Brooklin, Maine was not a good place to see fireworks on the Fourth of July, but it was a superb location to watch fireflies.
There were pyrotechnics in three nearby towns, but none were near enough to make it worth our while to climb into the car after dinner and drive to a crowded place in order to ooh and ahh with a lot of other people. Instead, we lingered over a dinner of grilled salmon, roasted potatoes and steamed peas (from our home garden, which were delicious, thank you very much). As darkness fell we dished up some frozen nirvana - Island Lady Toasted Coconut ice cream - onto which we sliced plenty of fresh, local strawberries. Then we turned out the lights and let ourselves be entertained by thousands of lampyridae.
Sorry to say, I did not take any photos, but my camera could never have captured the frenzy.
The fireflies in the field between our rented cottage and the shoreline were absolutely crazed with lust on the evening of July 4th, dancing and sashaying, flitting and flirting, zipping and zooming, beaming their desire into the night.
I hope it was as pleasurable for them as it was for us.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Empty Saddle
Many words have been written this week about the loss suffered this week by so many middle-aged kids who grew up in greater Boston.
Rex Trailer rode off into the sunset for the last time.
"Sad Day in Boomtown," was the headline in my hometown newspaper, The Fitchburg Sentinel and Enterprise. It was a sad day at my house, too.
Those of you who didn't grow up in Eastern Massachusetts in the 1950s and 1960s don't know what you missed. Saturday and Sunday mornings, my sisters and I would run downstairs in our pjs, turn on the big black-and-white floor model TV and watch test patterns until Rex Trailer's New England-style western extravaganza came on. Here's the link to his obit, for those who never had the sublime pleasure of watching Boomtown while eating their Cornflakes: http://www.sentinelandenterprise.com/topstory/ci_22354594/sad-day-boomtown
And here's what he looked like back in the day.
He rode in on a horse (Goldrush, who I understand was stabled in Groton, not far from where I lived), no gun on his hip but lots of fun up his sleeve. He did rope tricks, sang songs and talked about living on the range. For an aspiring cowgirl, it was must-see TV.
I met him once, when as a co-op student at Northeastern University I was an intern reporter at the Boston Globe. He had a gig running tours to Europe, aimed at people whose kids and grandkids idolized him. My assignment was to drive out to Logan Airport to interview some of the keyed-up participants on what was the biggest tour group ever to fly out of Boston.
I found a sea of people wearing cowboy hats in various colors. That was how Rex and his tour group posse organized themselves. Blue hats boarded one plane, green hats another, red hats a third. I interviewed a bunch of them, then waded through the crowd, looking for my old hero.
When I finally located him in the packed terminal, Rex was wearing a yellow hat and a big smile. I introduced myself, shook his hand, asked a few questions, jotted some notes. Before bidding him bon voyage I dropped my still-new professional demeanor and admitted I was a longtime fan. He grinned, apparently accustomed to such bashful confessions.
I'm now at an age when I know something about loss. I've grieved loved ones and held the hands of friends who have been in that devastating place. Just this week my family lost my 98-year-old father-in-law, whose remarkable life we will celebrate next weekend
Rex Trailer's death does not touch me anywhere near as personally as that loss. But it was another reminder that life gallops on, so I'd best keep my feet in the stirrups and hang on.
Rex Trailer rode off into the sunset for the last time.
"Sad Day in Boomtown," was the headline in my hometown newspaper, The Fitchburg Sentinel and Enterprise. It was a sad day at my house, too.
Those of you who didn't grow up in Eastern Massachusetts in the 1950s and 1960s don't know what you missed. Saturday and Sunday mornings, my sisters and I would run downstairs in our pjs, turn on the big black-and-white floor model TV and watch test patterns until Rex Trailer's New England-style western extravaganza came on. Here's the link to his obit, for those who never had the sublime pleasure of watching Boomtown while eating their Cornflakes: http://www.sentinelandenterprise.com/topstory/ci_22354594/sad-day-boomtown
And here's what he looked like back in the day.
He rode in on a horse (Goldrush, who I understand was stabled in Groton, not far from where I lived), no gun on his hip but lots of fun up his sleeve. He did rope tricks, sang songs and talked about living on the range. For an aspiring cowgirl, it was must-see TV.
I met him once, when as a co-op student at Northeastern University I was an intern reporter at the Boston Globe. He had a gig running tours to Europe, aimed at people whose kids and grandkids idolized him. My assignment was to drive out to Logan Airport to interview some of the keyed-up participants on what was the biggest tour group ever to fly out of Boston.
I found a sea of people wearing cowboy hats in various colors. That was how Rex and his tour group posse organized themselves. Blue hats boarded one plane, green hats another, red hats a third. I interviewed a bunch of them, then waded through the crowd, looking for my old hero.
When I finally located him in the packed terminal, Rex was wearing a yellow hat and a big smile. I introduced myself, shook his hand, asked a few questions, jotted some notes. Before bidding him bon voyage I dropped my still-new professional demeanor and admitted I was a longtime fan. He grinned, apparently accustomed to such bashful confessions.
I'm now at an age when I know something about loss. I've grieved loved ones and held the hands of friends who have been in that devastating place. Just this week my family lost my 98-year-old father-in-law, whose remarkable life we will celebrate next weekend
Rex Trailer's death does not touch me anywhere near as personally as that loss. But it was another reminder that life gallops on, so I'd best keep my feet in the stirrups and hang on.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Happy New Year!
We took our traditional first day of the new year beach walk today after lazing around this morning in true New Year's Day fashion then taking down our Christmas Tree. Here are some photos of the beach:
The light was waning by the time we got there. The "pink-at-night, sailor's delight" glow bodes a fine day tomorrow.
Here's Diane with a big new year's smile.
And me with my hat yanked down over my frozen ears.
Happy New Year to all!
The light was waning by the time we got there. The "pink-at-night, sailor's delight" glow bodes a fine day tomorrow.
Here's Diane with a big new year's smile.
And me with my hat yanked down over my frozen ears.
Happy New Year to all!
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Unbridled Joy
Amazing day, this one.
After 55 years and 28 days on this earth, my right to full-throatedly speak my heart's truth has been realized.
The law extending marriage rights to same-sex couples in Maine took effect at 12:01 a.m. My love and I were standing in the December cold in front of Portland City Hall, surrounded by laughing, weeping, singing, dancing, delighted people.
Having known I was gay before I even knew the word, I never imagined myself being married. It was simply out of the question. An experience beyond my reach. And, I thought for many, many years, something I did not deserve. Eventually I began to question the assumptions underlying that belief. Through both the women's movement and the gay rights movement, I started my personal march toward this happy milestone, one step at a time.
I sought out others like myself and supportive allies. I joined collectives and staffs and boards. I stuffed envelopes, made signs, marched in parades. Most importantly, I came out, to family, friends and co-workers. The process veered between wondrous and bruising. There were some places I could go, others where I was clearly unwelcome. But there was no going back, so I grew tough skin. Arm in arm with hundreds of others fighting for the same respect, we kept moving forward.
Eventually, I met my beloved Diane. In our fourth year together we were married - on May 28, 2005, in the lovely village of Ste. Petronille on Ile d'Orleans, outside of Quebec City. It was an ecstatic experience I never imagined for myself - to stand in front of family and friends and proclaim my love, to publicly announce that I was ready to assume the rights and the responsibilities of marriage.
Problem was, because Maine didn't recognize marriages between same-sex couples, when we re-crossed the border, we were still single in the eyes of the law. For seven and a half years, we have lived with that dissonance. Our marriage was no symbolic thing. It has always felt as real as the tides and the moon to us, even if Maine law didn't see it that way.
We've been honored to be part of the push for marriage equality in Maine and were swept by emotion this past November 6 when the voters in our beloved state said Yes.
Yes, your marriage counts. Yes, the law applies equally to you. Yes, your love deserves to be honored.
So last night, with my arms wrapped around my wife, we counted down the seconds to midnight, surrounded by love and light and unbridled joy.
It was amazing.
Big congratulations go to all of those who tied the knot last night and today, in communites large and small across the State of Maine. And high-fives to all of the prodigal couples like us, who were compelled by love to go elsewhere - Massachusetts, Vermont, New York, Canada - to say our vows before Maine was ready.
Yesterday we were single. Today we are married.
It feels fabulous.
After 55 years and 28 days on this earth, my right to full-throatedly speak my heart's truth has been realized.
The law extending marriage rights to same-sex couples in Maine took effect at 12:01 a.m. My love and I were standing in the December cold in front of Portland City Hall, surrounded by laughing, weeping, singing, dancing, delighted people.
Having known I was gay before I even knew the word, I never imagined myself being married. It was simply out of the question. An experience beyond my reach. And, I thought for many, many years, something I did not deserve. Eventually I began to question the assumptions underlying that belief. Through both the women's movement and the gay rights movement, I started my personal march toward this happy milestone, one step at a time.
I sought out others like myself and supportive allies. I joined collectives and staffs and boards. I stuffed envelopes, made signs, marched in parades. Most importantly, I came out, to family, friends and co-workers. The process veered between wondrous and bruising. There were some places I could go, others where I was clearly unwelcome. But there was no going back, so I grew tough skin. Arm in arm with hundreds of others fighting for the same respect, we kept moving forward.
Eventually, I met my beloved Diane. In our fourth year together we were married - on May 28, 2005, in the lovely village of Ste. Petronille on Ile d'Orleans, outside of Quebec City. It was an ecstatic experience I never imagined for myself - to stand in front of family and friends and proclaim my love, to publicly announce that I was ready to assume the rights and the responsibilities of marriage.
Problem was, because Maine didn't recognize marriages between same-sex couples, when we re-crossed the border, we were still single in the eyes of the law. For seven and a half years, we have lived with that dissonance. Our marriage was no symbolic thing. It has always felt as real as the tides and the moon to us, even if Maine law didn't see it that way.
We've been honored to be part of the push for marriage equality in Maine and were swept by emotion this past November 6 when the voters in our beloved state said Yes.
Yes, your marriage counts. Yes, the law applies equally to you. Yes, your love deserves to be honored.
So last night, with my arms wrapped around my wife, we counted down the seconds to midnight, surrounded by love and light and unbridled joy.
It was amazing.
Big congratulations go to all of those who tied the knot last night and today, in communites large and small across the State of Maine. And high-fives to all of the prodigal couples like us, who were compelled by love to go elsewhere - Massachusetts, Vermont, New York, Canada - to say our vows before Maine was ready.
Yesterday we were single. Today we are married.
It feels fabulous.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Believe in Spring?
It's after 10 p.m. and I'm winding down from a lovely Sunday here in Southern Maine. Take a look:
I have work to do yet tonight so I'm going to make this post a quick list of the weekend's joys.
We spent time with all of the members of my clan minus one yesterday at a St. Patrick's Day party. My mother was in her glory, surrounded by her kids, grandkids and great-grands. The Alzheimers hasn't robbed her of her joie de vivre, especially when children are in the room and Irish music is playing in the background.
I enjoyed a productive meeting with a writer friend this morning, dissecting our works in progress. It's been a long winter of revision for me. In recent weeks I've felt myself approaching a turning point. Today's meeting was affirming in that regard. But then, I've begun to believe winter is done, so I may simply be in a dangerously optimistic frame of mind.
It was impossible not to revel in the fine weather, even though a voice inside my head nags that it shouldn't be 78 degrees in Maine in mid-March. That was the temp when I left Auburn about 1:30, so I popped the sunroof open and sang along with Van Morrison all the way home.
It was cooler when I got back to the coast, but still May-like on our beach walk.
Signs of spring were everywhere. The sand no longer being like half-set cement, a youthful engineer built a fine sandcastle.
Teenaged girls strolled the beach in shorts and flip flops while their shirtless male peers played frisbee.
Some folks brought beach chairs and basked in the warmth. (The owners of this pair were beachcombing when I snapped the photo.)
A redwinged blackbird trilled its heart out as we skirted a marsh on our way back to the car.
At dusk, a chorus of peepers serenaded me while I stood on the deck, grilling for the second Sunday in a row.
I have work to do yet tonight so I'm going to make this post a quick list of the weekend's joys.
We spent time with all of the members of my clan minus one yesterday at a St. Patrick's Day party. My mother was in her glory, surrounded by her kids, grandkids and great-grands. The Alzheimers hasn't robbed her of her joie de vivre, especially when children are in the room and Irish music is playing in the background.
I enjoyed a productive meeting with a writer friend this morning, dissecting our works in progress. It's been a long winter of revision for me. In recent weeks I've felt myself approaching a turning point. Today's meeting was affirming in that regard. But then, I've begun to believe winter is done, so I may simply be in a dangerously optimistic frame of mind.
It was impossible not to revel in the fine weather, even though a voice inside my head nags that it shouldn't be 78 degrees in Maine in mid-March. That was the temp when I left Auburn about 1:30, so I popped the sunroof open and sang along with Van Morrison all the way home.
It was cooler when I got back to the coast, but still May-like on our beach walk.
Signs of spring were everywhere. The sand no longer being like half-set cement, a youthful engineer built a fine sandcastle.
Teenaged girls strolled the beach in shorts and flip flops while their shirtless male peers played frisbee.
Some folks brought beach chairs and basked in the warmth. (The owners of this pair were beachcombing when I snapped the photo.)
A redwinged blackbird trilled its heart out as we skirted a marsh on our way back to the car.
At dusk, a chorus of peepers serenaded me while I stood on the deck, grilling for the second Sunday in a row.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Springing Forward
It was an amazing day here in Southern Maine, warm, sunny and light for a looooong time. A lot of people I know (including my beloved) grumble about the arrival of Daylight Savings Time. To them, springing forward means an hour of lost sleep, and dark mornings again. To me, the long afternoon light is worth the trade-off.
I celebrated by grilling chicken that had been marinating all afternoon in a lemon-garlic sauce officially called "Garlicious" which I call "Garlic-Licious," because it makes my sweetie laugh every time. It was lovely to stand out on the deck, imagining the trees leafed out, the garden planted, the warm-weather birds flocking to the feeders for a bedtime snack.
Soon.
We walked at Crescent Beach in early afternoon. Here is a photo of the sign that greets the winter-weary masses:
And the dunes, which were especially beautiful today:
A pivotal scene in my novel in progress, The Quick Pivot, is set at Crescent Beach. Every time we walk there I feel surrounded by the ghosts of a couple of my favorite characters, who spent a life-changing afternoon there in May, 1968.
Speaking of my WIP, I had an opportunity to read a couple of short passages yesterday at the New England Sisters In Crime open read event, organized by my pal Maureen Milliken in her beautiful town of Belgrade Lakes. Five of us brought work to read and several others came just to listen, including a high school student from nearby Oakland who told us she loves, loves, loves to read mysteries. That proclamation, and her courage in attending an event where she knew no one except her very supportive Dad, endeared her to everyone in the room.
Thank you, Maureen, for organizing such an enjoyable event and for reading your work. Thanks also go to Kathy, Priscilla and Emily for reading, and to Sandy and David and Mary's dad for listening. And special appreciation to Mary, for making us remember how exciting it was to discover this world of mystery.
I celebrated by grilling chicken that had been marinating all afternoon in a lemon-garlic sauce officially called "Garlicious" which I call "Garlic-Licious," because it makes my sweetie laugh every time. It was lovely to stand out on the deck, imagining the trees leafed out, the garden planted, the warm-weather birds flocking to the feeders for a bedtime snack.
Soon.
We walked at Crescent Beach in early afternoon. Here is a photo of the sign that greets the winter-weary masses:
And the dunes, which were especially beautiful today:
A pivotal scene in my novel in progress, The Quick Pivot, is set at Crescent Beach. Every time we walk there I feel surrounded by the ghosts of a couple of my favorite characters, who spent a life-changing afternoon there in May, 1968.
Speaking of my WIP, I had an opportunity to read a couple of short passages yesterday at the New England Sisters In Crime open read event, organized by my pal Maureen Milliken in her beautiful town of Belgrade Lakes. Five of us brought work to read and several others came just to listen, including a high school student from nearby Oakland who told us she loves, loves, loves to read mysteries. That proclamation, and her courage in attending an event where she knew no one except her very supportive Dad, endeared her to everyone in the room.
Thank you, Maureen, for organizing such an enjoyable event and for reading your work. Thanks also go to Kathy, Priscilla and Emily for reading, and to Sandy and David and Mary's dad for listening. And special appreciation to Mary, for making us remember how exciting it was to discover this world of mystery.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Staying With It
February passed without many Sunday beach walks. We were out of town all or part of many weekends, which disrupted our rituals a bit. Today was a good day to get back in the groove. Sunny and warmish, the breeze was light when we arrived at Scarborough Beach. Here's a photo:
Two young guys carrying surfboards were on our heels as we trekked from road to beach, wearing hooded drysuits complete with booties, essential gear for winter surfing in the North Atlantic. Somewhere between boyish 20 and settling down 30, they grinned at us as they scooted toward the respectable surf, still agitated by last week's storms.
When we made the turn after walking south almost to the end of the beach, the surfer dudes were dark specks in the waves. As we strolled back they came into focus: timing the waves, clambering to their feet, riding the crest, falling into the frigid salt water.
Because I'm (1) deep in revision and (2) especially single-minded when I'm deep in revision, I found myself comparing my passion to theirs.
No, winter surfing (hell, summer surfing) is not my thing. But like them, I'm absorbed by something I love. They walk into the icy ocean, climb on their boards and paddle with heart and determination past the break, all to be one with the surf for fifteen seconds (if they're lucky). Then they do it again.
I sit in front of my laptop for at least two hours a day, wrestling with plot points and uruly sentences, all for the fleeting reward of a well-written paragraph, page, chapter.
Here's my takeaway. If it matters to you, then it matters to work at it.
Two young guys carrying surfboards were on our heels as we trekked from road to beach, wearing hooded drysuits complete with booties, essential gear for winter surfing in the North Atlantic. Somewhere between boyish 20 and settling down 30, they grinned at us as they scooted toward the respectable surf, still agitated by last week's storms.
When we made the turn after walking south almost to the end of the beach, the surfer dudes were dark specks in the waves. As we strolled back they came into focus: timing the waves, clambering to their feet, riding the crest, falling into the frigid salt water.
Because I'm (1) deep in revision and (2) especially single-minded when I'm deep in revision, I found myself comparing my passion to theirs.
No, winter surfing (hell, summer surfing) is not my thing. But like them, I'm absorbed by something I love. They walk into the icy ocean, climb on their boards and paddle with heart and determination past the break, all to be one with the surf for fifteen seconds (if they're lucky). Then they do it again.
I sit in front of my laptop for at least two hours a day, wrestling with plot points and uruly sentences, all for the fleeting reward of a well-written paragraph, page, chapter.
Here's my takeaway. If it matters to you, then it matters to work at it.
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