Outliving the Queen

As we begin to navigate the budding Carolean era of King Charles III, I am not the first person to observe that, prior to his reign, when there was a reference to "the Queen," there was no question as to which queen in particular was meant. Clearly, unless one was in Denmark, no one would wonder whether this was a reference to Margrethe II. Certainly, no one would have believed that the reference was to any of the numerous Queen Consorts throughout the world, such as Rania of Jordan or Sylvia of Buganda. Even TSO would not think of moi when hearing a reference to the Queen because, to him, I am "Mi Reina." 

"The Queen," as we all know, was none other than Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor a/k/a Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. I still refer to her as such, despite her death some eight months ago.

"The Queen" was born in London on April 21, 1926. Eleven days earlier, across the pond, TSO's father, John Peter Illo, was born in the Bronx. Their lives were worlds apart, and, although their paths never intersected, they certainly ran parallel in many respects. Lilibet's and John's early childhoods coincided with the Great Depression. They served in the military during World War II. Together with their spouses, they had many children (she, 4; he, 6). They endured the pain of suffering the deaths of their spouses to whom they had been married for decades (she, 73 years; he, 68). They probably had many other things in common. Yet, for as long a life the Queen had lead before she died, John Peter Illo's was a bit longer. Another of the Greatest Generation has been lost to time.

                                                                 * * * * * * * * * * *

Often, after people die, those who are left behind tell stories of the little coincidences they had experienced either immediately before or immediately after a loved one's death -- experiences that take on special meaning when examined in the context of the loss. Below is a little essay by TSO on his experiences in recent days:

On Saturday morning, May 20, 2023, Kathryn and I were sitting in our beach house living room when, suddenly, she gasped upon seeing a red cardinal land on the back of a chair on our deck, not more than five feet from where I was sitting on the sofa. Cardinals are not an ordinary sight here on the beach. Kathryn told me of the meaning of red cardinals and wondered aloud whether my father had passed away. As the cardinal sat perched atop the chair, a female cardinal joined him. After a pause, they flitted about for a bit before flying up and away. I found the following online regarding the symbolism of a red cardinal:  "The red cardinal is a spiritual messenger from God. The red cardinal is representative of departed loved ones." 

 Yesterday afternoon, I was walking along East Sandwich Beach when I received a text from my brother Michael letting me know that Dad had passed away.  I immediately turned around and went back to our house to tell Kathryn.  A few hours later we drove to our church here in Sandwich, Corpus Christi, to light a candle and to say some prayers.  We parked next to an old red Ford F-150 pickup, and noticed a bit incongruously that the there was an older lady in the driver's seat. She looked like she could have been close to my Dad's age.   As we got out of our car, this sweet woman rolled down her window, said hello and introduced herself to us as Paula, and told us that she had just picked some Solomon's Seal and placed it in the adoration chapel, which was our destination.  Kathryn shared with our new friend that my father had just passed away a few hours ago, and Paula tearfully said that the flowers were for my father.  

Kathryn and I went into the church, lit a candle for Dad in front of the Infant of Prague, and went to the adoration chapel to pray.  There we saw Paula's Solomon's Seal on either side of the small altar.  

Solomon's Seal is not a plant that we were familiar with, and I was touched to realize that the flowers look like those of Lilly of the Valley, which was one of my Mom's favorite flowers. (My sister Camille has a story about Lilly of the Valley and Mom's near-fatal accident in 2007.)   Solomon's Seal is larger and more masculine than the more delicate and feminine Lilly of the Valley.  It was, again, an echo of the male and female cardinals, and I believe a sign of my Mom and Dad being re-united.

 We finished our prayers.  As we drove home, Kathryn looked up information about Solomon's Seal on her phone and let out another gasp.  "Solomon's seal is used to treat lung disorders, reduce swelling (inflammation)", read Kathryn.  My father passed away from Covid. He was blessed with a peaceful death.

Solomon's Seal to the Adoration Chapel

 altar at Corpus Christi Church, East Sandwich, MA  

Lilly of the Valley

East Sandwich Beach on the evening of May 21st

                                                                   

Divine Reprieve!

My yesterday afternoon was planned to the minute. I was going to leave the beach house at 1:30 to drive to a frame shop in Dennis, where I had left a something-or-other last fall and as to which they were going to try to figure out what it was. I never did hear from them, so I thought it would be a good idea to retrieve my mystery item before we leave the Cape on May 27th. From there, my itinerary called for me to stop by the Cape Abilities Farm to pick up our last "salad club" box. Finally, I had a medical appointment to attend. Bing! Bang! Boom! Schedule set.

As luck would have it, I could not find the frame shop. The first time I went there, I also was unable to find it without a lot of effort, and this time was more of the same. My GPS wasn't working, so I just decided to forget about it and go to the farm, which I did. That was sad, and, as I have with all places I've visited in these waning days, it brought on the tears. When I was finished there, I had some time to kill before my medical appointment. I decided to go home for about 30 minutes before leaving for the appointment.

When I pulled up to the beach house parking spot, I just happened to run into our landlord on the street. He and his wife live quite a distance away, but, every now and then, they travel here to check out their other house, which sits directly behind our beach house. I call that house the "street house" because it sits at the bottom of the dune on the street. Actually, the first floor of the street house is above the street, such that there are "peek a boo" views of the ocean from the second floor to the right and to the left of the beach house, which blocks the full view. Anyway, when I ran into the landlord, he and his wife were just checking in on the "street house." 

We stopped to chat, and I told the landlord of my love for Sandwich and East Sandwich and how much TSO and I have enjoyed our stay here and how very sad I am at the thought of leaving this all behind on May 27th. We parted, and I went into the beach house to tackle the laundry as I do every Wednesday.

About ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. It was the landlord. He told me that his wife was inside the street house and asked whether I could stop by. "Sure," I said. A few minutes later, I went to the street house, figuring I could go from there to my car to my appointment. Surprise! Surprise! Mrs. Landlord told me that her husband had told her about our conversation, and then she announced: 

"For the first time ever, we have been unable to rent this house for the month of June. Also, the week of Memorial Day is available at the beach house. If you and Jim would like, you may stay at the beach house through June and then move into the street house and stay there until July 1st. We'll just need to decide on the rent, which I'm sure will not be a problem."

SERIOUSLY?? I couldn't believe it. Mrs. Landlord gave me a tour of the house, which, unlike the beach house, has two bathrooms. Praise the Lord!! It has two bedrooms, plus, a third room with two sets of trundle beds! It also has an upstairs and downstairs deck with views of the marsh. We can access the beach via the ramp. Most important of all, WE GET TO STAY ON THE CAPE FOR ANOTHER MONTH!!

via GIPHY

How is it that, in my moment of despair, when I thought this was all coming to an end, I just happened to be at the beach house, even though I wasn't supposed to be, at the same time Mr. and Mrs. Landlord happened to be at the street house, and Mr. Landlord was outside at the same time I was outside, and we were close enough in proximity to have a conversation rather than just wave to each other, and he told his wife everything I said, and they realized, hey, we were going to a hotel inland but they have a house in Sandwich? 

I'll tell you how it is. It is an answer to prayer!! Of course, it's only a partial answer, but I'LL TAKE IT!

Street House
(Beach House in Background)

The Sandwich Heresy

Spring Has Finally
Sprung in Sandwich

Two weeks from today, we leave our beach house by the sea. The waning of days is probably the best explanation for my silence over the past month, as I have been falling deeper and deeper into a profound sense of anticipated loss, knowing that, literally, my days are numbered here. In April, I was blessed to have multi-day visits from two different friends who traveled up to visit me and to experience what my life is like here in Sandwich. We packed a lot into those little visits, and I actually got to do some things that TSO and I had not gotten around to in the past seven months. For example, we visited the Sandwich Glass Museum, which was a great little museum. 

"Just enjoy the time you have left," TSO counsels. Sure. Not only are the number of days numbered, they have been interrupted by detours here and detours there such that said days are actually much fewer than the calendar reflects. It doesn't help that we have nowhere to go when our lease expires and, thus, will be moving into an extended stay hotel. I suppose that, if we were moving into a house we bought, things would be much different. However, that whole subject is an issue, which I'll eventually explain in House Hunters (Part 3[a])!

I was introduced to Sandwich in 2015 when we first vacationed on the Cape. I was smitten. I called it "the Haddonfield of Cape Cod," as it is the oldest town on the Cape, having been incorporated in 1639. When we signed the lease for our winter rental, I expected to enjoy my eight months here, and I certainly have. I've met some wonderful people, especially the ladies in the local D.A.R. chapter where I'm an associate member. I'm a "regular" at certain places, such as the Cape Abilities thrift store and farm, as well as Titcomb's Book Shop, an independent, family-owned bookstore that's about a mile away from our beach house. I have beautiful views every day, no matter the weather. Yet, although I expected to enjoy my time here, to even love my time here, I never, ever expected that I would fall in love with Sandwich, with the Cape, and never want to leave. Such is the state of things right now. I am in mourning.

So, what's the heresy? The heresy is this. I am convinced that I must have lived on the Cape in a previous life. From the start, I have felt a deep connection to this land, this other country as I call it. I belong here. It's a "fit" that is so primal, so indwelling, so preternatural, that it can be explained in no other way really. I don't believe I lived in Sandwich in that previous life, however. I feel like I lived in Yarmouth Port. I may have been a bar maid. I'm not sure. It certainly would be more romantic were I a sea captain's wife, waiting for the return of my love while pacing around the widow's watch atop our majestic house by the sea. Instead, I'm afraid I was more likely working in some local tavern serving beers while dressed in a corseted medieval-type dress with my buxom breasts heaving over the top of my bodice. (I think this may explain why I like the 1972 hit song "Brandy." Just what is the "raging glory" anyway? TSO has a theory, but I won't share it.) I just hope I had all my teeth--and my dignity, of course. 

So, on May 27th, we'll be moving off the Cape to the place called "inland." To be sure, we'll be close to Christina and Lou and the kids, but my views from our hovel will be of a parking lot, not the sea. Perhaps I can get a job as a bar maid at a Red Lobster somewhere and dream of what are now my two previous lives on the Cape.

The End of a Sunset in the End of my Days Here

House Hunters (Part Two)

In House Hunters (Part One), I talked about the first house I bought and how, for six months, it had waited patiently for me to "find" it. In House Hunters (Part Three), I plan to talk about how TSO's and my marital home in the Land o' Lakes waited THREE years for us to find it and how the patterns discussed in Part One, and now Part Two, seem to be playing out here in Massachusetts or wherever it is that we are meant to wind up.

In my experience, there are houses that wait (e.g., Haddonfield) and houses that scream "No! Not me! Go away!" Actually, if I really think about it, it's probably not the houses that are communicating but, rather, something bigger than all of us -- the Universe, God, Spirit Guides, call it/them what you will. I will give you an example of how we ignored sign after sign that a house was screaming "No!," thus forcing God to send a FLOOD to stop us from making the huge mistake that the house was trying to help us avoid.

Shortly after TSO and I married in December 2005, my darling Liege Man of Life, Limb, and Love observed that, when it comes to our marriage, he is "along for the ride." The first ride was the quest for a lake house in either the Pocono or Endless Mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania, about a two-and-a-half to three-hour drive away. Not exactly around the corner.

In late summer 2006, we found a vacant cottage at the water's edge of the worst possible part of Lake Quinn, a small-to-medium size lake in the Endless Mountains. The seller was an estate. By September 2006, we were under contract to purchase it. We called the cottage Kwin-Lo-A, which was a take on the name of the lake, my first initial, and the surnames of moi, TSO, and Christina.

The cottage was a step above a shack, but it had a foundation, and I thought it was adorable. I made it a point to meet as many neighbors as possible, and I was surprised at how cagey about the place that they all seemed to be. Everyone hemmed and hawed when I pressed them for information about it. I chalked up their hesitance to the local-yocal factor and our status as being "from away." 

There were many signs along the way that this house was not right for us. Week after week, after the contract was signed, some major issue would pop up -- one that would lead a normal person to walk away. But, I have never been normal. As for the Sainted One, he knew better than to tell me to "put the crazy away." After all, he's along for the ride. 

The home inspection should have been enough to convince us to walk away. The inspector found that the 800 square foot home was heated only by a trailer heater, which, by the way, wasn't working. As winter would soon be approaching, we requested that the heater be fixed and that the house be winterized. We even offered to pay for the winterization. "Nope," said the sellers. They insisted that, contrary to the inspector's report, the heater did work, as attested by their own person who checked it out. They promised to keep the heater set to 55 degrees, which, they claimed, would prevent any pipes from freezing and breaking. So, they wouldn't acknowledge that the heater was, shall we say, inappropriate. They wouldn't fix it, and they wouldn't winterize the house even if we paid for it. OK. Fine.

Next up. The septic system. When that was checked, it turned out that some major tree roots had moved in. The thing was a disaster. Did we run, not walk? No. Why? Surprisingly, the sellers agreed to replace the septic system, and I remained hell bent on buying this cottage.

There were other signs along the way. The cottage shared a well with the next-door neighbor, who also happened to control it, so we had to get a shared-well agreement. We were able to do that, but we were going to have no control over the well, which had the shut-off valve in the neighbor's garage, as I learned from our lawyer, who was working on the agreement with the owners of that house, which also was vacant and for sale.

It took us forever to get homeowners insurance because there was no fire hydrant anywhere near the cottage. The various insurance companies just couldn't accept the fact that, if there were a fire, the local fire department would simply pump water out of the lake, which was 20 feet from the cottage, and put out the fire that way. Nope. There needed to be a hydrant. I suppose they didn't think that lake water would work? Finally, we found a local agent who was able to get us insurance through a local company.

We got through it all, and closing was scheduled for late in the morning on December 20, 2006. A few days before the closing, I inquired of our agent about the pre-closing walk-through inspection. He acted as though he had never heard of such a thing. I was all astonishment over that one. At my insistence, he arranged for the walk-through on the morning of the 20th, just before the scheduled closing.

The day before closing, we rented a cargo van and filled it with lots of furniture and other things that we had purchased (pots and pans, etc.) to take to the house and set up after we were given the keys. We also had arranged for a local furniture store to deliver mattresses to the cottage, so we could set up beds.

Fast forward to December 20, 2006, about an hour before the scheduled closing. We arrived at the cottage in the cargo van. The agent was already there. After we got out from the van, he approached us with a grim look, stating, "You're not going to like this." As we neared the door to the cottage, we could hear the sound of rushing water coming from inside the structure. We stepped inside the door, and the water was about a foot-and-a-half high. There was green and pink mold growing on the ceiling and under the counter tops. And there stood the agent, fretting about how he didn't know where or how to turn the water off. Aha! I told him that the shut-off valve was in the neighbor's garage. Fortunately, his agency had the listing for the sale of that house, so he was able to get the code to get into the house and turn off the water. So much for the working heater inside the cottage. In early December, there had been a deep freeze in that part of Pennsylvania; the heater clearly wasn't working; the pipes clearly froze; and, when the deep freeze was replaced by a warm up, the pipes burst. 

Needless to say, the Kwin-Lo-A deal fell through. Afterward, we subsequently learned that someone came in under cover of darkness for a few nights, presumably to cover up the damage. I watched the house for several years after that, and every spring, it would go up for sale. Gee, I wonder why?

The moral of this story is that, when searching for a house, pay attention to any sign that something is wrong either with the house or the sellers or both. Do not, in the face of obvious evidence that a house is not meant to be yours, push and push and push, lest you force God, the Universe, or your Spirit Guides to send a FLOOD to stop you!!

As for why the cottage in the Endless Mountains would have been a huge mistake, we will never know. Perhaps we would have grown tired of the endless commute to and from the Endless Mountains and then had trouble unloading Kwin-Lo-A. More likely, if the deal had gone through, we never would have moved to the Land o' Lakes where we built many happy memories with all three sides of our family, especially our grandchildren. 

 

Guest Blogger "Ishmael" (a/k/a TSO) and His Whale of a Tale

Every spring, the North Atlantic Right Whales return to New England. One of their favorite spots is Cape Cod Bay. The right whale is one of the most endangered large whale species, with an estimated 350 remaining. In the late 19th century, the whaling industry nearly wiped out the species. Although whaling is no longer a threat, the population has not recovered, and the species remains endangered. Today, the leading cause of right whale mortality is entanglement with fishing gear, vessel strikes, and "ocean noise," which is believed to interfere with the whales' communication and increase their stress levels. 

Not the Cutest Whale in the Ocean

This spring, the first right whale was seen returning to the Cape about a month ago. Often they swim through the Canal, which causes the Army Corps of Engineers to shut it down to traffic until the whales have cleared the waterway. These happenings always generate large crowds and are always featured on the evening news, generally with overhead shots of a mother right whale and a calf by her side.

I have often asked TSO whether he thinks we will ever see a whale swimming in front of our beach house. He has always said no, that the water is too shallow. And, then, on Thursday, April 6, 2023, while I was not home, TSO called me in the car to tell me that, lo and behold, there was a right whale swimming about a quarter mile away directly in front of our house! I hurried home with our granddaughter Penny, hoping that the whale would still be here. Well, not only was the whale still here, another whale had joined him/her. Penny and I were able to enjoy quite a show from the two of them until they finally decided to swim away to wherever it is that they summer here in New England. What a thrill!

I asked TSO to write an account of his discovery for my blog. He did. Without further ado, please read TSO's Whale of a Tale: 

TSO'S WHALE OF A TALE IS BELOW

On Holy Thursday afternoon, I went up to the loft. I looked out the second floor windows to Cape Cod Bay, which was calm and still on this relatively warm day. I noticed something in the water that looked too small to be a boat but too large to be a bird. 

Something in the water - 

can you see the black dot far out in the water?

I came downstairs and grabbed the binoculars to get a better look. Still, I couldn't quite figure out what I was seeing. The object looked like a seal. To one side of the seal, there appeared to be gently rippling water, but even that was questionable, as the rippling water looked more like a sandbar. This was odd. We had never seen a sandbar that far out in the bay, about 1/4 mile from the shore, although we had seen seals before.

Is that a seal?

As I watched, more of the creature surfaced and I realized, "It's a whale!!". "Oh", I thought, "I wish Kathryn and Penny were here!" I knew they were on their way home, but would they get here in time? I frantically grabbed my super-zoom camera to take pictures, certain that the whale would disappear before I could get proof of my discovery.  Thankfully my fear about the whale's imminent disappearance was not justified. I was able to set up the telescope and take photos and even a video of the whale, and saw it spout several times. 

Right Whale skim-feeding in Cape Cod Bay

Whale spouting

Before long another whale appeared!  The two of them moved west toward the Cape Cod Canal, getting smaller and smaller in the distance. "Oh where oh where are Kathryn and Penny!"

Two whales in Cape Cod Bay

Kathryn called to let me know she and Penny would be arriving around 5:35 PM. As if on cue, the whales started coming back toward our beach. When Kathryn and Penny arrived, all three of us were all able to see the whales skim-feeding on the bay!

Thank you, TSO, for your very descriptive Whale of a Tale, as well as your awesome photographs!

House Hunters (Part One)

The title of this post has nothing to do with the HGTV show called House Hunters. I have bought two houses in my life. On neither occasion was it a matter of looking at three different houses AND making a decision all within one hour! If only....

The first house I bought -- all by myself -- was in Haddonfield, New Jersey. That was a six-month effort back in 1991. In those days, there was no realtor.com or zillow.com or any of the other internet sites and apps that provide pictures, facts, and other information about every single house for sale anywhere in the country. Rather, back then, a house hunter pretty much had to contact a real estate agent, describe what the house hunter wanted, and leave it to the agent to go through the Multiple Listing Service book of black and white pictures and descriptions, decide which houses fit the client's description, and then drive the person from house to house in search of the perfect home. My agent's name was Miriam. 

From the beginning, Miriam wanted me to see a house on Prospect Road. I refused, telling her that it was the ugliest house in Haddonfield. It had a horrible dormer out front, and, except for the roof and the handrails up the front steps, it was nothing but white. The clapboard was white. The trim around the windows was white. The three-season porch had been enclosed with what appeared to be a row of storm doors without handles -- again all of them white. The outside door was white. White. White. White. There was no depth. There was no charm. Just white.

Instead, for six months, Miriam took me from house to house within my budget, none of which was suitable. The only houses within my budget needed work, but I would not be able to have the work completed, as I would have spent all my money on buying the house and then have a mortgage to pay every month! Plus, on my budget, any house I would buy would have only one bathroom.

One Saturday, six months in, we were scheduled to look at houses -- yet again. When I met Miriam, I told her that this was it, that if I didn't find a house that day, I was going to take a break from looking for a while. She showed me a few more houses that didn't work for me. When we were ready to part, Miriam said to me, "Kathryn, there's an open house at Prospect Road today. Just go and take a look." I was annoyed, told her that I was really busy that day, but promised that I would try to get there. The open house was from 2:00 to 4:00. During that time, I had a lengthy hair salon appointment. 

My hair appointment concluded well after 3:30. The last thing I wanted to do was look at the ugliest house in town. Yet, I thought to myself, "Go look at it so that Miriam leaves you alone." I didn't get to the open house until 3:55, exactly five minutes before it was over. As I walked up the steps and onto the front porch, I was frustrated because this was just a waste of time that I didn't have in the first place, and I was worried that the real estate agent in charge of the open house would be annoyed that I was showing up basically when it was over.

Opening the outside door and stepping onto the faded Berber carpet covering the porch floor did nothing to change my attitude about or lack of interest in this house. I held my breath, as I approached the entry door to the house. As I then turned the handle, I dreaded what I would encounter inside. Slowly, I opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, instinctively, and with certainty, I knew that the ugliest house in Haddonfield was "the one." I was home! I was in love. THIS WAS IT!! By the next day, the agreement of sale was drawn up and signed. Isn't that a hoot?!

The house wasn't perfect, by any means. It had only one bathroom, but the structure and mechanics were in good enough shape and, most importantly, without the need for any major work. The house was small (1200 square feet), but it was just Christina and me at the time. As for the hideous dormer and the porch enclosed by what appeared to be white storm doors without handles, well, they were just the price that had to be paid for a beautiful, warm and cozy interior: original, unpainted chestnut woodwork and oak flooring with walnut inlays that had been arranged in beautiful patterns!!! I had seen nothing like that in any of the houses I had viewed. At the time, unpainted woodwork was a rarity, as (I once read) it was all the rage to paint woodwork after one of the World Wars, I think. Maybe it was Korea. I'm not sure anymore, but it seemed as though every single house I had looked at during those six months had painted woodwork. In addition, chestnut woodwork was prized because a blight in the early 20th century had destroyed the chestnut trees, which produced a beautiful, hardy wood widely used in the construction of houses that could no longer be acquired. (The house was built in approximately 1923.) 

Almost as soon as Christina and I moved in, I had the oak floors with walnut inlays refinished. My dear, most darling brother, spent many hours stripping the tired dark stain and varnish and then putting a coat of polyurethane on top of the beautiful chestnut color that had emerged. I loved my house!

Over the years, I was able to give the outside a bit of depth. The window trim and the foundation were painted a dark green. One of my neighbors painted the handle-less screen doors and the entry door with contrasting shades of dark and light green. In my view, this was a significant improvement! I don't know what other people thought, but I didn't care. There was now a big, purple Victorian house in town, for Pete's sake. This couldn't be so bad.

The Exterior of Prospect Road

Ignore the Staging and Look at That Woodwork!

Look At That Floor!

Christina grew up in that house, where she lived for twenty-one years, and I lived for twenty-two years. When TSO joined us, he was there for eight years. Thanks to him, we were able to add a half bath on the first floor.

Christina married Lou in 2012. She and I and her bridesmaids had our hair and make up done at the dining room table. It was the last big event to take place at that house. One year later, Prospect Road had become a memory, and Christina's baby shower was held at Jim's and my marital home in the Land o' Lakes. Although Christina was sad that we had sold her "childhood home," she understood that TSO and I really needed to have a home that, together, we picked and chose, just as she and her now husband had done. Little did she know that the house in the Land o' Lakes would prove to be the location of many wonderful memories for her and her children, which they never would have had on Prospect Road.

To be continued....

8 Weeks

"We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch it, we are going back from whence we came." 

-- John F. Kennedy

Picture From a 1960 Sports Illustrated Article

Over the 2022 Veterans' Day weekend, TSO and I took a day trip to Hyannis, our local shopping mecca.  Hyannis has a Target, Staples, Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, even a freestanding Macy's. Woo hoo!

Hyannis also is home to the John F. Kennedy Hyannis Museum, a charming local institution that focuses on the late President's deep connection to Cape Cod. TSO wanted to visit the museum, which is located in the former Hyannis town hall. Among the current exhibits is "Presidential Summers: The Kennedys on Cape Cod." This exhibit was both informative and delightful. In addition, we were treated to a talk by one of the museum's founders.

While we walked through the exhibit, the quote at the top of this post caught my eye. The words struck at my core, as they succinctly and eloquently capture the allure of, and the longing for, the ocean throughout my life. 

Before we moved to Massachusetts, I had lived in New Jersey all 61-1/2 years of my life, always within 60-90 minutes of the Atlantic Ocean and even closer to lesser (some substantially) bodies of water. My childhood home was a couple of blocks from the Delaware River. Although that waterway's black polluted water smelled awful, I knew that, eventually, it emptied into the Atlantic Ocean. That gave me comfort.

The Mullica River was just across the street from my paternal grandparents' house in Atco, New Jersey. At that point, it was a mere stream flowing not too far from the headwaters, which were located just past a clearing in the woods beyond the point where my Grandfather had built a bridge across that stream long, long ago. He constructed the bridge with railroad ties affixed to concrete piers on both sides. What an adventure it was to walk through the woods to "Grandpop's Bridge," as we called it, to explore all that the natural world had to offer young children. When I last visited the area, in late May 2020, Grandpop's Bridge was gone. In its place was a "pretender" bridge. With a little effort, however, TSO and I did find remnants of the old railroad ties and the concrete piers.  

Pretender Bridge

Remnants of Concrete Pier
and Railroad Ties Under the
Fake Bridge

When I was a young girl, I was told that, if I walked along the stream, it would eventually become the Mullica River, which would eventually lead to the Atlantic Ocean. The idea of walking through the Pine Barrens to get to the ocean was far more romantic than the idea of walking through dingy old river towns to get to the Atlantic. So, one day, my cousin Al and I tried to take that walk along the stream to the river to the ocean, but overgrowth ended our journey fairly quickly. Still, there was comfort in knowing that there was an escape, a way out, another path. Even as an adult, with excessive overgrowth and only a pretender bridge to cross, I relished in the thought that that little stream, some persistence, and a hacksaw could "get me outta here." As to what I was escaping from and where I was going, you'll have to wait for my memoir. 

The lure of the sea became greatest when I started practicing law, but a life there was not to be, as ocean front properties were unaffordable and too far from Philadelphia for me. Lake life became this poor girl's substitute. I spent years looking for an affordable vacation lakeside retreat in the Pocono Mountains. They, too, were out of reach and, I thought, far away. I don't know why the Land o' Lakes didn't occur to me all those years. It was, after all, just about around the corner from my grandparents' house. Yet, again, with TSO's assistance, in 2012, we finally figured out that we could live year round in a permanent residence on a lake in a one-square-mile tiny borough, which had a total of 21 lakes within its borders. In addition to the little puddle of a lake that our house sat on, we were steps away from two of the three largest lakes in town where there were beaches and lifeguards. For 10 years, "Lake Life" was a happy substitute for the ocean. 

Our Lake House

The View From Our Living Room
(The Lake Is Outside Those Windows)

Where Backyard Meets Lake

The Lake

On September 30, 2022, we sold our little lake house and, the very next day, we were installed here on the beach of Cape Cod Bay with our daughter and her family just about one-and-a-half hours away instead of five-and-a-half hours. Oh, and I was now retired. Life simply couldn't get any better than that. "Lake Life" was far behind me.

I'm not a sailor or a motor boater or even a paddle boarder, and we've been unable to go for a swim in the bay, given that we arrived in the fall. In that sense, I have not made any connection with the water beyond dipping in a toe or two by the water's edge last year. Yet, that feeling of being home, of returning from "whence we came," has been with me from day one and carries me through the daily cycle of life. Every day, whether I'm sitting in the Yellow Starfish Throne reading or in a chair at the head of the kitchen table writing, the bay is my companion, my seemingly infinite muse. I sense the Bay's emotions. Its angry waves during bad weather. Its joy at the end of a storm when small white caps dance gleefully on multiple shades of small blue swells, the sun's reflection transfiguring those caps into a brilliant, glorious white that simply cannot be captured in a photograph. The serenity of low tide on a windless, sunny day when sea and beach create the illusion of meeting and melding as seamlessly as sea and horizon. The playfulness of the tide coming in, its patient and gradual envelopment of the dividing line between land and sea, life and death, providing a twice daily reminder of Mother Nature's power and her mercy. I feel whole, and the world is right.  

Exactly 8 weeks from today, we will be leaving our little beach house on the bay. That feeling of being whole is dulling. Disorientation is setting in, and that old, familiar restlessness, born of the internal feeling of inexplicable loss, is slowly returning to my core. Yes, my body knows that I will soon be leaving the place "from whence we came. "