Got up at the beep-beep-beep of seven, and read more Beloved. I hope that continues.
This is truth: getting to the Adirondacks, we passed through 1999: PICTURE.
And then, we ended up here, in the ice age. Seriously, it is frigid here, by the standards of my current blood at least. Come winter (which is not a request), this will of course feel like July, rather than November.
Also: Have you ever tried to read a book while there is a book on tape playing? Especially when the book in your eyes is Beloved by Toni Morrison, who you know is good, but only the second time, and the book in your ears is The Book of Three which is significantly more charming and has significantly less cattle molestation and infanticide (which aren't unnecessarily charm inhibitors, but do tend to hinder it's production). I eventually had to switch back to Maisie Dobbs (which is almost over), and even then, I could hear bits and pieces of Lloyd Alexander over the sound being piped directly into my own ear, like when you're listening to NPR and someone else is trying to listen to a sports network on the same frequency, so that you soon learn that Israel beat Hezbollah 4-3 in the eleventh inning.
I'm here now, though, and it's not that bad once you get past the hypothermic side. I went out rowing earlier, which is relaxing even if the boat leaked in about an inch of water. There's a real illusion of speed in a boat: the water slips by you and you feel as though you're going as fast as running, if not faster, even though you probably could keep pace with your rowing self on the land without breaking a sweat. Rowed around the island, real peaceful-like, and more than a little awkwardly.
I used to be more outdoorsy. Not in an especially active way. I was a Cub Scout since kindergarten, and a Boy Scout for a year, before I realized that the social aspect wasn't really gelling and that I didn't have the discipline to actually do the thirty-day exercise program needed to make fucking Tenderfoot. Before I quit, though, we'd go on camping trips (as Boy Scouts will). At one point there was a canoe trip, which I remember especially enjoying. And outside Boy Scouts, there were other times we'd go camping, with tents and a fire and something prepackaged and sweet and not especially tasty, and possibly a grill and possibly not; I remember, the memories melding with each other and the Boy Scouts and all those summer camps where you'd live in a cabin and go learn Archery or Basket Weaving for a day, which I must have gone to a bunch of without retaining more than the idea I went there (and I really miss that kind of camp now). The memories meld like chocolate bars, meld until I'm not sure how many times I actually went camping with my family, if it's just the one or a bunch or what. In theory, I'd like to do that sort of thing again. Just, you know, not with my mom, my little sister, and a bunch of complete strangers, one of whom plays Tennis with my mother and the rest of whom are related by marriage to the one-of-whom. It's one of those things which I can see myself doing "later", a word which can hide all manner of sins.
Still not entirely glad I came, but not that regretful either. Of course, I'm here until Wednesday, so it'll be a while before I can say for certain either way.
Why can't we give it all one more chance?