Woke up this morning with vertigo, and it has yet to subside. I did try one of the exercises recommended for it, but that only made me nauseous. So … I’ve chosen to look at it as a reminder for me to slow down, take it easy, sit with Oonagh on the settee, mend my gauntlets, and make another pair. What??! Make another pair??! That’s taking it easy? Relax. I use the sleeve tubes and the calf tubes from old sweaters and socks that I can easily felt in the wash, and these have been ready to go for years. All I needed to do was a couple of straight snips for thumbs and openings. When I want to reinforce the snipped edges, then I make a few simple blanket stitches with a contrasting yarn or heavy-duty thread. I had made up a refrigerator cookie dough (recipe here) the other day, so I sliced and baked that, and I must say, dark rye flour is definitely becoming a favorite grain. I very carefully did a load of laundry, but skipped the shower I had hoped to take. Basically, I’ve had to live my day more mindfully and I’ll tell you, the more we can manage to do this for ourselves, well, for me, I find life more pleasurable when I do so.
I have all kinds of ideas for posts running through my thoughts, but when it comes down to writing the words out, I sometimes draw a blank. Such is writer’s block, something I know well. One of the lessons I’ve learned as a writer is that, like everything else in our daily personal journeys, there is always an ebb and flow. In the case of writer’s block (and just about everything else), once I surrender to that awareness, allow myself to experience whatever phase it is, and if the ebb tide, just stop to enjoy the pause, and if anything, move my hands and feet with stitch work, knitting, an Edward Gorey jigsaw puzzle, dancing, walking, etc. — before long I end up back in the flow I so desire to be in. I am finding this Wednesday to be a good day for that pause. Besides, pauses and the art of daydreaming are two skills it is always a good thing to practice.
“Says Kamina on what’s your word for 2021: “My word is DOG. Because: 1. Dogs only have four modes: sleep, play, eat, and jobs. (This is what I call the intense, self-important focus of a dog in work mode – whether digging a hole or helping a human cross the street.) 2. Whichever mode they are in, dogs are totally focused on that mode. Dogs don’t multitask. 3. Dogs are happy in all modes. Even jobs. Dogs love jobs. I tend to be sulky, distracted and discontent and I want to try to be more dog in 2021” From A Cup of Jo, posted 01.08.21
Needless to say, I find it’s the perfect word for me, too — for this year and perhaps for every year. So many ways of making art with your “OLW/one little word/word of the year/whatever you want to call it”or you can let someone else make it for you. ColleenAttara crafts custom words once a year for customers — and she uses recycled plastic whenever she can to do so. She scripts and cuts your special word for you, and they are simple, but elegant. I’ve toyed with the idea of ordering one myself but have never quite gotten that far (is “gotten” even a word? Well, no matter, it is now😉). Haven’t been able to commit to just one word, but if I could, DOG would be the one I could get behind.
Every Friday for a few months now I’ve been making Fish sandwiches on Fridays. I’ve been calling it Fishwich Friday but because I love the way fish-a-ma-jig rolls off the tongue, I’ve decided that if it’s haddock I’m frying then it’s fish-a-ma-jig Friday. When I use pollock? That’s fishwich Friday.
There used to be a Massachusetts ice cream and diner-type restaurant chain called Friendly’s that was a local favorite in downtown Hyannis. It was one of those places with the best marshmallow topping-hot-fudge-sundae-with-mint-chip-ice cream-and-jimmies, fribbles, frappes, burgers, hot dogs, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and … fish-a-ma-jigs.
A grill cook worked behind the counter, with customers watching and gabbing and spinning on their barstools, waiting for their orders. It was a place where lots of kids began their first job, working the takeout window, counter, booth and kitchen service. The waitress uniform was the classic shirtwaist dress, apron and frilled crown of an atomic age parlor maid. Empty-nesters, older part-timers and old-school management rounded out the crew. Dare I say it? It was a Friendly place and its image in downtown Hyannis is embedded in the memory of my childhood. And that’s my story for today, because, yup, it’s fish-a-ma-jig Friday.
*Jimmies aka sprinkles *Fribble aka milkshake, or is a milkshake also a frappe? Best to look it up. Even I get confused on these New England colloquialisms like fribbles and frappes. Now, as for awful-awfuls, well that’s a story for another day (like never😉).
It’s not that I wanted yesterday to happen, but sometimes people have to see something for themselves — you can’t tell them, regardless of what facts, science, etc. may support. But if they see it with their own eyes? Perhaps. Actions speak louder than words. For those who missed the obvious yesterday — there are still honorable journalists speaking and writing about it. White supremacy and cock-eyed “American” justice was there for all the world to see. Unless, of course, you continue to suffer from snow blindness. For those who don’t but perhaps do continue to believe in an America offering liberty and justice for all — there are a couple of excellent, easy, engaging and engrossing stories about the hidden (and not so very hidden) truths of the foundations of our beloved (still, perhaps?), yet flawed country. If you haven’t yet, please consider reading Lies My Teacher Told Me by James W. Loewen and A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn.
It rained today, and although the rain cleared after a while, the puddles were huge, making our daily walk less than attractive. People have such a lack of awareness of others, as well as themselves, especially when rushing and driving fast —that if my feet aren’t getting soaked wading through the depths, cars flying through make waves that drench me from head to toe. Hence, no walk today, but we did take an extra long one yesterday into Hyannisport, along the shore near where the old train wharf used to go. It was pure blissful solitude, and a perfect opportunity to let Oonagh loose. Whenever we do, as I watch her, I feel such unleashed joy that one of these times (when the surf isn’t so cold), I am apt to join her. I am not a beach girl, but, dang, my girl just makes it look so delicious and inviting.
Hyper-connectivity is messing with my receptivity, which messes with my ability to truly connect, so for this first month of 2021, I am taking a sabbatical from posting on my Instagram page. That’s not really the hard part for me though. The hard part will be resisting that urge to constantly connect or engage in some way. I’ve still commented on a few posts but the goal for me is more meaningful connection, and if I have any presence there in January, it will be connecting with people through their stories or their private messages, rather than on a regular post. I feel lost in the crowd there, and crowds have always overwhelmed my senses to the point of distraction and sometimes distress. I will not be totally gone from social media, but I do find that I need the more contemplative format that blogging allows for — after all, the blog, a web log, a “live” journal of our days — it is what social media once was without all the noise attached. I want to return to that — to its soothing analog pace. I hope for more conscious and deliberate connection with the neighbors in my virtual world, and look forward to meeting some of you here.
I’ve been meaning to get back in the weekly (at the very least) habit of writing on my blog again, partly because I am finding Instagram and its algorithms are not a conducive vehicle for deeper connection. That requires time — analog time — slow time, a slowing down of my time, a slowing down of your time. Social media has a propensity to speed us up rather than slow us down. It’s designed for short quick bursts of momentary engagement. Fine for a brief spell, but not really how I want to live my life. And by that I mean “spend my day,” for as Annie Dillard has written “how we spend our days is how we spend our lives.” I want deeper dialogues, discourses, discussion. I want more intentional connection. I love the luxury of aimless scrolling, don’t get me wrong, it’s how I often tumble down the rabbit hole of exquisite and magical delights, BUT…then it turns in to digital over-saturation, fueling an urgency to participate in it at an ever more breakneck pace. And frankly? I’m not wired for that. Are you? How can my wiring recover from misfiring or have a chance to reboot if I don’t disconnect — from the universal tether that is the worldwide web that ensnares me with wiles, charms, and the promise of always something more. I have to look at it as corporate ownership of my time and headspace. My world shrunk to a tiny screen. Curated. Performative. Without purpose. And I believe we all need a purpose. Writing and sharing is mine.
I’ve been hesitant to share a favorite place we’ve been escaping to for the past few months, mainly because like the South Coast, its open space, deep soul, and serenity may not remain so if non-kindred spirits discover these still-tranquil-trying-to-hang-on-to-what-little-is-left farming communities. Places that follow the slower rhythms of nature, and the seasons, where there is a synchronistic dance that happens between the land and the placeholders who nurture it as it does them. It’s a little village called Shelburne Falls, home to the famous Bridge of Flowers. On our last visit there, we witnessed an unexpected autumn wedding on the bridge, complete with violinist, and a couple of witnesses. We joined the tiny group of spectators gathered around. Magic happens in Shelburne Falls. And not just in Shelburne Falls, but in Turners Falls and Buckland, and other hill-towns in the foothills of the Berkshires. Mountains, hills, woods, and streams and rivers, those are the landscapes buried in my body that sing me alive when I visit.
What saves places like Shelburne Falls, besides those of us kindreds who land there, is its beastly winter weather, frigid and with epic snowfalls. That and its distance from the sea coast, since the majority of the population in the Eastern US lives along the seaboard. Fortunately for us, more folks love the sea and despise the snow. Let’s just not let slip about the spectacular springs, summers and autumns, shall we?
High points in Shelburne Falls for us:
Our delightful Airbnb hosts Marjorie and Peter, walking everywhere and cars stopping for us when we cross the streets, the Blue Rock Cafe and their welcoming staff (we’ve yet to be disappointed), the Sunday afternoon music jam in front of the coop, a morning latte from Mocha Maya’s and old-fashioned donuts from Foxtown Diner. Throughout the day we wander around the neighborhoods, and across the river, up and down, strolling through neighborhoods that are actually inhabited by local, year-round residents. And long about mid-afternoon, we make our way over to Floodwater Brewing for our midday porter, sometimes out on the back porch overlooking the river, sometimes sitting at the bar, chatting with Zack or a local musician, like Frankie. (Still hoping to fix him up with my friend, Diane.) Even our pooch, Bob acts like he belongs in Shelburne Falls. But he’s not telling anyone.
One of my favorite memoirs from years ago was by an NPR writer, Carol Wasserman titled Swimming at Suppertime. It was about life on the wrong side of Buzzards Bay, in her case Wareham, which for me is actually the right side. But it’s always stuck with me, the title and subtitle — she was mourning the loss of her husband, in between writing, living year-round, and swimming (at suppertime) with her lady friends in the gritty town of Wareham, Massachusetts — a stone’s throw (if you’ve got a good arm) — from chi-chi Cape Cod.
Me, I live on Cape Cod. I grew up here in between my father’s military tours in other places. And Wareham, Marion, Mattapoisett, and beyond — the Route 6 West corridor along Buzz Bay — is more like the Cape Cod I remember from childhood and into my college years. It was more colorful, more real, more of a struggle, and more of a delight for those who survive here year-round, because we were all in the same boat.
We took a ride to Wellfleet a couple of weeks ago, hugging the back roads that wind along the backside of Route 28 on our way east. It was a Saturday on the brink of the full moon, and I was feeling hemmed in, crowded, suffocated, wanting to climb out of the box of this island-peninsula — serene and accessible open space is becoming rarer here, speed and traffic more prevalent. I want slow, meandering, and I feel more of that on the other side, even in the eastern Massachusetts land of more strip malls and industrial parks and more traffic — the sky and roads just seem to open up a bit more, I don’t feel as trapped.
I wanted to be back over the bridge — but as we rolled further along to our destination, I started feeling lighter, a little less encumbered — noticing the undulating marshlands and bogs with the crimsons, golds, and russets of a coastal autumn. As we moved beyond Chatham and Orleans, and on out towards Eastham and Wellfleet, I began to relax more. Off-season on the Outer Cape can be close to desolate, a stark contrast to what it is in the summer. It can truly feel like the edge of the world. Wellfleet was quiet, but not quite yet shifted in to winter mode. We parked down near the wharf, and walked up to and across Uncle Tim’s Bridge, for a walk around the tiny island that sits in the brackish water that empties into Wellfleet Harbor. Ah, peace, although not quite on my “right side of the bay,” but for that morning, for me, it worked. I relaxed, enjoying the view, the air, the outdoors, the ground beneath my feet, and contemplated what it must be like for people who don’t have either the time, or the means for these therapeutic escapes. Wellfleet is an example of what the rest of the cape has become — more of a playground for the wealthy, than a home for the rest of us.
