I slept for thirteen hours. Woke up and made a
glass of hot lemonade. Read a gothic novel.




My dad called twice to say hello. He likes to get
the scoop from the eye of the storm, so to speak:
weather reports, local doings, maintainance issues
(ping-pong table is drooping).







There are words I use here that I use nowhere
else: drawbridge, plankton, screen-door.







"We're only making one kind of bread pudding
today, right?" the counter girl at Pie in
the Sky asks. There is also talk of egg
salad sandwiches and whether Tessie
wants her quiche warmed up.




On Sunday I woke up early, closed the house down,
and walked to town at dawn for a newspaper.







It was still dark when I made my way to town, and I crept
along the path fearfully. One year, we spotted a hobo
sleeping in the woods. Now I am always afraid that the
hobo will return vengefully, to knife me in the back.




The town is preparing for fall. It's not that
activity slows down or thins out; it just refines
itself into a narrower time slot. The cafe opens
later and the sun sets earlier. But within these
few hours, there are people out.




The library, for example, is open two hours a day.
It is fully stocked with Practical Sailor,
Sail and Sea History magazines.




Steamship Authority: two words I love in conjunction!

Index