Yesterday was one of those days that changed 17 times (I counted). Flannel shirt. T-shirt. No shirt (down Lady G.!). Flannel shirt again. And so on. Today however is uniformly fallish. Breezy, crackling, clear. Seaweed and oak mulch. A lovely day; made to order. Not that one can order or put order on the weather. The last remaining bastion of nature’s will.
We used to wait. There was a joy in slowing down. We’d come to Chappy, away from ringing of home phones to the four-digit dialing quiet Island phones. If the phone rang at Grammy’s, someone wanted a ride home or a drink on the porch. Now the ringing (in all its mutations) follows us here. Distance is no longer enough to discourage attachment. The sea does little to abate the connection to that which we leave behind (flee?)
Edgar is missing. Again. Four years have passed since his last sojourn into the wild, but my guess is he made a date with a feline those years ago, and being a cat of his word, he felt obligated to keep his promise. However, he is late in returning. So if you see a medium-haired, gray pussycat in the neighborhood of Wasque, please give Lisa Gruner a call.
Irene is due to arrive Sunday or Monday. Don’t think I’ll make the beds for her — hopefully she’ll just blow in and out.
Bob Enos, our trusty, trusted (not yet rusted) boat man is, I am certain, fielding plenty of calls. Historically, the number of boats pulled is inversely proportionate to the severity of a storm. So my apologies, Bob, but I hope that you’re busy.
You can’t go home again, they say. And you can’t go to Wasque again. At least not the way you left it, or may remember it. The Wasque now is no longer the home we recall. This Wasque will be our children’s and grandchildren’s Wasque, but it no longer belongs to our memory. All the markers have been erased by time and tide. I suppose this is neither good nor bad, happy or sad. But simply what is.
