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I had gotten used to being a square peg in a round hole. In college, I was in the first class of Boston College to admit women (we had urinals in the bathrooms). In my career, I survived and thrived in the male dominated commercial real estate business. At home, I was a normal, down to earth person who lived in a hoity-toity, uppity, full of attitude and entitlement suburb (tolerated because of good schools and solid property values.)

My difference became the norm for me. Now, for the first time in a very long time, I’m living somewhere permanently where I feel like I fit: Falmouth. It is an absolutely delightful, refreshing, happy feeling.

This morning I spent time reading, doing some writing, and a bit of knitting. Then we headed to downtown Falmouth to enjoy not one, but two festivals in downtown Falmouth. My Facebook status reported:

Off to the Strawberry Festival and Arts Alive Celebration in downtown Falmouth… Yes!!!! I will scope out all the fiber creations, and David will eat alllllllll of the fried dough and sausage sandwiches. Life is good:)

At 10 am, the streets are “just full enough” of people with kids and dogs in tow. The shops are open and each has a garden set in the sidewalk that is in full bloom. Nobody has a cell phone attached to his/her ear, and nobody pushes or bumps into us. People smile and say hello. They make conversation. I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.

The first stop is the Strawberry Festival at St. Barnabas. I confess, I ate the most delicious serving of strawberry shortcake, complete with extra whipped cream at 10 am this morning. Well—it does contain fresh fruit, dairy and wheat! David, on the other hand, starts off the morning with a hot dog followed by his even larger portion of shortcake. People ask how we like it, comment on the gorgeous red color against the white cream, and ask where to get some of their own.

Young couples with little ones in buggies or held by hand mingled with the gray hair set. I play with one baby while her mom sells tickets; while chatting I learn that the baby was a preemie and is thriving. I just finished knitting hats for the preemies at Falmouth Hospital, and the mom told me how she will forever remember the little preemie hat that her baby wore when she was first born and in the NIU.

Teens make the rounds in their own broods, but actually make eye contact with the rest of the world and say hello. It is a melting pot filled with pleasant people, great food and all kinds of stuff for sale. A book table is full to the brim with recent publications donated by townspeople and sell for a dollar or two; customers are two layers deep and everyone is gabbing (not grabbing!) about what book they particularly enjoy. An antique linen table is filled with, you guessed it, your grandmother’s linen closet goodies; handmade lace, lots of embroidery and exquisite cut work are on display. Folks chat about how they once had a tablecloth like that… and who spilled the wine on it.

We stroll through the tent with all kinds of recycled treasures and promise to return for a lobster roll on the way back to the car. Onwards a few blocks to the Arts Alive celebration in front of the library. Here we find live music, more yummy food, and a vast assortment of creative artwork.

Falmouth Art Center Creative Gang

The folks who man the Falmouth Art Center booth have a loom set up and invite all to take part in Free Form Weaving. A basket of fiber is nearby and someone else is spinning while a third person is knitting a gorgeous shawl. They talk about what they were making AND ask what sort of fiber work I do. We swap information about types of yarn and patterns… and I learn that this is an organization I really want to belong to asap.

The Barn Pottery, Pocasset, MA

There is a potter, complete with her wheel, working on a beautiful bowl. The expression on her face proves that she loves her work. A spinner has her wheel in full swing and her artsy hand spun yarn with thick and thin bobbles is so lovely that it could be worn as a necklace. Another woman is knitting mittens with yarn she dyed using natural products; the colors are rich and unique. I want them!

We find the photographer who took our family photos years ago. As we are telling her how she so wonderfully captured us on the beach, another couple pipes up that she also took her wedding photographs fifteen years ago. She, too, captured their essence.

I could go on and on, but you get the picture. Today I found a lot of creativity, nice people, a real sense of community, and a place I’m happy to call home.

I have many memories from Catholic elementary school, some good and more than a few bad ones. In fourth grade Sister Del Rey taught the class that only people who were baptized Catholics would earn the right to get into heaven. No non-Catholics would pass through the pearly gates; they would have to wait in Limbo, with the others and stay “on hold” for an indefinite amount of time, maybe forever. I remember raising my hand and asking if there ever were any exceptions to this rule; she firmly answered, “NO, never”. We were also told not to tell our parents about this. Hmmmm…

This posed a problem for me because my dad was baptized Episcopalian and converted to Catholicism when he was in his twenties. He was an active church member, played Santa every Christmas, and was a pillar of Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church. According to the Sister’s understanding of “the rules”, my mom, sister and I would be in heaven, but my dad wouldn’t be admitted. By the way, fat chance that my mom and sister would make it there—but that’s another blog entry… Excluding my dad bothered me to no end. He was a foster child and had a really tough childhood. He was alone a lot of the time and made the best of it. The thought of him being alone again while the rest of us were with good-ole God upset me. I remember the anger and tears as if it were yesterday.

When I got home, every time I looked at him, I cried. He sat me down and asked me what was wrong. I told him the whole story, despite Sister’s “When Asked, Don’t Tell” policy. His reaction is one of the many reasons why I loved him so much. He looked me right in the eye and said: “Oh, don’t worry about that. I took care of it. I had a long conversation with God, and we made a deal. As long as I am a good dad, he will let me into heaven. No problems”. I was so relieved. He certainly would hold up his end of the bargain. Then he added, “God also said not to tell Sister Del Rey.”

This past week has brought two encounters with the species that is going to take over the world, according to my old high school biology teacher. The ants have arrived a bit early, I’m told, because of the warm weather. They’re in their glory in one small section of my basement and perhaps under some shingles on the east side of the house.

When I was a kid, the ants arrived in my mother’s living room one season. I got yelled at because I was apparently to blame. “Apparently” I ate sugared gummy candies and left some sweet stuff behind for the insects. I’m not admitting to anything… but the cure, back then, was rather simple. My mother made me spray Raid until I choked. That killed everything, she said. Hmmmm…I said gagging.

Today, however, we have spoken to four specialists at a “pest control” company. Actually, I wanted the company that had the big cockroach on its van to show up in Swellesley, but my husband nixed that idea. I don’t want to offend PITA or Green People, but I want these ants dead, and I’d like to not choke in the process.

So on Monday, the games will begin: Pest Controllers VS Ants. Who are you rooting for?