 It’s cold enough to have prompted the closing of storm windows this evening. From May through September, our windows generally remain open. I miss the sounds of the world when the windows close – chirps and chick-a-dee-dee-dees, caws and coos, spring peepers and fall crickets, a morning bark, quiet human voices in conversation, the crescendo and decrescendo of passing cars, the shriek and hiss of school bus brakes at 7:30am, the crunching roll of car tires on a driveway, the distant electronic belltones of the new Hampden Academy, over a mile away.
I thought Hampden Academy’s electronic school tones reproduced the classic first four notes of Big Ben, the grandfather clock chimes (G#-E-F#-B). After years of hearing it float my way on the breeze, I finally realized that my brain was filling in a first note that is not there. They only play notes two through four. Sometimes we hear things that aren’t there. I suppose that can be a comfort. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 34: 160 words, TOTAL = 5117; 54,883 remaining
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 I attended my husband’s 30th medical school reunion this weekend in New Hampshire. It meant a visit to my old stomping grounds, fall foliage, and a few of Jonathan’s fellow classmates I was keen to see. Plus, I am blessed to have a spouse who likes me to tag along. I love weekending away with J. So even though it wasn’t my reunion, I went along. Lots of nice people with vaguely familiar faces cast me helpless, do-I-know-you looks, scanning my nametag, spinning through the e-files in their brains. Face it. At this age, most grad school reunions are rife with vaguely familiar faces. Everyone looks kind of like they could be someone you knew a hundred years ago. Some brave alums even molded their faces triumphantly into expressions of recognition. Yes! I remember you…was it epidemiology? Parasitology with Dr. Pfeffercorn? No, sorry, you actually don’t know me. We’re good. In fairness, they might have recognized me as someone’s pregnant wife from 32 years ago, but I didn’t feel like embarking on that trail. The nice part about being in awkward social situations when you’re 59 is that you don’t mind wandering off to sit on a bench and grade papers on your computer. I suppose I could have tried to be more social, but then I would have missed the traveling reptile show, where a giant reticulated python slithered menacingly around a man’s neck. And what about the free gelato bar? If you keep an open mind, someone else’s reunion might be better than you think. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 33: 257 words, TOTAL = 4957; 55,043 remaining A Canadian friend of ours said that watching American politics is like passing a gruesome traffic accident. “How is that?” “You feel like you should avert your eyes; it has nothing to do with you, but the astonishing scale of wreckage makes it impossible to look away.” My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 32: 47 words, TOTAL = 4700; 55,300 remaining  (I know - it's not a maple leaf, but it was the best I could do on the fly.)
 Jason Zuffranieri lost last night! After 18 wins and over half a million dollars, he had become the third highest earner in the game’s history. But now, he too is history.
I confess, I’m a Jeopardy geek. It always makes people laugh, but I have feeling there are a lot of us out there. My parents were among the legions of Jeopardy fans. I still think of them when I turn the show on, since they tuned in almost every night. Alex Trebek has been hosting the show since 1984. He is one of those multi-generational family threads, since now I have kids who are fans. I fear we may be witnessing Trebek’s final season, given his highly publicized cancer news. A giant of old-world celebrity TV, now a threatened species. Strange, but seeing him go will be a personal loss - another severing of ties to my past. ♫ Bum-ba-dum-dum-dum. Dum. Dum. ♫ My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 31: 154 words, TOTAL = 4653; 55,347 remaining  What is it about the long shadows of fall?
There is melancholy, but also conviction, a bracing; an inner stirring to gather myself, furl wings, prepare for retreat; a leaving behind of something…one more chapter, one more year, one more tick of life’s clock. Also mingled with that angled, evening glow, beauty vibrates to the ends of my limbs, a peaceful settling into nature’s rest. Long shadows are a harbinger of waiting, a long, patient pause before the next unfurling. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 30: 80 words, TOTAL = 4499; 51,082 remaining  I am lucky to have my little local library near at hand. Some days I just can’t seem to keep my butt in the chair at my home workspace. It’s harder to futz around in a public venue.
On the other hand, this particular venue is so homey that it hardly feels public – a historic-mansion-turned-town-gathering-place. And of course, here I am blogging, instead of working on my Bangor Daily News story, deadline next week. My powers of procrastination are mighty. Later on there’s a tea downstairs. Ardeana Hamlin, author of Pink Chimneys and local resident, will be presiding. Since I just finished her book this morning, I’ll probably wander down and take part. Maybe I’ll write the story tomorrow… Little local libraries are one of Maine’s great treasures. Do you have any local library stories of your own? Maybe that can be the theme of my next BDN assignment. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 29: 149 words, TOTAL = 4419; 55,581 remaining  Part of aging is my body’s reduced tolerance for crappy (and yummy) food. “Eat kale every day!” Gah! Well, I’ll cook up greens once in a while, or throw them into salads or soups or egg dishes, but my favorite vehicle for greens is the smoothie. They aren’t pretty, but I’ve achieved a taste like something that shouldn’t be healthy, but is.
Smoothie for 2:
Very adaptable to creativity. Enjoy! My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 28: 143 words, TOTAL = 4270; 55,730 remaining When I arrived to swim laps today at our little local pool, a woman came running out of the locker room. Her friend had slipped off a bench onto the wet floor and could not get up. I ran in with the pool director to help, but she was in a tight space, cramped between lockers and bolted benches. She was a large woman, age 74, huge surgical scars on both knees. She hadn’t fallen hard and was unhurt, but she has a bad hip and arthritic shoulders, and couldn’t maneuver. We couldn’t help without hurting her, so the director called 911. Such a simple thing, getting up off the floor, until it is an impossible thing. The woman accepted the whole fiasco, the young uniformed men, the hoisting, with embarrassed grace. Fall begins today. The world reminds us of the inevitability of change, ebbing, shriveling. What lies ahead for any of us? We can do our best to stave off time’s erosions, but perhaps the best preparation is to cultivate grace and a sense of humor. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 27: 177 words, TOTAL = 4127; 55,873 remaining   The empty nest is more than one thing. There ought to be identified stages along the empty nest trail: the youngest kid has left for college stage; the everyone-has-their-own-place stage; the established life trajectories or life partners stage. Slowly, their childhood home, your home, retreats in significance, though it may always hold their hearts. And there are empty nest moments, like when you spend the night in your child’s home, but they are away.
I have grown to cherish solitude. The solitude of waking up in your daughter’s empty house is unique, and precious in its own way. I feel like a benevolent ghost, wandering her spaces. There is the dog paraphernalia, the art and photos hanging on the walls – some hers, some her fiancés, the rumpled sheets of her room, signs of a bustling departure, signs of a dynamic life. Her familiar stuffed animals at the bedside make me smile. Last night, I heard her upstairs landlord arrive home. An evening arrival, the wild tip-tapping of dog feet, and a sweet human voice cooing her laughing, loving greeting. I love to think about Tessa hearing that. This is where my daughter lives. It’s a gift, occupying Tessa’s space for time, undistracted. Here she is. Here is her dear life. To top it off, there was also Ben & Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie ice cream in the fridge. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 26: 154 words, TOTAL = 3950; 56,050 remaining  Robert McCloskey wrote an award-winning picture book called One Morning in Maine. Its real-life setting is Brooksville, Maine, where I spent the night last night with a friend. She took me to an end-of-season performance at the Bagaduce Theater, a thoroughly unexpected gem on an old farm in the middle of nowhere. The theater is housed in an 1850s barn, capacity around 50. A multi-layered, Maine-based story called Bird of Passage kept us in thrall for two hours.
I woke up early, tantalized by the brightness of the rising sun. After breakfast and a walk amidst spiny pine, granite ledge, and bristly puffs of lichen, it was only 9am. I packed up my backpack and two geriatric dogs (generously welcomed), and meandered home on this postcard-perfect, Maine September day. The scenery along Brooksville’s coastal roads is almost impossibly quaint – tiny white-framed post offices, spired churches, town halls with faded signs, stacked lobster traps, “clams, crabs, lobster,” table-sized front yard farm stands, reddening blueberry barrens…all part of one morning in Maine. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 25: 170 words, TOTAL = 3796; 56,204 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs. Archives
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