Real tomato with Jude's man who will make the journey next year

Looking back on the month of August, I have an overwhelming memory of profound kindness from such dear people, it's moving to think how lucky I am to know the people I know, and definitely too hard to convey here. But it was a truly moving month, and I'll be writing about a lot of these experiences, because they are holding important places in my heart. 

When this randy brain has something complicated to solve, such as liquidating and moving one's earthly possessions within a limited window of time, it tends to do a bang up job of producing problem-solving snippets. But things tend to go awry when it comes to pasting them all together, invariably leading to last minute crises. Given this, one might begin such work early, allowing for maximum pivoting time. But just as socializing seemed crucial on the nights before big exams in college, instead of plodding along, I opted for a delightful panoply of experiences, accompanied by a low-level dread for sure, but that's par for the course. 

Dear Carin and me on the Fast Ferry to Provincetown

Me inside the Pilgrim Monument, Provincetown

Provincetown is a good place to live if you're an annual

Earlier in the month, Carin and I cheekily met early one morning at the wharf where Codzilla lives, to  tootle over to Provincetown on the fast ferry. After being surrounded by sky and sea for a few hours, it was a bit of a shock to disembark into hordes of day trippers like ourselves, staring at each other, mulling around seemingly without intent. We also hadn't a plan, but after a frozen moment, committed to spending the grey day looking at art. We stopped in at most of the galleries on Commercial Street, each getting better than the next as we moved away from the wharf, ending at the Provincetown Art Museum, which had exhibits of three different artists who had painted there. Carin ran into someone she knew who apparently traveled from Brookline to PTown regularly. Being as usual peckish, I asked if she had any recommendations for lunch places. After giving us the name of a restaurant nearby, her endorsement was "yeah, it's great, it's really big". Carin and I looked at each other with wide eyes, thanked her, then crossed the street to the wee grocery store on the sea-side, the one with the old fashioned wooden screen door that slams just how you like it, to enjoy the lyrical Jamaican patois of our sandwich makers, if not the sandwiches. PS Jalapeño Cheese potato chips are not a good idea.

Later, we climbed the Pilgrim Monument and were at first miffed that there wasn't a carved stone for Brookline inside the monument, as there were for most other towns in Massachusetts. But when we learned the reason, that the town Fathers hadn't ponied up to support building the monument, we became sheepish and then determined to write a letter to the always earnestly concerned neighborhood group. We never did.  Because A Prayer for Owen Meany was still in my mind, we admired the stone carving work.

It was the perfect day with a most wonderful friend. 

I would be dishonest if I didn't include this. Lots but not enough

Weasel and rabbit

Yes, there was tennis, some lovely tennis. At first the grass wasn't open much, and my body was a little shocked after taking the winter off. Dr. Lauren taped me up, but then it rained so the grass wasn't open. Then I started hitting singles and loving the pace and movement, the ability to get in the flow. And then Kid, who likes to belt the fuzz off the ball, arrived and I was commissioned to be a human backboard, which was profoundly fun. But through it all, I never quite got in the classic doubles on grass vibe, and maybe spent only one night on the porch, which is a travesty. Needless to say, mental plans are being made for next summer already. 

One morning, playing doubles on clay next to the brick path, we heard that awful animal fighting or giving birth sound. On the other side of the brick path was a weasel attacking  Peter Rabbit's great great granddaughter, so heartlessly. It went on and on as we stood there frozen watching. Without thinking, I went over to the skirmish and used my brand new blue Babolat to separate them, but the weasel's teeth were dug in deep and it was having none of it, so I started hitting the weasel, forcing it to eventually wander off. But Flossie was half way to her maker, there was no bringing her back, and Nate, who heads up the grounds crew which spends a fair amount of time ridding the beds of rabbits, in his quiet and patient way took her to her resting place. It was easy to see in retrospect that hitting a weasel with a blunt instrument isn't any better than letting a weasel attack a rabbit, presumably for food at least, and that I was intervening with another animal ridding Nate of a garden predator was likely not appreciated either. 

So when I looked out the window of my new apartment in France (which I'll get to in another post) and saw two pigeons attacking a third one, despite wanting to stop the brutality, I knew not to get involved. It seems to be a hobby in which they partake every afternoon, these two bullies. What is it about creatures that we need to pick on those less strong? For food is one thing, but the google tells me that pigeons don't eat pigeons so why not just bloody leave that poor thing alone? And I'm not even going to get into humans.  OK, I'm done.

My dear one, Newburyport

And then who popped into town in the middle of everything? Mrs. Fun, and fun we had My low-level dread and guilt disappeared for hours at a time as we did our thing, which almost always involves wandering in one form or another. We went into Boston a few times, once to eat salt and pepper shrimp at Peach Farm, nicely accompanied by another favorite, garlicky pea shoots which had just the right amount of bite. Despite my daughter not wanting to see the elephants on the Commonwealth Mall, I forced her. We saw, we photoed, we left. 

We also took a trip out to the Berkshires and Upstate New York to see my sister Jude, who was going through the same thing as me; clearing out a lifetime of stuff in anticipation of moving to a smaller place. Nat, who coincidentally was also moving into a new home on September 1st, hadn't seen her in many years, and it brought me such joy for them to have time together and understand each other. They share the same ability to pay attention to the world in a way that's different than most people. And a profound kindness. And they're both recipients of my profound love.

We toodled around the Woodstock hardware store, which is one of the best, and after in Jude's cabin, I said goodbye to many of the things that have been associated with Jude over the years, going back to the 80s. And as is customary when seeing her, we left ladened with beautiful things.

In the Berkshires, we stopped in at High Lawn Farm, prompting us to rethink using milk products, those poor old cows don't have a great life. And so we climbed my old daily climb, Monument Mountain, where I showed Nat the rock I sit on when I throw off wedding rings from prior husbands. Good role modeling, I know.

High Lawn Farm, Lee MA

Nat, Jude and me at Jude's wee cabin in Woodstock, NY

Bob Cronin's painting, which I treasure, that Jude gave me. 

A quick stop for ice cream in Hudson NY. It was a Monday and everything was closed, but we had a nice kale salad and felt August sun pounding down on us mercilessly

Waay back in the party days, my mother would repeatedly ask "Are you playing any tennis?" to which I'd give my predictable answer, "No", to which she'd always respond "I wish you would, you meet the nicest people playing tennis." Eyeroll.

My dear friend's son was getting married in York, Maine, providing an opportunity to get in touch with a friend I'd met playing (paddle) tennis, back when we traveled New England to play tournaments. She was the first Mainer I met, I liked her immediately. We stayed in touch and at one point, a few of us put together a Beanpot tournament, Brookline vs Maine, and we'd play more for fun, then celebrate after. Because I'm sadly no longer in the paddle tennis loop, we'd been out of touch for a few years, but this wedding turned out to be a lovely excuse to reconnect, so she came down to Longwood, and then was kind enough to have me to stay at her house overlooking a river, full of birds and flowers. While we'd always had fun together, on and near the court, this time we had the luxury of spending an afternoon and the sliver of a morning together, just the two of us with no distractions, which was very special. Yes Mom, you're right, you do meet the nicest people playing tennis, she says sheepishly. 

Lucas and Racquel's wedding day. Wishing them both all good things

Old ladies on the dance floor; Janet, Katharine and me, York, ME.