The late start and the discombobulated manner in which we turned back time put me in the woods far too late in the day to complete the chores before darkness threatened to shut out my lights.
The sun’s angle filters the light through the remaining leaves, casting a pleasant yellowish hue over even the gloomiest tasks. It was warm—again—yesterday. Ellie had to be leashed to a yellow birch tree while I blew the cornucopia of various leaves away from the sills of the camp, shed, and bunkhouse. Leaving them to rot will transfer the same disorder to the wooden underpinnings of unoccupied buildings. The critters like the insulation, too, so you must remove it so they go elsewhere for lodging.
I disturbed one nest of field mice who built a lovely home in the hollows of a ladder’s rungs. They scattered, and the weather is good enough so that rebuilding can be done somewhere else. At least, I hope so. I set new traps inside mine and my neighbor’s place just in case these critters decide that squatting is in their future.
Ellie got to swim twice, once without permission, just before we pulled out. She’d dried nicely lying in a breezy slice of the dooryard, but she repeated her rinse, as ladies do, just before bailing into the truck for the ride home. I scolded, but Ellie looked unconcerned about the soaking she gave the blanket and the back seats of the Ford. The dog doesn’t listen all that much. And, yes, her hearing is fine.
I finished in a flurry, loading up my gear, cleaning out the freezer, and grabbing and hooking up my old utility trailer for the return trip into darkness, knowing I had some residential residue to take to the landfill this week.
We swung into Dunkin in Machias for the standard road fare: one black coffee and two old-fashioned donuts (plain, for those of you from away).
I’d skipped lunch but didn’t have time to stop anywhere for something more substantial. For the record, Ellie gets most of both donuts. It’s our standard for me to get two bites, sip some coffee, and then pass the remaining pastry toward her muzzle, which is already within reach. I sip and drive for a while, trying to get out to Route 9 so we can drive into the sunset rather than pitch blackness.
Once we turn onto 9, I grab the last donut, take my bites, and then give the rest to the beast. I get about three-quarters of a donut when all is said and done, and that’s too much for a fat kid—Ellie, the rest. The rustling of the bag after the turn brings her out of any slumber-like state, and I can see the gleam of her eyes in the rearview and feel the heat from her head pushing into my right shoulder. She knows what’s hers and what I don’t need.
I prefer to avoid hauling trailers through unoccupied townships after dark. I worry about getting a flat on a curved section of inky roads; forcing a tire change while watching your back worries me. I keep good tires on trailers, but there are no guarantees that prudent planning will enable us to avoid unexpected trouble. The time change pushes the envelope, but it’s beautiful just before dark with a light dose of tunes and the snoring dog; it gives me a few minutes to be thankful for everything.
At around four forty-five, God slowly closed the lid on my day. I was left with only a slice of light to follow toward the western skyline. It’s my favorite time, and I like to be on the road to enjoy the constantly changing angles as I follow the smoothed macadam path engineered to weave in and out of the hills in the unorganized townships of Maine.
Supertramp accompanied some of the better views, “Goodby Stranger,” which faded into “The Year of the Cat” by Al Stewart. I remembered both songs from listening to AM radio as I got out of bed during the eighth and ninth grades. The music reminds me of cold mornings and my mother’s hot oatmeal and cold orange juice (from concentrate) breakfasts before shlepping to the bus stop to wait to ride into another day at school.
Why? I don’t know. Darkness, driving, music, and coffee are fertile grounds for rehashing memories.
November last year was the last time I took my Dad out to breakfast—he had the All-American, took the pancakes home to my mother, and then passed me his last slice of bacon for Ellie.
“Give that to Ellie for me, will you?” Dad was always worried that Ellie wasn’t getting enough bacon. This year, both Ellie and I are at a loss.
I’ve said it before: if camp were close, I’d never enjoy the trip as much as I do. It’s the best time to root around in your mind for reflection on good times and to relive even sad times that can inevitably lead to happier memories.
I was in the house, warming up a bowl of chili by six-thirty, but it felt like seven-thirty—because it was if it weren’t for these stupid time changes.
Tuesday should be good. If it’s not, it could lead to something better.
Be well.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC