Maine is all memories now. Now that we are in a quiet whirlwind of moving on. We have made Haymarket Cafe in Northampton, Mass. a new workspace. It's warm and dimly lit with orangey hues and endlessly satisfying music. The smells tempt me up the stairs to the case of cookies and cakes, to the delicious hot chocolate and cardamom-heavy chai. Today I made my way through a melting chocolate banana oatmeal mound and the whipped-cream topped, wide mug of cocoa. I am listening, disjointedly, to the music of other cafe-goers, shared on their iTunes. The tables are fraught with laptops in this college-surrounded town. Adam is happy to see so many macs, not in the least part because bought Apple stock recently.
Our first night here we met new friends Emily and Bucky, burners who have shared their parking lot and kitchen and bathroom and outlet and lives with us for the past few days. We danced to psytrance at Tully O'Reilly's. We ate yet another of our thai curries, this one with kabocha squash and a strange consistency we attributed to our coconut milk's stint in the freezing weather. We played Stoner Fluxx, a card game that had us exchanging confused looks at every turn. We met their friends. We toured the store/yoga/massage studio center they're busily preparing to open. We were entertained by their two black cats, about as frisky as they come. We got transportation and cafe advice. We have marveled at the ease and comfort of finding community with strangers.
Though enjoying the new digs, I am missing my friends whose lives we shared for 5 weeks in the quiet of the northeasternmost part of this giant country. The size of the states here make me realize that California is much more like its own country than a mere state. I would rather be the governor of a smaller state like Maine or Massachusetts. Not that I have gubernatorial plans, just theoretically. The sheer variety of landscapes across the continent boggles my mind repeatedly.
I am remembering the brilliant white moon and stars, how I gazed up at them on my way to bed in K&K's front yard. The chill air brightened those nightly points of light and it never ceased to call me starward when the clouds were away. I remember seeing earth's unmistakable neighboring red planet slung below the full belly of the moon.
I remember how the hill across Lake Chickawaukie turned from maddening green to canary to bronze to brown. I remember running hard and fast up and down the car-less Pheasant Street, my breath visible in the impending dusk, seeing the bare trees on the hills beyond as if they were permanent mist coursing slowly among the last of the autumn colors.
I remember endless wheelbarrow loads of firewood, during hardly thought, but instead heard endless repeats of ridiculous versions of familiar songs--like Frosty the Snowman was a strange and dapper man...or something like that--until I pushed the needle to a new song on the vinyl of my memory.
I remember so many galleries and antique shops that they all became a blur of places I stopped seeing. I remember a rain jacket yellow house and an old red car parked in front, the kind you might picture James Dean riding in, cigarette in the corner of his tilted smile, forever announcing his iconic coolness. A "For Sale" sign hung in the window.
I remember smiling at the first bite of a molasses glazed donut, from Willow Street Bakery, thinking, "Well, here it is. The real donut I've been searching for." I remember being amazed at how short this long-awaited thrill lasted, and how long my hunger for such an odd choice for an obsession remained.
I remember laughing in the living room, the four of us, entertained at the end of the day by nearly anything. Jasmine's dreamed chicken-chase, or Kevin's sugar-infused non sequiturs, or my unintended innuendos, or Adam's dependable puns, or Kelly's latest thoughts on a name for the nutkin (and extended absurdity thereon).
I remember Adam saying, "You got to ride it!" incredulous as I dismounted from the tow truck's lift, having steered trogdor to its safe transport spot atop a flatbed in downtown Camden. I remember thinking perhaps we were cursed in our quest to get to Acadia when the same wire that kept us from going that first time disconnected yet again after a mediocre meal at the Chocolate Grill in a town midway to the famed island. I remember feeling vindicated as we persevered and a quick fix had us on our way.
I remember scrambling up Nurembega Mountain and feeling so small and large at once as I crested the top, gazing down at the fjord and towns spread out wide below me.
I remember the moon laying a jagged pool of white light down on the lawn in the quiet, wee hours of the morning, as I walked to the house for a drink of water. I remember seeing the big dipper through the small frame of the bathroom window, the house quiet and the sky filling the space around me.
I remember too many Raelin quotes to record or count or remember:
"Adam, I want you to laugh at the fire!"
"I JUST want to get a diaper, Juli." (while shrugging shoulders)
"You can't look at me."
"You can't put your [arm, face, hand] on my chair."
"I need to go to the co-op and the post office."
I remember smelling sweet potato chips as I walked down the street alone in the hard rain. I remember being filled with amazement as we sat in the packed Strand Theater, watching Evelyn Glennie bust out a heartfelt rhythm on plates and cups on the ground, on a snare drum in the middle of Grand Central, wild hair obscuring her vision, percussing with a Taiko group, in a huge warehouse on pipes and bannisters and walls. I remember the rapid gathering of pieces in my understanding of what she means by touching sound.
I remember lots of delicious meals and lots of laughter and lots of dishes and dog hair and hugs and heart-melting Raelin moments. I remember friendship and comfort and not wanting to say goodbye.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
obsessions, hair, and fall
Today I drove through winding streets lined with cloud-strewn, bare branches of turning trees, watching the world prepare for winter. Many shops in these small towns were once houses, making a search for places of business a bit of a hunt. I spent far too long pondering the qualities of Claire Fontaine notebooks in a beautifully stocked art supply store on Main Street in Camden. There was an entire rack of my new favorite line of books with blank pages, and I think I touched nearly all of the notebooks on the circular rack in two passes round, testing out how flat the pages lay down, how springy the binding is when folded in half, how thinly the lines are printed, whether there were any without any lines at all (there weren't), whether it would be better to have fewer pages (so I can fill it up quicker and feel a sense of completeness sooner), or more (so that I feel quite substantial when I'm only half-way through), how large the pages should be, what color the cover is.
You can see that unless you have a fond obsession with notebooks (and pens, for that matter), as I do, this would be horrifying tedium. But this is my idea of fun. One of 'em, anyway.
I figured giving myself some leisure time browsing notebooks and pens (I did end up buying one horizontally lined, left-hand spiral-bound, green covered, 6x9 inch notebook at last) was a good way to take care of myself after having, only a few minutes beforehand, gotten a lot of hair tenacious ripped out of my skin. Not only that, the esthetician had a surprisingly difficult time getting the edges of the hard wax (a new kind for me) up so she could pull the whole strip off. Translation: prolonged pain where there is usually one quick rip and then a few seconds to recover for the next one. She was very cheery and apologized for whatever it was she was doing differently that created this rather awkward scenario. I usually give a tip, but decided it was perfectly fine not to.
I have perpetually mixed feelings about body hair. On the one hand, I'm theoretically pro-naturale. On the other, I prefer bare armpits to go with sleeveless dresses and most tank tops, and bare legs with skirts and most shorts. And I don't appreciate how socks feel on hairy ankles. On the other hand, sometimes I feel silly with bare armpits. It's like there's something missing. Especially if I have on an ass-kicking tank top and am doing something like, say, lifting weights, or standing with my hands on my hips, supervising meat-grilling. I like to feel burly. And as those of who who know me know, I have the biceps to back it up.
After at first joining the adolescent ranks of shaving legs and underarms, I swore off for years. It was a high school pact I made with three of my cohorts in Track and Cross Country. I hated shaving anyway, particularly under my arms. When one of those 3, still a dear friend, whom I consider to be more au naturale than I, told me she had her legs waxed recently, I was taken aback...and encouraged to try it out myself. It was sort of a wake-up call that I didn't have to stick with this hippie hair thing just because I had committed to it so long ago, or because it was part of my identity. I realized I was a little afraid to change in front of people who know me well. And I was afraid I would automatically be making some sort of blanket statement agreeing with mainstream TV-culture that it's gross to have hair and be a girl. I think the first time I had my legs waxed was just before our wedding 2 years ago. While the experience is rather unpleasant, at times more painful than I bargained for, the result of weeks with soft skin and no to very little sparse and soft hair is quite wonderful.
So now, I either grow it all out, or I have it waxed. No in between.
I think an Ani lyric is appropriate at this point (thanks danah!):
their eyes are all asking
are you in, or are you out
and i think, oh man,
what is this about?
tonight you can't put me
up on any shelf
'cause i came here alone
i'm gonna leave by myself
Well, this is interesting. I intended to tell you about the trees reaching toward the sky, the brilliant yellow maple next to stands of barren wooden arms, brown and papery leaves clinging tenaciously in the winds that sweep the world endlessly, moving the clouds about the blue, making a new glorious picture of the world every moment. I notice these things more when I'm moving through the land on wheels. When the scenery rushes toward me, over my head, into my eyes and heart, like dogs drink in scents with their plush, wet noses out the car window. Looking out the glass door at the lake and the changing face of the hill beyond (it's name is Dodge Mountain, but it looks like a hill to me), I get a just glimpse of that glee that surrounds me when I'm out in it, breathing the sharp, cold air, gazing at the brilliant stars, whose brightness tells me how cold it will be each night. These are some the things that will stay with me, in my bones, when we leave this beautiful place our dear friends call home.
You can see that unless you have a fond obsession with notebooks (and pens, for that matter), as I do, this would be horrifying tedium. But this is my idea of fun. One of 'em, anyway.
I figured giving myself some leisure time browsing notebooks and pens (I did end up buying one horizontally lined, left-hand spiral-bound, green covered, 6x9 inch notebook at last) was a good way to take care of myself after having, only a few minutes beforehand, gotten a lot of hair tenacious ripped out of my skin. Not only that, the esthetician had a surprisingly difficult time getting the edges of the hard wax (a new kind for me) up so she could pull the whole strip off. Translation: prolonged pain where there is usually one quick rip and then a few seconds to recover for the next one. She was very cheery and apologized for whatever it was she was doing differently that created this rather awkward scenario. I usually give a tip, but decided it was perfectly fine not to.
I have perpetually mixed feelings about body hair. On the one hand, I'm theoretically pro-naturale. On the other, I prefer bare armpits to go with sleeveless dresses and most tank tops, and bare legs with skirts and most shorts. And I don't appreciate how socks feel on hairy ankles. On the other hand, sometimes I feel silly with bare armpits. It's like there's something missing. Especially if I have on an ass-kicking tank top and am doing something like, say, lifting weights, or standing with my hands on my hips, supervising meat-grilling. I like to feel burly. And as those of who who know me know, I have the biceps to back it up.
After at first joining the adolescent ranks of shaving legs and underarms, I swore off for years. It was a high school pact I made with three of my cohorts in Track and Cross Country. I hated shaving anyway, particularly under my arms. When one of those 3, still a dear friend, whom I consider to be more au naturale than I, told me she had her legs waxed recently, I was taken aback...and encouraged to try it out myself. It was sort of a wake-up call that I didn't have to stick with this hippie hair thing just because I had committed to it so long ago, or because it was part of my identity. I realized I was a little afraid to change in front of people who know me well. And I was afraid I would automatically be making some sort of blanket statement agreeing with mainstream TV-culture that it's gross to have hair and be a girl. I think the first time I had my legs waxed was just before our wedding 2 years ago. While the experience is rather unpleasant, at times more painful than I bargained for, the result of weeks with soft skin and no to very little sparse and soft hair is quite wonderful.
So now, I either grow it all out, or I have it waxed. No in between.
I think an Ani lyric is appropriate at this point (thanks danah!):
their eyes are all asking
are you in, or are you out
and i think, oh man,
what is this about?
tonight you can't put me
up on any shelf
'cause i came here alone
i'm gonna leave by myself
Well, this is interesting. I intended to tell you about the trees reaching toward the sky, the brilliant yellow maple next to stands of barren wooden arms, brown and papery leaves clinging tenaciously in the winds that sweep the world endlessly, moving the clouds about the blue, making a new glorious picture of the world every moment. I notice these things more when I'm moving through the land on wheels. When the scenery rushes toward me, over my head, into my eyes and heart, like dogs drink in scents with their plush, wet noses out the car window. Looking out the glass door at the lake and the changing face of the hill beyond (it's name is Dodge Mountain, but it looks like a hill to me), I get a just glimpse of that glee that surrounds me when I'm out in it, breathing the sharp, cold air, gazing at the brilliant stars, whose brightness tells me how cold it will be each night. These are some the things that will stay with me, in my bones, when we leave this beautiful place our dear friends call home.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Today is not the best of days.
True, the sun was out.
But the quality of my experience had nothing to do with the weather.
It had to do with watching the van slide down hill a couple feet and many minutes of terror that Adam would flip the van trying to get up the slick lawn. You see, there was this idea. To use the van as a very large wheelbarrow so that the mountain of firewood would be a cinch to move to the back of the house here in Rockland. And it seemed good at the time, and it seemed like a 4-wheel drive vehicle would go down a slopey lawn and back with no problem. Kevin was a little doubtful, and it turns out he had good reason for that. The stress of the slide moment stayed with me for a few hours, really. I was without the structure I create for myself every day, having poured all this adrenaline and unexpected time into helping make sure the Adam and the van made it up to the front yard unharmed.
I retreated to the now level van, parked at an odd angle, to write a bit and to read. I'm reading The Opposite of Fate, by Amy Tan. It's a creative non-fiction book about her life as a writer. It's entirely fascinating and keeps me drawn in page after page. I felt a little better after a few chapters of a life far more outlandish and harrowing and grief-stricken than my own.
Then I made it to the post office to mail my absentee ballot overnight, since the Registrar's office didn't get the ballot out to me until yesterday. (Apparently all the voter deadlines for registration and requesting absentee ballots change when you're past the CA border). At the post office, the kind postal clerk told me that it's only guaranteed 2nd day. I asksed what could be done about this. She said nothing--Express mail is the fastest they've got. Something to do with the origin and destination zip codes made it impossible to guarantee overnight delivery. It was 4:30. I needed to get back home to start dinner. I grimaced and decided to hope for the best--why stop now when I've spent all this energy getting the damn thing here? There is a chance it will make it there tomorrow, she told me. Sigh.
Back home, I prepared my first ever stuffed, roasted chicken. It took a lot longer than I expected, partly because I misread the cooking time. Then the stuffing wasn't hot enough. I waited longer. The temperature guage poking out of the thigh (my cookbook said that was the place to put it) reaced 200 degrees. I decided to take the stuffing out and keep cooking it, so the chicken wouldn't get overdone. I carved the chicken with some difficulty, as I've done it all of 3 or 4 times in my life, mostly with raw chickens. Dinner was finally on the table nearly 2 hours later than anticipated. Then Kevin notices a slightly pink portion of his chicken leg. Adam gets this horrified look on his face. I can't believe the damn thing isn't cooked all the way. Adam points out the pink juice on the plate of chicken parts. Oh, for crying out loud! At some point I put a napkin over my head while everyone laughed about Adam's paranoia. Raelin came over to get under the napkin with me. That made me smile. I fought back the urge to give up and go to bed right then and there--cry myself to sleep.
Now I've had some chocolate and we're about to go to bed and watch our favorite distraction from life--Lost. May tomorrow bring some emotional tranquility and a better turn of events!
True, the sun was out.
But the quality of my experience had nothing to do with the weather.
It had to do with watching the van slide down hill a couple feet and many minutes of terror that Adam would flip the van trying to get up the slick lawn. You see, there was this idea. To use the van as a very large wheelbarrow so that the mountain of firewood would be a cinch to move to the back of the house here in Rockland. And it seemed good at the time, and it seemed like a 4-wheel drive vehicle would go down a slopey lawn and back with no problem. Kevin was a little doubtful, and it turns out he had good reason for that. The stress of the slide moment stayed with me for a few hours, really. I was without the structure I create for myself every day, having poured all this adrenaline and unexpected time into helping make sure the Adam and the van made it up to the front yard unharmed.
I retreated to the now level van, parked at an odd angle, to write a bit and to read. I'm reading The Opposite of Fate, by Amy Tan. It's a creative non-fiction book about her life as a writer. It's entirely fascinating and keeps me drawn in page after page. I felt a little better after a few chapters of a life far more outlandish and harrowing and grief-stricken than my own.
Then I made it to the post office to mail my absentee ballot overnight, since the Registrar's office didn't get the ballot out to me until yesterday. (Apparently all the voter deadlines for registration and requesting absentee ballots change when you're past the CA border). At the post office, the kind postal clerk told me that it's only guaranteed 2nd day. I asksed what could be done about this. She said nothing--Express mail is the fastest they've got. Something to do with the origin and destination zip codes made it impossible to guarantee overnight delivery. It was 4:30. I needed to get back home to start dinner. I grimaced and decided to hope for the best--why stop now when I've spent all this energy getting the damn thing here? There is a chance it will make it there tomorrow, she told me. Sigh.
Back home, I prepared my first ever stuffed, roasted chicken. It took a lot longer than I expected, partly because I misread the cooking time. Then the stuffing wasn't hot enough. I waited longer. The temperature guage poking out of the thigh (my cookbook said that was the place to put it) reaced 200 degrees. I decided to take the stuffing out and keep cooking it, so the chicken wouldn't get overdone. I carved the chicken with some difficulty, as I've done it all of 3 or 4 times in my life, mostly with raw chickens. Dinner was finally on the table nearly 2 hours later than anticipated. Then Kevin notices a slightly pink portion of his chicken leg. Adam gets this horrified look on his face. I can't believe the damn thing isn't cooked all the way. Adam points out the pink juice on the plate of chicken parts. Oh, for crying out loud! At some point I put a napkin over my head while everyone laughed about Adam's paranoia. Raelin came over to get under the napkin with me. That made me smile. I fought back the urge to give up and go to bed right then and there--cry myself to sleep.
Now I've had some chocolate and we're about to go to bed and watch our favorite distraction from life--Lost. May tomorrow bring some emotional tranquility and a better turn of events!
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
A day in the life in Maine
As you may have concluded, we are in Maine. Three and a half weeks have passed like water down the gentle creek that peeps out at me from the thick trees and shrubs on my occasional runs round the neighborhood. We didn't move the van from its level driveway spot at K, K & R's for a week when we first got here.
How quickly we transformed into domestic hermits after the constant movement of road travel and our one crazy night out in New York. To finally arrive here on the other side of the country, in our friends' driveway, after so many months imagining it! It put a broad smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach all day. And several days after, I kept stopping in my tracks to say, "We're in MAINE!" to whoever was at hand.
A typical day in the life here:
Wake up in the van well after sunrise. Open the back curtain a smidge to let the light in. Climb out of the layers of covers, pull on some PJs or yesterday's clothes, slip on the wool slippers I got recently with an unused birthday gift certificate, gather up my iPod (on which I record ephemeral thoughts as I drift off to sleep), glasses and clothes and emerge into the cold air for a brisk, blinking walk to the front door. Retreat to the bathroom for the normal stuff, come out and decide whether to eat or get exercise first. Decide to eat first. Make some scrambled eggs with fresh chard from the garden. On my more motivated days, I don my long stretchy pants and a short-sleeve shirt and hoodie for a stint in the basement with the weights, physioball, yoga mat, and foam roll we brought with us (see, we're using them!). Take a shower and rummage through the duffel bag of clothes in the basement for fresh duds. Read some email, write some email, read some blogs, check out what I have planned on my syllabus (without the structure of school or a job, I find I have to create schedules and deadlines or I end up having done I don't know what by the end of the day). Write my daily stream of consciousness journal for half an hour. Go upstairs for a peek at what's in the fridge and nibble on leftovers. Chat with Adam, Kelly, or Kevin. Play with Raelin for a few minutes (painting, reading books, drawing numbers on pieces of paper, stacking blocks, complete with narration "Raelin is painting dots...what are you doing, Juli?"). Do some reading (Artist's Way, Thunder & Lightning, Ballad of the Sad Cafe, or Bee Season). Do some writing (writing practice exercise, work on a short story I started back in Spring of 2004 in my one and only creative writing class, or write a blog). Make headway with some things on my to do list. Go upstairs and pile some leftovers onto a plate for lunch. Hang out with Raelin for a bit. Pet the dog and the cat. Go back downstairs and continue writing. Get distracted looking up a good name for a character on one of the many baby name websites I have bookmarked, and then resolve to use an asterisk and figure it out later. All of this work in the basement is to the tune of muffled Raelin and Kelly conversations, book reading, giggling, and the like, through the baby monitor Kevin keeps near his desk. That is unless I have decided to enclose myself in my own world to avoid my persistent urge toward distraction, in which case I put in headphones while I write. Start to smell dinner Kelly is cooking on the stove (or realize it's time to upstairs and make dinner). See the sunset across the lake on another break upstairs. Settle in at the oval table at the appointed moment for feasting. Dish up a delicious meal and talk about the day's events and ponderings and funny stories. Answer Raelin's periodic questions. "Are you talking?" is the favorite. Often my answer is, "No, I'm listening." Load the dish washer and wash the rest of the dishes. Pile up the napkins and placemats near the dog bowl while Raelin gets her nightly bath. Sit in the living room and chat or read with Adam and either Kevin or Kelly, whoever is not putting Raelin to sleep with bedtime stories. Say goodnight. Get ready for bed, gather up the various DVD-watching equipment, head out to the van for a snuggley episode of Lost, or an occasional Daily Show downloaded a week after it airs from bit torrent. Turn out the light and settle into the piles of covers. Depending on how cold the night is, put on hats and socks and long wool underwear.
What strikes me again and again is how easy it is to get used to a new place and a new rhythm. As if we've always been living in our van, cooking at "home" 6 nights out of 7, eating at the table with our friends, planning the next little outing when the rain breaks. Now that our time here is nearing an end, it feels like we haven't been here that long at all. We haven't eaten lobster yet. We haven't been to Acadia yet (more on that later). We have eaten delicious pork ribs and many other mouth-watering meals. We have been getting our work done.
The leaves on the hill across the lake are finally changing color to gentle amber-gold. On my drive to Warren (a little town a few miles away) to buy a leg of lamb for tonight's dinner I marveled at the color over and over again. It took a while, but ALL the trees are lellow now, as Raelin would say. Around every turn in the drive back to the homestead, leaves fly down from branches extended high above my head. The brilliant blue sky (a common sight for only the last 3 days we've been here) invited my gaze upward at the billows of small white clouds. New England has seeped into my heart and I will miss it (not to mention our wonderful friends who've made this far north place home) when we go!
How quickly we transformed into domestic hermits after the constant movement of road travel and our one crazy night out in New York. To finally arrive here on the other side of the country, in our friends' driveway, after so many months imagining it! It put a broad smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach all day. And several days after, I kept stopping in my tracks to say, "We're in MAINE!" to whoever was at hand.
A typical day in the life here:
Wake up in the van well after sunrise. Open the back curtain a smidge to let the light in. Climb out of the layers of covers, pull on some PJs or yesterday's clothes, slip on the wool slippers I got recently with an unused birthday gift certificate, gather up my iPod (on which I record ephemeral thoughts as I drift off to sleep), glasses and clothes and emerge into the cold air for a brisk, blinking walk to the front door. Retreat to the bathroom for the normal stuff, come out and decide whether to eat or get exercise first. Decide to eat first. Make some scrambled eggs with fresh chard from the garden. On my more motivated days, I don my long stretchy pants and a short-sleeve shirt and hoodie for a stint in the basement with the weights, physioball, yoga mat, and foam roll we brought with us (see, we're using them!). Take a shower and rummage through the duffel bag of clothes in the basement for fresh duds. Read some email, write some email, read some blogs, check out what I have planned on my syllabus (without the structure of school or a job, I find I have to create schedules and deadlines or I end up having done I don't know what by the end of the day). Write my daily stream of consciousness journal for half an hour. Go upstairs for a peek at what's in the fridge and nibble on leftovers. Chat with Adam, Kelly, or Kevin. Play with Raelin for a few minutes (painting, reading books, drawing numbers on pieces of paper, stacking blocks, complete with narration "Raelin is painting dots...what are you doing, Juli?"). Do some reading (Artist's Way, Thunder & Lightning, Ballad of the Sad Cafe, or Bee Season). Do some writing (writing practice exercise, work on a short story I started back in Spring of 2004 in my one and only creative writing class, or write a blog). Make headway with some things on my to do list. Go upstairs and pile some leftovers onto a plate for lunch. Hang out with Raelin for a bit. Pet the dog and the cat. Go back downstairs and continue writing. Get distracted looking up a good name for a character on one of the many baby name websites I have bookmarked, and then resolve to use an asterisk and figure it out later. All of this work in the basement is to the tune of muffled Raelin and Kelly conversations, book reading, giggling, and the like, through the baby monitor Kevin keeps near his desk. That is unless I have decided to enclose myself in my own world to avoid my persistent urge toward distraction, in which case I put in headphones while I write. Start to smell dinner Kelly is cooking on the stove (or realize it's time to upstairs and make dinner). See the sunset across the lake on another break upstairs. Settle in at the oval table at the appointed moment for feasting. Dish up a delicious meal and talk about the day's events and ponderings and funny stories. Answer Raelin's periodic questions. "Are you talking?" is the favorite. Often my answer is, "No, I'm listening." Load the dish washer and wash the rest of the dishes. Pile up the napkins and placemats near the dog bowl while Raelin gets her nightly bath. Sit in the living room and chat or read with Adam and either Kevin or Kelly, whoever is not putting Raelin to sleep with bedtime stories. Say goodnight. Get ready for bed, gather up the various DVD-watching equipment, head out to the van for a snuggley episode of Lost, or an occasional Daily Show downloaded a week after it airs from bit torrent. Turn out the light and settle into the piles of covers. Depending on how cold the night is, put on hats and socks and long wool underwear.
What strikes me again and again is how easy it is to get used to a new place and a new rhythm. As if we've always been living in our van, cooking at "home" 6 nights out of 7, eating at the table with our friends, planning the next little outing when the rain breaks. Now that our time here is nearing an end, it feels like we haven't been here that long at all. We haven't eaten lobster yet. We haven't been to Acadia yet (more on that later). We have eaten delicious pork ribs and many other mouth-watering meals. We have been getting our work done.
The leaves on the hill across the lake are finally changing color to gentle amber-gold. On my drive to Warren (a little town a few miles away) to buy a leg of lamb for tonight's dinner I marveled at the color over and over again. It took a while, but ALL the trees are lellow now, as Raelin would say. Around every turn in the drive back to the homestead, leaves fly down from branches extended high above my head. The brilliant blue sky (a common sight for only the last 3 days we've been here) invited my gaze upward at the billows of small white clouds. New England has seeped into my heart and I will miss it (not to mention our wonderful friends who've made this far north place home) when we go!
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