Matrimonial Application Update

- Applications must include references from any and all ex-wives.

- If the applicant has children, applicant must include school records and proof that vaccinations are up to date. Obviously there will also be individual interviews with the children. While children may be "our future," I am pretty selective about children being my future.

Sunday, Are You Testing Me?

My next door neighbor has a man boarding with her during the week, one of the press of builders staying on the island for the winter. What is, I wonder, the official collective noun for construction workers? A brace of workers? A break of workers? In the case of my erstwhile men, a joint of workers?

At any rate, this particular worker (let us call him Spacey) is a very nice man. But as my neighbor put it "he is just plain irresponsible." She says this in the tone of a mother shaking her head over her adolescent son- and indeed, she has a son about Spacey's age... but that age is early-fifty-something. When she had said this I'd wondered how irresponsibility would manifest itself in this kindly middle-aged man.

I need to stop wondering things.

After a few weeks of leaving his truck in my driveway, Spacey and my neighbor separately got around to asking if was okay for Spacey to do so. I told them it was fine, but that he needed to be out of the way when there was plowing or fuel deliveries- because the fuel hose can't reach my house unless my driveway is plowed and free of other vehicles. That said, all was fine and there was neighborliness all around- Spacey happened to be heading out last week when I needed to haul things to the library (on my sled in the bitching cold), and gave me a ride. Rockwell could've painted a picture.

Today is a day of heavy snow. It started before I was even up, but I was sure to get up early, knowing that I would have to move Spacey's truck. He had blithely left it at the base of my driveway when he departed for the weekend. Cranky that he hadn't thought to move it and that I hadn't thought to stipulate that he needed to pull it up out of the way, I got dressed and headed out to move the thing myself. If I could get it further up the driveway it would leave enough room to plow and for the fuel truck to get in (the hose is about fifteen feet short). Spacey could shovel out his damned truck when he got back.

In my heart of hearts, I knew it couldn't be this easy. It is, after all, the island- a place where vehicles are put out to pasture. A magical realm that requires no inspection or registration. All it requires is that a vehicle run... most of the time. Funny thing about "most of the time:" it is measured on a yearly average. So in the summer, for example, my vehicle (an '80 something VW Golf, with minimal brakes and equally flimsy rear window) starts nearly 100% of the time, but when the temps dip to 37 degrees or so, it starts not at all. And I stop trying to start it. So, statistically speaking, while it is a vehicle that runs most of the time, it currently starts none of the time.

Spacey's truck is of a similar age and temperament.

I brushed off the inch and a half of snow that had already accumulated, and opened the door- which only gave about six inches, then snapped right back. It was (of course) being held shut by an internal bungee cord system. I released said cord, and slipped into the driver's seat, hooking the bungee back into place. I contemplated the shiny pedals. It had been a while- since the first hard freeze- but a standard is a standard is a standard. Using the steering wheel for purchase, I hitched my cold ass to the very edge of the seat so that I could fully push in the clutch and brake. I turned the key in the ignition. My heart sank, but was not surprised when it politely turned over a couple of times, failed to catch, and then sighed at me- "really darling, aren't we both a little old for this pretense?"

Oh, truck.

Ah, fuck...

Scones and Marriage

As I have mentioned before, I help to hold library hours on Wednesday mornings- during that time, the library is open and we provide coffee, tea, and baked goods for anyone who comes to visit. Oh- books too, if any one is interested. During the ten week period this winter that my advisor is in Rhode Island and Florida, I will be holding down the fort by myself, along with anyone I can get to volunteer to bake.

Last year this was easy: a batch of scones, a batch of lemon curd; biscotti if I woke really early on the ambitious side of the bed. Last year the island had more people, but fewer crews of construction workers. The crews are prompt, and show up at precisely 9:30. On Wednesday, I made a double batch of scones (one batch ginger, one batch cranberry), and they were almost all gone by 9:54. A polite group, they donated money to the cause and asked for seconds, rather than just taking. Sadly, given the time (early yet) and what was left (almost nothing), I had to ration (horrors!).

The addition of ginger was a new twist to the scone recipe. Normally we have two different baked items- one from my advisor, and one from me; while I was not up to making two completely separate recipes, I did still want to provide two flavors. Working with what I had, crystalized ginger seemed the best option. I bake with cranberries a lot, and I enjoy how they give you a nice little kick in the teeth, so I was worrying ginger might be too subtle. I will never worry again. The basic recipe has lemon zest in it, and the lemon paired with the ginger was pretty heavenly- flavorful and elegant.

Which is why one of the workers asked me "Morgan, are you married?"

Since he implied rather than proposed outright, I will consider this my 2.5th proposal. The first proposal came in a London pub when I was seventeen: I turned it down because it was delivered by proxy. The second was on the street in Portland, issued by a big tattooed man among big tattooed men with motorcycles. I blushed and said, "but you don't even know my name!" To which he responded "but I know I love you!" I warmly thanked him for his interest and moved on.

To the construction worker, I responded "No, I am not married, and it's a strenuous application process."

Which does rather beg the question, "well, what is the process?"

I spent a lot of time looking at colleges, and I think it shows.

-Copy of school records, k-12. Attendence awards, or detentions...which makes a better candidate? I'm not saying.

-College Transcript, official copy. If no formal secondary education, I accept written essays on why one opted out of formal secondary education. If illiterate or verging on it, I accept exceedingly well drawn and imaginative cartoon explanations.

-Six letters of recommendation. One must be from candidate's mother.

-Personal essays:
1.) Why me? The flattery should be well-crafted and show attention to detail.
2.) What are your skills and qualifications for domestic partnership?
3.) Philosophy of marriage. Must address the the Children Issue; the wise will also address negotiating chores in a two-income household.

While we would like to claim admission is blind, we will not. Include photos. Video is acceptable.

If a candidate's application makes it through the initial review board (myself and my closest friends), interviews will be scheduled: the first round will require that the candidate's three best friends meet with me (proof of friendship must be provided- follow US immigration procedure for proof of relationship for marriage).

If that round is successful, the candidate will be invited to an interview on-island. This will be a tripartite interview, consisting of a morning at library hours, an afternoon hiking with me, and an evening drinking with the my honorary island family.

If the island interview is successful, the candidate will go on to interview with numerous members of my family, and will have to take a final exam on how they are all related to me. This will take the form of drawing the family tree; and no, the framework will not be provided.

Application fees are on a sliding scale.
The admission process is subject to change.

No Magician, I...

I've been distracted, and have had little specific desire to blog, since- believe it or not- it does require some clarity of thought and purpose. My mind is a muddle, and what little focus it can claim for its own, it actually owes to my work. All of the delight and wonder packed into the finale of 2008 has made for a rough opening to 2009. Not that life in this eleven-day-old year is without its merit, not by a long shot; it is just that deadlines piled up and my role in the community has blossomed to the point where my head spins with the variety of things I need to do.

Of course, I would be the first to confess that my ability to multitask verges on abysmal, so it doesn't take much to set my head a-whirl. Add to that my failure to cleanly pull the table cloth of companionship from beneath the settings of my day-to-day existence, and I am pretty well screwed- at least for a few weeks yet.

I will fill in the record once I have space in my head and some small energy for revelation.

Room to Roam

So the resolution I care most about, in many ways, I didn't write down while tipsy. That is, if it is not below twenty-five degrees and blowing like a bastard or persistently precipitating, I will get outside and get some fresh air, whether walking, hiking, swimming or sledding. Last year, and through the summer, I lived as though I were house-bound. Mostly it was ignorance of the island and its geography, and not yet feeling like I had any rights to the place.

This obviously changed with the dissolution of my Portland-based relationship, and with the tenuous threads of belonging I'd spun for myself. Also, at long last, I had a guide. As evidenced by the posts here, my view of the island widened; the shy girl lifted her eyes.

Two days ago, after stocking up on necessities (whole wheat flour, blueberries), I headed out into the advancing day well before sunset, so that I might climb Champlain and try descending by the trail that goes down its Northeast side. It is a pleasant hike up- there's a lovely stand of stunted pine that always makes me smile. All was well- I reached the top in plenty of daylight.

And was assaulted with associations, the sharpness and strength of which I did not expect.

So I made no delay in seeking out the opening I'd been shown that would lead me down the fresh path. No ghosts of companionship past on this side of the hill. It just felt like a parting gift, in line with everything else he gave me- thoughtlessly perfect. This side is substantially steeper, and the trail not always as clear: there was the occasional cairn; I had to read the huckleberries. Once in a while I would lose it and consider that I might need to just retrace my steps. But I trusted that I would find the way, and eventually emerged on the main road.

A note on handling slippery slopes:



I didn't stay on the road for long- sometimes you just go a little woods queer and want to stay invisible, or need to prolong the journey. I turned into Rich's Cove, another summer settlement, though substantially less pretentious than the Point. There I found the perfect rope swing. Is there any better thing in this world than a length of thick rope, knotted in a few strategic places, secured to a sturdy tree? I pulled it up a rocky incline, grasped the top knot, and jumped, swinging my legs around the large bottom knot as I whipped through the air.

It was not the end of my adventuring for the day, though it was the last major event before I wandered home in the twilight. There was one more small act of significance. Before I left, I climbed down into the curve of the cove, knelt at the water. Yes it's January, but the inlet is not yet all that cold.