August Thoughts

I haven’t done much writing lately, and what I have written has been mostly fluff. Happy fluff.

When I think over the essays that I have written in this journal over past 28 months, I realize that, for a while, it was my best friend. I’d been living life passively, moving from a moribund marriage to an unhealthy relationship to relative solitude. I needed that solitude for a while; I needed to examine my life to determine what I’d left undone, and what I needed to find happiness.

The writing was what had been left undone. My father, gone now five years, had begged me, even bribed me, to write. He was a wonderful man, and quite a character. His story needed telling, and the anecdotes about Joe McShane comprise the best writing in this journal. I’m not finished writing about him, either--not by a long shot. My niece recently told me that I am getting more and more like Grampie Joe. Assuming she meant more than just his quirks and foibles, I hope I am.

As far as happiness goes, it seems to have found me. Much of my recent absence from writing in this journal has been caused by a new intensity in my daily life, an intensity shared with a kind and sweet woman who insists upon my happiness as I insist upon hers. In addition, her friends are becoming mine, and her family has welcomed me into their lives. It’s too bad that she can whip my sorry ass in both tennis and golf.

Hence, the fluff. Maybe happiness doesn’t inspire writing that is as compelling or evocative as angst does, but as E. E. Cummings said, nobody loses all the time.

Nevertheless, I do have a few snippets to report.

I’ve discovered that some of my former AP students have found this journal and become regular readers. While I find this a little inhibiting, I can’t complain--it is public. Hi Ally. Hi Rita.

I’ve discovered that when your companion at the beach begins to rub your foot with hers, it may not be the flirtatious gesture you think it is. She may be trying to transfer the attentions of a biting fly from her feet to yours.

I saw the Saw Doctors again last week. Eight of us sat in the 9th row, right in front of Leo. The crowd seemed half Irish-born, and the response to favorite songs was thunderous. If only Leo could keep that massive new Gretsch Falcon guitar under control. Before the concert we hit Barefoot Bob’s at Nantasket Beach for steamers, fried clams, onion rings, calamari, and preparatory libations.

The next night, we saw Entrain, a percussion-heavy band from Martha’s Vineyard. One of their songs, “Dancing in the Light”, is currently being used by Sylvania in a national television commercial. The venue was the lawn of a dramatic oceanfront mansion in Ipswich, Massachusetts. The lawyer and the businessman were unable to assemble the roll-up slatted picnic table, but luckily, there was a Quincy guy there.

And finally, I’ve learned that my lovely daughter Erin Kate, who moved into her own apartment last June, now refers to my house as “a free laundromat with a pool.”