Posted tagged ‘lovely morning’

“In every outthrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand there is the story of the earth.”

July 3, 2016

The morning is just perfect, sunny and cool. This room is even a bit chilly. I woke up at six, an abominable hour. Hoping to fall back to sleep, I stayed in bed until 6:30 when I decided to get up and start my day.

At 5: 30 what I thought was moaning woke me up. I looked for Gracie at the foot of the bed, but she wasn’t there. I panicked, figured she fell and went to look under the bed. That’s when I noticed her. She was staring at me from the top of the bed near my other pillow. She would have been sleeping right beside my head. What I took as moaning was probably her deep breathing and maybe a bit of a snore. I swear I saw pity in her eyes.

The Cape is filled this weekend. On Friday the back-up was three or four miles to get over the Sagamore Bridge. With July 4th a Monday, the long weekend has enticed people to travel. Some have gone north to New Hampshire and beyond while others have come to the Cape, a perfect weekend destination. The lure of beaches and seafood is not easy to ignore. Before I lived here, I never came down the cape. We stayed closer to home. When I was really young, it was Revere Beach with aunts and uncles and cousins. That was when there were still rides and lots of places for fried dough, burgers, pizza slices and Italian ice. When I got older, we’d go to the beach in Gloucester, the cold water beaches. My father didn’t care and he went swimming anyway. My mother always stayed on the blanket. If she went in the water, it was along the shore and only her feet got wet. I found out later my mother had never learned to swim. I found that amazing considering how much time we’d spent at the beaches each summer. Both my mother and dad grew up in the city, but my dad was a great swimmer. I loved to watch him body surf in the waves. He taught us to swim. I wondered how he learned and my mother didn’t. Come to find out my dad went to summer camps where he learned to swim.

I don’t go to the beaches. I did when I was younger, but now I’m not so keen on crowds, sand and itchy skin from the salt. I think the best time for the beaches is the fall and the winter. Each season looks different but no less beautiful. The winter beach looks cold and even desolate. The wind blows so hard it is sometimes difficult to walk. I think that’s my favorite time for beaches.

“Cultures grow on the vine of tradition.”

March 29, 2016

It is a lovely morning, totally unlike yesterday with the monsoons. The sun is shining so brightly you have to squint from the glare. The blue sky looks unreal, as if it were painted in broad strokes. A remnant of last night’s heavy winds still blows bending and swaying the pine trees in the backyard.

I know spring is here as I can hear a blower being used to clean the yard next door. The season of machines has begun.

I have nothing I need to do today. The laundry has made it to this floor from upstairs and, according to my usual pattern, tomorrow the laundry will get downstairs to the washing machine. Once washed, it will sit in the dryer awhile.

Easter was wonderful. We sat on the porch where all you can see from the windows is the ocean. I wore a flowered dress and my Easter fascinator which is a small white hat with flowers and colorful feathers standing tall from the back. It raised quite a stir. As I was standing waiting for my table, I had to laugh when people noticed my fascinator as I could see their eyes moving right up to my hat. After we sat down, I saw a table across the room pointing at me. I waved. They waved back and mouthed that they loved my hat. I got a few thumbs up from them. People walking by stopped at our table to compliment my hat. Another table of women waved, smiled and pointed. My favorites were two young boys both of whom said they liked my hat, “Great hat,” was one of the comments. That hat turned into quite the conversation piece. I wore it the whole meal.

Dinner was delicious. I had an odd choice for me: carbonara. It had the usual pancetta and cheese as well as peas and crabmeat. It was rigatoni rather than the usual spaghetti. I had two drinks and for the life of me can’t remember what they were. They were strong. That much I remember. I had a coconut coffee after dinner. It was scrumptious. I think the rum helped.

When I got home, I took a wee bit of a nap, about an hour. That’s all I needed. I was totally refreshed and even managed to eat a little bit of the chocolate from the Easter Bunny.

We have best of all Easters filled as it is with good friends, lots of laughter and wonderful traditions, some old and some very new.

“A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counsellor, a multitude of counsellors.”

September 27, 2015

The morning is warm, but the house is still nighttime cold. The sun was so pleasant I sat outside for a while then with great resolve went inside to brave the chill of the house. The animals were huddled beside me when I woke up. If this had been winter, the furnace would have gone on triggered by the low temperature.

I’ve decided I am stuck in a rut, not an unpleasant rut but a rut nonetheless. This last week I stayed home most of the time by cramming all four of my errands into a single day. The reason for this inactivity is a new book. It was slow reading at first, but not anymore so I read and keep reading. Every now and then I take a nap then I read again. Last night I was in bed well before midnight but didn’t turn the light off until 1:30. I kept telling myself I’ll finish this chapter then go to sleep. That went on for several chapters. Today I’ll finish my book when maybe I can rejoin the world. (In case you’re wondering: The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache novel.)

Losing myself in a book is one of my favorite ways to spend time. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. I devour books sometimes reading them in one sitting, one very long sitting well into the night and into the next morning. I used to hide my books when I was in school. I’d pretend to be reading the textbook but instead was caught up in a mystery or a suspense novel smaller than the textbook so easily hidden between the pages. In biology class we read the text a lot. Among many I finished The House of the Seven Gables during that class. I never once got caught. I’m thinking I looked intensely interested in my text.

I remember my mother reading Treasure Island to my brother and me. That novel whetted my appetite for more. I think I’ve read most of Stevenson’s books, but Treasure Island will always be my favorite. I am so grateful my mother gave us a love of reading. What a wonderful gift!

“Sounds are three-dimensional, just like images. They come at you from every direction.”

June 23, 2015

Mother Nature is being deceptive. The morning is lovely with sun glinting through the leafy boughs of the trees I can see right outside my window. Patches of blue sky spread across the sky. The breeze is just right. Mother Nature, though, is toying with us. This afternoon and evening we’ll have thunder storms. The night will be chilly and damp.

Even as a kid I was never afraid of thunder or lightning. The louder and more dramatic the storm, the more I liked it. I remember how the house shook when thunder boomed right overhead. The jagged bolts of lightning brightened the sky. I remember clapping for the best in show.

My childhood was filled with sounds, and I have a few favorites. Roller-skates created wonderfully different sounds depending on the surfaces where I roller skated. In the street my wheels rolling on the sand made a grating sound, a harsh sound, and small pebbles were cause for a less than smooth ride. Tar was the best surface on which to skate. The sound was gentle, almost a humming, and the ride was smooth. The sidewalk had small inclines leading to the gutter and the street. We used to roll down those inclines which gave us the momentum to keep going without any effort, but it was tar to street which took a bit of skill. The peepers at the swamp at night made the best sounds. I used to imagine aliens were landing because that was what the song of the peepers sounded like to me. It was a strange whistling, like the sound a ship might make moving swiftly through the air. Grasshoppers sang in the field below my house, and when we walked through the field, the sound got louder almost as if in alarm. The grasshoppers would jump in front of us sometimes three or four at a time. Theirs was a pretty song.

I remember the sounds of kids playing in the backyards all over the neighborhood. I remember the sound of my mother’s voice when she yelled out the back door. Sometimes it was a warning to stay away from the lines of drying laundry while other times it was an invitation to come inside for dinner. In my neighborhood fathers never yelled out the back door. That was always the job for mothers.

“Nature bestows her own, richest gifts And, with lavish hands, she works in shifts…”

June 8, 2015

This morning is one of those the house is colder than outside mornings. I went to my neighbors for our usual Monday language lesson wearing a sweatshirt. The day is so warm the sweatshirt came off and we sat outside in the sun. A wonderfully cooling breeze is blowing. It’s a pretty day.

I am still amazed by Cape Cod. In the warm days of late spring, the wild roses in whites and reds are everywhere. They grow on the edges of fields and woods and in front of old captains’ houses. I have one which has grown up the trunk of a tall tree. My wild rose bushes have no shape but grow willy nilly, wild and tall.

The cape has several old seafarers’ houses each marked with a plaque in front with a clipper ship and a date on it. Those captains’ houses are mostly half capes with sloping roofs. Their shingles are gray and weathered by years of wind and salt.

The early morning air sometimes smells of the ocean even this far away. On those mornings, I linger on the deck. When I cross the bridge over the river on a morning errand, I sometimes see fog spread across the water and quahoggers outlined in the mist.

The warmth of June has brought gardens filled with color. Short white picket fences stand behind them like sentinels. Some houses have carefully tended lawns while there are others with shards of shells in front mimicking a lawn. Pine needles spread across the front yards are lawn stand-ins especially at seasonal rentals. It seems we always have a breeze, mostly from the south. The nights are beautiful, bright and starlit. They perfectly complement the loveliness of the days. I always think how lucky I am to live here.

I remember spring when I was a kid and shedding my winter coat and riding on my bike to school, but it is always summer I remember the best in my hometown. The heat seemed to rise from the roads and the sidewalks. It rose in waves, and I swear I could see it though now I expect I saw a mirage. Summer days were never quiet. The insects made the most noise. Kids were always outside. The degree of heat dictated the amount of activity. Really hot days meant sitting under a tree in the only shade around. Cooler days meant bikes and roller skates and games of tag. My mother always kept a cold drink in her aluminum pitcher in the fridge. Dinner was light on those hot nights. We even could keep playing after dinner. Street lights were no longer alerts to go home. Late June and the coming of summer were celebrations when I was a kid.

“A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.”

June 24, 2013

My computer and I are sitting on the deck where a fair breeze is blowing away the heat and humidity. Gracie is lying in the shade, and Sheila is reading the paper and catching me up on the events of the world. Kay Starr is belting out Fool, Fool, Fool on iTunes and my neighbor’s house is being reshingled. I can hear the tap, tap of the nail gun, twice on each shingle. Meanwhile, the AC is on and my house will soon be cool. The morning is lovely right now, but I can already feel the heat the weatherman promised will be with us for three or four days. The deck looks lovely in the morning light. The potted flowers are in bloom, and their different colors brighten the day. The birds are singing noisily and are busy at the feeders, in and out, in and out.

A chickadee couple is quite the sensation. They fly together from branch to branch and perch together. They just flew so close to Sheila and me we could have touched each of them. Their tiny wings were fluttering by my ear, and Sheila said one brushed her cheek the other day. We figure a nest is near by so we’re keeping an eye out hoping to see it.

I’ve moved into the house. The sun hit me, and there are few places to hide. The house feels amazing, cool and inviting. I’m even going to have some toast. Lately I just haven’t felt like eating but today seemed a toast day, a rye toast day.

Okay, I’ve sat up far too long. I get stiff when I either sit or lie down too long, and I’ve hit that point and am ready to switch positions, to lie down. I’m thinking a nap.

Every day gets better!!

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