30 August 2010

I live for days off. That’s another reason, one of many, why I must live in Europe one day: thirty-four hour weeks and the entire month of August off. My kind of work schedule. Alas, today was not a day off, and it seemed unusually long because the last two Mondays I’ve only worked half a day. I watered the onions and strawberries, pulled up the broccoli stumps, harvested and cleaned all of the diakon, and packed peaches.

I collected apples—the ones that have fallen—for the first time today, too. The season, it appears, will be early and small. There aren’t as many apples on the trees as there have been in past years. I have to say, I'm not at all opposed to an early, small season, though that is perhaps selfish of me.

As I crawled under the trees today picking up the dropped apples while the sun reached its zenith overhead, the crickets parting before me like a humming black sea, the hot air smelled like applesauce.

29 August 2010

In the few years that I’ve been away from home and gone to church on my own, I’ve always sat by myself, whether it be on a hard wooden pew or a folding chair. There might be people around me—the elderly people whom I sat in the midst of at the church I went to in Jackson always felt sorry for me and offered me peppermints during the sermon—but I was always alone. A visitor. A stranger.

Today in church, I sat on the narrow pew in the middle of three older women who have taken it upon themselves to welcome me here, to make me feel a part of something, to ensure that I’m not lonely. And I must say, that makes all the difference.

28 August 2010

I spent the day today with three of my new friends—Vivienne (68), Sally (68), and Margaret (85)—at the American Folk Festival in Bangor. The festival was a lot of fun with eclectic music, handmade crafts, and a huge selection of food. I already feel as if the four of us have been friends for some time, and I now have a standing invitation to their get-togethers. This coming week it’s potluck and a game night…

27 August 2010

The moon was so bright that it kept waking me up periodically throughout the night. When I first went to bed, from my front door I could see the moon where it crested over the pines and, beyond my sight, glistened over the black, high sea. At about one o’clock, it poured through the skylight in my living room/dining room/kitchen and cast its long, pooling glow across the floor, hesitating in the doorway of my bedroom. And then at four this morning, it crept through my window, nudging me over to make room, and curled up in bed beside me like a serene, cool silver cat draped across my pillow.

That’s the first time I’ve so strongly perceived the moon’s progression across the dark night sky.

26 August 2010

My gas stove and I have an uneasy alliance. While he grumbles and sputters about how much I make him work, I eye him warily, expecting the next metallic cough to engulf me in a rolling plume of blue flame. We’ve come to an agreement, though: If I won’t turn him up over 350 degrees, he won’t set off my fire/gas alarm. I think we’re coming to warily respect each other.

I packed peaches all day today and will be doing the same tomorrow instead of going to the farmers’ market. I have to say, I’m a bit disappointed that I’m not going to the market tomorrow, because I’ve been working myself up all week and have finally garnered the courage to start up a conversation with the French boy. Oh well. Hopefully I’ll be able to maintain a reservoir of such gumption and unreservedness for next week.

More and more at the farmers’ markets lately, peoples’ faces are becoming familiar to me. Today in Brooklin, I was able to call Judy, Courtney, Jay, two Margarets, Nancy, and Bobby by name. And people are starting to recognize and know me as well. It’s an incredible feeling. As if I’m starting to belong.

25 August 2010

There are bugs in my bread. Not the banana and apple zucchini bread I baked the other day, but the bread I bought at the store to eat for breakfast with almond butter. There’s nothing to do but throw it out, I suppose. The weather is turning cooler, though, leisurely pivoting towards the crispness of autumn—I can tell by the briskness of the weather in the mornings and evenings—so I’ll start having a bowl of cream of wheat for breakfast.

I gave myself one day—yesterday—to be miserable, but no more. These few months will be what I make them. Hermione has helped already. She brightens my apartment and gives me something to nurture. I’ve also started playing music on my computer instead of just sitting in the stark silence. And I’ve been reading a book I’ve never read before instead of just rereading all the books I brought with me. The book—The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje—is utterly gripping, and I’ve spent my spare moments soaking in the poetic prose; I even took it with me today to the farmers’ market to read since the torrential downpour made customers few.

I have a guilty confession to make. Every now and then when I’m sorting the fruit to pack, I find it: the perfect peach. A blushing spherical duet of burgundy and gold that rests heavily in my palm—the quintessence with which, I imagine, the trees in the Garden of Eden were laden. It would easily sell the over-priced quart of peaches if it were gently balanced and displayed on top of the carton. But I don’t pack it, as I should. Instead, I eat it, savor the burst of sweet sunshine, suck away the sticky juice that bleeds in rivulets over my fingers, consume fuzzed flesh and fruit until I reach the pit. Then I step outside, glance around to make certain no one has discovered my appropriation, toss the small, corrugated heart into the woods, and return to my careful inspection and methodical packing. This has become my surreptitious tradition.

24 August 2010

I sort of have hot water, though only in my shower. The water stays hot for about a minute and then goes cold, which is the same thing it was doing in the beginning and the reason they shut off the hot water in the first place. It’s better than nothing at all, but I have to admit that as soon as I felt the luxuriously warm water begin to cool, I almost broke down and cried.

Which is what I’ve felt like doing several times in the last twenty-four hours. It’s not the work. I’ve acclimated to the long, laborious hours and actually enjoyed the four hours I spent fertilizing eighty saplings today (as well as watering the onions and strawberries and packing peaches for the farmers’ market tomorrow). I think it’s mainly the isolation I feel here that has suddenly and viciously made me homesick. I’ve realized in these past two weeks just how essential community is to one’s mental and emotional wellbeing. While I may prefer the quiet corner in a room, I’d like to not be the only occupant of said room. That corner in a silent, empty room is bitterly lonely. I thought that this would be the perfect chance to finish the novel I’ve been attempting to write since April, but the constant, absolute silence seems to deafen my imagination. I thought my books would be a comfort, and they are, but they would be so much more so if there were someone here with me to whom I could say, “Hey, listen to this…”

In an attempt at self-preservation, I bought an orchid today. The Phalaenopsis orchid is my favorite flower: the deceptively fragile appearance, the vulnerability of its exposed roots. I have two at home—Genevieve and Charlie Brown (a precocious almost-four-year-old named the latter)—but was unable to bring them with me. I realize that it might sound a little batty that I purchased a flower to talk to, but better a flower than a piece of furniture, aye? Now if I started addressing my rocking chair, that would be cause for concern. As it is, I think Hermione will make a splendid companion.

As far as human companions go, I met up with Sally—one of the older ladies I met at church—tonight at the ice cream social. The ice cream social wasn’t quite what I’d envisioned, but it was enjoyable and did give me a chance just to be in the presence of others. I have to say, I never thought I would relish that.

isn't Hermione gorgeous?