Snow arrived to blanket my mountainous Vermont world, and if winter follows tradition, all will stay covered until April. So what to do while a chill blows and daylight flits by in a flash? Keep your chin up and your looks fresh. Embrace the garb of the season. Toss a red scarf around your neck, a brighter hue on your lips, and head outside to revel in all nature brings your way.
When my children were younger I watched with fascination as they developed collections. Matchbox cars. Star Wars figurines. Stuffed animals and baseball cards. A shelf of Tin Tin books for the oldest, ceramic cats the fascination of my daughter. Later baseball hats filled shelves as did a rainbow of nail polish. But even as I encouraged and often funded their collections I wasn’t interested in acquiring one of my own. In one botched attempt I dutifully declared I would begin with lighthouses and to prove my devotion I held out a 3 inch reproduction, the very one they had given me after a trip they had taken (without me) to Maine. I assured them I adored lighthouses and someday soon this one would be surrounded by many. They looked pleased with my resolve.
My small lighthouse reproduction sat on a window sill in the kitchen, alone, for years, and I never did add to it. Yes, I love the regal isolationism, the dedication to assisting wayward mariners, regardless, I didn’t traipse around to acquire more to adore my sill.
What did happen, somewhat organically, was a collection of postcards. For years, every time I went anywhere for a night or two, I purchased a few cards and sent them to people I imagined might appreciate a glimpse of my sights, like my grandmother or elderly neighbor. If I was gone longer I would send one to my parents or children left at home. I found I not only loved finding the right vista but I enjoyed writing in the small square. I loved the one or two lines captured by the card itself: the crafting, the exactness, the story. For many years, postcards were the only place I let myself write with a flare. With my own voice.
Two weeks living on the ocean’s edge, the only constants in my day was the sound of pounding surf and sand on my feet, a morning swim and bike ride to get milk or meet the ferry as more family arrived, filling the wagon with luggage and boxes of food, a walk along the shore, beach volleyball, afternoons riding the waves, beach yoga, shucking corn, beach dance music, eating peaches, beach runs, ice cream, laughing, moonlit swims, and letting the clock hands fade for a brief time-less span. Our only agenda, unwind and restore.
Nine Cent Girl 