They say the house has lost its character. Lost its charm. It’s no island home. Home no more. Electrified. Modernized. Resized. Beautified.
Italian tile bathroom. Slate counter tops. Stainless steel appliances. Wide arches. Leather couch. Tiffany window panes and copper hanging lanterns. Piece by piece, bit by bit, this artist’s home is dismantled, broken down and built back up as a modern day palace. Real nice. Someone said. Classy said another. At least they kept the artwork…Gone are the kerosene lamps, the rustic galley kitchen, the cozy rooms with creaking floors. More windows to let in the light. Less trees to block the wind. Everything is open, has flow.
There is a reason why the word “bittersweet” exists. Such negative and positive rolled into one mouthful we struggle to swallow. Bitter because the changes are so modern. Sweet because the changes are so modern. Room by room it’s a child growing up. Rooms like faces changing.
I am all messed up. Turned inside out and tired. Really, really tired. Here’s the deal. I went home with a reading plan in place. I knew everything I wanted to read and even the order in which I would do all this reading. I even made a big deal about lugging all that stuff home. It didn’t happen. I got to Maine and everything fell apart.
In a stream of excuses here’s what happened: I didn’t bring the right books. I didn’t bring enough to books. I chased my nephews around instead of turning pages. I scoped out the neighbor’s new porch. I gorged on blackberries and crab apples. I couldn’t make time for the library let alone the internet. I held hands with my husband. Hiked huge hills with great friends. Watched sunsets with a glass of pino between my knees. Ate savory and sweet scones from Sweet Bob. When I did pick up a book it wasn’t one on my list (Islands by Anne Rivers Siddon comes to mind).
So, here’s the deal. I just escaped paradise. I’m just back and I’m just out of sorts. I don’t want to take a shower for fear of washing away my island residue. Last night I slept with the light on because the silence on the street was not the silence of the ocean. For once, the cat wasn’t the compatible companion. I have no clue what books I am supposed to be reading for September. I have no clue and right now I don’t care.
So, September is: slogging through tons and tons of email. (Yahoo = 234, Google = 565, LibraryThing = 3, work = 199, RealEstate = 66). September is Rebecca Correia on the 12th. September is Sean Rowe’s new album. Otherwise, September is slow to start.
Where did August go? Sweet August raced by me like lightning in a stormy sky. For reading I was all messed up. I read two books out of turn and one completely by mistake! So much for planning! Anyway, August was:
All is Vanity by Christina Schwarz (Others will tell you Schwarz has put out better, but I say this one was good, too!)
Boy with Loaded Gun by Lewis Nordan (really, really interesting book)
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers (another nonfiction…okay, I admit it. I read this out of turn!)
Postcards by E. Annie Proulx (really dark!)
Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosley (I need to explain this one!)
What I admitted defeat on was Far Field because it just wasn’t light reading for the last month of sumer. I’ll pick it back up again eventually.
For the Early Review Program on LibraryThing:
Blackbird, Farewell by Robert Greer ( a really fun whodunit about a basketball star murder before his big NBA contract even began).
For the fun of it:
Top Chef: The Cookbook by Brett Martin
Islandsby Anne Rivers Siddon
August was also Sean Rowe, the Police, and Swell Season. It was getting a chance to hang out with really good friends, even for a second. It was Monhegan and a restoration of resolve.
I am here. I would say “I am home” but I still have the salt on my skin and the wind in my hair from the boat ride. It’s too soon to say anything other than I am back. Like leaving a lover I cannot be untrue to, if that makes sense.
I left blackberries, rosehips and a mocha dream in the fridge. I left sour apples on the tree and artwork in the gallery. I left kisa on the porch staring at the ocean (left that, too). I left the sunshine for five hours in a car talking to myself.
My phone is officially turned back on. My email is once again active. I have crawled out of a coma of contentment to rejoin the workforce; the living.
643 pictures and not one rainy day. Rocks. Sea glass. purple and blue mussel shells. I’m scratched from the brambles. Bruised from who knows where. I read the wrong book but drank the right wine. Cooked for friends. Cooked with family. Laughed at my nephews. Laughed with my sister. I think I did everything I wanted and thensome. But, somehow I wasn’t done.
So much to say about being home and leaving it. This is not the real deal. Not yet at least. More later. xoxoxo
This is my friend Sarah. We started off as coworkers. Even though she has moved onto bigger and better things we have remained friends. She has a huge smile and an even bigger heart. Here’s the proof: she walking a full freakin’ marathon for charity – yup 26.2 miles in one day. Here’s her story:
You are a charity walking machine, but this is your biggest yet! What made you sign on?
Last year I walked the half marathon and I loved it. Even though i was sore for a few days afterwards. I asked my dad to participate with me this year and he really wanted us to walk the whole marathon. I knew I couldn’t get a better walking partner than my dad (who has RUN many marathons) so i agreed to walk the full 26.2 miles!
How are you training for it, besides one foot in front of the other?
My ideas for training started with a book, and a set schedule but I struggled to get into it. Yesterday I walked 6.2 miles, and i am feeling it. my plan is to walk at least twice during the week for 3 miles or more, and then do my long walks on the weekend. my long walks will be 10, 13, 18 and 21 miles. In September I will start to shorten the mileage to get ready for the event.
When and where does this HUGE walk take place?
This is the part that hooked me both last year and this year. The walk is the Boston Marathon route. I have watched my dad run this marathon so its an honor to be able to experience this with him. Especially since neither of us our in running condition to do the real marathon. This is the next best thing.
This is something I asked our friend Rebecca: most athletes I know have a ritual or lucky talisman – something that inspires them before the event. What’s yours?
The things that inspire me most at these events are the volunteers and the photos that remind of us we are participating. The marathon has a mile marker with a photo of a child who is battling cancer. Those kids are fighting for their life, all i have to do is keep walking.
Here’s another question I asked Rebecca: Are you walking in anyones honor or memory, and if so, what is his/her story?
i am not walking for one particular person but for the general cause. I am amazed at the courage of anyone that goes thru cancer. To be honest, I am scared of someone I love or myself having to go thru something like that. I admire the strength of those who have cancer, their loved ones, and the people in the medical field who try to beat the odds and get them through it.
I’m not trying to guilt anyone but if walking a marathon and asking for your help in donating can help the fight against cancer then it is the least I can do. It is what I’d hope someone would do for me or someone I loved.
Speaking of donations, how much $$ do you have to raise? my dad and i need to raise $250 each.
My mother’s email read, “D died suddenly. All in shock.” No sh!t. Shock is an understatement. Kisa came to bed and said, “I think I know what happened. Yaz went into the hospital early this morning and D couldn’t take it.” Despite my self stunned state I smiled. He had a point and could possibly be right. No one loved the Red Sox more than D, except maybe his daughter.
I want to think that’s exactly what happened. Home is just too small of a place for mysteriously sudden passings. Things like that just don’t happen. We read about them in the news. We see them on television. They shock us yet we manage to shake our heads and say Glad that wasn’t here. But, but. But! In our little world when people die we usually see it coming from a long way off. Like a ship on the horizon we see the approach and brace ourselves for the arrival. We have time to think, time to prepare. Even my father sent us signs. Headaches, high blood pressure. We should have seen it coming a mile away yet we chose to be stunned.
“All in shock” is definitely an understatement.
Edited to add: Nothing could have prepared me for the passing of LeRoi Moore. It seems so unreal. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that a founding member of the Dave Matthews Band, just 46 years old, is dead. I have to blink my eyes and scratch my head. Three days of bad news. Is it September already?
I don’t out and out ask for assistance all that often. I don’t always spell it out and say Help. Me. But, those close to me know when I am searching for support, hunting for help. In so many words I asked and in so many ways they answered. Such was last night.
For reasons unknown I have been feeling silent and still. Like a pond with hardly a ripple. I wanted a wave of life and laughter to wash over me and lift me out of a self-induced torpor. Let’s go out I told my go-to girls. Where? They were surprised when I told them. It’s not like me to not have a plan. It’s not like to me to not know what I’m getting myself into. They only knew I needed their support and they answered the call. Wish we had a rally song because I would be humming it now.
Pouring rain. Little sleep. Too much wine. A borrowed car. Running late. Leaving early. None of it mattered. We converged on Jill like a hurricane and ordered vodka, chocolate, and chilies. We rolled our eyes at the cliches and silently cheered on the gold. Smoke and strobes. Run songs ruined. When the time came my friends rallied around me like a fortress. Not letting a single thing hurt me or help me lose control. When I said I was done I didn’t know it until I was surrounded by support.
Now it’s the morning after. I’m hearing Sublime. I’m hearing something about bitches. Sublime bitches? You betcha. Thanks, ladies.
I wanted to write about spending time with my good, good friend. How we ran together (only 3.5mi but still…), rolled our eyes at family issues (pass me the bottle), caught the Closer bug together…
I wanted to write about how two great people stepped up and came out with me Friday night. I don’t ask for help very often and my requests aren’t always clear, but they answered the call despite weather and wine and one way streets.
I wanted to write about this one particular house we saw yesterday. It’s the perfect marriage of funky and functional (read = moi & kisa). Dare I say perfect?
I wanted to write my apologies for playing phone tag with two very special people. I am sorry I keep missing the ring so much it becomes rang. Don’t ever think I don’t need you.
Instead, I have cancer on the brain. When I got the call I went cold. “Make her some Natalie cds” my mother urged. “You know, the soothing stuff…” She went onto to say things like, “you won’t recognize her… administering her own chemo…needed to be on Monhegan… metal rods because her bones are so brittle… the whole family is here…” After a little while I stopped listening. All I could hear was my heart pounding & breaking. I kept thinking too young. Too fukcing young. When will this disease go after the sour grapes? When will it turn away from the angels on earth and settle a cold eye somewhere else?
I think it goes without saying that all plans have changed.
My sister asked me if I was ready for next week. Am I ready? I have been mentally ticking down the days, practically the hours until next week. Too bad it’s the end of next week that I have to wait for. The wait can kill me.
I’ll start off by making the drive to Portland. Part of me wants to load up the billion ME/CA only returnables and finally make a return on them (think of all the nickels I’ll get! They might pay the parking meter…) Then maybe I’ll be able to get through the basement…
Then it’s a boat trip to Peaks. I’m tempted to bring running gear because the run ways out there are so beautiful. It’s a crazy mix of ocean, pines, pavement, big luxury houses, small shacks, horses, wildflowers, dirt and sea salt air. Different scenery than what I see everyday and different is good. Very good.
Babysitting the Bebe. I’m sure my sister is worried. I haven’t dealt with a child under the age of 30 in over a decade. There’s a voice in my head that reasons, “how hard can it be?” while another counters, “there’s a reason you don’t have one yourself.” Oh yeah. So, I’m looking forward to being a cool aunt trying to stay calm. I’m only half kidding.
Then. Then. Then! There is Monfreakinhegan. CanNOT wait to get there. It’s been almost a year. A full fukcing year. I tell anyone who will listen I am never doing that again. Memorial Day, 4th of July, Labor Day & Columbus Day. Those will be my dates next year. Count on it.
Kisa sent me a link today. Said it was my day for my kind. My Day. A day for Lefties. A day dedicated to 10% of the population…those being not right handed. Imagine that! Needless to say I automatically joined the club and then immediately questioned my qualifications. Even felt a little guilty about printing out the certificate…(but it’s a pretty certificate).
I’m not entirely all right brained. This dominate right hand world has taught me a little something about compromise. Think about it. Try using a computer mouse in your left hand. Try holding a pair of scissors upside down. It’s a little screwy. So, I adapted. Here’s more: I throw a ball equally as bad with my left as with my right. I play golf right handed. I zest lemon rind with my right. Nutmeg, too. Peel potatoes righty. Even pick my nose with the right. So, am I right to belong to a left-handed club? Hmmmm….
When I was a kid Kenny Rogers was cool. More than cool. His ‘Coward of the County’ was king. His ‘Gambler’ was even cooler than that. I didn’t know much about gambling, the card playing kind. But, I knew about taking risks. Or, as Natalie says, “taking dares with yes.” I stretched my safety to the limits, kicked at the walls of my comfort zone all the time. It’s the only way I knew how to be. If there was a line to walk I wobbled just outside of it. Teetered on the edge of trouble. I think I was so terrible because I couldn’t get attention. Not the kind I craved. The line “when to hold ’em” was always “when to hold ME” in my mind. And I lived by the options of walking or running away. Did it all the time. If it wasn’t a physical move-to-a-new-state-no-forwarding-address kind of move it was an I Need To End This Relationship Right Now kind of running away. Shutting down, kicking someone out. Let me leave you before you leave me. Allow me to hurt myself before you do it for me. Walking or running I was always leaving someone or something.
As an adult here’s what bothers me about Kenny’s song. He says “Know when to walk away, know when to run.” Well, what about staying? Wasn’t that ever an option in his world or mine? Just sitting right there, not flinching a muscle. Not twitching a lip. Doing absolutely nothing. Being braver than brave for not bolting. I don’t get it or me. Wasn’t I stronger than that? I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer to that. Really.
Forgive me, but I can’t get into The Far Field: a novel of Ceylon by Edie Meidav. I feel like a failure because she has been compared to my all time favorite author, Barbara Kingsolver. That should afford me some loyalty. And yet, yet I can’t wrap my brain around this 600 page novel. Not at this time. It’s not that I find it boring. It’s not that I find it difficult. It’s neither of those things and nothing like that. I think in my twisted sense of summer it’s not entertaining enough for the dying days of August. It’s not a fun in the sun, beachy kind of read. Not right now. Never mind the fact I haven’t been to any beach since June. Never mind that I haven’t seen the sun for days and days.
So, I am admitting defeat and putting down Far Field…for now. Sorry.
In the meantime, I got two Early Review books (one already finished & reviewed – in the bag, as they say). I’m saving Emily Post’s biography for September to even out the reading just a little. I want to get through Egger’s The Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius if nothing else.
ps~ I have decided to take all my “attempted” books back and give them all second chances. It slows the BL challenge down a little, but everyone deserves a second chance. Right? Of course I’m setting myself up to feel like sh!t if I can’t finish something for a second time!
I took a chance requesting Blackbird, Farewell for the Early Review program. For one thing, I don’t know that much about basketball (the little I do know I learned this season from watching the Celtics win the championship this year). For another, I have never read a CJ Floyd novel. I didn’t want to make comparisons or see how it stacked up against to other CJ Floyd books. None of that really mattered when I got down to the serious reading.
Blackbird, Farewell starts out a little rough. It begins with Shandell “Blackbird” Bird going to make a deposit at a bank. Within 27 pages he is dead. Leading up to his murder Bird is described as “having a problem”, jittery, frustrated, sad, mechanical, dismissive and blank. It seems excessive considering the reader already knows he is to die. The cliches did little to pique my interest as to what was really wrong with Bird or care when he was killed.
When Bird’s best friend and college teammate, Damion “Blood” Madrid decides he needs to solve the murder the plot of Blackbird, Farewell picks up. Madrid is the godson of famed CJ Floyd, a Denver, Colorado bail bondsman. While rough around the edges Madrid does a good job tracking down key players in the mystery. Of course he has his beautiful girlfriend, Niki, for a sidekick as well as the mafia, a hitman, and a Persian Gulf war vet (flora Jean Benson, CJ’s partner). Blackbird has enough drama (violence & sex) to make it interesting but not overly stereotypical of murder mysteries. The streets of Denver, as well as surrounding towns of Fort Collins and Boulder serve as an accurate and appealing backdrop for Greer’s mystery to play itself out.
Final thought: If Greer is trying to sell Blackbird, Farewell on the popularity of other CJ Floyd mysteries he shouldn’t. CJ Floyd doesn’t even enter the picture until the final 20 pages of the book. It is misleading to lure readers in by saying CJ Floyd is there to watch Madrid’s back (back cover) when he isn’t even in the book until the very end. Floyd fans are sure to be disappointed. Blackbird, Farewell stands alone a fun read apart from the CJ Floyd series.
Edited to add: If I were Greer’s editor I would have asked him to change Flora Jean’s “gasket popping” comment to something else, especially since not even five pages later a completely differently character is using a very similar gasket phrase.
Schwarz, Christina. All is Vanity. New York: Doubleday, 2002.
This book cracked me up. It’s the story of a friendship between two women and how friendships can be taken advantage of. Margaret is a New York City woman (displaced from California) who gave up her teaching career to write a novel. She has subtle hubris (described as “cynical roilings” p138. ) that she tries to disguise to Letty and anyone else who listens to her (mainly her husband, Ted). Letty is Margaret’s childhood friend who became (Poor Letty!) a stay-at-home mom with four kids and a great kitchen in Los Angeles, California. They keep in touch via email and almost immediately I noticed that between the two friends, despite Margaret being the one trying to write a book, Letty is the better writer. I love Letty’s writing, but I think that’s the point. It’s only a matter of time before Margaret starts using Letty as the subject of her first book. When Letty’s life starts to spiral out of control Margaret does nothing to help thinking it helps her own fictional plot.
Funny line: “Also, as a preteen, I half believed I could do anything, as long as I set my mind to it, but was never actually willing to set my mind to anything that threatened to take up a good portion of the rest of my life” (p 12).
BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Women’s Friendships” (p 247). Pearl calls this book “delightful” and I would have to agree! It’s a really fun read!
Happiness is…taking a half day to visit the farm. Happiness is knowing everything is going to be alright, eventually. Happiness is….
I play this game all the time. Whenever I am overcome by being happy I have this habit of identifying the source of emotion. I haven’t acknowledged my feeling until I can fill in the blank. Something I picked up from therapy. A little weird, but there it is.
Today, coming back from the farm I felt giddy, euphoric even. My impulse was to think “on the verge of a psychotic snap” because I had just spent 40 minutes standing in the pouring rain, searching for tomatillos, the ones that had burst through their paper-lantern shells. I had given up on the cherry tomatoes 10 minutes earlier. We were allowed two quarts and for some reason my heart wasn’t in hunt. The recent storms have knocked down all the trailing twine and posts so picking tomatoes off the vine is literally hunching over, pulling up sodden leaves to look for orange orbs. We already have so many! So, I opted for just one quart and moved onto my goddess, the tomatillo.
I don’t think I can fully express my obsession with this green tomato-like, apple-like, hint of lime wonder. As the rain continued in sheets, soaking me to the bone, I stood there quietly, carefully surveying the harvest. Only the ones that had successfully burst through their paper shells were ready for picking and in the pouring rain it was impossible to tell. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a cobalt blue raincoat standing and staring on the other side of the row. “Are we crazy?” the man under the cobalt asked me when our eyes met. “I wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for the tomatillos.” I replied as I raised a hand in greeting. My hand said “Yup, we are crazy” even as my voice made excuses. Soon he came around to my row and said “what’s a tomatillo?” I pulled one of out my bag and launched into cooking school mode. “They’re like a tart tomato, think granny smith – think Mexican food…” Meanwhile an obese drop of rain hung on the man’s nose, another in his eyelashes. A mosquito bit my neck. “Ah…” the man nodded. Why, I’m not sure. He told me the raspberries were worth the rain. I was anxious to move onto Italian flat leaf parsley but didn’t say so. Instead, I laughed and admitted the raspberries might have to wait a week. My sneakers were filled with silt. My canvas pants clung to my calves. Mud graced the cuffs. Grit was in my teeth from sneaking a cherry tomato. Dirt was under my nails and I’m sure, smudged on my face. Rain’s wet had found it’s way through my raincoat. It started to run down my back. Still I wished my picking companion a nice weekend and grinning like a fool, made my way back to the car.
Green peppers, zucchini, summer squash, onions, carrots, hot peppers, cucumbers, eggplant, lettuce, kale, cilantro, dill, honeydew, watermelon, arugula, thyme, sage, plum and cherry tomatoes…and tomatillos. Happiness is all that.
They say the house has lost its character. Lost its charm. It’s no island home. Home no more. Electrified. Modernized. Resized. Beautified.
Happiness is…taking a half day to visit the farm. Happiness is knowing everything is going to be alright, eventually. Happiness is….
~*LunaSea*~ 