It isn't a nail, it's a spike. A big rusty nail-like spike. It was pounded into the patio many years ago as it connected to a piece of tough vinyl that was an anchor for a screen porch. Val and Roy Engstrom lived here for 49 years before we did, and they loved their screen porch tent thing that they set up on the patio every summer. We've heard stories of excellent drinks and scandinavian jokes and great steaks and hot nights and so much to laugh about. All of this in the screen porch tent thing.
There is one spike left and every spring it pops up out of one of the pavers. It pushes it's way up from the mud underneath the patio as if it were a fern or hosta or daisy - waking up, pushing up, time to get up.
The first year I saw it in it's popped up position I panicked. That spike was flush with the stone a day or so ago, and now look at, we are sinking! Oh my god the basement will be filled with mud in no time.
The real reason the spike was above ground was explained to me but I can't explain it to you. Something about frost and cold and warmth and expansion but anyway.
It's just so me to jump to conclusions in the worst possible way. If someeone doesn't email me back they must hate me or be mad. If someone doesn't answer their cell phone when I call I wonder how bad the accident was and what hospital I should go to. The reason I get headaches is because of a tumor, it's just bound to be the truth.
In this case, nope, the house isn't sinking, not at all. The spike is up and it's telling funny stories, promising spring will be here soon, and it was a waste of time to worry about it.
so spring is coming and the patio is not sinking.
I think.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Spring fire
Ice and snow are still on the ground in the backyard but a warm fire calls me to sit close and be warm and smile at the remains of this long winter. I am looking at muddy leaves that were never collected, a still frozen pond - stinky underneath, and imagining a green and colorful spread of lawn. I know on this warm cold March Sunday that it is within reach.
On my way to the Y today I drove past a dog who had just been hit by a car. The driver pulled over and stopped, but poor pup was hit so bad that he lay in the right lane of York Avenue in Edina shuddering and convulsing. His buddy, a tiny yapper ,was beside himself, running to and from the crime scene, screaming and crying. I knew I couldn't help but I turned around anyway.
On my second pass the good dog was clearly dead on the pavement. Three kids stood by with their hands in their pockets looking at him all curled up in death. They didn't know what to do but they didn't leave. They just stood, looking at the poor dead dog.
At home this evening after a long work out I can't help thinking about the family on York Avenue, and the sadness they are feeling. Good dog ran into a busy street and then the world will never be the same for those nice people, nor for the little yapper best friend, it is such a sad thing, losing a best friend.
The days are getting longer and my patience is growing shorter. Things change in an instant but on the other hand we sit on potential changes for decades and is that good or bad? Are we wasting time or honoring it? Are we procrastinating or enjoying? Avoiding possibilities or celebrating the comfort we know?
Dear family in Edina I am sorry for your loss, good dog.
Fire needs wood in the chilly March backyard, so off I go.
On my way to the Y today I drove past a dog who had just been hit by a car. The driver pulled over and stopped, but poor pup was hit so bad that he lay in the right lane of York Avenue in Edina shuddering and convulsing. His buddy, a tiny yapper ,was beside himself, running to and from the crime scene, screaming and crying. I knew I couldn't help but I turned around anyway.
On my second pass the good dog was clearly dead on the pavement. Three kids stood by with their hands in their pockets looking at him all curled up in death. They didn't know what to do but they didn't leave. They just stood, looking at the poor dead dog.
At home this evening after a long work out I can't help thinking about the family on York Avenue, and the sadness they are feeling. Good dog ran into a busy street and then the world will never be the same for those nice people, nor for the little yapper best friend, it is such a sad thing, losing a best friend.
The days are getting longer and my patience is growing shorter. Things change in an instant but on the other hand we sit on potential changes for decades and is that good or bad? Are we wasting time or honoring it? Are we procrastinating or enjoying? Avoiding possibilities or celebrating the comfort we know?
Dear family in Edina I am sorry for your loss, good dog.
Fire needs wood in the chilly March backyard, so off I go.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
I'm sure it's nothing serious
At 2 o'clock this morning I noticed an unusual pain on the left side of my chest. Breathing was uncomfortable and the more I concentrated on it to really FEEL it, the worse it got. It sneered at me and then crept over my shoulder and down my back and so of course by now I was wide awake.
By 4 AM I had pretty well determined that I was not having a heart attack. It wasn't a sharp pain, and I wasn't nauseous, no lightheadedness, no numbness or tingling. Although I admit that I did feel a momentary flash of each of those things as my eyes crossed over the words on the screen.
I've always been like this. I'm not sure I'm a hypocondriac, but I can talk myself into almost any pain or illness, quickly and with an exceptional sense of panic and urgency. Once when I was less than 12 I was watching Marcus Welby, m.d. one summer evening, and the sicker the patient got, the worse I felt. Every time a new symptom appeared, I found I had exactly the same thing. Headache, stomache cramps, heavy sweating, dizzyness...Dr. Welby was really stuck for a diagnosis, scratching his pretty grey head and tapping his clipboard with a ballpoint pen as his patient slowly began to expire in front of him.
By now I was sobbing, I was much too young to die but there it was in front of me, my tender young life was coming to end, probably after the next commercial. My soul was in agony.
Turned out the patient had contracted a parasite when swimming in the Nile on his last trip to Egypt.
I praised God! I had never been to Egypt! I did not have what that guy had! I would live to grow up and have a period!
This afternoon I called Dr. G's office just for reassurance, but nurse Jane must have been very busy because she never returned my call. I sat with the phone in my hand for two hours, but she never called. I thought perhaps she had seen the message and decided what I was experiencing wasn't serious, no biggie, she'd call me tomorrow. She probably had to dash off to do something totally fun with her best girlfriends as soon as her shift was over. Gotta run!
After consulting various other internet resources, I decided it was probably leukemia or something just as dire -- even WebMD sprang up an urgent message telling me to SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY when I described my symptoms. The "Ask A Doctor" website tantalized me with a promise of a quick response because 10 real doctors were waiting to talk to me NOW! After I described my symptoms and hit "submit" I got a dialoge box asking how much I was willing to pay for a response. People on a budget could get a quick anwer for $9, while those with greater means could receive a full diagnosis for $25. Will that be Visa or Master?
Finally a nice young on-call cardiologist named Dr Wang called me back when he saw he had been paged by the answering service. I was reading his bio on-line just as the phone rang.
Rest easy, it's not your heart. If it's still bugging you tomorrow, contact your primary care doc and maybe get a chest xray, but from what I was describing there was no need to head to the ER, and certainly nothing to worry about.
Took the good doctor less than 5 minutes to set my spinning mind at ease.
Took Dr. Welby a whole hour.
By 4 AM I had pretty well determined that I was not having a heart attack. It wasn't a sharp pain, and I wasn't nauseous, no lightheadedness, no numbness or tingling. Although I admit that I did feel a momentary flash of each of those things as my eyes crossed over the words on the screen.
I've always been like this. I'm not sure I'm a hypocondriac, but I can talk myself into almost any pain or illness, quickly and with an exceptional sense of panic and urgency. Once when I was less than 12 I was watching Marcus Welby, m.d. one summer evening, and the sicker the patient got, the worse I felt. Every time a new symptom appeared, I found I had exactly the same thing. Headache, stomache cramps, heavy sweating, dizzyness...Dr. Welby was really stuck for a diagnosis, scratching his pretty grey head and tapping his clipboard with a ballpoint pen as his patient slowly began to expire in front of him.
By now I was sobbing, I was much too young to die but there it was in front of me, my tender young life was coming to end, probably after the next commercial. My soul was in agony.
Turned out the patient had contracted a parasite when swimming in the Nile on his last trip to Egypt.
I praised God! I had never been to Egypt! I did not have what that guy had! I would live to grow up and have a period!
This afternoon I called Dr. G's office just for reassurance, but nurse Jane must have been very busy because she never returned my call. I sat with the phone in my hand for two hours, but she never called. I thought perhaps she had seen the message and decided what I was experiencing wasn't serious, no biggie, she'd call me tomorrow. She probably had to dash off to do something totally fun with her best girlfriends as soon as her shift was over. Gotta run!
After consulting various other internet resources, I decided it was probably leukemia or something just as dire -- even WebMD sprang up an urgent message telling me to SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY when I described my symptoms. The "Ask A Doctor" website tantalized me with a promise of a quick response because 10 real doctors were waiting to talk to me NOW! After I described my symptoms and hit "submit" I got a dialoge box asking how much I was willing to pay for a response. People on a budget could get a quick anwer for $9, while those with greater means could receive a full diagnosis for $25. Will that be Visa or Master?
Finally a nice young on-call cardiologist named Dr Wang called me back when he saw he had been paged by the answering service. I was reading his bio on-line just as the phone rang.
Rest easy, it's not your heart. If it's still bugging you tomorrow, contact your primary care doc and maybe get a chest xray, but from what I was describing there was no need to head to the ER, and certainly nothing to worry about.
Took the good doctor less than 5 minutes to set my spinning mind at ease.
Took Dr. Welby a whole hour.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Lady Barbara
Barbara Louise Skinner was born on March 8, 1920, in Northwood New Hampshire to a chicken farmer and a housewife. She had a younger sister named Blanche who smoked and drank and ended up in jail after a car accident resulted in the death of the driver of other vehicle. Blanche was flat chested and had psoriasis so bad that it ate up all her fingernails. Yet, Blanche was the favorite child. Her parents were resentful instead of proud that their eldest not only graduated high school but went on to attend Gordon College of Theology, and even less interested in her unsolicited celebrity status as a radio star in Boston in the 1940’s.
Lady Barbara was the head brain behind a popular radio show, called "The Childrens’ Gospel Crusade". The three page article that was written about her in the Moody Monthly magazine described how she had been handed the task of putting a show together, and how only a short year later there were countless diners and truckstops in the Boston area that shut their grills down at 11:00 every Saturday. They turned on the radio, and turned it up loud, so that everyone could listen to Lady Barbara coax the little kids to sing. Best of all, they loved to hear Lady Barbara tell her famous stories. One year for her birthday she received over 1,200 cards from kids all over northeastern New England and Ontario.
My Mom was a star.
During the same time, there was a hansome Commander in the US Navy who fell in love with her, and who also happened to be a recent widow with two young boys. Mom always told us that the two boys approved of the marriage because she made good brownies and maybe they would get a baby sister. Which they did - two of them, my sister and me.
Dad retired from the Navy in 1962 when I was just three years old, and most of the family packed up and moved from Philadelphia to Rhode Island, where Mom had a job as Director of Christian Education waiting for her at a small Christian College. As part of the deal, Dad was offered a position as Superintendent of Buildings and Grounds.
Even though she wasn’t on the radio anymore, it still felt to me like Mom was a celebrity. She was the center of everything, a gracious hostess to countless wedding showers and receptions for the college kids, and always in charge of the many Sunday school classes at one or two churches at a time. Vacation Bible School was a big deal - hundreds of kids, most of them city kids who’s parents were grateful for a place to keep there youngsters the first two weeks of summer vacation, and it was free!
But that is not why they came. They came for Lady Barbara.
Each morning for those first two weeks of summer, she would line us up outside Woodlawn Baptist Church in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, and march us into the sanctuary to the tune of Onward Christian Soldiers. We would salute the US flag and the Christian flag before enthusiastic renditions of He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands and Fairest Lord Jesus.
And then, oh and then! After several songs and a prayer, Lady Barbara would stand in front of us and speak her famous words:
“Shoulders back, deep breath. It’s time for a story.”
The last night of VBS was a spectacular event - kind of like the Baptist Oscars. All the kids and teachers would dress up and they and their parents would attend the Final Program. The festivities began with classroom tours, where parents could review the workbooks about the Bible stories we had studied. And the crafts! Two weeks worth of beautiful artwork on display! Baskets made of popsicle sticks, piggy banks made from Clorox bottles, coffee cans decorated with masking tape and brown shoe polish! It was remarkable. Then, everyone gathered in the sanctuary for THE PROGRAM. Each kid had some kind of little piece to say, and every class sang a song or two, and Lady Barbara was the beautiful MC.
She was especially glamorous the year I was seven. She had made time that afternoon to get her hair done, and wore the same beautiful mint green gown that she had worn for my big brothers wedding. It had a scoop back, with layers of wispy chiffon that shimmered when she walked, and thick ribbons of green satin around the cuffs of her sleeves. Her shoes were Cinderella meets Naturalizer - sensible silver flats that glistened when they caught the light.
A city kid sitting next to me that night asked me who whispered to me how pretty that lady was. “that lady? I said. She’s my mom.” I was swelling with pride and feeling almost as famous and as important as I knew she was. Supreme happiness. That was my Mom. She was famous and beautiful and after this we were going to Howard Johnson’s for chocolate ice cream.
Hey Mom today I am remembering the glamour of you, the celebrity of you, wishing to be only a small bit as lovely.
Happy 89th Birthday! I am missing you.
Lady Barbara was the head brain behind a popular radio show, called "The Childrens’ Gospel Crusade". The three page article that was written about her in the Moody Monthly magazine described how she had been handed the task of putting a show together, and how only a short year later there were countless diners and truckstops in the Boston area that shut their grills down at 11:00 every Saturday. They turned on the radio, and turned it up loud, so that everyone could listen to Lady Barbara coax the little kids to sing. Best of all, they loved to hear Lady Barbara tell her famous stories. One year for her birthday she received over 1,200 cards from kids all over northeastern New England and Ontario.
My Mom was a star.
During the same time, there was a hansome Commander in the US Navy who fell in love with her, and who also happened to be a recent widow with two young boys. Mom always told us that the two boys approved of the marriage because she made good brownies and maybe they would get a baby sister. Which they did - two of them, my sister and me.
Dad retired from the Navy in 1962 when I was just three years old, and most of the family packed up and moved from Philadelphia to Rhode Island, where Mom had a job as Director of Christian Education waiting for her at a small Christian College. As part of the deal, Dad was offered a position as Superintendent of Buildings and Grounds.
Even though she wasn’t on the radio anymore, it still felt to me like Mom was a celebrity. She was the center of everything, a gracious hostess to countless wedding showers and receptions for the college kids, and always in charge of the many Sunday school classes at one or two churches at a time. Vacation Bible School was a big deal - hundreds of kids, most of them city kids who’s parents were grateful for a place to keep there youngsters the first two weeks of summer vacation, and it was free!
But that is not why they came. They came for Lady Barbara.
Each morning for those first two weeks of summer, she would line us up outside Woodlawn Baptist Church in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, and march us into the sanctuary to the tune of Onward Christian Soldiers. We would salute the US flag and the Christian flag before enthusiastic renditions of He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands and Fairest Lord Jesus.
And then, oh and then! After several songs and a prayer, Lady Barbara would stand in front of us and speak her famous words:
“Shoulders back, deep breath. It’s time for a story.”
The last night of VBS was a spectacular event - kind of like the Baptist Oscars. All the kids and teachers would dress up and they and their parents would attend the Final Program. The festivities began with classroom tours, where parents could review the workbooks about the Bible stories we had studied. And the crafts! Two weeks worth of beautiful artwork on display! Baskets made of popsicle sticks, piggy banks made from Clorox bottles, coffee cans decorated with masking tape and brown shoe polish! It was remarkable. Then, everyone gathered in the sanctuary for THE PROGRAM. Each kid had some kind of little piece to say, and every class sang a song or two, and Lady Barbara was the beautiful MC.
She was especially glamorous the year I was seven. She had made time that afternoon to get her hair done, and wore the same beautiful mint green gown that she had worn for my big brothers wedding. It had a scoop back, with layers of wispy chiffon that shimmered when she walked, and thick ribbons of green satin around the cuffs of her sleeves. Her shoes were Cinderella meets Naturalizer - sensible silver flats that glistened when they caught the light.
A city kid sitting next to me that night asked me who whispered to me how pretty that lady was. “that lady? I said. She’s my mom.” I was swelling with pride and feeling almost as famous and as important as I knew she was. Supreme happiness. That was my Mom. She was famous and beautiful and after this we were going to Howard Johnson’s for chocolate ice cream.
Hey Mom today I am remembering the glamour of you, the celebrity of you, wishing to be only a small bit as lovely.
Happy 89th Birthday! I am missing you.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
twist and shout
rosie and fletcher are my neighbors and in 27 days fletch will be 6 and rosie will be 3. they were born on the same date, 3 years apart. in spring and summer i see them most every day, in the fall just occasionally, but in the winter not much at all. we share a driveway, those dudes and me, but even so when the cold weather comes they disappear to play inside and eat noodles inside and do most everything inside.
i have been missing my buds, so when scott sent a note asking if i was busy tuesday night, i said no and agreed right away to "sit". sara was teaching, and scott had scored a night out with fleetwood mack, so at 6:00 tonight i trudged across the driveway, took off my jacket, flopped between two cute blonds on the couch and had my first lesson about doodlebops.
i learned lots of things tonight, some things i already knew but good reminders none-the-less. for instance
with fletcher poking at pokemon on the couch, rosie and i went upstairs to see their room. i asked rosie which bed was hers -- the bunk on top or the nest underneath? she pointed to the nest and said "that's where i sleep" then pointed to the upper bunk and said "but that's where i pee."
we three watched some videos and ate cheetos and drank cold milk and played a game that involved secret doors, bouncy balls, tiny cards, and a secret treasure. rosie calls it the coffee game because the name of it is "caribou" and we played it several times. like 50. or maybe more.
when sara came home they squealed and hugged her and fletch said goodnight and rosie said "NO" when i tried to leave.
thanks for a great evening. hope your dad can fix the dvd player.
oops.
mama mia! papa pia! baby's got diareah!
later dudes.
i have been missing my buds, so when scott sent a note asking if i was busy tuesday night, i said no and agreed right away to "sit". sara was teaching, and scott had scored a night out with fleetwood mack, so at 6:00 tonight i trudged across the driveway, took off my jacket, flopped between two cute blonds on the couch and had my first lesson about doodlebops.
i learned lots of things tonight, some things i already knew but good reminders none-the-less. for instance
- nazis are bad and if you see one you should kick his butt - HARD (thank you sound of music)
- it is only ok to say bad words if you are in a private room
- don't show your privates to just anyone - and if you think you want to, you should ask them first if they would like to see them. unless the person is bad, then you should never ask and instead yell very loud and kick their butts.
- the cartoon channel is on 42
with fletcher poking at pokemon on the couch, rosie and i went upstairs to see their room. i asked rosie which bed was hers -- the bunk on top or the nest underneath? she pointed to the nest and said "that's where i sleep" then pointed to the upper bunk and said "but that's where i pee."
we three watched some videos and ate cheetos and drank cold milk and played a game that involved secret doors, bouncy balls, tiny cards, and a secret treasure. rosie calls it the coffee game because the name of it is "caribou" and we played it several times. like 50. or maybe more.
when sara came home they squealed and hugged her and fletch said goodnight and rosie said "NO" when i tried to leave.
thanks for a great evening. hope your dad can fix the dvd player.
oops.
mama mia! papa pia! baby's got diareah!
later dudes.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
a note under the door
sometime in the middle of the night a white piece of paper was slipped under my hotel room door. i saw it half-in, half-out as i padded my way to the bathroom at 3:15 in the morning.
delicious! the hotel knows i am celebrating my birthday and they have given me a card! or maybe it's from those nice gals with whom i shared a giggle at check-in. i picture a note that says
"hi! we think you are super fun, can we buy you lunch or a drink tomorrow to celebrate your birthday? let us know! signed the girls in 307."
i am sleepy but smiling and can't wait to see who is writing to me!
it's a bill. it's just a bill. it has my name and address and how much it costs and it does not even say "thank you" or "we hope you enjoyed your stay" it just says "sign here".
when the front desk staff answer the phone they say "we wish you were here thank you for calling us" and i think that is corny but also kind of cute, and those nice young people are so pleasant and welcoming.
they didn't send this note. not them. no not them.
there is a creepy little man who emerges from his basement office in the middle of the night to make his rounds. he looks like Mr. Burns with a skinny hunched back, a nose nearly as pointy as his shoes, sweaty hair (what is left of it) and clothes that smell like an old closet.
he tiptoes around pushing a tiny cart that holds his files, several pieces of white paper, a pencil and pad, a calendar and a calculator. he slithers up and down the hallways folding each bill in half and sliding it half-way under the door and making a note of the amount he is assigning to the sleeping people or person on the other side of that door.
at the end of his rounds he adds up the accounts payable and turns bright red with joy as he ticks up the total. "GOD DAMN THE PUSHA MAN" he sings in an awkward tune under his breath as he dances the cabbage patch on the elevator. he goes back to his office and puts his feat up on his
gun- metal grey desk and lights up a cigarello. another good night.
but for me standing there in my donut pjs basking in the light from the bathroom looking at what i owe i feel a little intruded upon.
oh well, we all have to earn a living and after all it was a lovely stay.
and if i bet if i called them right now they would wish i was still there.
me too, a little.
delicious! the hotel knows i am celebrating my birthday and they have given me a card! or maybe it's from those nice gals with whom i shared a giggle at check-in. i picture a note that says
"hi! we think you are super fun, can we buy you lunch or a drink tomorrow to celebrate your birthday? let us know! signed the girls in 307."
i am sleepy but smiling and can't wait to see who is writing to me!
it's a bill. it's just a bill. it has my name and address and how much it costs and it does not even say "thank you" or "we hope you enjoyed your stay" it just says "sign here".
when the front desk staff answer the phone they say "we wish you were here thank you for calling us" and i think that is corny but also kind of cute, and those nice young people are so pleasant and welcoming.
they didn't send this note. not them. no not them.
there is a creepy little man who emerges from his basement office in the middle of the night to make his rounds. he looks like Mr. Burns with a skinny hunched back, a nose nearly as pointy as his shoes, sweaty hair (what is left of it) and clothes that smell like an old closet.
he tiptoes around pushing a tiny cart that holds his files, several pieces of white paper, a pencil and pad, a calendar and a calculator. he slithers up and down the hallways folding each bill in half and sliding it half-way under the door and making a note of the amount he is assigning to the sleeping people or person on the other side of that door.
at the end of his rounds he adds up the accounts payable and turns bright red with joy as he ticks up the total. "GOD DAMN THE PUSHA MAN" he sings in an awkward tune under his breath as he dances the cabbage patch on the elevator. he goes back to his office and puts his feat up on his
gun- metal grey desk and lights up a cigarello. another good night.
but for me standing there in my donut pjs basking in the light from the bathroom looking at what i owe i feel a little intruded upon.
oh well, we all have to earn a living and after all it was a lovely stay.
and if i bet if i called them right now they would wish i was still there.
me too, a little.
Bellissimo!
i am not sure what that word means but it sounds joyful and it is italian just like the restaurent where i had dinner on friday.
it turned out to be a day with some dark spots. i almost went home, that anxious feeling biting me all morning. i tried venturing out for a time, and the morning was beautiful and bright and very cold, but soon wandered back to the hotel and had a good cry.
a good hard cry can solve so many things. for me it brought up memories of all the times i have let anxiety and the unknown ruin my vacations. like stressing about finding a camping spot every day for a week, when the 34 four foot motor home we were traveling in could have sat by the side of the road and provided all the refuge and comfort we needed. or the time the car broke down in canada and instead of thinking "we'll have breakfast and then it will be fixed" i found myself sick in the bathroom agonizing over the probabiliy that it was unfixable and we would have to dump it and then how would we get home and what about the title and we were a foreign country...
they fixed it.
and then it felt like i was looking at that ugly bundle of dust that you know is under the bed but you don't know how odd and big and horrible it is until you are down on your knees with the vacuum cleaner (which i rarely am).
this hunk of anxiety that i keep bundled up in my head and stomache seemed to be sitting there and i was looking at it and thinking it through and wondering why i keep it.
the point of this trip was to find out what i am really like and how i respond to things calling me, and so, what, i'm going to sit here in front of this fire and fear it? let it steer me back home instead of exploring and smelling and tasting and smiling?
not this time.
lunch at a lovely place on north shore drive, much walking in the kind of crisp cold that sinks it's teeth into your forehead, browsing in antique stores and chatting with artisans
and dinner at that place who's name sounds like Belisimo but it wasn't. warm and welcoming and oh so delicious.
i saw another man dining alone. he was proper and happy with his salad caprese and glass of wine. no novel nor notebook beside him. i read once that when you bring "something to do" to dinner alone it looks like you are afraid to let people know you are alone.
he was good at this.
and i am learning more and more.
it turned out to be a day with some dark spots. i almost went home, that anxious feeling biting me all morning. i tried venturing out for a time, and the morning was beautiful and bright and very cold, but soon wandered back to the hotel and had a good cry.
a good hard cry can solve so many things. for me it brought up memories of all the times i have let anxiety and the unknown ruin my vacations. like stressing about finding a camping spot every day for a week, when the 34 four foot motor home we were traveling in could have sat by the side of the road and provided all the refuge and comfort we needed. or the time the car broke down in canada and instead of thinking "we'll have breakfast and then it will be fixed" i found myself sick in the bathroom agonizing over the probabiliy that it was unfixable and we would have to dump it and then how would we get home and what about the title and we were a foreign country...
they fixed it.
and then it felt like i was looking at that ugly bundle of dust that you know is under the bed but you don't know how odd and big and horrible it is until you are down on your knees with the vacuum cleaner (which i rarely am).
this hunk of anxiety that i keep bundled up in my head and stomache seemed to be sitting there and i was looking at it and thinking it through and wondering why i keep it.
the point of this trip was to find out what i am really like and how i respond to things calling me, and so, what, i'm going to sit here in front of this fire and fear it? let it steer me back home instead of exploring and smelling and tasting and smiling?
not this time.
lunch at a lovely place on north shore drive, much walking in the kind of crisp cold that sinks it's teeth into your forehead, browsing in antique stores and chatting with artisans
and dinner at that place who's name sounds like Belisimo but it wasn't. warm and welcoming and oh so delicious.
i saw another man dining alone. he was proper and happy with his salad caprese and glass of wine. no novel nor notebook beside him. i read once that when you bring "something to do" to dinner alone it looks like you are afraid to let people know you are alone.
he was good at this.
and i am learning more and more.
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