In spite of the less-than-favorable forecast and the typical Irish weather, it had been a beautiful day in Dublin, and we’d been walking and soaking in the scenery all day long. After debating our options, we’d finally selected to eat in the outside area of a restaurant adjacent to the pedestrian zone. We placed our order, and sat back, ready to enjoy both people-watching and being off of our feet. It was finally sinking in: Our long anticipated trip had really begun!

Dining tables in Europe tend to be placed closer together which can invite conversation or at least facilitate eavesdropping. The table across from ours was quite close, and the four people there were clearly enjoying their time together, with lively conversation. The server kept them well-supplied with a variety of adult beverages, and their happy laughter was a nice backdrop to the scenery and our own idle conversation. Eventually, not long after we got our meal, they departed.

Within minutes after they left, a man strolled in from the street, sauntered over to their table, still cluttered with half-finished drinks and dirty plates, and sat down. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, clearly quite at ease.

He must be hungry or really impatient, I thought idly. He isn’t even waiting for the table to be cleared.

Then, the man casually picked up one half-finished drink, lifted it to his lips and drank it down.

Wait! What?!

Kurt and I turned to each other, astonished. We looked back just in time to see the man downing the dregs of the next drink. And then the next. And the next. Almost before we could even process this, he had emptied all the glasses, stood up and was walking away.

As he left, a server approached, and he reached out with both his hands, clasped one of her hands and vigorously shook it. She looked a bit confused, but smiled at him as he talked to her. Then he released her hand and casually walked out of the restaurant and down the street. She continued toward us.

“Excuse me,” my husband said to her as she neared our table, “Did you know that man?”

“No,” she said, laughing. ” I have no idea who he is.”

“Well,” my husband said, “he just sat down and polished off the remnants of all the drinks that were on that table.”

The waitress’s jaw dropped.

Mine still does too, every time I think about it.

It’s one of those days that reminds me why I live in Maine–all sharp-edged clarity and cool low humidity. Sun streaming and the air scented with a potpourri of scents: lilac, wisteria, lily of the valley, and freshly mown grass. I putter about the yard, moving from garden to garden, enjoying my haphazard wandering, surrounded by bountiful evidence of spring’s entrenchment. I weed here and there, spread some mulch. Every so often I stop to admire tendrils of growth or newly emerged blooms. To gently brush variegated leaves. I’m deeply and utterly content to be where I am, doing what I’m doing.

I reach into the half-weeded side garden, where bee balm and evening primrose thrive along with some needs-to-be weeded long grass. I lean further in to pick up a plastic pot filled with hard and shrunken soil. I’d had sweet peas in there last year, hoping they would wind there way up the side of the outbuilding. No such luck. What might I do this year?

The day shifts to shudder when I see, or sense a flash of movement and feel a sudden slithering whisper over the back of my hand. My shriek shatters the crystal blue tranquility of the day. I drop the pot, jumping backward, and recognize the sinuous form–SNAKE– in the same instant that it computes:

OMG! It just slithered over my hand!!!

The pot tumbles back to earth and there’s a flash of muscular scales as the snake nestles further into the shadow between the pot and the earth. I hold my hand to my heart, struggling to slow its frantic pace.

After a few minutes I step forward, my curiosity getting the better of me. In my mind, my favorite mantra of all time loops on repeat: There are NO poisonous snakes in Maine! There are NO poisonous snakes in Maine! I’m pretty sure it must be a garter snake. I can remember my grandmother speaking fondly to them in her own garden. I’m not sure I’m up to that, but still, I’m slowly drawn forward.

At first I can only see one bend of snake, looped up over the soil. The sheen of overlapping scales is almost beautiful. Almost. Then I see the head, tucked down into the shadows. A glimmer of eye. The snake is clearly watching me and is also clearly entrenched. After a few moments, I go inside to get my camera and return to take a few photos. The distance of a lens is always helpful.

It isn’t too long before I realize that it isn’t just one snake. There are actually TWO of them. I can’t suppress another little shudder. One is bolder and pops its head out. Its tongue flickers wildly, no doubt trying to pinpoint my presence. I see the forked black end of the tongue emerge over and over, noting how it turns to red when the tongue is fully emerged. I’m sort of grotesquely fascinated. This snake and I lock eyes as I take a few photos. I murmur a few reassurances. I won’t hurt it, but I’m not going to pet it either!

We pass several long moments together. My heart settles down. We watch each other carefully. The small space between us hums with possibility.

After a while, I leave the snake and return to my puttering. Every so often I cast a wary eye toward that garden. Perhaps the primrose and bee balm will thrive even with the weeds in their midst. It seems I’ll be sharing that garden for the summer. Now that I’m aware of that, I’m sort of…maybe…okay with it. But I’m pretty sure I won’t be weeding much there.

On this Monday of our week of spring break, the clouds drew me outside early. Something about their arrangement over the smooth line of the barn roof caught my eye, so I ventured out, camera in hand. I had snapped a photo when, out of the corner of my eye, I heard a flutter, saw a whisper of movement. I glanced over to see the door to an outbuilding had come open during the night–or perhaps been left open after all our yard work yesterday.

Looking in, I saw a small bird fluttering up and down, trying to escape through the window–though the open door was just as close. I stepped inside and slowly walked over to the window. As I neared, I reached my hands to the window sill, where the bird was now huddled, to pick it up. I placed my hands about it–felt the scrabble of feet, the quick flutter of wings, the insubstantial weight of flight. It quickly stilled within my cupped hands, and I murmured reassuringly, It’s okay. Why, you’re a sweet little white throated sparrow, aren’t you? You’re such a tiny one! Let’s get you out of here now.

Keeping up my inane crooning, I stepped outside the building and slowly opened my hands. The bird, after the slightest of hesitations, flew directly to the birch tree to perch. My spirits lifted with its flight. It really was okay! A red-bellied woodpecker sang out jubilantly from a nearby tree, calling again and again. I watched my breath cloud in the chilly air, tuned in to bright day around me, to the gradual greening, the myriad bird calls. I watched the small sparrow rub its beak against the birch bark.

Then there was a sudden crash and clamor from the brush in the side yard, and I looked over to see a flurry of movement. Deer! My pleasure at seeing them wasn’t enitrely unadultered, as I’d already taken note of some decimated tulips under the apple tree. Still, I couldn’t fail to mostly delight in their presence. They stopped just over the ridge toward the neighbor’s yard, and I counted. One. Two. Three. Four. One looked steadily through the branches at me for long minutes. Then another. Then, in a sudden silent coordinated moment, they took off, loping away–all elegant limbs and tawny pelts, flashing white tail flags as they left.

I turned to walk back inside and return to my coffee. A white throated sparrow called over and over again. The clouds still dotted brilliant blue skies.

Ah, what a lovely way to start the morning.

Her voice hisses across the dividers of clothing racks.

“Do you know what they said on the news last night?”

My head jerks up, away from the discounted sweaters, and I look around trying to find the disembodied voice. Is she talking to me?

“No, what?” someone answers and I pinpoint a trio of women gathered at the end of the next row, looking through the long-sleeved shirts.

“They said it costs 56 thousand dollars for each immigrant. Can you believe it? I thought Mike was going to go through the TV! He had to turn it off. Couldn’t listen to it. And you know they get everything paid for. EVERYTHING!”

My hands still amidst the cotton and wool. I look over again at the speaker. She’s a benign looking gray-haired elderly woman. She continues her rant.

“And the law says they can’t work for six months. So they just sit on their as#!s.”

Her listeners nod enthusiastically and another one eagerly jumps into the conversation.

“I know! They get everything. And I get NO help. Nothing. I have to pay for my rent, my car payment, everything. And they just sit on their as#!s and get everything paid for.”

“Tell her what they do here, Betty,” the other one says, encouraging her friend.

“Ok, you know what they do here?” She pauses strategically, then continues, clearly relishing her contribution, “They just cut in line. Cut right in front of everybody. Like they think they’re the only ones who matter.”

The initial speaker interrupts, “Maybe 300 years ago this was the ‘Land of Opportunity’ but there was no one here then. Now there’s no room.”

They continue their talk for quite some time. There is a lot of repetition. A lot of talk about sitting on as#!s. I listen to them rant, sickened by the hateful intensity of their voices, by their utter lack of empathy…and by my own by-standing. What should I say? What can I say? I run through and reject all sorts of possibilities. I doubt they’d be open to my mentioning their own inconsistencies (If immigrants legally can’t work for six months, what are they supposed to be doing? Also, there actually were people here 300 years ago. etc.) or questioning them further about their knowledge, beliefs. I don’t have facts and statistics readily available to spout. No antidote available for their Fox-fueled venom.

Hearing this vitriol in my own community shocks me. But really, I should have known it was there. We have major problems all over our country. Major divisions. People are struggling in so many ways, and clearly there are problems with the immigration system. I try to remember to have empathy for these women. They are frightened or struggling, looking to make sense of things. Still, I back away from them: the hatred and the “othering” that they espouse feels toxic, dark and deeply disturbing.

I take my leave from the store soon afterward, unable to rummage through used clothes and books any longer. Ashamed that I don’t say something. Anything.

The irony that I was shopping in a store named “Goodwill” was not lost on me.

I begin today with so many grand and productive intentions…

I wrote that sentence probably fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes ago, and immediately got side-tracked by incoming texts and messages. I chatted with my sisters and a few friends, made some plans, then checked my e-mail and scoped out a few cameras on line.

My good intentions are already fraying about the edges, losing clarity, and if not exactly paving the way to hell, definitely creating a path headed toward indolence…

It’s winter break here and I’m torn between two options: laze and lounge or cram something into every available moment. I’m trying to strike the right balance, but it’s hard.

At this moment I’m sitting in the living room. To my right the rising sun is peeking in the windows. I thought about going out to take photos earlier, but it was about 8˚F and I wasn’t that inspired. Instead, I lit the fire in the wood stove, and settled in to drink my coffee and write (and apparently text and message and shop).

So now, my feet rest on the ottoman and the cat is curled up next to them. I’m warmed by both fire and fur. Every so often the cat twitches in her dreams, nudging me. She’s working herself closer and closer to the edge, oblivious to her peril. Just now I had to reposition her so she didn’t fall off. Of course that was misinterpreted as an invitation to join me on my chair, so next I had to gently deter her from repositioning entirely onto my lap/computer. As you can see, I’ve been busy. Thankfully, we’re both settled in again now. At least for the moment.

And so flows the time.

Soon I’ll head into the kitchen and rummage around for something to eat. My thoughts turn toward the wood-fired bagels and fruit salad left over from our family brunch on Sunday.

Still, I don’t move.

It’s such a luxury to be unproductive. I have vague thoughts of making vacation plans and reservations, getting work done, exercising…

The fire crackles in the stove. The sun warms my shoulders. The cat is safely positioned in the middle of the ottoman. My coffee’s gotten cold, but I really don’t care. My stomach reminds me again about those waiting bagels. But for right now, I’ll just sit a bit longer.

This leisurely morning is simply delicious.

I’m easing away from the stop sign, turning right onto the main road, when I see it. The car is squatting in a shadowed lay-by, ready to pounce. My heart thumps.

Did I come to a complete stop?

I thhhhhinnnnnk so. I’m not 100% sure. I drive the short distance to my next turn turn, flick on my blinker and glance in the rear view mirror.

Oh, crap! It’s pulling out.

I watch it pull onto the main road as I make my turn off of it and proceed down the hill. I keep one eye on the road ahead and another behind me.

Is it turning onto this road?

My breath hitches.

Please no please no please no!
Oh, no! Yes! It is! But, there are no flashing lights. At least not yet.

My pulse skitters.

Am I going to get a ticket? Oh, no! What will that do to my insurance rates?

I eye the speedometer, keeping it right at 35 mph. I drive onward. There are still no flashing lights, but I feel its presence behind me like a nemesis.

Maybe they’re running my plates. Will it show that I’ve never had a moving violation? Ever! In more than 40 years of driving! Shouldn’t that count for something?

I continue driving, trying to talk myself off the ledge of my incipient free fall into panic, keeping my speed right at the limit.

There’s nothing you can do now. If you get a ticket, you get a ticket. It’s not the end of the world.

I wrest my eyes from the ominous headlights behind me and try to keep them on the road ahead…when they’re aren’t glued to the speedometer.

Maybe I should turn off this road just to see if it follows…

A crossroads is up ahead.

Will it turn off? Should I?

I keep on driving. I hold my breath, and pass the turn, continuing on my regular route.

Is it slowing? Maybe just a little? Yes! Yes! It is! And the blinker’s on. It’s turning!!!

I watch it start to turn down the road that leads away from me.

Immediate relief seeps through my body. My hands loosen their death grip on the steering wheel. I take a deep breath.

Phew!

I glance back to ensure that it’s well and truly on its way. But wait…what?!

My foot lifts off the gas. I look behind me again, able now to see the full silhouette of the car. The silhouette that does not look like a police car… Not At All.

My mind whirls.

Wait, was that even a police car? Or was I mistaken all along?

I talked to my sister on the drive home from work last night. We chatted about this and that, sharing what we’d been up to, what was going on. As I pulled in the driveway, I said to her, “Well, I’ve got to go. Kurt and I have a hot date tonight. We’re going to get our passport photos taken!” She laughed and we said our goodbyes.

After some quick primping (ha!), Kurt and I were ready to go to Staples, for our exciting photo session. I grabbed two library books as we walked out the door, announcing, “Let’s stop at the library on the way and return these.”

Within about ten minutes, we were at the library.

“If you’re just dropping those off,” Kurt said, “I’ll wait here in the car.”

“Let’s both go in,” I suggested. “They’re got the Joy of the Arts show on display right now. We can check it out.”

Kurt was amenable, so after I dropped off the books, we wandered into the adjacent gallery. We admired intricate drawings, textile pieces, oil paintings, watercolors and more. Over and over again I was impressed by the high quality of the work. There are so many talented people in this world! At one point I stopped in my tracks, amazed by a detailed pencil drawing of a dog’s head. I had thought it was a photograph. It was exquisitely rendered, only the head of a white furred dog, emerging from a white canvas with warm, inquisitive brown eyes. It was somehow lively and ghostly at the same time. Amazing!

After voting for our favorites, we left to head to Staples, and quickly found ourselves in front of the camera.

“No smiling,” the clerk advised. “And you need to take your glasses off.”

Five or so minutes later, we had our photos and were heading out the door. (In case you’re wondering, my photo is pretty appalling. My glasses hide a multitude of sins, not to mention two red spots where they rest all day long on my nose. Not smiling and a winter-dull complexion don’t add much to the mix. Glancing at the picture, before quickly tucking it away, I found myself wishing I’d come for my photo before a long day’s work, when I, perhaps, looked a little less like a cadaver. Oh well.)

Kurt and I walked out into the parking lot together.

“So, where are we going to go out to eat?” he asked, half-joking, as we got into the car.

We debated going home or eating out, and almost before we knew it, we were somehow ensconced in a local pizza spot and ordering dinner. And all this on a Monday night!

On the way home, I commented, “Wow, this really did become a date night! We headed out for passport photos, but ended up going to an art show and out for dinner.”

He replied, “It’s almost as good as our date night Friday, when we go grocery shopping together!”

We are definitely on an upward trajectory! Who knows what might happen next week!?