To MFA Or To Not MFA, That Is The Question

Whenever someone asks me how I weathered the isolation of the pandemic, I proudly announce, “I wrote a book.” I admit I didn’t accomplish that feat without support. A little over a month ago, I completed the Memoir Incubator program at a well-known writing center in Boston, and as a result of the experience, I completed a first draft. While I expected the rigor of the eleven-month program, my lack of formal preparation and real world writing experience put me at a deficit. Surrounded by authors, journalists, and Ivy League grads, my Boston College education and advanced degrees in Education gave me little credibility. It might have been in my head but I felt like a second class citizen. Whether or not my perception mirrored reality, I saw myself as inferior, unskilled, and remedial. In my exit interview,” my instructor said, referring back to the beginning, almost a year earlier, “You were a little wet behind the ears.”

I won’t sugarcoat the situation. Every minute was a struggle. The thought of quitting nagged at me and required a lot of “put on your big girl panties” self-talk. I showed up every week, panicked, overwhelmed, working overtime to learn everything thrown at me, all the while writing new words and editing what I had already produced. I had applied and been accepted to this competitive program, and I spent months wondering how I got in and what made me think this was a good idea. 

Now on the other side of “the year that was,” I realize how much I gained from surviving the experience. I learned how important writing was to me, enough so that I was willing to bare my incompetence to this accomplished group. I latched on to the techniques and ideas shared by my instructor and guest authors, and employed the ideas to improve upon what I had written. I re-wrote–a lot. I learned how to read critically and offered constructive feedback in editorial letters. I have been able to apply what I learned in my college counseling business. My own essays are stronger and I’ve had a few pieces published. Still, I sense something is missing. I scooped up the crumbs of information as they were scattered before me but I needed the whole story, in one place. I craved something comprehensive and focused, with a bonus of credibility and credentials. 

When I float the idea of another graduate program, a Master of Fine Arts, to family and friends,  the reactions are mixed. My husband, Tim, anticipates retiring in about a year and a half. He fears going into debt for another degree, especially at this point in life. I have sheltered him from the actual tuition costs of the MFA program until I figure out a combination of IRA withdrawals, loans, and cash. Of all the stumbling blocks, this is the biggest. I am not young and spending this money now is an enormous gamble. 

My son didn’t mince words. A writer himself, he said, “What the hell do you want to do that for?” It was an honest, impulsive response but as we discussed the possibility, he said, “I get it, Mum. The days of the Bukowski types are over. There are few who make it on sheer talent.” We discussed the reality of the writing community. Our shared experiences in stand-up comedy came to mind. Comedians laugh loud and affirmingly for their fellow comedians in a pretentious way. Similarly, writers cheer each other on and puff each other up. While connections within the discipline help, in the end, talent combined with a curriculum vitae full of residencies, publications, and advanced degrees in writing affirm potential and help pave the way to success. I only wish that someone would recognize my Bukowski-like way with words without needing all the superfluous trappings to back up my raw talent (my apologies to Charles…).

Another writing friend initially reacted similarly, and like my son, shifted her thinking. After questioning the prudence of an MFA at this point in my life, she reaffirmed my son’s observations. It’s a tough field. I started to think, I really do need to do this. The idea intrigued and terrified me. 

When I applied to the no-residency, fully online program at a school in western Massachusetts, I submitted a very overworked excerpt of my manuscript, a personal statement, and my transcripts from my undergrad and two prior grad programs. In a few weeks, I received a call to schedule an interview via Zoom. Having conducted enough interviews in my career as a manager, I knew the meeting went well. A week later, I received a tentative acceptance pending forthcoming recommendations. 

As the university awaits my decision, I examine my conscience–what do I really want for my future? I read an article about a seventy-year-old man who became a veterinarian so that he could help the dogs he rescues. I googled to find inspiration from other older students. I found a ninety-year-old man who earned a doctorate in Economics, and a one-hundred-four-year-old man who swears you’re never too old to learn. 

I also searched for drawbacks. Another negative lies in the age discrepancy between “the old student” and the rest of them. I won’t delude myself into believing my “wisdom” will be welcome. I’m a dinosaur and of another generation. Will my age be a distraction? I am most comfortable in my writing groups with my peers who look beyond age and look to craft and ideas. Will my obsession with being the oldest distract me, as well? Will I discover a fountain of youth while immersed in a youthful environment?

An MFA is a huge commitment of time, money, and effort. I question whether I need to invest any of those things to get to my goal. And, truthfully, what is my goal? I grind out words and revise. Then, I will write more. Will these exercises ever end up as a polished book–refined by an editor, represented by an agent, and published by a small press? Is that what I even want?

In the next few weeks, I foresee myself asking these questions over and over again. I acknowledge how far I have come with the proper instruction, guidance, and mentoring. I imagine my quest to improve will not end anytime soon. I will explore my options and make the right decision.

One thing will not change–I will keep on writing. 

House Almost Beautiful: My Muse And The Never Ending Project

In the past year, I have spent way too much time walking around my tiny house and noticing my less-than-perfect surroundings. Our home of over forty years has benefitted from a few updates and additions. As time passes, paint colors beg an update. Window treatments need an overhaul. Furniture could be rearranged. While I have lived with the current state of affairs for a while, my desire to change things up has roots in one of my many vices: a recent overdose of home decorating shows that has me jonesing for a redo.

My viewing preferences come in the form of one specific obsession–the Canadian designer, Sarah Richardson. Sarah is a big name and a bit of a brand up north. Her vintage shows–Sarah 101, Room Service, Design Inc–run daily on the Dabl channel. My sacred Sarah ritual causes me to stop whatever I’m doing and turn on the television promptly at 2 p.m. My dependence on Sarah grounds me in a quasi-schedule. It also causes me to take to the websites of Amazon, Wayfair, and Lowe’s to replicate her ideas, a habit that has become a costly hobby.

Even though some of the shows date back to the mid-2000’s, Sarah’s timeless style appeals to me. I watch in awe as she trolls through antique stores, pausing at some broken-down piece and imagining how she will breathe new life into the borderline junk. She always sees potential in someone else’s discards. Sarah repurposes old decrepit bureaus into bathroom vanities and refinishes chandeliers, well past their sell-by dates, into shiny, glittering fixtures. Like a magician, she transforms tiny, cramped spaces into seemingly spacious, usable rooms. Her innate sense of scale and texture translates into visual appeal that, in my humble and somewhat untrained opinion, is perfection.

I must confess the whole design obsession is not new for me. I refer to myself as untrained but, in a little known piece of Mami trivia, decades ago, I spent a year and a half in an Interior Design program at a local college. I studied Art History, Textiles, Color, and Drawing. I visited museums, admiring Caravaggios and Titians for their deep, rich tones and use of light. On field trips, I strolled through the collections at the Fashion Institute of Technology. I created mood boards–presentations juxtaposing swatches of fabric, paint chips, carpeting, wallpaper, and furniture ideas. I developed floor plans for imaginary clients. I never completed the degree but I learned enough to transform our own home, frequently. My long-suffering husband usually played along. Nonetheless, Tim was relieved when I changed career paths and studied school counseling in a Master’s program. I returned to non-design related work once our kids were older and I know his relief wasn’t based on additional income flow alone.

With my reawakened interest in home design, Sarah seeped into my psyche and before long, she invaded my dreams. After watching an episode of Sarah 101 where she constructed a baby’s changing table designed to fit over an old bureau, I found myself working on the same project in my sleep. I measured and mitered joints with my assistants, Barack and Michelle Obama. Besides watching too much t.v. I was also reading Becoming, Mish’s memoir. Worlds collided, a sure sign of a Sarah problem, an obsession with the former First Couple, and an overactive dream life. 

My pandemic Sarah habit has inspired a few minor changes. Since last summer, we have repainted a few rooms and dissolved a dining room to create an office for Tim’s ‘work from home.’ With the completion of each tiny project, I anticipated my next conquest and Tim shrugged. Sarah’s ideas, teamed with my own modest knowledge, sparked more projects. Most of the time, I pondered silently, germinating an idea fully, so as not to rile up my husband prematurely. I knew he dreaded hearing “Hey, I was thinking…” He’s had a twenty year respite while I abandoned my home rearrangement in the interest of counseling America’s youth. But now, I’m retired and back home for good, rejuvenated and teeming with ideas inspired by my muse–my Candian idol.

Last week, when Tim walked into the house after a game of golf, I am sure he had a moment of PTSD. In the few hours while he was out, I had dismantled the living room. Tired of the arrangement, I covertly contemplated a change. With a clipboard in hand, I sketched out a few options. I removed all of the breakable items, leaving behind the heavy furniture. In the old days, when I deconstructed the rooms, I seldom required much help to shift the big stuff. I could usually get things back together before Tim returned from work. He tended to appreciate the final product, especially when I cut him out of the process.

This time was different. I am older now, and I hesitate to acknowledge it, weaker. Moving the piano by myself posed an impossible task but the monstrosity needed repositioning before anything else could slide into place. I stood in the middle of the room, helpless, dreading Tim’s gasp when he walked in the door. I suppressed my panic and practiced how I would frame my sudden need to rotate the seemingly static pieces. I readied myself for any reaction, knowing that his outrage would pass. My new arrangement would be worth the bother.

In the end, Tim helped me with my dilemma without much argument. Fortunately, our muscles remained unstrained and intact. Once everything was in place, I stepped back and absorbed the change, feeling a bit Sarah-ish. The result pleased me and fully vaccinated friends who have visited have given my efforts multiple, enthusiastic ‘thumbs up.’ On the other hand, Tim refers to the exercise as “rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.” I ignore him.

The time spent critiquing the inside of my home, combined with my friend Sarah’s inspiration, provided a diversion during these quiet months stuck in the house. Still, even though we can move about more freely, I know I’m far from finished changing things up. Today’s frontier: the upstairs shower curtain–which of course becomes drapes, rugs, towels, candles, and matching soaps. Lucky for Tim, you can’t move a toilet or a tub without a major demo. He’ll be glad to know he’s off the hook. For now.

Sarah

Uncle Sam, Dad, and Me: A Taxing Relationship

Tax time always reminds me of my father. When I was small, I watched as my father took on the task of “doing the taxes.” Every April 14th, he set himself up at the kitchen table with a pile of mishmashed documents, muttering swears under his breath as he scribbled, erased, and reworked the data.  Dad was the master of the loophole and fudging numbers, knowing exactly where to tweak a digit without fear of an audit. To his credit, he seldom got hauled in for an “accounting error.” Instead, he toyed with working for the Internal Revenue Service, going so far as to take the civil service test, pass it, interview, and ultimately decline the offer of employment. His work at the General Electric plant in Lynn, Massachusetts was far more lucrative than what the government paid, and since he worked the night shift, he could nap on the job. He knew he couldn’t snooze at his desk at the IRS, making his life as a blue-collared machinist preferable to a career dressed in a shirt and tie and sitting upright.

Dad’s professed acumen with a 1040 and its multiple schedules gave birth to a side gig. He did the taxes for most of the guys in “the shop,” my grandparents, and anyone who needed help navigating the convoluted forms. Again, he employed his skills–a little heavy on the charitable donations, a little less on the bank interest. It was the 60s, a simpler and less precise  time when the use of computers the size of an entire room had yet to manage the banking world. Paper, pen, adding machines, and old fashioned manual typewriters kept track of transactions. Dad easily snuck a few adjustments by the discerning eye of an auditor. He was clever, if not also a bit dishonest. I never questioned or doubted my father. To me, Dad’s shifty ways were normal.

Propping me on his knee, Dad showed me his calculations and how the numbers interacted to produce an amount of tax owed. I was probably only six-years-old the first time I flipped to the back of the IRS manual to find the chart, sliding my finger down the margin to my father’s income range, then moving to the right to the “Married Filing Jointly” column. Like magic, there was Dad’s tax liability. I remember giggling at this secret my father was letting me in on. For years to come, I sat at his side, learning to fill out the forms, curious about the process without ever knowing the life skill my father was teaching me. When we finished, he always gave me the extra, unused forms and I subjected more than a few of my dolls to my version of tax prep. Didn’t every kid do that?

This past Monday, I filed my taxes. It’s harder now to play the system, and being of a more honorable nature than Dad, I wouldn’t even try. Still, in the tradition of my father, I waited until the last minute to file and pay my bill. I heard my father’s voice clearly as I procrastinated:

 “Why the hell would you pay early if you owe them money? Keep the money in the bank until the very last minute and then write the check. Why give them use of your money when you could be making money on it yourself?”

Dad loved money: making it, saving it, investing it. He was shrewd and calculating. And maybe a little devious. 

In the 1990s, I assumed the responsibility for our family’s taxes–ours and my father’s. Dad sat beside me as Turbotax prompted me for the digits found in Box 1b and I typed the numbers on the computer keyboard as he read to me from his 1099’s–R, DIV, INT, OID. Dad watched in awe as the program whirred through the responses, giving us a real-time calculation at the top of the screen. I loved to hear him say, “Geeze, that’s amazing!” Dad loved technology but for him, this  bordered on miraculous.  In time, he just handed over his half-assed file of tax paperwork, leaving me to plow through his lousy recordkeeping system. Eventually, I just kept the books for him and me. As Dad passed the baton, he never doubted my abilities. He knew I was trained by the best, and now had a computer calculation to back me, in case I screwed up.

In a surprising shift, my father also had a slant on paying his due. I think about his words every year as I send off my small fortune in taxes owed to the IRS: 

“Never complain about paying your taxes. It means you have money to pay taxes on. Be grateful.”

And as much as it pains me to see my bank balance shrink every year, I know he was right. And for Dad’s tutelage and my good fortune, I am grateful.

Decision Making in the Pandemic

51 Best decision quotes images | Decision quotes, Quotes ...

 

Back when I had a schedule, I followed a routine. Most days by seven a.m., I had showered, dressed, made my bed, caught up on all my Words With Friends and Candy Crush games, done a load of laundry, and glanced at my agenda to plan the rest of my days.  By eight-thirty, I had driven my grandchildren to school, gone to Mass, stopped by the Walgreens across from church, grabbed a newspaper, and chatted with the cashier, who had become a casual acquaintance.  After that, I listened to writers’ podcasts, wrote, read, did more laundry, and planned dinner. My day had a rhythm and my life had deadlines. I had to get things done without delay or else there wouldn’t be time for all of the things I needed to accomplish.

In a little more than two weeks, nothing has a deadline, except for the application to a writing program that I completed last evening. Preparing the application was the last vestige of structure that remained. Now, with my days truly wide open and all the time in the world on my hands, I can waste time like it was a life mission. My schedule of limiting screentime was blown days ago, with Verizon warning me that my phone use was up thirty-six percent last week. Really? I hadn’t noticed although I will admit that, as soon as Candy Crush tells me that I have full lives, I am compelled to kill them. For entertainment, I register for remote classes to see other people and chat intelligently. And for everything else, there’s always tomorrow.

Clothes that were one step away from Goodwill are now my working wardrobe. My biggest decision of the day is choosing between leggings and yoga pants. I didn’t realize just how many pairs of stretch pants I own! I shock myself with the ensembles that I wear on my “sanity walks” in the cemetery across the street. Color combinations that would offend the artistic eye and a fashionista’s sensibilities are my means of self-expression.  As for skincare, I dip into the stock of free samples from Lancome and Sephora in an effort to ration my expensive skin cream. I forgot just how much I enjoy the feeling and scent of Sunday Riley. It’s a brave new world for someone who prides herself on good grooming and tasteful dressing.

A few minutes ago, I changed my earrings from my 60th birthday diamond studs to my Christmas 2017 pearls.  I usually would have saved either for “special” but now I say, “whatever!” Prompted by the realization that I hadn’t thought about earrings in days. the decision nearly crippled me. Clearly, I am out of practice.  A lifetime and a pandemic ago, I would have barely considered the options. Now, my choice, one of the few I will make today, had a monumental impact on my day. Every time I pass a mirror, I am drawn to the pearls gracing my ears and I am uplifted. Joys are so fleeting in the face of disaster. Finding one is a moment of grace.

So in the meantime, I think I’ll go clean the bathroom. Or not. I guess that can wait until tomorrow. In fact, everything can wait until tomorrow for the foreseeable future. I also see that realization as a moment of grace. We may never again find ourselves fully in control of our tiny personal destinies as the world and its wellbeing dictates our larger movements. So read a book, watch Mrs. Maisel for the tenth time, eat the potato chips. Give yourself permission to make dumb decisions, the ones that we resist in our daily grind.

We can only hope that before long, our lives will return to some version of normal and we can look back at this era as “the time when time didn’t matter.” Stay well.

20 Most Inspiring Quotes About Time - TimeCamp

Writing in the Time of Exile

Image result for quarantine

When I retired from my career in education to embark on my writing adventure, I never imagined that, within the year, the world would shut down. Since I already embraced partial seclusion in my writer’s world, I needed to make only minor adjustments to my routine to adhere to the social distancing advisories. Still, there are pitfalls to the solitary life, especially when you live with someone. While I self-quarantine, my husband continues to go to work, defeating my best efforts.

Tim’s job, procurement for a hospital group, requires his contribution to the supply chain. By his own admission, he is buying “everything” from “everywhere” to keep the health care workers up to their elbows in nitrile gloves. His employer is working to set him up with Work From Home (WHF), but for some reason, it’s taking longer than expected. In the meantime, I scream “wash your hands” every time he walks in the door and warn him if I get sick and die, the blood is on his hands. No pressure there.

As I wait for him to join me in my exile, I adapt. Blessed with a seeming immunity to writer’s block, I write prolifically and am making great progress on my memoir. Without distractions, my ability to tap into memory and make meaning of the events in my history flows unfettered. I miss my writer connections but my classes at Grub Street have gone ‘high tech’ with Zoom so I check in with the writing community regularly.  A new skill for me, Zoom has kept me connected and I pride myself on my mastery of the platform. My writing group employs Zoom as well to stay in touch and to share our pieces. It’s a new way to workshop but, as it has been said, necessity is the mother of invention. For my writing life, this seclusion works and I await a time when I will want to rejoin society. For now, I’m good.

Yet the life of isolation is not all sweetness and light. The lack of a schedule messes with my head. Once I get up, shower, get dressed, put the dog out, and throw a load of laundry, it’s a crapshoot. Having hours to myself forces me to wrangle with my tendency to be a little distractible (I can hear you all chuckling). I plan for the day, making lists of chores and other pressing matters like tax preparation and plant watering. Without the list, I would be even more unfocused that I am already. Without the list, I would continue my quest to plow through another seventeen hundred levels of Candy Crush or an additional twenty-five hundred games of Words With Friends. I would read a book or two from the stack on the table by the sofa. The list helps but its completion requires the fortitude to resist the siren song of distraction. Monday’s list still sits on the dining room table, partially crossed out. I didn’t say it was a perfect system.

The safe harbor of writing puts me in the chair and provides a singular activity that forces me to be productive. As I damn the list for my seat at the computer, I feel no guilt. I have a goal, my memoir, and I see progress. Grateful that my life has taken this direction, my passion for writing distracts me in a good way from the sad news of the exponential growth of the Coronavirus. I know that, by staying home, I am doing my part to stem the contagion. 

Time in a quiet place provides an opportunity to think as well. Seclusion has taught me that I am more of an introvert than I ever thought. Socializing via remote conferencing is sufficient contact to fulfill my need to see people. I’m not sure that is particularly a good thing but I do think that being still and shutting down the chaos offer a chance to reset. Some of the things that are happening in our world are beyond our control. I worry about people who are ill and dying, those who have lost their jobs, the crashing stock market, and the burgeoning emergency rooms. In the meantime, I write and wait to see how we all come out on the other side. In the meantime, I write.

Men in exile Aeschylus

When Tragedy Strikes, Humanity Awakens

Image result for for life and death are one

A little while ago, my Apple watch alerted me to a breaking news story.  Kobe Bryant, a renowned, retired basketball great, was killed in a helicopter crash in California. While I would never claim to be a sports fan (that would be a lie), I was familiar with the name, knew of his notoriety in the sport, and felt a pang of sorrow. When someone famous dies, I immediately think back to my own interaction with their craft or their accomplishments. I remember the same feeling of sadness when Princess Diana died, when John Lennon died, when David Bowie died. But the connection to a loss doesn’t require one to be a fan. I have come to understand that all it takes to feel sad in response to a tragedy is to be human.

When a celebrity dies, our idea of immortality is shattered. Kobe, Princess Diana, and others who have achieved great fame seem to be above the pitfalls of life and death. Their greatness supersedes any vulnerability and we expect them to live forever. The image that has been created of our idols makes them larger than life and certainly larger than death. The realization that they are human, just like us, jolts us back to reality.

In this world of social media hype, news alerts and their musical introduction smacking of urgency,  and bad news overload, any breaking news can trigger the pang in my gut, not just In the case of a tragedy befalling someone famous. I’ve gotten used to the sinking feeling inside whenever I hear of something tragic. I wait for more details: how many were killed in the earthquake in Turkey, how many animals were lost in the Australian fires, how many died in the most recent school shooting? Yet, while I worry about these outcomes, I fear that I have become a voyeur lost in this swirl of information. Perhaps the purity of my interest and concern is tainted by the need for details regarding the shock and gore of it all. And maybe, I have succumbed to the adage, “There but for the grace of God…”

The uncertainty we know in life causes the unpredictability of death. Choices we make, or others make, can cause our demise. Kobe chose to fly in a helicopter today but, for us, things as simple as merging on to the highway versus taking the surface roads can be our last decision. Another driver’s choice to text while driving can be the reason a parent or a child doesn’t return home one day. A lifetime of cigarette smoking may or may not result in deadly lung cancer. The possibility of being caught in the crossfire of gunshots or involved in an act of terrorism has become less of a long shot.  Life is full of pitfalls and ways to die. It’s a crap shoot, for sure.

To be human is to understand the fragility of being and remaining alive. When I hear people say that they wake up in the morning and thank God for another day, the thought gives me pause. I can’t really say I profess my thanks for not being dead in the morning; instead, I wonder if maybe we should be giving thanks for surviving at the end of any given day. Considering the minefield that is daily existence, it truly is an accomplishment to make it through to bedtime unscathed.

There must be a bigger plan, one that spares us until it is our turn. Tonight, Kobe Bryant will not kiss his children good night. I feel sad for him and for his family.  Yet, the initial shock of the news has already passed, as it does and, once the shock becomes a reality, life goes on for the rest of us. We are once again reminded that, while today may not be ‘the day’, we will each have a last day. It’s sobering, but death, like life, is a part of being human.

Image result for life's tragedy rob lowe

 

The Perfect (Snow)Storm

Image result for snow pictures woods

I purposely stayed away from supermarkets these past few days since I knew that it would be madness.  The weather people had been warning those of us in the greater Boston area that there was snow forecasted for Saturday so plan accordingly. Granted, the accumulation was predicted to be in the 1-3 inch range or worst case scenario, outside of 128 (the highway that for some reason is the line of demarcation in these situations), accumulations may top out at six inches; yet, I knew from experience that the stores would be chaos. As I took a quick assessment of my supplies of milk, bread, and booze, I decided that I most likely could survive until Sunday when the onslaught of the three inch deluge would be over. 

It would be a quick one, meteorologists said, over by midnight. And since the first flakes only started around three p.m, even at multiple inches an hour, which was unlikely, I could see that it was not going to be a big deal storm. In any case, the viewers were warned to stay home. It was treacherous! Dangerous conditions! Armageddon! Over time I have learned that the news people tend to exaggerate the onslaught in the cause of ratings and viewership so I resisted panic. In any case, I was happy to oblige. For me, it was a ‘perfect storm’.

I love snow, especially when I have no plans. For me, there is nothing more pleasant than a weekend storm, of the three to four inch variety, that deposits a perfect, glistening, white coating on the ground, shrubs, and trees – that I can look at from inside of the house. A glass of wine, a binge of a TV show on Netflix or Hulu, and fuzzy pajamas and I am fully equipped for the duration of the precipitation. I should mention that, while I love snow, I hate to go outside in it. I am a secret admirer, a closet snow junkie, who avoids interaction with the cold, wet stuff while adoring the beauty from a distance. 

As for winter activities, I have learned to ski, although I do not ski. I have ice skates, although I seldom skate. And I have a snow shovel, which I dodge using as much as possible. In the cause of skiing and skating, I adopted these skills not to be defeated by them. Both require being out in the cold. Both are not enjoyable and offer no appeal to me. Since shoveling requires no real skill, I have tried to identify as a dedicated shoveler, but I have failed. I thought about buying a pink shovel that I had seen at Reny’s in Damariscotta a few weeks ago but I knew that the purchase would not cure my aversion. When it comes to shoveling, like skiing and skating, I avoid it at all costs. Yet, the guilt that washes over me when I steal a glimpse of the entire family outside shoveling and cursing is enough to make me suck up my distaste for the activity and join in the ‘fun’. Dragging my heels while suiting up for the misery, I do my best to look like a team player. In the end, I am usually ready to make my grand contribution to the snow shoveling effort as close to completion as possible. It is a worthy attempt. That should count. And sometimes, I even make cocoa and a banana bread as a reward for everyone’s hard work, my contribution to the snow removal effort and a means to ease my conscience.

This Sunday morning, we woke up to the remains of a ‘perfect storm’ – a minor accumulation of the light and fluffy variety, easy to shovel, and falling on a weekend when there is no pressure to get up and out.  I reveled in the effects since the beauty of a freshly fallen, light blanket of snow fills me with such joy. Mid-morning, I heard voices outside and looked to see my husband and son-in-law as they chatted casually while pushing the light snow around. They seemed happy. I was happy, too. The pressure was off. It would not be necessary to join the chain gang of snow removal, avoiding a guilt trip. I poured another cup of coffee and settled in with a book, assuming a seat on the wing chair in the living room from which I had a clear view of the woods. Breathtakingly beautiful, the trees glistened as they donned their sparkling white coat. I imagine it’s cold out there, and a little wet. I wouldn’t know. And here was no need to find out. 

Simpler times, simpler pleasures

Image may contain: one or more people, sky and outdoor

A few weeks ago, I spent a lovely weekend visiting friends in a beautiful area of Maine that’s a bit more down south that Downeast. Purchased just five years ago, the house in which Tim and I stay has become Dave and Gail’s hobby, passion, and occasional bane. A beautiful antique center entrance colonial built in 1834, the house is expansive with an extension that houses a kitchen and a spare multipurpose room (or as I call it, “my room”), and another further offshoot that is an embellished “barn” (the word ‘barn’ doesn’t do this structure justice). It is the epitome of New England living in a simpler time, with a modern tweak.   From an open window, the rushing sounds of the Sheepscot River, just across the road, soothe the soul of the weary city dweller.  For entertainment, we watch the colorful birds clustering at the multiple feeders outside of the kitchen window, an arrangement that Gail calls “Bird TV”.  Needless to say, we seize the opportunity to partake of the peace every time an invitation is extended.

As an added attraction, our visits north always include a ride on the Waterville, Wiscasset, and Farmington Railway, a living museum, and reconstructed railroad system assuming the pathways of a defunct means of transportation that was a lifeline to the area over one hundred years ago.  The trains we ride are originals, unearthed in storage throughout the country, or from donors who collect the vintage railcars and early steam engines. As the train rumbles through the woods and countryside, volunteers who are dedicated to the endeavor of restoring and retelling the history of the WW&F regale the passengers with stories that craft a portrait of a time long gone, but it all becomes so real in the telling of the tale.  At times, I find myself compelled to put my hand through their seemingly corporal bodies, but I resist. I know that these men are of this time; yet, their passion for this place and its history paint them ghost-like as if channeling specters of another era.

As I became lost in the bliss of days gone by, stark reality shook me from my reverie into 2019 consciousness.  After a dinner out in nearby Damariscotta, we embarked on the ride back to Head Tide, a good distance by city standards. An urgent alert on the screen of Tim’s BMW replaced the Sirius XM display and intruded on the streetlight-less ride.  The vehicle now in distress was my 60th birthday gift to my husband and the epitome of modern, complicated living.  Heated steering wheel, the ability to park itself, and the miracle of run-flat tires all promised a driving experience that was unsurpassed with its state of the art technology.  Now demanding attention,  one of the storied “run-flat” tires rapidly lost viability as air escaped into the night from its thirty-two pounds per square inch chamber.  Unspoken panic ensued as we watched the PSI numbers drop (picture Walmart’s falling prices).  Within minutes,  nerves won out over the chatter and the car fell silent.  Once back in the driveway at the house, we plucked the never-read manuals from the glove compartment and set about the business of seeking roadside assistance.

When I purchased the car, my salesman sang the praises of BMW and its customer care. With a promise of 24/7 coverage, he advised me to cancel AAA, since BMW would now be my safety net. In the heat of my emergency, I soon discovered that safety net had a big hole in the form of no roadside service on a Saturday night, or for that matter, Sunday.  The advice of the person at BMW: “Can you extend your trip until Monday and we can help you then?” Her non-answer, the equivalent of “Gee, that’s tough”, frustrated me and I told her as much.  After a fitful night of sleep, we arose the next morning, not quite ready for what the day would bring.

The Sunday morning weather could not have been nicer as I hoisted myself into the cab of the flatbed tow truck for the sixty-five mile trek to Saco, where AAA, my hole-free safety net that I, fortunately, had not canceled, had secured replacement tires. The tire on the Beemer was beyond repair with a massive gash in the sidewall. Since we didn’t have a spare (you don’t need those little details when you have these wonders of automotive advancement), there was no choice but an hour and a half in a flat-bed. The driver was a skilled storyteller, sharing tales of the road, the military, and life on the farm. His pleasantries made for a nice enough journey and the cab of the truck was moderately clean and comfortable, despite the broken seat belt fixture that impaled me for the entirety of the ride as well as leaving me unsecured. In any case, we were making progress, or at least, heading south, in the direction of home, with the little X1 in the rearview, secured and ready for its rubbery infusion.

Ah, but as for the tires? When you are greeted by the salesman at the destination with “Sorry, we don’t have run-flat tires here. They are too expensive to keep in stock. Can you stay in the area until tomorrow?”, your only option fizzles and you get a little crazy.  In a few short hours, we had heard a mantra repeated by every expert to whom we had spoken: “Run-flat tires – they’re great in theory.”  This theory, clearly tested, inspired a cleanse of the entire complement of run-flat tires on the car, resulting in four new high-performance tires of the less fancy variety.  At that point, we had run out of options. The cost for all four was comparable to the purchase of two run-flats and now we were outfitted with brand new, safe, and less complicated tires.  At the time, it seemed a little reactionary and extreme, but my instincts were correct and confirmed by my BMW dealer, to whom I ranted on Monday. He knew the mantra, too – “Run-flat tires are great in theory.”

All the while, I could see in my mind’s eye, my father, shaking his head, reminding me that what is sold to us as conveniences occasionally backfire.  At the same time, I remember that he also never owned a car with electric windows (what if you went into the water and the car shut off?), air conditioning (I just open the windows), or a credit card (I use cash).  In any case, I get his point. Sometimes, simpler is better, if not the best way to go.  When I brought the Beemer for service on this past Thursday, the litany of recalls and upgrades to the computer system made my head spin and required a day long commitment to the remedy.  I recounted the story of the now defunct run-flat tires to the service coordinator and the mantra rolled off his tongue – “Run-flat tires are great in theory.”  I hate that my father might have been right but I relent to his posthumous guilt trip.  Simple things, like riding the rails of the WW&F or crank windows, really appeal to me at the moment.

Today is another beautiful Sunday but this time I am sitting in my house, cowering from the heat outside, in air-conditioned comfort.  Now that’s a convenience that I refuse to relinquish.  The rest I can do without, or so I say at the moment. Nevertheless, I do wonder how the Beemer parks itself, but that’s a project for another day.

Image may contain: one or more people, tree, sky, outdoor and nature