Marion, Massachusetts

Weather: below freezing????

We’re beginning to feel the persistent crush of time. It’ll be a full week that we’ve been here come tomorrow. I can’t quite believe it. We’ve got a lot accomplished, but I feel like only a little tiny dent has been made in the pile. If I want to see my family and friends, I’m going to have to start lining up everything weeks ahead of time, and, as everyone knows, planning is not my strong suit.

One frustrating thing is that the kind neighbor here with wireless internet access has wisened up and password-protected it. Good for him, bad for us. That means the nearest email access is the local coffee shop or library, both more than a mile away. Not really 24 hours a day online as I had envisioned. If we’re going to order things on eBay and have them shipped, we need to do it now. Not to mention the return tickets we haven’t bought yet.

Yikes. Did I mention that already? We don’t have return tickets, and we’re heading into the busy season in the Bahamas. We had some idle dream of hitching a ride as crew on a sailboat, some brave captain going offshore to Bermuda and ending up at Georgetown or some such place. But if we’re going to do that, we need to get on it right away too. (Seriously: If any Ranger 33 or other sailboat owner knows of someone heading offshore to Florida or the Bahamas in November or December, we’d love to crew. Please email me or post a comment.) I’m sure we can find a cheap ticket somehow--flying standby or taking a bus to Florida--but it’s just freaky to have not planned our departure yet.

It makes this visit feel too permanent. We can’t stick around too long, as much as we’d love to. We’re having a lot of fun here, and I begin to feel the clutch of family and community again. We took the kids to a fireman’s parade last Sunday, and we’re taking them to a dirt-bike race this Sunday. I love being able to cook in a full kitchen again, and curling up on the couch with Karl while we watch a movie isn’t so bad either. The Red Sox are trying not to bomb yet another post-season, and everyone’s talking about it. There is something to be said for fall colors and roaring fireplaces and roasted fowl. I feel the tug of roots, those little tendrils that drift down from my shoes and struggle to find a place to dig into the dirt. Try as they might, I keep ripping them up and carrying away with me to the next place. They stay short and stunted.

My roots are in the boat, now. She’s waiting for me to come home.