Wednesday, July 15th: Things deteriorated rapidly before our departure. Kurt’s tick bite turned ugly. Diagnosis: cellulitis.  Prescription: antibiotics. The doctor looked at an odd rash under his arm and dismissed it as minor and unrelated. Two days later  (today) the rash has spread significantly and the sight of the tick bite is a hot, glowing, meaty red.  Meanwhile, Addie is nauseous with stomach cramps, lying teary-eyed and miserable with a hot water bottle on the coach. Connor helpfully points out that he has a mysterious bump on his neck. I rush around packing, checking and rechecking my lists, finishing up last minute details and feeling a wee bit stressed about leaving them all.

Thursday: Addie has recovered enough to drive us to the bus station in Portland where we begin our journey. Meanwhile Kurt is headed back to the doctor’s and who knows what’s going on with Connor’s mystery bump.  But, finally, Lydia and I are underway; we’re on the bus and headed toward Boston. I opt to read while Lydia prefers to watch the movie, Gravity. Every so often I look over to see what’s happening– even without hearing the dialogue, I can tell this is an intense movie!  I sink back into my book. As we near the airport in Boston, I glance up at Lydia’s screen to see Sandra Bullock hurtling through space in a fiery capsule, speeding toward the ocean below. Great. That’s just what I need to see before getting on a Trans-Atlantic flight! (Did I mention that I’m a nervous flyer?)

Everything goes smoothly at the airport–Our flight is on time and we board. I can’t believe how cramped it is. Have I forgotten or were planes always this small? These seats are not designed for passenger comfort–especially not sleepy passengers. I enter my plane zone which essentially consists of pretending that I’m not on a plane. To do this I have to focus exclusively on my row of seats and on my reading material.  Lydia is a wonderfully sympathetic travel companion and we leaf through countless magazines together. Inane reading in People magazine is always a good option, and I find the “Spot the Difference” pictures a effective distraction, as always.(“Oh look, her shirt is green in this picture!”) Looking around the plane requires me to acknowledge that I am actually on a plane, so I try very hard not to do that. This also means I minimize trips to the bathroom. Sleep is essentially impossible though we do nod off occasionally. By the time we arrive early in Dublin, I’m desperate to stretch (and to use a bathroom) but not thrilled to face the undeniable fact that there’s yet another take off and landing ahead of us before we arrive in Paris. We left home 12 1/2 hours ago.

After surviving another flight, we arrive in Paris, then catch a bus and ride for another 1 1/4 hours to the train station. As we speed through Paris, I get a quick thrill as I spot Notre Dame! At Gare Montparnasse we wait and wait until finally we catch the train to Quimper–another 4+ hour ride. Lydia dozes while I blearily take in the scenery–fields of heavy-headed sunflowers and golden round bales of hay, lovely towns and villages, granite architecture, soaring cathedrals.  We arrive in Quimper at about 6 pm local time.  We’ve now been traveling for over 24 hours.

Fatigue is oozing through my brain and it’s compounded by the uncertainties of the language barrier (I should have practiced my French!). After a quick taxi ride, we check into our hotel and then wander out. On a dim level I register the sights and sounds of this delightful town, but everything is slightly askew–foggy with fatigue. Despite butchering the language, with the kind assistance of our waiter, we are able to enjoy our first  crepes in France at a local Creperie.  Then we call it a night.

At long last, back at the hotel, we settle in. An hour or so later, I look over at Lydia who is sound asleep. I listen jealously to her relaxed, easy breathing. I yearn for sleep. I’m worried about Kurt and Addie and I’m utterly exhausted. On the brink of a wonderful adventure, I’m homesick and pissed at myself about that. I remember this feeling from childhood, when I wanted, above all things, to stay at a friend’s house for the night, yet yearned at a bone-deep level to be home with my family. I always called to get picked up. I can’t do that now and I don’t even want to except on some emotional, spent level.

Sleep.  I need sleep.

This summer has been full from start to impending finish. It began with Lydia’s high school graduation and a wonderful days-long heart-warming family celebration. It continued through lazy, exploring days and into an amazing three-week European family adventure. And the finish promises to be a doozy as Lydia leaves for college and our home, for the first time in 22 years, will be empty of children. This year also is the year that Connor graduates and heads off on who-knows-what path and Adeline will be spending a semester overseas in England. The chicks are flying out of the nest.

I’ve been very mindful of this impending change and have stretched my own wings this summer, exploring on my own and embracing solitude as well as family time. As each experience has unfolded, whether solitary or familial, I’ve had the strongest, recurring sense that when I write about a moment, I’m creating a sort of memory bead.

With my words I’ve struggled to craft each moment into a distinct shape that highlights its essence and encapsulates the critical elements, physical and emotional– solitary walks tinged with melancholy; sun-speckled, companionable hikes over and around giant boulders; lazy, evening strolls on a beach; walking through the relentless heat on the cobbled streets of Pompeii; the hushed power of an ancient cathedral; a laughing moment dining al fresco in Rome. As I sift through recent thoughts, impressions, experiences, adventures, my mind is still spinning. It takes time to filter through the richness of it all.

Each experience is the fuel that fires the forge of my writing.  The flames stir, crackle and pop, and with time and effort, a bead emerges, hopefully strengthened and refined, distinct in color, size, shape, feel.  I consider it, rework it, and sometimes discard it. And when I take the time to write about a moment, to find the precise words and phrases, I am sometimes, wonderfully, rewarded by finding the thread that links each seemingly disparate bead. And then, if and when that one bead feels ready and complete, I place it gently next to the one before it. I’m stringing a necklace of memories.

This winter, when dark dips early and the house echoes about us, I’ll skim my fingers through my mental jewelry box and, clicking bead by clicking bead, I’ll pull out my strand of memories. And I’ll choose one, touch it softly, lovingly, and remember.  Then I will gently release it, to click into place beside its brethren, and tuck the strand away.  And hopefully, I’ll then head out on a new adventure, add fuel to the forge and create a new memory to string along with those that have come before.

I’ve wandered a lot this summer, writer’s notebook and pen at the ready.  I’m beginning to wonder where one draws the line between observing with a writer’s eyes and spying…At any rate, during a recent visit to the beach, I was entranced by a slice from an unknown family’s life.

At the edge of the ocean
on a warm summer’s day,
they linger at the tidal pool.
A father and two daughters.
Exploring.
The older one dashes away,
calling over her shoulder,
“I’m going to get a bucket!”
She clambers over rocks,
returning shortly,
clutching a faded pink pail.
Setting it beside her,
she crouches at the edge,
one hand grasping granite,
the other plunging
into the pool.
Questing.
The younger one
stands in the water,
her father nearby.
In small hands,
she gathers fistfuls of her sundress
lifting it high.
Her shoulder blades jut slightly
from beneath tender skin.
Her short downy hair is mussed,
softly tousled by the breeze,
lit by the sun.
She bends her neck
to peer into the water.
Searching.
Spying something,
her hands release,
her dress falls,
unheeded about her legs.
She points to some treasure
in that tidal pool,
drawing her father’s and sister’s eyes.

One day
they may sit together again
and reminisce
sifting through the sands of memory
back to this day on the beach
to remember this golden moment
sparkling with
sunlight,
warmth,
discovery.

Treasure.

Yesterday, Kurt and I were walking at Popham Beach and came across a protected nesting area for terns and plovers. We stopped to watch a swaggering bird trying to entice his mate. He held a shining fish in his beak and strutted back and forth across the sand. She walked away several times but he followed, undeterred, opening his wings, crossing them, and brandishing that fish about madly!  What a show!

Today’s task at Teachers Write was to write a 12-line rhyming poem in couplets or quatrains, paying close attention to rhythm.  I tried to tackle this moment of avian courtship in my poem. This was fun but quite challenging–Free verse definitely comes more naturally to me. Interestingly, I found that writing in rhyme changed the tone of the poem for me–made it more playful.

(Oh–and I must admit, I did not know the word “avicular.” I first used avian, but it didn’t work for me, rhythmically, so I searched for a synonym.)

A birdie did a courtin’ go
along the beach one day.
A fine slim fish he swanked about
to lure his wary prey.

He postured on the sun-baked sand,
spreading his wings aloft.
He sidled up to get in close,
his dark eye keen and soft.

Repeatedly he shook his beak,
with sparkling fish inside.
This must be avicular talk
for “Will you be my bride?”

I’m still participating in Teachers Write and am ever amazed by the generosity of those who make this “camp” possible each summer–Kate Messner, Gae Polisner, Jo Knowles, Jennifer Vincent and scads of volunteering authors. Today’s exercise involved incorporating voice and humor.  I’ve been fiddling around with these two characters and am not sure where they are going… if anywhere!  Writing fiction is quite a stretch for me!

Bang! Bang! Bang! When Iggy gets mad, she gets really, really mad and let me tell you, she is not shy about it. Her feet hit the ground like little jackhammers. Next, she looks you right in the face and then quick as a wink she starts holdin’ her breath ’til she’s turnin’ blue—not just a cold-in-the-pond-around-the-lips blue, but a deep, dark, ripe blueberry blue! Boy, that girl is stubborn!

The blue upsets Ma and Pa, but if they aren’t around, I just poke Iggy —hard—right in the side. Whoosh! All that air comes flying out from her blue puffed-up cheeks and next thing I know she’s hollerin’ and my eardrums are screamin’ “Uncle!” If I’m not quick enough my face starts hurtin’, too. Because Iggy isn’t only loud when she’s mad, she’s dangerous!

Pa says Iggy is a one-girl show and you never know what act’s comin’ up next. Me, I think she’s a one-girl freak show. But Ma taught me not to say that anymore. Anyway, even when Iggy’s not acting freaky she still looks kinda weird. She’s got big, buggy blue eyes and crazy blond hair that fluffs up all over her head. When she’s fussin’ about somethin’ she tugs at it and it looks even worse. She sort of looks like a deranged chick. But I learned not to say that out loud neither.

Mama says Iggy’s got “pizzazz.” “Pi-what?” I asked.

She said, “Well, let’s just say that Iggy livens up our world.”

Well that’s one way of puttin’ it. But if I had that much pizzazz, I’d be grounded for a week and livin’ on bread and water.

I’m participating in Teachers Write this summer. It’s a sort of writing camp for teachers who want to strengthen their writing skills and “walk the writing walk”. Today’s task was to work on a character sketch and to try to work in visual details that reveal something about the character. I combined it with an earlier task of wondering.  Writing fiction is challenging for me but I’m trying!

She has curly dark brown hair—
bouyant,
like her nature tends to be.
She’s an easy-going optimist.
But I wonder what happens
to a glass-half-full kind of gal
when the glass is cracked
no denying possible?
She sticks to the safe spots-
always has a hair band around her wrist
ready to create order from her unruly hair.
Something to fidget with and snap
when nerves twang.
She knows how to restrain.
I wonder can she let go as well?
Her bumper sticker states:
Well-behaved women rarely make history.
Not a reflection, but an aspiration.
She’s webbed in by etiquette.
I wonder what would happen
if one day she spoke and
truth trumped courtesy.

I stood at the trail head early in the morning. I’ve walked Morse Mountain many times, but always with friends, family and my children along. This summer, on the verge of an empty nest, challenging myself to move out of my comfort zone, I’ve been venturing out alone. On this glorious morning Morse Mountain was my destination. The day promised to be a gift from summer—wrapped up in blue skies and sunshine with a trailing ribbon of breeze.

Morse Mountain is a midcoast Maine gem of hundreds of protected acres of woods, salt marshes and beach. The trail winds through a range of scenery up and down, eventually depositing you, two miles later, at a pristine beach, bedecked with salt-bleached driftwood and garnished with strands of tangled kelp and seaweed.  Although it’s an easy hike (calling it a mountain seems like an exaggeration) the distance deters many beach-goers or at least those encumbered by vast quantities of beach-going paraphernalia. This ensures a lovely tranquil setting at trail’s end and a place on my family’s favorite-spots-to-visit list.

On this morning I followed the path down into a marshy area, drinking in the changing scenery along the way, smiling as invisible frogs twanged their internal banjos.  Chiseled earthen channels marked the tide’s path through the grasses and the marsh pulsed with varied shades of green in the bright morning light.  A heron took flight as I approached, white wings vivid against the glowing green.

I continued hiking up cool, speckled forested paths lined with granite outcroppings.A small chipmunk scampered silently over mossy paths. The drum drum drum of an industrious woodpecker punctuated the air, accompanied by the soft thud thud thud of my footsteps.  A red squirrel contentedly haunched on back legs, munching on forest bounty and eyeing me suspiciously.  From high above drifted the caw caw caw of crows, the soft coos of mourning doves and the distant jarring cries of gulls. The eerie metallic buzz of insects sounded repeatedly.

I relished these sights and sounds and enjoyed setting my own pace. I stopped as I pleased to take pictures, to listen, to watch. But simultaneously I listened to an internal soundtrack. Though I saw and heard no one on my trek to the beach, the woods echoed for me with childish voices, clamoring, chattering, complaining. I felt the whisper of a small hand tucked in mine, a ghostly embrace of arms twined about my neck as a weary one piggybacked up a steep portion of the path.  Laughter. Crows of delight and discovery. These echoes and shadows teased my memory as I explored the path in solitude, filtering my present through my past. 

I arrived at the beach, welcoming the warmth of the sun on my skin as I emerged from the trees. There were no limits to my stay—no agenda—no needs to tend to other than my own.  I could sit or walk or wander as I willed. Able to lose myself in the hypnotic rhythm of the waves. No distractions. No way to mark time passing and no need to do so. Only the backdrop of surf, sun and sand and the occasional murmur of voices wending my way on a salty rose-scented breeze.  I pulled out my notebook to write.  Alone, accompanied by sweet memories of the past, I unwrapped the day and savored the present.

A young girl stands
ankle-deep in ocean,
legs splayed,
arms akimbo,
hair tangling in the brisk breeze.
The surf churns about her thin legs
spritzing them with saline mist.
A wave hovers
then crashes.
Turning,
she dashes away,
the deflated wave
licking at her heels.
Suddenly
she jumps and spins,
retreating no more.
Facing the ocean,
she crouches low,
arms spread wide,
She wiggles her fingers
and shakes her tuckus
as if to say
“Come on! I dare you!”
As she waits
for the next wave.

Last night I groused and grumbled about trash detail in the morning. After two weeks of accumulation, and days of sun interspersed with rain, and yesterday’s downpours, it would be an unpleasant task. Compounding the effects of time and nature, a feral cat has been visiting us lately. He(?) has enjoyed exploring our trash by eviscerating trash bags and consuming tasty tidbits and he does not clean up after himself. With the cat in residence, putting the trash out at night was not a possibility, so I faced an unpleasant early morning duty and I was not happy about it.

This morning I woke early to sunshine and birdsong and knew I needed to get going—the trash truck waits for no man! So, after my first sip of coffee, I headed out, determined, boots on my feet, trash tags in my hand. About 15 minutes later I was done–disgusted, but done. I had picked up sodden cat-strewn tidbits, dodged maggots, rebagged hole-y trash bags, avoided gargantuan slugs, and hefted water-logged bags into the back of the truck. Satisfied with my hard work, I drove to the end of the driveway and deposited the bags in a haphazard pyramid of waste. Cross that off my list!

I was headed back toward the truck and up to my second sip of coffee when a flash of light behind me caught my eye. I turned and stopped. The morning sunlight streaked in golden rays across the road as it simultaneously peeked through the trees, dappling the road below. What a beautiful light display!

That brief glimpse snared me and swiftly and sweetly channeled me from determination to wonder. I returned to the house, but not for coffee, for my camera. With it in hand, and my eyes awakened, I wandered through our yard, soaking in the splendor of the morning.

How thankful I am that  a burst of sunlight shifted my focus and opened my eyes to the beauty around me.  

Library book sales are one of the highlights of my summer. These sales typically have scads of quality books at super prices and the money I pay goes to support a local library. What’s not to love?  I can, and have, spent hours rummaging on tables and through boxes full of books. In addition to browsing through books, I take great pleasure in watching others do the same. In fact, after reading a recent, delightful post by Mary Lou Shuster about being a book pusher, I now think I may be a bit of a book voyeur. I listen in to others talking about books. I watch them caress the spines of their favorites, lovingly riffle through pages and reminisce with a gleam in their eye. I get a thrill hearing the titles tumble longingly off their lips…you get the picture.

At any rate, this weekend our local library held their much touted and anticipated sale. The sale began at 10 am and at 9:45 there was already a long line of excited readers waiting outside the door. What a heartening sight: a warm, sunny summer morning and people were lining up to buy books and read! The air buzzed with conversation, anticipation and a lovely, positive energy.  Random comments floated my way.

“I have to stop buying books. I promised myself I wouldn’t buy anymore bookshelves.  I thought that would help, but now the books are all over my furniture!”

“I buy trade paper backs so I can resell them. I have a circuit of used book stores and I rotate through them. That way I make more money to buy more books!”

“I hate people from California. I really do.”

Finally, the doors opened, the crowd surged forward (gently and politely—this is, after all, a literary group) and into the building.The jr. high school auditorium was filled with table after table of books, labeled generally with such titles as “Children’s” “Travel” “Poetry”. Under each table are more and more boxes of books in reserve, patiently waiting to fill in empty spaces as books on tables are selected and removed. Smiling volunteers in blue aprons moved purposefully through the crowd, organizing, assisting, and rearranging. I scarcely knew where to look first and let the motion of the crowd move me. I meandered through the aisles, no real agenda in mind, pausing here and there, waiting my turn to move into the more popular tables. Watching and listening, breathing in books—alone and yet connected to this bookish community.

Eventually I worked my way through the crowds to one of the fiction sections. I leisurely turned over book after book. I considered enticing new titles and works by favored authors and added a few to my bag. I smiled with delight when spying old favorites, as though a beloved friend had unexpectedly appeared, and touched them gently, acknowledging our connection. Again and again I ruthlessly repressed my strong, strong inclination to reorganize books and reunite duplicates and series books. Each year I find it fascinating to discover which books I will see repeatedly. In past years I have seen copy after copy of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, A Thousand Splendid Suns and Memoirs of a Geisha. This year I saw multiple copies of Cutting for Stone, Water for Elephants, Olive Kitteridge. Who knows what next year will bring.

After I finished at that table, I moved into an adjacent room. Eager to dive into yet another selection of fiction, I nipped in to an open spot at a table beside an older woman. As we browsed, she suddenly reached to a book at the back of the table before us. “Oh, this is one of my favorites,” she whispered, for her ears only, as her fingers gently brushed the spine of John Irving’s Cider House Rules. I had heard similar words slipping unsummoned from my lips and from others time and again as I rummaged through the stacks today. She glanced up shyly, noticing me by her side. “I loved it, too,” I said. We smiled, confederates in books, and continued our search—for new treasures and old favorites.