Home sweet Maine home

Posted on July 9, 2011 by sheilawill

It’s been a week since I drove onto Mount Desert Island, my former home for 25 years, now my second home. That’s right, I have a second home in Southwest Harbor, Maine. When I owned Oz Books vacationers came in talking about their hikes, day-long excursions to Cranberry Island, or picnics at Wonderland in Acadia National Park. I envied them, never imagining that I too would have their summer freedom.

The summer after closing my bookstore in 1997, I finally had the time to go swimming at Mile Rock in Long Pond. A young family noticed me on the big rock next to them. “IS that Sheila out in nature?” Kim P. asked incredulously. “It’s the OZ lady!” her children called out.

I’ve come from Tucson for my annual three weeks away from my primary home. Here’s what I’ve been doing so far: walking around Wonderland and/or Ship Harbor, taking care of repairs/upgrades at my house and trying to rent it for the winter (always stressful), drinking wine and talking about writing with my poet friend Candice, hiking up Beech Mountain with Martha and Mary ( I brought the traditional turkey jerky all the way from Trader Joe’s in Tucson), reading “Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain” by David Eagleman, eating a lot of crabmeat — no lobster yet — but I’ll have some with my kids next week, gazing out my bedroom window at the harbor toward Somes Sound and the surrounding mountains (small compared to Tucson but probably the most gorgeous view on the island), drinking strong coffee and checking my email across the street from Seawall at the Common Good Cafe, taking one bike ride without a helmet — naughty me, reading “Life” by Keith Richards, having a shiatsu session with dear Kathleen and taking a stroll around sunny Bar Harbor afterward, eating jalapeno dark chocolate ice cream, renewing an annual women’s retreat with three smart/energetic writer/teacher friends, eating dinner at Maine-ly Delights in Bass Harbor by the Swan’s Island ferry, strolling along Shore Road behind my house gathering wildflowers, meeting the women’s group I helped start years ago for a drink at the elegant Claremont, keeping my distance from the old Oz Bookstore that I owned for 15 years that has since become a pseudo art gallery, attending the Summer Festival of the Arts Arthur Russell strings concert, sitting on the bench at the end of the Cranberry Island dock alone and with friends but not sipping brandy with Dan. He’s back in Tucson in the heat and the monsoon and his work.

Have I done enough yet?

 

 

 

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“Island Boy” blue day

Posted on July 3, 2011 by sheilawill

Oh Barbara Cooney, I miss you. It all comes back to me here on Mount Desert Island, growing up with Brook and Ethan, running Oz Books, all my dear friends and wonderful community.

I remember Barbara’s sense of humor, the gorgeous gardens at her Damariscotta home. When I was young and more anxious, she always told me that she needed times of quiet juxtaposed with creative, often frenetic, times. I listened to her, but it’s taken me years to achieve that need for quiet. And it’s hard when I’m here; I want to connect with all my dear friends.

My first day back was perfect. Southwest Harbor is the most beautiful place in the world — when the sun shines, the Atlantic lapping slabs of pink granite at Wonderland. My pal Martha and I lounged around by the sea, a velvet breeze gently massaging our faces. We talked about writing, and this and that, as old friends do. The beauty of this place is intoxicating.

Last night after having dinner at Maine-ly Delights with other dear friends, we strolled down the path by my house to the Cranberry Island dock, sat on a bench at the edge of the water with a blanket over our legs, gazing at the sunset. Was it real or a movie set? Gray streaks emerging from a V-shape turning to pink. A clear evening. We could see the fire tower on top of Beach Mountain. The sea mirrored the sky. What could we say that would match that beauty?

At home a half-hour after Ellen and Lucy left, I heard loud noises that interrupted my tea-drinking peacefulness.

Early fireworks over Somes Sound. Yippeee! I won’t have to trek over to Bar Harbor with the humungous crowds on Monday night. I got up automatically and walked out the door down the path by my house to Shore Road. Flash, flash, flash…fireflies all around the field.  Kidness popped up, who knows when I last saw fireflies?

What a pleasure, leaving my house to the cool breeze, not hesitating to worry  about being robbed while I was gone. Southwest Harbor — my other home.

For those of you who have never been here, I’ll post photos soon. My blog is about words, but this place is indescribable.

Better get out to Ship Harbor now. “A good man. A good life,” my friend the illustrious children’s author/artist Barbara Cooney wrote in her picture book “Island Boy.” Yes, I’m grateful to have such a good life.

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The shoes, oh the shoes!

Posted on June 25, 2011 by sheilawill

My pal Martha and I share an ongoing conundrum: How many pairs of shoes to take on a trip? I’m thinking four when I take off for my beloved Mount Desert Island, Maine, on Thursday.

I’ll need the hiking boots for slippery climbs up Beech Mountain in the rain, my new turquoise sneakers for shorter strolls around Ship Harbor and Wonderland, sandals in case it gets summery, and heavy Dansko clogs — the wild card. What if it rain, rain, rains, as it often does, but I go out in the evening and want to feel taller, more elegant (?) than I do in tie shoes? And it’s cool enough that I need socks? That’s it, I’ll wear the clogs on the plane. (*Martha —  there’s no need to call back).

See what putting words on the page can accomplish?

And to you dear readers, I’m gearing up for vacation mode. I’m not sure if I’ll pay attention to “Sheila Talking” while I’m in Maine. I’ll be talking so much more there: I’ve increased my cell phone minutes/texts for July. I’ll want to let Dan, back home in Tucson, know what I’m up to.

I love seeing all my dear friends and accepting invitations when I’m at my house in Southwest Harbor. The trick is to take time for myself, to breathe in the salt air, ride my bike alone along Seawall Road, and arrange myself in the rocky cliffs of Ship Harbor with a good book and picnic.

And there’s the annual retreat with two Maine children’s author friends, Margy Burns Knight and Anne Sibley O’Brien (who years ago suggested I start a consulting business called “Sheila Talking”), and Phyllis Brazee from the University of Maine, who singlehandedly pioneered the advent of quality children’s literature in Maine classrooms.

This year, there’s the added excitement of Brook’s book launch at the Southwest Harbor Library on Thursday, July 14 at 7 p.m., with a party at our house at 165 Seawall Road afterward. (MDI friends — If our driveway is full, please park at the Catholic church or on Shore Road and walk up the path to our house. Thanks).

I hope it’s sandals that evening. I have a new outfit — since I’ll be introducing my magnificent daughter in front of an enormous crowd — but hmm…maybe the dress I wore to both Brook and Ethan’s college graduations? Sound shallow? Now that I’ve turned 65,  occasional brain relaxation suits me just fine.

Vacation… may you have all the shoes you need — on Mount Desert Island — or wherever summer takes you.

 

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Incomprehensibly small world

Posted on June 21, 2011 by sheilawill

Ethan emailed me today that a grad school buddy who’s in Afghanistan is coming up to to join him for a bike trip this weekend in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. When my adventurous, talented son, Ethan, now 30, graduated from Mount Desert Island High School I gave him calling cards with his trademark “E” on the front. The address was simply “Planet Earth,” although he would have a real email address in college at Reed.edu.

Here it comes, you say, When I was young…blah blah blah.

Okay. When I was in college, junior year abroad mean that the more sophisticated, wealthier students traveled to London or Paris. Needless to say, I didn’t go.

But both Brook — and especially Ethan — have made up for my lack of contact with the outside world. Brook spent a junior semester in Bali, and when she arrived at the home of the family she was staying with, her college sticker greeted her on the bedroom window. Small, small world.

I didn’t cross the Atlantic until I was in my 40s. I loved Paris for its continuous love affair with art and beauty; Israel for its long-buried and excavated thousands of years of history, and the freshest, tastiest tomatoes and cucumbers at hotel breakfasts; and my short jump over the Florida Strait to Cuba for its mojitos, plus my only experience at a Communist Party neighborhood gathering where young kids asked me to dance.

I’m curious about the rest of the world. I’ve got a new passport. I thought about applying for NYT columnist Nicholas Kristof’s trip to a developing country for journalists over 60 (like me). But I didn’t. Hell, I don’t want to sleep in a tent somewhere scary where I’d have to worry about more than scary bears eating our food. And I wouldn’t want to be bewildered by not understanding another language.

In Israel I found out that there are dairy/kosher/Italian restaurants, Sabras (Israeli-born) folks may make derogatory comments about Russian immigrants, and some Israeli Arabs may be very glad they don’t live in Gaza.

There’s nothing like an actual experience, right? I always felt sorry for my mother who watched everything on TV but had never been anywhere. One day she admitted that shopping in Hong Kong would be fun.

“Give me a bed and a blanket and some light breakfast,” as Greg Brown sings, but make it in a comfortable place — and I’ll go.

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Home is where you belong

Posted on June 18, 2011 by sheilawill

Home can be more than one place. At least it is for me. Such a warm feeling for Gabby Giffords who’s home in Tucson for the weekend, the first time since being shot in the head on Jan. 8, nearly dead. Gabby’s sure that Tucson is home; her roots are deep. I’m happy for her. It’s good to know she’s here.

In the movie “High Fidelity,” John Cusak can’t stop pining about an old girlfriend. “She feels like home,” he says. I never forget that line because it seems so right. Home is where you belong. You feel it so intently there’s no mistake.

I used to feel that New England was home. After I worked in the 1972 McGovern campaign in Montana,  I could have stayed there and taught. “Nope, I definitely feel my New England roots calling me home,” I said. No way would I leave Maine. I used to be a commercial for Mount Desert Island.

No more, at least not in the winter. I’m not a westerner. I’ll always be a New Englander. I have a house on Mount Desert Island, in Southwest Harbor. But for eight years now, other people have lived in my house, slept in my bed, showered in my tub, strolled down my path to the ocean. I’m there for three weeks every summer. Does that still count as home?

I see my house more clearly now than when I lived there winter and summer, teaching and running my bookstore, my kids in high school when Ethan would wait for the bus in a t-shirt during snowstorms, there waiting when they returned from college every summer.

I walk into the kitchen and it looks familiar. I practiced tap routines on that wood floor. Placed yummy birthday cakes and homemade pies for women’s group potlucks on the pantry shelf. Slept in a sleeping bag in front of the living room fireplace one Christmas vacation during a horrendous ice storm with no heat. Made my way down the stairs on my tush with a cast on my broken ankle. Cuddled and read with my kids on the couch in winter, drinking hot tea and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream. And so much more.

Is 165 Seawall Road still home? There’s a gap when I return every summer. Intervening days aren’t mine,  yet their remnants hover over the lilac bushes. Most of my days are spent in the desert, here in Tucson. But I have so much more history in Southwest Harbor. I belong there but it’s different now. When Brian at Sawyer’s Market says hi and asks me how I’m doing, it’s not as a year-rounder, someone who’s stuck it out. It’s only a polite question for a summer person. A label I never dreamed of donning. Who woulda thunk it?

So yes, I still feel comfortable in Southwest Harbor. I often say it’s where my kids and I grew up. But I belong in two places, which makes me not as attached to either, as say, a third-generation Tucsonan. Welcome home Gabby! Welcome home to me when I return to Southwest harbor in just two weeks.

 

 

 

 

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Wake up, wake up you sleepyhead…

Posted on June 12, 2011 by sheilawill

“Live, love, laugh and be happy. I’m just a kid again doin’ what I did again, singing that song. When the red, red robin comes bobobobing along…” That was my father’s favorite song. So it struck me as deep, meaningful or probably just a coincidence when my brother, Joel, called early Saturday morning (Tucson time) to serenade me with his annual singing birthday telegram. Then he added the “Wake up…” line.

Well, yeah, it was 9 a.m., and I believe bro gets up at 5:10 a.m. every day. We’re in the thick of Tucson summer now, meaning it’s really too hot to do much outdoors after 8 a.m. Still, I enjoy sleeping in, and it was my birthday. Turning 65, I figured it was time to do whatever I wanted.

Someone I barely know sent a Facebook link to the Beatles “Happy Birthday” song yesterday. I Loved it. I felt jolly.

But I was still curious about any underlying explanation for Joel singing that song. He and my father didn’t interact much, although our dad, Sidney Edward Wilensky, was a sweet man. Depressed and unmotivated too, kind of like my ex. Fathers and sons. Mothers and daughters. A never-ending mystery.

I’ve learned over the years — exponentially during the last 10 — that the best way to interact with anyone, whether in those most fraught intimate family relationships or not, is to speak in calm tones.

Fortunately, Dan is an expert at being direct without raising his voice. He can say anything to me without me getting all defensive. What a gift I so cherish at my advancing age. I try to emanate that calm tone to my grown children.

We’re going to be together in Southwest Harbor for a week in July. “It’ll be like summer camp,” Brook said yesterday. For me, it’ll be a return to a previous life, when Brook and Ethan were in high school and we shared one bathroom in the morning. But we’ve all evolved since then. I enjoy every moment looking at their beautiful faces; any difficult past moments recede.

“When I find myself in times of trouble mother mary [faith in myself learning to let go of control] comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: ‘Let It Be.'”

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Heavenly Feet

Posted on June 11, 2011 by sheilawill

Living in Tucson is like being on constant vacation, a prelude to an imagined lovely retirement. I took today off from work to celebrate with my friend Julie, with whom I share a June 11 birthday. Now I’m so relaxed I don’t want to jump in the pool, clean the house or make the yummy carrot-sweet potato soup I had in mind. All because of Heavenly Feet.

I kept hearing about this new business in Tucson. Once I peered in the storefront window, noticing rows of clean and waiting cushy recliners. The place was so clean. I was impressed. It was only $35 for a 20-minute back massage and 40-minute foot massage. Julie agreed to embark on this adventure for our pre-birthday outing.

Two young Chinese men greeted us for our appointment, leading us into the “back room” for our back massages, which was a fully clothed affair. The Chinese are ingenious, that’s what I always think, and I wasn’t disappointed. My guy — I don’t know what his name was — threw a soft bath towel over my back and started crunching. He had strong, very strong hands.

I’ve had wonderful massages over the years, and luckily when I heard cracking sounds emanating from my vertebrae, I wasn’t scared. Barry, the superb bodyworker who visits Tucson from Kripalu in Western Massachusetts, lets me know the cracking sound is a form of release, a positive occurrence.  The Heavenly Feet guys didn’t say a word, except to each other, since one didn’t speak English (he later told Julie his name was Frank).

“This must be the sweatshop of Chinese massage,” Julie chuckled as we got in her car. It was probably the lack of communication that made her feel that way. I didn’t mind because “my guy” got rid of layers of tension in my back and neck. I’m always surprised after bodywork to realize how tense I had been.

When it was time to move from the back room to the foot massage room there was no lull. “Foot massage” was spoken and we quickly followed the two young men.

A soft cloth was placed over my  face. Trickling water from an unseen fountain provided a lovely background tone. My feet were lowered into a wooden bucket lined with plastic  and filled with hot water — laced with “Chinese herbal solutions.” Forty minutes of foot massage with pinching, squeezing and slapping nearly put me to sleep.

I wondered if the two young men and the one woman who worked there were family. “No,” the English-speaking one told me. “Was he the owner?” He wasn’t. Who brought this new business to Tucson, who’s in charge? I’m just curious. I hope the three energetic employees aren’t making sweatshop wages. I’ll go back. My two little feet  have never felt so good.

 

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Wait there’s more…

Posted on June 8, 2011 by sheilawill

How did I forget the merging of my two stories at the 2004 Democratic Convention in “Advising Obama — In a Dream,” yesterday’s post? When I heard that George McGovern was at the convention in Boston I scurried over to his delegation and found him. Somebody was standing at the end of the row where he was seated, probably to protect his privacy.

“I worked for Sen. McGovern in the ’72 presidential election,” I told the guy. “Yeah, you and everybody else in here,” he replied. I started talking about my campaign tasks in Montana and McGovern must have overheard me. I wasn’t going to take no for an answer; I wanted to commend  for sticking up for his beliefs, not sugarcoating events or pushing fear, for being the most straightforward politician.

“Let her come over to see me,” McGovern told his protector. I sat down beside him. We chatted a bit about how he was doing before I said, “Back in 1972 when you came to Great Falls I advised you to ‘just keep telling the truth.'”

“We didn’t win, but my conscience is clear,” McGovern replied. Another sound bit of advice for President Obama — perhaps even more so because he did win.

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Advising President Obama — in my dream

Posted on June 8, 2011 by sheilawill

President Obama confided in me this morning. I was asleep. “I don’t believe in Jesus,” he told me, “but I get a lot of flak for it.” Boy was I surprised, even if it was a dream. Why was he telling me this?

I recall reading that the prez missed taking walks spontaneously; back in the olden days when he was a mere U.S. senator from Illinois he could stroll the streets of Chicago without fanfare. In my dream, Obama wore a disguise — jeans, a green and white horizontally striped t-shirt and a straw cowboy hat. Nobody recognized him as he chatted up Tucsonans in unfamiliar shops. The president craved conversation with ordinary people.

But then I recognized him. He started talking to me in my dream but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Was he reciting a poem or what? I considered reciting one back to him to show that we were compadres, but instead I told him two stories, both of which had actually happened in real life.

“Remember the 2004 Democratic Convention in Boston?” He nodded but didn’t say anything. “Well I was there,” I said, reminding him of his electrifying speech when he proclaimed, “we’re not a red America or a blue America, we’re one America.”

Who was this guy I had never heard of before? He has a future, I remember thinking. Walking from the Fleet Center to the Government Center MBTA stop I saw him, the State Senator Barack Obama from Illinois. He was smoking a cigarette, with a few people strolling along beside him.

What an opportunity, a journalist’s dream! I caught up with him. “That was a magnificent speech,” I may have said. I definitely asked if he was going to run for president. He chuckled, nearly choking on his cigarette, and said something like “I’m not even a senator yet.” It occurred to me, maybe he hadn’t yet planned a future run for president. But now I’m not sure. Anyway, he was definitely a nice guy, and I liked him in that brief exchange. I still do.

Since Obama has been president I’ve wondered if he has the stomach for some of the sicko politics he has to contend with, which reminds me of my other major political encounter. In 1972, I worked in the campaign of another presidential candidate I loved voting for. We were in Montana getting out the vote. Sen. George McGovern, the Democratic candidate brought down by Tricky Dicky and Watergate, was coming to  Great Falls for a major appearance at the airport. All day I pondered what I would say in my split-second opportunity.

“Just keep telling the truth,” I told McGovern. That’s still the best advice for any politician — in reality or in my dreams.

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Wine tasting, check

Posted on June 7, 2011 by sheilawill

I’m not sure why wine tasting has appeared on my imaginary life list for a long, long time. I’m not much of a drinker. Is it the art, the pretty labels gracing sleek bottles? The vision of smiling, earthy young Europeans stomping on grapes in a giant wooden barrel? Or does it have something to do with feeling grown up? “Oh yes, I’d like a glass of pinot noir with my lobster thermidore.” (I don’t even know what that is.)

But I’m not the sophisticated type. Staring at the unusually elegant Artevino/2008 Estate Symphony bottle of wine that I bought last week at the Maple Creek Winery in Yorkville, California, all I can say is the stuff tastes good, and I chose it after tasting around eight different selections.

Brook has advised me not to buy crappy wine so I took her advice. I’m doling out a small glass of the most expensive wine I’ve ever purchased, a little each night of my last week of being 64. (“Birthday greetings, bottle of wine…will you still need me when I’m 64?”)

Money has been an issue my entire life. I’m not saying I need a lot of it, but this year I’ve started to present myself with some quality stuff, starting with a non-thriftstore windbreaker. I indulged in my first colorful works of art to hang over the fireplace in our living room.

If not now, when? Taking this question further, I’m typing this frivolous little blog post on my new MacBook Air. That’s right dear readers. Me, Sheila the tightwad, spent $400 more on what I’m told is a less useful computer than its MacBook predecessor: it can’t burn or play cds for one thing. I don’t care.

It’s light, it’s elegant and it’s silver. It’s a work of art.  I like the shiny shocking pink bag specially purchased in Patagonia months ago for my dream computer.

After buying the MacBook Air in Eugene so I could save $100 sales tax, I told Dan that for the first time in my life I felt paranoid about owning something so valuable. I would have that pink bag with me at all times. He rightfully deemed it “The Precious.”

Maybe my writing will flow more readily on “The Precious,” like wine at a California vineyard. But this week, all I know is that I’m worth it.

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