Start of Day October 4, 2020

Here's what I'm grateful for:

Standing on the top deck at Betsy's house on Ocean View Drive in Wellfleet, Massachusetts at the edge of the world, full moon bright orange rising in the eastern sky with bright Mars pulsing next to it. 

Twilight. Just the word twilight. That someone thought a word was necessary for crespcule or the time in between sunset and evening and the variety of words: dusk, evenfall, and gloaming. 

To have the ability to wake at sunrise and gaze on a wide swath of shoreline with impossibly long rolls of waves bending in gently, and hearing the gentle crash on the shore as they recede. Wondering and appreciating how long these waves traveled.  

Gratitude for the Boston Museum of Science where I became fascinated with waves as a child because of the enormous transverse wave machine.  Gratitude for the friends who helped make a field trip possible for my high school students, who then became fascinated with Harmonograph sand pendulum and lightning show. 

The shifting sands of LeCount Hollow that reveals a perfectly intact leaded glass bottle marked with raised glass lettering John Doherty and Company, Boston, Mass found two weeks ago after a particularly windy day and night and, with another storm, the dunes having transformed shape again; massive sands pushed up against them, so much so, that whatever shards of broken glass and bottles I found in the same spot are reburied beneath at least two feet of pounded soft granules. 

Gratitude for a new Ella Fitzgerald release, "The Lost Berlin Tapes", which anyone who loves Ella must have. 

Gratitude for my parents who played music constantly in our house. Gratitude for a memory of my father and I singing the chorus to Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered in his old-man forest green Chrysler Lebaron convertible,  a friend in the back seat laughing us after leaving a gig my younger brother had in Boston. 

Gratitude for these detailed memories when there are many days when I can't remember yesterday.   

The perfect circle of the full moon, the triangle of its glow on the ocean, and the straight line of the horizon as if an impossibly long yard stick ruled it so. 

 

 

"I am grateful for everything in my life, knowing all is in perfect, divine order."

Deepak Chopra's Centering Thought of the Day my last morning in Wellfleet was a good swap for what I was feeling, which was regret. So it was gratitude I thought about during my morning walk on Lecount Hollow, the beach I've come to call mine, before I had to drive to New York in a few hours.

Rolling waves were falling against a soft, hazy backdrop, breaking between 12  - 15 seconds apart before finding the shore.   The glassy water made it difficult to distinguish seals from the surfers bobbing in their gleaming black wetsuits.  I felt bad that Sgt. Pepper wouldn’t be dodging the Park Rangers and sea gulls for who knew how long.  

I do have a lot to be grateful for. In fact, I would wager to say “a lot” is an understatement.  In the last four months, I’ve unearthed a goldmine of knowledge, about the future I want to create, what makes me happy and what it means to detach with grace. 

A few things that came to mind while I walked towards the Whitecrest embankment. 

1. The “Fact of the Day” scribbled on the dry erase board by the four teenagers who made up our squad of Life Guards.  Along with water temperature, shark sightings, and the levels of mung were quips like: "100 % of the people who don't smoke will die" or “Joe likes popsicles more than ice cream sandwiches”. They never ceased to make me smile.

2. Rachel, the counter girl at Sweet and Savory Escapes who would wave and smile when I walked through the door, scooping a perfect ice cream cone for me, pretty much on a daily basis since Tracy and I first went there in May. I am a creature of habit, keeping my selections to Salted Caramel, Coffee, Deep Chocolate and Pomegranate Chocolate Chip. Sugar cone, of course.

3. Susanne at The Farm Gallery, for always remembering that I love Paul Scarbo Frawley's irreverent art and Asya Palatova's vocabulary teacups with words like “Ontology” and “Tango” delicately glazed in pastels.

Peter Scarbo Frawley, Corona typewriter on paper, 1970

4. Petra and Rolf at Eastham’s GLOW Yoga. They got me through the dark days of spring and into Bikram (a tiny bit). Special shout out to Rolf, who made me fall over with laughter during class when he, in tree pose, told us with a beatific smile, "We're all going to die, right, so let’s try to find the balance while we're here".

5. The Wellfleet librarians who always held recommendations for me, and unbeknownst to them, helped me realize a long ago New Year’s resolution to borrow instead of buying books.

6. Genevieve, of Truro Yoga, a student of one of my favorite teachers, Shiva Rae, who leads a 90 minute+ classes which always began and ended with her infectious giggle and a sense that you were exactly where you needed to be.

7. The Mermaid at the Mermaid Grange, artist Julia Salinger, who, despite the stoic New England attitude surrounding her, piles up her silver hair and studs it with starfish and covers her arms and shoulders with body glitter. I always say one should sparkle!

At the Weidlinger House

8. Peter the architect’s staid sideman humor, original word jokes, and the world of modern architecture I never would have known existed. Hidden among overgrown pine trees and tucked away off the dirt roads on National Park lands are dozens of disused and neglected summer homes designed and once inhabited by Paul Weidlinger,  Jack Hall and many others.  I also appreciate that he left New York City for a quieter life, and because of his love for modernists, (“They were hopeful”), started the Cape Cod Modern House Trust, saving important architecture from falling away to the elements. Also by being an example of blending his career with two things he genuinely enjoyed.

9. Chatting with Joe McCaffery of Narrowland Pottery and the painter Paul Sugg  about the "Born Here/Wash Ashore" histories, and their penchant for soft serve cones despite their gruff, salty exteriors. 

10. Polly Burnell's sunny, positive attitude about everything, (“I think I’m a Buddhist” she confided in me, while at the same time eyeing a trio of aircraft approaching and finishing with “God, I hope those aren’t UFOs”.) A sister in Rickie Lee fandom.

11. The fried scallop roll (hold the roll) recommendation from the sullen counter girls at P.J’s. Like Savory’s ice cream, it became a staple for me. 

12. The plumpest, juiciest oysters on the half shell as well as the staggering amount of butter Chef Eric Jansen of Truro’s Blackfish uses on his bone-in rib eye entree. 

13. My neighbors Trisha and Richard, who made me feel so welcome, allowed me a spot in their garden, shared their harvest over long lunches that always began with a cup of hot coffee and warm milk and who are living the life I want when I am a septuagenarian, spending two months in Kauai during the winters, eating from their garden, creating art and being happy souls.

14. The light. The light. The light. 

Peter shared with me a ritual he created with his nieces to commemorate their summer vacation. The second to last day, everyone would write down what they loved and what they could have lived without, and then burning the folded slips of paper in a big beach bonfire. I have not said good-bye to the ocean, to the bay, to the librarians, or anyone, preferring to slip out of town quickly and quietly. 

I tear up thinking about my daily routine there. The lingering winter I witnessed blossoming into spring and the scents that it brought- lilac for May, peonies in June and roses heralding the quick arrival of a heated summer in July.

The traffic was beginning to come to a standstill where U.S. Route 6 narrows into two lanes, a cheerless reminder that while everyone is arriving for their vacation, I am leaving.  It gives a strange sensation, like I am going in the wrong direction.

The people I’ve come to know, Trisha, Polly, Joe, Paul and others, assured me that I will be back, giving quick hugs or pats on the shoulder with "You're part of Wellfleet now". 

That seems certain. 

Last Days...

Surfing culture didn’t enter my consciousness until I saw the Beach Boys at the Iowa State Fairin 1975.  I wasn’t that cool of a seven year old - my sister and I were campaigning for the Bay City Rollers.   For the past decade or so, parking lots on the ocean beaches are filled with surfers, muscling between the sunbathers, riding the last of morning’s high tide waves. Out at Cahoon Hollow, the Beachcomber Bar and Grill’s summer line up includes Dick Dale later this month.

It is a gorgeous Sunday morning and I am uncharacteristically up at 8:30 AM and at the beach with coffee and puppy. As the climate has warmed, more and more bikers are sitting outside PB’s Bistro, sipping cappuccino in their spandex and helmets after completing the 22 mile Cape Cod Rail Trail.

I have really fallen in love with Wellfleet, and now I am regretting not renting through September or October. I had planned a Fuller Build to Sri Lanka in July, and truly hoped to be out of the country for at least a month. Unfortunately, that trip had to be rescheduled for next year and I find my last three weeks rushing forward. I can't remember what day it is, it always feels like Sunday and that I'm going to have to pack up and leave immediately.   The spike in energy hasn’t helped matters.

I thought that Memorial Day marked the start of summer, but I was mistaken. For sure, it all happens the week before 4^th of July.  Traffic has slowed to a crawl, drivers turned surly, left turns near impossible to make, (unless before or after 10 PM, when P.J.’s has finally closed the take out window).

My friend Deb won’t even attempt Route 6 on a Sunday unless it’s after 9 PM. “Blue plates” she says, meaning the license plates of everyone hailing from other than MA, but specifically Connecticut.

The library has been consistently full, people answering their phones with full voice. I glance up at my tablemate, and we shake our heads, silently agreeing that these intruders are just plain rude.

Most of the locals I’ve met during the spring have gone into hiding, shopping early and getting home before the dinner crowd starts marching down Main Street in their khakis, plaid shirts and Lily Pulitzer dresses after the struggle to find parking. It has been interesting to be on this side of the street.

Summer folks emit a temporary entitlement over the town, knowing their money fuels an economy that all but dies during the off-season, accounting for more than 70% of the influx of income from July through September, which is the snarky retort you’re bound to hear if you even mention how dense the traffic is on Friday.

But all 21,000 residents, taxpaying and otherwise, have one thing in common.  They love the natural surroundings. Sure, you may hear a disparaging remark about Pres Hall, but in the same sentence, that same grumpy Gus will ask you if you saw last night’s full moon, or tell you about the two hummingbirds that return each year to a butterfly bush in the back yard. And they’ll smile and look wistfully away, thinking how lucky they are to be here.

Two older folks have parked their bikes at the end of the parking lot, and rest on the bench, another addition, recently perched on the edge of the sandy decline. “How long have you lived here” they ask me. I am just a seasonal renter I reply, but looking out at the Atlantic, the sandbars that have raised themselves in anticipation of beachcombers & sand castle makers. I think I might like to stay here. Why they ask?  Everyone I’ve spoken to that lives here loves it. And we all look out at to the edge of the world and the changing light.

The Virtue of a Rainy Day

Showers were promised the entire month of April, but with the exception of a Nor’ Easter that swept through, any chance of rain has blown over until a late spring deluge that didn’t stop for five days.  New England weather lives up to its reputation in its stubborn refusal to be definable at all.

Tomorrow, the parking lot will be rife with surfers in wetsuits, eager to ride the storm's aftermath, but this morning, the ocean is roiling, almost white with salt and waves breaking over each other. Within 100 yards, my basket is full of plastic caps from soda and water bottles.  The ocean has hiccupped a kind of shutter, square with rusty hinges and empty eyes, which I figure once kept it open by hooks hanging from a window sash somewhere. 

Pepper runs right at the waves but stops on a dime, just letting his paws get wet. I love a good rainy day, when the roof sounds like there are ten workers up there pounding nails and you know that when it’s over, the air will smell fresh and clean, but today, I think if I could stand the cold, I would walk right in and disappear like Pepper disappears against the sand.   This is the mood I wake up in.

This intemperate climate has me unsettled. I have been pacing the cottage, picking through almonds and sunflower seeds and the two pounds of Cadbury Milk Chocolate Easter Eggs my mother sent me, listening to Fresh Air, which repeats three times daily on the WCAI, the Cape Cod NPR station. I never thought I'd get sick of Terry Gross. 

SIDEBAR: 

Look at all these links about the goodness of Cadbury mini-eggs!

Wiki

Thick Egg Whites Blog

Not Entirely Arbitrary Review of Food

Cyberpunks

BakingBites.com

NZ Girl Reviews

4 The Love of Feasting Blog

YouAreMyFave.com

Candy is Awesome

Later in the day, I force myself to join my neighbor at the Senior Center's community garden. This will be good for me, I think. I need to get my hands in the dirt. Trisha has offered me seeds and a small space in her plot if I help with the watering and some of the maintenance. I will be here through the end of July, and she thinks peas, lettuces, kale, beans and beets will be good, but I will probably not get one of her watermelons or any eggplant.

The latter I can live without.  It is one of the few foods I don’t eat. Along with tunafish salad, large roe that pop open in your mouth, mortadella and for that matter, anything labeled "lunch meat".  We brave the chill and pull back the black plastic that has been protecting the soil over the winter months, mixing in mulch, seaweed and fertilizer.

I'm leaving town for some much welcomed work. Pepper will stay at the Ark Animal center next door.  Hopeful for a change in the weather, I am having him shaved down, which I will discover is not their forte. When I pick him up three days later, he looks he’s been given a buzz cut courtesy of a five year old. 

The threat of rain looms, greeting me on the other side as I emerge from Penn Station with a downpour. There is a bitterness that a chilly late spring rainstorm can send through your bones. (Oy! My kingdom for a bathtub!) This somber mood is fitting for the infamous location we are shooting at, an empty floor at the Manhattan Psychiatric Center on Ward's Island. "It's the last place you want to be sent on an insanity plea", a lawyer friend tells me.

Our final day on set, afternoon sunlight bursts through the dirty institutional windows. A few crew members take their bikes out of production trucks and ride home.  Back in the city, people have shucked their rain gear in favor of sandals.  You would have thought the streets were wet down for a movie shoot.  The ice cream cone I get at the Hagen Daaz counter just about melts in my hand. It is steamy inside the station but cold on the train.

I collect Pepper early in the morning and we drive out to Nauset Beach, where the Outermost House once stood.  The day is so glorious; I have tears in my eyes. Truly. 

Everyone on the beach greets each like old friends.  We are all giddy in soaking up the warmth of the sun.

As soon as we hear the waves, Pepper's ears pop up, alert. A smile breaks out on his face and I let him free. He tears towards the water. This is really the only time I see him smile, when he is by the beach. He can run around for hours. Me, I look for stones. Sometimes a color will strike me and I'll  pick those. Today, I choose perfect circles. 

When we finish our meet and greet with the other revelers, I spot a park ranger waiting at the top of the stairs.  I click Pepper's leash on him as we begin our ascent.  

"Are you going to ticket me?" I ask him.  He takes a few minutes to consider this question, maybe mulling over if I am being a wise ass or not.  I size him up. Young. Probably a rookie. He says, 

"It wasn't the leash that I noticed. It was that basket."  This little thing that I purchased at the AIM thrift store on Main Street for a quarter is now filled with my bounty of circle rocks.  "Really? It's so small" I say.  Now he probably is sure I'm giving him a hard time. 

"You may not realize this, but you're disturbing the marine life.  I'm going to let you pick two, and then you're going to have to toss the rest back." "Really?" I repeat.  I start hemming and hawing. It becomes a difficult decision.  “I don't like that I have to choose but I guess it isn’t Sophie's Choice, now is it?” I tell him when he begins to look impatient. He doesn’t get the reference, taking my basket and dumping the contents into the rose bushes lining the curb. 

"What did you do that for? I would have taken them down to the beach. " We both look down at the 60 + steps.  

"You may not realize this", he repeats, "but marine life is existent up here as well."   

"Are you saying that someday this will be shore line?" sweeping my arm around the parking lot. He doesn't want to discuss global warming with me.  "I'm not going to ticket you, but I am going to give you a warning".

We walk back to my car so that I can give him my I.D. I'm grateful that he didn't see my New York plates before making his decision. By time he has finished writing a very detailed citation, officially notated with numbered codes, many of the cars have left.  

He hands me the original and flips the carbon copy behind the pad.  "What about those?" I point out the tell tale blue bags of dog poop people have left in the now vacated parking spots.  "Isn't that littering?"

I should just go, but warning in hand, I don’t have anything to lose.

"Well, we haven't put out the garbage cans yet, so people don't have a place to dispose … " and his voice trails off.

 "Hmmmm." I nod my head.  "Uh huh."

As I get into my car, I look back at him.  "Maybe the park service could get on that sooner rather than later, don’t you think?”

A bit of spring fever has gotten into me. No doubt - I am smug and sassy.

A canopy has spread over Route 28 in the days I have been away. Oak trees have burst lime-kelly-clover-green leaves.  The scent of lilacs mingles with newly mown grass. Purple bearded iris and pink heather edge wooden fences, off setting the sea washed clapboard houses with shutters painted bright yellow, turquoise, and fuschia. The effect is stunning and I am reminded of e.e. cummings’s beautiful testament to spring: 

i thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

Without a little rain… I think… we would have none of this.