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.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
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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