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.
