To the Country

It's that time of year when Aunt Bert rents a place cozily situated on the north fork of Long Island. On Saturday we packed up my car with her foodstuffs, luggage, lawn chairs, beach towels, paper products, cases of bottled water and Aunt Bert. It was a quick ride down the Long Island Expressway and soon we were situated in the cozy house on Green Street, just a stone's throw away from the gentle Peconic Bay.

We were staying only overnight (with an early Sunday start back to Manhattan) and for the Saturday that still lay before us we had big plans: a visit to some of the local farms to load up on fresh produce; an hour or two on the shore of the Bay to soak up some rays; an uber grill-fest of steaks and vegetables perfected on the Weber; A twilight bike ride around the neighborhood; An outdoor shower in the rustic unit beside the house; A pitcher of margaritas while reposing on the patio in the cool evening of a perfect day. Yeah, well, good intentions and all that.

Mother Nature (who must be in menopause) had other ideas. The skies were dark and ominous all day. The rain poured on and off all day. Lightening flashed and thunder rumbled. The winds gusted, branches fluttered from treetops onto the street and it was as close to chilly as a summer day can be. We all sat sequestered in the cottage and read the paper, drank tea and watched baseball (the Yankees then the Mets). My summer opportunities to roast in the sun are few and very far between so I was feeling cheated on Saturday. I didn't want to sit around and watch TV. I wanted to beach, grill, buy vegetables, drink margaritas and be a vacationer. I can watch TV at home. In a stupid act of defiance, I finally took one of the bikes out in the thick of the storm and attempted to ride the backroads for a few miles. The roads were murky and I was drenched on my return. "Are you crazy?" exclaimed Aunt Bert. Well, yes, I suppose I am, but a getaway is a getaway and the rain is not going to stop it.

The rainy conditions continued so the grilling was out. So was reposing with margaritas on the patio with the doves cooing gently overhead. Defiant again, I used the outdoor shower despite the fact it was raining. Aunt Bert exclaimed, "I think you're going coo-coo." Yes, I am.

The steaks and marinated vegetable dinner was substituted with a salad and cold cuts. We had a glass of wine and watched more baseball and then baseball highlights. I was going to take a moonlight bike ride (which is something I love when the summer weather is agreeable) but Fang restrained me with the promise of a morning bike ride. Hmmmph. There was nothing to do but go to bed.

The morning came early and a pristine sun filtered into the windows of the bedroom. The sleepy caramel of the shafts of light that poked in promised a glorious day ahead. I immediately dressed and we stepped outside and here it was--the fresh breath of a summer morning--the cool air of the evening as it began to recede, the dampness of the grass on bare feet, the way the sunlight reflected softly off every leaf and roof eave and the undulating waves of the Bay. Glorious. We mounted our bikes and rode for several miles, quietly observing the world around us as its inhabitants woke up. I took in every detail: the unbridled Rose of Sharon bushes that spawned Jurassic sized blooms, great thickets of African daisies, the errant splaying of sand strewn across the road, the honor payment lemonade stands left unoccupied overnight, the old man wearing a sun visor sitting in his front yard in a lawn chair watching the world go by, a man running on the beach trailed by a trio of exuberant Labradors, the smell of fresh bread emanating from the local bakery. I soaked it all in like a tonic.

As soon as we arrived back at the little house on Green Street, we had to pack up and go. I felt bereft at leaving this little center of peace. I wanted more. On the way out of town, Fang and I did stop at one of our favorite outdoor farmer's markets and there, we loaded up on a plethora of fresh produce and delectable fruit to take back to the city. There is something about the freshness and flavors of country fare--even the way it is presented is gorgeous. Please indulge these visuals.This visit sparked a dialogue between Fang and I that is another post in itself. The truth is, I want a place of my own to escape to on weekends. Will it be the retirement home in Vermont that I've always dreamed of or an interim cottage on the Island to fill our weekends? We discussed much of this on the ride home and we seem to be on the same page. Finding relaxed balance to one's work life by living in Manhattan is an oxymoron at this point--in my life anyway. I need some peace. I need some sea (or bay or pond or water). I need some quiet. And Christ knows, I'm not getting any younger.

I've felt emboldened to act soon. I worry that I will work up to the day of my retirement and drop dead that same day, never having experienced the life of leisure one works so hard for. I don't want to wait. Fang is amenable to selling our California house. Its value has doubled in ten years (we've only physically inhabited that house for two years in the decade we've owned it). The house is in the San Francisco Bay Area and that market still holds its value.Can we cut the ties with California? It seems the answer is yes. This is a big step but we're both ready.

I'm already thinking ahead. Quite an off shoot from a washed out weekend.