Letter from the Coast--Belfast, Maine

Finally, finally. Sitting at my Rose Gold laptop, cozy in this Airbnb, the ground floor of a white house on High Street. The street sits high above the pretty harbor; it's a steep walk up. Figgy is driving back from seeing her cousins; Dan went to the Clint Eastwood movie at the family-owned movie theater; and Punchy is sleeping over at her cousin Izzy's. Sug is at Sis's in Connecticut, since no pets in this apartment.

I miss writing long posts on this blog. I have taken to posting on my phone, dashing off a couple of sentences. I'm usually exhausted. I know other people have young children at my age [57, turning 58 next month] but Punchy, age 11, has a pebble/rock-strewn path from her past and even now...she can lose her way. We can lose ours, too. It takes a lot of vigilance. You have to watch your step, can't just race ahead without looking down to seek terra firma.

I have seen such beauty here, and such small-town charm. I have sat in three of Dan's four brothers' homes since I arrived Christmas Eve near 8 p.m. We have gathered around farm tables, holding mugs of coffee, eating Christmas ham with mustard.

We are all older. When I first met Dan's family in the summer of 1987, my nieces and nephews were young children, scampering around Ram Island; we took a boat ride there that first day. Now they are adults with apartments, careers and significant others. Four more children [plus Figgy and Punchy] have joined the family in the 31 years since I first came. Mariah, one of the little brunette sisters who tiptoed into the bedroom and stole my heart, has a husband and a house. My mother-in-law, Mary, is in her late 80s. On my first glimpse, before we all boarded a boat to the island, I thought, She is pretty. Her freckles are pretty. But now age is leaning in, trying to put her weary arm around Mary's shoulders. No one is immune.

I am heavier. I have worry lines on my forehead. I am no longer the young girlfriend of the youngest brother, the one who always polished her nails.

I have ridden the ride of life--I'm still on it--with its terrors, short stops, uphill climbs, exhilarating views, joy and laughter. Thrills of a lifetime.

So much I have wanted to write about. Resorting to bullets to help organize my thoughts.

• Over the river and through the woods in a car of my own. I rented a car in Montclair and drove up by myself on December 24. All 450 miles. Dan, Punch and Fig had left the day before. I talked to Dan about doing this because our rides to and from Maine have gotten very stressful. I've realized that he is not just driving home for the holidays but is also traveling back to hurts and pains from his past. He doesn't see or say that. I do. It's a colorful family, a loving family, a kind family, but a sarcastic streak runs through it. Mary's husband left when Dan, the youngest of five boys, was 7. His baby sister was born when Mary remarried and Dan was 12. No family is without fault lines. But sarcasm is another word for anger and beyond that, hurt people hurt people--the cliché is true. It's hard to keep my distance/buffer myself in our small car, crowded with two daughters, Christmas gifts and luggage. I told the girls they could join me, but they preferred to get here a day earlier. I left on Monday to get the cheaper rate [it didn't include a weekend day].
• Taking the scenic route. Another reason I wanted my own car is that when Dan and I were younger, we would go to pretty places along the coast--Kennebunkport, for one. Again, we are older now. It's a long drive requiring a lot of coffee, water and food/bathroom stops for Punch and Figgy. Punch has ADHD and can have a hard time with long drives. We have less money for pricey B&B inns, and older children. We are usually pressured and stressed and either want to get there or get home; Dan doesn't want to stop. We used to stay in beautiful inns pre-Figgy for a couple nights here or there--so lovely. I think the last time we did was with little Fig but we got caught in a deep blizzard on the way home. The roads were treacherous, and back in Montclair, the snow was so deep, we couldn't get down our street, let alone to the front door. We had to park on Valley Road, and our windshield cracked overnight from the cold. So this trip, I stopped in Freeport on the way and will be stopping in Kennebunkport on the way back. Walker's Point, where the Bushes have spent their lives, is along the most beautiful road on the ocean. I also remember a candle shop and, in summer, excellent lobster rolls. I might still get one in winter. Not sure, but the little shack by the bridge will be closed.
• New England.  I wish you could see the houses, see the gazebo up the road, the wreaths on the doors, the porches. The white steeples against the sky. The mountains, the bay, the farmland. Antique stores, the yarn shop, the fabric store.
• The family. The five brothers. Their one sister. The matriarch, beloved for her good cooking. At Christmas, even now, Mary makes dozens of jam-filled Thumbprint Cookies and Pecan Tassies. She gave out little loaves of good homemade cranberry bread. The handsome nephews, the beautiful nieces. My sisters-in-law, Sheila, Therese, Martha, each of the three unique but the same because they have chosen a Hurley brother. The traditions--Dave's wife, Sheila, has us raise our glasses for a Christmas toast. It's nice. The coffee. Lots of coffee.
• The sky. It was clear and bright--the stars and the moon were beautiful Christmas Eve gifts. 
• The people. Christmas Mass at St. Brendan the Navigator Church in Camden [OMG, the name of that parish, so seaworthy!] I love Camden, that pretty sea-coast village. But this time at Mass, I noticed the quiet old money in town. I know that's shallow, and I should have been praying, not people-watching. But the slender woman with the low blonde ponytail caught my eye. She had skinny white jeans, a chunky Maine wool sweater, a wristful of gold bracelets--and a mink coat once Mass ended. She looked beautiful and stylish. And: At least two women had their hair pulled back and clipped high in the back with a classic barrette. Not in an I'm tired and have to put my hair in a pony clip kind of way but in a refined and elegant fashion.
• Gifted. It was a generous Christmas, even though I was restrained. Figgy got a check for brain illustrations in a book Dan ghost-wrote [coming out soon] and very proudly bought us all presents, so there was a lot to open. And since Dan and girls got here a day ahead, they shopped more here in Belfast. Standouts: Delicate silver chain with large and small pearls from Dan; my $25 gift card to Stitch from Figgy!; kitty kitchen timer from Punch; Ultimate Ears Wonderboom portable Bluetooth speaker in "Unicorn" color for the little one [and we all love it, too]; blue faux fur collar for Figgy; fuzzy fleece PJ shorts from Candy Pink for Punch and Izzy; Flowerbomb perfume for Fig.

Our little nuclear family has been getting along pretty well, and I am grateful for that gift. We are not perfect. We are flawed. I still worry. Punch acts up. So does Dan. I overeat to pacify stress and worry. But at least I see that. We are doing okay. I pray for Christmas love that lasts all year.

I hope to write more tomorrow.

Good night to you. Tidings of comfort and joy.

xoxoxo