Hide and Seek Painting

This morning, as I sit at the kitchen table looking out across what I know is the cove, all I see is white and shades of grey. It looks like a gauze veil is hovering over the painting I have become so fond of looking at. The houses on the shore across the cove are barely visible. They have become simple stick figure outlines, void of detail. The water could be a snow plain - that is how still and white it is. I hear the gulls and herons cawing but cannot see them as they forage in the mud.

The fog continues to shift. Now there is nothing in front of me but a blank white canvas - no depth, no texture, no form. There are only the green leaves of the hedges to mark the edge of this opaque abyss. Even the leaves begin to lose their shape to the whiteness as it creeps over the bannister and envelopes the house. Now, just the window stands between me and this whitewash.

Once again the fog changes from a dull grey to a Turneresque white mixed with a hint of yellow. For companions all that remains is an optimistic breeze, the chime of the bell hanging near the door, and a gaggle of chattering crows. But, somewhere lurking behind our curtain of nothing-ness, the sun is wrestling its way through the cloud.

I understand Aunt Martha's paintings today.

Morning after Rain

Last night it finally rained from about midnight until five am. I slept fitfully, conscious of the rain and thunder in the distance, knowing the laundry was outside, wondering if the windows needed to be closed, aware that it was just me and my son for the next week until other people returned. Before heading for bed, I sat on the deck, alone for the first time in over a week. The cove seemed empty and too silent. Perhaps its inhabitants had retreated into the darkness in preparation for a midnight storm.

 
This Monday morning it is tough going getting up. I set three alarms to ensure I don’t oversleep and miss the first 8.00 a.m. conference call. Funny how easy it is to wake up early when you know you are on holiday, but when it is a work day, all you want to do is put the pillow over your head and crush the alarm. I finally emerge at 7.30 a.m., reheat last night’s leftover coffee and sit down at the table.

After last night’s soaking, the sky is still overcast and it rests heavy on the water. The air is sticky and immobile. I turn a few fans on to keep the hot air circulating throughout the house, but at 8.45 a.m., it already feels like the hottest day so far.

I am ploughing my way through hundreds of work emails. At 7.56 a.m. I dial into my first conference call and wait for other people to join. At 8.02 a.m. my son stirs from his bed and sits next to me at the table. I am stunned he is up so early on a Monday. Still no one materializes on the call in number . By 8.04 a.m. I am searching the sea of red emails for a cancellation or reschedule notice. There it is – rescheduled to tomorrow, same time. I hang up, sip my coffee, and finish the email task, reluctantly turning off the out of office message.

Afterwards, I go outside to retrieve the still-wet laundry from the line, hang it over the bannister so it will catch the sun when it burns through the haze. It is too quiet here now that my brother and sister-in-law have left. It feels odd getting up in the night and not seeing my sister-in-law’s Golden Retriever, Molly. 

I am already used to stepping over the dog's sprawled out body. I miss my brother’s guitar playing and my sister-in-law singing ‘Sitting on the dock of the bay.’ My son keeps shushing me, asking why I am talking to him. I guess he is missing them as well. 

There are still four or five more scheduled calls left in the day's calendar. After that, maybe a fire drill at work. But by 6 pm I will be free again. Whoopee.

Breakfast in Maine

Breakfast in Maine

It has been 14 months since my last posting. Wow. How is that possible? Yes, I am alive and very well. At the time of this writing, I am somewhere in Maine... on holiday.

It is beautiful here. I've been swimming, kayaking and cycling since arriving a few days ago. My son is also here and loves to kayak. He's been out on the water every day. Yesterday we went exploring for about four hours - my arms felt like lead weights last night, but this morning they are fine. The sunsets and sunrises here are spectacular.

This whole area is comprised of little finger peninsulas and coves to discover. It's all tidal so full of birds and fish, lobsters and crabs. Lobster is in abundance - at the incredible low price of $3.50 per pound, which is a 1970’s price.

The air smells of the sea, honeysuckle, sweet grass and pine needles. One of the nearby beaches is a very quaint and easy two mile bike ride, but for now, I am content with my tidal cove on which this house sits as it offers a ten step walk down to its own tiny dock.

In the morning I wake up early between 5.30 and 6.30 a.m., make myself a cup of tea and take it down to the water's edge to sit and watch the fish feed on the surface. There is a grey heron in the rushes, cardinals, blue jays and goldfinches in the hedges, seagulls and terns coasting overhead, and even a chipmunk that darts in the tall grass behind the dock.

The water is motionless and looks like a plate glass mirror. The sun drifts up from behind the maple and spruce trees on the near side of the cove. It is the colour of orange sherbet. At the far end of the cove, where the basin is deeper, where the lobster and sail boats are moored, I can hear a boat bell tinging as the lobster-men prepare their boats for today's pot hauling.

Today high tide is at 6.30 a.m. By 7.00 a.m. there are quicksilver ripples appearing on the surface, barely visible. Around this time, the fish start jumping. I kayak out into the middle of the just-broken stillness and drift for twenty minutes. That is when I decide I will swim across the cove. I paddle back to the shore to tie up the kayak. By 8.00 a.m., I am in the water working my way across to the other side. The water is clean, clear and warm. A cormorant floats like a lazy buoy about five meters from me. A white egret picks a path through the reeds, looking for crabs. When I come up for air, I see my brother in his kayak about a quarter mile away. He is fishing for striped bass.

While I continue to make my way to the other side I think about breakfast. Will we be eating homemade buckwheat pancakes with blueberries, or fresh grilled fish?