Dawn Potter's Blog, page 2

When we lived in Harmony, we often climbed nearby Borest...

 

When we lived in Harmony, we often climbed nearby Borestone Mountain on one of the weekends surrounding my birthday. Now that we live in Portland, we go to the ocean, most often the Wells Estuarine Reserve at Laudholm Farm.

Yesterday, on a blue-sky, soft-air October Sunday morning, we stood barefoot in the surging North Atlantic and watched flocks of piping plovers wheel over the sand, then suddenly land together and run back and forth into the foam like little windup toys. We heard the cries of a yellowlegs, glimpsed hawks among the reddening trees, watched distant seabirds ride the waves. Our lungs were full of wind, our eyes full of sun. The hour was sheer delight.

A visit to the sea was a good way to counter my next few stressful days of driving and teaching and dealing with car sorrows. Tomorrow is my birthday, and I'll be spending it in class and on the road--not my dream celebration by any means, but on the bright side I'm staying tonight with homeland dear ones, so that will make things much better. This morning I'll gather my bits and pieces around me. I'll go for a walk with a friend. I'll borrow a car that knows how to pass inspection. I'll remember those flocks of plovers spinning over the glittering surf like a single thought.

Yesterday for dinner I made stuffed shells for maybe the first time since 1980: cooked down a small batch of fresh sauce, hand-mashed a small batch of fresh pesto, then mixed the pesto into a filling of ricotta, diced chicken, and prosciutto. For salad we had our usual green beans and cucumbers--nothing new at this time of year but still delicious. And then we ate the last two slices of apple pie. So, as you can see, my not-thrilling week got off to an encouraging start . . . the ocean, the garden, a copy of Mansfield Park lying open on the kitchen counter.

Four jars of golden tomato catsup! I haven't canned anyth...

Four jars of golden tomato catsup! I haven't canned anything for several years so was pleased by how smoothly the process went. Canning is always fussy and cumbersome, but a batch of neat handsome jars is extremely satisfying, and yesterday's project went off without a hitch. Homemade catsup is an entirely different beast from bottled red ketchup. It's real food, with a complex and delicate flavor and an airy texture, and in our house it's always been a rare treat because it requires a lot of tomatoes. I was lucky to have half a bushel of giant yellow fruits ripen in the house simultaneously . . . and to have time to simmer them down for two days.

In and among my canning project, I spent a lot of yesterday working on the Baron essay. Finally, after a week of poking hopelessly at the first two paragraphs, I've been able to let myself go and start really writing. As of now, I've got five pages of a draft. There's much more to come, of course, but I do feel like something's come unstuck in me, writing-wise. For a few days I was wondering if I'd be able to do it at all, and that was not a good feeling.

In a few minutes T and I are going to head out for an early breakfast in Biddeford and then take our seasonal morning hike through the seaside bird sanctuary at Laudholm Farm in Wells. Afterward I'll get back to cutting down perennials in the garden. I'll reread the essay draft. I'll listen to the Blue Jays trounce the Yankees (I hope). I'll make stuffed shells for dinner.

Tomorrow I'll be on the road again, with a borrowed car to keep me nervous. Tuesday is my birthday but I'll be in class and driving all day long. Wednesday I'll be bleeding money for car repairs. I'm fluttery and anxious, and trying not to be.

At 5 a.m. Chuck turned on the bedroom light (it's touch-...

 At 5 a.m. Chuck turned on the bedroom light (it's touch-sensitive, unfortunately) and then began patting my cheek with his paw and licking my eyelids: "Just wondering if you're awake, Dawn. Are you awake? Are you, are you, are you?" Standard invasive cat behavior, but he sure does know how to cloak it in wide-eyed innocence. So, yes, the answer is, I am awake, and the kitten is now full of breakfast, and we are curled up together with a couch blanket, and everything has turned out exactly like Chuck hoped it would.

Yesterday evening I lit the wood stove for the first time this season--just a small fire to take the edge off the modest chill and also to see how young Charles would react. He was thrilled by the flickering flames but thus far seems sensibly wary about getting too close to hot metal. Let's hope that continues to be true.

We really didn't need a fire last night. I could have put on another sweater. But few things are as sweet as sitting by the embers with a beloved and a silly kitten. Coziness is a great comfort, and why not be happy.

I think I've finally blocked out the entire long-poem class. The syllabus will need refining, but it now, thank goodness, exists from beginning to end. This is among the more complex online classes I've invented--so much material to get through, as well as a great deal of planned interaction--so carving it out has been challenging. But the hardest part is now done, and I can let it stew for a few days before I start picking at it again.

I've also made a bit of progress on the Baron retrospective and hope that I can find time to do more on it this weekend. I still have to can the catsup I made earlier in the week, and I want to do some yard work, and T and I are going to drive down to the bird sanctuary tomorrow for a walk along the salt marsh. But with the Poetry Kitchen planning more or less out of my hair, maybe I'll have the wherewithal to make some real progress on this very difficult essay.

Life is kind of overwhelming at the moment. The car troubles are a heavy blow, and that sinus infection has kicked me in the head, and friends are in pain, and my work responsibilities are unwieldy. But it's Saturday morning, and I am sitting with my little cat under my new birthday lamp. I'm drinking my second small cup of coffee. Rosy dahlias adorn the mantle. The refrigerator is groaning in exactly the way it's supposed to groan. The books on the table smile at me. Oh, world. You are a mysterious lover.

Excellent news: T and I solved our refrigerator problem o...

Excellent news: T and I solved our refrigerator problem on our own. After I discovered that the air-flow ducts between the compartments were plugged with frost, T unloaded the food into coolers and we defrosted overnight. Now everything works perfectly. Also all of the frozen food stayed frozen, so I didn't lose any of my hard work.

Other good news: A stalwart friend has offered me her car for Monday and Tuesday so I can get to Monson without a rental.

Moderately okay news: I found a repair guy who promises to fix the car's steering next Wednesday, a week earlier than the dealer could even look at it.

Unhappy news: A rack-and-pinion job costs $2,000. Tom, who for some reason is playing Mr. Look-on-the-Bright-Side in this farce, points out that the dealer would likely charge twice as much. So we are pretending to be delighted.

I have been having fantasies of giving up the car altogether, but that isn't feasible, with my parents in Vermont and my job in the hinterlands. But I am not altogether unhappy to be carless for a few days. The library is today's only errand, and I can walk there. If I decide I need a few groceries, they are around the corner, but house and garden are already well stocked.

Last night for dinner I braised chicken thighs with Vidalia onions, sweet peppers, garlic, and oregano. I made a salad of two kinds of tomatoes: greeny-red cherries and bright-red Brandywines. I baked a chard tian. I steamed a pot of arborio rice. I made a quick apple pie, using leftover pie dough I'd stowed in the freezer. No need for driving anywhere. The food was all here.

I spent much of yesterday (when I wasn't housecleaning or blowing my nose or consorting on the telephone with various repair people) focused on my current editing project. And I did manage to finish the chapter, which means that I can devote the bulk of today's work hours to class prep and my Baron essay. The dream of working on a poem is still a dream.

Yesterday turned out to be a classic oh-for-fuck-sake day...

Yesterday turned out to be a classic oh-for-fuck-sake day. First, our refrigerator stopped working; the repair guys can't come out till next week; I scrambled to borrow coolers and cold packs, and T and I tried to figure things out on our own, which maybe we did or maybe we didn't. In any case, we defrosted it over night and will turn it on again this morning and find out something.

Then what I thought would be a routine get-my-car-inspected day exploded like a bomb: my car won't pass inspection because there's a problem with the rack-and-pinion steering, which is too complex a job for my regular mechanic, which will cost the earth, and which means that the car is presently unsafe to drive.

I'm supposed to be heading north to Monson on Monday and Tuesday, so I guess I'll be renting a car?

I spent all day feeling unhappy, full of dread about dropping this weight on Tom, wondering how I can be almost 61 years old and still limping through vehicles like a teenager.

But when he came home, and I told him the bad news, he was calm, he was helpful, he was soothing, he was all of the things that I love him for. And then he gave me a birthday present: a new lamp for the living room, which we've sorely needed.

The two of us have been through so many shitty household emergencies in our years together. Sometimes I think that's our closest bond. We look at each other and say, What next?

That was a fantastic Yankees-Red Sox game last night: har...

That was a fantastic Yankees-Red Sox game last night: hard won, well played, with a happy Sox ending. I've never expected this team to go far in the playoffs, but yesterday's game had old-fashioned style, and I had so much fun listening to it play out on the radio.

And then I had a long elaborate dream about a tree-lined campus, famous poets in book-filled rooms, everyone writing or engaged in eager conversation, lots of children here and there doing interesting projects, including a boy I seemed to be in charge of, and, strangely, everyone knew who I was, which made me extremely nervous through the entire dream. Was this supposed to be heaven? Or was it purgatory?

Well, whatever the case, I've returned to my everyday land. Chuck is tucked up against my leg, and the coffee is hot, and T is upstairs thunking dresser drawers and sighing. It is Wednesday, the first day of October. The air is cool and quiet in the little northern city by the sea.

This morning I need to take my car to the garage for an inspection. I'll put in some time on the essay about Baron, then turn back to editing. I'll reread my plans for the long-poem class, which are now about half done. I'll start cooking down tomato sauce for catsup.

I'd like to think I'll work on a poem draft. Or mull over my next collection. Or do something for the sake of my own thoughts. But that may be too much to hope for.

It's the end of September, and the days are a last hurrah...

It's the end of September, and the days are a last hurrah of summer. The drought goes on and on. The trees and gardens are exhausted. But warmth lingers on my skin, when I sit out on the stoop after dark.
Now, before dawn, a freight train squeals through the crossing at the bottom of the street. The kitten rattles around in a corner with a pretend mouse. A car door thunks; a motor grinds; a clock ticks.
Yesterday, for the first time in more than week, I managed to put in a full day at my desk. I finished editing a chapter and started the next one. I started blocking out my long-poem syllabus. I began roughing out my essay about Baron. It was a relief to feel my brain at work again.
Today will be more of the same, along with exercise and grocery shopping and garden watering and sauce making. I'm tempted to let the garden dry up at this point, but I would lose any chance of late autumn greens. Tomatoes are ripening in the house, but beans and cucumbers are still producing more than we can eat, though the plants are yellowed and weary. The harvest season has been strange.
For a week I haven't thought about writing poems, but maybe that desire will come back to me too, along with my desk stamina. It's amazing how much strength is required to fight even a minor infection. I look in the mirror and see how tired I am. And yet I've accomplished so little.
But clearly I'm on the mend, if not fully healthy. My mind has returned to me, in any case. Whitman's lines murmur in my ears. Woolf's sentences unroll behind my eyes. The words are alive . . . small birds fluttering, wings beating . . . each syllable a tiny heart, pounding.

Dare I say I feel better this morning?Yesterday I came to...

Dare I say I feel better this morning?

Yesterday I came to the conclusion that I've probably been fighting a sinus infection, not just a regular cold. If that's the case, I'm actually doing pretty well--no antibiotics, my own body managing the argument, and now this morning maybe a little less congestion and sinus pressure, at least so far. There seems to be no point in going to the doctor. If this sinusitis is viral (which, given its link to the head cold, I assume it is), the doctors aren't likely to give me antibiotics anyway. So why pay money for someone to tell me to drink a lot of fluids and get plenty of rest?

Sunday was pretty quiet. I finished reading Baron's ms, made some progress on The Waves, even did a bit of editing. I baked an apple cake and prepped various foods for our cookout. I picked beans and cucumbers. I watched the Bills game and checked in on the Sox. In the soft evening air we sat around the fire with our neighbor and ate and chatted as Little Chuck wailed in the house.

But now I have to gird myself for work. I'm behind on my editing, behind on my writing and class planning. Being sick has slowed me down a lot. Fortunately I'm not traveling this week, so maybe I can catch up.

T went out to see a show last night, while I got into bed...

T went out to see a show last night, while I got into bed at 7:30 and stayed there until nearly 6 a.m. Will my purposeful bedrest take a bite out of this stupid eternal head cold? We can only hope.
This morning I feel kind of better, maybe. Anyway I don't feel worse. Yesterday I simmered tomato sauce and froze green beans and prepped dried dill, mint, and Thai basil for jars. T and I went for a walk. I made good progress on The Waves, definitely a sign that my brain is resuming normal reading function. But I was still congested and slow, and so far I don't think that's changed much.
Well, I will plod forward. We've invited our neighbor over for our final cookout of the season this evening: marinated flank steak and halloumi on the wood fire, and I'll make black pepper rice, an apple cake, and some sort of vegetable side dish or salad (green beans, cucumbers, chard, lettuce, tomatoes: my choices overflow). I might watch the Bills game. I might listen to the Sox game. I hope to keep making progress on my considerable reading obligations. If I'm going to have a head cold for the rest of my life, I'd better get used to working around it.

Good morning . . . a bit late as I was wakeful in the nig...

Good morning . . . a bit late as I was wakeful in the night and then fell asleep hard at dawn. That's one of the many nice things about Saturday morning: awkward sleeping hours are just fine.

While I was in bed, the Red Sox clinched their postseason berth. They'd been losing to the Tigers when I turned off the radio, so a win was a pleasant surprise. This team gives me heartburn. They're not at all reliable, and I can't imagine they'll go far in the postseason, but every once in a while they behave like contenders. And now Chuck and I can enjoy a few more evenings of radio together.

I don't have much planned for the weekend, other than various garden-related activities. I'd been planning to freeze kale--until that damn groundhog stripped the leaves--but I still have green beans to deal with, chard to pick, bunches of dried herbs to put into jars, tomatoes to sort. I'll probably forage for mushrooms, and I've got a lot of reading to do. And Chuck is hoping for plenty of family fun. Presently he is pressed up against my leg, occasionally reaching over to pat my typing hands with his paw, not to interfere so much as to remind me how much he loves me. He is the sweetest little guy, all black velvet suit and round baby stare. How can I not forgive all of his crash-bash clattering and litterbox mistakes?

Though the head cold still lingers, my energy is finally beginning to pick up. This past week has been a challenge, stamina- and concentration-wise. I did what I needed to do, but the circumstances weren't ideal. It is good to start off the weekend with a late rise, to sit here with young Charles nestled against me, to slowly drink coffee, to do nothing other than wake up quietly with these few words.