Red Cottage on the Corner

I am moving.  For the sixth time in nearly twelve years, boxes line the edges of my existence.   As I pack, I’m transported back to other moves…the move from small town girl to life on a farm.  After twenty years and a divorce, I moved with my son back to town.  Then came the great adventure of moving from northwest Ohio to Cape Cod Massachusetts.  I moved from a single home on the Cape to sharing a home before I moved back to Ohio.  Another move found me in yet another small town and now I’m moving once again, but somehow I doubt it will be my last move. For a lady who grew up in the same house in the same town and then lived in the same place for over 20 years of her adult life, I sure have been a wandering soul in the last few years. 

One of the remarkable things about each of the homes I’ve lived in, with one exception, is that they were all on a corner.  I wonder what it is about me and houses or cottages on corners.

So here I go again…the house I’m moving to is a charming red cottage that sits on a corner in what was once the tiniest of villages, but is now laughingly called a suburb of the county seat.  My family has a long history in this wee place and the roots of my children’s heritage runs deep through the rich, farming soil of this area.  As my daughter said, “It’s like coming home.”     

Right now mature trees shade the back yard and lightening bugs flash a welcome greeting.  There’s so much to look forward to…the woods across the street putting on a show of color when summer gives way to autumn, placing a pine wreath on the front door for the holidays, the lilac outside my window blooming in spring, and flowers….yes here I can grow all the flowers I want in beds, along the sidewalk, in the front and in the back.  There’s room to grow, to create, and to bloom. 

I painted the walls of my bedroom/office in the perfect color, dried hydrangea and you just know somewhere in that room there will be reminders and remembrances of Cape Cod.  I have plans to build a screen and cover it in wonderful fabric, sew roman shades with a little help from a friend, and place my photography in artful displays.   

There’s so much to love about this little house and much to do in the next two weeks.  I’ll pop in when I can, I’ll relax by visiting your blogs, reading your words, sighing over the photos and artistic endeavors, and try to comment when I can. 

Cape Cod: Friend for a Reason

Alone in my Cape Cod cottage, I toasted 2001 with a glass of wine raised to courage and success in this brand new year.  With four months of Cape exploration behind me, it was time to file away 2000, the year of life changes, and put my hand to a clean page.  I mulled over questions that plagued me.  What about a job? How would I reinvent myself? Would I ever find friends on Cape Cod?  All my friends were in Ohio, except one that I’d met in a new frontier.

Meet Aaron

Online chatting was a relatively new way to meet people of like mind. One day I met an extremely witty guy from across the US. Like me he was navigating the unknown territory of the separated or newly divorced. We shared the frustrations and sadness of living among the ruins of a demolished marriage. Through it all we laughed a lot and came to know each other well. He cheered me on from his California location when I made the decision to move to Cape Cod.

After I relocated, we began talking on the phone and the anonymous door of faceless conversation opened a bit more. Through the cold days of winter we kept each company via technology. Aaron suggested I start writing in earnest. He worked for a techie company and emailed me information that he needed written. He pushed me to give it a try. I worked on the assigned project with diligence and care. I wanted to make this happen and all I needed was to get this first step under my belt. I finished it and sent it through space to the west coast and then nervously awaited word of how my first attempt at professional writing fared.

A few hours later I received a response from Aaron. My writing wasn’t clean enough. It was too flowery for a professional, business piece of writing. In the email Aaron told me not to be discouraged, but I was. I closed the email, turned off the computer, and went to the ocean. I sat on the beach trying to understand why my writing wasn’t good enough. This was the first time I’d ever submitted my writing to anyone for approval. I’d journaled for years and written newsletters, but I’d never had to write to the expectations of anyone else. My bruised ego turned angry and for the next couple days, I ignored Aaron’s calls. I didn’t want to lose this new-found friend, so I finally emailed him. We talked about the piece and how I could improve it, but I was too hurt, too bull-headed, and fearful of rejection, so I told him he should write it himself. Instead of writing me off as a mixed-up lady with no common sense, Aaron understood, and we remained friends.

A Spring Visitor

The day was fast approaching…Aaron was flying into Providence for a visit. It was a warm spring day, gorgeous and wonderful. He got off the plane and with nervous trepidation I hugged him. I’d spent the time before his arrival fretting over his expectations, even though we discussed, at length, the importance of keeping it friendly with no romantic attachments. I tend to be shy when I first meet someone. Jumping into anything with two feet just isn’t my style. My preferred mode of operation is to stand back, access the person or situation, listen to my gut, and then proceed with caution. This way of acting and reacting has saved me much grief over the years. While I quietly drove back to the Cape, Aaron kept up a string of chatter about his kids, the flight, the New England scenery. He was and is witty beyond belief, blessed with a rakish sense of humor, a slinger of one-liners, and can charm the life out of a fruit fly. Once I warmed up to him, we had a marvelous time getting to know each other and we developed a genuine caring for each other. We laughed loudly, talked incessantly, and shared hopes and dreams. He stayed in my guest bedroom for a long weekend and then went back to California to sort through a tangle of thoughts. The one thing that was clear about Aaron, he longed to be back in his native New York. I don’t need to add this next bit, but I’m going to because it’s part of what made this special friendship so remarkable….we were platonic. There was never any romance between us, just a loving friendship that softened the hard edges of single life for two 40-somethings.

Aaron moved back to New York or rather just outside of the city in New Jersey. He was back in his element on the east coast, going into the city when he wanted to, and traveling up the coast to visit me.

Fourth of July

My daughter spent the summer od 2001 living with me, working and playing on the Cape. We had a few visitors and Aaron was one of them. He stayed with us the week of July fourth. What fun we had! As a passionate cook, Aaron played in my kitchen cooking up dinners. What a treat this was for me, always and forever the cook and chief bottle washer, I finally had the chance to sit idly by watching while someone else grilled and cooked.

Aaron was invited to a Fourth of July party by another friend who lived on the Cape. So off we went! It was one of those hot, sultry days of summer when the heat rises from pavement and thighs stick to seats. We found the house and knocked on the door. Cindy opened the door, obviously delighted to see Aaron giving him a big hug. She greeted me with a smile, “Come in, come in. I’ve got to finish up in the kitchen. I won’t be long.”

Aaron and I sat in the cathedral ceilinged living room looking about, appreciating the décor and style of the home. A couple children came through the room and ventured out the door. The house was quiet, except for the rattling of pots and dishes in the kitchen.

“I wonder where everyone is.” I questioned Aaron. “I thought the party was here, at her house.”

“I thought so too,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

“Would you like a wine spritzer?” Cindy called from the kitchen. “I’ll be done soon.”

I declined, but Aaron, hot and thirsty, asked for water. We sat in the room for what seemed like hours talking as if we were in a sanctuary, while she banged around in the kitchen. Whatever she was making did not need finishing touches, I have my doubts that it was even started.

Finally, Cindy entered the living room saying, “I’ll be ready in just a minute. I need to change.” She swept up the stairs and returned in a fresh pair of capris and a flowery, sleeveless top. She slipped on sandals and led us out the door sans carrying dish.

Aaron nudged me as we walked across the lawn mouthing, “Where’s the dish?” I shrugged in response, shaking my head with an awkward look on my face.

We stepped through an opening in the bushes that separated the houses. On the other side was a neatly kept Cape Cod. In the back of the house, the priest who owned the house, his mother, and Cindy’s sisters all gathered on the deck.

Cindy’s eyes sparkled with that undeniable, fawning look of I really like this man and hope he likes me enough to stay awhile as she made the introductions with a broad smile and then the afterthought, “Oh yes, this is Teresa, his friend.”

A couple more chairs were pulled out and we sat down. I scanned over the group of women situated around the deck. There was more bling on these women than on most of the rappers on MTV. One sister caught my attention with her skintight red jeans and white halter top barely supporting an ample bosom. Big hair, New Jersey style, framed her face and every once in a while, just for good measure, she’d shake her blonde flaxen locks like a model for a hair spray advertisement on TV. A storm of questions came hailing down on me as soon as it was known that I’d moved to the Cape from Ohio. Why the Cape? Why did you leave Ohio? Why did you get divorced? Did he cheat? After the final fully-loaded question, red-jeaned lady nodded in understanding, her gold earrings dangling from lobes caught the light setting off tiny, afternoon fireworks as she nodded in understanding awaiting my answer.

“No, he didn’t cheat on me and I didn’t cheat on him.”

Confusion bolted from one person to the next as I steeled myself for the obvious next question, then why are you divorced, but the question never came and I softly sighed in relief.

Twittering gossip about unknown parties prevailed between the women. Aaron leaned over whispering in my ear, “Good god what yentas.”

I’m a rural raised lassie where the most exotic person I knew was Dr. Patel, the town’s general practitioner who replaced the previous doctor who was killed in a car accident. The town where I grew up didn’t even have a Catholic church. How was I to know what a yenta was? We were white bread kids raised on green grass lawns, tree-lined streets, most of us with a mom at home, and the entire town in the same tax bracket, with only a handful of exceptions. I never had a reason to understand the culture of a diverse group and I’d never attended a party with a mix of one Catholic priest, his mother, a group of Jewish yenta, princesses, one joo boy, Aaron, and me…the only Protestant on the deck. Let me clarify that Aaron started calling me white girl at some point during his first visit. It was a fond pet name, so I adopted his name for himself, joo boy. We both found a lot of amusement in our very different lives and never under any circumstances implied disrespect to our respective heritages that we both embraced. He grew up in Brooklyn and me in a town smaller than his neighborhood. In any given 24 hours he might over hear languages from across the globe. In 40 years, the only language I regularly heard, outside of English, was pig Latin and bits of Spanish. I often teased Aaron that I would take him camping in northwest Ohio, if he didn’t stop picking on me. His response was usually something about wild animals like raccoon, skunks, and squirrels adding morbid thoughts of being done in by a forest creature.

The day became hotter as we sat on the deck. Finally, the good priest asked us if we cared for a drink. Cindy immediately jumped up to take our orders. Margarita? Daiquiri? Wine spritzer? What’s with the wine spritzers, I thought.

I chose a wine spritzer, of course, and Aaron did the same. Low on ice, the drinks came to us a bit warm, but at this point I was so thirsty it didn’t matter. I took a sip. A taste similar to what gasoline might taste like permeated my mouth. The taste was so bad it’s a wonder I didn’t spit it out in one forceful spray across the deck, instead I swallowed hard remembering my Midwestern manners.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught Aaron take a big gulp of his drink. He looked down at the glass, his mouth askew as if he’d just sucked on a tart lemon. He turned toward me mouthing, “I can’t drink this.” He pitched the liquid contents over the side of the deck hitting the shrubs.

I sat cradling the warming drink in my hands, trying to get every last bit of coolness from the glass and taking tiny nips.

“Don’t drink that,” Aaron whispered, “toss it over the deck. That stuff is nasty.”

I shook my head and eventually drained the glass. When asked if I cared for another, I politely declined the fuel injected cocktail. Aaron switched to a strawberry daiquiri.

The sun beat down on the deck as the afternoon wore on. Lunch time came and went without a sniff of food. The picnic table on the lawn remained free of free of checkered tablecloth, potato salad, baked beans, hamburgers or hot dogs; not even a bag of chips or pretzels was brought out to munch on. Where was the food? Aaron and I came to the party under the pretense that this was a July 4th picnic. He’d offered to bring a dish, but was told it wasn’t necessary. Now I knew why…there wasn’t going to be any picnic, but my stomach didn’t receive the notice and started growling as I waited for someone to light up that big gas grill covered in plastic.

As people began to move in and out of the house, Aaron found a moment when it was just the two of us on the deck. “I don’t think there’s going to be food at this party. Let’s leave.”

I had been ready to skedaddle as soon as I’d finished the misrepresentation of a wine spritzer. Between the heat, hunger, and the drink my stomach tumbled in protest, sometimes loudly. Alan and I thanked the host and Cindy for inviting us and we made our escape across the lawn, back through the hedge, and into the now boiling car.

As soon as I turned the key, the air conditioner went into high gear, and we hurried down the street toward food and a movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding at the Cape Cinema in Dennis. The drive was filled with laughter at the day, the characters involved, and the lack of food.

“Why did you drink that wine spritzer?” Aaron asked.

“I was brought up to be polite,” I answered.

“What’s polite about a really bad cocktail?”

We settled into our seats at the old theater and laughed more while happily nibbling buttered popcorn surrounded by blessed, cool air blowing from a magical machine.

Aaron and 9/11

M headed back to Ohio University for the fall quarter a week before September 11. On a blue sky morning in September I hopped in my car, the ocean calling me. I drove to the Coast Guard Beach, emptied of umbrellas, blankets spread in colorful patchwork patterns over the sand, and people. Alone on the beach I had time to journal and watch a fishing boat float between sky and sea.

The morning was so peaceful, a soft breeze wafted across the ocean whispering tales in my ear. The gentle waves kissed the shore making it hard to believe this was the National Seashore. Overhead, the blue sky set a brilliant backdrop to a glowing sun looking down on the lone lady on the beach. It was one of those moments in life when all seems right with the world. I took the leisurely route home along Route 28 meandering down the crooked road that led back to Centerville my favorite CD's playing.

As I pulled off my sweatshirt, I noticed the blinking light on the answer machine. I hit the button and listened to Aaron’s voice, “Hey, I just wanted to let you know I’m all right. My appointment was cancelled. The lines are really busy, so I may not be able to get through again today.”

Ok, I thought, wondering why he felt I should know that he didn’t go to his appointment in Manhattan. Next message, “Teresa, we’re worried sick about you. We’ve been trying to call and no one’s home. Did you go to New York, like you planned? Please call as soon as you get this.” The next several messages were from family members all wondering if I was in New York. The voices were full of worry and concern and I began to wonder just what was going on. Next message, “Teresa call me immediately, was a message from my oldest friend in Ohio. I dialed her number and she answered.

“Hi, what’s going on?” I asked. S urged me to turn on the TV, so I did while we were still on the phone. While I was basking in what I thought was a perfect moment, the world imploded, changing in the time it took for planes to smash into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and Pennsylvania farmland. I was stunned watching in horror with the rest of the world.

I lived those frightening days post 9/11 alone wondering what might happen next. Fear and nervous frantic took over and I longed to get to Ohio and be with my children. I called both of them, the need to hear their voices overwhelming. We talked about the possibility of me making a trip home, but then decided it was best that I stay where I was. The world went quiet that day in a way I’d never experienced before. With no one else in the house, no planes flying overhead, and even cars staying put in driveways, my surroundings took on an unnerving surreal silence that at times became deafening with no one to talk to, no one to hug and hold as night fell. Unable to sleep, I spent the next couple nights on the sofa, the constant drone of the TV soothing me into an unquiet sleep.

Aaron, ever the concerned friend, called. The fear in my voice must have been palpable and he promised to come to the Cape as soon as he could. He took a bus to Hyannis and I picked him up. It’s strange how another person within four walls redecorates the room. Light returned in the form of my caring, fine friend, Aaron.

During his visit, we discussed all kinds of possibilities to supplement our bank accounts. Aaron had always wanted to write a treatment for a sitcom, so we started brainstorming. I’d never imagined doing such a thing, but why not give it a try? What did we have to lose?

The Wasbands

Aaron returned to New Jersey after a week, but came back to the Cape in October. We started working in earnest on the treatment for the Wasbands, an animated series about four divorced men living in the same apartment building. In case you’re wondering the word wasband blends the word was with husband creating a new name for a divorced man, wasband or was a husband.

Since neither of us were cartoonists, we needed a third partner. We researched artists online and found one that we both liked and thought would fit the needs of our blossoming concept. Enter a very talented artist and illustrator, Jack Pittman. Aaron explained via a phone conversation our concept and our plan to bring this idea together. Over the next week, we brainstormed. Characters were fleshed out on paper, possible scenes and storylines were developed and Jack began putting his vision to characters, while Aaron and I wrote the treatment. I have to give Jack Pittman huge kudos for this project because he worked totally on spec. He didn’t know us from Adam, but he trusted that we were going to take his artistic talents and not use them for own, but only as part of a three-way venture.

The three of us pulled the treatment to together in a professional bound booklet.  Aaron went back to New Jersey. He pitched the idea to the first rung in the ladder at FOX.  The treatment kept moving up the ladder and all three of us grew more excited at the possibility that this idea might become an animated sitcom on FOX.  Then one day Aaron received the news, the top dog at FOX nixed the project.  He didn’t like the idea of divorce. WHAT?  He also felt the demographics that FOX seeks were not there.  WHAT?  In a flash, The Wasbands went from wannabes to neverbeens. Aaron pitched The Wasbands to other networks, but each one turned down the idea.  One more pitch, a competition for possible new television shows, put us back into a hopeful position.  We ended up receiving an honorable mention.  As far as I know that particular reality show about how to get your idea on TV never made it to the air, either.  Aaron was through pitching The Wasbands.  I have the treatment as a fond memory of trying something new and adventurous; trying to grasp the elusive brass ring.

A Day in New York City

My plans to spend a few days in New York had been thwarted by 9/11.  So Aaron and I made plans to meet in Nyack and then he’d drive into the city.  Because I had only one day off work, we spent a whirlwind Saturday in New York City eating our way from Coney Island to Katz’s Deli.  He showed me the house in Brooklyn where he grew up and the country bumpkin in me was shocked to discover that city kids run down tree-lined sidewalks, too.  We ate cannolis in Little Italy and ventured into shops in Chinatown.  I had my first taste of brisket and an egg cream at Katz’s Deli. Hitting the high points with someone who knew the city so well was such a treat. I felt electrified by the energy of the diverse masses of people congregating on the streets.  The sounds, smells, sights, and tastes of New York City never fail to leave a mark on my soul.  Little did I know that would be one of the last times I ever saw Alan again, but what a memory to savor. 

A Waning Friendship

Aaron met someone wonderful and of course, I had to check out this fabulous woman. He brought her to the Cape for a fall weekend. She was perfect for him. They bantered, laughed, and loved so many of the same things. She was adorable and had a background similar to his. Yes, I believe Aaron met the love of his life.

Marriage has a way of dissolving male/female platonic friendships. The two were married in New York, blending their families into one. Over time I heard less and less from Aaron. First he stopped visiting. Then he stopped calling. Finally, even emailing ceased. He was busy with a new wife and a new life.

Aaron's Lessons

During a particularly rough patch in my life, after a loss of the heart, Aaron said to me, “People come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.” He was there for me in oh so many ways and I miss his friendship, but I now understand that quote. Alan came into my life for a reason. He was an integral part of my life on the Cape those first few years. We supported each other emotionally when things fell apart on either end. He was there when I needed a friend and had the means and wherewithal to explore, with me, the layers of who I am, where I was going, and where I wanted to be. I hope I did the same for him.

It’s true I believed he would be a lifetime friend, but the lessons he taught me are good ones that have stuck. Aaron taught me to not always have expectations, but to go with the flow and revel in an experience as it happens. I learned to grow a thicker skin and not take rejection to heart or as a personal affront because sometimes it’s not about the soul of who I am, it’s about my actions and what others need. He taught me that it’s ok to take small every day risks that lead to fun and laughter, that the world won’t end nor will anyone chide me because I walked into Eros, a risqué shop in Provincetown. Through these lessons this dear friend for a reason remains a part of me. I will never forget Aaron and wish him nothing, but all the joys in the world

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The first photo is of a post card with a photograph taken by Alan Hoelzle. I searched for a website, but couldn’t find one.  Here is his flickr photostream

I feel the need to reiterate that Aaron’s pet name for me and mine for him were not meant to be derogatory in any way. I feared offending someone and considered leaving that bit out. If I have offended anyone, please accept my humble apology.

Aaron had an appointment at one of the buildings within the World Trade Center complex on 9/11. It was cancelled the day before. I knew about the appointment, but not that it was cancelled which is why I was somewhat flip when I heard the message from him. Also, I had planned to spend a few days in NYC the weekend after 9/11, but my family wasn’t sure of the dates hence the frantic calls.

I don’t think I ever expressed enough gratitude, to Jack Pittman for how much I appreciated his part in our attempt to bring Reuben, Carl, Terrence, and Vic to life.  It was amazing! If you have a moment please check out his website and blog.  If I ever need a caricature or cartoon drawn and fleshed out, I know exactly who to hire. 

I wrote a short article about Aaron taking me on a food-driven tour of NY called, A Day in New York City, that rusticgirls.com purchased.  If you’re interested, you can read it here.

Thanks to all who have been following my escpadaes on Cape Cod.  I so appreciate each of you!  I'll follow up this post with another next Friday.  Have a grand weekend!   

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Celebrate Moments

Hello Friends!  Did you have a good weekend?  Did you find a wee bit of time to focus on beauty? 

Every morning we wake up and there it is, your page waiting for you to write you day upon. 

So we move through the day tending to daily tasks, at work and at home, creating a life as we go.  Do we consciously choose  how the day will progress or do we allow it to unfold, tripping over frustration and anger, and wondering how time disappeared? I prefer to live in the moment, not that I always do.  In fact, too often I am the passenger in my own life rather than the driver moving in my chosen direction.  Just for today, I'm going to steal moments.

I"ll read a poem about spring, daffodils...

or the dune poet, Harry Kemp's...

A Satisfactory Life

The sun, the wind, the moon; stars, birds, breasts about me;

O, this is the kind of life I want forever:

Thought by geographies; all details of pettniness

Erased by bright dune days,--

Days of good, new dawns; never-fogotten sunsets;

Nights when the sky is high as God with stars;

Times of the halcyon on brooding seas

Where joyous porpoises roll and prank like clowns.

My shack standing in the middle

Of all this, in the midmost

Of the leagues of sand, of the long,rolling leagues,

Next door to heaven andclose on the gates of sunset,

The opening of dawn;

I've got what few have,

I've got the life I want! 

A sigh for Cape Cod

I'll embezzle time for Johnny jump-ups, the funny faces teared from the rain, searching for the sun.

Starting today, I will take a step forward and try not to glance back too far or too long.

Today, I'll celebrate moments.  

How do you celebrate moments?

Cape Cod: Finding Friends

The rumors that I joined an abbey to cloister myself from the world are totally false.  Yes, it’s true I spent days alone, but there’s much to be said for quiet times.  I’m in good company when it comes to believing a solitary life leads to a journey within, but even Thoreau walked back into society after two years on Walden Pond.  Although, I was alone in this brave new world called Cape Cod, I needed to interact with people in some way.  I had short conversations with my 7-11 friends, said hello to passersby as I power walked each morning and connected with a diverse group of characters that I met through the hand of serendipity.  As John Donne wrote, No [woman] is an island and while I treasured my alone time, I hoped to make new friends.    

Seagull Lady

The first year I lived on the Cape, only two things kept me from paying homage daily to the majestic power of the ocean…really bad weather or being under the weather. I ventured out in wind, sleet, snow, and sprinkles. The first winter after the temperature dropped into the frigid range, I’d pull into the parking lot of Craigville Beach joining the few cars lined up as if they were at a drive-in movie, facing the ocean and watching the ever-changing spectacle.  Bundled in coats, hats, and gloves, a few brave souls ventured out of their cars defying the fierce ocean winds for a few minutes.  

 Every blustery morning that I was at the edge of the ocean, a woman crossed the parking lot toting a bucket.  She’d dip into the bucket and toss bird seed into the winter winds.  Before the seed touched the ground, frenzied seagulls transformed the black-top into a screeching sea of white feathers.  Seagull lady and I formed an unspoken acquaintance. I’d wave and smile then she’d nod her head in my direction before flinging more seed into the air offering one more look at the crazy scene that followed.   I met her hand raised in good-bye with a wave of my own and we’d each go our separate ways until the next time. Over the weeks, I looked forward to our morning meetings with an ocean view and bird seed.  The seagull hullabaloo ended with the coming of the sun, light, cars, and people.

A Washashore Meets Harry

As soon as the weather warmed I resumed my daily beach walks. It was a late afternoon walk, the heat of the sun still penetrating the sand making it warmer than the breeze that swished my ponytail. As usual, I walked head down always searching for gifts left by the sea. In my lone strolls I often got lost in thoughts unaware of my surroundings. I came to a sudden halt after nearly knocking over a white plastic bucket of slithering blue-green creatures. I quickly looked up and there stood an older gentleman with a Red Sox cap pulled down to shade his eyes.

Whooaaa there,” he said holding a long fishing pole in one hand and between his fingers a wriggling worm. I apologized for nearly knocking his bait bucket over as he threaded the thing onto a hook.

“What are you fishing for?”

“A striper would be good, but anything works for me. Not from around here are you?

“No. I’m from Ohio.”


“Yup, I could have guessed the Midwest. What brings you to Cape Cod?”

My response wasn’t really an answer, just a bit of information. “I moved here in September.”

He suggested I stand back before he cast his line so far out that I lost track of the end. While slowly working the reel he asked me another question. “What’re you running away from?”

“I’m not running away from anything.”

As he pulled the line back in, he stopped for a moment and looked at me. In my long life of experience I’ve come to know that people who leave everything behind are running from something.”

I stood in my tracks for a moment, caught off guard by the question. I hadn’t expected an arrow to piece the armor I’d so painstakingly hammered together and it took time to conjure up a response. “I don’t think I’m running away from anything. Perhaps I’m running toward something.”

“Hmmm…you may have a point there. By the way I’m Harry,” he wiped his hand on his pants before offering it to me. A good, firm grasp met my hand and we both smiled. “I’d better move along and let you get back to fishing. Someday you’ll have to explain just how surf fishing is done.”

“We call it surf casting and there’s not a whole lot to it. Just throw your line out and hope.”


“It was nice meeting you, Harry.” I said as I stepped away the question posed to me searing my brain. As I moved further down the beach I thought about running away or running toward. I suppose some run toward a new job, a new love, a new life and the chance to begin again. Others choose to escape by running away from a life unfulfilled or too difficult to endure in its present state. Which road had I taken? I wasn’t sure, perhaps a little of each.

“Stop by and chat any time you see me on the beach,” he called out.

I turned and with a smile said, “I’ll sure do that.” And I did. Over time Harry and I shared bits and pieces about our families and what we did in life. I offered glimpses into Ohio and farm life and reciprocated with stories of the Cape before it became gentrified. He likened the demise of the family farm with the fishing life on Cape Cod, often bemoaning the state of the Cape in the new millennium causing pangs of guilt that I’d moved to this paradise he’d known as a child and through his adult life as his home.

One day, while walking the same sandy beach littered with tracks from earlier beachcombers, I glimpsed Harry fishing. He focused his attention toward a flock of gulls circling over the dark waters of Nantucket Sound. Like a pas de deux between sand and water, he moved down the beach in tandem with the winged birds hovering over the ocean searching for morsels of seafood. Where there are gulls feeding there’s fish. With a whip of wrist the line arched toward the shimmer of water and wings. It was a beauty to watch. Eventually, I caught up with him. He hauled in a small fish, dropped it into the bucket, and pushed his fishing rod into the sand as I approached.

“Hey there, washashore,” he said with a smile.”


“What’s a washashore.” I asked

“You,” he said with a smug grin on his grizzled face. “A washashore is someone who wasn’t born here and grew up somewhere else,” he explained.

“That’s what I am,” I agreed, “a washashore.” I never did find out if it’s a derogatory sort of name, but I like to think old Harry thought of me in a fond way, even if I was a washashore.

“How’s the fishing today?” I asked.

“Not too bad.” He said pushing the bucket with the toe of his shoe, drawing my attention to his catch of the day.

Like every other meeting, we scratched the surface of our lives and then moved on about our business.

Ladies of the Cape
 
I always thought of myself as a social being; someone who thrived from interacting with others. In my previous life, I’d been ensconced with the church we attended, my children’s activities, garden club, and starting a small business. When I was one of two, I entertained friends and couples. Now, I found myself hundreds of miles from family and friends and no one to invite for dinner.


Making new friends after age 40 is not an easy task. I never realized how children open the doors to adult friendships until I didn’t have to taxi my children to play times, sport events, and school extra-curriculars. I discovered as we mature, we develop solid friendships and tight circles of friends that share a common bond. New to the Cape without children in tow, no job, and knowing no one made forming friendships difficult. The truth of the matter is that in order to meet people we must walk out the door. The first year I lived on the Cape, I may not have walked out the door enough, but I did a few times.

While MJ and  I were on our east coast road trip, we met a woman managing a shop on Commercial Street in Provincetown.  We struck up a conversation and she offered loads of information about moving to the Cape.  She gave me her phone number and told me to contact her if I ever moved to Cape Cod.  She was the first person I met with after I was settled in.  We had dinner one night at the iconic Lobster Pot in P’town.  Having a real conversation with a woman seated across the table was such a wonderful event.  We talked, had a few drinks and ate a delicious seafood meal.  I thought we’d become good friends, as she understood me better than anyone because she too moved to the Cape alone.  We had one more dinner, but by then she’d met someone and her time was taken up with work and a new love.  I ran into her a year or so later and she was preparing to move.  Her time on the Cape was over.     

My landlord, an artistic woman with drive and focus, called one day to invite me to a get together of artistic women.  I told her I’d think about going and let her know.  I didn’t want to go, I didn’t want to join anything at this stage of my life, but after a day of pondering I accepted her invitation hoping to make a few acquaintances that would turn into friends.  The Cape Cod women’s group met at an upscale restaurant with a pricey menu that I found off-putting as I cautiously counted every penny.  The ladies, all dressed to the nines, didn’t seem remotely interested in a woman that moved alone from Ohio to Cape Cod.  I stood to the side watching women hug each other, exchange business cards, and catch up on news.  The longer I was there the more I realized that I was not ready to be part of the ladies that lunch.  Had this invitation happened a year later, I believe I would have been far more receptive to the idea.  This could have been a marvelous venue for networking and pushing myself forward, but I never went back.  Instead, I remained cocooned inside my home.

My landlord, undaunted and persistent, introduced me to another divorcee who she thought would make a good friend. Unfortunately, this woman and I had little in common. After one lunch, I never contacted her again, nor did she ever phone me again. The wide berth of differences was too far to reach across. Perhaps I just didn’t have the energy to travel that distance at that time.

I believe, especially in those first few months after I moved, that I needed to go within to find what remained of me after years of putting myself on a shelf. Like most women, I was always there for whoever needed me. When cookies were needed for a bake sale, I said yes. When children needed a ride, I drove. When field work needed to be done in a hurry, I jumped on a tractor and helped. If family or friends were in need I was there. I married young, I barely knew who I was or what I really wanted in life. I’d not given myself time to explore the world, but remained in the places of my childhood. I took my job as wife and mother to heart, but the years slowly scratched at my being until I was no longer sure of who I was. So I hunkered down in my little house on Cape Cod, withdrew from the world for a time, and searched desperately for me.

The Whale Man        

Loneliness can get the better of us and it certainly did me.  In between exploring the Cape, talking to friends and family on the phone, and searching for a job, I chatted online and that’s where I met a whale man from Cape Cod.  We struck up a conversation in a chat room and suddenly I felt like Meg Ryan in the updated version of You’ve Got Mail. There were no planned meetings to chat, it was a hit or miss sort of thing, but boy was I intrigued.  Here was someone who could type intelligent, full sentences with proper punctuation.  He was quick, witty, and not too far.  Let’s meet!

Sometimes, common sense flies out the window. We met at Millway beach in Barnstable at night. This is the exact opposite of what should be done when meeting a blind date or an internet chat buddy. Keep it in public within full sight of people everywhere. What could have been a disaster turned out to be more than fine.

We greeted each other standing between our cars, shaking hands, and smiling. He asked me if I wanted to walk the beach under the stars. How could I say no? I couldn’t. So we did. It was a cool evening, but the stars shining so brightly overhead lit our way. He told me about his life and his life work with right whales. He described in detail the schooner he was building and that one day he planned to just sail away on it. I invited him back to my house, I know….not a good idea. Call it woman’s intuition or my ability to read people or maybe just plain dumb luck, but I knew I’d met a man with a sense of honor. We sat on the sofa, talking about everything from children to wildlife conservation. This was no washashore seated beside me. This was a born and raised salty, seafaring Cape Codder with intellect followed by all those letters of the highly educated. I was fascinated and he seemed captivated by this small town, Midwest country girl who knew how to drive a tractor and came searching for herself at the edge of his beloved ocean.

Did it go any farther than a mild flirtation?  Yes and no.  Over time the one thing I learned about this amazing man was that he tragically lost the love of his life and replaced her with whales.  The need to work hard, long hours and always be at the ready kept me at a distance at all times.  We shared intimate interludes, but always with the understanding that this was more a friendship with benefits than building anything that would come remotely close to a relationship.  We met impulsively when he was near Hyannis or when time allowed.  He remained a friend until I left Cape Cod.

A Few Others

I met others here and there. The bartender at Sam Diego’s who always set me up with a glass of merlot, on the house, was another interesting fellow. We’d banter about the Cleveland Indians and the Boston Red Sox and he’d fill me in on how his final year of college was going after putting his education and career creating on hiatus while he married and had a couple children.

I chatted with the cashier at Shaw’s and the librarian at the Centerville Library. I did find friends that first year, but not what I hoped for…a woman who I could build a relationship with. I longed for a female companion like I had in Ohio, someone to confide in, to go shopping with, take in a movie, or have lunch with. I met another friend who would play a significant role in my life for a few years, but his story is bigger than a mere paragraph or two, so I’ll save the telling for another day.

***************************
The photos I used were taken by my sister while she was visiting and me.  The  black and white photos were taken by my daughter.  I scanned a post card I picked up while MJ and I were on the east coast.  The whale photo on the post card was captured Alan Hudson, a Cape Cod photographer. 

I'll have another chapter ready next Friday.  Oh my....what direction shall I go? 

Have a wonderful weekend!

Yellow Daisy Apology

I apologize for not being around much.  It's been a busy week and blogging had to take a backseat.  Things should get back to normal Monday.  I'll have a new chapter of the Cape Cod tale to share next Friday.

I hope everyone is finding time to create something wonderful this weekend.

Cape Cod: Finding My Way

The first relationship I established after moving to Cape Cod was with the family that owned the 7-11 in Centerville.  Nearly every day for two weeks I ventured out my door and into the crooked streets that baffled me in attempts to get acquainted with this new place and always searching for a grocery store.  I drove south and ran into the sandy beaches of Craigville that met Nantucket Sound streaked with pink and orange sunsets. I drove truet north and met Millway Beach on the bay side.  There was not one grocery store between the two bodies of water. There were mornings when I’d just drive, but instead of finding a Kroger or Stop & Shop, I’d find myself meandering past mansions with an ocean view, in the middle of residential neighborhoods with quaint colonial or cape cod style houses tucked off the street, or on a road lined with scrub pines, brush, and sand.  I just kept telling myself, if I can find a supermarket, I’ll feel more at home. Since I couldn’t find a grocery store, back I went to the 7-11 returning home with my bag of groceries, and promptly missing the drive to my house forcing me to go around the block.
During one search and find mission, I discovered Lambert’s a market filled with fresh vegetables and fruit and a butcher and Deli in the back. This was more like it. Picking through the mounds of vegetables and placing just enough for one into a bag brought contentment. Standing in front of the meat case at the back, I must have looked perplexed as I chewed on my lower lip trying to figure out what prosciutto was, but ham and turkey were offered, too, so I was happy. A few days later I ventured into a place I’d never been before in my life….a fish market.


The Centerville Lobster & Fish Market, located among a strip mall of stores, became a favorite stop, but my first trip inside was like a kid stepping into a toy store for the first time. With wide eyes I read every label that accompanied every ice encased, stainless steel container filled with blue point oysters, steamers, fresh shrimp, quahogs, salmon, and fish galore. I was in seafood heaven. What to choose? I muddled over choosing something familiar like salmon or shrimp or should I be daring? I watched the fish monger wrap my chosen swordfish steak in paper. Never in my life had I purchased fish wrapped in paper, it always came frozen. I hurried home with my delicious treasure and drove right passed the driveway…again.

How would I ever tell my family that I still couldn’t find a regular, run-of-the-mill grocery store? Finding a supermarket became an obsession, but the embarrassment kept me from asking the cashier at Lambert’s, the fish monger, or the proprietors of the 7-11 for directions. I explored the National Seashore at great length traversing the boardwalk, wandering past mature trees on my way to Coast Guard Beach. I journeyed to the outer Cape and Provincetown, watched the tide roll in at Race Point and poked about in shops on Commercial Street, but a supermarket remained elusive. What was I doing wrong?

Anyone who knows me, knows that I struggle telling my left from my right and following directions is a monumental task. I get lost in parking lots and inside malls. One day I turned right instead of left and found myself driving passed the Cape Cod Mall that I didn’t know existed. I pulled into the parking area, turned around, and drove back on to the street and there it was, on the right side, Shaw’s, a real-time supermarket. It had taken me two weeks of wandering to find it, but at last I felt like I was home. I pulled into the parking lot and strutted right into the store without a list, purchased some much needed items and still beaming; drove passed the driveway to my cottage.


In between getting-to-know-the-Cape travels, I put my home in order. I selfishly delighted in another first. The first time I could arrange a home the way I wanted it without anyone else suggesting otherwise. No one told me the white on white of the bathroom was too blah. No one advised me to keep the table in the middle of the kitchen area instead of next to the window. I created my living space just the way I wanted, all the while a contented smile plastered on my face. When lunch rolled around, I’d sit on my white wicker sofa on the side deck, breathing in the salt air cooling into fall, satisfied and supremely happy.

Before anyone thinks these first few weeks were a bed of roses, let me explain. While I reveled in this new-found freedom, I was also lost, not just physically lost each time I got in my car, but lost in myself. I would go for days and not speak to another living soul like a monk who took a vow of silence. Every morning, I sat up in bed, grabbed my notebook and began writing. Surrounded by pillows, I’d pen my fears, frustrations, hopes, and dreams. So many pent up emotions screamed to be released and this is where I licked the wounds from two years of fierce battles punctuated by a bitter divorce. The time to mull over my life up to this point was a gift sorely needed, but at times loneliness seeped in.

My landlord had me nearly convinced me that I should just forget flying to Nantucket every morning to a job that I could find on the Cape. She put the fear into me, but I knew at some point I needed a job, so I called the flower shop on Nantucket. The manager and I played phone tag, never really connecting. When I’d ask if my messages had been passed on, the person on the other end of the phone always said yes. I stopped calling when I realized that the job had probably been filled. The disappointment of not getting that job weighed heavily on me. What would I do swirled around me like a spinning top. The bravado that had carried me across miles of landscape, failed me now. I began pondering what I was capable of doing and a negative mantra developed…no degree, no skills, no experience. I picked up the Cape Cod Times, investigating possibilities. I knew how to be a mom, cook delicious meals, garden, and arrange flowers. No one wanted any of those skills. I didn’t worry at this point; I knew I’d be ok even if I took my time finding a job.


October rolled around and an invitation came for a Halloween party my brother and his wife were throwing. Of course I can’t go; I live over 800 miles away. Desperate to be around comforting family who spoke like I did, without adding an ‘R’ to idea where it doesn’t belong and removing the ‘R’ from harbor where it does and talk in a normal volume compelled me to drive 14 hours straight, back to Ohio for the Halloween party. On the drive I thought about how much I needed to see fields of ripe corn waiting to be harvested and the stubs of soybeans left by combines. The longing for the old familiarity of rural northwest Ohio and to laugh with my children urged me on through the day. During the long drive I recalled another time a year before when the need for the familiar overwhelmed me.

A and I were spending our first night in the new house in Bryan. Everything was new and shiny. My cherry four-poster gleamed in readiness for my maiden voyage into slumber on the plush pillow-top mattress. Sleep eluded me and something didn’t feel right even though the bed was Goldilocks-just-right. Overcome with frustration and longing, I dampened the pillow with tears. The key to the farmhouse on the nightstand caught the light from the clock radio. Without changing out of pj’s, I grabbed the key, tiptoed to A’s room and found him sound asleep. I remember thinking, the wasband hadn’t moved back into the house, yet, so I’ll just drive back and take one last look. The car slipped into the country night with crickets chirping a welcome back. Without thinking, I got out of the car, unlocked the door and went up to what had been our old bedroom that looked out over my fenced-in garden, now home to decaying perennials and an exploding population of promiscuous weeds. I crawled in on my side of the bed and fell into a peaceful sleep. As morning broke over the eastern horizon, my feet flew down the steps and I drove back to the house in town, no one the wiser.


I left Ohio on Monday after the Halloween party, anxious to be back on the Cape where the air, thick with the ocean, smelled fresh and tasted salty.

A few days later, I stepped onto a November beach, the only person walking along the edge of the lacy foam created by waves chasing the bluster of wind. I pulled my hood up and walked, head down, searching for white shells. The ocean had offered up gifts for the birthday girl. Trapped in tangled wrack from high tide were countless shells. I picked through the brownish green seaweed pocketing the prettiest. Empty life guard chairs provided a place to sit and contemplate, but the bitter cold seeped into bones too fast, better to move on. Back at home I warmed myself by baking cookies as my birthday treat. This first birthday alone, although quiet, was a lovely day doing just what I wanted and with every ring of the telephone came a happy birthday followed by a concerned Are you ok? I was ok. In fact, happiness and contentment pervaded my being, whether others believed it or not.

The holidays approached starting with Thanksgiving. Will you be coming home? Please come home. Long talks to my daughter convinced me to drive back to Ohio, so once again I hit the road, Ohio bound. Thanksgiving at my brother’s was a merry event. Everyone was glad to see me and I was happy to be among family. The Sunday after eating turkey and all the trimmings I pointed the car eastward, but this time I wasn’t alone. My daughter, a student at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio, was accompanying me back to Cape Cod. This would be her first trip to the Cape and she was staying until after Christmas. A whole month of living with my daughter brought so much joy. I couldn’t wait until I could show her around my new home…the house, the area that included Barnstable, Hyannis, and Centerville, but mostly the ocean that I loved so well.


Fighting holiday traffic, made the drive back to the Cape arduous and slow. We took the northerly route through upper New York and onto the Mass pike. The further we went the sicker M became so that by the time we reached home, all she wanted to do was down Tylenol, drink liquids, and drift into fevered asleep. I was delighted to play nurse to her. The warmth in the house increased tenfold because she was there. Poor thing was so sick that she didn’t feel like doing much of anything the first few days, until one morning white flakes floated outside the window.

I jumped out of bed, pulled on clothes and hurried into her room. “You’ve got to get up!” I insisted, “It’s snowing. It’s snowing over the ocean. I’ve never seen it snow over the ocean. We’ve got to go now!”

Such a good sport, she dressed and we hurried to Craigville where we stood shivering on the hard sandy beach watching fat snowflakes pirouette from low, gray clouds and disappear into the dark ocean. We drove to the National Seashore on that frigid morning. The sound of waves crashing against rocks and sand lured us down the steps to the Coast Guard Beach. M ran along the shoreline like a little girl playing catch me if you can with rolling waves. One thunderous wave tagged her, wetting her jeans up to her knees as she shrieked with laughter into the wind.

During her stay, we took an excursion to Salem, Mass. Wandering in and out of witchy shops, having a witch read the tarot cards for M, and taking in the Peabody-Essex museum filled the days.

Back at home, we shopped for a freshly-cut Christmas tree. When the tree was wrapped and tied to the top of the car, we looked at each other grinning. The mystery of how we’d get a tree home without a pick-up solved. All the way home, we amused each with possible scenes of the tree falling off the car and landing in traffic, on the windshield, or dropping to the side of the road. We set the perfect little tree in the stand and it miraculously stood erect and solid next to the fireplace on the first try. We dragged out lights and ornaments decorating the tree, the mantle and setting the Santa Claus collection on the piano. My Cape Cod cottage felt more like home than ever before.
One day we discovered Mashpee Commons. One of M’s college friends was throwing an elegant cocktail party for New Year’s Eve. We shopped for the perfect dress. M tried on a gray wool, strapless sheath that hugged her body. She looked chic and so young. I had no choice, but to purchase the dress and give it to her for Christmas.


Christmas Eve was a quiet affair, just the two of us sharing tea much like we had in years past on St. Nicholas day. Plates of finger sandwiches, scones, and cookies spread across the candlelit table. Only one thing would have brought more contentment and that was if A would have been there, too. Christmas day was bittersweet. Getting together with family always meant a raucous good time that included good food and much laughter. Our Christmas day was quieter than any we’d ever shared. Instead of trying to recreate what we could not, we started a new tradition…a day of doing nothing.

A few days after Christmas, I returned home from the airport in Providence. The house echoed with silence and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’m terrible at saying good-bye. I want it over quickly, like yanking a band-aide from a wound. Then, I can find a place to curl up and let the tears fall.

In a few days it would be a new year and here I was in the place of my dreams. There was so much to think about, so much to figure out. I wrote the following in my journal dated: December 30, 2000…

I need to figure out the catalyst that will move me into the next cycle of my life. I made a move from Ohio, which I’d felt was stifling, to Cape Cod. I know no one here, but the surroundings are so beautiful, the ocean close by, and I am inspired.

 *************************************

 

Those first few months were an easing in to a new life.  Although, I’d moved I still had one foot in Ohio.  When being homesick overwhelmed me, I went back to Ohio, but as soon as a day went by I longed to be back on the Cape in my snug house.  I made more than two trips back to Ohio in the autumn months and looking back I should not have trekked back and forth, but hind sight is 20/20, or so it's said.  Getting lost every time I walked out the door became a personal frustration and joke.  I laughed at myself often during that time and chalked it up to my dyslexic directional challenge. After the new year I settled into a long winter of healing and learning.   

Cape Cod: Movin' on Out

I stood in the middle of the living room of the little ranch-style house I’d been renting wondering where to begin packing for the move to Centerville on Cape Cod.  I looked around the room realizing that it had been just eleven months since my son and I moved to Bryan. Standing there surrounded by quiet, I recalled the exhilaration of having a place to call my own and how it washed over me like a gentle summer rain that bathes away the dust and cobwebs from the earth, leaving behind a fresh, green world opening to brand new possibilities. The wasband had allowed me store my piano at the farmhouse until I had room for it.  I moved in the last of my things the day before and that morning, delivery guys brought the dreamy four poster bed I’d purchased.  As soon as they left I grabbed the new sheet set, blankets, and comforter and made my bed.  The flowered sofa and striped wing chair, yet to arrive, left the living room open.  I was unpacking boxes to music playing in the background when I jumped up and began a giddy dance about the living room, my arms reaching for the ceiling, my feet moving to and fro with the rock of hips following in hot pursuit.  At that moment I thought my heart would split wide open with sheer joy.  This new-found sense of freedom to do what I wanted to do, go where I wanted to go reached a zenith as I swayed and sashayed from one room to the next, laughing in elation.  It was a beautiful moment, but now I was ready to take Emerson’s advice and “hitch my wagon to a star.”

So much had happened already this year that the question, did I really think moving was a good idea, reverberated across my psyche? Yes, it was the best idea and one in which two of my friends supported me whole heartedly. My family, less supportive, realized that I would do what I would do. There were no long talks with bullet point reasons as to why moving so far away was a bad idea, but I felt the underlying current of disapproval. My sister was the most outspoken. Since childhood, we’d always been close. We’d both married farmers, we’d both been stay-at-home moms, but our kids were soon to fly the coop leaving us feathering an empty nest. There would be no more impromptu shopping trips, breakfasts on the weekend, or stopping by each other’s homes unannounced for tall glasses of iced tea and long talks. Subtle changes had been happening all along, first with the activities of children that keep families in constant motion and then N decided to head for college and build a new career. We’d been seeing less and less of each other for quite some time and besides we could still telephone and talk all we wanted.

My other sister, B, living a thousand miles away in Montana, the place of her dreams, encouraged me to go, explore what’s out there and live my life the way I wanted to. To this day I appreciate how she inspired me and cheered me on.

As I was packing to head east, my son did his own packing. My son not going with me was a hard pill to swallow. A and I had talked about moving off and on during the two years his dad and I were separated. I hesitated doing it sooner because I didn’t want to yank him out of the only school he’d ever attended. Witnessing his family splinter into fragments was hard enough, how could I ask him to move away from his friends, his sports teams, and miss out on his senior year surrounded by all that’s familiar. This was my illusion, not his. He wanted to move, but I thought he wanted to because as a son he felt he needed to protect me. I believed I was being the good mother to remain in northwest Ohio so he could attend the school he’d always gone to. Now that the move was happening, he opted to stay in northwest Ohio and live with a group of guys in a house. A began apprenticing with an electrician his senior year, much to my chagrin. I wanted him in college, but he chose a different path and I had to respect it. How could I deny him his heart’s desire? I simply could not, although I tried to convince him that moving with me to Cape Cod would be good for him, too. He could find a job and then after a year be considered a resident and attend college. The pendulum had swung in the opposite direction, so he packed his dad’s pickup with his bedroom furniture and linens and drove off to set up a guy’s place with his friends.

The weeks leading up to the move were a flurry of things to do from contacting the post office to saying good-bye to my siblings and friends. The day before the 800 mile trek began, my son, daughter, and her friend loaded the rented U-Haul with boxes, furniture, and my piano from the farm.

One of my oldest friends and her husband were accompanying me to the Cape, along with my son. L would drive the U-Haul truck, S drive their car filled with stuff, and I would drive my packed car. Late in the afternoon S and L drove up, got out of the car, and came over to talk. I could tell something was up by S’s face. She gave me a hug and then said, “I’m sorry T, but we can’t go.”
She went on to explain that L couldn’t go because of a problem at work. If he took the time off he might lose his job. How could I possibly be angry…but I was, even though I knew this was no one’s fault. This was the first wrench tossed into the wheels of my move and I was pissed as hell. I continued loading the truck, ignoring my friends. I sent the message loud and clear, so they left.

The truck was nearly packed, the plans were made, but who was going to drive my things to the Cape? I turned to my daughter’s friend, a stocky young man with loads of chutzpah, “You could drive this truck,” I stated staring at him with pleading eyes.

“I can’t. I have no more vacation time left.”

I begged him to take a long weekend and do this for me until my daughter asked me to stop. She gave me a big hug. I began calling every person I could think of who might be able to help me. I called all three of my brothers, but they couldn’t take work off at the last minute. My brother-in-law was too busy getting ready for fall harvest. I ran out of people to beg for help. Disheartened, I plopped down on the step and cried. A sat down beside me and offered to drive the truck. Now here’s the thing about driving a U-Haul truck at that time, the driver needed to be over the age of 21 and A was only 18, although he’d been driving tractors and farm equipment since he was 12. Even though I knew it was wrong, I felt I had no other choice, but to allow him to drive the truck. I knew he could handle that truck far better than me.

The next morning, we packed up the last few things and headed east, my red car in the lead and A following behind in the truck. The excitement of the move kept me wide awake and alert even though I lacked sleep. We moved across Ohio, navigated around Cleveland, past the Jake, now called Progressive Field, our destination the New York thruway. I took no chances this time of finding myself and my son heading into New York City unawares. Nope, this time we were circumventing the Big Apple, giving it as wide a berth as possible. My goal was to make it half way the first day. We got a late start and the day was proving to be another hot and humid one. A drove the truck with no air conditioning and was ready to stop by the time we reached Batavia in late afternoon. We spent the night in a hotel and up early the next morning to a clear sky and the promise of another hot day.

We motored along without incident until we had to stop at the entrance to the Mass pike. Cars lined up like the segments of a long caterpillar creeping at a snail’s pace. I saw a U Haul behind me and sighed in relief that A was close-by and we’d not lost sight of each other. I grabbed a ticket and sped through heading toward the exit for Cape Cod. I didn’t see A or any U Haul in the snarled mess of traffic that whizzed by me as if I was standing still. I kept a look out for him, but we’d lost sight of each other. I exited the Mass pike onto Route 128. I’d not seen A in quite some time and the plan was that if we lost sight of each other we should stop at the nearest rest area and wait until the other arrived. I stopped at the first rest area off the Mass pike and waited. After 30 minutes of waiting I was beside myself with worry. I wondered where he could be. The appointed time to meet the landlord at the house was fast approaching. The last thing I wanted to do was miss her and end up spending another night in a hotel or worse, sleeping in the truck or my car in the driveway.

I began seeing signs stating the number of miles to the Bourne Bridge. No, no…I thought. That’s not the right way. I’m supposed to go across the Sagamore Bridge not the Bourne. The closer I got to the Cape the heavier the traffic became. The roadways were clogged tight with vehicles inching their way to the bridge. As I got closer, I spied the orange lettering of a U Haul truck sitting on the shoulder of the ramp to the Bourne Bridge. Sure enough, there was Andrew perched behind the wheel, his red face a thundercloud. I pulled over, got out and met with a very angry young man. He was approaching the bridge when the steering went out of the truck. He jumped out and we were standing next to the truck when a State Patrolman pulled up. I explained what had happened and he chuckled, “This is one of the worst times that a vehicle can break down….Friday evening, the beginning of Labor Day weekend.” The humor of the situation failed to reach me. I was a newbie, what did I know about Cape Cod weekend traffic jams that clogged the main roads and rotaries leaving people stranded in cars, trucks, and recreational vehicles for hours.

The officer urged us to get the truck off the road as soon as possible and then hurried on his way across the bridge. A jumped into my air-conditioned car and cooled off as we traveled down the wrong highway in the right direction. He helped me figure out where I was and where I was going. We found Wequaquette Lane, made a left and there on the corner was the house. The landlord was waiting with keys in hand. She smiled, hugged me and shook hands with my son. She’d set a beautiful bouquet of hydrangeas on the kitchen counter, gave us directions to the nearest U-Haul location, and left us to our own devices.

After a stop at the U-Haul office, we had dinner and took a peek at the ocean before returning to the house. While we were gone the truck had been backed into the drive and parked close to the deck. Something you should know about my son, when he decides to do something he goes at it hard and fast. He wanted to get the truck unloaded immediately, so we started hauling out boxes and stacking them on the deck until we could get to the big items. To this day I’m not sure how we managed the piano without a mover, but we did. We set up my bed in the bedroom late that night. I tossed a few blankets over the mattress and fell into exhausted sleep. A hooked up the TV and slept on the sofa.

I woke early Saturday morning to a wild mess of boxes stacked against walls, furniture helter-skelter and no A. I found a note that read, “I went looking for the sunrise over the ocean.” What could I do, but smile? He came back a few hours later, returned the truck, set up the computer, and hooked up the washer and dryer, while I washed out cupboards, leaving the doors open in hopes of airing out the musty smell.

I had just this one day with my son in my new home and weeks to unpack, so we headed for the National Seashore. I wanted him to see this beautiful place with me. It’s remarkable what the imagination can conjure up, but when it comes to the majesty of nature, nothing beats the real thing. Watching my son, who grew up landlocked, stand there gazing out to sea for the first time, a smile creasing his handsome face as waves lapped at his toes was a magical moment. He walked alone along the shoreline leaving a trail of footprints behind him, while my heart ached just a little. Tomorrow he would fly back to Ohio, but I’d have this memory to bolster me.

We stopped at The Lobster Shanty near the Coast Guard Beach for dinner. Was it really just a few short weeks ago that MJ and I stopped for food and drinks at this same restaurant while visiting? It seemed so long ago. We dined on a bucket of steamers while waiting for our entrees. Andrew ordered up his first ever lobster and all the fixin’s. With a lobster bib tied around his neck he dove into cracking claws and tails, discovering the sweet white meat inside, and dipping bits and bites into butter. I couldn’t yet bring myself to eat an animal that for all the world appeared to be watching me through tiny, glass-bead eyes. I’ll have the fish, please. We licked our platters clean, patted full bellies, and smiled.

Back at the house, I was ready to call it a day. My joints hurt, I had a headache, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I crawled into bed early, while Andrew drove into Hyannis seeking some nightlife. I woke up shortly after midnight, my stomach in a turmoil. It wasn’t long before I knelt at the porcelain throne, the fishy dinner I ate no longer mine. I washed my face and searched for some coke in the kitchen, while A slept peacefully on the sofa. I walked across the room, pulled a blanket up to his shoulders and watched his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythmic slumber. Sunday came too soon and I was about to be alone. The fear rose up like a phantom, in waves of anxiety and nausea. I didn’t want him to go, to leave me alone here. While making exciting plans to move and then physically moving I’d thought about what it might be like to be so alone, but until the moment was but a step away I couldn’t really know how I’d react. I didn’t have a job, yet. I didn’t know another living soul here, except the landlord and what did I really know about her? Facing the consequences of my decision nearly knocked me to my knees. As I watched my son in quiet repose, I was scared…scared out of my wits.

Sunday morning, A was up and ready to head to the airport before I was out of bed. His flight wasn’t until early afternoon, but he was anxious to leave. I felt better than I had in the middle of the night. The only evidence that a stomach problem plagued me was the dull ache of pulled abdominal muscles. I showered, dressed, and we grabbed a fast food breakfast. The drive to Providence was quiet. Andrew stared out the window at the passing land and seascapes. I walked with him into the airport and stayed until the announcement for his flight came. One last hug and it was time. I had to let go. I watched him fling the backpack over his shoulder and walk away. An overwhelming sense of lonely and loss swept over me. Sucking in my breath and holding it was the only thing that kept me from falling to the floor in a puddle of loud mournful weeping.

I drove back to the Cape blubbering like a child, but by the time I reached exit 6, I’d spent all my tears. I drove down Iyannough, made a right onto Phinney’s lane, turned left on to Wequaquette and missed the driveway to my house.

After going around the block and giving it another go, I unlocked the door and stepped into the quiet mess that was my new home. Unopened and opened boxes sat among rumpled newspapers. Disorder ruled the day. Hungry, I searched for something to eat, but the only food unpacked was what I’d brought in an ice chest from Ohio, mostly good beef from the farm. I had no milk, eggs, or bread. I needed to find a grocery store. I got in my car and began driving; searching for a supermarket. The roads wind and twist on the Cape. You think you’re on one road and the next thing you know the name has changed to something else. I ended up lost. I drove around and around searching for a place that sold food. I finally found a 7-11 and bought bread, milk, eggs, butter, bologna, Cheez-its, and coke. This would tide me over until I found a proper market. Back in the little cottage that was now home, I pulled the shades down, poured a glass of Coke, opened the box of Cheez-Its, and longing for something familiar, turned on the TV. I stayed curled up in the corner of the sofa for the rest of the day until Andrew called to tell me he was back in Bryan, Ohio, safe and sound.

The house had a closed-up, musty odor that I’d not noticed when I first visited and the night sounds here were different. I was sure I heard rustling and voices in the brush outside my open bedroom window. The constant whining of cars and trucks on the street that ran behind my house kept me awake. Uncertainty settles in during the deepest part of the night, when the rest of the world slumbers in familiar surroundings. I doubted my decision that first night alone and wondered what ever made me believe that me…a sheltered little wasp from white-bread northwest Ohio, unworldly and inexperienced could ever make it all by herself in a place like this? I tossed; I turned and finally cried myself into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, I woke to the bright blue skies of a warm day in September. I had all day, all week, all month to unpack, organize, and set my little cottage up just the way I wanted it. Finding blessings in small things, I delighted in the fact that my piano had a wall to sit against and fit perfectly. Two nails just above the rough-hewn mantle over the fireplace were spaced just right for the two, framed, antique-prints of flowers that I’d brought. While my fridge and pantry were not stocked full, I had plenty to eat. I turned on the radio, found a station I liked and began working on creating a home. The dark night had passed, I survived, and the wonderful elation I’d felt when I first drove on to the Cape returned. I could do this and no matter what I would try as hard as I could to make Cape Cod my home. 

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The last two weeks that I've been remembering, writing, and reliving those moments has been such a journey for me.  I'm still very smitten with Cape Cod and miss it every day.  I'm going to continue with the next 'chapter.'  I'd like to share some pieces of my first year on the Cape.

Have a wonderful weekend!