How do you write a poem?
Fill yourself full of tears.
Let their blackness rise up, up
Until they overflow
And fill your inkwell.
Then set the tears
To the page.
This is not the poem.
Keep writing until the ink runs dry.
What you find beneath the tears
Is the poem.
###
About a week ago, I wrote about our decision to stay here in the boatyard for the holidays. At the time, I was feeling sorry for myself, and my tone was so wistful that friends and family responded with consoling emails (my favorite was the invitation from Australia).
Then the celebrating started, and I forgot to be sad.
My dictionary defines “jamboree” as “a large celebration or party, typically a lavish and boisterous one.” Some definitions involve Boy Scouts or country music.
One of our holiday activities was attending the Christmas show at the Crystal Coast Jamboree with the Bock family, boatyard employees, and liveaboards. But the real jamboree was the evening’s dinner, held at a Japanese steakhouse. The chefs flipped and twirled and tossed the food to us as though we were trained seals. At one point, Kenny egged Dale into eating some wasabi for the first time. “DAMN!” he exploded, practically spitting sushi. “What IS that stuff?”
The days grew shorter and the nights longer. On December 21st, we celebrated the Solstice with a bonfire — well, actually a little campfire on the edge of the sandblasting pit. We ate roasted weenies, melted cheese sandwiches, and toasted marshmallows. Most importantly, we ran a 100-foot extension cord and plugged in a crockpot full of mulled wine. We were warmed inside and out.
It takes more than food and fire to properly celebrate the Solstice, though. This is the window between the lunar and solar new years, when evil spirits inhabit the earth and must be kept at bay by merriment and partying. At least, that’s what Philip of Oryoki said.
Our merriment included dancing around the fire in leafy green headdresses and playing some extremely loud percussion. “Extremely” means that some steel boats are more fun to beat on than drums. We bid the moon farewell (guess who did so by actually mooning it) and listened to every song I could find in our collection about the sun. “Eu Quero Sol” and “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” were the most apropos.
Then came the event that was my real reason for staying over this Christmas: A North Carolina oyster roast. I stuffed myself on steamed oysters dipped in melted butter, and Barry ate multiple helpings of deer stew and hush puppies. Dale sucked down more hot vinegar sauce more than wasabi peas, though. Everyone was smiling as we stood around the fire barrel, relaxing and enjoying each other’s company without any of that silly boat work.
After the oyster roast, the boatyard closed for the holidays, but we kept the fires of holiday spirit bright, celebrating Christmas Eve and Christmas aboard our boats. Flutterby was chock-full of little wrapped gifts, sent from Washington and Florida and Oregon and Ohio, and cards — some of them homemade — from everywhere. Oryoki was decorated with garland and colored lights. We sported Santa hats around the boatyard and debated on which side the pom-pom should dangle.
Our Christmas dinner was a delightful sort of scavenger hunt — I got my 12-pound turkey out of the refrigerator on Ula G and took it to the lounge to wash it. Then we plopped it onto the huge propane grill that we’d rolled from Pelican (a monohull) to Oryoki (a catamaran) to keep it out of the rain. The turkey was just the centerpiece — the table on Oryoki groaned under cranberry sauce and stuffing and homemade rolls and veggies. The butterscotch pie waited out in the cockpit, and the whole thing was washed down with Marilyn’s homemade egg nog.
Beginning on the 18th, each day the spirit of generosity and gratitude increased in my heart, until I felt like the Grinch — my heart was three sizes larger. I was connected to friends and loved ones all over the world, even when the phone stopped working for 24 hours on Christmas Day. There was so much love, right here! How could I ever feel wistful or sad? It was the best Christmas EVER.
We’ve done so much traveling this year, together and apart, that we decided to stay here in the boatyard for Christmas. Theoretically, we’re supposed to be working on the boat, although the weather and our respective cases of bronchitis are hampering our efforts. I hate the thought of coughing into my respirator.
I got a little sad this evening, thinking about our plan to stay here on the boat. Our liveliest boatyard neighbors, Charlie and Dick, have gone back to Ohio to be with family. Our best friends in town, Ted and Malla, slipped Ocean Gypsy’s lines and headed south for the winter on Monday. Between the four of them, they’ve left us two boats and ten vehicles. That’s enough to open a used car lot!
Bock Marine threw a fantastic Christmas party, but it was over too soon. They’ll be closing down for a whole week. Without Randy and Larry and Dale and Kenny, the place is dreadfully dull. Minutes seem like hours. And there isn’t even mail delivery to distract us. No Christmas cards. No packages. Sigh.
For me, the hardest thing will be simply spending these days without any family. We love Mom, both our Dads, Grandma, and all our siblings and nephews and niece — and we have never, ever, ever in our lives spent a Christmas without at least one of them. I spent some time today looking at photos and videos from past Christmases, seeing how the sheer joy of being together is reflected in our faces. Not this year. Sigh.
A few days ago, I received an email asking what my favorite Christmas traditions were. I was initially stumped, having no decorations, no lights, no tree. With two people, how can we eat a whole butterscotch pie and a roast turkey? I sat here, sighing, in my Santa hat, wondering if I even have Christmas traditions this year.
In my Santa hat? There’s a tradition! We wear our Santa hats all the time in December. When it’s warm, don’t come on the boat — we might not be wearing anything with them. When it’s cold, my Santa hat goes great with my pink Death Bunny pajama pants. Which I sometimes wear out in the boatyard, just for grins.
How about making homemade cards every year? Sometimes they don’t go out until February, but I’ve never bought a Christmas card in my whole life. Our lengthy holiday card list is like the Hotel California. Once you are on it, you’re stuck for life.
And then there are the homemade presents. We’ve made mustard, soap, jam, apple butter, signs, jewelry, baking mixes, bookmarks, spiced nuts, and refrigerator magnets. We’ve burned some very strange CD collections (anybody remember “Goin’ to the Dogs?”). This year, I wrote four whole books.
And then there’s the calendar, a 5-year tradition. It’s a week-long project, because I seem to get sick just after Thanksgiving every year anyway. I might as well sit at the computer and design a calendar showcasing this year’s best photos.
I wish we could give one to every friend, every year. It gets harder to decide how many to print and where to send them. Rumor has it that one family member likes hers so much, she keeps the old ones hanging up and pastes new dates onto them.
The past week on the boat, I’ve been on elf-duty most of the time. I designed the calendars and cards, and Barry helped me assemble and wrap and sign them. We made some goofy presents, burned some silly CDs, and wrapped them in old road maps because I refused to buy wrapping paper. I forgot I was wearing my Santa hat at the post office, and wondered why everyone was smiling at me.
It’s going to be a great Christmas. I’ve spent the past couple of weeks thinking of ways to make people happy, and now the envelopes and packages are winging their way across the continent. My thoughts turn to our friends who are staying in the boatyard for Christmas — John, Philip & Marilyn, Audrey & Ward (whose nickname is Scrooge, but I don’t believe it). What can I do for them? And especially for Barry, who got me the Death Bunny pants?
Generosity — that’s my holiday tradition. Taking the time to let people know I love and appreciate them, no matter how far they are from me and my Santa-meets-the-Death-Bunnies outfit.
Our friend Alex was feeling quite blue,
For a flock of demonic birds flew,
Over each perfect mast,
And he watched them, aghast,
As the paint job was ruined by doo.
So he came out to paint them anew
And the finish was ruined by dew,
Now he frets at the weather,
And fears every feather,
And says, “Will I ever be through?”
Barry and I hired Alex Baker to give our carbon fiber masts a beautiful professional paint job. Unfortunately, Alex has been unable to control the outdoor conditions where he’s working! After the doo and dew, Alex was thwarted by heavy wind, rain, and cold. We all hope the third time’s the charm.
The photos below show the working conditions out in the “sand pit” before the masts were painted. Alex, Barry, Kenny, and Dick had walked out to look at our innovative mast-suspension system. A portion of Dick’s broken mast (right side, top photo) was used as a derrick to suspend both masts.
Three eateries here went away,
As I crossed the entire U.S.A.
If I’d bought just one meal,
From Ralwiggie’s, I feel,
They might still be in business today.
In that great spot across from the park,
I found Taylor’s all shuttered and stark.
So I walked down to Cru,
Just to purchase some brew,
So that they will not also go dark.
But I found, on that sad recent drive,
Though the good food in town can’t survive,
If the service is cursed,
And the food is the worst —
All the baaaaad Chinese places still thrive.
So this flock of wild turkeys went out,
For a party along Amtrak’s route.
“We will derail this train!”
Thought one bird’s tiny brain,
But they failed — just delayed it, no doubt.
In an unconfirmed rumor, I heard that an Amtrak train in Florida was delayed for hours yesterday when it ran — literally — into a flock of wild turkeys. Given Amtrak’s reputation, it’s hardly a surprise that a bunch of bird brains could cause a major delay on the day before Thanksgiving.
While I was away, the boatyard had a potluck so memorable, people were still talking about it 5 weeks later:
Now, Miss Manners would never say, “Eww,”
So Miss Audrey knew just what to do.
With a smile so polite,
She spoke out with no spite,
“Oh, how nice! Ken brought turkey that’s blue.”
Someone tried to give the turkey to the cats, but they wouldn’t touch it. Barry says it’s probably still on the bottom of Core Creek. Eww.
There are many things to be afraid of in the boatyard — rotten balsa, corroded stainless, falling off the ladder, stepping on a copperhead, and coming face to face with a bear are a few. But last night, the really scary things came out for a Halloween party.
Luckily, there was plenty of food to appease them. Actually, since it was a potluck, the scary things brought food! Not scary food, though. This potluck had no blue turkey.
Here are a few of the pictures. As you can see, nobody took the easy route and wore a Tyvek suit or a dust mask. But Audrey came as Randy, and Dick came as Charlie, and John came as Tony, which confused the heck out of people who didn’t know Randy, Charlie, or Tony. It left the rest of us gasping for breath, we were laughing so hard.
The biggest hazard to my style of travel is inertia. When I’m going, it’s hard to stop and interact with people and places. When I’m stopped, it’s hard to get going again.
It’s also hard to know which way to go when I start again.
In Columbus, after my backwards-loop with Hank, I was hanging out at his little apartment, spending time with old friends, and having a great time. Finally, I had to just yank myself out of there. “Where are you going?” asked Hank, that Tuesday morning. “Over to Dave’s. After that, I don’t know,” I replied. “OK,” said Hank. “When are you going to call me?” “Next week.”
Dave and I drove his little sports car to the Chillicothe Indian Mounds in a light drizzle. We had the ancient mounds to ourselves, no other people walking around. But we weren’t alone. There was someone — or something — else there.
In the afternoon, back in Columbus, it was really time for me to leave. “Where are you going?” Dave and Maggie asked. “I don’t know,” I said. This time, I didn’t even know which way I would turn the wheel when I got into the car.
Dave looked very concerned as I got into my car to back out of his driveway. Then I realized it wasn’t my lack of destination, but the fact that I had a burnt-out headlight. I had a few hours of daylight to rectify that problem.
At the first stoplight, a car honked at me, because I didn’t get moving right away. I just didn’t know if I should go south, or east. My brother-in-law, Cody, told me he and a friend once went on a road trip where they flipped a coin at crossroads to determine their direction. Columbus traffic was too heavy for me to dig out a quarter and start flipping coins on the passenger seat.
I compromised and headed out of Columbus on US 33, into southeast Ohio’s hill (pronounced “heel”) country.
I’d spent nine days with Hank, and now this silence and freedom felt strange. It was like starting the trip over again.
In Logan, at dusk, I bought a headlight bulb. Feeling sorry for myself, I spent 15 minutes trying to get the old one out of the fixture. Then the clerks from the auto parts store took pity on me and got it out in 15 seconds. Just in time — it was dark, and I needed that headlight. I also needed a place to stay.
I had turned my nose up at the chain motels on the highway. Surely there was something better in town. I drove down the main street, but I didn’t see one. Should I go back to the highway? Whoops, missed the on-ramp! Time for a loop around the block — oh! I’m facing the Inn Towner Motel’s front door. Serendipity again.
It was in Logan that I got my traveling stride back again. The white-haired desk clerk entertained me with stories about life in Cuba during Castro’s takeover. In the morning, I laughed out loud when I ran through noisy piles of dry, crunchy fall leaves along the sidewalks. I joked with a policeman in the donut shop, where the donuts were handmade and not perfectly-shaped. He always bought a dozen for his buddies, but the guys at the station never saw more than eleven donuts. His special apple fritter never made it that far.
For some reason, I was being pulled east more than south. I picked a twisty 2-lane road that would take me toward the Ohio River and West Virginia. A couple of hours later, at a pit-toilet rest area, a cold fall rain started. Summer was over.
Now what?
I was pushing too hard. I’d sent some emails the previous week, looking for a retreat house where I could spend some contemplative time. The places I’d written to were south, but only one had answered my inquiry. They had a room available, but not for weeks.
Trying to make things happen was like pushing a piece of string. I had to let go of that particular string and look for another one. One that would pull me, if I just grab onto it.
Shivering in the car, I thought of my friends, Donna and Mike, in Pennsylvania. For me, Mike was one of the best things about our 2008 trip to Burning Man. He was our next-door neighbor, and it was his first Burn. Watching him experiencing the art and the creativity and the magic was like being first-timers again ourselves.
In 2009, he brought his wife and son down to Beaufort for a visit, and Donna and I really hit it off. We were all sitting at dinner, talking about food, and they started telling me about Donna’s mother’s Pennsylvania Dutch Pot Pie. It’s a 2-day affair to make it, and they just about went into rapture describing it.
“Can I get a recipe?” I asked. Not really, they said. Donna’s Mom hadn’t ever written one down. “You just have to come up and learn it from her some weekend,” they told me.
Sitting in the car in that cold drizzly rest area, I called Mike. “Can I come learn how to make pot pie this weekend?” I asked. “Sure!” he said.
In my imagination, I pictured a warm, bright kitchen, big bowls and cutting boards and bubbling pots on the stove. I imagined feeling like part of a family, getting messy and sharing the work. Laughing together, eating together. Could it really be that good? Could there be pot pie nirvana in southeastern Pennsylvania?
I grabbed the string and let the universe pull me across rainy West Virginia and Maryland. I was going to find out.
Up ahead was a big yellow truck
That had come to a stop for a duck,
So I stopped my car, too,
And then out of the blue
Came a WHACK! Duck hit me, just my luck.
The web-footed goof flew right into my front towbar. There was a loud thud, and the car shook with the impact. But when I backed up a few feet, expecting to see a duck carcass, he picked himself up and wobbled away. He was quacking, and I was quaking.