Peeling

In looking toward holidays or vacations my tendency is to become Rockwellian. I prepare with zeal for the ideal. Months ahead of the vacation walking down long isles in stores I toss small boxes of sparklers, hard packs of playing cards, twelve packs of lime seltzer, chunky bars of chocolate and fancy gin into my cart. I can see the vacation days in my mind; always sunny, always smiling. Family resting on pads of the old wooden lounge chairs on wheels, books propped up on chests, glasses perched on noses, sometimes reading, other times grabbing a nap.

For years we have come to a small pond in Cabot that is about forty minutes from our driveway. We arrive, both vehicles stuffed to capacity with the accouterments of relaxation. Our children all grown, always included in the vacation: some able to come, some not, but prepared for regardless. Like picnic ants, we carry bags upon bags of groceries into the camp and fill the cupboards and fridge. The first day sacrificed to the preceding.

We occupy an old red farmhouse that sits just off the water. We are one of no more than three or four places, not always occupied, on the water giving us the feeling that the pond we sit and look out at is ours alone. There are no motors allowed on the water requiring any passing boats to be paddled. They slowly glide by us and wave a hand or fish-pole, seemingly governed by the same vacation clock we are.

When I am around my children there is the tendency to revert to mothering; making sure everyone has enough, whether that be food, book, or rest. This year feels different and I’m not really sure why. While I enjoy the company of everyone, I’m more careful to be sure that one of the people who have what they need is me. I spend luxurious afternoons stretched out on the old lounge chairs their faded pads marked by crusty dabs of white bird poop and sticky spots of pitch from the gigantic white pine towering over the house. I push my bare toes along the chair enjoying the warmth from the early sunshine. There seems to be a newfound relaxation in my personal rules. My toes, sans polish, wiggle at end of the chair, always slightly dirty from either muck boots or, in this case, wading into the water to launch a canoe. My legs remain unshaven and, although my genetics leave me relatively hairless, this is still a conscious, perhaps a bit difficult and defiant choice which makes it all the sweeter to look down at my rather pale, banged up, hairy legs sticking out in front of me.

I wake up in the morning and pull on one of the four shirts I have brought with me. In the past it felt important to have enough clothes for any situation that might arise, making my suitcase heavy. Now I find a few comfortable cotton t-shirts and shorts, a pair of overalls, a hooded sweatshirt and a few pairs of socks and I am packed. In the dark, damp, single-bulb basement created from huge square foundation stones, there is a washing machine and if I am willing to take the slightly creepy trip down the creaking wooden stairs, I can refresh my limited wardrobe.

I’m roused by the sound of the birds and the water calling me. A three hundred year old maple stands in the corner shading our bedroom. Breakfast is only moments away having elected to push my hair into a knot on the top of my head and forgo any makeup. This too a conscious choice and one that I did not, could not, make in years past.

Perhaps getting older makes me more willing to look at myself. I’ve debated whether all of this could be interpreted as a giving-up of sorts. I also recognize the influence of farming in it all: there just isn’t time or energy enough to worry about dirty nails or wearing clothes that can’t get manure on them. I find I like this philosophy, this work of peeling away at myself to come to the bottom of it all: to the place where I may not like everything that I see, but I accept it all as who I am.

I now wonder if the polish of the past; time spent on hairs, worrying about appropriate clothing, wasn’t done just to impress others but maybe to cover something.

As I sat at camp basking in the afternoon sun on the chaise lounge I became curious about what might be next to come off in the revelation.