I got out of bed on two strong legs—words from Jane Kenyon’s “Otherwise” and true this morning. I fetched the Sunday paper from the lip of the driveway—yes, I’m the old lady wearing a bathrobe in public, though in winter it’s under my parka.
Drinking tea, enjoying the silence, I read about Merrick Garland until Jeff strolled into the kitchen, dressed in fleece for a run. For his cooldown he poured seed into the bird feeders. After slicing tomatoes for what I call an “omelet scramble”—remember flipping an omelet then switching to scrambled? Omit Step 1—I stirred red crescents into the yolks, finishing with a squirt of green basil paste. I’d broken eggs directly into a pan bubbling with butter—what my sister Lynne calls “farm style.” It’s really the best way to scramble eggs.
At noon I lay down with my mate. After, we snowshoed to the Concord River. Boughs on either side spilled powder onto the trail, well-trodden but not slushy. We sat down on the benches by Two Brothers Rocks. I felt sun warming and melting the river ice. Someone had dared to shovel a skating or hockey rink in the middle of the thawing current. Jeff angled his pocket-sized camera, composing a close-up of space where mud met ice met water. Others approached from downriver; we turned back, so as not to encounter an unmasked pod.
Later that afternoon I read my poems to a group sponsored by the Unitarian church (you can listen here). Three dozen people logged in via Zoom. I talked about my process and my writing group. The audience asked smart questions I answered with pleasure.
I searched the Mah Jongg app to see if Ann was playing. She was. We chatted by phone as we played, plotting how to register for Covid shots. I won two games, then she won two games. We never see each other; we talk every day.
Finally I opened Hamnet, mailed weeks ago from Copperfish Books in Punta Gorda. If it were otherwise, I’d be in Florida. Last year on this very day, Lynne and Don flew in from Colorado Springs. We took a tour boat to an island in the Caloosahatchee, the water clean enough for roosting roseate spoonbills. We drove to Manatee Park and counted the whiskered snouts warming themselves in the power plant’s discharge. Then we ate grouper sandwiches at Pincher Crab’s, the broad river glinting.
Jeff poured Pino Grigio to sip in front of our Bedford “fireplace.” The gas unit in our living room hisses, and we’re still waiting to learn if we need to replace the entire installation or just the regulator. Meanwhile, Jeff ordered an electric fireplace from Amazon. It projects an image of flames onto a clear screen inside a replica of a Franklin stove. The “flames” darted and swelled. Content, we gazed at our plastic simulacrum.
In Yorkshire, during the finale of “All Creatures Great and Small,” Jim saves a litter of puppies. The woman he loves jilts her fiancé at the altar. Snow falls—as it will tomorrow on everyone north of Tallahassee. Churchill gives his Christmas address; war is coming. Before bed, I started writing this in the MacBook screen’s blue light. I once taught students about the importance of conflict in plot by asking them to write a few paragraphs describing their perfect day. I had them swap papers with a classmate and gave the assignment: “Ruin it.”