It may snow early tomorrow. Normally I would be excited about this, waking up to a quiet, white blanketed world, but unfortunately all it means to me tonight is that winter is here. Normally I could be excited about this too, what with my birthday, Christmas, and New Years on the horizon, carols and the smell of pine and cinnamon, but with the boat still in the shed and a nine day offshore cold as anything passage in our near future, I dread the white powdery omen. At least the boat is just about finished. The paint is drying as I type. Now it’s up to J and I to reattach the hardware, doors and hatches, attempt to eliminate the sanding dust from down below, get the rig and lines in working order, provision, and pray not to get walloped on our trip south. Lots of work and long granola bar dinner nights at the boatyard coming up. And now I have to wear mittens and a scarf in the shed.
Oxford is still cute and charming, with breathtaking sunsets in the park and the church bells across the street playing Christmas carols.
But our stay in this tumbledown house has convinced me of one thing: I am not a small town person. At least right now. I want to be able to walk out the door at midnight and stumble down the street to the Indian restaurants with bells and Christmas lights and Hindi music blaring from the overheated kitchen. Or go to a show that doesn’t involve off key middle-schoolers or Jesus. I want to walk through town and see people. In Oxford, there are a few folks we see every day out the kitchen window: the elderly couple from down the street, she hunched over her walker, covering a few feet a minute, he quasi-striding down the street on skinny legs, white hair blowing in the cold breeze. We’ve passed on the streets many times, exchanging hellos and exclamations about how beautiful or down right chilly the weather is. Then there are the ones on senior scooters with flags flying off the back, a few speed walkers in the morning, or our wonderful next door neighbors walking their dog. There aren’t any young people around, and the smiles from the neighbors only go so far to make us feel at home. I know that City people don’t necessarily smile much, but the snuggly feeling of group anonymity is more comforting to me than walking down a leaf strewn sidewalk, passing a man walking his dog. The man fixes his eyes to the sidewalk as we pass and say hello to him. He doesn’t respond, or even acknowledge our existence. What kind of small town warmth is that? Yes, it was just once or twice that something like that happened, but man, when you only pass one or two people on the street a week, every encounter matters. And I know that not all small towns are as quiet or aged as this one, but even if you tripled the activity here, it would still be wanting. This coming from a person who is content spending days or weeks in the middle of the ocean, no Indian food or stranger in sight!
It’s getting cold in this house, in the shed, in this town, and it’s time to move on. Dunk the boat, raise those sails, and let’s go where it’s warm.
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