Longwood entrance that lifts my spirits without fail

On the first day of my second summer at Longwood, I sat inside at a big round table with someone I knew and others I didn't. Without prompting, each shared the ailment impinging upon their game. Others had sympathy and advice, doctor recommendations. Around it went.  I was probably dealing with my recurring foot problem exacerbated by paddle, and it was both reassuring to be amongst others with similar challenges, while also shocking to know that this was where we were. A time when good health becomes a blessing. And at least a part-time job.  I suppose the fact that we're erect and determined to beat these physical challenges makes us stronger, at least mentally. The video of the oldest world champion tennis player, whose secret to continuing play into his nineties is not letting injuries slow him down, has been on my mind a lot (sorry, can't find it). As has the documentary about the Blue Zone, which was fascinating. Loma Linda, California? Who knew.

Early on in France, I noticed my left, non-dominant shoulder could no longer stay in its regular position when sleeping belly flop style, something I attributed at the time to the Ikea Asbygda 1 1/2 inch mattress. Or maybe it was the 9 inch high square pillow. But I put concern aside, thinking my Boston-based down accoutrements, nice mattress and most talented chiropractor, would heal all. But not much changed, and then I found a friend having the same issue with her non-dominant shoulder. How odd. It wasn't anything serious, but with every discomfort that makes itself known, the approach must be that of a thin end of a pernicious wedge to be aggressively neutralized. I happened to be listening to one of my favorite podcasts on Zoe again, about Omega-3 Fatty Acids and their importance. And Mr. Fatty Acid Researcher mentioned that stiff joints are caused by inflammation (not of the joint, but of one's body) and that Omega 3 can bring that down, but you need to ingest the equivalent of 1000mg a day.  That's a lot of salmon.  

Sometimes my head is like a cooped up dog that has finally broken the leash, wildly running around and into traffic. The most odious and repetitive example is when I'm about to receive serve from someone. The server throws the ball up and I involuntarily begin to think about the mechanics of how I actually grip the racquet and how my swing works, as an extension of my body. Things quickly get existential and invariably, the ball does not land in that rather large rectangle on the other side of the net. Sigh. In The Inner Game of Tennis by W. Timothy Gallwey, the author talks about how if we were to think about the mechanics of turning on a light switch, we'd be paralyzed, and with hitting a forehand, it's the same. That mischievous head of mine also causes havoc some times when I'm about to eat fish. Without my asking, a picture of a happy trout or tuna, swimming through the water appears.And then it's dead and I'm eating that muscle. I hate it when this happens, it wigs me out, despite my general enjoyment of fish. But I wanted to try to eat one of the SMASH fishes mentioned in the podcast (Salmon, Mackerel, Anchovies, Sardines and Herring) but for valid reasons don't trust Whole Foods, which I call Amazon, further than I can throw my car. So I decided to embrace my inner Aunt Agatha from Travels with my Aunt, whose favorite expression was "It's not the destination, it's the journey",  and have a boondoggle one Saturday after playing some rousing doubles. 

It's always interesting to go to an unfamiliar places, so Fall River, which along with New Bedford, has plenty of beautiful granite warehouses, was a welcome destination.  It's not a long drive to Portugalia, the Portuguese equivalent, albeit on a smaller scale, of Eataly, to peruse their extensive collection of tinned fish that will take years to get through. After a fine espresso in their cafe that also serves delicious looking cakes, I had a wander through the housewares, passed the bacalao room, contemplated but didn't buy a Porto soap, resisted olives, olive oil and bread, on a mission as I was. Because the choice of fish was so overwhelming, I narrowed things down first to sardines, then sardines with tomato, then sardines with tomato and picante, and then to those with pretty designs. Had to! To complement the eating sardines, it seemed right to have a bowl with them painted on as well. 

Tried the Nuri, rated them a 7.

The cadence of work, tennis, porch at Longwood on a summer evening or weekend would be very hard to beat and I thank the Gods every time I'm there. .But as soon as I was in Fall River and saw people wearing bathing suit coverups when doing their business, Beach Season appeared!  Paula had just been talking about a great visit to Middletown and Hetty was about to start two weeks at her house in Westport, and then there was her friend who lives in Padanaram. It was all in my head and I suddenly realized I had been missing out..

So instead of going home after the big sardine purchase, the car headed south to the Norman Bird Sanctuary in Middletown.  It was nice to be back there as, in my twenties, without giving away names or links to their profiles, I spent quite a bit of a time with a bunch of wild and crazy guys at a beautiful house right next to this sanctuary. The only bird I ever saw was at the Red Parrot on Thames St., where one night a group of us consumed so many shots that the bar ran out of glasses. But that was many moons ago, and this time, it was serenity and natural beauty I was seeking. Quite soon after heading on a trail, I made friends with a doe and her two beautifully spotted fawns, who let me come within 2 feet of them before they scampered off gracefully and not too urgently.  There were few other people, something floral was blooming and many different flying friends were starting to sing for their evening supper. It was a lovely and gentle place. 

COVID birthday party in Emerson Garden

When Philip and I had only known each other a little while, we went on a road trip to Nova Scotia, taking the overnight car ferry with a casino, from Portland, Maine. I brought along a beautiful long dress for my first visit to a gambling parlor, and was crestfallen when perceiving the dingy room below deck filled with old women with long cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, pulling the handles on the slot machines repetitively. To make matters worse, Philip became sea sick, so not off to the best start. But poutine cheered me up and the peninsula had few people and oodles of natural beauty. We soon got into a rhythm of stopping and driving enjoying many breathtaking sights. On one particular day on our circumference of the peninsula,  we had just passed the northernmost point of Meat Cove, finding one of those tiny motel cabins that have a room and bathroom, along with a porch not big enough for two chairs. We had more than one load to bring in, and despite being in the middle of nowhere and not another soul in sight, Philip locked the car door in between. It made something happen to my stomach,  a message we weren't aptly suited. We talked about it and ended up agreeing to disagree. Prior to that and since then, anyone could accuse me of being lax about security, whether about locks, windows, or phones and wallets in public places. My general thinking goes that the worry used to lock up, along with the assumption that humans are bad and out to take my things makes me feel as though I've already been robbed. I acknowledge that this is somewhat out of the ordinary.

Marry we did, and procreate we did (and quite well, I might add!), settling in to life in Emerson Garden. Now Brookline Village is a perfect place to raise a child. The park is a social magnet, allowing posses of kids of varying ages to play together and be independent. They could walk to school, the library, the inconvenient store, as Jenn called it. The train to town was steps away and the text chain shared with Julie and Carin that we used to fill in last minute dinner ingredients was a blessing on many different levels. Despite this, while in general I don't lean conservative, there was a homogeny in that liberal bubble that could make it hard to breathe. And as a friend once remarked, given the fluidity between families and houses, it could sometimes feel a bit like living in a fish bowl. Once we became separated, I craved a low profile even more. 

So there was part of me looking forward to being back in my bachelorette pad in Cleveland Circle, or "the inner city" as Mary once called it.  The anonymity was appealing, as was the diversity, with orthodox Jewish men in fur hats, lots of East Asians, Russians old and young, post collegiate sorts and, well, pretty much everyone in-between, albeit at a lower income bracket.  

Speaking of orthodox men in Jewish hats, yesterday I was walking around the reservoir in the middle of the day in a long skirt, shirt and sneakers when a much younger man, walking towards me, gave me a respectful smile and a "shalom", apparently thinking my frizzy hair was a wig. Oy, not a look I was going for.  

But back to the story. While the anonymity was nice, it was surprising to learn that people didn't say hello or acknowledge my general existence, absorbed as they usually were in their phones and earbuds and dogs peeing. Those in my building seemed fine, but folks never looked me in the eye or said anything more than "hi" or "thank you".  There was one exception, a young woman with whom I share a back balcony. Every time I saw her, she'd smile and say hello. She even introduced herself, and I was embarrassed to forget her name immediately. Not because I didn't care but because, well, that's just where we are these days...

Before I left for France, she told me she had her roommate had been broken into, having cash and jewelry stolen. Most alarming was that the thief had come in through the back balcony and done his deed while the roommate was asleep.  Creepy enough to motivate me to close my kitchen window. For one night. I probably forgot and then opened it the next day, and that was that, and then I was off.  They purchased a Ring system and went back to their lives. 

A few weeks ago, there was a note under my door from this neighbor warning me that they had been broken in again and that the Ring system was sending them videos almost every night of a guy who was hanging out in our back courtyard. There was evidence of his presence as they daily found Mich Ultra caps and bottles, and black liquor store bags. And there were videos of this guy, walking around in no particular hurry, looking up, in one instance, straight at the camera, and then back again he was the next night. We had originally thought the guy's intent was to rob us or someone, but my window had been open and he hadn't come in. And there was nothing stealthy about his actions. My neighbors began calling the police when the videos would come in at 12:30 am. The police either didn't show up, or would come too late, despite there being a predictable time the guy would show up. Once when the police didn't show up and the roommates called back, they were told that the dispatcher answering the 911 number never conveyed the message. These poor girls were sleepless and getting frustrated. Eventually they reached out to our state rep, Kevin Honan. That night the police finally came at the correct time and arrested this guy who had been lurking around, it being clear at this point that he was more of a stalker than a thief.  The next day the ladies  both went in and filed restraining orders. 

Guy who was stalking my neighbors. Wonder if HR at Lendbuzz knows

The whole time this was going on, it had been my intention to stay up until his 12:30 arrival time to try and talk to him, to encourage him to get help and inform him we were calling the police. It just wasn't making sense to me, and it seemed a good idea to at least get a look at him. Alas, I always fell asleep too early. But the day he was arrested, I decided to take a walk in the afternoon to his home address at 11 Embassy Road, Apartment 3. Sure enough, there he was, released on bail, standing in the parking lot looking somewhat sleep deprived in grubby Celtics long shorts, a grey UnderArmour shirt and a two day growth. He had a bud in his ear and was talking, looking slightly away from me, allowing me to take it all in as I walked past. One of the advantages of us old folks is that we're less noticeable, so that while I know he looked at me, he didn't really see me. I walked on for a while, deciding what I wanted to do, having a mixture of emotions that included anger for making these women's lives so miserable along with compassion for some guy who was likely mentally not all there and had unrequited love for someone. I turned around and intended to just head back, unnoticed again when I found words coming out of my mouth. "Why did you do that?" I asked plaintively, because I did really want to know. He ripped is earbud out and yelled at me saying he had no idea what I was talking about. I walked home, looking behind me every 25 feet or so.

Andrew the Stalker. He always wore the same thing at night, different than what I saw him wearing when I spoke to him

So, arrested, restraining orders, police finally paying attention and showing up, the girls were still anxious.  That night, more videos, but a different guy wearing socks and flip flops, holding himself, luring around a window where two other girls live.  I'm not sure of the timing, but he got into the apartment of these other girls and hid in the closet, where one of them, 5'3" found him and beat him until he ran away.  Next night, back again, and my neighbor's boyfriend chased him a way with pepper spray.  How could there be another guy??  There are people in the neighborhood who recognize this second guy, and by the looks of his flip flops with socks, he also exhibits a lack of mental balance. We're thinking there's some kind of half way house around here.  

Quiet for a few days and then yesterday, I was on my way to meet my dear friend Hetty for lunch, when I saw a woman who is not the kind of woman one sees around here. I had been thinking about how to rent out my furnished apartment for the winter (if you know anyone who might be interested in it, 1 BR appx 9/1-5/31, I'd LOVE to hear from you) and thought she might be a realtor, so asked. She said she was from Channel 7 news and that they were doing a story about a Peeping Tom and when she found out I lived in the affected building, asked if I'd like to be interviewed, I declined.  That night, after a raucous evening playing padel, I arrived home to multiple trucks, vans, TV cameras etc. One was outside my bedroom window, which I always keep open, spewing fumes in. I not so politely asked them to go and bother someone else and mentioned that there might be a reason that #47 made up the expression "Fake News". I guess it was a slow news day.

Stalker #2

Fake News camera and car

The grace and bravery these two women exhibited throughout this ordeal that is hopefully done sits in contrast to these slothful, gas-guzzling, trashy news gathering companies who will find absolutely any misfortune to raise the population's anxiety, manipulating the misfortunate of individuals for their own clickbait. Just don't even get me started. A fishbowl of a different variety, this one fetid.

Sailboats moored near the Trefethen-Evergreen Improvement Association, Peaks Island

Having likely waxed on about other places that have become a part of me; Duxbury, the Isle of Wight, Newport,  Peaks Island has been neglected. 

Philip's, Nat's and my introduction was Labor Day weekend of 2002 when baby Nat had just realized she had the ability to take off her own hat, drunk as she was with the power to rip it off and throw it on the ground repeatedly. Portland was all new to us and we weren't sure where the ferry was, at a time when directions were printed out from Mapquest.  

A perfect place to be with babies, we new parents didn't feel we were missing anything because there was nothing really to do on Peaks Island. The quiet charm of rusty old cars with no license plates, pancake breakfasts and used things put out on the curb for the taking was the perfect antidote for our overwhelming lives. 

On our first four mile walk around the island, we came upon the Eight Maine Regiment Memorial, a large, functional Victorian with a wraparound porch, sitting on rocks that look out over islands and the Atlantic. We were with one of those people who forgets about everything else, becoming fascinated with whatever's in front of him, and he couldn't pass up going into this funny place to ask enough questions to make a chatty Mainer run for the hills. While the rest of us were bleary and wanted naps, he created a mental dossier shared over steel cut oat pancakes he made out of leftovers the next day (do not try this). By the time we left on Sunday, we'd booked a stay at the Eighth for the following Labor Day. 

The Eighth was built by veterans of the Civil War who fought in the Eighth Maine Regiment, wanting a place to have reunions afterwards. As they died off, their descendants inherited it, and for many years the house was kept privately. At some point, it was opened to the likes of us, though never publicly. With three floors, the top is all clean and tidy bedrooms that likely haven't changed since the 1960's. The main floor has one huge room with a big fireplace, some civil war memorabilia, many rocking chairs, games, puzzles, a ping pong table and a reading room. In the basement is the "kitchen", which in one area consists of a stove and much cooking equipment, in another,  for each family: a table, cabinet and wrought iron double burner from the 1920s that I was too scared to light.  There's a separate section dug straight into the sandy dirt holding about 10 refrigerators, one for each family. Most visitors are families and extended families, stays are typically for a week or two. We only ever went for Labor Day weekend but did so every year until 2019.

It was not an easy place to visit at first. There were so many rules. No bare feet, no noise after 10, no food or drinks anywhere but the kitchen, children must be quiet, no running, all tables must be set at all times, beds must be made, etc.  But over time, we got the kids to log on and keeping to the rules became part of the tradition. There was a grouchy descendant in charge, with his dad, who was old enough to have found a dead German floating by the shore when he was fishing as a kid during WW2. Turns out the younger guy was caught embezzling, but that's another story for another time.  These days,  there's a very nice lady in charge who can talk up a storm long enough to make you want to bite off your own arm to escape. But she's lovely and was wearing a sweatshirt that had a picture of snowmen roasting marshmallows on a bonfire with the comment "Bad Idea".

Over the years, rituals developed, and while there aren't any distractions on the island, we were always entertained. The kids had their first independent bike rides there, going to the store to buy candy or ice cream,. Walking around the island was an opportunity to discuss the merits of owning a house on the Atlantic or harbor side. We'd catch up on life, taking turns walking with one person or another, sometimes all together. One afternoon, the dads would take the kids to gather sticks and branches for a bonfire on the rocks. Most likely I was sitting on the porch watching the tankers go by. After some years, we discovered that we were welcome to leave money in the honor box at the  Trefethan-Evergreen Improvement Association tennis courts, providing us with a hit on some of the prettiest courts, with a backdrop of Maine islands, glass-like water and sailboats. 

New counter Dusty made for me. Was supposed to take 3-4 days, took 13,  6 rolls of toilet paper and almost 2 cases of Spindrifts

It turns out Dusty is an apt name, I discovered, when trying to piece my place back together by doing a bit of cleaning, which turns out to have been ill-advised, perhaps because I never developed the proper muscles. But the cleaners weren't coming for a couple of weeks so I was up against the wall. There was a moments deliberation about acquiring a mop, but my knowledge I'd never mop again and loathing of extra things motivated me to instead tie an old hand towel around the broom. It was a sloppy job, but then I was thinking only of the cleaners disappointment should they show up and find there was nothing for them to do.  Finishing up this morning, I tweaked my back in a way that hasn't happened in years, so had to cancel much of the day and slow down.

Knowing that during a spasm, walking is more comfortable than standing or sitting, I took off for the BC Reservoir in a more relaxed state of mind than usual, knowing there was nothing waiting for me after. It turns out that it was exactly the state I've been craving, and my mind had the luxury of wandering off vigorously and in many directions.  So today's post is a welcome into my head, mixed and varied.

No tennis? Punt!

When we were changing sides on the court the other day, a friend told us about a graduation she went to at Emerson in 2024. The speaker, the dean, Kim McLarin, was addressing our tendency to be self-righteous at times, suggesting we adopt the phrase and outlook:  "I don't know; I'm not certain; I could be wrong".  World Peace could be ours. 

What are the chances, of, when watching only an hour of Wimbledon, I see an English guy I knew as a kid sitting in the audience? How funny. Siniakova was playing mixed with a Dutch guy, I wondered if they were together, they were so cutely flirty with each other. But also very good, beating the sixth seeds.

Jenn and I are trying to turn Mary into an influencer,  which she is interested in becoming for the sole purpose of getting a free case of Cavit, her favorite white wine. There's enough content in Mary to keep this going for more years than we'll be on this earth. The challenge is that while she's comfortable complaining bitterly about the lack of results so far, getting her involved has been a bit of a challenge. When we tried to schedule a time, she at first said she'd be there, but then texted that she's already on Only Fans and Feet Finder, and was busy watching Sabalenka. Will someone please explain to her? ​

Hostas

Not a lover of hostas, in my current living situation, they are the answer to the low maintenance shade requirements outside my apartment. They make me think about the importance of context, because sculpturally, they are beautiful, we just don't see them alone too often. 

I entertain myself every once in a while by looking at the AI photos some website reproduced for me to use for a proposal that required a certain style I wasn't capable of creating on my own.