When the fog lifts
A short note from Maine
The last few days in Midcoast Maine have been foggy,—pea soup foggy—which for me, is an occasion to spend time by the water, watch the droplets on thousands of glistening spider webs made visible by condensation, and listen to the fog horn.
Since radars have become almost ubiquitous on small crafts, some of the bigger foghorns have been silenced. The foghorn that remains in my ears is one a few miles off the Maine coast, the Seguin lighthouse, which George Washington commissioned in 1795. Throughout my childhood, Seguin resounded on a falling fifth (a sort of august “hee-haw”) as soon as the fog rolled in, a signal that someone out there was worrying about ships running aground.
Late this afternoon, the rain stopped and the fog cleared, giving way to a light on the salt marsh that cannot be captured on film. (But I couldn’t help trying.)
In the midst of this highly charged convention week, I hope the fog is clearing for you.
I’ve had the immense pleasure of reading Garth Greenwell’s forthcoming book, SMALL RAIN, while I’ve been vacationing in Maine. If you know me, you know I am a huge Greenwell fan.
This book, his third, recounts the protagonist’s near death experience from within an Iowa hospital during the pandemic; while exploring the intimate relationships between nurses, doctors, and patients; the meaning of love and companionship and family; the stress of home renovation; tornadoes, and yes, life and death. But the subject matter isn’t important. In Greenwell’s hands, readers are treated to a feast of language, intellect, and insight.
I’m grateful to have this time away with my family. I wish you rest and relaxation as well.
Love,
Martha
Lovely. Thank you, Martha.
Beautiful.