Yesterday in the store I was accused of "not being around much." The day before that, someone had commented "so you're back for a couple of days?"
Harsh words indeed!
But fair, entirely fair. I have gone to ground here, in a period of intense transition. New job, new housemates, new cats, new relationship, new role in the community. No longer am I a Fellow, with defined projects and the understanding that I show at every public event. Now I am just a resident. Now I have to choose the projects and make the meaning of my life.
So I have been around. Quite literally, I have been around the island's loop of a roads multiple times, making my way on a thick-wheeled scooter. I have wandered in the woods, have holed up in my house. But no. I have not been as visible as once I was. Less walking to the post office and store, on view to the other islanders. Library hours are still held on the accustomed Wednesdays, but I work off-island those days. In fact, probably people mostly see me at the town landing, getting on or off the mailboat. Always in transit.
The community I spend the most time with now is my family, when I am off-island on overnights due to my work schedule. And even then, I am a little vacant.
This October, I have been off-kilter. Not particularly present. Here it is the 18th, and this is the first post I have written, indeed the first thing I have written (beyond email) for ages. Guiltily, I must confess my absence more or less coincides with Dave's. I made it through two years here with no best friend, but now that I have one and he is away, I've gone dormant. Not that life is without its little solaces, but oh, I seem to miss my crankiest crony. Nothing seems profitable when I can't twist it about in words to make him laugh. Likewise, what day is a good one when I can't walk up to him with my customary demand "tell me stories!"
To this sorry state of affairs, I say humbug. All you people out there who eat swordfish had better REALLY enjoy it.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Subconscience
Oh, dreams. I often remember them, much to the detriment of people who breakfast with me. Because I also have to talk about them. Vivid dreams often come in waves, and I am currently caught up in such a surge.
I seldom dream about men I am involved with, but Dave has done his share of turning up, both in person and by proxy. The circumstances of involvement with him are typically strange and complex- this is, after all, a relationship on Isle au Haut. He is still married, though (as it were) only by a legal thread; he doesn't have the money to buy his wife out of their house, and as it stands now they have functioned as housemates for the last three years; they've a daughter, my former student, who has now begun her first year of high school, boarding in New Hampshire.
One does not grow up with the expectation of dating a married man. At least I didn't. Sure, my grandmother might have set the pattern, but it wasn't one I expected to follow. As Dave and I got to know each other over the summer- first because our cafe schedules were similar (later I learned that maybe he attended first thing in the morning in hopes of seeing me), and then because I began working with him on his boat- the island grapevine was a live wire. Getting to know someone under the small town microscope was desperately uncomfortable, and even more delicate an operation because of his daughter's presence. Abigail, amazing girl that she is (very much her father's daughter), took it in stride. When they first discussed the relationship Abigail was a bit shocked by the age difference: "But Dad- Morgan's only 29!" Which was followed by "But I really like Morgan." It was at Abigail's request that she, Dave, and I went out hauling together, and after that day she decided "I really like you and Morgan together." The community seems to agree, and people will comment to me about how good Dave now looks, what with being happy. His wife also told him that living with him is a lot easier. When she went off for a weekend with her boyfriend she left us a lobster galette- with strict instructions that Dave was not to take credit for making it.
So as extramarital affairs go, this one's about as moral as it gets.
Yet.
The night before last, I dream that I was having an affair with the happily married boat captain, who has a two-year old daughter. Do I want to have an affair with Garrett? No. And in my dream I kept thinking, "Hold the phone, I am not interloping on a happy marriage! Something's not right here. This is the wrong married man... I could have sworn things were kind of kosher. Shit- is this my life?"
And I woke up. It was not my life. Exactly.
It seems my subconscious is a moral absolutist when it comes to conscience, even if I am living by the standards of island relativity.
It also tends to nettle me about other character flaws. Flaws, Morgan? Not you! Okay, tendencies that others might deem "worth working on."
So Dave's leaving to go swordfishing, right? In another dream I am back at Grinnell, out in the loggia, which is crowded with people. Dave comes up to say goodbye to me, and I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and send him on his way, because One Ought Not Be Emotional in Public. He leaves, and I immediately miss him, and want to give chase to say a better goodbye. Suddenly, however, I am nekked. So it is either go back to my dorm room, get proper clothes and possibly not be able to catch him up, or run through the crowd heedless of my state of undress. In classic Morgan fashion, I just dithered, torn between the two until I woke up. Oh dear- afraid of vulnerability I let the moment slip away! Such emotional cowardice!
Dear dream factory, please stop with the obvious constructive criticism and symbols. It's lame. I know that I've been spending my days working with high school freshmen who are reading The Outsiders, and that the analysis is pretty basic, but come on. Nudity? A little subtlety, please. And perhaps fabricate a dream that is not a lesson in strict adherence to the Commandments, whether set forth by Moses or Oprah.
I seldom dream about men I am involved with, but Dave has done his share of turning up, both in person and by proxy. The circumstances of involvement with him are typically strange and complex- this is, after all, a relationship on Isle au Haut. He is still married, though (as it were) only by a legal thread; he doesn't have the money to buy his wife out of their house, and as it stands now they have functioned as housemates for the last three years; they've a daughter, my former student, who has now begun her first year of high school, boarding in New Hampshire.
One does not grow up with the expectation of dating a married man. At least I didn't. Sure, my grandmother might have set the pattern, but it wasn't one I expected to follow. As Dave and I got to know each other over the summer- first because our cafe schedules were similar (later I learned that maybe he attended first thing in the morning in hopes of seeing me), and then because I began working with him on his boat- the island grapevine was a live wire. Getting to know someone under the small town microscope was desperately uncomfortable, and even more delicate an operation because of his daughter's presence. Abigail, amazing girl that she is (very much her father's daughter), took it in stride. When they first discussed the relationship Abigail was a bit shocked by the age difference: "But Dad- Morgan's only 29!" Which was followed by "But I really like Morgan." It was at Abigail's request that she, Dave, and I went out hauling together, and after that day she decided "I really like you and Morgan together." The community seems to agree, and people will comment to me about how good Dave now looks, what with being happy. His wife also told him that living with him is a lot easier. When she went off for a weekend with her boyfriend she left us a lobster galette- with strict instructions that Dave was not to take credit for making it.
So as extramarital affairs go, this one's about as moral as it gets.
Yet.
The night before last, I dream that I was having an affair with the happily married boat captain, who has a two-year old daughter. Do I want to have an affair with Garrett? No. And in my dream I kept thinking, "Hold the phone, I am not interloping on a happy marriage! Something's not right here. This is the wrong married man... I could have sworn things were kind of kosher. Shit- is this my life?"
And I woke up. It was not my life. Exactly.
It seems my subconscious is a moral absolutist when it comes to conscience, even if I am living by the standards of island relativity.
It also tends to nettle me about other character flaws. Flaws, Morgan? Not you! Okay, tendencies that others might deem "worth working on."
So Dave's leaving to go swordfishing, right? In another dream I am back at Grinnell, out in the loggia, which is crowded with people. Dave comes up to say goodbye to me, and I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and send him on his way, because One Ought Not Be Emotional in Public. He leaves, and I immediately miss him, and want to give chase to say a better goodbye. Suddenly, however, I am nekked. So it is either go back to my dorm room, get proper clothes and possibly not be able to catch him up, or run through the crowd heedless of my state of undress. In classic Morgan fashion, I just dithered, torn between the two until I woke up. Oh dear- afraid of vulnerability I let the moment slip away! Such emotional cowardice!
Dear dream factory, please stop with the obvious constructive criticism and symbols. It's lame. I know that I've been spending my days working with high school freshmen who are reading The Outsiders, and that the analysis is pretty basic, but come on. Nudity? A little subtlety, please. And perhaps fabricate a dream that is not a lesson in strict adherence to the Commandments, whether set forth by Moses or Oprah.
Friday, September 18, 2009
To Ride a Mailboat
So here we are. A year after I started writing in earnest, a Friday in mid-September.
Today has gone overcast, cold, raw. I am in thermals, in the cafe. The latter emptied out shortly after I arrived, and now I am being left to my own devices so that Alison and Kate can catch up on dishes. I have my hot cocoa, my computer, and am seldom demanding. Dave is the vocal, sassy one, and he is away.
I myself have been off-island for what seems like ages- four days. In those four days, a barge with a massive crane has moved in and set up shop to build a new town landing and tear down the old. Another week of school has passed. Store hours have changed, though only slightly- it is now closed Sundays, which is a much kinder measure than I expected. I had heard rumors they were immediately making the draconian cutback to winter hours- Wednesdays and Saturdays, from 2:30-4:30. The Dark's dad is preparing to float a house from a nearby island to this one. He is also going to haul the salvageable bits of the burnt house to his property. He collects houses you see, the way some of us collect teacups, or ships in bottles.
I got much of this news on the mailboat- we don't have a newspaper, primarily because we have mailboat captains. In Stonington, the dock was thickly dotted with tourists, or variations on the theme. Using my last cellular gasps before AT&T's coverage died, I told Dave of my hope that I was loved enough to be allowed to board ahead of the herd. If only, I moaned, love was measured in days per year spent on the island. Hands down, I would be the most well-loved person on the landing. My call was then interrupted by the woman who does the directing of the traffic- lo and behold, she was having me board first. It was a courtesy to the person who knows the ropes and wants minimal contact with unbridled enthusiasm, confusion, and cameras.
When the boat is scantly filled in the autumn or early spring, when the tourist traffic is thin, I often fall into conversation with people coming out to visit. When they gather that I live on the island year-round, they get a hopeful light in their eyes, and the questions begin. Generally, I am happy to answer. For all that Mainers are depicted as taciturn to the point of rigor mortis, it's kinda nice to play welcome wagon. To pay attention because it hasn't been demanded. I talk about the demographics, about how we pass the winters, I point out the landmarks of town such as they are, and tell them about how I landed here. I talk about hiking trails, and discuss the merits of Black Dinah chocolates; I tell people the store hours. Telling the story of life here passes the time nicely, though on occasion I feel a bit like a monkey at a zoo, or one of the Inuit on display at the world's fair back in the day: behold an "exotic!" Oh well, by and large it is a fun role to play. If I didn't love talking about life here, I wouldn't be writing this.
Today I spent the ride sitting on the threshold of port-side door, next to the wheel, away from the Madding crowd. This mid-day run was on the Mink, the boat company's plain Jane winter/freight boat: the Mink is a far cry from the cold, sleek Miss Lizzie- she of the showy bow and roof seating, tailored to summer numbers and tastes.
In close quarters with the wheel, I caught up with Garrett as he steered. He'd just had his two days off and was intrigued by what island goings-on had gone on while he was gone. Still, he had newer info than I. He told me about the plan to float the house, we made note of the excavator out on that small island as we went by; I told him about my cousin's engagement. We discussed the process of razing and building the new town landing. Becky, the deckhand, offered me the last mini-whoopee pie from a batch she'd secured from my neighbor.
It is always a pleasure, whether the boat is packed or empty. Whoopee pies or no. Life here is such a mix of Springfield (goodbye, Guiding Light!) and Mayberry, there's bound to be something to chew over. And when I am not in the mood to talk, there is always the scenery. Even if the scenery consists of fog meeting the water three yards off the boat.
Today has gone overcast, cold, raw. I am in thermals, in the cafe. The latter emptied out shortly after I arrived, and now I am being left to my own devices so that Alison and Kate can catch up on dishes. I have my hot cocoa, my computer, and am seldom demanding. Dave is the vocal, sassy one, and he is away.
I myself have been off-island for what seems like ages- four days. In those four days, a barge with a massive crane has moved in and set up shop to build a new town landing and tear down the old. Another week of school has passed. Store hours have changed, though only slightly- it is now closed Sundays, which is a much kinder measure than I expected. I had heard rumors they were immediately making the draconian cutback to winter hours- Wednesdays and Saturdays, from 2:30-4:30. The Dark's dad is preparing to float a house from a nearby island to this one. He is also going to haul the salvageable bits of the burnt house to his property. He collects houses you see, the way some of us collect teacups, or ships in bottles.
I got much of this news on the mailboat- we don't have a newspaper, primarily because we have mailboat captains. In Stonington, the dock was thickly dotted with tourists, or variations on the theme. Using my last cellular gasps before AT&T's coverage died, I told Dave of my hope that I was loved enough to be allowed to board ahead of the herd. If only, I moaned, love was measured in days per year spent on the island. Hands down, I would be the most well-loved person on the landing. My call was then interrupted by the woman who does the directing of the traffic- lo and behold, she was having me board first. It was a courtesy to the person who knows the ropes and wants minimal contact with unbridled enthusiasm, confusion, and cameras.
When the boat is scantly filled in the autumn or early spring, when the tourist traffic is thin, I often fall into conversation with people coming out to visit. When they gather that I live on the island year-round, they get a hopeful light in their eyes, and the questions begin. Generally, I am happy to answer. For all that Mainers are depicted as taciturn to the point of rigor mortis, it's kinda nice to play welcome wagon. To pay attention because it hasn't been demanded. I talk about the demographics, about how we pass the winters, I point out the landmarks of town such as they are, and tell them about how I landed here. I talk about hiking trails, and discuss the merits of Black Dinah chocolates; I tell people the store hours. Telling the story of life here passes the time nicely, though on occasion I feel a bit like a monkey at a zoo, or one of the Inuit on display at the world's fair back in the day: behold an "exotic!" Oh well, by and large it is a fun role to play. If I didn't love talking about life here, I wouldn't be writing this.
Today I spent the ride sitting on the threshold of port-side door, next to the wheel, away from the Madding crowd. This mid-day run was on the Mink, the boat company's plain Jane winter/freight boat: the Mink is a far cry from the cold, sleek Miss Lizzie- she of the showy bow and roof seating, tailored to summer numbers and tastes.
In close quarters with the wheel, I caught up with Garrett as he steered. He'd just had his two days off and was intrigued by what island goings-on had gone on while he was gone. Still, he had newer info than I. He told me about the plan to float the house, we made note of the excavator out on that small island as we went by; I told him about my cousin's engagement. We discussed the process of razing and building the new town landing. Becky, the deckhand, offered me the last mini-whoopee pie from a batch she'd secured from my neighbor.
It is always a pleasure, whether the boat is packed or empty. Whoopee pies or no. Life here is such a mix of Springfield (goodbye, Guiding Light!) and Mayberry, there's bound to be something to chew over. And when I am not in the mood to talk, there is always the scenery. Even if the scenery consists of fog meeting the water three yards off the boat.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Coffee and Cats
Woke early this morning, to Facebook "have a nice trip" (Dave and Debra are taking Abigail off to school) and to go check on the library. Miraculously, the plaster is still holding- though who knows for how long. Let the boys, Pepe and Vaca, out of the master bedroom suite so they could have the run of the house. I keep them separate from Janey during feeding times and at night; the past couple of nights I slept with them, both lined up long and warm against my side. Last night I slept in the front bedroom, with Janey who I cajoled to come upstairs with food. Once she saw me all tucked up in bed with 5,000 pillows, she condescended to curl up on my hip while I read.
Domestic relations of the feline variety have been...difficult. It is safe to say that my living room is now a conflict zone- I have a couch that growls low in its throat, and occasionally emits a fluffy grey cat with a scream like a panther. If I didn't occasionally shut the boys off in the master bedroom, I fear Janey would never come out of hiding. Vaca more or less keeps his distance, but Pepe is fascinated by the beast under the couch, and just cannot resist her. As soon as the boys have free range, he cautiously makes his way to the living room and approaches the couch. The couch rumbles, a storm brewing low to the ground. Eventually he gets within range and she lashes out. And there are prolonged periods of yowling, she provides the low notes, he the high, and once in a while they meet in furious harmony. Neither will physically confront the other, so after much verbiage, they have no alternative but to walk away: she retreats back to the shadows of the sofa, he to go jump up on a high surface from which he can knock something.
After a few days, these interactions have taken on the tenor of a turbulent courtship. This morning, as I drank my coffee and read a gothic novel (Elisabeth Ogilvie's Bellwood), I watched him approach the couch. To my surprise, just over the arm of the couch, I could see a pair of shapely grey ears. Janey had in fact stayed in repose on the couch, rather than scurrying under when she heard the warning bells on the boys' collars. Pepe slowly, soooo slowly, made his way up to the arm, making no sudden moves. I waited for the uproar.
Pepe placed one paw on the arm, and keeping his head low, peered over.
No growl.
Both front paws up on the arm, he waited.
Shifted his weight, moved one hind leg up in slow motion.
Found purchase. Paused. Pulled up the fourth leg.
No response.
He had gained a foothold. The high ground even. But he kept his head down.
He was within 18" of her. And they sat. It was at least a full two minutes before she turned to him to register her displeasure. There was no yelling this time, only strong words, and eventually she told him to bugger off, and went under the couch: he retreated back through the kitchen, gave me a look that said "women!" and went upstairs.
And so it goes. A day ago, I despaired of them ever reaching any sort of peace, but at last, here's a little hope. Pepe is the unsinkable sort, persistent and absolutely genial, the picture of complete confidence. She will not be able to beat him, so I suspect eventually she will at least tolerate him.
Domestic relations of the feline variety have been...difficult. It is safe to say that my living room is now a conflict zone- I have a couch that growls low in its throat, and occasionally emits a fluffy grey cat with a scream like a panther. If I didn't occasionally shut the boys off in the master bedroom, I fear Janey would never come out of hiding. Vaca more or less keeps his distance, but Pepe is fascinated by the beast under the couch, and just cannot resist her. As soon as the boys have free range, he cautiously makes his way to the living room and approaches the couch. The couch rumbles, a storm brewing low to the ground. Eventually he gets within range and she lashes out. And there are prolonged periods of yowling, she provides the low notes, he the high, and once in a while they meet in furious harmony. Neither will physically confront the other, so after much verbiage, they have no alternative but to walk away: she retreats back to the shadows of the sofa, he to go jump up on a high surface from which he can knock something.
After a few days, these interactions have taken on the tenor of a turbulent courtship. This morning, as I drank my coffee and read a gothic novel (Elisabeth Ogilvie's Bellwood), I watched him approach the couch. To my surprise, just over the arm of the couch, I could see a pair of shapely grey ears. Janey had in fact stayed in repose on the couch, rather than scurrying under when she heard the warning bells on the boys' collars. Pepe slowly, soooo slowly, made his way up to the arm, making no sudden moves. I waited for the uproar.
Pepe placed one paw on the arm, and keeping his head low, peered over.
No growl.
Both front paws up on the arm, he waited.
Shifted his weight, moved one hind leg up in slow motion.
Found purchase. Paused. Pulled up the fourth leg.
No response.
He had gained a foothold. The high ground even. But he kept his head down.
He was within 18" of her. And they sat. It was at least a full two minutes before she turned to him to register her displeasure. There was no yelling this time, only strong words, and eventually she told him to bugger off, and went under the couch: he retreated back through the kitchen, gave me a look that said "women!" and went upstairs.
And so it goes. A day ago, I despaired of them ever reaching any sort of peace, but at last, here's a little hope. Pepe is the unsinkable sort, persistent and absolutely genial, the picture of complete confidence. She will not be able to beat him, so I suspect eventually she will at least tolerate him.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
A Million Words for Melancholy
It might as well be winter. Or hard on the heels of winter, anyway. Just got in from a wild drenching hike to Trial Point, not unlike the one back on that day last November- the Walk to the Whale. I am lucky it is not colder than it is, or I would have had to have come back sooner: if not sooner, sicker. Hypothermia and I have a long standing flirtation.
Tonight however, I come home to an empty evening. Well, not entirely empty. There are the three cats. There's the chore of checking the drip buckets in the library, and emptying them, and seeing how much of the ceiling is coming down. I need to feed myself, and get warm. 8:19 in the evening and it feels like 11 o'clock. It's the dark you see, the long looked for dark, that is closing in. Which was why it was good to finally get outside again- walking. Have spent a lot of time on a boat of late, sterning; yet as much as I truly love being on the water, it doesn't exorcise my soul the same way as thousands of ravenous strides through the tangle of woods and across the strand.
Trial Point was a clusterfuck of traps from Hurricane Bill. Found one of Dave's buoys still attached to a trap, got it untangled from the rocks and another man's warp, then dragged it inland, out of reach of Tropical Depression Danny. Found the other trap in the pair well away from its mate: after parting it, the storm surge had thrown it well beyond the tree line, into the grass. Both traps were miserably mangled- but not the worst I'd seen along the way.
Walking, I'd plenty of time to chew over life of late. Am in a period of intense transition, from job to job; from Fellow to plain ol' resident; from friend to love, of sorts. I have become a person of interest now that Dave parks his truck in my driveway- and living in town, there is no escaping the eyes outside the fishbowl. The companionship has been nice (I prefer emotional understatement, you know), though the strings attached are substantial. When settled warm in his arms, there's the comforting knowledge that he is fully glad to have me there. He has other things to attend to, and the timer is always going, but he is not itching to be gone. Unfortunately, gone is what he will often be. So it goes...
It occurred to me in conversation with him today, how lax my vocabulary is in terms of mechanical jargon. Bumper, fender? There's a difference, I am sure- since Dave shook his head at me- though off the top of my head, I don't know what it is. I'm slowly picking up on more lobstering lingo, though it's like a foreign language, and I can only yet make out a few words, here and there. But as I walk, I compose, and on this page I am as confident as these men are on the water. The mechanics of the automobile, the boat, the winch? No. My verbiage is vague on those accounts. The feeling of a storm, the kind that can wear you out at your core, make you want to cry with the clouds? I can occasionally get a hook into that.
Tonight however, I come home to an empty evening. Well, not entirely empty. There are the three cats. There's the chore of checking the drip buckets in the library, and emptying them, and seeing how much of the ceiling is coming down. I need to feed myself, and get warm. 8:19 in the evening and it feels like 11 o'clock. It's the dark you see, the long looked for dark, that is closing in. Which was why it was good to finally get outside again- walking. Have spent a lot of time on a boat of late, sterning; yet as much as I truly love being on the water, it doesn't exorcise my soul the same way as thousands of ravenous strides through the tangle of woods and across the strand.
Trial Point was a clusterfuck of traps from Hurricane Bill. Found one of Dave's buoys still attached to a trap, got it untangled from the rocks and another man's warp, then dragged it inland, out of reach of Tropical Depression Danny. Found the other trap in the pair well away from its mate: after parting it, the storm surge had thrown it well beyond the tree line, into the grass. Both traps were miserably mangled- but not the worst I'd seen along the way.
Walking, I'd plenty of time to chew over life of late. Am in a period of intense transition, from job to job; from Fellow to plain ol' resident; from friend to love, of sorts. I have become a person of interest now that Dave parks his truck in my driveway- and living in town, there is no escaping the eyes outside the fishbowl. The companionship has been nice (I prefer emotional understatement, you know), though the strings attached are substantial. When settled warm in his arms, there's the comforting knowledge that he is fully glad to have me there. He has other things to attend to, and the timer is always going, but he is not itching to be gone. Unfortunately, gone is what he will often be. So it goes...
It occurred to me in conversation with him today, how lax my vocabulary is in terms of mechanical jargon. Bumper, fender? There's a difference, I am sure- since Dave shook his head at me- though off the top of my head, I don't know what it is. I'm slowly picking up on more lobstering lingo, though it's like a foreign language, and I can only yet make out a few words, here and there. But as I walk, I compose, and on this page I am as confident as these men are on the water. The mechanics of the automobile, the boat, the winch? No. My verbiage is vague on those accounts. The feeling of a storm, the kind that can wear you out at your core, make you want to cry with the clouds? I can occasionally get a hook into that.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Neither-Nor Nights
This is the first evening I have spent alone in the house in what seems like forever. I love solitude, but I forget the shock of it. It feels once again like last fall, when I no longer had to keep running off-island for Institute-related events, etc... I'd also taken a week of vacation off- in part to go to a friend's wedding, and in part to break up with Prasanth- I came back a free woman and relieved, but for a while my evenings seemed empty. The feelings left- I ended up doing a lot of walking and writing- nonetheless, tonight there's hint of that listlessness. The barking dog and the owl agree.
I should have wandered it out of my system before dark, but instead I finished a book, one with an abrupt ending, which did nothing but make the evening odder. Now I need to choose: move on to another book to pass the time, clean, or venture out. How very odd it is to crave society. Especially after all the time I have spent with people in the last two months. Normally on nights like these when I am all unsettled, I like to go out and just see that someone is being social- summer is good for that, with all the houses ablaze with light and loud with voices.
I should be writing to a purpose, but I feel unfocused. Awful Neither-Nor Nights- when nothing seems quite satisfactory.
Oh well, I will find some sort of escapism until I can reasonably go to bed, so to wake at an early hour, caffienate, and take on the day.
I should have wandered it out of my system before dark, but instead I finished a book, one with an abrupt ending, which did nothing but make the evening odder. Now I need to choose: move on to another book to pass the time, clean, or venture out. How very odd it is to crave society. Especially after all the time I have spent with people in the last two months. Normally on nights like these when I am all unsettled, I like to go out and just see that someone is being social- summer is good for that, with all the houses ablaze with light and loud with voices.
I should be writing to a purpose, but I feel unfocused. Awful Neither-Nor Nights- when nothing seems quite satisfactory.
Oh well, I will find some sort of escapism until I can reasonably go to bed, so to wake at an early hour, caffienate, and take on the day.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Knowing Perfect When You Have It.
I had a perfect weekend. And I knew it at the time.
Best friends, beautiful weather, long hikes, tooling around in the '28 Model A, cafe time, good food and drink, naps, girl talk, movie night.
Picnics: one wooded, one at the beach. Lobster and champagne on the porch at sunset.
It was summer distilled into the purest 54 hours I am likely to see in '09. I am open to having even better times, I am simply saying that this- this was a large dose of divinity for which I am unfailingly grateful. When I look back on my summer, I will be able to say "hot damn, I got a chance to thoroughly enjoy it, in the moment."
I may have got a sunburn on my knees, but this just means I won't have to rouge 'em when I roll my stockings down.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Well, Sweet Jesus, What's the Fourth Without A Little Red?
Continuing tales of harrowing Island life:
The Fourth of July just isn't my bag. And after the fire, I wasn't really feeling pip pip and full of patriotic pep. I've got a guilt hangover, seeing as I am partially responsible for the tank truck not being full (refilling it had been assigned to me and Marshall). Yes, the fire department salvaged more of the house than expected, but even more could have been saved if we'd had high flow from the get-go.
I'm also an introvert in a state of recovery; it'd been over two weeks of living with an intense extrovert and a crew of workers knocking about the house, as well as the influx of summer people on the island. Like Garbo, I just vanted to be alone.
I did perch myself on the new railings of the porch, coffee in hand, to watch the parade go by. It took approximately five minutes. Brevity is the soul of wit.
I spent the rest of the day puttering and greedily grasping at the sunshine: I did laundry so I could finally use my new laundry line (old school spinning square variety, so you can hide your dainties on the inner lines, and cloak them with less personal articles on the outer lines); I also hoped to dry out my mouldering soul by sunbathing; I made pies. All along, I was dreading the fact I would have to go out to party simply to keep up appearances.
At long last, it was time to head out, the pies had cooled and I could no longer put off my social obligations. I called for a ride, and the guy who arrived to escort me was one I had not seen since the summer before, when he had stumbled drunkenly into my darkened house, up my stairs, and into my room, because he wanted to continue the evening's conversation. On the brief drive over, he noted that one of the things I'd said to him last summer stuck- "you know, you could choose to be awesome." Two months ago he decided to stop drinking.
He also brought me up to speed on what I had missed at the party; who was there, what had gone on. It was about 6:30 at this point, and a friend he'd brought out had already sliced a good chunk of his own thumb off while cutting a lemon. When it became apparent that the bleeding wasn't going to stop readily, they'd given him a couple of options: they could call the EMT, or they could cauterize it.
It's the island.
So they cleaned a poker up, heated it with a blow torch, gave him rope to bite on, and three of them held him down.
Yep.
When I got there, he didn't have a lot of color, but the alcohol they deemed it fair to give him seemed to have dimmed the pain. Over the course of the evening he looked less and less waxy. The EMT did eventually migrate to the party, and upon examining the injury, pulled the self-appointed medics aside to tell them "you didn't even cauterize it, you just burnt the shit out of it! But it'll be fine if he just keeps it clean."
When it got dark and fireworks started to go off, a bunch of us headed up to the top of the house, where there's a small platform on the peak, which affords just about a 360 degree view- there are no handy stairs to the platform (interior or exterior), but there are ropes rigged to help a person scale to the ridgepole, once you've climbed off the second floor deck and out onto the roof.
Yeah, I am afraid of heights, but there was a jerry-rigged rope. A girl's got to have a sense of adventure. And I got to watch fireworks from the following towns: Stonington, Someplace not Blue Hill But In That Vicinity, Swan's Island, MDI, Vinalhaven, Camden, and other less obvious hamlets. There were of course also the fire works on the Island being shot off by my 13 year old former student.
After the fire works were over, I scrambled back down, recovered my beer, and rejoined the party. It was not too long after, when the next injury walked through the door, this man bleeding from a head wound. We're really not a vicious people, just an accident prone people (though I would point out that no one was injured in the shimmying up and down the roof). Two guys had been wrasslin' outside, and Linc lacerated his scalp on a rock. It was just as well that the EMT had moved to our party.
By eleven I extricated myself, and my timing was pretty impeccable- three whole beers into the night, I was tipy enough to be singing House of the Rising Sun, but sober enough to be singing it under my breath. The moon was nearly full, the sky had yet to cloud over with rain. It was the first moonlit walk I'd had in a long time, June not being a terribly cooperative month in terms of allowing us to see stars, planets, and satellites.
This morning I was up bright an early to take out trash, and was just deliberating whether or not to go to the cafe, when my early-morning cafe buddy drove by in his flatbed Model T: I threw up my bedroom window sash, leaned out and yelled his name- his hearing must be good, because by the time I'd grabbed my wallet, slipped into sandals, and skipped down stairs, he'd backed into my driveway.
So it was that I found myself in a bouyant mood on this sunlit fifth of July, double fisting coffee and hot cocoa, and eating doughnuts fresh from the fryolator.
The Fourth of July just isn't my bag. And after the fire, I wasn't really feeling pip pip and full of patriotic pep. I've got a guilt hangover, seeing as I am partially responsible for the tank truck not being full (refilling it had been assigned to me and Marshall). Yes, the fire department salvaged more of the house than expected, but even more could have been saved if we'd had high flow from the get-go.
I'm also an introvert in a state of recovery; it'd been over two weeks of living with an intense extrovert and a crew of workers knocking about the house, as well as the influx of summer people on the island. Like Garbo, I just vanted to be alone.
I did perch myself on the new railings of the porch, coffee in hand, to watch the parade go by. It took approximately five minutes. Brevity is the soul of wit.
I spent the rest of the day puttering and greedily grasping at the sunshine: I did laundry so I could finally use my new laundry line (old school spinning square variety, so you can hide your dainties on the inner lines, and cloak them with less personal articles on the outer lines); I also hoped to dry out my mouldering soul by sunbathing; I made pies. All along, I was dreading the fact I would have to go out to party simply to keep up appearances.
At long last, it was time to head out, the pies had cooled and I could no longer put off my social obligations. I called for a ride, and the guy who arrived to escort me was one I had not seen since the summer before, when he had stumbled drunkenly into my darkened house, up my stairs, and into my room, because he wanted to continue the evening's conversation. On the brief drive over, he noted that one of the things I'd said to him last summer stuck- "you know, you could choose to be awesome." Two months ago he decided to stop drinking.
He also brought me up to speed on what I had missed at the party; who was there, what had gone on. It was about 6:30 at this point, and a friend he'd brought out had already sliced a good chunk of his own thumb off while cutting a lemon. When it became apparent that the bleeding wasn't going to stop readily, they'd given him a couple of options: they could call the EMT, or they could cauterize it.
It's the island.
So they cleaned a poker up, heated it with a blow torch, gave him rope to bite on, and three of them held him down.
Yep.
When I got there, he didn't have a lot of color, but the alcohol they deemed it fair to give him seemed to have dimmed the pain. Over the course of the evening he looked less and less waxy. The EMT did eventually migrate to the party, and upon examining the injury, pulled the self-appointed medics aside to tell them "you didn't even cauterize it, you just burnt the shit out of it! But it'll be fine if he just keeps it clean."
When it got dark and fireworks started to go off, a bunch of us headed up to the top of the house, where there's a small platform on the peak, which affords just about a 360 degree view- there are no handy stairs to the platform (interior or exterior), but there are ropes rigged to help a person scale to the ridgepole, once you've climbed off the second floor deck and out onto the roof.
Yeah, I am afraid of heights, but there was a jerry-rigged rope. A girl's got to have a sense of adventure. And I got to watch fireworks from the following towns: Stonington, Someplace not Blue Hill But In That Vicinity, Swan's Island, MDI, Vinalhaven, Camden, and other less obvious hamlets. There were of course also the fire works on the Island being shot off by my 13 year old former student.
After the fire works were over, I scrambled back down, recovered my beer, and rejoined the party. It was not too long after, when the next injury walked through the door, this man bleeding from a head wound. We're really not a vicious people, just an accident prone people (though I would point out that no one was injured in the shimmying up and down the roof). Two guys had been wrasslin' outside, and Linc lacerated his scalp on a rock. It was just as well that the EMT had moved to our party.
By eleven I extricated myself, and my timing was pretty impeccable- three whole beers into the night, I was tipy enough to be singing House of the Rising Sun, but sober enough to be singing it under my breath. The moon was nearly full, the sky had yet to cloud over with rain. It was the first moonlit walk I'd had in a long time, June not being a terribly cooperative month in terms of allowing us to see stars, planets, and satellites.
This morning I was up bright an early to take out trash, and was just deliberating whether or not to go to the cafe, when my early-morning cafe buddy drove by in his flatbed Model T: I threw up my bedroom window sash, leaned out and yelled his name- his hearing must be good, because by the time I'd grabbed my wallet, slipped into sandals, and skipped down stairs, he'd backed into my driveway.
So it was that I found myself in a bouyant mood on this sunlit fifth of July, double fisting coffee and hot cocoa, and eating doughnuts fresh from the fryolator.
Friday, July 3, 2009
On Fire
Thursday night I hosted the prospective new fellow and her husband- as the evening unfolded, it looked like they were going to have a good sampling of what life here is like- dinner, bookclub, volleyball, morning coffee at the cafe. They'd see some faces, and get a sense of the place. After volleyball, we chatted a while in the living room, until realizing it was heading up on 11pm, we retired for the night, with the plan to head out the door to Black Dinah at 7:15 to catch the first batch of doughnuts straight from the fat.
As I went to bed, I saw the first flashes of lightening from across the bay- insistent, bright, and a ways off. A lightening lover, I pulled my curtains back, leaving them open to the show, despite the fact that with my poor vision I would see nothing distinct. It had been a long day, but sleep was slow in coming, and as my mind churned the storm closed in, until it seemed right on top of us- a bolt would blind, and then immediately a crash of thunder would shake the house. Before I finally slipped to sleep in the midst of the crisis, I said my prayers for the island, that we wouldn't lose our civic building like Swan's Island did last year, that we wouldn't lose the church or school, that...
and finally I blacked out.
Only to wake to the ringing of my phone through the pitch black of my bedroom. The sun comes up early, very early, so this was the dead of night.
"Morgan, you're the only one who's answered the phone- the Cogan's house is on fire!"
I looked out my window and down the street toward the school, and sure enough, there was a huge orange glow, flames through the roof.
Not fully awake, I ran downstairs to the phone cabinet, pulled out the volunteer fire department phone tree, and attempted to make sense of it, picked a number, and called. Got the machine.
"Diane, this is Morgan, if you hear this, get up- the Cogan's new house is on fire."
And then, common sense kicked in, and I dialed 911, remembering that important people on island did finally have pagers. Hopefully even charged, turned on, and in earshot. Our dispatch goes through Rockland, and the phone call was very brief: structure fire, on Isle au Haut, right across from the fire station; an unoccupied building that was being renovated.
After calling it in, I got dressed, knocked on the door to the master bedroom, and let the prospective Fellow and her fellow know there was a fire, and that probably it would be all hands on deck, if they were willing to get dressed and pitch in as needed.
People were already arriving when I got there, and the chaos of poor coordination ensued. Pump trucks left untouched wouldn't start and had to be jumped; the tank truck had been emptied but not refilled; none of us had met or trained in a year. The fire chief lives at the other end of the island, and wasn't able to arrive until well into the effort.
A fire on an isolated island isn't as frightening as a fire on a boat, but man it is close. Everyone who arrived at the scene and saw the flames knew it was going to burn to the ground, and that we would be lucky to make sure it didn't spread.
Happily isolated island communities do tend to contain some fairly competant people- so in time (and not so much as it seemed), the effort was pulled together- people who knew what they were doing took charge, and people who didn't stayed out of the way until called on to run errands or hold/carry hose. Despite the difficulties in starting up, the system finally worked- and we pumped water from the stream next to the school into our collapsable 3,000 gallon holding pool; from there it went through the pump truck and fed three 1.5" firehoses. Once we had consistant pressure, and all three hoses, things began to look more hopeful. The wind had died down. The lightening had struck the upstairs and the fire was literally burning down- a slow process. I'd made the 911 call at about 3:30- by 6:30 the fire was under control; by 10:30 the construction crew (who ended up fighting the fire that was consuming their work) began to go in to salvage their tools. While badly burnt, much of the house was still standing.
From what I have heard, the comment thread on the BDN is full of upset mainland firefighters, chastising our guys for fighting with inadequate (read: nonexistant) personal protection equipment; for entering the building while it still smoldered; for venting the roof.
I suspect none of them have lived year round on an unbridged island. We don't have a lot in the way of services, equipment, or specific training. Most everything comes down to a certain amount of common sense and calculated risk taking. In a perfect world, we'd have time to properly organize the department (the nomination for fire chief at town meeting would not be met with a rousing choris of "not it!!!"), we'd have the tanker filled, and the trucks would be run on a weekly basis.
The island is not perfect.
But we got by, and now we know- pretty damned specifically- how we need to get better.
As to the prospective Fellow and her husband, time will tell how they responded to this literal trial by fire.
Photo by John Blaisdell, former resident of the house.
As I went to bed, I saw the first flashes of lightening from across the bay- insistent, bright, and a ways off. A lightening lover, I pulled my curtains back, leaving them open to the show, despite the fact that with my poor vision I would see nothing distinct. It had been a long day, but sleep was slow in coming, and as my mind churned the storm closed in, until it seemed right on top of us- a bolt would blind, and then immediately a crash of thunder would shake the house. Before I finally slipped to sleep in the midst of the crisis, I said my prayers for the island, that we wouldn't lose our civic building like Swan's Island did last year, that we wouldn't lose the church or school, that...
and finally I blacked out.
Only to wake to the ringing of my phone through the pitch black of my bedroom. The sun comes up early, very early, so this was the dead of night.
"Morgan, you're the only one who's answered the phone- the Cogan's house is on fire!"
I looked out my window and down the street toward the school, and sure enough, there was a huge orange glow, flames through the roof.
Not fully awake, I ran downstairs to the phone cabinet, pulled out the volunteer fire department phone tree, and attempted to make sense of it, picked a number, and called. Got the machine.
"Diane, this is Morgan, if you hear this, get up- the Cogan's new house is on fire."
And then, common sense kicked in, and I dialed 911, remembering that important people on island did finally have pagers. Hopefully even charged, turned on, and in earshot. Our dispatch goes through Rockland, and the phone call was very brief: structure fire, on Isle au Haut, right across from the fire station; an unoccupied building that was being renovated.
After calling it in, I got dressed, knocked on the door to the master bedroom, and let the prospective Fellow and her fellow know there was a fire, and that probably it would be all hands on deck, if they were willing to get dressed and pitch in as needed.
People were already arriving when I got there, and the chaos of poor coordination ensued. Pump trucks left untouched wouldn't start and had to be jumped; the tank truck had been emptied but not refilled; none of us had met or trained in a year. The fire chief lives at the other end of the island, and wasn't able to arrive until well into the effort.
A fire on an isolated island isn't as frightening as a fire on a boat, but man it is close. Everyone who arrived at the scene and saw the flames knew it was going to burn to the ground, and that we would be lucky to make sure it didn't spread.
Happily isolated island communities do tend to contain some fairly competant people- so in time (and not so much as it seemed), the effort was pulled together- people who knew what they were doing took charge, and people who didn't stayed out of the way until called on to run errands or hold/carry hose. Despite the difficulties in starting up, the system finally worked- and we pumped water from the stream next to the school into our collapsable 3,000 gallon holding pool; from there it went through the pump truck and fed three 1.5" firehoses. Once we had consistant pressure, and all three hoses, things began to look more hopeful. The wind had died down. The lightening had struck the upstairs and the fire was literally burning down- a slow process. I'd made the 911 call at about 3:30- by 6:30 the fire was under control; by 10:30 the construction crew (who ended up fighting the fire that was consuming their work) began to go in to salvage their tools. While badly burnt, much of the house was still standing.
From what I have heard, the comment thread on the BDN is full of upset mainland firefighters, chastising our guys for fighting with inadequate (read: nonexistant) personal protection equipment; for entering the building while it still smoldered; for venting the roof.
I suspect none of them have lived year round on an unbridged island. We don't have a lot in the way of services, equipment, or specific training. Most everything comes down to a certain amount of common sense and calculated risk taking. In a perfect world, we'd have time to properly organize the department (the nomination for fire chief at town meeting would not be met with a rousing choris of "not it!!!"), we'd have the tanker filled, and the trucks would be run on a weekly basis.
The island is not perfect.
But we got by, and now we know- pretty damned specifically- how we need to get better.
As to the prospective Fellow and her husband, time will tell how they responded to this literal trial by fire.
Photo by John Blaisdell, former resident of the house.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Driving Lessons
Really, I only started to drive when I moved to the island. Okay. Maybe I generally don't have a car while I live here. But when I have a car (that runs), I have a fun car. My intro to driving on IAH was in what is loosely considered to be "my" car- a red VW Golf from the early 1980s. It features an plein-air hatchback, and brakes that will go so far as to slow the car down until friction and gravity finally stop it. My lessons on how to drive a standard transmission car were minimal, and I only got a few chances to stall it in front of an audience before it stopped working. And when it refused to start, it did not do it in the privacy of my driveway, it refused in the store's parking lot. That was my first experience getting someone to tow me on the island. It would not be my last.
With the Golf down, Alison and I switched over to Marshall's Jeep Willy- I drove it a few times, but hardly became proficient, and the whole double-clutch thing just eluded me all together. Alison's truck (Stella, 1980-2009, RIP) stood us in good enough stead for the winter. Come spring, I had bribed Ed White with sweets, and he got around to fixing the VW so she'd run. And then the learning began.
First there was the whole smooth transition between clutch and accelerator. Then there was downshifting. The latter did not come clear to me until one night of... lowered inhibitions... when I drove a friend home, and he ended up giving me a good lesson on how to drive my finicky-transmissioned Golf. From there, it was smooth sailing, and I only stalled on occasions when the car felt I needed some humbling. And it got a flat to teach me about sending tires off-island for patching. Then this summer the same tire went flat again to teach me how to purloin parts from other junkers, and how to change the tire my own damned self.
This is where Marshall, the owner of my house has come in handy. Because the car itself did not teach me how to use a jack, and the whole procedure of tire changing. Marshall did that. And to be fair and give credit where credit is due, a neighbor stopped his car in the middle of the road to supervise/lend his encouragement. So far the tire-changing feat of June '09 has been one of the great highlights of the '09 summer, though I suspect much of its status is due to the fact it was probably the only sunny day in the entire month of June. So I fixed the tire.
Feel the empowerment.
Not that the car would start. At that time.
Marshall hooked the battery up to a charger, and the car was not at all impressed. Another person (the Tall, for those readers who remember as far back as the autumn) stopped to check out the progress, or ultimately, lack thereof.
We claimed victory for the tire, admitted defeat regarding the engine, then headed back to the house for dinner.
I took a chance after volleyball that evening, hopped in, and she actually turned over: I was able to limp her from the school into my driveway. There she could be broken-down with dignity.
By this time, Marshall had his Model A running. Not really needing a second vehicle, there was no rush to fix the VW (money flowing, as it is, to the former mainland Jeep which I'm getting fixed up to be barged out as my island car). Marshall could drive where he chose, I could walk. All good. I was hoping he'd get the Willy running (so I could drive again), but the necessary Jeep parts had gone on the burn pile, an oversight on the part of Father William.
Now, I've mentioned that Marshall is a teacher, yes? This means that really, we could only go out in the Model A so many times before he was insisting I learn to drive it. After a while, and some questions, I had gotten vaguely used to the choke, which also controls the "mix" and the idea of a throttle on the right of the steering column, the spark to the left, and the fact that there's a starter that you push with your foot.
What one was to do with any or all of those was still frightening, but after Marshall cleaned the spark plugs, one's intuitive grasp of exactly how to fine-tune each of these in relation to the others became less important. And so I learned to drive.
As we packed up the truck last Wednesday, he reminded me that everything on the truck could be replaced, and that I was not to worry. Further more, he expected stories when he got back. Well, he got to have a story before he left.
Most people on the East coast are aware that basically the entire month of June was just miserable: when it wasn't raining, it was fogging up in preparation to rain. To keep everything in the truck bed dry, Marshall loosely threw a tarp over the pile. The tarp was a fine idea, the decision not to secure it was somewhat less fine. When we got to the landing, I was feeling comparatively good about starting the truck and driving, but was nervous about the inaugural trip backing down the dock.
It turned out I was nervous for good reason. At first it was just difficult to see over his stuff, and between trying to maneuver myself so I could see where I was going (the rearview is not adjustable and not set for someone of my stature- the single side mirror is cracked and hangs loose) and attempting to control a truck with no power steering, I was having a tough time of it.
Then the tarp flew up over the rear windshield, leaving me completely blind.
So I managed to get the truck to stop.
And really my timing was impeccable. The rear fender was just brushing a kiss on the wooden rail.
There was, blessedly and for once, not a large audience of adults- thank god Marshall was taking his own boat and not the mailboat. Once we had deposited his belongings on the float, and I had viciously stowed away the offending tarp, we said our goodbyes- when he once again reminded me of how anything and everything on the truck was replaceable- and I started up the truck without a hitch, and drove home, reversing flawlessly up the drive.
Obviously I did share the story with the greater island, and as always people were pretty kind, and just told me it wouldn't be the first time a person lost a truck off the dock. Apparently some years ago, Al Gordon left Billy Barter's truck in gear up in the parking lot, and it slowly found its way down the dock and off the side. It flipped in the air, and landed tires down. Billy was watching the whole process from his boat and was reduced to hysterical guffawing. According to reports, Al was just hysterical.
With the Golf down, Alison and I switched over to Marshall's Jeep Willy- I drove it a few times, but hardly became proficient, and the whole double-clutch thing just eluded me all together. Alison's truck (Stella, 1980-2009, RIP) stood us in good enough stead for the winter. Come spring, I had bribed Ed White with sweets, and he got around to fixing the VW so she'd run. And then the learning began.
First there was the whole smooth transition between clutch and accelerator. Then there was downshifting. The latter did not come clear to me until one night of... lowered inhibitions... when I drove a friend home, and he ended up giving me a good lesson on how to drive my finicky-transmissioned Golf. From there, it was smooth sailing, and I only stalled on occasions when the car felt I needed some humbling. And it got a flat to teach me about sending tires off-island for patching. Then this summer the same tire went flat again to teach me how to purloin parts from other junkers, and how to change the tire my own damned self.
This is where Marshall, the owner of my house has come in handy. Because the car itself did not teach me how to use a jack, and the whole procedure of tire changing. Marshall did that. And to be fair and give credit where credit is due, a neighbor stopped his car in the middle of the road to supervise/lend his encouragement. So far the tire-changing feat of June '09 has been one of the great highlights of the '09 summer, though I suspect much of its status is due to the fact it was probably the only sunny day in the entire month of June. So I fixed the tire.
Feel the empowerment.
Not that the car would start. At that time.
Marshall hooked the battery up to a charger, and the car was not at all impressed. Another person (the Tall, for those readers who remember as far back as the autumn) stopped to check out the progress, or ultimately, lack thereof.
We claimed victory for the tire, admitted defeat regarding the engine, then headed back to the house for dinner.
I took a chance after volleyball that evening, hopped in, and she actually turned over: I was able to limp her from the school into my driveway. There she could be broken-down with dignity.
By this time, Marshall had his Model A running. Not really needing a second vehicle, there was no rush to fix the VW (money flowing, as it is, to the former mainland Jeep which I'm getting fixed up to be barged out as my island car). Marshall could drive where he chose, I could walk. All good. I was hoping he'd get the Willy running (so I could drive again), but the necessary Jeep parts had gone on the burn pile, an oversight on the part of Father William.
Now, I've mentioned that Marshall is a teacher, yes? This means that really, we could only go out in the Model A so many times before he was insisting I learn to drive it. After a while, and some questions, I had gotten vaguely used to the choke, which also controls the "mix" and the idea of a throttle on the right of the steering column, the spark to the left, and the fact that there's a starter that you push with your foot.
What one was to do with any or all of those was still frightening, but after Marshall cleaned the spark plugs, one's intuitive grasp of exactly how to fine-tune each of these in relation to the others became less important. And so I learned to drive.
As we packed up the truck last Wednesday, he reminded me that everything on the truck could be replaced, and that I was not to worry. Further more, he expected stories when he got back. Well, he got to have a story before he left.
Most people on the East coast are aware that basically the entire month of June was just miserable: when it wasn't raining, it was fogging up in preparation to rain. To keep everything in the truck bed dry, Marshall loosely threw a tarp over the pile. The tarp was a fine idea, the decision not to secure it was somewhat less fine. When we got to the landing, I was feeling comparatively good about starting the truck and driving, but was nervous about the inaugural trip backing down the dock.
It turned out I was nervous for good reason. At first it was just difficult to see over his stuff, and between trying to maneuver myself so I could see where I was going (the rearview is not adjustable and not set for someone of my stature- the single side mirror is cracked and hangs loose) and attempting to control a truck with no power steering, I was having a tough time of it.
Then the tarp flew up over the rear windshield, leaving me completely blind.
So I managed to get the truck to stop.
And really my timing was impeccable. The rear fender was just brushing a kiss on the wooden rail.
There was, blessedly and for once, not a large audience of adults- thank god Marshall was taking his own boat and not the mailboat. Once we had deposited his belongings on the float, and I had viciously stowed away the offending tarp, we said our goodbyes- when he once again reminded me of how anything and everything on the truck was replaceable- and I started up the truck without a hitch, and drove home, reversing flawlessly up the drive.
Obviously I did share the story with the greater island, and as always people were pretty kind, and just told me it wouldn't be the first time a person lost a truck off the dock. Apparently some years ago, Al Gordon left Billy Barter's truck in gear up in the parking lot, and it slowly found its way down the dock and off the side. It flipped in the air, and landed tires down. Billy was watching the whole process from his boat and was reduced to hysterical guffawing. According to reports, Al was just hysterical.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Days Are Just Packed
All apologies to Bill Watterson for stealing his title. Summer is upon us, and what more proof need I put forth than the shiny new boat and store schedules which provide us with services seven days a week? And in only nine of those full-service weeks, I will be done with the Fellowship (ready or not).
School got out on Friday, and the last week was an event-intense one for the community: Wednesday we had a graduation ceremony for our lone 8th grader; Thursday was the school's spring concert; Friday was the end-of-school picnic (and report cards), and there was a contra dance in the evening; Saturday was a big double-elimination volleyball tournament, where six teams competed for the Stanley Buoy.
I am still aiming to stay on the island. Tomorrow I have a job interview at Deer Isle-Stonington High School for a part-time position. It was to be full-time, but some of the duties ended up being parceled out to a recently hired English teacher to make his/her job full-time. The down side is obviously a decrease in salary and the unlikelihood of benefits. The up side is potentially increased flexibility in hours (making my commuting easier to pitch), and perhaps the time to work on writing my thesis and taking classes to finally get certified to teach. Maybe even just write for the love of writing..?
As to housing, the Institute is fine with me staying on in my current housing situation and living with the new fellow. The owner of the house basically sees me as an important fixture here, like the kitchen counter, or hot water heater. As he sees it, he gives me a house to live in, and I make it a home for him. Which is pretty much how it works. He's been on-island now since Thursday night, and we operate under the system that he buys the groceries and I make the meals. Being an independent type who tends to forget to feed herself, this whole "must have dinner made" thing is mildly stressful, but it also gives me a compelling reason to drop my worries and spend quality time in the kitchen. In good news, he more or less remembered that he is not allowed to be in the kitchen while I am cooking, or else I get cranky. I may have to remind him once in a while at knife point, but for all intents and purposes, he is containing his extroversion. Tonight I am choosing to ignore the implications of his comments about the Swedes and how great it is they don't consider age difference when it comes to attraction, and how he thinks getting me drunk on Kentucky moonshine would be a great project.
In light of all that I need to do to wrap up the Fellowship, the added challenges the Institute throws at us that was never in the original job description, and the added responsibilities that I have taken on far outside the scope of the Fellowship... I might already be looking forward to the fall. I will, however, say that I had the opportunity to take two wondrous walks Friday night- one at about ten, when the world was alight with stars and fireflies, and one at two in the morning, when a fog bank was just settling in to rouse the ghosts and obscure the moon. I will get things done, and I will deal with the parade of builders, daughters, dogs, and the home owner as they buzz in and out of this house in the style of French farce (it has 5 exterior doors, after all). I will also find a way to steal some summer for myself.
My first swim of the season (May 31st) will not have been my last.
School got out on Friday, and the last week was an event-intense one for the community: Wednesday we had a graduation ceremony for our lone 8th grader; Thursday was the school's spring concert; Friday was the end-of-school picnic (and report cards), and there was a contra dance in the evening; Saturday was a big double-elimination volleyball tournament, where six teams competed for the Stanley Buoy.
I am still aiming to stay on the island. Tomorrow I have a job interview at Deer Isle-Stonington High School for a part-time position. It was to be full-time, but some of the duties ended up being parceled out to a recently hired English teacher to make his/her job full-time. The down side is obviously a decrease in salary and the unlikelihood of benefits. The up side is potentially increased flexibility in hours (making my commuting easier to pitch), and perhaps the time to work on writing my thesis and taking classes to finally get certified to teach. Maybe even just write for the love of writing..?
As to housing, the Institute is fine with me staying on in my current housing situation and living with the new fellow. The owner of the house basically sees me as an important fixture here, like the kitchen counter, or hot water heater. As he sees it, he gives me a house to live in, and I make it a home for him. Which is pretty much how it works. He's been on-island now since Thursday night, and we operate under the system that he buys the groceries and I make the meals. Being an independent type who tends to forget to feed herself, this whole "must have dinner made" thing is mildly stressful, but it also gives me a compelling reason to drop my worries and spend quality time in the kitchen. In good news, he more or less remembered that he is not allowed to be in the kitchen while I am cooking, or else I get cranky. I may have to remind him once in a while at knife point, but for all intents and purposes, he is containing his extroversion. Tonight I am choosing to ignore the implications of his comments about the Swedes and how great it is they don't consider age difference when it comes to attraction, and how he thinks getting me drunk on Kentucky moonshine would be a great project.
In light of all that I need to do to wrap up the Fellowship, the added challenges the Institute throws at us that was never in the original job description, and the added responsibilities that I have taken on far outside the scope of the Fellowship... I might already be looking forward to the fall. I will, however, say that I had the opportunity to take two wondrous walks Friday night- one at about ten, when the world was alight with stars and fireflies, and one at two in the morning, when a fog bank was just settling in to rouse the ghosts and obscure the moon. I will get things done, and I will deal with the parade of builders, daughters, dogs, and the home owner as they buzz in and out of this house in the style of French farce (it has 5 exterior doors, after all). I will also find a way to steal some summer for myself.
My first swim of the season (May 31st) will not have been my last.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
You Thought I was a Hermit?
I am an introvert. It doesn't mean I am entirely shy or retiring, or that I somehow lack social confidence. It means that in order to function, to replenish the stores of my soul, I need solitude to process the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. I need to write long-winded blog posts and journal entries. I need to run away into the woods, to be where other people are not.
I have chosen to live in a place, and in a manner that is inherently highly social. From banter in the store and at the landing, to a culture of game nights, community volleyball, and pot lucks- my days are packed with human interaction. I've come to an island where anonymity is not an option, and while secrets may fester for years, they will surface. And the effects will spread. Because- to some extent- we all work together, play together, fight and grieve together, there is no escaping the joy or the pain that comes down the pike.
In the course of a week I will literally babysit my students, and stage their spring concert; swap baked goods and jokes, pour coffee, explain the new library system; I will cuddle kittens and pitch kitten-ownership to any likely taker; I will take a woman abused (who has had enough) to see a lawyer, and then play volleyball wildly well with her abuser- who I'd loved like a brother; I will hold the hand of their young son when he slips his in mine, and I will also give him five minutes in at recess when he is being a little shit; I'll welcome back the snowbirds, listen to the talk of a lobstering conservation zone; I'll gratefully confide in and seek counsel from a minister; I'll open up my house to builders, and then ready it for the owner's visit, and show it to a new potential occupant- I will eat, drink, laugh, weep, speak in coded language that would put Chekovian subtext to shame. I will keep secrets, but work with determination for their release...
These are the bizarre and varied things I am actually good at. And before my fragile little human mind cracks from the speed of the spinning, I stop the world. I lay in the sun with a book, I dive in the thoroughfare, I run away to the island's interior. Island time, and autonomy, I think, is the upshot of this intense interaction.
This blog is a constant exercise in the elucidation of what this life means to me, or what it is that I am deriving from the island that keeps me here- and I think the best answer is simply that it demands I just be unapologetically human. I may need to have time to myself, but there is no hiding from the infinite complexity of my friends and neighbors. I am learning (to borrow from that much more regionally famous island author, Elisabeth Ogilvie), how vast are the demands (infinite), and how wide the heart (infinity-plus-one).
I have chosen to live in a place, and in a manner that is inherently highly social. From banter in the store and at the landing, to a culture of game nights, community volleyball, and pot lucks- my days are packed with human interaction. I've come to an island where anonymity is not an option, and while secrets may fester for years, they will surface. And the effects will spread. Because- to some extent- we all work together, play together, fight and grieve together, there is no escaping the joy or the pain that comes down the pike.
In the course of a week I will literally babysit my students, and stage their spring concert; swap baked goods and jokes, pour coffee, explain the new library system; I will cuddle kittens and pitch kitten-ownership to any likely taker; I will take a woman abused (who has had enough) to see a lawyer, and then play volleyball wildly well with her abuser- who I'd loved like a brother; I will hold the hand of their young son when he slips his in mine, and I will also give him five minutes in at recess when he is being a little shit; I'll welcome back the snowbirds, listen to the talk of a lobstering conservation zone; I'll gratefully confide in and seek counsel from a minister; I'll open up my house to builders, and then ready it for the owner's visit, and show it to a new potential occupant- I will eat, drink, laugh, weep, speak in coded language that would put Chekovian subtext to shame. I will keep secrets, but work with determination for their release...
These are the bizarre and varied things I am actually good at. And before my fragile little human mind cracks from the speed of the spinning, I stop the world. I lay in the sun with a book, I dive in the thoroughfare, I run away to the island's interior. Island time, and autonomy, I think, is the upshot of this intense interaction.
This blog is a constant exercise in the elucidation of what this life means to me, or what it is that I am deriving from the island that keeps me here- and I think the best answer is simply that it demands I just be unapologetically human. I may need to have time to myself, but there is no hiding from the infinite complexity of my friends and neighbors. I am learning (to borrow from that much more regionally famous island author, Elisabeth Ogilvie), how vast are the demands (infinite), and how wide the heart (infinity-plus-one).
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Blooming
As in "June is busting out all over!!!!"
and
"Come on Dover, move your blooming arse!!!!"
Life is a whirl of seed swaps, tart baking, friend supporting, volleyball spiking, and- Lord help me, spring concert staging.
It's the hard knock life for me.
If you feel cheated by the small word count of this post, I ask you "what the hell are you doing inside reading blogs?"
and
"Come on Dover, move your blooming arse!!!!"
Life is a whirl of seed swaps, tart baking, friend supporting, volleyball spiking, and- Lord help me, spring concert staging.
It's the hard knock life for me.
If you feel cheated by the small word count of this post, I ask you "what the hell are you doing inside reading blogs?"
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Since I Am Spending My Words Elsewhere
That's write. I am living a small cyber double life, and it is taking its toll, as I shockingly neglect this blog. Wicked woman, where is your commitment to public displays of narcissism? And don't use the Facebook excuse- you haven't been constantly updating your status.
Regardless, I've used my allotment of original thoughts for the evening, but it is spring and I am overflowing with seasonal sap. So I give you selected bits from a cleverer bugger than me.
take it, ee:
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.
~ ~ ~
may my heart always be open to little
Regardless, I've used my allotment of original thoughts for the evening, but it is spring and I am overflowing with seasonal sap. So I give you selected bits from a cleverer bugger than me.
take it, ee:
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
~ ~ ~
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.
~ ~ ~
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Success Is Counted Ironic
So I was not able to write into existence another year's worth of salary on-island for myself, but I was able to write into existence a salary for someone who by definition, must not be me- which is to say the island will have a new Island Institute Fellow next year for comprehensive planning. At least one application I penned was successful. The new Fellow will live in this house, will work on the committee I have been working for (in my spare time), will wear my title.
New blood will be good for the island.
I knew as I wrote the application that I was essentially displacing myself.
New blood will be good for the island.
I knew as I wrote the application that I was essentially displacing myself.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Tequila and the Truth
Seriously. I don't know why the CIA was fooling around with waterboarding when they could just put the tequila to 'em (ignoring the possible religious issues there, of course). They wouldn't only sing, they'd also dance.
Oh the truthiness happened.
After a pina colada, some number of tequila shots, and a rum and coke or two into the evening...
After a year of hemming and hawing, and multiple consultations (the friends, the father, the half brother)... I did grab the slender one by the hand, and pulled him out to the deck to figure out what was the what.
Sigh. It didn't take long.
I like making cake, we know that. So making a cake of myself should be no big deal. All a part of the human experience.
And the exchange lead to a pretty magical drive-home moment:
Nate: Morgan, are you crying?!
Morgan: Nooooooooooooo!!!! I don't cryyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!! (sobs into her hands).
And then I crawled to my computer to gchat with Stacey, which is when I typed this immortal phrase:
"tequila-y is the craziest drinkest drubnk."
Indeed.
Oh the truthiness happened.
After a pina colada, some number of tequila shots, and a rum and coke or two into the evening...
After a year of hemming and hawing, and multiple consultations (the friends, the father, the half brother)... I did grab the slender one by the hand, and pulled him out to the deck to figure out what was the what.
Sigh. It didn't take long.
I like making cake, we know that. So making a cake of myself should be no big deal. All a part of the human experience.
And the exchange lead to a pretty magical drive-home moment:
Nate: Morgan, are you crying?!
Morgan: Nooooooooooooo!!!! I don't cryyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!! (sobs into her hands).
And then I crawled to my computer to gchat with Stacey, which is when I typed this immortal phrase:
"tequila-y is the craziest drinkest drubnk."
Indeed.
Monday, May 4, 2009
On Spring and Linear Equations
Have you been able to focus your attention? Spring and all?
Well, you are a better person than me.
I've been baking, cleaning, hiking, purloining daffodils, taking cuttings from my geranium, and planting seeds in pots. Yes, there has been work too. But not blogging. The puttering and wandering has been too good, and the latest social bombshell too bad. Living in a microcosm is pretty intense, and if I sat down to write about it right now, with grace, maturity, and a searching heart, my head would go kablooey.
So I am wandering through the forest courting lyme disease, marauding for the flowers the deer won't eat, and other things of high importance. Oh yes, getting my feet wet with spring time woods muck.
Did a smidge of math tutoring last night, which was beautiful- linear equations. When else is life ever so straightforward and dependable? Learn the identity of the pieces, the rules and relationships, and voila- you know exactly what to expect every time. How a mad species like humans came up with such a relaxingly sane system of thought will never cease to amaze me.
So easy to navigate, so satisfying to work through. Nice, neat, and orderly. In a short space of time you can find an answer and know it is the right one. Now, finding the x-intercept of a line may have absolutely no bearing on anything in reality, but hot damn, it is an absolute answer, nonetheless! And I will whole-heartedly embrace it for sake of having sooooooomething be absolute.
Algebra, cake ingredients, dirt (literal! not figurative). I am focusing on the good stuff.
Well, you are a better person than me.
I've been baking, cleaning, hiking, purloining daffodils, taking cuttings from my geranium, and planting seeds in pots. Yes, there has been work too. But not blogging. The puttering and wandering has been too good, and the latest social bombshell too bad. Living in a microcosm is pretty intense, and if I sat down to write about it right now, with grace, maturity, and a searching heart, my head would go kablooey.
So I am wandering through the forest courting lyme disease, marauding for the flowers the deer won't eat, and other things of high importance. Oh yes, getting my feet wet with spring time woods muck.
Did a smidge of math tutoring last night, which was beautiful- linear equations. When else is life ever so straightforward and dependable? Learn the identity of the pieces, the rules and relationships, and voila- you know exactly what to expect every time. How a mad species like humans came up with such a relaxingly sane system of thought will never cease to amaze me.
So easy to navigate, so satisfying to work through. Nice, neat, and orderly. In a short space of time you can find an answer and know it is the right one. Now, finding the x-intercept of a line may have absolutely no bearing on anything in reality, but hot damn, it is an absolute answer, nonetheless! And I will whole-heartedly embrace it for sake of having sooooooomething be absolute.
Algebra, cake ingredients, dirt (literal! not figurative). I am focusing on the good stuff.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Big Legacies in a Small Town
...Wait for it....
Everyone has weeks of heartsick exhaustion. I suspect. This past week seemed as good as any to have one myself- I've had a head cold, I'd been traveling a lot, and I did not get what I wanted. The future looms all abyssal just in time for my 29th birthday. Also, didn't have time to stock the fridge, so feeding myself has been a bit spotty (those failed no-bake cookies? Hello, breakfast, lunch and dinner!). I get cranky when I'm hungry. It's one of my many endearing traits.
So. That said.
I have had to ponder life without the island.
I have managed to survive life without theater; life without boyfriends A,B, and C; life after the house in Little Deer Isle. This would just be another heartbreak. What is there to fear in that? I literally laugh in the face of heartbreak (at least while people are looking). My disappointments in life have generally been so minor, and the rewards so major- this one would not be inconsolable.
While I am hopeful that something might work out- that I will find some way to remain tethered here, to remain at home here- I am preparing for the possibility of emigration. Which means I am looking at my work in a new light- I am considering how I need to have all the ends tied up, so that I can leave cleanly, having created some sort of sustainable order. If I leave, I want to leave having fulfilled my obligations, and having done so relatively well, so that should people think of me, they will think of me relatively well. Yes, let's get on with the legacy building, shall we?
This is what I have been stewing on (beyond the obvious scheming to make ends meet after August) this afternoon. Have been having a hell of a time finding photos of myself "with other people" for the Institute's Island Journal. I only take pictures of myself when I am alone- when in company, I am the photographer. What photos my friends have are probably not at all appropriate for the Island Journal. So this left photos at the school. There are approximately six pictures of me (or really, with me in them- there is a difference), spanning the year and a half I have worked there. As we scrolled through events, and I continually didn't show up, there was the refrain- "oh, but you weren't there were you?" More often than not, my response was "yes, actually, I was."
Well, I wanted to do the seeing, so should I lament not being seen?
I walked home to my own journal after the staff meeting- I've spent six years with this particular journal (I juggle them), nearly to the day- and it is almost ready to be retired. As the evening moved on, and the sun began to sink ever lower, I decided to run an errand- something to give me a tangible reason to get out of the house, to wander at magic hour. I gathered up my Netflix; I penned a quick "thank you" note; and then it was out onto the deserted street, in the hour of the deer. I didn't see a human soul, walking when the sane world sees to supper. This April day has been blustery and cold, but filled with light- it could be March, it could be November. I would wish it to be part of an unending autumn, not a presaging of summer. I don't want the pace here to pick up, I don't want my contract to end.
At the Post Office, I slipped my mail into the outgoing slot, and wandered to the store, to belatedly erase my name from the UPS whiteboard, then headed up the familiar walkway to the church. I thought I should probably clarify a few things with the universe. Communication is important, so I've read.
Having set things straight, it was on down the tree-canopied lane (now rutted with wash-outs), and out onto the open expanse of the field- startling the inevitable deer, tails pink in the thickening light. Unafraid of mud season, I exited toward the road by the power station, such as it is, and came to a piece of public art, such as it is. A large rock, it is impaled all over with small propellers at wild angles, backed by a very large propeller. Many of us scratched our heads last year, as one island resident labored away at this project. It was to be a memorial to his best friend, a man who had basically founded the power company. I didn't think much about it- being a newcomer it didn't make a whole lot of sense, sticking a bunch of propellers into a rock. It was of course, the Dark who enlightened me (ha ha ha), as it was his father skewering the boulder:
"It's all about the pain in the ass of trying to move forward when all these little minds are working against you in all different directions"
I paraphrase, but that was the gist. Yep. Gaining consensus is a pain in the ass when you know you're absolutely right. Like much public art, this had faded to the background for me. It wasn't something I'd thought much about or looked at since. But today- drawing out the walk, pensive about what feeble legacy I would be leaving (tape a pinwheel to the stone for me!)- I realized that this man had gone ahead and stuck propellers into a glacial erratic.
As in, it will probably take another ice age to move it anywhere. Regardless of propellers and righteousness, minds small and large.
And at that, I laugh-
Rock joking with me at night.
Nearby, deer scatter.
.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Journey is Sublime
I'd only been back from Iowa about 36 hours when I had to turn around and leave the island again to chaperone a field trip to Portland/Westbrook. Given that the chaperone/student ratio was 4:6, I figured I could duck it, but in the end, I just bowed to my advisor's expectation and got on the damned boat.
The morning of the departure, I was attempting to fix no-bake cookies I had ruined as an offering for library hours (can I just not not bake?), responding as cheerfully as I could to the news I did not get the award, and finishing quarterly reports. In the light of all the work that needed to get done before I could step out of doors and head to the landing for the 8 a.m. boat, I was glad I hadn't really bothered to unpack from Iowa. I would just throw a couple of things in, and hey presto! I would be on my way.
Yeah. Don't do that.
Oh, I had underwear. Socks, even. Just no pajamas. Also, not so much with a coordinating outfit to wear to a matinee kids opera. On the up side, I got to drive an Expedition. Now I hate gas-guzzling ridiculously large SUVs as much as the next person. Normally I would glare at the driver of such a vehicle, and judge them silently for their compulsive consumption of the earth and her resources. I would laugh at their attempts to park in Portland. But, I am also a little woman with Little Woman Complex.
I suddenly like big vehicles, when I get to drive them.
So, aside from the cries and yelps from the back seat, where three of my younger students were engaged in the never-ending arguement that begins with the scream "so-and-so touched me!", I was in a pretty blissful place. Occasionally a song would come on and they would all sing together like seraphim:
"What's going on the floor, I love this record baby,
but I can't see straight any more
Keep it cool, what's the name of this club...
I don't remember, but it's alright, alright... just dance..."
or alternatively
"No one knows what it's like...
to be the bad man...
to be the sad man..."
And it was about the time on the way back home, when the arguing stopped on a dime, so they could all chime in on Behind Blue Eyes, that I knew there was a point to my going on this trip. It wasn't a big point, and epiphany or anything. It was just that I got to have the sublime experience of singing The Who while driving a stupidly large vehicle on I-95 with a clutch of little boys piping up from the backseat. And this song was not from my generation or theirs.
Classic.
The morning of the departure, I was attempting to fix no-bake cookies I had ruined as an offering for library hours (can I just not not bake?), responding as cheerfully as I could to the news I did not get the award, and finishing quarterly reports. In the light of all the work that needed to get done before I could step out of doors and head to the landing for the 8 a.m. boat, I was glad I hadn't really bothered to unpack from Iowa. I would just throw a couple of things in, and hey presto! I would be on my way.
Yeah. Don't do that.
Oh, I had underwear. Socks, even. Just no pajamas. Also, not so much with a coordinating outfit to wear to a matinee kids opera. On the up side, I got to drive an Expedition. Now I hate gas-guzzling ridiculously large SUVs as much as the next person. Normally I would glare at the driver of such a vehicle, and judge them silently for their compulsive consumption of the earth and her resources. I would laugh at their attempts to park in Portland. But, I am also a little woman with Little Woman Complex.
I suddenly like big vehicles, when I get to drive them.
So, aside from the cries and yelps from the back seat, where three of my younger students were engaged in the never-ending arguement that begins with the scream "so-and-so touched me!", I was in a pretty blissful place. Occasionally a song would come on and they would all sing together like seraphim:
"What's going on the floor, I love this record baby,
but I can't see straight any more
Keep it cool, what's the name of this club...
I don't remember, but it's alright, alright... just dance..."
or alternatively
"No one knows what it's like...
to be the bad man...
to be the sad man..."
And it was about the time on the way back home, when the arguing stopped on a dime, so they could all chime in on Behind Blue Eyes, that I knew there was a point to my going on this trip. It wasn't a big point, and epiphany or anything. It was just that I got to have the sublime experience of singing The Who while driving a stupidly large vehicle on I-95 with a clutch of little boys piping up from the backseat. And this song was not from my generation or theirs.
Classic.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
All at Sea
Important enough to be lodged at Grinnell House:I seldom got the lead role; the cute guy just wasn't that into me; I'm not the girl who wins the door prize. This is good training for life. I did not get the Wall Award- but the journey was worth it, and I am smart enough (well-schooled enough in classic Rolling Stones) to appreciate that. I didn't get what I want. Now I just need to figure out what I need.
And I am at a loss.
I am good at diving into things, immersing myself in a project, a lifestyle. What I am not good at is divining a clear and steady path that would lead to a career (and the living wage the word generally implies). Ever a gypsy, a dilettante. This gets tiresome, cause I am kind of a homey type: content to putter, to marry my high school sweetheart (Downeast Maine, for those who were wondering). Of course I would fall in love with a place where there is next to no economic opportunity.
Since the fall I have been determined to stay on the island- with the possibility of the award ahead of me, this seemed reasonable. I fell into the assumption that somehow I would make it work. The award would come through (sun's gotta shine on a dog's ass someday, right?), and I would have a year coming into my own- building, creating, making progress. That I would be around to help orient a new fellow if we get one; to enjoy the sweet serenity of autumn; to direct my third Christmas show. I would stay a part of the fabric of the island- lending a hand into perpetuity. The end of my fellowship would not bring the stress, terror and heartbreak of actually leaving the island.
God, it was a good dream. And I am glad I got to dream it. I am glad I worked as hard as I did, and thankful got as far as I did.
But I only want to stay if I can be useful. As self-sufficient as is reasonably possible.
Please, please, please, let me find an open window. I am nimble at scampering through them, it's just a matter of locating one. And here I guess, we are coming to a certain test of faith and commitment. Welcome to 29, kiddo.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Lent, Part Two: Lead Me Not into Isolation
Life's full of little gifts, right? I am in the Cincinnati airport, a three hour serving of limbo in my travels. I took a nap, feet up on my suitcase, head dropped back against a pillar, contacts drying in my eyes. Woke up with the expected cricks and cramps, then dragged my belongings to a burrito place, and leisurely ate a wrap while enraptured by Neil Gaiman reading The Graveyard Book. I finished my food, and then began to roam for the perfect mode of gustatory closure.
And I wanted ice cream. Oh, I wanted ice cream. I would have even considered soft serve. Screw Lent, right? I do not practice Christianity in any methodical way, and we all know that to some extent, I practice Lent as a lark. I had every right to break the superficial vow- and it is Sunday too, so I could even just consider it a righteous exemption. Who cares if I eat a frozen dessert, really?
I made up my mind.
And then I saw key lime pie on a menu- staring at me like an old friend, telling me "Morgan, cut the bullshit- you need to follow through. I am here for you."
So I went into the Wolfgang Puck Cafe of the Cincinnati airport to take comfort in key lime pie and coffee. And was seated at a table in the middle of the space, crammed in next to other tables. At the two-top next to mine sat an upper-middle class black man in his sixties. On the seat across from him was a tube, for blue prints, maps or the like, and the safari/fedora hybrid style hat that certain men like to sport (I really don't know what those "certain men" have in common besides the hat, but it always makes me think "professor!"). Because of the spacing of the tables, it seemed like we were sitting with one another, across from one another. I ordered coffee and my pie, and looked forward to getting back to the glorious voice of Mr. Gaiman. The man politely asked if I minded his making a phone call. I was about to iPod up like the rest of the electronic world, so I told him I didn't mind in the least. Eventually my pie came, but the waitress first delivered it to him, not me- we all had a pleasant laugh, and then- seeing the ever-enticing key lime, he decided to order some for himself.
And then we were having dessert together. Since I'd sat down, I felt that our sharing the space like civilized people was inevitable. He is worried about his son, his only child, who he had such dreams for- that his son would have passion, ambition- a fire in his belly. That perhaps his son, a junior, would follow him into his business. Or make good on the promise of his golf swing. But his son didn't like school, the man cut the purse strings after junior year of college, the son's grades no longer meriting the money.
He says his son is charming, smart, that he is well-liked and loved. The man was just returning home to Philadelphia after the death of his last remaining sibling- and his son had been very helpful with the obituary and arrangements. But he wants his son to get a steady job, or to finish school: he is bothered by the way his son, 27, operates- deciding to turn in a job application tomorrow, rather than first thing today. And he recognizes he can't make his adult child mind him. To do things the way he would (the way he had to).
The man himself, financially secure, no longer responsible for the day-to-day welfare of his child, and divorced for a decade, enjoys a life where he has the freedom to do as he likes, and he is pleased with that. He considers that his life has been a good one, and is all too aware that he's come to a point where he has to worry about injury, and illness- that he is no longer a young man.
I often wonder to what extent children carry the wishes of their parents on their shoulders- this weight of dreams and expectations, it obviously varies from parent to parent, child to child. This man said wistfully that he'd always wished he'd had a daughter too- that he could see her now, finishing high school or in college- a girl with a head on her shoulders, getting things "right." It was, he feared, true, that men just don't mature the same way women do, that is it a slower ripening. A daughter myself (one who tries to get things "right" but has never had/kept a sensible job, but has had many a good job), I smiled. And quietly hoped he'd and his son would negotiate a peace with one another. Twenty-seven is still young.
And so we talked along these lines, slowly chewing over pie and life- quiet and content in Cincinnati. I hope he has a good journey.
And I wanted ice cream. Oh, I wanted ice cream. I would have even considered soft serve. Screw Lent, right? I do not practice Christianity in any methodical way, and we all know that to some extent, I practice Lent as a lark. I had every right to break the superficial vow- and it is Sunday too, so I could even just consider it a righteous exemption. Who cares if I eat a frozen dessert, really?
I made up my mind.
And then I saw key lime pie on a menu- staring at me like an old friend, telling me "Morgan, cut the bullshit- you need to follow through. I am here for you."
So I went into the Wolfgang Puck Cafe of the Cincinnati airport to take comfort in key lime pie and coffee. And was seated at a table in the middle of the space, crammed in next to other tables. At the two-top next to mine sat an upper-middle class black man in his sixties. On the seat across from him was a tube, for blue prints, maps or the like, and the safari/fedora hybrid style hat that certain men like to sport (I really don't know what those "certain men" have in common besides the hat, but it always makes me think "professor!"). Because of the spacing of the tables, it seemed like we were sitting with one another, across from one another. I ordered coffee and my pie, and looked forward to getting back to the glorious voice of Mr. Gaiman. The man politely asked if I minded his making a phone call. I was about to iPod up like the rest of the electronic world, so I told him I didn't mind in the least. Eventually my pie came, but the waitress first delivered it to him, not me- we all had a pleasant laugh, and then- seeing the ever-enticing key lime, he decided to order some for himself.
And then we were having dessert together. Since I'd sat down, I felt that our sharing the space like civilized people was inevitable. He is worried about his son, his only child, who he had such dreams for- that his son would have passion, ambition- a fire in his belly. That perhaps his son, a junior, would follow him into his business. Or make good on the promise of his golf swing. But his son didn't like school, the man cut the purse strings after junior year of college, the son's grades no longer meriting the money.
He says his son is charming, smart, that he is well-liked and loved. The man was just returning home to Philadelphia after the death of his last remaining sibling- and his son had been very helpful with the obituary and arrangements. But he wants his son to get a steady job, or to finish school: he is bothered by the way his son, 27, operates- deciding to turn in a job application tomorrow, rather than first thing today. And he recognizes he can't make his adult child mind him. To do things the way he would (the way he had to).
The man himself, financially secure, no longer responsible for the day-to-day welfare of his child, and divorced for a decade, enjoys a life where he has the freedom to do as he likes, and he is pleased with that. He considers that his life has been a good one, and is all too aware that he's come to a point where he has to worry about injury, and illness- that he is no longer a young man.
I often wonder to what extent children carry the wishes of their parents on their shoulders- this weight of dreams and expectations, it obviously varies from parent to parent, child to child. This man said wistfully that he'd always wished he'd had a daughter too- that he could see her now, finishing high school or in college- a girl with a head on her shoulders, getting things "right." It was, he feared, true, that men just don't mature the same way women do, that is it a slower ripening. A daughter myself (one who tries to get things "right" but has never had/kept a sensible job, but has had many a good job), I smiled. And quietly hoped he'd and his son would negotiate a peace with one another. Twenty-seven is still young.
And so we talked along these lines, slowly chewing over pie and life- quiet and content in Cincinnati. I hope he has a good journey.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Welcoming Back the Fog
I am quite certain some robins were just lazy and stayed here all winter. They might have taken a trip or two to Stonington for liquor (Southern Comfort being preferable to migration? Though maybe like true Mainers, they went as far as NH for their booze), but there seemed to be a pretty steady red-breast presence through the winter. So screw them as a sign of spring. Last night and into this morning however, we got a sure sign that winter is losing its grip: fog rolled in.
In my imagination, Maine is more or less always cloaked in fog- but factually, this is not so. Except in June. And much of May and April. And the Fourth of July. Also possible in October and November, and the odd warm day in December. In a rough year, also count in August. And all of the days in July that surround the Fourth. It is a good bet though, that it will not be foggy from January into March.
Which is, I guess, a relief. We may be drifted in with snow, pelted with sleet, and drowned in rain, but we are not dampened by fog.
After a few months you get around to missing it. Or I do. This is probably a vanity thing, because it makes my hair curl. It is also atmospheric...
Beyond reviving tired winter locks and anglophilic romanticism, fog does also denote something else, something rather important in these parts: time to start lobstering. This means that soon volleyball nights will not be as well attended, and they may dwindle to one night a week. The pace of life here will pick up- indeed, town meeting is the day after tomorrow, and that's when all the nearly-year-round residents come back from warmer climes. The school year is on the downhill slide, and everything will just start to pick up speed. The traffic on and off-island will increase; Sunday boats will make a regular appearance; and the Miss Lizzie (she of the slick white benches and sleek tourist-friendly lines) will join the Mink (warm and lived-in like a downeast kitchen) in hauling people, pets, and their attendent stuff back and forth.
I am glad for the sun, and glad for the fog. I am pleased to roam without yax trax, fleece, and parka... But I do sigh over the speed of summer, the loss of intimacy that comes with the population explosion, with the intensity of work, as every local nose goes to the grindstone.
This year I will dutifully try not to wish summer away- I will jump off the dock, fly off the rope swing- dance my feet off as often as possible (they grow back you know- but only if you dance them off). But will I constantly be looking for signs of fall?
It's likely.
Here's hoping I get to stay here long enough for them to make themselves manifest...
Friday, March 13, 2009
Wall Service Award Proposal
For those who are interested, you can read my project description (the one that I defrauded the elderly and jacked the car in order to send out exactly a month ago- Oh, Fridays the 13ths...) at:
http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dc473sdh_19hk89bqv5
I am happy to say that I was accepted as a finalist, and I will be traveling to Grinnell the first weekend in April to interview. There are five finalists and they grant two awards- so wish me luck! It will be the first time I have been back to Iowa since I graduated. I imagine it's going to be a lot like how I felt when I first had to travel back through Deer Isle-Stonington to get to Isle au Haut- a strange brew of nostaligia and alienation.
http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dc473sdh_19hk89bqv5
I am happy to say that I was accepted as a finalist, and I will be traveling to Grinnell the first weekend in April to interview. There are five finalists and they grant two awards- so wish me luck! It will be the first time I have been back to Iowa since I graduated. I imagine it's going to be a lot like how I felt when I first had to travel back through Deer Isle-Stonington to get to Isle au Haut- a strange brew of nostaligia and alienation.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Lent '09!!! Let's Get This Privation Started!!!
Mud, mud, I love mud...
Seriously. It's March in Maine. Poor March, it gets an even worse rap than November, when really, all it tries to do is show us that our hemisphere is getting serious about a sun-ward tilt. The days get longer, snow starts to melt, occasional days hit fifty degrees. Yes- the melting uncovers a mucky world of murky colors, and many days hit below freezing, but should we begrudge the month itself just because of its position in Earth's orbit? And obviously, March is the best month... somewhere.
In Maine, March offers us Lent! And... town meetings!
Yes. I am trying. And possibly I am trying too hard. But that is because I have 22 days to go until April. And so do you. So work with me. Let's brighten up the month.
Let's talk Lent. I do it every year, so deal. Growing up, I didn't even know what it was. Can you believe how my parents neglected my spiritual upbringing? Bust out the toys for Christmas and the chocolate for Easter, sure- but where was the Ash? The fasting, people, the fasting?! In their defense, my bare-bones religious experience was partly my own fault: I wasn't into the mortification of my flesh (itchy tights were required church wear, which is why I stopped going to church as soon as I was given the choice), so I totally missed out on the best season in the Christian calendar.
Happily I picked up some loosely Catholic/Papist-leaning-Protestant friends along the way, so the season of self-denial was not lost to me forever. Though if you think about it, being denied the knowledge of what could potentially be one's favorite religious practice, which is itself about denial and repentance would be kinda funny. One year I will probably have to give up Lent for Lent.
But this year, I am giving up a food and an action.
Cherry Garcia: consider your self served with legal separation papers. We couldn't go on like we were- the weekly trysts, the frozen yogurt guise of goody-goodness. And no, I won't replace you with some other sweet substance of your cold and milky ilk. To be 100% honest, I have to admit that I unthinkingly partook of some chocolate ice cream last night, but was saved because in many denominations Sundays during Lent are like mini-Easters, and you may relax your avowed aversions. Normally I eschew this weak and namby-pamby loophole, but you know... my memory is not very good, and my ability to self-justify using wiki is excellent. But that's it Cherry Garcia, I won't break again. Ice cream is out. Jeezy Creezy definitely did not have ice cream while wandering in the desert, and this is all about the solidarity.
Also, I am thinking he probably didn't do a lot of recreational lying. Well. Maybe not. Okay, a case could be made that he was all about the recreational lies, and no one got the joke. "No, there was totally this dude, Lazarus..."
But I am going to give it a rest for a while. Because I love lying for fun. And I recognize that really, taking advantage of the gullible is not the kindest mode of humor. This is the hard vow. While I might have opened a container of Schwann's Select Chocolate last night without thinking- it was certainly a more conscious decision than when I automatically begin making sarcastic shit up. Somewhere along the way I whole-heartedly embraced the idea that you should never let truth stand in the way of a good story. To some extent I still stand by this, but there are times that you should just play it straight. So for forty days and nights I will try- I will actually pay attention to what I say- occasionally before I even say it.
So that's the Lent '09 update. To cover all the bases (giving up indulgent food and jerky actions, while adding more prayer and charity), I will try not to recreationally lie to the universe when I talk to it (on a more frequent basis), and I will, you know, continue to lend a hand where and when I can.
In closing, enjoy the Bright Sadness of the season, if only vicariously through me!
Me in my favorite false shirt, which reads "brunette." I also have one
that proclaims me to be a pisces. If I ever bought something
monogrammed, I can assure you, it would not include the initials M, R, C, or W.
Seriously. It's March in Maine. Poor March, it gets an even worse rap than November, when really, all it tries to do is show us that our hemisphere is getting serious about a sun-ward tilt. The days get longer, snow starts to melt, occasional days hit fifty degrees. Yes- the melting uncovers a mucky world of murky colors, and many days hit below freezing, but should we begrudge the month itself just because of its position in Earth's orbit? And obviously, March is the best month... somewhere.
In Maine, March offers us Lent! And... town meetings!
Yes. I am trying. And possibly I am trying too hard. But that is because I have 22 days to go until April. And so do you. So work with me. Let's brighten up the month.
Let's talk Lent. I do it every year, so deal. Growing up, I didn't even know what it was. Can you believe how my parents neglected my spiritual upbringing? Bust out the toys for Christmas and the chocolate for Easter, sure- but where was the Ash? The fasting, people, the fasting?! In their defense, my bare-bones religious experience was partly my own fault: I wasn't into the mortification of my flesh (itchy tights were required church wear, which is why I stopped going to church as soon as I was given the choice), so I totally missed out on the best season in the Christian calendar.
Happily I picked up some loosely Catholic/Papist-leaning-Protestant friends along the way, so the season of self-denial was not lost to me forever. Though if you think about it, being denied the knowledge of what could potentially be one's favorite religious practice, which is itself about denial and repentance would be kinda funny. One year I will probably have to give up Lent for Lent.
But this year, I am giving up a food and an action.
Cherry Garcia: consider your self served with legal separation papers. We couldn't go on like we were- the weekly trysts, the frozen yogurt guise of goody-goodness. And no, I won't replace you with some other sweet substance of your cold and milky ilk. To be 100% honest, I have to admit that I unthinkingly partook of some chocolate ice cream last night, but was saved because in many denominations Sundays during Lent are like mini-Easters, and you may relax your avowed aversions. Normally I eschew this weak and namby-pamby loophole, but you know... my memory is not very good, and my ability to self-justify using wiki is excellent. But that's it Cherry Garcia, I won't break again. Ice cream is out. Jeezy Creezy definitely did not have ice cream while wandering in the desert, and this is all about the solidarity.
Also, I am thinking he probably didn't do a lot of recreational lying. Well. Maybe not. Okay, a case could be made that he was all about the recreational lies, and no one got the joke. "No, there was totally this dude, Lazarus..."
But I am going to give it a rest for a while. Because I love lying for fun. And I recognize that really, taking advantage of the gullible is not the kindest mode of humor. This is the hard vow. While I might have opened a container of Schwann's Select Chocolate last night without thinking- it was certainly a more conscious decision than when I automatically begin making sarcastic shit up. Somewhere along the way I whole-heartedly embraced the idea that you should never let truth stand in the way of a good story. To some extent I still stand by this, but there are times that you should just play it straight. So for forty days and nights I will try- I will actually pay attention to what I say- occasionally before I even say it.
So that's the Lent '09 update. To cover all the bases (giving up indulgent food and jerky actions, while adding more prayer and charity), I will try not to recreationally lie to the universe when I talk to it (on a more frequent basis), and I will, you know, continue to lend a hand where and when I can.
In closing, enjoy the Bright Sadness of the season, if only vicariously through me!
Me in my favorite false shirt, which reads "brunette." I also have one
that proclaims me to be a pisces. If I ever bought something
monogrammed, I can assure you, it would not include the initials M, R, C, or W.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
IAH Squirrel Bait Bundt Cake
3/4 cup butter
1- 1.5 cups sugar (white, raw, honey, something sweet at any rate)
1 tsp vanilla
4 bananas (the ones you otherwise would throw into the compost)
4 eggs
1/2 cup whatever yogurt you have on hand, plain or otherwise
1 Tbspn Baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
3 cups flour (choose your preferred white/wheat ratio)
2 cups chopped nuts, walnuts if you have them, or almonds if you accidentally grab them first.
To top: honey, more chopped nuts. Toast the nuts if you are feeling inspired or obliged.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Grease and flour bundt pan.
Cream together sugar and butter. Add in the vanilla, then bananas, yogurt and eggs. Mix together the dry ingredients (not including the nuts), and come to think of it, throw in some spice- cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves- the usual suspects. Mix the dries into the wets, then add in the nuts. Pour into pan (it's pretty thick), then even out with a wooden spoon or spatula. Put it in the oven for 60-75 minutes- do some chores, take a shower, check your email, etc... toothpick test it to make sure it's done. Flip it onto a wire rack to cool. I find it released pretty easily.
Once plated, drizzle honey on it, then sprinkle with chopped nuts.
Today was a library day. As I opened up the reading room in the town hall, I was greeted by the squirrel who has recently taken up residence in the building. He's already chewed at the door frame and pulled some stuffing out of the cushion on the window seat. He and I had a quick conversation about who had rights to the place, and finally, he ceded some ground and retired to a space behind some filing cabinets. I then had to decide whether to hold the coffee klatsch in the reading room- vermin included, or move the food into the library. Either option was cringe-worthy by mainland standards. Ultimately, I trusted the beastie to behave and set up as per the usual.
1- 1.5 cups sugar (white, raw, honey, something sweet at any rate)
1 tsp vanilla
4 bananas (the ones you otherwise would throw into the compost)
4 eggs
1/2 cup whatever yogurt you have on hand, plain or otherwise
1 Tbspn Baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
3 cups flour (choose your preferred white/wheat ratio)
2 cups chopped nuts, walnuts if you have them, or almonds if you accidentally grab them first.
To top: honey, more chopped nuts. Toast the nuts if you are feeling inspired or obliged.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Grease and flour bundt pan.
Cream together sugar and butter. Add in the vanilla, then bananas, yogurt and eggs. Mix together the dry ingredients (not including the nuts), and come to think of it, throw in some spice- cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves- the usual suspects. Mix the dries into the wets, then add in the nuts. Pour into pan (it's pretty thick), then even out with a wooden spoon or spatula. Put it in the oven for 60-75 minutes- do some chores, take a shower, check your email, etc... toothpick test it to make sure it's done. Flip it onto a wire rack to cool. I find it released pretty easily.
Once plated, drizzle honey on it, then sprinkle with chopped nuts.
Today was a library day. As I opened up the reading room in the town hall, I was greeted by the squirrel who has recently taken up residence in the building. He's already chewed at the door frame and pulled some stuffing out of the cushion on the window seat. He and I had a quick conversation about who had rights to the place, and finally, he ceded some ground and retired to a space behind some filing cabinets. I then had to decide whether to hold the coffee klatsch in the reading room- vermin included, or move the food into the library. Either option was cringe-worthy by mainland standards. Ultimately, I trusted the beastie to behave and set up as per the usual.
I did issue warnings as people showed up- anyone spleeny about animals could opt out of coffee and cake. The problem with verbal warnings is that people have to take you at your word. When the construction crew from the house next door appeared promptly at nine, they didn't believe me. To test my veracity, one of them banged on the squirrel's hiding place, which spurred him into action- he instantly streaked across the room, nothing but a brown blur of fur. He escaped to the space between another bank of filing cabinets and the stove top. I was putting on the water for tea at the time, and did not appreciate having a rodential bullet aimed in my general direction. There might have been a choice vocalization on my part. I am all for squirrels in nature, but not in close quarters. Can't imagine the squirrel was very happy with my company either. In the end he didn't even get any cake. I would feel bad, but he'd messed with Lisa's window seat cushion. And anyone on IAH knows better than to mess with Lisa. The rodent is on his own.
At any rate, that was the entertainment for the morning- well that and slapping together the aforementioned cake in a sleepy and non-caffinated fashion. I love baked goods that actually forgive improvisation. And, no lies- although I hate cleaning the pan, I love bundt cakes. So easy to make pretty.
At any rate, that was the entertainment for the morning- well that and slapping together the aforementioned cake in a sleepy and non-caffinated fashion. I love baked goods that actually forgive improvisation. And, no lies- although I hate cleaning the pan, I love bundt cakes. So easy to make pretty.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Unlocking a new level
Was invited to eat clams and drink with a house full of lobstermen tonight. Brought my well-considered sass and my post-supper stomach. Only woman there. Which bespeaks trust on two levels: I trusted them not to be pigs, and they trusted me not to be a judgmental prig (I am the Health teacher/librarian). The trust was well-founded all around, and a good time was had.
This has been a most fascinating journey, socially speaking.
This has been a most fascinating journey, socially speaking.
Monday, February 23, 2009
John Calvin in Love
Here's my belated Valentine's post. A Protestant take on love for a Catholic saint's day.
I'm a trickle down Puritan. While I wasn't made to go to church very much, I wound up solidly versed in the ethos of competency (working for a modest life, not a particularly luxurious one), the repression of vanity (focus on the interior, not externals), and the idea that grace is beyond our control- one works to do good in the world for the sake of doing good, not in expectation of a reward (though wouldn't it be nice...).
I've not given a great deal of thought to the afterlife. I don't believe in brimstone-scented damnation, of that I am certain. Reincarnation is a lovely idea, as is warm comfy nothingness. Cold nothingness seems a bit bleak. If we are talking belief, then hell, I am going to believe that nothingness can be warm and comfy. So if I am- clearly- not thinking a lot about the next life, and my thoughts about my past lives are simple (servant, peasant, serf, menial... ), than logically I must be focusing my Calvinistic lens on my current life.
In case anyone had missed the memo, I'm verging on thirty, am unattached, and I've successfully put a seven-mile moat between myself and most potential suitors. Also, I have put together the beginnings of a thesis on spinsters in America. At a glance these facts might lead one to believe that I am subconsciously averse to partnership, or am deeply deeply confused regarding how to go about finding a mate/helpmeet. Perhaps one has a point.
As I've looked around at partnerships, I've see mediocre ones, craptastic ones, and pretty damned good ones. I have an increasing number of friends pairing off. Life as a single woman on the island has made me realize how much easier this particular lifestyle would be with a good partner. Now that I am starting to think I might just prefer to be partnered, the whole mysterious process has got me thinking in a typically ersatz-Puritan fashion. I am beginning to wonder (idly?) if partnership is a predestined thing, like Calvin's salvation. Some people are going to get the bomb-diggety and some people are just going to bomb- and it is out of your hands as to which category you will fall into.
Doesn't keep a body from trying anyway.
As someone who seeks out isolated living circumstances, and generally pushes against men who would press their advances, it'd stand to reason that I am actively sabotaging my chances for a relationship. Geography and self-protective reserve aside, I actually have spent much of my life trying to become the sort of person I think would make a cracker-jack mate. Misguidedly I might have even become the person I've become in hopes of reward... I endeavor to be generally even-tempered, empathetic, generous of spirit, good-humored, and the type of person who can carry her own weight as much as possible. I am by no means ideal, but I would suspect I am passable.
If working to be a decent human being somehow earned you partnership points, I could theoretically be able to redeem them 'round about now, right? While my eggs are viable?
Here you could insert a tormented Puritan treatise on how despite my best internal efforts, I cannot assume I will be chosen. Oh wait... that's the gist of this post.
I know- I can move off the island, peruse Craig's list, facebook, list on eHarmony, etc... I would have advertised for a mailorder groom, but as my mother pointed out, I haven't been monetarily ambitious enough to afford one (I'd naively thought I wouldn't have to pay- unbridged island off the coast of Maine+ decent woman= sign me up!... right?). Stupid belief in competency is going to ruin my chances at coupling off. Oh well, as long as I have purpose... I can get along well enough 'til I hit the warm comfy nothingness. Secretly I really am hoping death is like an eternal nap in a warm fluffy bed. I could dig that. I love to nap- Puritan work ethic be damned.
And if this last bit is reading as all dark and morbid just know that I am writing this while comfy in bed, and about to go to sleep for the night, so mostly I am just looking forward to bedtime and it is bleeding into this post...
Friday, February 13, 2009
Friday the 13th: Cause for Fraud and Carjacking, Island-Style
While I have not written for this blargh lately, I have been writing. My alma mater offers an annual alumni service award of $20,000-$25,000 for projects that "provide tangible benefit to others." That's the criteria. It can be a domestic project or an international project. It can create a new program, or support an already existing one. It can fund materials and it can fund manpower.
So I figured it should fund another year of service work for me on the island.
Cut here to a super sweet montage of me wearing my glasses and brainstorming with sharpies on a large sketch pad; furrowing my brow at my computer as I draft the language; slaving over an old school adding machine as I calculate my budget; and batting my eyelashes at people for their letters of recommendation... then cut to printing out the final proposal. Reductionist montages are the bomb. Now I will remember the process as fun and peppy. Did I mention that in this montage, I am played by Kristin Bell of Veronica Mars fame or some similarly impossibly cute actress who evokes eternal adolescence?
The preparation of the proposal has to be a montage, because the real meat of the effort came in posting it. Suffice it to say, that the very last realistic minute I could possibly post this proposal and have it maybe get in on time was Friday, February 13th, 2009, at 7:40 a.m. The mailboat leaves the dock at eight, and it is is always a crap shoot as to when the mail will be brought to the boat from our lilliputian post office.
The printing out? That happened at 6:45. I finished filling out the last blanks on the application itself at 6:53. By 7:00 I had thrown everything into my messenger bag and was out the door and on my way to run a very important errand.
Which is to say I needed to go see if I had left both my wallet and checkbook at the town hall. We are a mellow people on the island, but since the Post Office is about as formal as it gets here, I assumed I would in fact need to provide our post mistress with some form of payment if I wanted my pages shipped to Iowa in an expeditious fashion. Knowing I might have to back track, I was prepared to sprint.
I hopped along in the spaces between the ice on my drive way, shouted a greeting at the herd of deer who were meandering on the road up the hill, and then turned myself down the hill toward town. It's a cold and windy day, so my sprint only lasted about 2/3 of the way to the town hall. I arrived red cheeked and breathing heavy. Normally, I could have just barged in, visually ransacked the place, and got on with life- but today for the first time in ages- we had people staying overnight. In the very portion of the town hall I needed to search.
After confirming the situation by gazing though the crack in the door, I gently knocked. Having received a groggy response, I began to explain:
"Uh, hi. I think I left my wallet and checkbook in this room, and I kind of need them to get a grant proposal out in the mail... um... are you decent?"
Once I had their assurances, I entered the room. Have you ever walked in on total strangers first thing in the morning when they are all sleepy and in bed? Weird. It's just weird.
And of course my wallet and checkbook were not there.
Which did not phase me in the least, though I did emit a few "frickety frick fricks!!!!" I checked the library itself, then sprinted back to my house- waving to the schoolteacher as she drove past. Once home, I picked up my phone and dialed my neighbor's number. Her boarder (previously referred to as Spacey- he of the truck in my driveway) answered. Damn it.
"Weeeeeeeell... Marion's heeeeeeeeeeeeere... but I think she is in beeeeeeeeehd... What's this aboooout?"
Damn it damn it damn it.
In my best flustered annoyed woman voice, I passive aggressively made my case:
"Oh no... Nooooo... It'll be okay I guuuuuuuess... will just have to call Paula. And go down to the school..."
As I hemmed and hawed and said it would be okay, he was beginning to say "well I guess I can wake her up" and before long, Marion was in the background asking if it was for her.
Bingo. She'd spent a lot of time last night at book club discussing her morning routine (and how Spacey's ten year old daughter needed to be told to not call until after 7 a.m., rather than 5:30 a.m.), so I was pretty sure that she would have been awake at the very least.
"Good morning Marion! It's after seven o'clock! How would you like to invest in the future of this town?"
"How much will it cost me, and will it involve getting sand for these roads?"
"Well, it'll cost first classy overnight postage to Iowa."
Now it speaks to the awesomeness of neighbors that Marion heard "first class passage to Iowa" and was willing to pony up hundreds of dollars in airfare, and just thought "well, good for Morgan!" We did pretty quickly hammer out that it would actually just be airfare for an envelope, which wouldn't run more than twenty bucks. I ran across the street, arriving at the door before Spacey had even set down the phone. Marion made her way down the stairs and to her cash stash, and we laughed about my wallet, and the misunderstanding; she handed me the money, and I flew out the door.
Turing down the hill (once again), I saw the teacher- returned from getting her mail- backing her car into the driveway across from the school. Magic. I hurtled myself down the hill, and arrived at her vehicle, just as she had gotten out.
"P...Paula. C'n I borrow your car to go to the post office?"
She looked at me like I was mildly crazy, but shrugged that of course, I could use it any time.
Into the car (one of the few mainland-worthy cars on this entire rock), and down the road. I had no clue what time it was, only that I was on it. I gently threw my shoulder against the post office door to budge it open, and made my hello to the post mistress, who was invisible behind the counter. When I first arrived here I was terrified of this frail looking and nearly silent older woman, but I spent the last year and a half proving that I was staying a spell, making myself useful, and have good manners, so she's thawed toward me a considerable amount. I have also been working with her grandson, so I daresay that helps.
I explained my needs, and got the express envelope. I have to say they should make the labels larger. People who need to use express mail are likely to also be suffering from an adrenaline rush. Legibly scripting an address in a small space when one's out of breath and trembling is not an easy task. But hot damn, if not having money couldn't stop me, neither would the spatial inconsideration of the United States Postal Service. I rifled through my messenger bag for the flowy fine tipped pen I had thrown in for just such a task. In my rush I had forgotten which pocket the pen went in, and as I went to pat down the interior of the bag, I glanced into the empty gloom and saw a sticker.
An admission sticker for the Victoria Mansion in Portland. Which is stuck over an admission sticker to the Farnsworth. Which is stuck to my wallet. Groping for my wallet, I also felt my checkbook, which (incidentally) matches the inside of the bag. Heh heh heh. My lucky day. I didn't even have to use Marion's money. Pay to the order of "Post Master..."
Once I had passed the envelope and check to Dottie, I even had the presence of mind to check the library mail and collect my own. I passed another neighbor on the way to the school and we exchanged grins over the fact I was in Paula's car- a perfect transport, which I lovingly put back in its proper place. I tripped happily up the hill to Marion's, walked in, and handed back the cash, then sat down to jaw over the morning's events, the proposal, and the state of the roads.
At some point here, I need to make some Valentine's Day cupcakes for the school's post-workshop steel drum concert (hence the strangers in the hall). But for now? I was coffeed and breakfasted by 4a.m. I am going to take a nap in this delicious sunlight, on this comfy couch, lulled by the bluster of the wind.
So I figured it should fund another year of service work for me on the island.
Cut here to a super sweet montage of me wearing my glasses and brainstorming with sharpies on a large sketch pad; furrowing my brow at my computer as I draft the language; slaving over an old school adding machine as I calculate my budget; and batting my eyelashes at people for their letters of recommendation... then cut to printing out the final proposal. Reductionist montages are the bomb. Now I will remember the process as fun and peppy. Did I mention that in this montage, I am played by Kristin Bell of Veronica Mars fame or some similarly impossibly cute actress who evokes eternal adolescence?
The preparation of the proposal has to be a montage, because the real meat of the effort came in posting it. Suffice it to say, that the very last realistic minute I could possibly post this proposal and have it maybe get in on time was Friday, February 13th, 2009, at 7:40 a.m. The mailboat leaves the dock at eight, and it is is always a crap shoot as to when the mail will be brought to the boat from our lilliputian post office.
The printing out? That happened at 6:45. I finished filling out the last blanks on the application itself at 6:53. By 7:00 I had thrown everything into my messenger bag and was out the door and on my way to run a very important errand.
Which is to say I needed to go see if I had left both my wallet and checkbook at the town hall. We are a mellow people on the island, but since the Post Office is about as formal as it gets here, I assumed I would in fact need to provide our post mistress with some form of payment if I wanted my pages shipped to Iowa in an expeditious fashion. Knowing I might have to back track, I was prepared to sprint.
I hopped along in the spaces between the ice on my drive way, shouted a greeting at the herd of deer who were meandering on the road up the hill, and then turned myself down the hill toward town. It's a cold and windy day, so my sprint only lasted about 2/3 of the way to the town hall. I arrived red cheeked and breathing heavy. Normally, I could have just barged in, visually ransacked the place, and got on with life- but today for the first time in ages- we had people staying overnight. In the very portion of the town hall I needed to search.
After confirming the situation by gazing though the crack in the door, I gently knocked. Having received a groggy response, I began to explain:
"Uh, hi. I think I left my wallet and checkbook in this room, and I kind of need them to get a grant proposal out in the mail... um... are you decent?"
Once I had their assurances, I entered the room. Have you ever walked in on total strangers first thing in the morning when they are all sleepy and in bed? Weird. It's just weird.
And of course my wallet and checkbook were not there.
Which did not phase me in the least, though I did emit a few "frickety frick fricks!!!!" I checked the library itself, then sprinted back to my house- waving to the schoolteacher as she drove past. Once home, I picked up my phone and dialed my neighbor's number. Her boarder (previously referred to as Spacey- he of the truck in my driveway) answered. Damn it.
"Weeeeeeeell... Marion's heeeeeeeeeeeeere... but I think she is in beeeeeeeeehd... What's this aboooout?"
Damn it damn it damn it.
In my best flustered annoyed woman voice, I passive aggressively made my case:
"Oh no... Nooooo... It'll be okay I guuuuuuuess... will just have to call Paula. And go down to the school..."
As I hemmed and hawed and said it would be okay, he was beginning to say "well I guess I can wake her up" and before long, Marion was in the background asking if it was for her.
Bingo. She'd spent a lot of time last night at book club discussing her morning routine (and how Spacey's ten year old daughter needed to be told to not call until after 7 a.m., rather than 5:30 a.m.), so I was pretty sure that she would have been awake at the very least.
"Good morning Marion! It's after seven o'clock! How would you like to invest in the future of this town?"
"How much will it cost me, and will it involve getting sand for these roads?"
"Well, it'll cost first classy overnight postage to Iowa."
Now it speaks to the awesomeness of neighbors that Marion heard "first class passage to Iowa" and was willing to pony up hundreds of dollars in airfare, and just thought "well, good for Morgan!" We did pretty quickly hammer out that it would actually just be airfare for an envelope, which wouldn't run more than twenty bucks. I ran across the street, arriving at the door before Spacey had even set down the phone. Marion made her way down the stairs and to her cash stash, and we laughed about my wallet, and the misunderstanding; she handed me the money, and I flew out the door.
Turing down the hill (once again), I saw the teacher- returned from getting her mail- backing her car into the driveway across from the school. Magic. I hurtled myself down the hill, and arrived at her vehicle, just as she had gotten out.
"P...Paula. C'n I borrow your car to go to the post office?"
She looked at me like I was mildly crazy, but shrugged that of course, I could use it any time.
Into the car (one of the few mainland-worthy cars on this entire rock), and down the road. I had no clue what time it was, only that I was on it. I gently threw my shoulder against the post office door to budge it open, and made my hello to the post mistress, who was invisible behind the counter. When I first arrived here I was terrified of this frail looking and nearly silent older woman, but I spent the last year and a half proving that I was staying a spell, making myself useful, and have good manners, so she's thawed toward me a considerable amount. I have also been working with her grandson, so I daresay that helps.
I explained my needs, and got the express envelope. I have to say they should make the labels larger. People who need to use express mail are likely to also be suffering from an adrenaline rush. Legibly scripting an address in a small space when one's out of breath and trembling is not an easy task. But hot damn, if not having money couldn't stop me, neither would the spatial inconsideration of the United States Postal Service. I rifled through my messenger bag for the flowy fine tipped pen I had thrown in for just such a task. In my rush I had forgotten which pocket the pen went in, and as I went to pat down the interior of the bag, I glanced into the empty gloom and saw a sticker.
An admission sticker for the Victoria Mansion in Portland. Which is stuck over an admission sticker to the Farnsworth. Which is stuck to my wallet. Groping for my wallet, I also felt my checkbook, which (incidentally) matches the inside of the bag. Heh heh heh. My lucky day. I didn't even have to use Marion's money. Pay to the order of "Post Master..."
Once I had passed the envelope and check to Dottie, I even had the presence of mind to check the library mail and collect my own. I passed another neighbor on the way to the school and we exchanged grins over the fact I was in Paula's car- a perfect transport, which I lovingly put back in its proper place. I tripped happily up the hill to Marion's, walked in, and handed back the cash, then sat down to jaw over the morning's events, the proposal, and the state of the roads.
At some point here, I need to make some Valentine's Day cupcakes for the school's post-workshop steel drum concert (hence the strangers in the hall). But for now? I was coffeed and breakfasted by 4a.m. I am going to take a nap in this delicious sunlight, on this comfy couch, lulled by the bluster of the wind.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Shouting into the Abyss With Mr. May
One must keep one's promises.
While I was on the dock, yes, I dropped to my knees. And having rambled on a bit, I looked up to the sky and saw the first star of the night.
"Star light star bright, first star I see tonight...
I wish I may, I wish I might
Have this wish I wish tonight..."
And then you have to think real hard. I almost said "I wish I knew if you were a star or a satellite." Happily I manage to squelch that one, 'cause it would be the stupidest wish of all time. And then you struggle- world peace, or a wii?
Or in my case, you smirk and say "please send me my true love!"
Knowing full well the universe is going to twist it into a wry joke. But you know- there are worse things than excellent companionship.
So I walk home, and don't think about it much again.
And during dinner my phone rings, and the voice on the other end is rich like a good alcohol- belonging to exactly the person I needed to talk to. The man outside my family I have loved the longest and the most.
Take that, disgruntled reader.
While I was on the dock, yes, I dropped to my knees. And having rambled on a bit, I looked up to the sky and saw the first star of the night.
"Star light star bright, first star I see tonight...
I wish I may, I wish I might
Have this wish I wish tonight..."
And then you have to think real hard. I almost said "I wish I knew if you were a star or a satellite." Happily I manage to squelch that one, 'cause it would be the stupidest wish of all time. And then you struggle- world peace, or a wii?
Or in my case, you smirk and say "please send me my true love!"
Knowing full well the universe is going to twist it into a wry joke. But you know- there are worse things than excellent companionship.
So I walk home, and don't think about it much again.
And during dinner my phone rings, and the voice on the other end is rich like a good alcohol- belonging to exactly the person I needed to talk to. The man outside my family I have loved the longest and the most.
Take that, disgruntled reader.
Sea Bricks
Of late, I have spent a lot of time staring at this computer screen- for a variety of reasons. None of which have involved blogging, obviously. So after work on Monday, despite feeling achy and cranky, I headed up the hill for some fresh air. I had written it in my calendar: "400:-5:30, go outside. Seriously." If it's written on the calendar, you have no choice but to obey, right? For a while, I have been longing to really go adventuring- to a place I am less familiar with, but with limited daylight and energy the landing at the Point is a pretty decent compromise.
Happily the familiar quickly becomes more interesting when you stray from the path. Part way to the dock, I looked out at the ebbing tide as it pulled away from a surprisingly sandy strand. It had been a very warm day (almost forty degrees), and I was thinking "huh, maybe it's time for another dip." I ambled down to the shore, knelt at the edge of the water and stuck in my hand.
Well, hell. A month ago it seemed much warmer. But then a month ago we hadn't had any sustained hard cold. Almost as soon as I submerged my hand, I pulled it right back out, bright pink with pain. Oh well, spring's not far, and I did in fact go in January.
There are other amusements that require less fortitude. Gauging the quality of the gravel, I switched my attention to finding beach glass. Secretly? I'm an adept. It had been a long time since I'd done any serious looking- since I'd even been on the right kind of beach. And this was a nice little section. Everybody's got their favorite pieces, right? I myself am fond of pieces that look like chunks of ice. So I was pleased when- thinking about this preference- I immediately spotted a such a piece. In winter it's especially fun, because correctly distinguishing ice-like glass from actual ice is a challenge.
For a good half-hour I paced, filling my pocket. And then I found a bit that was deep turquoise. Finding a cobalt is nice, but this color- it was a color I had never found broken on a beach. This might even be more rare than a true red.
But it still had an edge. And so I had to make a decision.
It barely made a splash as it hit the water.
So the contents of my pocket stayed uniformly pastel. Well. Not entirely. This beach had bricks. The softest looking bricks- surfaces worn quite smooth- more akin to sponge than stone. Salty to the taste. First one pocket sagged. Then another.
At this point, the light was beginning to play out, and I had yet to reach my destination. I climbed back up to the road and made my way to the Point's landing, which offers a nice view down the thoroughfare, and of the sunset over the back of Kimball's Island. It rests on a massive granite foundation as if it were a set for an insurance ad; the lumber is stained beige, the fascist color of summer colony decor. This intrusion into the tidal zone is as cliche as the town dock, with its rotting pilings and rickety winch. I guess they are both honest.
We've had more snow, and sleet, and ice. The slats on the dock were slick, and despite my yax trax, my distance from the edge, and the railing, I could still see myself plunging into that unrelentingly frigid water, still near the high tide mark. Looking down I gauged the distance I would have to swim, the time it would take, and the weight of my clothes. Goner. Moreover, if I fell in such a sheltered spot they might find my body.
And the bricks.
Funny: she had just made plans to do some more Algebra tutoring. Funny: the expression-obsessed left no note. But she had bricks in her pockets... Who knows what sorrow drove her to it? Wait- didn't her ex-boyfriend give her a brick last Christmas?
The bricks and I made it home, safe and sound. They are sitting next to me right now, pleasing to the touch, and in no way complicit.
Happily the familiar quickly becomes more interesting when you stray from the path. Part way to the dock, I looked out at the ebbing tide as it pulled away from a surprisingly sandy strand. It had been a very warm day (almost forty degrees), and I was thinking "huh, maybe it's time for another dip." I ambled down to the shore, knelt at the edge of the water and stuck in my hand.
Well, hell. A month ago it seemed much warmer. But then a month ago we hadn't had any sustained hard cold. Almost as soon as I submerged my hand, I pulled it right back out, bright pink with pain. Oh well, spring's not far, and I did in fact go in January.
There are other amusements that require less fortitude. Gauging the quality of the gravel, I switched my attention to finding beach glass. Secretly? I'm an adept. It had been a long time since I'd done any serious looking- since I'd even been on the right kind of beach. And this was a nice little section. Everybody's got their favorite pieces, right? I myself am fond of pieces that look like chunks of ice. So I was pleased when- thinking about this preference- I immediately spotted a such a piece. In winter it's especially fun, because correctly distinguishing ice-like glass from actual ice is a challenge.
For a good half-hour I paced, filling my pocket. And then I found a bit that was deep turquoise. Finding a cobalt is nice, but this color- it was a color I had never found broken on a beach. This might even be more rare than a true red.
But it still had an edge. And so I had to make a decision.
It barely made a splash as it hit the water.
So the contents of my pocket stayed uniformly pastel. Well. Not entirely. This beach had bricks. The softest looking bricks- surfaces worn quite smooth- more akin to sponge than stone. Salty to the taste. First one pocket sagged. Then another.
At this point, the light was beginning to play out, and I had yet to reach my destination. I climbed back up to the road and made my way to the Point's landing, which offers a nice view down the thoroughfare, and of the sunset over the back of Kimball's Island. It rests on a massive granite foundation as if it were a set for an insurance ad; the lumber is stained beige, the fascist color of summer colony decor. This intrusion into the tidal zone is as cliche as the town dock, with its rotting pilings and rickety winch. I guess they are both honest.
We've had more snow, and sleet, and ice. The slats on the dock were slick, and despite my yax trax, my distance from the edge, and the railing, I could still see myself plunging into that unrelentingly frigid water, still near the high tide mark. Looking down I gauged the distance I would have to swim, the time it would take, and the weight of my clothes. Goner. Moreover, if I fell in such a sheltered spot they might find my body.
And the bricks.
Funny: she had just made plans to do some more Algebra tutoring. Funny: the expression-obsessed left no note. But she had bricks in her pockets... Who knows what sorrow drove her to it? Wait- didn't her ex-boyfriend give her a brick last Christmas?
The bricks and I made it home, safe and sound. They are sitting next to me right now, pleasing to the touch, and in no way complicit.
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