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.

The Coyotes of Twilight

Sends a frission down your spine doesn't it? The calls echoing off the ridges of the island as evening falls; the hush between the howls.

Much more impressive a title than "The Beagle of Moonrise."

Sadly, that was the prosaic truth. From my position at the border of the park and town, it was Domino I heard- the little guy was baying his heart out from the roof of his dog house as the moon rose over the island's spine.

It could have been coyotes.

I had walked away the listlessness, shedding my agitation even as I shed my gloves, then coat, then iPod, then scarf. Caught up in sticks, my hair too came down. I left my skirted wool coat (gloves in the sleeves) on a co-worker's deck, knowing she was off island for the weekend. The iPod I had pocketed, finally acknowledging that the island itself resists canned music. The scarf stayed in my hands, like a magical object in a fairy tale.

And so it was that, unencumbered, I walked by Moore's Harbor, and into the park. My thoughts were running along the same lines they have been for days now- the plausibility of making a life here. Will I be able to find work, will I be accepted, will I be alone? As the North turns its face from the sun, its denizens can't help but look for alternate sources of warmth. I am no exception. This urge goes beyond libido and the extended hours of moonlight. I want to feed someone, I want someone to be waiting. You know. Other than my cat. Funny longings, coming from a woman who just broke off what should have been a promising relationship. I jilt someone for an island, then moan like the moors when I find myself wandering it alone a week later.

Still, the pleasure of my own company is no small thing, when I get to entertain myself here. No longer distracted by distance, or a housemate, or the learning curve of my job, I can finally pick my head up and look around. If a moon rises over the Western Head, and you are the only one on a beach to watch it, doesn't it still shine as bright? Of course, we know there's a small dog who took note, too.

The prose is always cleaner

Blank pages have a long history of terror and oppression. I don't care if it's a sheet of paper, a canvas, a computer screen, or a metaphor for one's future, the tabula rasa is as overwhelming as it is "freeing."

This afternoon I am writing from a new space: I have redistributed the clutter of the second story, and now have my long-dreamed for workspace. My desk is in a corner, under a skylight; the room is small, with sloping ceilings, and wide-planked floor. A series of nightstands provide surface area for my printer, books and binders, so the desk itself can be tidy, can accommodate a tea tray. The room still even holds one guest bed, where my cat has obligingly ensconced herself to encourage me in my toils (oh, my cat- the ultimate putterer).

All is right with the world, so surely, surely I can write.

The weekend, though pleasantly full of quiet company, has left me mentally lethargic and listless, with a low-grade headache. Every little cogitation seems to recoil from the hungry white space of record. It might be lonely, it might not show to advantage, it refuses to be set to words.

Nonetheless, for the sake of having thrown down something:

I took a hike. It was lovely. I found a place to picnic at mid to low tide. The blues can't be described, and now it would appear, my life can't be planned.

Guilty of Crafting

My parents are out for the weekend, which means I am actually required to leave the confines of "town" and go to pretty places. The weather has cooperated wonderfully, and since my dad stole a fuel line clamp from the landlord's Jeep Willy, my car is running again. We headed off to Horseman's Point on the East side of the island, which is a nice little hike through the woods terminating at a popple stone beach with terrific ledges and a monumentally nice view of Mount Desert Island.

Taken out of the extended family context, we are a tiny family, just myself and my parents. As a trio, our conversation sometimes stalls: at restaurants it can be painful, but when outside, it is fine because being quiet together works. Once at the Point, we bounced around like mellow molecules- coming together, fanning apart- one combing for beach glass, one examining rocks, one taking pictures. My particular beach niche is looking for sea glass. Horseman's Point is a poor place to find it- the selection is mainly well-worn shards of green glass that would be measured in fractions of a carat. Earlier on, I had found a lovely arboreal looking piece of dry sponge, and in the glowing light of the October afternoon, it was clear that the most entertaining thing I could do would be to stud the sponge with the sea glass. And then take photos of it.

Yes Gentle Reader, that is what I did with my time. I followed the impulse, without a single thought to how it would look: that it might make me an object of scorn, of ridicule; that my parents might disown me for such an unsavoury predilection. Not only did I fearlessly brush aside potential social ostracism, I also braved the relentless attacks of mosquitoes and deer flies. A woman of vision and determination, that's me...

And now, because of my artistic- let's just say it- valor, my car has a shining dashboard ornament.

At last, it is a proper Volkswagon, with some proper Volksart.

A House Without Curtains

An only child in many respects, I have always excelled at enjoying my own company. The house I live in now was once a year-round residence, a farm house; it has since been a building site and my year-round home. An eccentric mix of construction shabbiness (holes where lights should be, the eternal dearth of outlets, a lawn that screams poor white trash) and summer-house sexy (convection oven, the elements and fixtures for heated towel racks), it is three bedrooms, three baths, and has a wrap-around veranda. The latter is being worked on diligently right now, a fact I can monitor even at the library- each hammer stroke peals across the neighborhood.

So it is a large house, an unfinished house- all sawdust, tools, and extension cords. Since I moved out last September great strides in comfort have been made; more plumbing; some more outlets; the staircase is nearly finished. Eventually, (Alison's and my own efforts leading the way) the tools were even consolidated, and the living spaces actually became livable. Bless his heart, the owner even bought genuine couches, ones that need no slip covers. Father William and I have more or less come to terms with one another, and I do have the run of much of the house.

And oh, how I rattle about in it.

Alison moved out for the summer, and the jury is out on whether she will be back this winter; even if she is, she will be traveling for weeks at a time. The summer was so frenetic, allowed so little space for myself, I had been fantasizing about the solitude afforded by the long dark season of winter. Well, here I am in the autumn, and even with Janey back, the evenings are desperately quiet. Make no mistake, I am not saying I spend the hours in quiet desperation. But the house is so cold, no rugs, no drapes, so little furniture- it makes the prospect of a little human warmth seem an appealing one.

When I awoke yesterday, I started straight away making pizza dough for dinner. And I knew I wanted company, but I am dreadfully bad at asking for it. Making initial invitations is even worse in this little world where so many people make their own idiosyncratic schedules, it is nearly impossible to know what- precisely- someone does with their days, their evenings; what their responsibilities and habits are. Would tonight be a bad time? Are you even free to have dinner? Will you even be on-island? Is it too strange for you to have dinner with me? I decided not to ask. And then one of the builders, eternally curious about what it is I am making, noted that pizza is a social food- how could I possibly dine on it alone?

And so when later speaking to the desired dinner-guest, I gathered up all of my assertiveness, and brought the conversation around to "meeting" sometime. To talk about working together, obviously. Five torturous minutes later I had tossed in a dash of single-chef pathos, and we came to a consensus that yes, that very evening would work.

Consequently, I was not condemned to a Tuesday night pizza party for one. I put on tunes, did dishes, and prepped toppings, giddy as hell that I would have someone new to talk to. In fact I was giddy like a school girl, nerves taut as the skin on a timpani. It didn't help that the guest is renowned for being shy. While I find still-waters types fascinating, I always run up against the terror that conversation will not flow. Somewhere in a past life I must have been a champion oyster shucker- my fetish for opening shut-up shells must have some antecedent.

He arrived with Stella Artois in tow, we made small talk over the advent of the hall closet having both a door and a knob, and then moved into the kitchen to get on with the work of getting to know one another. It is not easy when you find yourself blushing, can barely make eye contact, and babble incoherently about inconsequential things. I was so tightly wound and distracted it took me forty-five minutes to put pre-prepped toppings on two pizzas. To my credit, I did not burn them.

And so the hours of the evening unfolded, kitchen to living room, back to kitchen. The conversation ebbed and flowed, and we made it through the silences that said "oh god what else can we possibly have to talk about?" And all the time, I wondered- did anyone see him arrive? The people who overheard us making plans- what must they think? Will he mention this to anyone? Everyone can see I have my porch light on... What must he think, that I invited him over for dinner, just him? And now, now I am single, something I recklessly confessed to him in the third quarter?

And it was just beer, and pizza, and ice cream. With a nice blue-eyed guy, alone and awkward together in my cavernous glass house. Belatedly I realize, given the lack of alternative options, probably those are the ingredients that constitute an island date.

Awake to Bake

Sigh. The house is chilly, the world outside seems a wash of india ink, and though it is fifty five minutes after my alarm went off, I am still hunkered down in bed (though propped upright!)- listening to NPR, and Janey's purr. In four minutes I will gather my courage around me- and more to the point, the polar fleece blanket- and make my way down stairs to start baking.

Today is the first day we'll be holding "winter" library hours. That is to say that while we are now only open three hours a week, we will be offering tea, coffee, and baked goods. Access to the library is not really as limited as our hours would make it seem, since most year-rounders have a key. Wednesday is just a chance for people to request inter-library loan books, see one another, and talk over food.

Pardon me, while I keep my pledge to myself about getting out of bed... I should keep my wool socks handy under my pillow. I should also finally bring my broken-down shearling slippers back to LL Bean for a fresh pair. But Freeport is so far away. And I am lucky if I remember to bring my car keys and wallet off the island...

-an hour later-

For my inaugeral baking I made a recipe that is new to me, for cheesy herb muffins- basically cheddar with chives and rosemary. The muffins are in the oven now, or at least three-quarters of a batch. Shockingly, I am not equipped with muffin tins. I borrowed eighteen muffins worth of tin from my neighbor, Marion, and while I was there got the opportunity to look out her newly installed window, which give a wonderful view of the autumnal ruins of her vegetable plot, her fence, and my house. There's even a handy new deck in front of the windows, should I want to press my nose against the glass, or stage a tersely-blocked Midsummer Night's Dream... Besides her veggies, she does have some lovely ornamental landscaping.

The news keeps me in good company on these early mornings, though I can't listen and write at the same time. The economic news is, of course, as dark as the hour of my listening. While the wider implications of the crisis will obviously shape my financial health to some extent, it is, I think, easier to take everything in stride when one never had money to invest in the first place. With a tendency to work in poorer paying (yet noble!) jobs, I never had 401k options. I have invested in a really staid life insurance policy, and as of last March (facing the ripe age of 28) I finally started stashing the responsible 10% into savings, at an interest rate that makes it better than a mattress.
I hope!

Say it like you mean it...

Ah, yes, let me actually enter a body of text before I publish this post...

My fingers were numb, forgive me. This icebox is so cold and so sweet.

What was I writing? Oh yes. I was going to count my blessings.

1st. My compost boots. Pink Isaac Mizrahi Wellingtons. From Mardens. I don't think he necessarily designed them to be the go-to boots for fearless wading through snake and tick infested grass, but that's what I like 'em for. They make taking out the compost and the kitty litter a much less terrifying prospect. So a tip of the cap to you, sir.

2nd. My cap. Thank you anonymous Chinese laborers who worked on this Icelandic design, so that an American could buy it at a bon marche price. It is windy today. And it's going to get warmer. Still. You know, the world hasn't had a lot of time to do that daily warming up thing here yet. Again, chores made easier.

3rd. Cat and food? Cat- purely decorative. Well, there's a touch of the familiar- affectionate on her own terms. Otherwise, pretty pissy. Food? Handy for the survival thing; potential for tastiness; gives me something to do. One soils the cedar litter, the other inevitably creates some compost. Which you know, makes me all grateful for my boots and hats. It's a good system.

It's dark...

And today, for the first time in a while, I succeeded at waking well before six a.m. This particular Monday marks the real end of summer: I have had to be off-island for weeks at a time in the past month, first for the Institute, then for my own vacation (one I took begrudgingly- nice to have time off of work, not so pleased to go off-island). Now it is back to a sane, and hopefully, a writer-ly schedule. It does help that I have my cat back, since she is excellent at reinforcing my alarm clock: I actually have to set my poor bare feet on the cold floor in order to placate her with about 23 tiny Purina pellets. Her sitter had her on half-rations, and beast does seem to have lost weight; when we climbed on the scale last night, she was at a comparatively svelt 13 pounds. Nevermind that I have serious doubts about the accuracy of said scale. It flatters. It may turn my head and to hell with my health...

But yes, I hit snooze once, to allow for some drowsy moments to reflect on the night's battery of dreams- in the past couple of nights, I have hit the dreamer's jackpot: previously in REM, Stephen Colbert showed up, and cut a caper (he is even cuter in person- like a button that man!!!); and last night Hugh Laurie showed up (now literally the man of my dreams). Yep. A kinder, gentler, single-dad version of House. Still kind of a cranky doctor, but you know, actually emotionally available. Given that I was waking from this sort of mushy fan-dom, it is clearly even more impressive that I put my little feet on the floor no later than 5:10 in the morning. My wholesome behavior paid off.

By 5:30 I was back in bed, with breakfast, coffee, and computer.

You see, I have match-made.
I am not proud.
But I am achingly curious.

The third date was last night, and due to Eastern/Pacific time differences and my resolve to wake at a most respectable hour, I went to bed before the results were in. I opened gmail, and the much anticipated email was there, in bold before me. It was three, no... four lines:

"Nooo! Damn you, with the going to bed!

Anyway, regards back to your cat, and omg, yay for capering Colbert. Best dream ever.

Be brave with the writing -- remember how easy it was when we were doing it daily? 'Sides, I have to know what happens!

So, E--- and I went to the pier, but also to the tar pits. Oozing sludge! Mastodon skeletons! Obviously, all very hot..."

Beyond illustrating (omg) that linguistic standards are sliding dreadfully in the electronic age, even amidst English teachers, it was not a terrifically illuminating account. I was righteously outraged, and started to shoot back an indignant response: "Seriously? Seriously." (Yes, the new Season of Grey's Anatomy has started, no I haven't yet managed to watch it...)...

But then, in the periphery, I saw I was not alone on my contact list- there was one other green island of availablity at that early hour. Or in her case, that late hour: Ms. Beauregard herself. Twenty-four minutes into our chat (a totally made up figure, btw), I did send the succinct two-word response email, just for ephemeral posterity. She was up very late working on a research proposal: I was up early to putter. There is nothing more delightful than being a putterer, and puttering is even more delicious when one putters about distracting people who should be feverishly productive. Someday I hope to putter professionally. Which is to say I should like to be an essayist. Or in these lax times, a blogger?

Would you like to read about the relative hotness of the tar pits in L.A.? I bet you would. So I will tap out a few words:

string theory
giggles

And that's all you get. Never mind that the one reader left to this blog is in fact the inamorata of the tale, and already knows all the details better than I.

In other news, let me recap last week- my material adventures in the big city of Portland:

two light-weight scarves
one set of stackable rings (two of peridot, one of pearl), yearned for since April
one skirt (sensibly long and olive)
sundry unmentionables- perfectly utilitarian
three black tops cut to flatter
one gauzy, striped silver shirt, completely frivolous and urban in style, but oh so affordable
one "career jacket" which assumes one's career requires a youthful cut and cap sleeves- goes well over the aforementioned frivolous silver shirt...
one shirt with genuine color- colors even! With the same flattering cut as the others...
one narrow brimmed fedora, in suitably muted tones; my white one was inexcusable after Labor Day.
one tube face wash
one tube charcoal clarifying mask
one tub ginger float bubble bath
one book combining two stories of gothic New England suspense/horror

It was a perfect orgy of spending, I admit. In my defense, I was stocking up on pretties for a long winter, and I was preparing to re-enter spinsterhood, two years older, and two years wiser.