The S Word

Last week, everyone I knew was afraid to say the word, even though it was a propitious “First Day of S…” falling on the equinox and all. We skirted around saying “spr…” and “s..” and “s..w”.

As Easter arrived, I had to admit that I was still a bit skeptical. You see, the last chunks of s... have almost, but not quite, melted into the aqua filter.  The gargantuan four-foot pile surrounding the A Frame and lining Old Wharf Road is no more.

On Head of Meadow beach in Truro, the Frances, a 3-masted barque wrecked in 1872, made an appearance during the low tides this winter.

Ice floes that washed in for weeks on the shores of Corn Hill and Duck Harbor beaches have disappeared.

April is about the sounds - cars pulling back into driveways empty since Thanksgiving weekend, rakes and saws; the general business of a seasonal place getting ready to open.

As if lying in wait, gangs of wild turkeys burst out on Route 6, causing a slow down in early morning traffic simultaneous to return of robin red breasts, chickadees, woodpeckers heard throughout the morning and into the twilight hours. Crocuses are cautiously making an appearance.  

Officially, the weekend before spring break is when everything really starts. At Mac's shack by the old pier, newly hired employees are out sanding and re-staining the outdoor furniture. Restaurants along route six have also shown signs of return.  Owners or day workers are our scrubbing the windows, re-grading the driveways and getting fresh clam and oyster shells spread in the parking lots. 

The color of the ocean is an inexplicable blue, so different from the turmoil of bottle green pummeling the shore and leaving behind bits of debris, buoys ripped loose from lobster traps, old bottles of gatorade, driftwood and piles of rocks.

March came in like a lion, and out like a lion this year; the lamb having been sacrificed for another late season snowfall. Now that the s.. is out, somehow, the longest winter in history doesn't feel like it was that bad, but more like an adventure rewarded with plenty of snow days.

But March was a difficult month for me. It was heavy and dark and l-o-n-g, then surprising me with daylight savings time before I was ready for it. At long last, light began streaming in my windows, but only as I was settling in for the night. It left me discombobulated.

I had a birthday too. Getting older is not easy. So easy to type, right?  I know it's a fact of life, and I have a choice to do it gracefully, (and yes, I am entertaining some facial updates), but I feel completely unprepared for the changes that are beginning to set in. I didn't think I'd be so exhausted, emotional and worried about the broken hip I didn’t get when I slipped on the ice in my driveway. 

Just last month, my brother told me I should write a book about being positive, and changing one’s life, and all I could think about was how I couldn’t remember anything. Most days, I feel like I’m on that spinning ride that keeps going faster and faster, the concentric forces preventing me from getting off. Maybe it’s just the promise of spring that Jobim sings about in the Waters of March; the rush of life, of being so close to nature out here in Wellfleet that the slightest alteration has an affect on my being...from the change in late afternoon light to the collective joy in my Saturday morning yoga class when we share news about hearing the peepers the previous evening or the sighting of athe flock of Bohemian Waxwings in South Truro.

A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road     

It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone

 
It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun

It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun

The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush

The knot in the wood, the song of a thrush

The will of the wind, a cliff, a fall

A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all

It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of the slope

It's a beam, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope

And the river bank talks of the waters of March

It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart

The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone

The beat of the road, a slingshot's stone

A fish, a flash, a silvery glow

A fight, a bet, the range of a bow

The bed of the well, the end of the line

The dismay in the face, it's a loss, it's a find

A spear, a spike, a point, a nail

A drip, a drop, the end of the tale

A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light

The sound of a shot in the dead of the night

A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump,

It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps

The plan of the house, the body in bed

And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud

A float, a drift, a flight, a wing

A hawk, a quail, the promise of spring

And the river bank talks of the waters of March

It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart

A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe

It's a thorn on your hand and a cut in your toe

A point, a grain, a bee, a bite

A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night

A pass in the mountains, a horse and a mule

In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue

And the river bank talks of the waters of March

It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart

A stick, a stone, the end of the road

The rest of a stump, a lonesome road

A sliver of glass, a life, the sun

A knife, a death, the end of the run

And the river bank talks of the waters of March

It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart

Songwriter

ANTONIO CARLOS JOBIM

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!

In Wellfleet, the post season doesn’t mean watching your team sputter out in the pennant race, completely obliterating all chances for a World Series, (“I can’t watch the Sox”, wrote Matt Tibbi in Rolling Stone and I quite agreed). 

No, post season begins after the Main Street flood of 20,000 people, in town for the annual Oysterfest, have receded off-Cape to their homes.  PJ’s, The Beachcomber and Laughin’ Lobster mounted their “See You in April” signs late Saturday night, the same block letters that greeted me when I drove across the Bourne Bridge last April. By Monday October 15th, only 25% of the restaurants in town remain open and 90% of the homes will remain empty until June 2013.

Months have passed since I left and returned to the Cape. Summer feels like ages ago, a whole other person ago, as if August were the division between the old and New Year. For most of the month, I was living on the Karissa, a '70s Chris Craft houseboat, motors removed, sharing less than 75 feet with a man I have been involved with on and off for the past three years. I’ve managed to tell no one except my sister, and, with more vagueness than necessary, my mother. I didn't stay on the phone longer than five minutes with anyone. 

That this sometimes on, most times off again relationship flickered on again should surprise no one. I have been nothing short of reckless in matters of the heart since 1997, when, on an ill-fated evening, I hosted a dinner party and met a rotund, balding Texan and traded my good sense with a bad habit I just can’t seem to quit, like smoking and the New York Times crossword. 

What can I say? Steak on the grill, corn on the cob and my favorite ice cream in the freezer easily bamboozle me.  Except for a few day trips here and there, I was anchored to the marina, baking homemade granola, blending up green smoothies, half-heartedly doing yoga on the dock and undoing the mind body spirit routine I had established in Wellfleet. When I finally pulled out my favorite bright tangerine orange cords, they were tight around the ass. That’s what this trip to the moon on gossamer wings does to you. Widens the load. Takes up valuable space.

Two weeks into August, one of the librarians called to inform me that “… someone has, well, they’ve torn down your sign for housing and crumpled it up.  If you want to send another, I’d be happy to post it.” My ‘fleetian friend Karen later tells me to brush it off as “Augustitis”, a condition born from overly crowded markets, beaches and restaurants combined with surly impatience for the bloat to be gone.  I’ve since observed, however, that living in a community reliant on such a large seasonal populace is that when everyone “other” finally does leave, it feels as if you’re empty of breath, are strangely bewildered with the absence of energy, and a bit angry too – somewhat like a sugar crash, a symptom I was quite familiar with, especially after the seduction by homemade salted caramel ice cream and coffee in bed.

During my lie-in on the Karissa, I negotiated my lease, returning mid-September enthused, signing up for Beekeeping classes, outlining the film studies workshop I am conducting at the library for middle and high-schoolers, helping my neighbors cover the garden with sea hay until the spring and working with my friend Peter to organize volunteers for the Modern House Trust, and looking forward to the Wellfleet Oysterfest, the last big party of the year. 

Ray, the first familiar face I saw picked me up off the ground and said, "So you're back? For good!?" I said yes, but it is unlikely I will be able to stay here, notwithstanding the winter.  (“Quiet” is the common adjective I get from everyone I ask about the dark season). Putting down roots is a challenge. The Cassick Valley cottage is secured through June 30^th until I join the “Wellfleet Shuffle”, due to the shortage of year round housing; unless you are lucky or well connected enough to find it.  For the rest of us, rent will double during the high season of July and August. Another setback is that these rentals are certain to be furnished by the AIM Thrift Store, the swap shop at the transfer station or IKEA,  making it difficult to decorate with things that allow you to call it “home”, or in my case, get out of storage.

This morning, I calculated that over the past five years I have spent, get ready for it, $15,000 on storage. Maybe a little less, maybe a little more, but that about sums it up. I hesitated before I multiplied five years times twelve months times the rental cost, recalling Brian’s advice as I was instructing his men on how I wanted the unit organized.  "You shouldn't be worrying about that.  You should be worrying about where you are going to be moving to next. And I would recommend that you find that place within a year.' "You're right.” I repeat this out loud a few more times, ingraining this knowledge into my psyche. I trusted Brian. He was a solid guy, had moved me twice already, from Silver Lake to Highland Park to Eagle Rock to Pasadena, the location of my first storage unit.

           

I’ve cross-referenced my ideal “life” list with Wellfleet, and it fulfills almost all of my requirements, (a community of intelligent, progressive, creative people, close to an airport, the ocean, volunteer opportunities, etc), except this one: gainful employment. 

The community is warm and welcoming, full of salty fishermen and artists. There are lots of gardeners, activists, writers, and painters.  It would be easy for me to have my own radio show, join a play reading group, get on the affordable housing committees, but I cannot even begin to think about rooting down here without buying a property and that is not feasible without a full time job, a rarity on the outermost Cape. And yes, I thought about filling out an application, but working the evening shift at the Mobile gas station is not something I want to do.

I’m also facing the hard reality that my dream of USC’s Graduate School program comes with an expensive price tag, no less than $40,000, of which I am ineligible for student aid, making it economically impractical for me to enroll without the guarantee of a job. In almost every state, open teaching positions are limited to Math, Science (even EXXON Mobil is promoting the president’s initiative) and Speech pathologists; which, strangely, I qualify for with my “Speech & Theatre” degree from Wagner College.

But I can’t reconcile working my way into the system by teaching ESL when the whole point of shifting gears mid - third career was to share the subjects I love to young minds taking flight into the world of post-high school.  So, I’ve joined the many who have banked their aspirations until a retirement wave of English and Theatre teachers begins.

At the end of this autumn, the trees fat with leaves quickly steeping to brown waiting for the right moment, the right gust of wind (apparently it wasn’t Sandy) to blow them all off at once, I've been told that I wander, but maybe I love too many places.  

A friend from California tells me “Come home, you’ve been gone too long.”

"It is confidence in our bodies, minds, and spirits that allows us to keep looking for new adventures, new directions to grow in, and new lessons to learn—which is what life is all about." —Oprah Winfrey

"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.

Making Memories...Memorial Day Weekend

The energy started ramping in town up after lunch on Friday, and by 4:00 PM, it was palpable. 

Wooden sandwich board signs have been propped up along the traffic island, eye level with those waiting to turn left into downtown Wellfleet, with notices of the Wednesday Farmer's Market, the newly renovated Preservation Hall’s Annual Birdhouse Auction, the Flea Market’s boast of 300 vendors and an announcement of the Drive In's season opener: "Men In Black 3" with a "21 Jump Street" chaser. This is how I plan to spend Sunday night.

According to the town website, Wellfleet’s local population is 3,500, but that figure more than quadruples during the summer, starting Memorial Day weekend. This is when many of the second home residents begin their return, putting in their annual flower beds, washing down the lawn furniture, and locking in their lucrative rentals for July, and perhaps August.

The town grocery has extended its hours from 7 to 7, shelves have been stocked with Annie’s Organic products and the current New York Times best seller list, with multiple copies of Fifty Shades of Grey.   

As if to catch the wave, the owner of The Juice hurriedly posted an “Opening at 5:30 Today” proclamation as I was driving by.   At our own beach, Lecount Hollow, a little booth has been plopped down in the middle of the night, straddling the parking lot, waiting to check beach passes once we pass into June.

From the Lobster Claw in Orleans to Russ & Marie’s Marconi Beach BBQ to Moby Dick’s on the north edge of town, the restaurants on Route 6 have been scrubbed down, without a smidgen of dust lurking anywhere among the seaside décor of old bottles, nets, buoys and antique fishing lures. Tables and benches are thick with aqua paint and coats of lacquer; floors are polished to a high sheen.

Shiny menus mirror the usual seaside summer fare of fried clams, scallops, little necks, steamers and Wellfleet oysters.  The parking lots are packed at Mac’s Sushi, Winslow’s Tavern and the Pearl Bistro (sporting its newly restored “e”).  A line snakes around the front of the Bookstore Café.  A clamber of voices and live music wafts through the open windows,

Locals dread this time of year, and it’s easy to see why. All of the street parking is taken, sidewalks are full, the summer folk arrive, feeling entitled and the locals feel pushed out. To emphasize my point - the regulars’ plastic white chairs outside the package store have been removed.

My movie friend has offered to pick up lobster rolls & sweet potato fries from P.J.'s, waiting patiently among the crowd.  The take out counter has been mobbed three people deep all weekend.  

“Your people are encroaching the parking lot at P.J’s” he tells me when we meet in the parking lot of the South Wellfleet Post Office. I remind him that he was a summer boy himself before settling in to a family home seven years ago. 

It's hard to go to a Drive in and have a bad time.  Case in point: the Century Twin, Inglewood, California, 1997 where I rediscovered 5^th Avenue candy bars and fell in love with “Con Air” (and a Texan to boot), but sadly, this weekend's debut offering disappoints dramatically. 

It may have been that the large screen magnified both the absurdity of Tommy Lee Jones’ facial work and Jonah Hill’s character arc, (finding the courage to fire a gun at a perp, which he does following a Depp/DeLuise cameo where they die a slow, painfully written death).

It may have been that sweet potato fries get cold quickly, and by the time we decided on popcorn, the concession stand was closed.

But it is more likely that the experience did not live up to the last time I was in this same parking lot, thirty years ago, for the double feature of "The Blues Brothers" and "Poltergeist". My father spent most of the first movie awkwardly explaining the "adult" humor to my younger brother while, at 15, my friend Christine and I snuck Merits and tried to look super cool on the roof of my Aunt Ellen's primer black Camero.

On Monday, I walked through the Snow Cemetery in Truro. Plenty of old outer cape families are buried here, members of the Paines, Hatches, and Newcombs, names I recognize from beaches, roads and landmarks named for them.

Someone from The American Legion has marked Veteran’s graves with tiny flags and plastic medallions, most from the Civil War. It occurs to me that I don’t know where my relatives are buried or if anyone is tending to their graves. I only know that the last of my father’s ashes were released on Boxing Day, 2007, at Race Point, here on the tip of Cape. 

For Pep's last walk of the day, we head to our local. Splashes of sand pool through the parking lot of Lecount, evidence of the towels and coolers that were shaken out before loaded into trunks.  It is just before sunset, and straggling bathers are leaving, having waited until the last moment, and taking with them memories of the first weekend of summer before braving the traffic on Route 6.

I’ve been in that car before, the crisp feeling of sun burnt skin on part of the body that the lotion didn’t find, the sand you’ll see wash down the drain and the rolling dreams you'll have that night, of the waves you were in that afternoon.

The beach has been positively trampled, littered with footprints, paw prints, pieces of coal, disjointed and discarded grape stems, orange peels, another Mylar balloon careening back and forth from its entrapment on the shore line, and the inevitable size four pair of children’s Crocs, left, as if to make a statement, so obviously by the path.

Hundreds of scents pique Pepper’s nose. He doesn’t know where to mark his territory. Usually he is headlong towards the water racing up and down and chasing any stone I throw to him, but he is zig zagging back and forth back and forth like he’s had too much chocolate.  There was plenty of his kind here today too. I cannot smell anything, not summer, not even the ocean.

  

My sense of territory and smell is off, probably like Pepper feels.  The sudden emptying out of the town has made me tired, and I get under the covers to settle into a marathon session of GIRLS and wishing I had a bathtub and radiator to tie my laptop to. 

April's End * Wellfleet, MA

  

I have been let in to a secret club, witnessing this old whaling town unfold itself and embrace the divinity in a season's change. The weather is too terribly romantic. Smoking chimneys keep the chill at bay, houses' driftwood gray blend into the overcast skies with bright colored tulips as a striking contrast.  These are the kind of days when I would skip high school, driving out to the ocean just to say hello.

For most of April, Route 6 has been devoid of traffic. Signs on old roadside motels sport large V A C A N T letters, although The Wellfleet Motel distinguishes itself with a “Squeaky Clean” promise on its sign.

Lecount Hollow Beach

I want to revisit all of the places I discovered last year and see how they differ in the off-season.  Following Main to Commercial Street and out to Mayo Beach, all the galleries, the fish markets, Emack & Bolio's Ice Cream; almost everything is shuttered for the season with hand printed signs cheerfully sporting either “See You Next Summer!” or “Opening After April 20th".  About ten vendors brave the elements at the famous weekend flea market hosted in the Wellfleet Drive-In's parking lot looking at present, like an over sized garage sale.

By the town pier, the winter wind has toppled the “E” from the “Pearl” Bistro sign atop the roof.  Fishermen are at work. I can see their trucks parked on the sandy bottom of the marsh as I cross the Herring River bridge.  They are out with the tide, harvesting, dragging traps and buckets behind them.  

The briny smell of seaweed is so strong that when I open my mouth, the coats the top layer of my tongue.  Pep and I are walking around an inlet called The Gut towards Great Island Beach, but it is the smell a rotting carcass of a dolphin that makes my eyes smart as we make our way over the path ofe tumbled reeds towards the sound of the ocean.The skin is blackened as if been burned by the sun.  Congealed blood creeps along the edges of the exposed rib cage.  The tail is gone, a bony stump remains. It doesn’t make sense to me that this dolphin should be so far away from the ocean, alone, caught in the marshy low tide and not able to get out. One of the shopkeepers told me that 180 dolphins beached themselves this winter, and 120 died; cause unknown.

Two hawks have been hovering in concentric circles around Sgt P. With those ears and the way he bounces along, I’m sure he looks just like a bunny just in time for Easter. I wave my arms and yell, “SHOO! SHOO!”, but that tactic fails. They continue to glide in circles above us.  The winter beach is seagull turf and when we reach the dunes, the hawks float off in the distance towards the sanctum of the pine trees, past the big empty house facing Provincetown. The windows have not been boarded up like most residences. The house has been left exposed and uncloaked, free for anyone to peek inside.

The tide is low, but the waves are moody, and don't offer the same stretches of sandbars that the longs days of summer bring with it. The late April waves have thrown up big rocks and broken shells and rough sand out of the depths. I read today that a boy in Oregon found a soccer ball belonging to another little boy in Japan. I have always had that childhood fantasy - finding that message in a bottle, a stranger to connect with across the sea, like the transatlantic telegraph cable that lies between the United States and Europe.

I take the boardwalk back, avoiding the death.  The hawks return their steady spirograph flight plan, snaking their way towards us.

The Wellfleet Market closes at 4:00 PM until May 1st, and I make it just in time for the manager to let me in, but she quickly locks the door after me repeating, "We close at 4!”   You can tell by the organic aisle, the stocked books fresh off The New York Times bestseller list, and the variety of magazines, that this town has a liberal majority. Whenever I see multiple cork boards in towns advertising drum circles, free yoga and lectures, I expect to hear Pete Seeger singing for peace at the traffic light.

Past the market and next to the Lighthouse Grill is the Spirits Shoppe & Package Store. There are white plastic chairs lined up four and four on each side of the doorway. Men of all ages are shooting the breeze. People wave from cars and say hello.  One man on the far end holds a folded paper and pencil in hand. As I cross the street to the church parking lot with my tomatoes, I hear a boy behind me shout from his car "Hey, you need help with the puzzle?"

At the end of the week, the temperature rises to 80 degrees. The earth smells like it is composting itself, cracking open the acorns and heating up the late spring bulbs. Surfers have taken off their wetsuits. With this change in weather comes glorious sunsets.

We went to the Great Island Beach about 7:15 tonight, just as the tide was coming in and twilight was leaving the sky a pale sea glass blue, a color that is one of the rarest to find. Pink bottomed clouds stretch out across the horizon. “Red sky at night, Sailor’s delight…” I think to myself.    At the big house, the sun's descent is firing off the panes of glass as if the entire place is about to go up in flames.