Coping with cabin fever

 

Looking out the window, I gaze at a world of white. Snow clings to every branch and leaf in the back yard. I lean against the glass and shiver from the cold seeping in.

A cardinal pecks at the birdfeeder, a bright red spot in the snow. His mate joins him; the orange beak her only adornment against muted brown feathers. 

"Living in the country in winter is not easy," said nature writer Gladys Taber from the perch of her seventeenth-century farmhouse in Connecticut. "It is not simply sitting by a log fire and reading that good book. It is no life for lazy people. One morning always comes when you are snowed in, no matter whether you planned to go out or not. You can't even open the front door."

Past winters have been warmer, which was attributed to global warming; but this year has been cold, windy, snowy and stormy. As lovely as fresh fallen snow can be, confinement sets in as day after day dawns dark and dismal.

"Most of us, I thought, are caged in some way all our lives," said Taber. "There are walls and bars and fences of all kinds, invisible but tangible. We spend a great deal of time climbing over obstacles --perhaps this is what life is all about. But we must all, I think, long for a brief time of real freedom outside the restrictions of our existence."

Hidden beneath hundred-foot pines, our barn is camouflaged in the snow. The Amish hex sign at the peak draws the eye to the heavens. The well-worn path is obscured. Cabin fever sets in.

"The ancient house speaks to us," Taber said. "Footfalls sound on  the steep stairs, doors open softly, floorboards creak, echoing lives lived here long, long ago. And I think echoes of the lives of our family will be here too."

Sandra Day O'Connor, Lizzie Borden and me

A young reporter for a weekly newspaper, I sat at my desk transfixed. In my hands was a story in The Providence Journal-Bulletin dated September 18, 1997 entitled "Star legal panel reenacts trial of Lizzie Borden at Stanford."

In the mock trial,  Associate Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, one of the most powerful women in America, had reached the same verdict as Lizzie's jury did, the first time around at the 1893 double-murder trial:

NOT GUILTY.

Maybe it was hubris, but I needed to write to the Supreme Court Justice.

I began to type...

October 11, 1997

Associate Justice Sandra Day O'Connor

U.S. Supreme Court

One First Street Northeast

Washington, DC  20543

Dear Associate Justice O'Connor:

Having read with great interest about your recent reenactment of the Lizzie Borden trial, I am forwarding to you a copy of a series of articles that were published this past Friday in  the four Hathaway Publishing newspapers. "Family Secrets" is the result of six months of long distance conversations, exhaustive research, and the piecing together of family secrets, incredible coincidences and a thorough police investigation to unravel the unsolved mystery.

Central to the theory was not only that it alluded to Lizzie's innocence but also included an unpublished photograph of the alleged axe murderer, Lizzie's half brother Bill Borden. His photo appeared next to that of his father and victim, Andrew, who bears a striking resemblance.

On May 18, 1997 The Associated Press published a condensed version of my series. As a follow-up piece, I wrote a story this summer that once again attested to her innocence and included an unpublished letter written in Lizzie's own hand, which I am also enclosing.

It would be a great honor if you would reply to my letter and furnish your opinions on the feasibility of this theory.

Very truly yours,

Linda Andrade Rodrigues

Special Section Editor

A week later, a letter appeared on my desk...

Supreme Court of the United States

Washington, DC 20543

October 20, 1997

Ms. Linda Andrade Rodrigues

Hathaway Publishing

PO Box 427

Somerset, MA 02726-0427

Dear Ms. Rodrigues:

Thank you for your letter and for sending me copies of the articles published in the Hathaway Publishing newspapers about Lizzie Borden. It is a case that has fascinated the public for many years and I suspect, always will. I will enjoy reading your articles and your reasons for attesting to Lizzie's innocence.

Sincerely,

Sandra Day O'Connor

Yesterday, I learned of Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor's passing. There is a special place for her in Heaven and in my heart. Lizzie is waiting to thank her.

The strangeness of nature

 

"The turning of the year brings a change in the valley, as the first leaves begin to turn to gold and scarlet," wrote Gladys Taber from her seventeenth-century New England farmhouse and its lovely surroundings. "It is no longer the green, green world of summer. Suddenly one morning I look out and see the swamp maple ablaze. I feel the strangeness of nature all over again."

I awake early and drag my feet.

Today is the day that we officially close the summer house.

We drive along coastal roads under cobalt blue skies and overarching tunnels of leaves, vibrant in reds, yellows, greens and, unfortunately, crinkled browns.

I trace the coastline, attempting to memorize the picture before me of whirring white foam slamming the rocky shore.

When we arrive at the summer house, I turn on the switch for the water and climb the well-worn painted stairs. Mom removes the screen from the front door, and I head to the bedroom to lift and carry the heavy glass window.

Struggling to align the glass to fit in the slots, we finally give up and save that chore for my husband another day.

Next, we attempt to defrost the old refrigerator, but it seems to be frozen in place. We tug the freezer door to no avail, and I think I hear it chuckle. 

Mom starts filling pans with water to boil and place inside the fridge. A half hour later with both of us pulling the handle as hard as we can, it opens. 

We try to scrape off the ice in the freezer, but it is an unmovable mass.

No worries, we can fill more pans with boiling water. Mom turns on the faucet, and nothing drips from the tap.

After a harried call to my husband, who makes a harried call to the plumber, we give up.

I remove soft drinks and half-empty condiments from  the fridge, as well as the leftover groceries still in the cabinets; and I carry them all to the car. 

Exhausted, I lament the day's turn of events. 

We bounce down the rutted, bumpy road, and I hear the sea gulls laughing. 

Seeking spaces

Last weekend and for the third time this season, the water pump failed at our summer house by the sea.

Consequently, when something goes wrong, we take an alternate path to a nearby inlet of the Taunton River.

Seeking space in our crowded lives, we withdraw...

We know the way by heart. The path is well worn and the sounds as familiar as our own heartbeat.

Shells mark the route to the shore.

A sea gull stands on a stone in the channel.

Why not while away an hour in God's handiwork?

An ideal spot for a picnic.

Walk with me by the sea

Colorful wildflowers lead the way to the seashore.

 

Gray clouds collide with blue skies in the Heavens.

Boulders point the way to Europe.

Follow the unbeaten path until the tide changes.

Get ready to jump. The waves are rolling in.

A wildflower thrives in a bed of rounded rocks.

Clouds

Lord Byron wrote: "Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray."

Driving through overhanging clouds, we could almost touch them. Great big blobs of gray swirled around us blocking the sun.

Since we knew that they were the stuff of wildfires heralding from Canada, we cranked up the air conditioner and lamented the loss of clean air and countless forests.

Turning down Pond Bridge Road, we noticed holes in the fabric. Bright blue smudges began peeking out of the clouds.

By the time we passed acres of potato plants in the gardens at Ferolbink Farms and coasted down the boat ramp within a few feet of the Sakonnet River, the sun had banished the smoke and reclaimed the sky.

Needless to say, so far it has been a most unusual summer.

In addition to darkened skies, it has been incredibly and unseasonably hot.

New England weather is known by its variability, and we natives are accustomed to the constant up-and-down trajectory of the thermometer. This brings about days of hot and cold and some in between.

But this summer we are stuck in Saharan-like climes and long bouts of thunder and lightning. In fact, a dark cloud covered the annual Fourth of July parade in my small town. Consequently, the townspeople thought they could wait out the torrential rains and winds with their skimpy umbrellas. Not a chance. 

As far back as we can remember, the clan has always gathered at the summer house on Independence Day. But this year the tradition was broken due to a storm threat issued by the meteorologists. Instead, we descended on my mother's house and cooked hamburgers and hot dogs on an old charcoal grill and ate in the garage. 

Of course, the clouds cleared for a little while; but we left early in the pouring rain. No volleyball this year.

Last week my brother and nephew attacked the invasive thorny weeds that had wrapped themselves around the summer house, the wooden shed, and the well house, a force to be reckoned with.

Every summer the Creator sends us deep purple morning glories which climb up the porch and big, blue, beautiful hydrangeas that welcome guests at the front of the house. 

Now there is much more work to do. Without constant vigilance, the invasive weeds and their nasty thorns will vanquish these seasonal flowers.

Unfortunately, they seem to really enjoy cloudy days.                            . 

The season of our discontent

Whipped by wind, water and sand, I stumble along the seashore for the first time in this new season. I shiver in the cold, but persistence carries me forward.

Just as the pandemic kept me locked inside for far too long, I am determined to break free from the confines of time and space of these past few years. 

Splattered yet defiant, I trip over rocks and sink into wet sand as I long for escape.

Overhead, sea gulls circle and cry. The angry sea crashes and curses at my feet. Where have you been all this time?

Well, it sounded like a good idea . . .

Instead of winterizing the summer house from November to May, why not keep it open all year long, as a hideaway from whatever life, climate and circumstance hurled at us?

Fill the oil tank, crank up the heat, stock up the old refrigerator, keep the mice at bay and head to the summer house whenever we wanted. Holed away inside its cozy confines, I could write unimpeded, at a whim, or just read to my heart's content.

In the late fall, Fogland beckoned: my favorite chair, overflowing bookshelves, Mom's warm afghan, a hot cup of tea, and a vacation whenever I wanted.

Then the unthinkable happened:

Mice moved in for their long winter vacation, leaving mementos in all the drawers; the inclement weather triggered my asthma; the freezer iced up and locked us out; the stairs made a slippery slope coated with ice; the frosty air seeped through the huge and heavy air conditioner; the oil tank needed constant refilling; the cooking stove emitted little heat; the water pump stopped pumping; the overworked plumber promised a long wait; the winds lashed the house with a vengeance pushing two windows inside on the floor; and the oil burner seized and there was no heat . . . 

So now the new season begins anew. There will be a long list of things to do. I sit on a big boulder at the beach and wait for the kids to catch up. I listen to their laughter and screams as they run and play.

All's right with the world.