A Wandering Mind

It is Sunday again, and often times Sunday seems the most opportune day of the week to go adventuring. It's become a bit of a habit of mine to swing by the church first to offer up some prayerful communiques to the universe (thanks for the life I've found, thanks for not yet crushing me for the sake of an ironic joke...), and then move on to whatever course seems likely. Today I retraced a trail the Dark had just introduced me to, happy to be alone so that I could dawdle as I liked, lost in an interior life rivaled only by Walter Mitty. The workaday world falls away, and there's just the curiosity of what wonder will be around the next bend- a shapely bit of ice, a shaft of light, and always, ever, the sound of the creaking spruce, threatening to fall.

Sadly I am no naturalist. Moss is just so much carpet in the cathedral; a tree a dryad; a bog a place of blonde grass concealing dark waters. Growing up, I devoured folklore, not nature guides. So when on my own, straying from the path takes on new meaning- crossing a bridge entails unseen trolls, and blow downs are evidence of giants, or of vicious winds released from knotted rope. This doesn't mean I literally believe in the host of creatures folksy and mythical, but that I am firmly a fan of imagination. These woods are my Arden; these shores my Illyria.

Walking, and solitary, I can give myself over to it- signs, portents, stories; my head swims in metaphor, and words, always so many words-

So in love with the world was I,
I promised myself I never would die...

Today, as that macabre scrap flashed into my mind (talk about tempting Fate), the rustling thunder of wings burst out of the limbs above my head, and a maddened crow swept toward the thoroughfare: one for sorrow. I had not noticed the black of the bird in the black of the boughs. Taking off so quickly, so close, it sounded like a much bigger bird, an owl, or a hawk- or more birds, a murder.

Is it not a wondrous thing- to be a girl, alone on a path through the darkening woods?

Goddamn, It's Windy!!!

I suspect that when this house was renovated, the insulation was skimped upon, since its was to be primarily a seasonal home. At any rate, I finished and put up the new window quilts in the bedroom last night, and was pleased to feel the decrease in the draft from the windows, but couldn't help but notice the cold air oozing from under the baseboard of the exterior wall. I know: I should have shut this room off and moved to the back, South-facing bedroom, but the scale of this one is much more human, its shape more furniture-friendly. And yes, the wind sounds even louder here, which is usually a charm to my ears. Since I am commmitted to this front room, the added bonus to the new curtains is the increased privacy. Ill-fitting muslin curtains were not the most discreet option ever, though they were, as the saying goes, "better'n nawthin." Of course viewing is a two-way street, and now looking out the windows to see street and water traffic will be more cumbersome. I am still adjusting to the dining room having curtains.

As for last evening, I did not, in fact, make gingerbread. After an afternoon spent working, then wandering about in the weather, I was not up to digging out, and gingerbread should be shared. Instead I started decorating the house for Christmas, stringing lights around my windows between the panes and the window quilt panels. In happy coincidence, the dining room quilts are backed with slender white stripes on a red background, so the result is pretty festive when you look from the outside world. I hung a delightfully fake evergreen garland along my banister, then wrapped it in colored lights. For now, the tree-topper is perched on the newel post.

Alright- I just got brave, went downstairs, turned on said lights (since it is still dark out), and made my breakfast: oatmeal w/ maple syrup and dried cranberries, and a mocha. I will face the dishes when the temperature in the house is somewhat more reasonable. I did duct tape the insulated curtain tight to the door frame in the kitchen. The wind is shrieking through, miserable, miserable, but slightly less miserable now, for the quilted hanging. If anyone was wondering, I would like tapestries for Xmas. Now I am ensconced once again in my bed, thankful for Tempur-Pedic matresses, down comforters, and the polar fleece blankets I put between the flannel sheets... my place was still warm! Breakfast in bed is pretty fantastic on a cold day, even if you had to get up to make it yourself. So glad computers and work became so lap-friendly. Let the week begin...

What's in a Weekend, or, Waiting for Snow on a Sunday

From the vantage point of last Thursday, it seemed like this weekend would be slow, sweet, and rich like molasses; now, however, it is Sunday morning, and with the school's holiday show coming up and the December fellow retreat this week, I have a lot to accomplish before I can head out on the mailboat Tuesday night. Happily, on the weekend you can accomplish things after a leisurely cup of coffee and gentle puttering. So it is that I am up, showered, dressed, and indulgently blogging, my little red coffee cup to one side, my faithful feline companion to the other.

Now that I look back over the weekend in order to recount it, it has been rather pleasantly reminiscent of molasses. I devoted my Friday night to potato leek soup; and incidentally, myself. After a day of running back and forth from the school to my house, choreographing, teaching and report writing, I sent off my monthly report, and took a walk down to my adoptive island family. My mother had sent me advent calendars, and included one for the little boys of that household. It seems I talk about them a lot, and I suspect this is her way of thanking them for winding up the ol' biological clock. If only children would magically spring out at the age of seven, adorable, on the verge of reading, and with a sly sense of humor like my favorite little blue-eyed boy.

(side note: here is the anticipated snow, in the smallest of flakes)

Anyone who has read this blog at all knows that I love walking. Friday's walk was at the very edge of dark, which now coincides with the mailboat arrival. It steams in, running lights on- the colors gently suggestive of the season, red to port, green to starboard. Given the paucity of daylight, the evening stop is all business: some nights it seems they barely even tie up. Under cover of the deepening twilight, people bustle to move cargo, and to get The Mink back on her way uptown. It is all more or less year-rounders and workers now, and it is a pleasure to watch the swift and purposeful exchange of people and goods, morning and night, a cycle of certainty. The boat and store hours, they are the measure of the island's pulse.

I always slow my pace to watch the evening ritual, whether I am on the road just above the landing, or at a distance on Kennedy's field, looking South down the thoroughfare. I am a voyeur, but a very prim one. I like to watch the mundane traffic of this place: the boats coming in, barges carrying in concrete trucks; my neighbors heading to get their mail. I like lit windows at night, not to see into, but just because they offer proof that people are warm, fed, housed. Signs of life in a sleepy place. The beauty here verges on gratuitous, but never grows tiresome.

I have digressed from potato leek soup. My walk did come to an end, though not before I passed by the narrow boy, silently making his way from the store to his house- well after the rush of the mailboat. It should not come as a surprise that he gets his groceries on the off-hours; given his position at the store he has the means, and invisibility is exactly his style. We exchanged hellos without breaking stride, and I continued home with just my moon shadow at my side, pleased to have encountered him, to have had a simple look into his life.

Ending a walk is always a little melancholy- parting from the world outside is such sweet sorrow. A kitchen does offer its comforts, though. I completed the last of the evening's tasks, re-sending the report that did not, in fact, go through, returning a phone call from the uptown man. He was hoping I would find my way off the island sometime soon; I want nothing more than to stay put. Perhaps over Christmas break when I have to be off island. Or some Saturday, when the Dark has receded, I can show the Uptowner why I am so elusive, why I never want to leave. A day's hike should suffice.

My head in the clouds, my top-rated list playing on iTunes, I finally got down to dealing with my leeks. Soups, I have been told, are the key to sensible cooking for the single person. You make a sizable batch, freeze the bulk of it in small portions, and after a few scattered evenings with a large pot, you have a treasure trove of easy meals. Always sounded good in theory. After years of living by myself, I have finally made baby steps, and now have both chili and potato leek soup standing by. Maybe (if tonight doesn't include any company or outings), I will add some onion soup to the inventory. At any rate, rocking out and preparing for future culinary laziness is not a bad way to spend a Friday night on the island.

Saturday was about the continuation of curtains. The Dark headed off-island to run errands, though he promised to be back in time for a hike, and this left me with seven hours of chores-y goodness. By eight I had taken out the trash and compost, and was well into burning the paper waste to Christmas tunes. Fires are festive. My mother called to set up an evening mailboat drop-off of Christmas decorations, bless her, bless her, bless her. Meanwhile, the island was well into receiving its first dusting of snow: the flakes having settled and stayed, the gold of the long grass was no longer in competition with remnant green. Under the eastern light of morning, the world was tinted a distinctive sepia.

At nine, I booted and buttoned up for the journey to the post office. If I send out netflix on Monday, I will have the new DVDs in by Saturday, in time to commit whatever craftiness I have planned for the weekend. The walk was just as delicious as one might expect of a walk through the first Saturday morning snow, so squeaky underfoot. My world, as bounded by the horizon, shared only common landmarks with the world of sixteen hours earlier. And one other pleasant parallel; as I neared the post office, a slender figure in a black hooded pull-over raised a hand in greeting as he headed up the steep incline of his driveway. Seeing him anywhere other than the landing, when he works with me at school, or at the home of our mutual friends is like spotting a coyote. Fairly rare, and somewhat fascinating.

The day continued to unfold in a pleasant fashion. I worked with pins, needles, and hot iron in front of the television. At noon I had lunch; at three I met the mailboat and picked up two boxes and a storage tote, which (when stacked up) exactly spanned the distance between my down-stretched arms and my chin (when tilted toward the treeline). Christmas frieght safely stowed in my car, I stopped at the crowded store and purchased beer and ice cream: the perfect selection for the school's Health teacher. As I stood over the ice cream freezer, the Dark sidled up, and we nonchalantly formalized the assignation to hike. We'd only had the opportunity for eye contact at the landing. How lucky am I to be in a position to set up a date through the corner of my mouth while I choose between Ben and Jerry's and Hagen Daz? Life is pretty damned good.

Once home, I had the time to paw through the boxes of Christmas goodies before he came knocking at my door. With her awesome sense of timing my mother called shortly after he arrived, so I got a chance to thank her and ascertain that yes, she had glimpsed the Dark at the dock in Stonington. And she got to ascertain that yes, I was currently in his company. Again with the nonchalantly coded conversation. This has been the winter of a-million-and-one tiny intrigues. Or perhaps that is simply the gist of island life.

Before it got completely dark on us, the Dark and I headed up to Black Dinah, taking a road that goes up behind two trap shops and across the forlorn homestead of the former park ranger (now in indefinite exile), before turning into an old footpath. Black Dinah is an easy hike, and a rewarding view. We watched the boats steaming full throttle back to Stonington, and further out, the boats heading into Matinicus. Matinicus Rock Light blazed intermittantly at the edge of the world, its white light a contrast to the quiet red beacon of our Robinson's Point. It is a pleasant thing to climb up a hill on a chilly evening: it is even more pleasant when you climb with someone you can lean up against for heat; when kissing is an allowable liberty. Soon however, the cold creeps from the boulder to your buttocks- and dinner seems somehow more urgent than dalliance. We went home before any of the ships made it to port.

And now? It is past noon, the world is whitening at a steady clip, and I have students to meet, and chroeography to create. Yes, this weekend has smacked of the subtlely sweet- maybe I will find time tonight to make some molasses-rich gingerbread in honor of a putterer's favorite ingredient.

A New Chapter in Island Education

In each monthly report for my job, I must write a section on "integration into the community." This November, this surprisingly pleasant November- I integrated in a new way, one which no matter how tempting, I will not write about in my report. Admittedly, my immediate supervisor would be as pleased as punch. I think she intentionally hires reasonably attractive and smart young women for the express though tacit purpose of strengthening island gene pools. Twenty percent of fellows get suckered into staying. Of course nowhere in Fellow Orientation do we cover drinking, drugs, and sex. Okay- I confess: this year during the informal periods when new fellows were left alone with old fellows, yes. We talked about drinking on island. But now? Now I have reached an unknown shore. Or at least one that was left off the official map. So let us explore the landscape of island intimacy.

First comes the talk. Fully two months before the Dark even set foot on the island, I'd learned that the Tall was planning to "sic" him on me. I wasn't even single at the time, but the Tall had decided that it would be amusing, and (in a distance relationship himself) that he could then live vicariously through his friend, and get some. Shortly after the Dark landed, it was suspected that we were seeing each other. I am fairly certain that by this time, we had in fact, been properly introduced.

Then came the gifts. I have cataloged them before, but such riches deserve repeated inventory. Apples (hand stolen and delivered to my door); wild cranberries from a bog on the Eastern Head (though obviously not from the Park); firewood, which appeared like magic while I was off-island one weekend; homemade applesauce, a hostess gift for when I served dinner in return for the firewood. By the time he brought me to see the whale carcass, overwhelmed by the need to reciprocate, I had promised to knit him a hat- one which I immediately started, since I was convinced that it was the only route to protecting my virtue: "I know it is not sex, but a hand-knit hat is a very fine thing indeed! It will keep you warm for much longer!"

Talk and gifts are all very well- but they are window dressing. It doesn't much matter what people say, or what tokens are exchanged. What matters is how two people rub together, figuratively speaking. And literally. After all the food and hikes the Dark and I were getting along quite well. Saturday night, we slipped away from the crush of the highly successful cribbage tournament and returned to my house to watch a movie. It was, quite overtly (between us), a date. The movie ended and we embarked on that most sacred of post-sexual-liberation activities: making out on the couch.

Now some people may do this silently, hunkering down to business like all those serious people eating bland food in glum Danish paintings of the 19th century. I can't. Sex has to be talkative, and I mean talkative like a play by George Bernard Shaw. Or at least Oscar Wilde, maybe Noel Coward. So it was, somewhere between layers of clothing, our discussion came around to condoms; more specifically the availability of condoms on the island. Because we have exactly one store. And they carry exactly two boxes of Trojans (3packs). They live behind the counter with the medicines and tick nippers. If I wanted to purchase the aforementioned prophylactics, I would have to address my next door neighbor and the chairwoman of the school board (who happens to be the cashier): "Sue, I'd like both packs of Trojans please." I would rakishly arch my eyebrow as I emphasized the quantity, and I am sure my face would not betray even the slightest hint of blush.

Yes. Today I ran right out to do that. Of course if I did need to purchase condoms here, I am fairly certain they would not be in season. The Dark and I considered placing a friendly wager on when they likely expired. I had thought '89, but he was pretty sure he'd stolen condoms from the store during his teenage years, and that the current crop would only date from the mid/late '90s. It was good of him to share the info with me, or who knows what I would have lost on the bet.

Of course beyond the logistics of safety, there is also the matter of discretion. Where to park his truck? How should we time leaving events so it is not obvious that we are leaving together? Very important details, here...

Finally there is the parental factor, which comes into play when I inevitably run into his father (again, there are about 50 people on the island for the winter). The Dark, a very legal 27 years old, claims his father is oblivious, and I hope that this is so... nonetheless, I catch a glimpse of the man and I feel like a juvenile delinquent, and am gripped by an urge slink ever so quietly away.

And so it is that I have begun a personal history on the island. Heaven help me.

The Diverse Pleasures of a Dark Day

Obviously some of the accounts on this blog are fictitious, because I like to make up illegal happenings for the sake of "spice..." This post in particular is shaded by a recent lecture given by an administrator for the Bar Harbor Whale Museum which touched on the illegality of interfering with sea mammal remains... Islanders are far more law-abiding than I would ever make them out to be. And you know, life much less salacious. Finally, the boys of autumn really require more specific identities, so let them be the Tall and the Dark.

It is a truth universally recognized that the best way to experience a late November squall is from the comfort of a cushy chair, before a fire, with a hot drink and a good book. Today was such a day, and- gift of gifts!- the squall coincided with Saturday. I got up late and put blankets in the wash. Cats are picturesque and warm reading partners, but they are always leaving their fur behind. I puttered about in gentle productivity until two in the afternoon, when an assertive knock sounded on my door- and an increasingly familiar pirate-like face looked in through the glass.

Amendment: it is a truth universally recognized by book, bath, and cocoa lovers that the best way to experience a late November squall is from the comfort of a cushy chair, etc... but there are those who think it is best to hike through the woods to a beach where there's a whale carcass. Truth be told, I had nothing better to do that I couldn't put off, and I love a good walk through dramatic weather- it is like being in a book! Before we embarked on the adventure, the boys headed out to run some errands, giving me a chance to change out of my Laundry Day ensemble of pajama bottoms, ex-boyfriend shirt and athletic socks, and switch into my Stormy Hike clothes (the union suit- it is all about the union suit and layers).

When they returned, we piled into their petite, nearly-clutchless truck and bombed down the road as far as the store, where I posted the new book club notice and got a few vital ingredients for my evening meal. While I shopped, the Dark edified the population of the front room with a reading from Uncle Henry's take it or leave it section. Someone had rolls of drier lint- free for the taking! Amazing what some people are willing to give up. Drier lint makes excellent kindling.

The part of the island we were headed to, Seal Trap, is not a part of the park, but it is on the way. As we rounded one of the road's many curves, the Tall, who was driving, brought the truck to a shuddering halt, and backed up- having spotted some fascinating scat. He opened his door, leaned as far out into the road as he could without actually falling, while still giving the firm impression he was, in fact, about to get literally shit-faced. After some inspection, he declared it was probably left by a coyote with digestive problems. That settled to his satisfaction, he shifted his weight back into the truck, and commenced sweet talking: "come on baby, give me some clutch..."

Obviously it was going to be an afternoon of high adventure.

We parked at the trail head, but ventured down to Moore's Harbor first to see what recent storm surges had washed up. They found some joint compound buckets, all ready for in-home agriculture. They threw them up into a field to retrieve later, and decided we'd walk along the shore to Seal Trap, since it wasn't high tide.

Now a downeast shore is not a sandy thing. At best it entails gravel: at worst it is nearly vertical granite ledge, skirted with barnacles and seaweed. The obvious implication is that it's decidedly more interesting to travel this way than on the trail through the woods. So we scrambled, slipped, climbed and jumped most of the way around the point, then cut through some trees to the mouth of Seal Trap. At long last, we reached what I could only assume was our destination, though "whale carcass" had seemed to imply more than a slick of whale grease and a scatter of bones. Their eyes wide, and jaws ever so slightly slack, the boys took in their loss. Damn the hungry ocean for reclaiming the carrion it'd spat up in summer! Looking longingly at an unattainable bone that poked out of the water five feet from the nearest rock, they hypothesized that either the body had slipped out into the mouth a little further (good for snorkeling next summer), or had been pushed to the back of the cove. Setting their hopes on the latter, as children set their starry-eyed hopes on Santa, we tromped back along the strand to the terminal end of the Trap.

And so it was that they hit boney, blubbery gold. There was the mini-leviathan, the minke, in all of its fibrous, rotting glory. The Christmas of my canopy bed and the complete set of Nancy Drew mystery novels was a distant second to their pleasure in locating the storm-tossed remains. The twinkle in their eyes and flash of their knives was worthy of the night sky in winter- a new constellation: Squalus Corpus. With admirable determination, given the smell, the Tall began to saw at the sinew still holding the head to the body, while the Dark held the skull steady. Once they had freed the massive cranium, they began to drag it up to the woods, where the ocean could not further fracture it or carry it away. Though it was only a distance of about fifty feet, it was over rock and sea weed, and through spruce. By the time they had wrestled it (still trailing flesh) to where they saw fit, they were both sweating and breathing heavily.

This major goal accomplished, the rest of the hike was all about the sheer animal enjoyment of being out in severe weather. We rounded Trial Point, and all cover was gone. The gale blasted at us from the open water of Penobscot Bay, one unending howl from the Camden Hills venting its wrath on the unbridged islands. From this vantage point I could see South clear to Matinicus, Criehaven, and Matinicus Rock Light. By this time, the vault of the sky was growing dark, and what light had graced us this day was failing. As I ran over the ledges and popple stone beach, I would stop to lean into the bluster, seeing how far I could trust the force of its breath. The waves came in large breakers, frothing the with the rabidity of the weather system. It was delicious.

Night chasing swiftly on our heels, we made our way forward, leaping along the ledges as the best foot placement presented itself, a quiet single file trio with hats on and hoods up. I am not particularly athletic, but from a childhood spent on the Maine coast I am fleet of foot over rocks: there is little that I enjoy more than the focus and grace it takes to properly gage where to land, the power demanded from one's thighs, the sheer ballsy belief in one's own balance. It is a dance, and I am a very good dancer. The cold, the wind? The best accompaniment. Seldom does professional adulthood afford the opportunity to indulge in the raw pleasure of having a body. But today I had a storm, and a strand of stone.

I was sorry to turn back inland to the proper wooded trail- though I confess, I was beginning to tire. We still had a substantial way to walk before we could get back to the truck, and my eyes were straining to find stable footing. Instead of walking straight to the trail head we went back to Moore's Harbor for the buckets. As we emerged onto the road from the Harbor we heard a throaty bark from the woods. Clearly we were not alone in the immediate area.

Returning to the truck, the Tall and the Dark took their separate stances, both at a distance and back to me. I nonchlantly searched the area for indications of who was also on the Seal Trap path, quickly noticing an abandoned windbreaker on the ground. Once they finished their business, we piled back into the truck: "come on clutch..." As both the Tall and the Dark went around to the engine to pour brake fluid where it didn't belong (but would do the trick), I spied a familiar quadriped of sturdy build trotting down the road with a growl, followed by three shapes, upright. I hopped out of the truck, and entreated the dog with a soft "Diego!"

With the exception of my labrador love, the newcomers didn't note me at first, but the ringleader greeted the brake fluid boys with "we were going to try to scare you, but you didn't come out where we expected..." Once they noticed me, the conversation shuddered to a halt like the clutchless truck, sputtering in fits and starts. From one particularly narrow silhouette, the silence was emphatic, verging on abyssal. While the Tall made small talk, the Dark came around to my side to pat the dog and offer me water from his bottle. Eventually the group came to the consensus that we should probably stop standing around, and we continued on our parallel paths with separate modes of travel: three crowded cozy in the cab of the truck, the other four on their ten feet.

It was fully night by the time the boys dropped me off at my driveway, the Dark stepping out to allow for my exit, and to suggest we meet later, the swarthy and the fair, with little height between us.

There is also a truth universally recognized concerning dark and stormy nights; even the bookish lass and the outdoorsman will agree.

That is to say: it is imperative to watch the X-Files with no lights on.

Change of State

I'd rather freeze than boil, yet freezing... when it hits 32 degrees, oh how the world feels it. And the island, a microcosm itself, slows- the brooks get sluggish and glassine, morning breaks and the thoroughfare barely even suggests the breath of the tide and current. For the time being, the wind has blown itself out and bereft of leaves, the trees stand still, stark.

This year the cold came on quick, a snap from the arctic chasing away the foggy wraiths of our final warm spell. Weather, like death and heartbreak, is an inevitability which, no matter how you prepare for it will always come as a shock. For weeks I had been romanticizing winter: the sledding, the snow fights; but in all of my imagining- the gentle drift of snow falling n the moonlight, the twinkle of stars in crystalline skies- I failed to fully recall the pain of cold, how it feels when the cells of your cheeks and fingers begin to freeze.

Time to acclimate, as the Northern body always does: the temp that makes me pull on a parka today will see me stripping down to a tee come March. As I walked to the landing this morning I watched Brimstone Island float above the line of the Southern horizon on illusory wings of water and light. I will fall for the trick, and make my peace with the harsh wonders of a slow, dark season: cover my cheeks and widen my eyes.

I am only left with one question: would one's lips freeze to a flask?

Howling Cold

The Sunbeam was in harbor last night- I had gone down to the landing to pick up a couple of packages off the mailboat, and saw it steaming in up the thoroughfare, silhouetted by the sunset. My neighbor called on behalf of the minister to let me know there'd be a service at 7 and socializing after. By the time she called, it was fully dark, I was getting dinner in the oven, and there was nothing, not even dominos and baked goods that would entice me out of the confines of this house. I stayed in, watched DVDs from net flix and knitted a heel flap on my second sock.

This evening magic hour has hit again; the ledges on the islands to the North are stained pink, the barren trees are empurpled, and the roiling water is a color that can only be described as goddamned cold. The wind's a harpy that won't let up. So I am not going anywhere tonight either. Didn't particularly want to leave the house this morning. Got up, made scones, climbed back in bed, fully clothed, to curl up under a polar fleece blanket until the very last moment. Nothing would have made me happier than a conference call with my advisor:

"Wind's too demoralizing for library hours."

"Yep."

"See you next week."

I could have stayed in, swathed in the opiate embrace of L.L. Beans blanket, and choked down a few scones before gently drifting off to sleep- a place where the wind is a whisper, and where my legs never ache with chill. That's what I would have liked, for sure. Instead I drew on two layers of wool socks (one pair rising above the knee), swaddled my head in a hat and scarf, threw on my Carharrt, mittened up, and threw open the door like I was facing enemy fire. Bowl of scones nestled under my arms, I made my way through the gale to the town hall.

The up side of the cold gale is that the warmth of buildings gains a new and feverish glow. I was, consequently, quite pleased to arrive at my destination. The boys were already there, waiting for me to show up, baked goods in tow. They themselves were ducking out of the weather, hiding from their morning's work (which was going to be substantially colder than mine). We made small talk- I thanked them for the fire wood that had mysteriously arrived on my porch while I was away, noting that I probably owed them dinner. The young man that I am seeing (according to island authorities on the subject) has really done a bang-up job insinuating himself into my good graces- delivering apples, cranberries, wood. My head might even turn a little before he leaves the island. Perhaps the gossips are just ahead of their time: it is hard to not be swayed by fancy presents.

So whether it is attraction or etiquette, I recognize that I need to roll up my sleeves, dial his number, and issue the guys an official dinner invite. It may have to be for Friday night- there is no way in hell I feel up to company tonight, and I host book club tomorrow. Hopefully I will feel up to entertaining for the second night in a row and after a school field trip off-island. Having grown up on the Little House books, I know I need to make hay while the sun shines (even if it is not warming), and there is no doubt I will miss them when they are gone. No more deliveries to my doorstep! I will not be forced to socialize and act like a normal single twenty-something.

While I may have moaned about November in the past, as of this year, I cannot gripe. As Thanksgiving charges at us like a juggernaut, I begin to realize how empty the island will be this winter. This morning the library was full of people, enjoyable people, who will leave in a mass exodus on November 30th. Even one of the lovable local twenty-something boys will be gone again- I am now opposed to the swordfishing industry on the sole ground that it will reduce the number of my drinking buddies by 20%. Bastard'll be fishing out of Puerto Rico for the month of December. The extra rub is, of course, that most people are going someplace warmer; and although I wish it on them for leaving us, that place is not Hell. Still, some might say Florida is pretty damned close.