“And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days….” (Check webcam page to verify.)
The breezes are soft and frequent enough to see if I can still tell the whispering of old oak leaves from rogue poplar leaves. This requires serious sitting with eyes closed and ready ears. The poplar is half-dead — well, aren’t we all some days? –which might weaken current whispers, but later this summer, we will replace it with a single-trunk tree with eventual canopy which will require advanced sitting sessions. I don’t think the umbrellas will get in the way.The lilacs have blossomed and the rosa rugosa are gaining momentum by the day. Scott tugged the giant-leaved rhubarb and has promised to share some of whatever he makes from it. Sauce and jello are front-runners, but we disagree on how much sugar, if any, to add.
Now Cod End has thanked us all for thirty good years and declared itself closed. And Farmer’s has been For Sale these past several years, but it always opened at least for some hours. No more. The Happy Clam has added breakfast and lunch and has a tv set which is lucky, as Pam needs a place to watch the Wimbledon tennis finals during whatever morning hours match the playing time in England, and the Quarry Pub, below the East Wind Inn dining room, is open, with food, four days a week. But no more dockside eating in TH. So many changes; too many changes.
15o pages into George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones and recognizing messages and characters in the spoiler alert of the final episode of Season Four on HBO, I have had enough. People don’t change much; power reigns; information moves and explanations vary; but oh, the brutality! I’m switching to Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child’s Fever Dreams (with a possible link to Rockland; see last post). I’ll bet George R.R. Martin had a good time creating another world and language (and J.R.R. Tolkien with his Hobbits and Patrick O’Brian with his Aubrey-Maturin exploits and Diana Gabeldon with Jamie and Clare Fraser), but so, I’ll also bet, did David Wiesner in Mr. Wuffles!, a hugely noteworthy children’s book with a cat who takes on the aliens in a world beneath the radiator. I liked it a lot, then gave it to a cat-loving friend, who is also a fussy classicist and a knitter who dislikes green.
Oh good! A group of women walking down Sea Street is coming into the bookstore. This will be fun. Wish you were here, too. Details tomorrow.