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.