People Move to an Isolated Island for a Reason.

Finding a place to hide...


I am off island today, and though I am warm and secure in the bosom of my family, I am being oppressed by my own dense introversion. In prior posts I had mentioned having a second date with the uptown man? Well, he has tried to get in touch with me, and set something up- but here it is, the day of the potential date, and I have been ruthlessly elusive. I did not call, I did not write- I am a complete ass.

This morning I am telling myself that I will call once I have thoroughly analyzed this Diana-like tendency toward flight. I am always guy-shy, and I am almost pathologically phone shy. In a normal week I might have marshalled my energies and prepared some sort of response, but this week was so intensely social that I failed completely to measure up to the lowest standards of etiquette. How is it that I have had such a terrible time responding to what was a perfectly reasonable invitation? Who wouldn't want to be squired to a speakeasy evening in a nice restaurant?

Me, it would seem.

I packed the clothes for it, make-up even. Could probably manage to dig up decent shoes in the archives of my wardrobe past.

But I don't know where I would find the energy to put on my bourgeois extrovert. After a week of seemingly non-stop social interaction on island, my dealing-with-peeps/presentability reserves are at dangerous lows. Especially given the need to deal with masculine attention. Seriously, I don't know how accomplished flirts do it. I expect that they are not INFPs. Do you know how much guile, patience, and tolerance for awkwardness it takes to not kiss someone after a late-night hike? Or after a nice dinner and a walk in the fog? It takes serious ovaries to put down my size six foot in a way that is tactful-ish and not teasing. I am not quite at the point where I will just bust out with "Nope. No Sugar. Nice try, wrong mark." I clearly need a new pair of Docs.

After one whole week of cat and mouse, this spinster is wiped. I love hikes, walks, tree climbing, cranberries, dinner, and interesting company, I just don't like the underlying implications and expectations. Perhaps for those who know me, it is less than surprising that I prefer the quiet narrow boy, who would probably just as soon elude me! We could carefully ignore each other and be perfectly content.

And I might get some fricking work done.

All Tuckered Out

The hectic pace of this week never lessened. I don't know how there manages to be so much happening on an island of sixty some-odd people, but I do know that I am one tired woman. Now where was I? Moonlit hikes, tree climbing, clinging to my inner Yankee?

Yes, that sounds familiar. It has been a whirlwind. I believe that Tuesday night I stayed in. Wednesday I retraced my steps up Champlain, climbed the tree alone and in the light of day, then got down into the small bog and harvested about a quart of cranberries. While contorting myself to stay dry, I noticed a large tupperware box, a geo-cache stashed by sundry Greenlaws. I am so good I found it without looking it up or using a GPS. I got back down the hill before dark- which is to say I was back in the cozy confines of my kitchen by 4pm, and quickly set about cleaning and freezing the goods. Made some more tortillas for dinner, called my girlfriend to see about some us time. Just as I was about to head out the door, the guys of autumn showed up to invite me for a night hike later, since the moon is nearly full. I told them they'd know where to find me. In the meantime, they had to go to a meeting.

All was quiet at my friend's house, just a few of the local guys quietly drinking beer- her sons were in bed, but quickly made excuses to come downstairs when they heard me come in. Shy of appearing in front of me in boxers, they hitched across the floor to the bathroom on their bottoms, with their tee shirts pulled over their knees and legs. They lingered downstairs as long as they could get away with it- one of them hitching his way under the table, another trying to hide in a closet. I got a satisfying hair ruffle in on the one under the table. I am fairly certain he is squarely to blame for the amplification of my biological clock in the last year.

Eventually our quiet party of four became a mellow party of six, and the evening moved into later and later territory. At about 1:30 I began my walk home. That was the exent of my night hike, since the guys never materialized after the meeting.

I did see them this afternoon, however, when they led the school on a hike in the park. Three adults, seven kids, two and a half hours- not sure how many miles. It was a pleasant outing, and my kids were on pretty good behavior. Even so, both men asked if the students were normally so... energetic, and then gave me their condolences.

By the time we got back to the school, much of my body ached from the increasingly raw weather: at the school and store, I dodged issuing the dinner invitation the men were so clearly after. I went home, put a potato in the oven to bake, and drew a bath. Baking a potato and taking a bath are very compatable tasks. Draw the bath while you prep the potato; you soak, it bakes. In about an hour, you've got warmth back into your bones, aches out of your muscles, and dinner is ready.

I did some reading for book club, took a delicious nap, then grabbed my knitting, hopped in my car, picked up one of my students and drove to the meeting of the Occasional Knitter's Society. As of tonight I have the cuff and heel flap of one striped wool sock completed. Now it is time to embark on the turning of the heel. The Society meeting was a fertile one tonight, I learned important news- our local chocolatier announced that she and her husband would open the cafe on Monday nights for complementary tea and coffee, so that people could gather to play cards, etc... people will more likely than not bring baked goods as well as their shining faces, since this island seems to revolve around food.

Tonight I will contemplate what I will make for tomorrow night, when I go out- I have reason to suspect I will get rather hungry, and so I should plan something tasty.

When I finally got home, the light on my machine was blinking- Suitor #1, calling to pin me down for weekend plans. I have been meaning to get back to him, but the week has been so busy, and the scheduling for the weekend such a source of irritation (Sunday boast are no longer running, and I have to be in Rockland Monday morning- ergo I may have to go off Saturday, when I really don't want to go off at all), I have been avoiding the issue all together. I am a poor date- I hate phones, I do not respond to much of anything in a timely manner, and I am far and away too crotchety for weekly interaction. Not to mention I fiercely love being on the island, and will only leave it under some amount of duress.

Darkness has slipped over the world, and while I may not be content to stay indoors all the time, I am damned well content to just stay on the island.

A Surfeit of Moonlight

After the companionship of the weekend, I fully expected the week to sink quickly into the deep quiet to which I have become accustomed. It should not have come as a surprise that I was wrong. One of the dashing young men of fall came calling Monday night, hard on the heels of Ms. Webster's departure. It was well into the evening when I welcomed him in, took possession of the cranberries that were the purpose of his visit, and offered him a beer. We made conversation until the call began to get awkwardly long, and then- enterprising man that he is- he suggested a hike, which I readily took him up on. The moon is waxing, and the weather has continued to be blessedly mild. It was a crime to sit indoors.

Taking to the night, our tongues loosened again, tripping easily as we made our way up Champlain. When we reached the top- a broad hill with a view somewhat obscured by spruce- he made it clear that our ascent was not yet complete: "we have to climb the tree."

I made it clear that I am afraid of heights, but gamely made the climb nonetheless. So it was that late on a Monday night, I found myself up a spruce atop Champlain, gazing to Stonington in the North; Swan's, Frenchboro, and MDI to the East; and the Camden Hills to the West. We must have stood together in that tree for half an hour. The world gleamed in sleek blues and silvers. Finally, I confessed I only had so much natural insulation against the wind, and we began our descent. Before we left the top of the hill, he showed me a cranberry bog, so I would know at least one convenient place to get my own. Upon arriving back at my house, I dished up some soup, and we passed some more time in the intimacy of my kitchen. Just past midnight, he headed out to his truck, warm with thanks, but not kisses. In the course of our conversation it came out that he is indeed a scorpio- this very seductive November personified.

Tonight I headed out myself, just in a modest loop- to visit the field, to walk down a private dock suspended above a gentle high tide, to lay in the grass edging the thoroughfare. I brought my cocoa. And my pride. The former keeps a body toasty, but the latter...

I came home to a message on my answering machine- an apologetic uptown man, who thought I might already be in bed, so he said he would write me a note. The written message was alerting me to an event this Sunday, at the selfsame restaurant he had taken me to; crazy people were taking it over and turning it into a speakeasy- dressing up would not be deemed inappropriate. The password would be "swordfish."

All of this is a pretty distraction. In the morning I will need to rub the visions from my eyes, and remember the fact that I need to prepare for a future that will be more akin to a moonless night. All play and no work makes Jill a regretful girl. Kisses and speaking glances put neither money in the bank, nor credentials on the curriculum vitae. Time to pull together my inner Yankee.

Sonata of Society and Solitude

It was not a long weekend- veteran's day falling on a Tuesday this year- but it felt it. Friday night I headed off-island with the smallest of my overnight bags, dressed in clothes of comparative sophistication and wearing mascara. And maybe even the subtlest of eyeshadow. I watched the narrow-bodied young man who receives freight for the store get mauled and cheek-kissed by the arriving store manager, a French woman who takes full advantage of her country's customary greeting. I had the pleasure of watching the slightest slip in the stoicism of his blue eyes. While I was jealous of her for the sake of contact, I am just as happy to not inspire that look of weary acceptance with a hint of misery.

At this point in the evening, I considered my sartorial and grooming labor worth the effort. See narrow boy. See narrow boy see me go uptown on a Friday night. What think you of that, narrow boy? Do you think of that? I doubt it. But given the election, hope is not dead in America.

Of course I was also dressed up because I was going out on what was likely to become a date. Pity the man whose date is pining for the freight boy. He took me to a nice restaurant (candles, prosecco), and a walk along the beach in the unseasonably mild November fog. He took my arm. He has called for a second date, and given his intelligence and humor, and generally winning ways, I will accept and tamp down my ambivalence toward dating and men. I obviously feel more comfortable with absolutely unspoken and unrequited longing. You may call me Nikita Tuzenbach (that was for you Ms. Beauregard).

I went home to one of the one-true-loves of my life, who had traveled up to her parents' place, which is a handy posting house for someone on their way to the boat company. We talked and laughed well into the small hours, then woke a little while later to catch the early morning mailboat back to my island. Upon arrival cleaning commenced, food was made, naps were taken. The latter interlude was broken by the shrill peal of the rotary phone, which I lunged over my friend to grab. It was an invitation to dinner from a couple of young men, which I gladly accepted. Though I had cleaned out and restocked the fridge, my desire to cook was still at a minimum. And the young men in question are attractive personalities.

That evening was also dark and close with fog, but the house we were visiting was cozy and bright with the laughter of seven twenty-somethings. The hospitality was not to be beat: lobster, pasta, Screech... I'd brought along dessert, a cranberry cottage pudding with butter sauce. We played cards, made crass jokes, told stories of bloodshed, pain, poor hospital service, and crazed homeowners. Glances were warm and the mood was expansive.

And Gentle Reader (the one who wasn't there)- when one of the young men indicated I should take a seat on his lap? I did. And asked for a pony and a dutch oven. He has an expressive open gaze that twinkles with or without drink. A soul as wise as he is appealing, he took no liberties, and the light snuggling was nice, though eventually I felt propriety rear its ugly head, and I moved to the floor.

The evening came to a close, my friend and I gave a ride to one of the other single women on the island, recently returned for the winter. She first asked "were we expected to spend the night?" and then attempted to draw out information about recent drama on the island. She got a terse response about looking for zebras.

Sunday dawned with the weight of work on my shoulders, and five hours after I had finished a breakfast of coffee and popovers, I had also finally finished the grade reports for my seven students. Ms. Webster kindly left me to my toil, appearing once in a while to rub my shoulders, or inquire why I had squealed with dismay. Once reports were handed in, I made some hearty hot sandwiches, and having satiated our stomachs, we set off on a walk.

This fall I have often trod the road to the park, stopping just short of it at Moore's Harbor to lay on the grass (ticks be damned), or the shore (sea fleas be smote). Bearing sensory witness to the island's journey from evening to night even as the year moves from autumn to winter swells my heart like nothing else- and the sheer gravity of beauty makes it difficult to contemplate ever leaving: if I can't or won't, my sincere thanks to friends who make the trip and refresh my soul- giving me a break from solitude, while also reminding me of its pleasures. Like a beloved movie shared with a new viewer, my routine benefits from fresh eyes.

Consolation

The very word is like a bandaid, grabbing hold with that percussive "c," wrapping you in the vowels, soothing you with "s" sounds, and then closing neatly on the "n." It is a beautiful word- in my mind right up there with the worthiest of names: "Charity," "Prudence," "Grace," and one of my all time favorites, "Mercy." Obviously it never does to name a girl "Chastity" or "Faith." Statistically speaking, those names invite irony. Chastity and Faith aside, I can well imagine saddling a child with the name "Consolation."

Of course that child's one consolation is that she is entirely hypothetical.

Speaking of Consolation, lets talk about one of my personal betes noirs, the month of November. I was raised to distrust it. No good could come of such a dark, cold, time, when the world as we know it in New England becomes a barren place, bereft of leaves and light. November is the month that devours the depressed, and starts turning the thumbscrews of another winter. Scorpios. Need I say more?

So imagine my surprise when October- October of the golden light and firework foliage!- proved itself as dastardly as any too-beautiful sadist. I am still telling myself it is only this particular October, and that one cannot fault Octobers in general- not like you can November.

And now there is this November, which quickly delivered a balmy election day, one so warm I could play soccer in my tee-shirt. This evening was so mild I could walk about in just my sweater, and as I gazed up at the hazy half-moon it brought to mind the most beautiful night of this past summer.

At this late date, after a disastrous October, is November really going to play the gentleman?
I surely hope so.
It certainly opened with an breath-taking act of promise.

Falling Back

This evening I finally forced myself out of the house to enjoy the dying light of a beautiful day. Too often I feel like I need a purpose, or a destination, if I am to venture out into the wider island. Tonight I quickly made up new book club posters, then repositioned the buttons on my wool coat, and headed out the door to soak in my share of our dwindling solar allotment. A bred-in-the-bone procrastinator and devotee of "magic hour," I tend to leave off fresh air and exercise until the last minute. This tendency has the added benefit that I don't often run into any one. Except for the quiet builder and his gorgeous blonde labradoodle, Molly. They jog during the same liminal time when I am walking.

At any rate, I headed off into the sunset, hitting the major posting places- the town hall, the store. From the ramp of the store I could see Diego and Kaya, the Forest Gump and Jenny of yellow labs running in the road by the post office. On my way back from town I cut up the walkway to the church, it being Sunday and all, and the times being what they are. Another bombshell has hit the community, and it is looking like it is going to be a long, strange, and lonely winter. I have never been inside the church, but every so often I will kneel on the slats before its wide steps, and scatter my thanks, wishes and prayers to the breeze. It is a lovely place, this church, and a balm to the bewildered. It is not fashionable in these times to be a Christian, and I hardly qualify beyond an abiding belief in Grace, but I stumbled my way through the Lord's prayer- twice. If the Catholics get to repeat it over and over as penance, surely a Protestant can run through it a couple of times like it is a new favorite song. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

There is so much in life that can derail a person, a year on the island has shown me that, if ever I had my doubts. By the very fact that I am an outsider, I am generally at a distance from the fault lines that run below the surface- but I feel the rumbling, get the reports, and am sensitive to the aftershocks. The world will set a mind reeling, which is probably why people take to their knees, to catch their balance, to find their breath. Perhaps even just to duck and cover before the next assault.

Did I find what I was looking for, semi-prostrate before the church? I remembered myself- my friends my family; I cast up my confusion and felt a cool and uncharacteristically kind November wind caress my face in return. Well, Virginia? Is there a God?

There is a terrible, beautiful world, and perhaps that is the same thing.

While I was gathering this spiritual wool, the sun winked out behind Kimball's. I certainly have a strong faith that it will show its face tomorrow when we have whipped around to confront another Monday. With that in mind, I got back on my feet, and ambled down the lane to the field, getting quite a start when a deer burst out of the woods behind me, running down toward the main road. This was a deer in flight, and not from me. Coyotes? Poachers? I had just brought my attention back to the leaves and birds that still remain when I heard another ruckus. Swinging my head around, I caught a glimpse of a dainty yellow blur- Kaya; and because he paused to take note of me, I fully registered Diego. Diego is a particular friend of mine (which is to say I adore him, and he likes everyone), so I gently clapped and entreated him to come closer for a good head rub. I could see the conflict written on his open doggy face, but he was not long in making his decision. He loves chasing deer, he loves Kaya. I was lucky that he stopped to acknowledge me.

You can't win them all. I still had the field, the lane, the gloaming. And now, here, a room of my own. The upshot of this walk, with its palindromic emphasis on god and dog? Maybe it is time to visit the Humane Society. I always had a little dream about living on the coast, maybe have a dog to keep me company. Janey is not one for companionable walks. But then, she is not really one for dogs either. Just a thought.

The Object of One's Ambivalence

I am a poor secret keeper to myself. I don't know if it is narcissism, a technique to draw other people out by confiding in them myself, or some combination of the two- but if something is weighing on my mind, no matter how I want to keep it to myself, I inevitably tell someone. And having opened up to one person, it becomes easier to open up to another, and then another...

Imbibing in alcohol, of course, makes it worse. And so last night, All Hallow's Eve, I spilled the beans to the woman who was buying my drinks. This woman happened to be my best girlfriend on the island- who I was not going to confide in, for the sake of keeping certain news out of island circulation. Anyone (i.e. my two readers) who read my recent posts will be aware that I have been lightly bitch-slapped by infatuation. Infatuation is an embarrassing state of mind for the self-possessed woman. I've worked hard for what poise I can lay claim to, and the threat of face-flushing vulnerability does not sit well with me.

Sometimes when you confide in someone you do it to learn what they know. I believe this is a tactic used from kindergarten on up, though usually people get a little more subtle about it as they get older and using an intermediary begins to seem socially retarded. I live on a tiny island. I am beginning to embrace my inner social retard. In the last 24 hours, that developmentally stunted piece of me learned important pieces of intelligence: the jig is up, and though he has not to this point been certain, he has his suspicions that I may be attracted to him. And while he might be flattered, for a multitude of reasons, he might not reciprocate when it comes down to brass tacks.

So now we come to the repression portion of our program. As of tomorrow we will even have an extra hour of dark in the evening, during which to savor the sublime Chekhovian irony of all this misplaced energy.