The Bard on Fogiedom

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73 is about fogiedom.  You know, “That time of year thou mayst in me behold / When yellow leaves, or none or few do hang / Upon those boughs which shake against the cold.”  My boughs shake.  In fact I just received a fleece top from Land’s End.  It was deep discounted on the website as a leftover from the winter season, and there was only one choice of color.  I got it for next fall, but I have it on because it’s chilly and damp with a fresh breeze off the water.

The last lines of the sonnet are, “This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, / To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”  Apparently the poet is speaking to a friend who will miss him when he goes into the “black night.” 

I thought of those lines because Lawrence Estes has died.  We were inseparable throughout our childhood and teenage years so that my mother thought of him as one of her own children.  Besides mourning his passing, I stare aghast into the black night. 

Right now the words speak to me not as the bard meant them.  Fog was blowing on the beach this morning, and a light surf was coming in.  Birds cried as they cruised the moving air, and in the gray sea there were glints of silver.  I looked away from the night and toward the world. It’s that which I love well for I must leave it ere long.    

Signs of Summer

I made a folder on the computer for the pictures I’ve been taking lately and labeled it “Summer_’11.”  I know the equinox hasn’t arrived, and astronomically, it’s still spring, but the screens are down and the windows are up.  There have been dozens of signs of summer – the opening of Farfar’s in Duxbury, the first gin and tonic, and twilight rides into the countryside in search of the scent of new mown hay. 

I’ve set the DVR on my television set to record Masterpiece Theater every Sunday night, and I hope the memory doesn’t fill to overflowing before I start watching and deleting episodes in the fall.  My short sleeve shirts have been taken from storage and placed within easy reach.  Forget socks, it’s sandal time.

Out at the beach we ready our cottage at a fogy pace.   Gone are the Junes when we cleaned the floors, changed the bed, hauled in the supplies, and washed every singled dish in one joyous day.  Now it’s step by step, and we’ve enlisted help, but except for a few more dishes to wash, we’re ready.  I’ve heard the trill of the song sparrows in the beach roses and the plaintive call of a lovesick mourning dove. I think of it as forlorn pleading, which is not a recommended technique for attracting modern human females, but apparently persuades lady doves.

The actual move to the cottage must be a decisive event because dwelling in two households simultaneously is not a good idea. Everything from the ketchup to an adequate supply of underwear seems always to be in the place you aren’t. But even now we’ve taken out a pound of coffee, and yesterday we carried out a pastry from Panera and breakfasted al fresco on the harbor side deck.  A man in a work boat was setting moorings.  What better sign of emerging summer could there be? 

The application of sunscreen is a ritual that rivals the donning of snowsuits in my youth. 

Rock

The Mill Run is a path that starts at Newfield Street and travels past the Mill Pond.  It’s not nature to those who like to be helicoptered in; you can see the houses and back yards across the pond, which, itself, is created by an earthen damn.  The power company clear cuts below the electric cables on the other side. 

This rock used to stand in the path. It was easy to walk around, but the Park Department moved it, perhaps so they could get a vehicle as far as the Boy Scout Bridge, or maybe just because they had access to heavy equipment and they could.  For years it looked raw and slightly scarred like something bulldozed from a construction site.  I was pleased on my latest visit to see that it has settled into nature again. 

Climatically, we live in the northern forest, and nature tries to get back to forest whenever we’re not looking.  This old glacial bolder was only momentarily perturbed.  It remains itself.