The condo is sold. In less than one month, the family will no longer call New England home and Charlotte will not remember living in Massachusetts.
I’ll be driving around with a New York license plate. At least the new gold plates are better looking than the old blue and white ones.
I won’t be able to watch regular season Bruins games on t.v. It will be all Mets/Yankees/Rangers.
The area where we’ll be living has no discernable accent. Small miracle.
No matter what “they” say about Massachusetts as “Taxachusetts,” New York dominates the Bay State on taxes. It happens when you spend more than you confiscate.
99% of our belongings will go into storage and I’ll bet you I’ll won’t miss a thing. Funny how that is.
I want to go to O’Connor’s one last time. I’m sure to find a favorite new watering hole.
I’ll miss Papou’s veggie pizza. There’s time to discover a great pizza pie in Saratoga County.
No more perambulations in St. Cecilia’s cemetery. How many miles of road in Washington County will do the trick?
I’m dealing with losses and, as yet, undiscovered gains. That’s how life is.
I’m slowly getting into an exercise routine, post partum. I’ve returned to St. Cecilia’s walking the perimeter. The first time I did it last week, I went very slowly. (Another thing you don’t hear much about is the hemorrhoid problem, post delivery. Very uncomfortable.) I’m gearing up to start jogging next week. Slowly…
"and I miss her everyday."
Yesterday during my perambulations I saw one of the regulars. Usually I see the same folks walking but this retired regular visits his wife’s grave. He shovels the show around the headstone in winter and plants flowers in the spring. (I wrote about him in 2008.) I’ve always nodded and said hello to him but this time he wanted to talk.
He held a shovel with a mix of snow and dog poop. As I walked by he started railing against dog walkers (which are verbotten in St. Cecilia’s.)
“It wouldn’t be so bad if they picked up but when they don’t it shows disrespect.”
From that topic, he talked about his wife who passed six years ago, “and I miss her everyday.”
The rest of the conversation was about his wife and family. He just wanted to talk and I was a willing listener.
Date: October 16, 2009.
Place: Leominster, Massachusetts.
Time: 7:00 am – 9:20 am.
Unusual Event: Snow.
I’ve written about St. Cecilia’s Cemetery many times. It’s an unassuming Catholic burial spot in the middle of a working class neighborhood. The cemetery is the place of my (almost daily) constitutional and it’s been that place for nearly a year. Yet, I find new images that catch my eye. Perhaps it’s the slant of sunlight hitting a statue just so or it’s just my eyes pointed at the right place, at the right time. I kick myself for not carrying a camera.
Today I got smart and did just that. Here’s what I saw:
Adaline Panquette's Medieval Messenger
Impressed with my expanding Latin vocabulary? Honestly, I had to look up the imperfect past tense of visitare. But I think it correctly reads, I visited an orchard. Cicero would be proud…
It’s the veritas…Hubby and I went to Sholan Farms in Leominster, MA. Believe it or not, the Plastics City isn’t all concrete jungle. The area alongside Sterling is lovely and that’s where the orchard is located. Going on a Friday morning is the right time…not too many folks.
This was only my second time apple picking. You would think being a native New Englander I would have done it since my wee childhood. But, alas, that’s not the case. (I don’t like lobster, either. I’m THIS close to surrendering my New England citizenship.)
We picked a peck of Cortlands, McIntoshes and Golden Delicious. I have visions of apple crisps and squash/apple soups coming out of my galley kitchen. Ask me in two weeks how sick I am of apples. 🙂
In the meantime, check out my Flickr site to view apples in their native environment.
The plot is near the back. The grass in the 10×3 f00t rectangle is greener than the surrounding lawn. At the head is an overload of garden paraphernalia: solar-paneled glow lights, pinwheels, and non-military flags. The plot is too new for a gravestone yet there is a picture of a young man in his late teens smiling into the camera.
And she’s there nearly everyday around noon. She sits cross-legged on the edge of the plot, head bowed, picking the dark green grass between her fingers. Sometimes a man is with her. He leans against the car, arms folded, looking down at her. Is he tolerating her visits or is his grief not as visible?
This tableau is not unique to St. Cecilia’s in Leominster. It’s repeated in every cemetery.
In the midst of my daily constitutional around St. Cecilia’s cemetery, I saw a hawk totally eviscerate a squirrel.
Squirrels need this to survive the St. Cecilia hawk.