Resurfacing... just in time for Fall Semester

I've started this entry twenty-six ways til Sunday. I have paragraphs and pages drafted, which become lost under piles of paper and school books. My friends, I have been in Graduate School.  Almost a year ago, I wrote a Thanksgiving entry about non-gratitude, and an angel responded to it, and offered to give me assistance in realizing my dream of becoming a teacher.  Graduate School at my age is not easy. One of my classmates last semester was incredulous that the rumors of "going under" were true. She told me "I always heard about people dropping out of the picture and resurfacing two years later with a degree. I didn't think that would actually happen to me." Honestly, I didn't think it would happen to me either. I have had a lot reactions from people about my decision; mostly positive, but there have been cacklers (I would NEVER do that! You're crazy!).  And.. me being me, I think more about the cacklers.

I've had a lot of doubt, written a TON of pages of academic APA style writing, the origins of which still make no sense to me. I mean, why must we use a tool that the American Psychology Association created for our academic writing on Learning Theory? I've called my mother more than I have ever in my life. I've cried, I've struggled through texts that are so arcane and boring, but I made it through my first semester ...with flying colors, much to my surprise.

After traveling most of the summer, and bouncing to and from my temporary housing in Wellfleet, I am back on the Cape just in time for fall classes to begin.  I can report they are much like a chariot race must have been. Stampeding, dust flying, unable to really steer around the bend, the six or eight horses a heavy load to wield, speeding along to a finish line you cannot see with the thrill pounding in your breast.

So bear with me - I want to stay in touch with all of you lovely friends. I feel so removed, buried in my books and my classroom observations and my exhilaration, my fears, that I forget to post, even 500 words, to let you know where and how I am doing and to find out from you what adventures you are in the midst of...

Please comment - I love to hear from you!

Summer's End

There are few things as sad as empty rooms in a summerhouse on a gorgeous August day.   For the past week our rental has been full of people, but this morning, we are but two, bumping around each other for the last few days.  There should be sand to sweep out of the house and the smell of the grill, nightly excursions to the ice cream parlor in town, and my quintessential summer treat, fried clams.

What makes me hesitate to write my annual Ode to Summer is that I’ve been tres reflective this vacation, even though we’ve managed to stave off the predicted thunderstorms that were supposed to hit last week, and no one got into a teary brawl as can sometimes happens with Forced Family Fun, a term my friend Robin coined when we were teenagers. 

We are at the end of our two weeks in Wellfleet, Mass; one town over from Truro, oddly called “the Lower Cape” even though it’s due north of its elbow.  Truro was where we spent our family vacations in a true seasonal two story on Highland Avenue, the second floor bedrooms separated by tongue and groove paneling that never made it to the ceiling, allowing for children and parents alike to hear everything and tease each other, call out "Goodnights" and laugh at dad’s snoring before dropping off to sleep.  Those days in Truro were some of the best parts of my childhood, influencing me in ways I am still discovering. Respect for the ocean and its treasures - a piece of sea glass to join a colorful collection on a kitchen window shelf back home, a perfect angel wing shell, driftwood aged by salt water, a game of gin rummy ending in rousing hysterics, the acknowledgement of summer and the change of seasons.  Learning these simple pleasures.

We’ve traveled to P-Town no less than three times, boiled eight lobsters and a dozen ears of corn, supped on pints of chowder, went for long walks on the cove.  My sister, younger brother and I try to recreate the best parts of those Cape summers from our youth, but we just couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to see “Smurfs” at the Wellfleet Drive-In, a patch of tar worthy of some of my favorite memories. 

We’ve spent our days together at any one of the five beaches. I’ve been studying for my GREs, trying to remember my high school math and cursing periodically when an algebraic equation eludes me. I ask about Quantitative Reasoning and am answered by blank stares.  Indeed. I would have the same reaction. I admire the New Yorkers who brave coming to the Cape, Land of the Red Sox.  When we were kids, and cars were the size of small watercraft, we’d mimic our parents when the orange and blue license plates would crawl up and down Route 6a… “There go the New Yorkers…”. Even though I live and am registered to vote there, I still consider myself a New England gal.  While we are at Marconi, tide high, a couple of my city companions complain about the water quality – “It’s like swimming in a bunch of diarrhea” and “ It’s cheaper than a seaweed wrap at the Canyon Ranch Spa.   I haven’t showered in three days, I’m going to have to check out that outdoor thing”.  My sister and I look at each other but don’t say anything.  We don’t go into the water though. The moment for jumping the waves has been lost.

I’ve been plucking away as best I can on my guitar with Phil, finishing old crossword puzzles or catching up on “Mad Men” with my sister until I’m truly tired and ready the hit the bed, around 10:30 PM.   When you’re older and the kids that your siblings had are now in their early 20s, raring to go explore the local bars with the friends they’ve invited, it makes you reminisce about the energy you no longer possess. Time speeds by so quickly, you’re trying to reel it back in like an 8-pound striped bass on the end of your line. 

On the late afternoon of the 14th, Siobhan and I head to Duck Beach to witness the extreme low tide.  Once a month the ocean stretches its arms back towards England; a phenomenon brought on the by the full moon. We laugh in wonder at how incredibility gorgeous the sky can be. Pepper cannot find any birds to chase as he did in Davis Park, and the plovers are just too miniscule and busy to attract his attention but he is happy to race up and down the beach and we are happy to chase him.  Clammers and families and lovers have toted their chairs and umbrellas way out away from the pebbly beaches to enjoy the quiet lap of waves rolling on the sand bars, a sound quite different from the roar of the ocean side.

Mom and I have walked through the house making sure that the beds have been stripped and tossing everything into the wash.   We are leaving the day after tomorrow.  The house is empty save for the remains of distractions we brought with us, my guitar, board games, and back issues of New Yorkers.  We are in the midst of a Scrabble-off. This morning Pepper & I braved it alone at Calhoon Hallow beach, but the sand finally drove us away. The wind is starting to pick up, advance warning of Hurricane Irene, but most of the vacationers welcome the balmy temperatures after the past two nights.

With dramatic weather comes dramatic sunsets, and I have been trying to keep the tradition my mother started all of those years ago in Truro when she and Pat Hall would call out “SUNSET” and drive off to Head of the Meadow beach.  It was important to say goodbye to the day.  I don my yellow mustard colored Cape Cod hooded sweatshirt, reminiscent of high school and head out into the 70-degree chill. It smells like fall and this reminds me why I love the East Coast so much. The shores of Wellfleet are truly magnificent; they are shores you can dream on for miles.  

The Summer Sessions

At 5 Second Walk, a clam shell announces, “A Day at the Beach is the Best Day Ever” in blue magic marker. I couldn’t agree more.  I remember the sentiment as I tumble to the Atlantic, where I rejoice in the waves…. the waves the waves the waves as they crash and retreat. I like my towels to be orange and red, a reflection of the heat and joy of beaches and summer. The ocean is a perfect Sea Green from the Crayola color wheel.  Swimmers jockey for position between a dozen men casting fishing poles and ogling girls clad in bikinis, but it’s an older woman in a colorful kurta who reels in dinner, a blue fish she smartly totes off for cleaning.

Next to where we have laid our spread, a group of former Delta Sig sisters reminisce about their college day - their kids run amok attempting to force a kite to take flight.  “The smell of the ocean”, our neighbors comment “... so my favorite thing.”  I write this down this bit of eavesdropping.

It’s a great excuse to be lazy and while away an afternoon on soft sand, two months worth of New Yorkers and Oprah's latest issue as inspiration for September, quickly approaching.  And the theme of this issue is appropriate.  It is time for a makeover; although I’m unclear on my start date for this makeover, this New Me.   It’s something I contemplate over the next two days, lounging on my triple wide spread of towels, umbrellas, books, lotions and coolers of frozen fruit and ice cubes.

One of our houseguests left on the 5:20 ferry Saturday. The rain hadn’t settled in yet, but the wooden walkway was slick and our flip-flops squeaked and squawked as we made our way to the ferry landing marked by a single lamppost, oddly reminiscent of the wardrobe leading to Narnia.  We wanted to see her off, across the short bay to the LIRR & Penn Station where she would train it to 2nd & 4th readying herself for a morning flight across the country to LA.

A new beginning. A whole new chapter.  I took that journey myself once – and at her age  - from the same side of town East Side to the same side of town West Side.  I’m excited for her, but sad for me. Goodbye this time wasn’t a “see you next week”; it was goodbye good luck to an uncertain path and a sparkling future. I’m half jealous. 

Remnants of the hurricane season hit us early Sunday morning, raining all day and leaving Monday a windy mildly warm and tempestuous day.  An olive skinned beauty, say 15 or 16, stands with her left hand on her cell and her right cupping her cheek vacantly looking out from the Grill Counter, normally full on sunny days, yet eerily empty, devoid of people and their pleasure crafts.  Whether boaters left last night in the rain or early this morning, choppy waters in the closed quarters of the marina is probably not an ideal spot. The beach near the casino and ferry landing is full of bathers and two lifeguards watch over the low tide and rolling waves. Grey skies or not, people continue in their doggedness about enjoying their vacation time. 

I can’t believe I waited until mid afternoon to come out to the beach. Being in the darkness makes one lazy, sloth like. We need some form of light to awaken our souls. Outside, even in this bright yet cloudy day I feel better, less stuck in the mud. The ocean has turned from a sea glass green to soup – a steely pea green mixture with five-foot waves that tempt the surfers.  Five tweens hold hands and face the white caps. Kids rush the foamy parts of the waves, determined on their first day of a family vacation not to let the grey skies ruin their fun of the week before school starts.  Parents are keeping close watch, bundled up and hunkered down against the wind. The sun brightly and bravely tries to break the barrier of clouds, but from its position now, I can see it has resigned to settling in until tomorrow.

Idleness certainly does not slow down time’s passages.  For me it acts as lubricant, speeding up the last year.   Davis Park, 2nd Walk, 2009 feels like two months ago. How did we get to here so quickly? A week is just not enough time to have a proper summer vacation. By the fourth day, you’re counting backwards, retracing steps trying to slow down the next few days that are anything but lingering.  I think of O, and the September issue and my list… the list that never ends with questions like: What I am doing? Where am I going to live? What is my ideal life? What makes me tick? Why do I love sugar? I need to more yoga, start up guitar lessons again, Call that Dan Smith, memorize those uke songs, finish sweaters I’ve started, write postcards, discard old things and unused possessions, go to the post office by the lamppost, find a new apartment, tap into my brain, organize my thoughts, finish planning my trips, go the library, call my mother, call my sister, call my brothers, birthday cards and baby gifts, return calls, so much to remember, so much to do and in the midst of this all, the storm the storm and this dark cabin.

The sky is a milk glass with a light bulb shining through and I don’t want to leave just yet. It doesn’t seem right that it should be storming and 70 degrees in the dog days of summer.

I am on the beach with the kids… the kids and dogs who don’t mind the weather. They are just as happy to jump right in the surf no matter what the skies portend.  Sgt. Pepper loves the beach, loves the sand, loves above all chasing the sand pipers. They mock him, flying wide circumferences over the beach dunes and back across the beach to the sea trying to get him into the water.  I swear we walked five miles and Pep has run about ten retracing his steps again and again in his pursuit.  And the next day, he’s ready to do it again.

I want more. I want an entire summer. I will settle for just one more sunny day at the beach - that is all I want.

We’ve decided we will pack up and catch the ferry about twelve hours earlier than our planned departure. All of the equipment I carried for my lazy days at the beach - magazines, journals, lotion and SPF 15 Chap Stick, seems wasted.  No matter how many hot days there are to come, summer is over for me. It ended the day the rain came, leaving it soggy.  It has been melancholy for other reasons as well. I think I crave the endless summer – the coast that I recently left. There is nothing sadder than finding oneself under twisted oaks in the dark, dark shade while outside it pours relentlessly and the mosquitoes find refuge inside your dim cabin.

We get back to our little cabin; the rain turning swiftly on us, a reminder of the mercurial seasons here and this realization hurts me personally. I used to rejoice in the advent of autumn.  New cords, new desks, brown paper bag book covers, crisp air, but now it only makes me feel sad and helpless. I can’t stop the wheel from turning and soon it will be autumn for sure and for me, that means a new home as of yet to be determined, and an adventure of my own to not one but two foreign lands and hopefully a new path and purpose. I suppose this is a make over of sorts.

Cabin cleaned and bags by the screened porch, we take that last beach walk before heading back to the city.  As if on cue, the sky has revealed a Tiffany blue gift, a hot orange sun– a new day. It is so gorgeous, so perfect that the mosquitoes have even taken a break.

To the north, yes, you can see exactly where the wind has pushed the clouds away from Fire Island, big cumulous clouds gather, bunching up like mounds of whipped cream. The ocean sparkles with the sun.  Though not returned to its glassy green, gentle waves roll in, lolling swimmers to arise and get wet.  A few more days of summer, it beckons, just a few days, whispering with the gentle wind, provoking us to take in this day and the next to come.

On the east coast, this is something to savor, a warm memory to return when the real cold comes on and the days turn bitter, short and the sky closes up once again but with snow.  It is the tokens we take with us, shells and bits of broken worn down glass that fill empty bottles and jars later made into lamps, the bits of sand not shaken out of tote bags and socks that find us, that will remind us to seek out these days.

The sounds of the surf are loud and vibrant, and there is no need for talk or thinking.  Just nothingness and the sense that everything is as it should be.

The Summer Wind

Someone recently asked me what the difference was between August and September. Being from California, he couldn’t possible know the subtleties that distinguish the months on the east coast, seasons in California being broken up by the Santa Ana winds, a spotty rainy season, and if you’re lucky enough to travel freely, snowy Sierras. 

When you live in Summerland, you cannot experience a true sense of  the season and all of the delectable trappings that go with it. It’s like Fried Clams without Tarter Sauce.

Fifteen years in Los Angeles has not eradicated the imprint sandy Cape Cod summers have left on my soul or the 5 AM departures from our Sudbury home, five kids piled into the Volvo wagon with my Mother at the wheel, crisscrossing the country to her mother's in Fort Dodge, Iowa where loads of adventures awaited us at house Grandma Sue called "The Diggings".

These were my family traditions that finely tuned themselves to the inner mechanics of my body clock.  September always marked a beginning, perhaps due to the anticipation of a new classroom, new clothes, new notebooks and binders, the definition of “crisp”.   Lining outside the door on the first day of school were the dreams that filled the last nights of August leading up to that magical day when the ice cream man, Mike, would trade in his musical truck for the yellow school bus.

This summer, I rented a cabin out in the sleepy township of Davis Park on Fire Island with some friends.  It has the secret allure of being steps away from this meglo-metropolis, only fifty minute on the LIE to the Ferry Terminal.

Our cabin was sheltered by canopy of shrub oaks covering seemingly ancient wooden walkways to a shoreline so pristine and speckled with families who have taken ownership of the sun, the sea and the sky.  Everyone is happy and at ease. The beach is my unifier. I connect with the horizon, the movement of the waves rolling in, and the groups that populate the shore with the usual blankets, coolers, toys, and the requisite novel.  My father toted “The White Lotus” by John Hersey to every vacation of my childhood, restarting the book each sojourn, having forgotten the plot as soon as he put it down the previous August.


After a week at the beach, we are hit with two back-to-back Hurricanes. The wind shifts direction, the ocean is turbulent.

The skies clear within two days and for a brief moment, stragglers will get glimpses of summer's end, keeping the glow of the sun and sandy mementos like shells and starfish stored safely away. As I head back from the beach August 31^st, the leaves on the wooden walkway give away the reality of change.

We easterners hang onto the warmth in preparation for the winter months ahead,   dreams to keep the home fires deep in side smoldering.

Starbucks has announced that Pumpkin Spice Lattes are back. The UN is in General Assembly.  Disneyworld’s attendance drops for the first weeks of September. Apples orchards are ripe for the picking. A mass exodus floods the ferries, bridges & small craft airports that pepper the vacation areas of Martha’s Vineyard, Cape Cod, and Long Island and other waterfront utopias.
 

And just like that, summer is over.