The Sundries of a Winter's Weekend

February is a month that fascinates me, because more than any other month in Maine it is a month for dreams. After all, what else is there to do? The days just begin to get discernibly longer, and it is perhaps one of our sunniest months. No fog to contend with- just winter storms, which leave the world smothered in snow, intensifying and optimizing the light we do get, direct from the sun or cast back by the moon. While the temperature doesn't climb much beyond 25 degrees, all the sunshine gets a person thinking about summer, about growing things, productivity, recharged batteries. One can only hope to plan.

I have on my hands a peculiar sort of weekend. Dave left on Thursday to get physical therapy for his arm in Portland, and then continued to New Hampshire to spend the weekend with his family, helping to run the Model T snowmobile rally. I had to work both Thursday and Friday, and finances being what they are, it made no sense for the weekend to necessitate two car trips. So I came home to the island, a bit at odds and ends. I've always been a solitude-loving soul, so to come home to a house empty but for the cats, and seem at any sort of loss is a bizarre twist. When I left the island earlier in the week I was dreading the days, but by Friday I was pleasantly run down enough by work and rehearsals (I am playing Maria in the Sound of Music) that 48 hours of unstructured time appeared to be the greatest blessing in the world, even if Dave wouldn't be there.

I gleefully fell into Ruth Moore's Spoonhandle on the boat ride home, and stayed adrift in it until the boat bumped into the landing, pausing only at the beginning of the trip to discuss with my Former Neighbor Charlie the many merits of Ruth Moore. Prior to Spoonhandle, I had been reading her letters, which was also pleasant winter fare- so pleasant that I ordered a copy to be shipped to Ms. Beauregard in far off Californ-i-a. I do miss Neighbor Charlie- we never talked much except on the mailboat, but we share an abiding love of felines, and he would always whistle for my wave. It was a cordial system. I know my new neighbors much better, yet have seen them less than ever I saw Neighbor Charlie.

Here on the island, each winter has a different social cast than the winter that preceded it. The first winter I spent on the island was awash in public pot lucks and private dinner parties. The second winter eschewed the pot lucks (we were so tired of them! setting up all the tables and chairs, staring at each other under the dull lights of the town hall), and instead focused home-hosted game nights, knitting club, book club, and the volleyball nights that thrived under those dull town hall lights. This winter seems to have drawn many of us further into ourselves- the gaiety of last winter not being of a sustainable nature. This winter, it has just been difficult to dig out, mentally. Of course the complexion of a winter does in large part depend on who is doing the viewing- everyone on the island has an individual sense of how the time is passing. But there are trends, and this year, the trend seems to be inward. There have been a lot of changes, and I daresay many of us are introverts.

I certainly am, which is why I have not taken the opportunity this weekend to seek out company, and have only enjoyed the interaction of errands- the post office, the store. The latter afforded me the chance to talk to Former Neighbor Ben, and Ed our alcohol-errant yet erudite mechanic. We discussed Dave's broken radius, which gave Ben and Ed the chance to tell me their falling-off-of-ladders stories. This happened to solve a mystery I had been chewing on for some time. Ben works as a cashier at our store. Now, the store is laid back and friendly, and one does not expect anything on Isle au Haut to move in a manner that even approaches efficient- but goddamn, Ben is the sloooooooooooooowest grocery bagger of all time. Glaciers have been known to make faster progress. I have watched him at it for a while now, and noticed the tremor in his hand as he lifts and lowers the items. I even asked Dave (my partner in island detection) if Ben was ill, but Dave, even with his years on the island, had no answer.

Come to find out, Ben had long ago broken that wrist falling off a swing. Ever since, he's had that tremor. And now I know. And knowing is fun.

So while my socializing has been limited this weekend, it has been fruitful. I had not been in the store for a while, and it was good to see Ben and Ed who I rarely see now that I commute to work and live in what is winkingly called "the projects." I got my milk and eggs, and Old English furniture polish; a guilty quart of Gifford's chocolate ice cream; I fed Jeep 4 gallons of gas at $3.90 a gallon, which nudged her up to a quarter of a tank. I might have put more in, but she's got a slight leak, and I prefer to keep it slight. She also has a leak in one of her tires, which is the bane of my existence. Also, her muffler needs clamping back on. As I backed her into the store's drive, I got my first good close-up view of Ed's current vehicle, and it was the first time I'd seen the rear end of it since he'd christened the new town landing with its rear windshield. I am not sure which condition contributed the most to that collision of automobile and piling- the unsanded ice on the hill or the booze in the blood. Either way, no major harm was done except to the poor vehicle. It did give people a show, and we did get to shake our heads in satisfying appreciation for predictable behavior.

The other big event of the weekend was getting the mail. It was not particularly social, though Dottie did come out of her house, leaning comfortingly on the new rail that runs from her house to her entrance to the post office. By the time she was half-way there, I already had my mail underarm, and she just checked to see that I had all I needed, and we wished each other a good day. In the old days of General Delivery (dating all the way back to last November), I would have been entirely dependent on her to hand over the goods. Now I peer into the little window for affirmation of my (or more often Dave's) postal worthiness, then fiddle with the little lock on box 58, which springs open at my touch now that I have conquered its combination which includes an "8 1/2."

I went through the mail with Dave via Skype, and it proved to be a fairly interesting batch- worker's comp check, bills, and the resheduled date for the theoretically final hearing for his divorce. Incidentally the divorce gods set the hearing on the exact time and date of his next physical therapy appointment, which will now have to be rescheduled.

Partnering up with someone at the tail end of their long-dissolving marriage has been educative. There is a such a heap of accrued assets, debts, personal patterns, and material things. A division that must always be difficult on the mainland is doubly difficult on such a small stone dollop of an island. Imagine having your office in the front yard of your ex. To work on his fishing gear, Dave must go to his shop, situated in front of the house he built and has since vacated, so that he can keep his boat and said gear. The physical space is small on the island, the social space equally tight. But we'll muddle through.

Onward and upward, as the saying goes. Which brings me back to my weekend in reading. After devouring the remainder of Spoonhandle, a feast lasting into the wee sma's of Saturday morning (I then slept in until 8am!), I went from the post office to Library in search of more Moore. I picked up Candlemas Bay, and also happened upon Onward and Upward in the Garden, by Katherine S. White- wife to the famed E.B., and an editor of note in her own right.

I was so drawn in by Spoonhandle (which had me spitting nails by the fifth page), that I could not yet bear leaving the Stilwells and Freemans, Sangors and Osgoods of Spoon Island for other similar but not-yet-introduced Mainers of Candlemas Bay. White's book offered an introduction by the ever genial voice of E.B., and is a collection of essays written about- of all things- gardening catalogs. The cover is a pleasing fading pink with leafy green borders, and in the center is an illustration of that Maine native, the rugosa rose. A very handsome volume, all told.

It is February, and the light is streaming in the huge, cheap windows of this house. My azalea is in bloom (is there a more generous winter houseplant?), and geraniums thriving after some intense pruning. Since moving in, Dave and I have been dreaming about having some sort of garden this summer, even if limited. Given that context, it took me very little time before I cracked the cover of a book which is a compendium of such dreams.

Gardening is more or less an alien world to me. By the time I got old enough to help rather than hinder in the vegetable plot, our family no longer had the time to devote to it. My mom did always keep a flower garden, but beyond the very occasional weeding session, and infrequent Q&As, I learned little of planting and nurturing- I was too busy with friends and books. I did at least grasp the difference between annual and perennial, and had a vague idea about bulbs needing to be planted in the fall- I certainly discovered the deer's proclivity for eating tulips.

Other than that, over the years I just grew fond of certain plants. Roses I loved from birth, as a namesake should; snowball bushes were a welcome home; quince was a riotous prickerbush with beautiful blooms in the underbrush; snowdrops, crocuses, hyacinths, daffs and tulips, lilacs and lupine the greatest harbingers of a softer season. There too were forget-me-nots and sweet william, lavender and globe thistle. Hostas I never quite understood the appeal of, but they stood near the unpretentiously pretty lily of the valley (how could a plant so prim be so poisonous?). There were the bleeding hearts necessary to the Democrat's domain, and fushias hanging in planters from the sumac, columbine, bachelors button, even some edelweiss.

On my own, I have been an indifferent keeper of plants. It's part and parcel of being itinerant in one's twenties. Every couple of years I would uproot and move to a new space with different windows, different square footage. The only living thing bound to survive the move was my dear cat, Janey. The last couple of years I'd been blessed with a large porch, so attempted wider container plantings, but found little success. Summers found me dodging the domestic sphere when it under the chaotic reign of the home's actual owner. Anything I started from seed paid the price of my frequent absence.

So now it is February, and I am in a home that, while still just a rental, is at least going to be run season to season under the more predictable auspices of myself and Dave. How much in the way of gardening materials we will actually be able to finance is highly questionable. Isle au Haut has little in the way of soil, and a remarkably dense population of deer who do not read seed catalogs, and therefore do not know what plants they are supposed to resist eating. As a result of these conditions, every garden on the island requires intense soil improvement (or importation) and must be fenced in to a substantial height. Divorce renders all parties but the lawyers poor, and I am poor by dint of personality type (on a scale of average household income, INFPs rank last... of course they also rank last by percent married, so their households often only have that one lowly income). February also brings an unpaid vacation's chunk out of my income, while also wakening me to the tax bill that will come due in April. Good thing dreaming does not require rich soil!

On the bright side, there is home improvement that requires little in the way of capital, and makes a substantial difference in domestic satisfaction. Once I get my head out of pipe dreamt garden plots, I am moving on to the practical and cheap means of creating one's own cheerfulness: cleaning. Yesterday it was the bathroom, today- god and energy willing- the office, bedroom, and kitchen. Family members will laugh at the thought of me cleaning for fun, but really, there's much less room for mid-winter misery when the corners are uncluttered and the baseboard is dust-free. As to managing to have a garden this summer, I will just put my faith in reusing planters from seasons past, and Dave's ability to scrounge and jerry-rig. The end will probably not be extravagant, but then, I am only looking for a start.