Yesterday’s forty five minute brisk walk was an evening tour of downtown Falmouth. Living here is like living in a Norman Rockwell painting. Hope you enjoy the stroll.
Liam’s FrankenClaus
Best mac & cheese next to the new French bread bakery
Most Beloved Yarn Store
Tiny Twinkles
Quarterdeck
Eight Cousins Bookstore
Kaleidoscope Toy’s Upside Down Window
Blue on Green
Town Green
The only reason this is blurry is because I’m walking at the speed of light…
Kettle Pond at Beebe Woods-Click on pix to enlarge
Stone Wall Originally Meant to Stop Sheep From Wandering
Almost Bigger Than Life
Beebe Woods
Today’s walk had me drawn to the trees along the way. Maybe Sandy has me looking at them differently than before the high winds, uprooted trees and thick timbers along the roadside.
Gnarly Toes
I especially like gnarly trunks that have long, weird toes digging into the earth. This one seems to say,” Go ahead, make my day, try to uproot me”.
Tall and Lean
Some seem so elegant with naked limbs reaching skyward, with leaves long gone. Its branches are in perfect form, and it stands strong.
Six Birches, One Trunk
This birch looks like it had ADD when it was a seedling. It shot up in six different directions simultaneously and created an oddly beautiful sculpture. I love how irregular it is.
These daily walks manage to cross-pollinate various segments of my life. I walk for exercise, to try to get in shape and keep healthy. The walks end up clearing my mind and encouraging all kinds of new ideas for writing, reading, art and life in general. It’s an opportunity to have a dialogue with my husband or to just enjoy the quiet. Today, it slowed my world down and let me look at the trees and make connections.
The only new, blue flower amidst fall colors
Survived transplanting, Sandy and a Nor’easter.
Makes me forget I’m exercising…
This week I turn 60 years old—I like to think of it as half way to 120. I’ve never been the type to fret about birthdays or aging. There’s so much I’ve got left to do as long as I’m here. That’s why I like to think about it as half way to 120.
First on my list is to continue to take good care of myself. Self-care has never been my forte. This past year it has been a priority, and I’m getting better at eating healthy, exercising and de-stressing. Being at the Cape has been a help; the world moves slower here, and I take time to do things that are good for me. There will be time to enjoy my hubby and the kids. The girls are all grown up, and they’re so much fun to be with. I’m a lucky lady.
The community here is a wonderful mixture of artists, intellectually curious minds, and generally sincere, good folks. My book group, knitting circle and to-be-formed spinning group bring out the best in me. So does a visit to the Farmer’s Market and the Falmouth Library. Having dinner at the Quarterdeck with Whitney as our all time, fabulous waitress is a regular date.
There are books to be read, writing to be done, creative projects to hatch, and gardening to tend. I promise not to get old and grumpy. There will be no complaining about the weather or saggy skin or a big ass. I will not dye my hair shoe-polish brown or wear orange lipstick. There will also be no bitching about stuff on television. I won’t be undergoing any plastic surgery or liposuction, but I will be eating more veggies. I will spend less time on the internet and more time daydreaming.
I’ll design and create most of my own clothes—and actually wear them. There will be fewer pieces in my closet, but they will be good looking and well-loved. There will be shelves with empty space on them and cupboards with room to spare. I’ll have less stuff, more time, less agita, more creativity and no headaches. There will be fewer rules and more coloring outside of the lines. That’s what turning half way to 120 will be for me. Oh, yes, there will be cake!
I just finished reading The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach; it’s about baseball, but really about life. Also, Father’s Day is next week and my head is flooded with great memories of my dad. So that’s the genesis of this post. My next post will focus specifically on Harbach’s book; I really liked it!
Baseball and I have a rocky relationship. When I was a kid, I used to play on a makeshift neighborhood team that would meet in the field across the street from my home. Here’s the scenario:
All I heard was that I was “out”, and I thought it meant I was thrown out of the game (again more evidence of my complete lack of understanding). I immediately ran home in tears. The boys didn’t know quite what to do. They scratched their heads, or whatever, and continued to play.
My red eyes and sad face were noticed by my dad who asked what was up. He wisely asked me to tell him EXACTLY what happened, including quotes from the boys. After my muddled explanation, his green eyes lit up in laughter, “Oh, you struck out!” I immediately replied, “Dad, I didn’t strike anyone—they threw me out because I can’t hit the ball.” He explained that “OUT” was not expulsion. This episode began my new relationship with the game.
Dad grabbed a wiffle ball and bat and for weeks he taught me not to make a fool of myself on the diamond. In the backyard, where no one could see me, he pitched and coached me until I could hit and sometimes even catch the ball. He was a determined, hopeful, kind soul.
Thereafter I could count on hitting the ball most of the time. The boys let me play, and I wasn’t the last one picked any more. Years later, an organization of New England Commercial Real Estate professionals held its annual picnic at a woodsy country club and thought it would be a great idea if we had a friendly game of softball. I thought I was going to die… play ball with all of these folks I did business with on a regular basis. Oh, the potential embarrassment and indignity of it all. If I refused, I looked like a prissy sissy. If I struck out, I looked like a fool.
So, this time, my patient husband (the physicist) held practice sessions in the back yard. He talked about the trajectory and the angles and the spin of the ball. I just wanted to hit the damn thing and run like hell. It all worked out well. I hit a home run; everyone was shocked. This kid finally got to feel the thrill of the bat and ball connecting and having everyone look up to the sky.
Dear New Elliptical,
Welcome to our home. Please notice that we didn’t put you in the basement, or the studio, or someplace dark and ugly. We also did not put you in the bedroom to be used as a clothes rack. You are perched on the loft overlooking the living room, the woods and the pond. There’s an air conditioning duct nearby and a gorgeous hardwood floor underneath you—don’t scratch it. You have sunlight, salt air, and good company. Please remember that you are new, sleek and agile…I am none of the above. It is my hope that we visit every day for about 40 minutes, and I build up a sweat—Oh—that sounds funny! I better go put on my sneakers and sweats.
With great expectations,
Diane
It’s Marathon Day here in Boston, and I am in awe of those who choose to run. No, it’s not the international elite runners who give me pause; it’s the every day Joe and Jane who take the challenge, get the blisters and sore muscles, and push themselves to do a demanding, nearly impossible task. When my kids were younger, we would watch the race and I would cheer, yell, clap and holler as the runners ran past. My children were mortified, and my husband looked puzzled. I must have been living vicariously through those runners. Meanwhile, back in real life, I would occasionally get on the treadmill, perhaps “do” the elliptical, and maybe take a walk. The walks have been most frequent and regular practice lately. They’re not known for their speed, but do provide some sanity time along with some sweat. I have actually thought about perhaps, maybe, possibly training for some road race someday… maybe…maybe I’ll walk the Falmouth Road Race route. That could be a beginning.
Yarnsista 