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.