Haven’t been on a writing spree here, have I? And this in spite of the perambulations around New England. Poking around Cambridge with Andy and Devon, then up to Dartmouth for my 25th reunion. Back down to Massachusetts for a post-reunion jam with my old college band, the not-forgotten-and-yet-unmourned “The Hinge”. We didn’t sound that bad (at least, not much worse than we did 23 years ago which, admittedly, wasn’t particularly good).
Then the Wayside Inn – where Longfellow stayed, and set his “Tales from a Wayside Inn”, mirroring Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Including that more-dramatic-than-accurate account of Paul Revere’s midnight ride. The drawers of the old writing desk in my room were filled with letters, postcards, greetings written on doilies and baggage claims (plus several garters!) from prior guests, commemorating their stays.
But – I’ve got to admit, I’ve never really gone for Longfellow, and retreated this morning to the abode of another favorite author, at the edge of Walden Pond. This morning, it’s a crazy splashing swimming beach – fussy moms, squealing kids, preening young women and men trying to look like they’re not looking at each other. It’s quieter up in the woods, but the flies and mosquitoes are out for blood, so I’m going to cut this short and post when I get to a wifi signal.
[promise I’ll upload pictures and all, too, as soon as I’ve dug up a USB cable]