We spent time with all of the members of my clan minus one yesterday at a St. Patrick’s Day party. My mother was in her glory, surrounded by her kids, grandkids and great-grands. The Alzheimers hasn’t robbed her of her joie de vivre, especially when children are in the room and Irish music is playing in the background.
I enjoyed a productive meeting with a writer friend this morning, dissecting our works in progress. It’s been a long winter of revision for me. In recent weeks I’ve felt myself approaching a turning point. Today’s meeting was affirming in that regard. But then, I’ve begun to believe winter is done, so I may simply be in a dangerously optimistic frame of mind.
It was impossible not to revel in the fine weather, even though a voice inside my head nags that it shouldn’t be 78 degrees in Maine in mid-March. That was the temp when I left Auburn about 1:30, so I popped the sunroof open and sang along with Van Morrison all the way home.
It was cooler when I got back to the coast, but still May-like on our beach walk.
Teenaged girls strolled the beach in shorts and flip flops while their shirtless male peers played frisbee.
A redwinged blackbird trilled its heart out as we skirted a marsh on our way back to the car.
At dusk, a chorus of peepers serenaded me while I stood on the deck, grilling for the second Sunday in a row.