On our way here we were able to stop and see the wife of my friend who died . . . his widow now.
B and I were talking in the car along the way, and we wondered whether we were visiting her for her benefit, or ours. We didn't even know precisely why we were going. We just knew we had to.
We had a very nice afternoon with his wife and daughter as they showed us around their new condo complex (It's not officially a 55-and over community, she told us, but everybody who lives here is over 55). We reminisced about my friend, and she retold the story of how they first met at a meditation seminar, back in 1974.
And then B and I continued on to Cape Cod. Or, as I talked about in my July 6 post "Singing Past the Graveyard" we moved on with our lives, which we do as human beings. Or as the singer said about Clementine . . .
How I missed her, how I missed her
How I missed my Clementine,
Till I kissed her little sister,
And forgot my Clementine.
I guess maybe I feel a little guilty about moving on with my life. But I have to say, after agonizing over a multitude of decisions we confronted when moving and unpacking and settling in to our new place, it feels nice that today our weighty decisions involve whether we go to the Sea St. beach or the Bank St. beach. Do we go over to The Port for dinner, or get some corn on the cob and clam chowder and eat at home?
The house we're renting belongs to a former captain in the U. S. Coast Guard Reserve. There is a lobster trap on the ceiling, a ship's captain's table in the living room, a map of Cape Cod shipwrecks on the dining room wall. The pillows have pictures of sailboats on them; the bedspreads are festooned with anchors, the bookcase is filled with titles like Tales of the New England Coast.
There is also a guide to International Naval Signal Flags on the wall, and so last night and this morning I've been learning the signal flags. I'm doing this from memory, so correct me if I'm wrong . . .
J ... I forget J
... and I'll learn the rest of them for next time. Ahoy there!