WELLFLEET

I tend to be a judgmental person.  Although I don’t want to be.  In small ways, I’m

trying to change.  Life is short (even shorter now) and judging can get in the way of

everything. I’m not talking about politics, large ideas, even books.  (I had a friend once

whose mother stopped talking to her father for months because he thought that the

Alexandria Quartet was literature.  I’m not that bad. And I even liked Alexandria

Quartet myself.)

We are at a friend’s rental house in Wellfleet, a charming barn filled with books I want

to read.  We’re in between two gorgeous swimming ponds, on a dirt road full of

wildflowers. It’s quiet here, and we eat Wellfleet oysters every single day, read books,

and swim.

This is absolutely privilege, and for that I am grateful.  We sit in the yard in the sun,

reading, reading.  Sometimes I even write a sentence or two.

I wish there wasn’t a but.  I wish I were able to say to myself This is Plain Lucky,

instead of feeling the need to describe what makes me unhappy here.

And unhappy is too big a word.  Disquiet sounds French, and I’m not French either.

I’ve only been to Cape Cod a few times, and never liked it much. 

Although it’s hard to dislike beauty, and the beaches are absolutely gorgeous.

I’m sure there’s a good reason why I’m more drawn to imperfection than perfection,

why complacency makes me uncomfortable.  What makes some places seem smug.

A smart person said recently that every single thing is about our childhoods, and while

I don’t believe that entirely I’m sure some things are.  Often what we like is what we

know. What is familiar.  If I came to Cape Cod as a child, maybe I’d like it more.

We were at the beach every summer for many years, a rocky Jewish beach in

Connecticut called Woodmont, in a funky green duplex on top of a seawall over the 

Long Island Sound. The beach was rocky. We often had seaweed and starfish.

Neither of my parents were outdoor types. They didn’t even go for walks, and the

word hike was not in their vocabulary.  Unless it was in Yiddish and probably not. My

father liked swimming, and they both liked to read and eat.  Those were our primary

summer activities.

Those summers were my happiest childhood days.

We went to the library once a week, and spent long stretches reading.

Every morning I walked down the road and picked up my friend Abby.  I don’t know

what we did all day.  Mostly talk and swim.   We started a handwritten newspaper for

one summer, called GAB.  I was the writer.  Abby the illustrator (she’s a terrific

photographer now.)

I mostly described the love life of our neighbor Joanie, who was dating dating until

she found husband Harry.  (My mother actually found Harry first, and fixed hm up

with Joanie. ) I interviewed Joanie about Harry for GAB.  Her only qualm that I

remember was Harry’s height (he could have been taller) but to the best of my

knowledge they were happy for years.

About Wellfleet,  I wanted to love it here. 

I love our time, and the house and the quiet, and swimming.  And the people we know

nearby.

But the elusive magic that  explanations defy is somehow missing.  Maybe it’s not

imperfect in the way of my childhood beach. The swimmers at the pond are

serious and buff.  They seem proficient in many water activities.

There’s a sign in the parking lot of MAC’s everyone’s favorite

restaurant that says CENTER YOUR CAR or else.

A small pint of cherry tomatoes is nine dollars and radishes are five.

Still that’s not reason enough.

The library is wonderful.  There are some bookstores here.  We had very good food,

watched the indictment on our laptops, and drank Negronis.  For all of this, I am

grateful.

Our time here is coming to a close.  Tomorrow in the morning we’ll drive back home.

Our week was very good. 

Still we probably won’t be back.

Love,

Esther

PS If you haven’t had a chance to check out our last issue, it’s on our website here. Many wonderful pieces.

https://www.altegettingoldtogether.com