Topping Off the Tank

What a rush vacation has been … almost as if it has been specifically designed for me to recharge my batteries in preparation to jump once more into the potential chaos that is my regular 9-to-5 (or 8-to-4, as it were). Which, I suppose, is the point, right?

It’s been days of rest and relaxation, visiting with family I see once every year or so, exchanging gifts, watching movies, reading books, taking numerous pictures; in general reconnecting with my old self. I’d almost forgotten the sheer number of shades of blue and green to be found this time of year in Narragansett Bay … lovely!

And the temperature can be upwards of 30 degrees cooler here than in MO; it was so chilly today we only opened a couple windows and closed them before supper … meanwhile I worried that Brig left the girls outside back in MO, where the temps were supposed to have reached the low-to-mid 90’s. Not because Brig is in any way irresponsible, but rather because I really am that much of a worrywart (even when they’re kenneled … at the vet’s, no less … I generally call at least three times a week to check up on them).

Tonight we were watching the Jim Lehrer News Hour, and the story on Poet/Author Jim Harrison. I totally got sucked in. I know this because at first it was very distracting to listen to Mr. Harrison speak, as he’s a chain smoker and has the breathing difficulties that often result from a lifetime of heavy smoking. But.

Soon I was so drawn in by what Mr. Harrison had to say, and how he said it, that the distraction just fell by the wayside. I’d love to spend an afternoon with him. I plan to pick up some of his poetry, the latest tome of which is called “In Search of Small Gods”, and features his “The Golden Window” in its entirety. I cannot wait to read the whole thing, as the excerpt I read fair knocked my socks off (this is the part where you get a little bit of a future “wicked awesome poem”):

I hope to define my life, whatever is left,
by migrations, south and north with the birds
and far from the metallic fever of clocks,
the self staring at the clock saying, “I must do this.”
I can’t tell the time on the tongue of the river
in the cool morning air, the smell of the ferment
of greenery, the dust off the canyon’s rock walls,
the swallows swooping above the scent of raw water.

Prior to that Mom and I took a drive around the island, and yes, I snapped a large number of pictures, but am only sharing these few here (there are a bunch more over on Facebook, so go take a look … I think I’m up to three albums this week). It was originally going to be a quick circuit after we went to the “transfer station” (e.g., dump), but you know how it goes … we left around 2:30 and didn’t return for hours.

We ended up walking the beach over on the West Passage side of the island, and reminisced about all those beach walks we took around Saquish almost 40 years ago. Remember the Thompson’s outhouse? And how Dad set us up on rock-hunting contests (the one with the best rock got a bag of M&M’s or Circus Peanuts)? And the horseshoe crabs? And swimming under the boat? And believing Mr. Thompson’s stories that the microbe-induced colored sands were “Indian paint”? Or how about Mom & Dad making hash and poached egg breakfasts? And fighting off the seagulls when we tried to grill off the stern of Tallow II? All kinds of stuff.

I kind of pity the people who haven’t grown up by the sea … what did they do for fun growing up?