time favorites, "Mercy." Obviously it never does to name a girl "Chastity" or "Faith." Statistically speaking, those names invite irony. Chastity and Faith aside, I can well imagine saddling a child with the name "Consolation."

Of course that child's one consolation is that she is entirely hypothetical.

Speaking of Consolation, lets talk about one of my personal betes noirs, the month of November. I was raised to distrust it. No good could come of such a dark, cold, time, when the world as we know it in New England becomes a barren place, bereft of leaves and light. November is the month that devours the depressed, and starts turning the thumbscrews of another winter. Scorpios. Need I say more?

So imagine my surprise when October- October of the golden light and firework foliage!- proved itself as dastardly as any too-beautiful sadist. I am still telling myself it is only this particular October, and that one cannot fault Octobers in general- not like you can November.

And now there is this November, which quickly delivered a balmy election day, one so warm I could play soccer in my tee-shirt. This evening was so mild I could walk about in just my sweater, and as I gazed up at the hazy half-moon it brought to mind the most beautiful night of this past summer.

At this late date, after a disastrous October, is November really going to play the gentleman?
I surely hope so.
It certainly opened with an breath-taking act of promise.

Falling Back

This evening I finally forced myself out of the house to enjoy the dying light of a beautiful day. Too often I feel like I need a purpose, or a destination, if I am to venture out into the wider island. Tonight I quickly made up new book club posters, then repositioned the buttons on my wool coat, and headed out the door to soak in my share of our dwindling solar allotment. A bred-in-the-bone procrastinator and devotee of "magic hour," I tend to leave off fresh air and exercise until the last minute. This tendency has the added benefit that I don't often run into any one. Except for the quiet builder and his gorgeous blonde labradoodle, Molly. They jog during the same liminal time when I am walking.

At any rate, I headed off into the sunset, hitting the major posting places- the town hall, the store. From the ramp of the store I could see Diego and Kaya, the Forest Gump and Jenny of yellow labs running in the road by the post office. On my way back from town I cut up the walkway to the church, it being Sunday and all, and the times being what they are. Another bombshell has hit the community, and it is looking like it is going to be a long, strange, and lonely winter. I have never been inside the church, but every so often I will kneel on the slats before its wide steps, and scatter my thanks, wishes and prayers to the breeze. It is a lovely place, this church, and a balm to the bewildered. It is not fashionable in these times to be a Christian, and I hardly qualify beyond an abiding belief in Grace, but I stumbled my way through the Lord's prayer- twice. If the Catholics get to repeat it over and over as penance, surely a Protestant can run through it a couple of times like it is a new favorite song. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

There is so much in life that can derail a person, a year on the island has shown me that, if ever I had my doubts. By the very fact that I am an outsider, I am generally at a distance from the fault lines that run below the surface- but I feel the rumbling, get the reports, and am sensitive to the aftershocks. The world will set a mind reeling, which is probably why people take to their knees, to catch their balance, to find their breath. Perhaps even just to duck and cover before the next assault.

Did I find what I was looking for, semi-prostrate before the church? I remembered myself- my friends my family; I cast up my confusion and felt a cool and uncharacteristically kind November wind caress my face in return. Well, Virginia? Is there a God?

There is a terrible, beautiful world, and perhaps that is the same thing.

While I was gathering this spiritual wool, the sun winked out behind Kimball's. I certainly have a strong faith that it will show its face tomorrow when we have whipped around to confront another Monday. With that in mind, I got back on my feet, and ambled down the lane to the field, getting quite a start when a deer burst out of the woods behind me, running down toward the main road. This was a deer in flight, and not from me. Coyotes? Poachers? I had just brought my attention back to the leaves and birds that still remain when I heard another ruckus. Swinging my head around, I caught a glimpse of a dainty yellow blur- Kaya; and because he paused to take note of me, I fully registered Diego. Diego is a particular friend of mine (which is to say I adore him, and he likes everyone), so I gently clapped and entreated him to come closer for a good head rub. I could see the conflict written on his open doggy face, but he was not long in making his decision. He loves chasing deer, he loves Kaya. I was lucky that he stopped to acknowledge me.

You can't win them all. I still had the field, the lane, the gloaming. And now, here, a room of my own. The upshot of this walk, with its palindromic emphasis on god and dog? Maybe it is time to visit the Humane Society. I always had a little dream about living on the coast, maybe have a dog to keep me company. Janey is not one for companionable walks. But then, she is not really one for dogs either. Just a thought.

The Object of One's Ambivalence

I am a poor secret keeper to myself. I don't know if it is narcissism, a technique to draw other people out by confiding in them myself, or some combination of the two- but if something is weighing on my mind, no matter how I want to keep it to myself, I inevitably tell someone. And having opened up to one person, it becomes easier to open up to another, and then another...

Imbibing in alcohol, of course, makes it worse. And so last night, All Hallow's Eve, I spilled the beans to the woman who was buying my drinks. This woman happened to be my best girlfriend on the island- who I was not going to confide in, for the sake of keeping certain news out of island circulation. Anyone (i.e. my two readers) who read my recent posts will be aware that I have been lightly bitch-slapped by infatuation. Infatuation is an embarrassing state of mind for the self-possessed woman. I've worked hard for what poise I can lay claim to, and the threat of face-flushing vulnerability does not sit well with me.

Sometimes when you confide in someone you do it to learn what they know. I believe this is a tactic used from kindergarten on up, though usually people get a little more subtle about it as they get older and using an intermediary begins to seem socially retarded. I live on a tiny island. I am beginning to embrace my inner social retard. In the last 24 hours, that developmentally stunted piece of me learned important pieces of intelligence: the jig is up, and though he has not to this point been certain, he has his suspicions that I may be attracted to him. And while he might be flattered, for a multitude of reasons, he might not reciprocate when it comes down to brass tacks.

So now we come to the repression portion of our program. As of tomorrow we will even have an extra hour of dark in the evening, during which to savor the sublime Chekhovian irony of all this misplaced energy.

We are now well into the gale, though I suspect it will subside by the evening. The wind is blowing from the Southwest, the roughest of directions for boats traveling from the mainland; however, our mailboat did come and go this morning, as usual. While I did wake up by five-thirty, I did not make biscotti. Waking has not come easily of late, so I was pleased that I managed to grab my computer and read my preferred liberal news rag- but getting up to make biscotti? Realistically it wasn't going to happen. Instead I had three and a half hours to do laundry, dishes, work on my Halloween costume, and bake oatmeal raisin cookies, which seemed far more reasonable.

It was solidly dark out while I soaped up dishes from the day before and started the first load of wash. I threw on NPR, and got on with a leisurely morning. An early start is always worth the effort, and today I was rewarded, in a fashion. As I sifted together the dry ingredients for the cookies, I realized that I had recently used the last of my cinnamon, and that I had no back up. When I went to the store yesterday, I remembered to stock up on vanilla extract (which was reaching low levels), but I had entirely forgotten about the cinnamon bottle I had emptied for the last batch of cookies, and then placed back on the spice shelf. I am quite self-sufficient you see- I don't need a man or children to put empty containers back on shelves or in the fridge, I can cover that myself.

By the time I had reached the cinnamon stage of the baking process, the sun was up and the world was awash in soft morning light that shifted as the gale tore clouds across the sky. I headed first to my absent neighbor's house, certain I could procure the necessary spice. Much to my shock, her back door was locked. Feeling some righteous indignation, I discounted her house all together; I was not going to put in the effort of untying her front gate so that I could enter her (probably unlocked) front door. I wasn't yet ready to use the phone or face anyone, so I went back to my house, grabbed the key to the school, a coat to throw over my cardigan, and headed down the hill.

I did have to see someone, the teacher, and then minutes later, our ed tech. But I am so accustomed to them, the encounter did little to alter my comfortable mood. I headed back up hill, powdery prize in hand.

Even with this mighty quest for cinnamon, the cookies were all baked and ready to head to the library long before the library was ready for us. Three cheers for waking with one's alarm.

November is nearly upon us

The rain began an hour ago, and the wind will pick up- by eight o'clock it will be a full blown gale. It is a good night to hunker down- I can start my library baking early (first biscotti of the season), finish my Halloween costume, or scheme for a decent girls' night menu for tomorrow. I should definitely burn my trash- that will be island romantic! Perhaps take a bath, which might go some distance toward curing the low-grade headache that has plagued me all day.

Alright- before I can go on, I really need a hot beverage. And some Advil.

Okay. Hot Ovaltine. The Downeast spinster's beverage of choice. Comforting yet thoroughly low maintainence. So shall we now cut to the chase?

Halloween is all about toying with death, the light and the dark, and all of the shadowy greys in between. Normally you just let the skeletons rattle, happy to trivialize the deeply frightening prospect of loss, and of the unknown. This Halloween has been something of an exception here because the remains have a name, and they aren't tidily put away in a closet, a casket, or a crematorium. Somewhere there's the body of a man that we all knew to some extent or another, and some loved, in a variety of ways- again in differing degrees.

For a week the community has been on tenterhooks as the news leaked out that he had decided to make a final journey to the island. The letters and money arrived, alerting the people he had uppermost on his mind; his friends looked and found his kayak, his affects. It stands to reason he followed through. No one knows precisely how, or where, and there is only endless speculation as to why. There was no high-profile search, no organized search at all- and I think that has pressed hardest on the community; left with nothing to do, people have sharpened their tongues, furrowed their brows. I cannot count the times I have heard "there's something weird about all of this." Yes. Death is weird. Death on an island is even weirder. Death on an island with no body? Weirdest. But not the time to whisper and slap your values on the people who are grieving and have the actual details. Of course, bereft of knowledge, I suppose conjecture is the main comfort of those left out.

At any rate, not being able to literally deal with the body has left the imagination free reign to convert this very real tragedy into the stuff of terror. Nightime walks are one of the great attractions the island holds for me, but those have soured, and my mind turns on me, even when I go out in the dark to light the jack-o-lantern, or get in my car. The wind lashes at my hair, and I wonder how the elements are treating him. Was there really an end to it? Was it ugly, or was there the poetry he seemed to have desired? Will he wash up, or will he sink into the earth, and will anyone have to bear the burden of discovering him?

So we approach this Halloween a haunted people, getting on with life, and passing by the passing strange.

Playing House

Whether it was gender normalization or growing up in a comparatively happy domestic environment, I am drawn to the idea of home. There are a million more reasons too, no doubt: fleeting glimpses of Extreme Make-Over: Home Edition, the possibility that Mah-thah is a voo-doo priestess capable of brainwashing even the low-maintenance woman with visions of flowers, food, and pristine order. Or it could even be... age.

Whatever it is, nature or nation, I am suffering from nomadic fustration, the malaise of a late-stage gen X-er with no cash, little savings, and a liberal amount of student loan debt. From dorm, to house-sitting, to rental, my life has a fluid quality that would make the international credit market weep tears of unrestrained envy. At any rate, here I am, wishing I had something to foreclose on! Oh to have a home.

I live in a house, of course. There is a photo of it on the sidebar. Obligingly, the house becomes increasingly more finished and more pleasant with time. The homeowner is an absentee professor- a summer person who uses the house a few weeks a year. I was welcome, indeed encouraged, to stay through his visit last summer, and did manage to survive the deluge of daughters, dogs, and kittens. My main task was to help keep an eye on the kids, keep him company (let him talk at me to his heart's content), do some cooking, advise about kitten care, and pick out the soft goods for the house.
At dinner on the second night, his eight year old asked if he would marry me. He seemed tempted, and over dishes started joining our names out loud.

I spent much of my remaining time very busy away from the house.

And now it is autumn, and I have cut off what prospect I did have that might, at some point, have led to marriage, a home, a partnership. And I proceeded to nestle into this house, rearranging furniture, cleaning the refrigerator, creating a comfortable order. And at long last, I got my cat back from her sitter (the dogs had chased her away).

The peace was glorious. For a week. Possibly less.

The homier the house becomes the more I feel like a little lost echo bouncing off its walls. I restocked the fridge, I regained my interest in cooking, but coming home to the house is so very very quiet. Except for the thoughts- wouldn't it be nice to have someone to cook with? To say or to hear "so how was your day?" Oddest of all, wouldn't it be nice if someone was actually someones, and perhaps if some of those someones were children?

And so it is that I find myself issuing the socially awkward dinner invitations- so I can have someone in my kitchen to talk to while I make dinner; to ask "how was your day"; to pretend this house needs the three bedrooms and three baths. Of course, lest the universe miss the opportunity to provide contrast, my dinner guest is the exact opposite of the professor- he is not worldly, or highly educated; he is younger than I am, as quiet and shy as the professor is chatty and outgoing. I feel the sad desperate one, and I know each situation is as false as the toy appliances I got for Christmas when I was nine.

Tonight, I am back in the middle ground: myself, my cat, my laptop and tea tray, sequestered in my office, the only room conforming to a single woman's scale.

Thermals: Turning up the Heat

Once again, work has forced me off the island. Another bland training, another round of ice breaking games, and another unheated cabin. Happily the schedule allowed me a stop at Reny's, the ultimate in Maine department stores. As the nights grow colder, Reny's becomes a wonderland of winter wear: Carharrt, Colombia, and Woolrich galore- at a discount. Walking into Reny's I was a woman with a goal. Wigwam socks, four pairs for the price of three. Good socks are crucial to any sucessful endeavor to get out of bed. Not only are Wigwams toasty, they are also cushy. Really the ultimate in socks if you aren't in pocket enough for Smart Wools or have wool allergies.

The thing is, you have to walk past clothing to get to the shoe/socks section of the store. This meant passing sweaters, polar fleece, thermal tops, hats, mittens, gloves, scarves... I have a fatal weakess for warm wear. I don't know if it is the Swede in me or what, but I have a hard time passing up thermals. What is it about the waffle weave that makes me feel so very minx-like? Despite promises to myself that I wouldn't indulge, I ended up with a shopping basket (socks being awful fumbly things)- and in that shopping basket two thermal tops, one polar fleece and one pair of mitten-glove combos spontaneously materialized. Damn Colombia and their 2008/2009 winter palette.

After I made it out of the checkout, I high-tailed it to the nearest restroom so that I could don a slate-blue shirt, layering it with a soft black polar fleece pull over. Sigh. Jumping back into Jeep, I was the happiest consumer in the world. I carried on with my day, sitting though a redundant power-point presentation, dropping the bombshell that I am planning to stay on the island for another year, etc... When five o'clock rolled around and I headed out the doors of the institute I stopped at that beacon of civilization: the crosswalk. At this point I was sensuously clad in the thermal, jeans, and a scarf- I had shed the fleece... As I remembered I needed to push a button, I heard a long wolf-whistle from a passing car. That's right. I'm not the only one who thinks thermals are hot- and that, my friends, is why I stay in Maine.