Houghton Musings

About the only thing reminding me of life's imperfection right now is the metallic bitterness assailing my taste buds, suddenly and unannounced. The effects of the extended release antibiotic wreaking havoc on my nasty sinus infection. Harboring some sort of irrational fear of "going to the doctor," I almost never go. My mother used to bribe me to get me there. I have faint memories of her buying me a baby doll from the Salvation Army thrift store, bringing her home and washing her up. My reward for bravely going to the pediatrician's office because of some ailment or another. I think it may have been the day following a night-long nosebleed. My mom, naturally, was worried. The best part about the new baby doll was later my mother bought a pattern from the fabric store and sewed her a whole new, wonderful wardrobe. I think I may still have one of the dresses. My mother was a super seamstress and she sewed a lot when I was growing up.

On Friday, with my throat feeling like Mount Rushmore and a nagging post-nasal drip lasting since Father's Day, I knew it was time to go have it checked out. I am so glad I did as I am feeling almost 100 percent better.

I grocery shopped yesterday at the local Houghton Lake Wal-Mart without a stitch of make-up on my cheeks, my hair a mess and I was wearing a funny, little blue tent-like dress that I think makes me look fat. I didn't care. I also stopped worrying about the sand and dirt being tracked in on the floor of the cottage, realizing it is easily cleaned up with broom and dust pan. Today, I did not make my bed. Finally, I am on vacation.

Along with the warm Michigan sun, I spent the morning soaking up the quiet. Solitude. Alone with only random strings of  words and thoughts, like smooth stones skipping around my head to keep me company. Others were reading, fishing or kayaking - enjoying their own thoughts, their own dreams.

And I am reading. Not like at home, in fits and starts because duty calls, distracts and robs. I am able to read several chapters at a time and stay up all night doing so if I like, although I haven't. I am reading Kathryn Stockett's The Help. It is the author's first book and I read in a magazine that after receiving something like,  45 publisher's rejections in response to her manuscript she stopped counting, yet persevered. An inspiration, certainly, to this wanna be writer. I love southern writers (she is from Mississippi) - for their purity and honesty, for the way they see the world. I am enjoying the book, knowing that I pay almost as much attention to the author's craft as I do her story.

A fierce gale soaring across the lake awakened me at 3:11 a.m. I listened hard for rain, but could not tell if it had started or not. I climbed out of bed ready to close any of the windows left open to give the cool of night permission to enter. At first glance I detected no rain, but I could smell it coming, carried along by the hefty breeze. Peering out into the dark, I could see that the wind was pushing the lake up higher and higher along the sandy shore. I feared our kayaks would float away.

"Jim?" Nothing.

"Honey?" a bit louder now.

"Hmm, what?" His voice peppered with alarm.

I explained my concern for our boats. He jumped up and was out the door, making his way through the pelting of the newly arrived rain to rescue the kayaks and adjust our canoe. He returned, damp and sandy, in time to help me shut the windows against the driving storm. A few we left open, merely a crack, to ward off any possible and likely stuffiness.

We retreated to bed, a bit bleary-eyed, but grateful for the rescue and I delighted by the power of the wind. I slept again, but restlessly until I finally got up at 8:19, my sinuses throbbing. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" I plead, as Colgate Total scrubs away the bitterness from my mouth. For a second or two I considered any bitterness residing in my heart and wondered if that's what I've been tasting.

I wonder now if this week away will provide an opportunity to purge away and cleanse my heart of past wounds, some so ancient - passed down through generations. I cling tightly to old injuries, like barnacles on the pier. Imperfections, bad habits, regrets (I've had a few), and all the things I detest most about myself are barring me, protecting me from what may happen if I simply let go - if I pry them away despite the inevitability of pain and let them just float away. Just like that. I long to be new again.

(c) 2010 Darby C. Fitzpatrick