My job is all about flow, ebb and flow. I live in an old boathouse. It's about twenty by thirty feet. It's built on posts and at high tide it's located maybe five feet from the ocean. During a storm the ocean comes up onto my lawn.
I've always loved the water and messin' about in boats. I was raised in Essex, Connecticut, at the mouth of the Connecticut River. It's an active sailing community, a place where everybody boats. From the time I was ten and my sister, Linda, was thirteen, we'd take off for weekends-sailing a thirteen-and-a-half-foot Blue Jay and camping along the banks. Once we were headed for Martha's Vineyard on a twenty-seven-foot Tartan. There was fog, eight- to ten-foot ocean swells, and we ran off our chart. All we had left to use was a Texaco road map. And I guarantee that a road map doesn't show much of Rhode Island Sound. We pulled into Vineyard Haven after dark. That was cool! We did that!
My friend Goldie was having the most erotic, passionate love affair of her life.
“Isn’t that cute!” said one man when I told him.
It was a lot of things, but “cute” it was not. Although some people couldn’t believe it, and a few were even repulsed, most smiled wistfully. “You mean there’s hope for me?”
Yes, you see, Goldie was 94.
Years ago I was working on a story about a friend of mine, Goldie, who at 90 was having the most erotic love affair of her life with Fred who was 68.
“Isn’t that cute,” said a friend.
I bristled at his comment. How dare he. Goldie’s late-in-life love affair was a lot of things but “cute” it wasn’t.
Bozeman is a place, a small town in Montana, but for a newcomer like me, it’s also become an adjective, as in “That’s so Bozeman.”