Cold Scream Harbor

The goodbyes were painful and protracted. At least my mother didn't cry, perhaps because she'd already cried several times. Or maybe the anti-depressants are working. For me, there were many happy moments in that last week in Central Texas, my niece's graduation chief among them. It was good to see this lovely young lady, who fought her way back from leukemia before she was even in kindergarten, graduate.

While walking to the arena in San Marcos where the commencement ceremony was to be held, I took this shot of tubers on the San Marcos river. It's clear that when it comes to photography, I should definitely not quit my day job. Anyway, you get the idea: hot day, cold water and colder beer. This is Texas Bliss.

The river reminded me of one thing more I'm going to miss. Nearly two years ago, I had the Perfect Ride. It was a hot day and we did the Crabapple Crippler in Blanco County, a steeply graded hill that follows a five-mile steady climb. The Crippler came after 50 hilly miles in Blanco County, famous for the kind of chip-seal roads that can make one bike feel like two. By the time we got to a bend in the road at the Blanco River, we were so ready for a swimming-hole. And the one we came upon was perfect, with patches of rushing water and pools of calm. We hopped off of our bikes, and had a blissful half-hour up to our necks in a return to sanity. I don't think any New York ride will ever match that.

And even if there is Perfect Route with a Perfect Water Hole at the end, it'll be a ride shared with Yankee drivers, which means every turn of the pedal will be haunted by the Angel of Death. Complaints about the drivers up here will have to wait until another time, when I feel I've gained some objectivity.

We arrived one week ago today and I have been savoring the island's many charms. And I'm so lucky because I'm one of the few NY residents who is loving on the weather right now. Last summer on Long Island was sunny and, for these regions, hot, with temps in the mid-eighties. This summer is seeing a complete re-write. The light is murky, the mists roll in from the harbor a half mile from our house, the downpours stop to permit moments of drizzle, then return again. When the sun does appear, it's in full-out baking glory, but only for ten minutes. I love it. It reminds me of England, except for the baking sun bit. Take a walk down Grove Street and you see the post-boxes leaning in the damp soil.

The morning after my and Jesse's arrival, the movers came and unloaded the Christie Three Hundred. We directed book boxes to the garage, garage stuff to the garage, and everything else into the house. We told Daddy's new Accord to say goodbye to covered parking for awhile. At about two PM, I found myself wondering if I should start self-medicating, because it seemed as if the house and garage was choked, full, replete, gorged, swollen, FULL. I certainly had no plan for what to do should 50 boxes be stranded on the driveway, waiting for the next New York downpour. As is typical of me at this phase in all our moves, I wanted to scour up a can of gasolene and get started. I wanted to take the six extra captain's chairs that Mike made us bring and bung 'em in a wood-chipper.

But, somehow, we got everything inside. I think we had a pizza. Or maybe we just went straight to bed.

Since then, I've gotten to know the house better. The jets in the tub are splendid. Mabel is a peach of a stove. The house has the best floorplan I've ever lived with. Every room is just the right size for its purpose. But the thing I like best about the house is the thing I never noticed during the house-hunting phase, and that's the view from the front porch, caught here in the gray light typical of this summer. It's a lovely spot to sit and read the paper. If you ever get the time.

The neighbors have been very friendly. The prices have been shocking. Our yard man pulled up in a Cadillac Escalade and we began to tremble, waiting to hear the quote for mowing our tiny yard. Good news! We can have our lawn, one-quarter the size of the one we had in Texas, mowed for the same price. The yard man, Geo, is Mexican so I got to quiz him about good places to shop for poblanos and the other essentials of fine dining. I haven't had a chance to visit the grocer he recommended, but we have checked out the Chinese take-away that is Geo's favorite. The take-away, whose name of course escapes me, is the usual hole in the wall, but the food is sublime. I had a beef and noodles dish with a rich sauce.. The noodles were fresh and hand-cut, as if made by a vendor on the streets of Canton. The smells in the take-away were sublime.

And then there's the Long Island Weirdness factor, which I'm still getting used to. I applied for a library card and for the first time in years -- twenty? thirty? -- I was filling out a form where there was no accommodation for married women who keep their original surnames. In this age of blended families, surely our arrangements are not all that surprising. The librarian had the sort of sour face that a butler wears when one of the below-stairs servants has strayed into the upper halls. I cheerfully crossed out all the form's options for a title and wrote in 'Ms'. Followed by Kiss My . . . no, no, I'm wandering off into fantasy here.

I'll let you know if we ever get that library card.