Labor Day

            I checked the forecast for Labor Day Weekend.  Normally I can’t look that far ahead in the summer because the portable radio I have at the beach seldom gives extended forecasts, but today I’m in shore.  We’re emptying the cottage refrigerator in preparation for shutting it down.  I pondered whether or not to bring in the gin, but there’s enough Rose’s lime juice for one more gimlet, and I still have some tonic.  No sense being rash. 

Still the summer’s winding down. I wanted to make a gallant presentation of a sprig of sea lavender to a woman visiting from Japan, but I couldn’t find any of the pale blue flowers that bloom underwater at high tide. The osprey chicks are flying now and their nest is often empty when I pass by.  The eel grass is getting a reddish hue.  The tree swallows are flocking up in preparation to migration.  I shall migrate as well. 

Having moved to my winter quarters, I’ll sleepily click a TV remote, and get a weather forecast in the morning.  I’ll have my evening drink without the view of Plymouth across the harbor, and I shall slowly revert to the consumption of martinis. I’ll summon the chimney sweep in preparation for fireplace fires.

I make my new year’s resolutions in September.    I intend to get into the city more often, travel the roads, pick apples with my grandchildren, and bake beans.  As do all who resolve, I fall short of my intentions, but my life changes.  No more will I buy boxes of chicken broth in the supermarket. On a cool day, I’ll simmer chicken parts and make my own broth to freeze.  I’ll knead bread, or at least pizza dough.  Cape Cod will unclog, at least on weekdays, and I’ll venture down Route 6A. 

I won’t get excited about peak foliage.  The turning of the leaves is a long and beautiful process.  There are the maples in Vermont and the swamp blueberries in Myles Standish State Forest.   There are the yellow locusts and the wine-red oaks.  Outside my bedroom window, the cherry tree that in spring looks like the froth on a strawberry ice cream soda will be resplendent in red-orange leaves. 

It is with fall as with the autumn of life – a season that must be taken a day at a time.  I’ll not look back to my daily walks when my feet splashed in the shallows of Cape Cod Bay, nor forward to the time when the pavements will be slippery with ice.  I’ll inhale the crisp air and give thanks.

 

The Joy of Function

Jonathan Swift said, “Everybody wants to live forever, but nobody wants to grow old.” I think of that when I visit my mother in the nursing home and especially when I complain to the staff about the inadequacy of her care.  Sometimes they’re not prompt about answering her bell when she needs to be helped to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I picture a gaggle of underpaid aides sitting around chatting with buzzers going off all over the floor and reflect that, if you don’t die in a timely fashion, you’re doomed to lie in cold piss. I come from long-lived stock.  I want to enjoy the benefits before I pay the price.

Sometime around 3:00 a.m., I awake from a dream in which I’m looking for a rest room and have somehow gotten lost in endless corridors.  I fling my legs over the side of the bed and remember not to hop up, which would make me dizzy.  I shuffle my feet lest I trip over a shoe in the path to my destination.  Somehow the house gets darker than it used to, but I know the way. 

Is it sacrilegious to pray in the bathroom?  I remember reading that some Jews think so.  Sinfully or not, I offer my thanksgiving that I am vertical and functioning.  I wait for it to be over.  The shut-off doesn’t work as it once did, but the dribble ends.  I wet my hands, pump the soap bottle, rinse, rub, and use the towel.  Smelling of lavendar, I shuffle back to bed. 

I compose my mind, trying not to think of what needs to be done or what I should have said to that cop twenty years ago.  I have received a blessing. It’s one I didn’t appreciate for most of my life, but I do now.  I breathe slowly in and out.  Breath is good too.

 

Small Holidays

I’ve been sick.  Yesterday I got up and brushed my teeth, which exhausted me so thoroughly I went back to bed and slept until 1:30 pm.  Somewhat refreshed I managed to doze through two Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns, after which I napped.  It gave me insight as to what my mother feels like at 98. 

Today I’m better. I went down to the garden and picked a bowl of mint.  It’s Derby Day, and I plan to celebrate with mint Juleps.  I’d love to have ham biscuits, but that is not to be. 

I’ll probably exhaust myself on my hand cranked, knuckle-busting ice crusher, but I insist on freshly crushed ice for my juleps.  I don’t have silver julep cups, but I find that I can make a good julep if I smash the mint on a plastic cutting board and then put it into the glass.  Perhaps smashing is the wrong word as clobbering the herb can give the drink too strong a mint flavor. 

I’ve been in Lexington Kentucky during Derby week, where ersatz juleps are sold everywhere made with mint syrup, bar bourbon, and a droopy sprig of mint for garnish.  Somewhere the drink must be served in the classic manner, but I haven’t yet found the place.  I’m sure I make damn Yankee Juleps, and one of these Mays I hope to tour the finest bars in Kentucky and engage in serious research. 

Lacking a gold standard for mint muddling, I’m letting my taste buds be my guide.  I’m planning to hit it a little more gently this year.  A julep should be sweet, and it’s a little easier to get that the way you want.  I use simple syrup.  I make this by heating equal parts sugar and water to a simmer until the mixture us perfectly clear.  When it cools I put it into a screw top jar and store it in the refrigerator.  It will keep for quite a while, but watch for dark spots of mold, and when you find them, throw it out and make some more. 

Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo, and I’m on to margaritas.  The secret for those is fresh lime juice.  Don’t be cheap, and don’t be lazy.  No bottled lime juice or margarita mix.  Don’t use premium tequila or fancy French orange liquor.  Make the drink with regular amber tequila and triple sec.  Forget the recipe on the triple sec bottle.  I use a four-to-one tequila to triple sec ratio.  Because triple sec provides sweetness I add a tiny bit of simple syrup.  I make the shortest possible pour because I like my margaritas tart.  I taste mixture with a silver spoon, and if it’s right I shake it up. Rub the rim of the glass with the rind of one of the limes and dip moistened rim in salt.  Coarse kosher salt is fine.  So is margarita salt if you prefer. 

 I think tomorrow I’ll manage some nachos.  Under the circumstances, I’m not planning to make my own guacamole.  Some of the store-bought brands are quite good.  These mini holidays provide bright spots to help get us fogies through the year.  If you have to skip one or cut down a little on a menu, so be it.  Maybe next year it will be better.  My motto is persist.