Last week I signed a contract with She Writes Press. Publishing my book about Rachel Field will be a lengthy process; target release is spring 2021. Even so, it is a huge event for me! This island and the rambling wood frame house on the northern shore – once Rachel’s and now mine – supplied the inspiration for this project, eleven years long and counting. Today the surf is pounding, wind roaring, a gusty proclamation of seasonal shift. I’m writing by myself in a little log cabin in the woods, The Dory. It’s chilly in here. My knuckles are stiffening. These buildings have no heat source except fireplaces. High-speed internet, however, is the latest island update. So far we have kept the Field House WiFi free, but The Dory is online. For now, I’m content to have to trudge a hundred yards away to connect to the rest of the world, but we may succumb before long. It would be nice to have company and warmth while working. Even as I write, tendrils of tantalizing woodsmoke exercise their allure. Sam must have lit a fire. Time to head home. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 45: 187 words, TOTAL = 6741; 53,259 remaining
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Kate is always happy when Sam returns for a visit. It seems clear that the feeling is mutual. It’s been the better part of a year since these two connected. Sam’s Mom and Dad are happy too, but there’s something special about a dog and her boy. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 44: 47 words, TOTAL = 6554; 53,446 remaining I flushed a bittern in the meadow by the pond this morning. It is a lovely, large bird in the heron family with a long, sharp beak and bright yellow legs. First there were ruffles of moving air, then a close-up view of those gangly legs gathering up against the bird’s body as it rose from the grass. Close encounters with wild creatures fill me with awe, a lovely stirring in the belly. This time it was also mixed with concern. The last time we had a bittern guest at the pond, I found its mangled body at the back of the field, victim of a hungry fox, we supposed. The other thing I found out back today was animal dung up on a stone bench. A fox was probably enjoying the elevated view. Those sleek, sly canines are also a favorite sighting. However, the juxtaposition of fox and bird evoked pangs of bittern regret. Nature is not for the faint of heart. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 43: 163 words, TOTAL = 6507; 53,493 remaining I attended my first “paint and sip” event in Bangor last night. I was dubious about the whole thing. Although I’ve always been captivated by others with talent, I have none of my own. I am also rash, impatient, and messy. My hands got covered in paint. I had a few splatter accidents, flinging paint with too much water around the half finished canvas. I accidentally dunked my painty brush into my beer. I still drank it, though, until I knocked it over with my easel as I carried it to the paint drying station. I am embarrassing, but I’m used to it. Notwithstanding all the kerfuffles, it was more fun than I thought. I’m actually rather taken by my own (highly instructed) work. Maybe it’s one of those things I’ll take up in my dotage, like Grandma Moses. There is plenty of room for growth. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 42: 146 words, TOTAL = 6344; 53,656 remaining My mother was renowned for her wordplay acumen. New York Times Crossword puzzles were a favorite. I picture her standing up, leaning over the kitchen counter, or sitting on the floor of the sunroom in front of a space heater, pencil in hand, dachshund beside her. When she got stuck she’d open a 4-inch thick dictionary or a World Book encyclopedia or Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. Yesterday I was ready for bed after a busy weekend away. But I thought I’d just take a quick look at the Sunday Times, which the Bangor paper reprints a week later. I stood at the kitchen counter and finished in about half an hour. Well, I missed two letters. Crossword puzzles are my favorite place to get lost. For a short time, the world’s problems are reduced to finding the right letters to write into the little boxes. Now my children are puzzlers too, and they flatter me with their marveling at my wordplay acumen. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 41: 164 words, TOTAL = 6198; 53,802 remaining I recently finished Celeste Ng’s book, Everything I Never Told You. My book group discusses it tomorrow – a brilliant, incisive, heartbreaking, and terribly, terribly real story. A friend of mine said it’s about missed opportunities. It’s also about forgiveness, suppressed hopes, and love. The story catches hold on page one and never lets up. As the title suggests, the book’s core is an exploration of things not shared with loved ones. In my experience, family dysfunctions and tragedies grow more from things unsaid than from things said, but both – the said and the unsaid – can lead to trouble. How do you know when to speak and when to keep quiet? I err on the overshare side, not just too personal, but redundant. Over the weekend Nellie stopped me in the middle of a pregnancy story; “Yeah, Ma… the time when….You’ve told us that a hundred times.” She felt bad when my face fell. Later, when I launched into another instructive story, she smiled and nodded attentively. I saw through her, though. It was not a hearing-this-for-the-first-time nod. She was being kind. “This is another one I already told you, isn’t it?” She smiled. “Yup.” That made me want to hug her. It’s okay if there are never-tell things, even between loved ones, but I hope they are rare. I far prefer frankness, even if it’s uncomfortable. Frankness, though difficult to hear, tends to be the more loving alternative, especially when it comes with a gentle delivery. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 40: 246 words, TOTAL = 6034; 53,966 remaining We’ve had an unexpected invasion. Suddenly there are yellow-jackets swarming our upstairs living space. I’ve experienced mass indoor appearances of ladybugs, but as the entertaining-but-accurate definitions above attest, yellow-jackets are decidedly un-ladylike. On the other hand, this crew is particularly logy, as if someone woke them mid-hibernation and they don’t quite know what to do. Mostly they just fizzle out and die on the carpet. Still, my heart rate increases every time I tiptoe, cringing, through the area. I flinch at the tap-tap-buzz against glass, imagine things landing in my hair. I’ve disposed of at least 30 yellow-jacket corpses. They’re everywhere. I found one in my jewelry box. We’ve had to dispatch the rest by hand, but I confess that I leave most of the killing to Jonathan. It’s one place where my feminism fails. There’s a tiny piece of regret. Clearly something went wrong with this innocent wasp community. And yet, when the home front is directly threatened, it’s harder to summon sympathy. Hmm. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 39: 165 words, TOTAL = 5788; 54,212 remaining My across-the-street neighbor and I have been sharing first grandchild anticipations. She gave me a baby book for my birthday – to start the grandparent library. One common topic of conversation we encounter is “what will you be called?” Hard to say! My mother was “Bimma.” My grandmothers were “Grandma,” pronounced “Gramma,” and “Momo.” Jonathan’s mom is “Nana,” and she’s still around, so I definitely won’t take that one. Gran? Gram? Granma? Mimi? Hard to say. Maybe our little girlie will come up with her own idea. I got the news this morning that my neighbor’s grandson just arrived. That means this is the only day of his life when no one can say, “Of course he knows that. He wasn’t born yesterday.” My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 38: 122 words, TOTAL =5623; 54,377 remaining Catching this morning’s frost on film was a photographic challenge. I wanted the sun to help highlight the shot, but it is such a fragile frost that disappears instantly with the faint warmth of a ray of sunlight. I found a good spot in this chilly little gully at the back of the big field. I kneeled down to get a tinge of sunshine and fall color in the background, and Kate, of course. I also got a soggy knee. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 37: 80 words, TOTAL = 5501; 54,499 remaining The other day at a rest stop, I was almost blasted out of my bathroom stall by a jet of water that exploded prematurely from the toilet bowl. Okay not really, but still. Someone has to explain to the auto-flush manufacturers that toileting is a multi-stage process. We shift, we lift, we twist. As it is, if you move a muscle midway, pwa-CHOOSHHHHHHHH! A highly undesirable geyser.
It’s not just me. I’ve seen tasseled loafers on the floor of the stall next to me. pwa-CHOOSHHHHHHH! Loafers don’t move. Still working on it. I've even encountered panicked toilets, stuck in a perpetual flushing loop, pumping torrents down the drain. These things are springing up everywhere – schools, arenas, office buildings – wreaking havoc. Has anyone said anything? Where is the suggestion box? Where is the national office of public flushing? Someone’s got to tell them to go back to the drawing board on this one. We should start a movement. And finish it, without getting wet. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 36: 163 words, TOTAL = 5421; 54,579 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
January 2024
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