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.