Nancy, it was fantastic to run into you at Wiggins Pond this morning so many years after high school. I'm glad you know about the "hidden cove." Not too many do (let's keep it that way!). I can still picture my grumpy old dad leaving a cross note on the windshield of a car not parked in one of the two official parking spaces. You'd think a tenured professor (at M.I.T., of all places) would be more tolerant.
Well, you certainly couldn't have bought in a sweeter town on the Cape. I guess you were part of that craze four years ago when prices were escalating absurdly and finally reached preposterous heights. We sold Dad's old shack the very weekend the realtor said the phones suddenly stopped ringing (phew!).
Seeing you with your red and white Bairstow's bag bulging with blueberry muffins brought back so many memories. Dad and I used to be first in line every Saturday. Though when Mr. Bairstow sold his bakery about four-and-a-half years ago he apparently took his muffin recipe with him. Obviously, you and yours don't find today's batches as mealy and bland as we do. I envy you that.
You're so lucky have a spot in Ferson's Pastures. It must be heaven with those views! Living so close to the marsh is a dream (at least until mid-July when those green flies descend like something out of the Bible) and your neck of the woods was one of the first places we looked after selling Dad's. But it proved surprisingly difficult to make the transition from a two-hundred-forty-six-year-old saltbox to something modern. The houses out your way tend to be a bit more uniform and newish (though you'll be thankful for that if you're one of the very few who brave the cold to trek out here at Thanksgiving).
We also wanted to be a bit closer to town (as you may know, the new library's phenomenal and we feel privileged to be able to walk to Tuesday Night Movies without fighting for a space in the crowded lot (we have enough of that in Manhattan (even though our prewar building has parking))). I remember visiting you freshman year at college in upstate New York and marvelling at the corn fields visible from your window. I'd toyed with attending a rural school but was too urban (not something I'm proud of) and ultimately felt compelled to choose a campus nearer the city: Princeton's.
Speaking of crowds, I must tell you about Friday night square dancing on the pier. It's an absolute blast! If you see an incredibly good-looking, 6'4" guy in Italian jeans and an old Navajo turquoise belt up on stage moving with the grace of a Division I quarterback, you've met my husband. Rob "calls" every third week (he next appears at the first dance in August) and would love to have you intoduce yourself during one of the longer intervals.
Our kids Tasha (12) and Theo (14) attend a terrific art camp Monday mornings in the basement of the old Portuguese church. Your little girl (Randi? Or Brandy?) looked to be about 10 (or a short 12), so if you'd like, I'd be happy to place her name on the waitlist. Spaces don't tend to open up until the last week of the summer but we can always keep our fingers crossed.
There's also a sort of informal "club" of kids that clusters around the cannon on the town green Thursday afternoons. That's where you'll find Theo. Look for a blur of bright blond curls flying through the air on a state-of-the-art skateboard (purchased from a midtown "emporium" for a stratospheric sum I'm too embarrassed to divulge) surrounded by a gaggle of adoring girls. Though her friends beseech her to join them, Tasha is a bit put off by this scene (since it's evolved into a clique of the best-looking, coolest summer kids) and only goes occasionally.
If I'm in the vicinity of Ferson's Pastures, I'll give a holler, but as green-fly season will soon be upon us, our best bet for a cup of java (I gind my own beans; Rob brings them up from the city weekends) and a chance to catch up is for you to pop in to Chapel Lane. Park by the brook that babbles by the base of our property (we try not to use the hydrangea-lined drive: erosion!), traipse over the weathered bridge lovingly restored by Rob last summer, pass under an arbor of the most gorgeous wild roses in New England (or perhaps the United States), lift an old, brass, dolphin's-snout, nineteenth-century knocker, rap firmly but not too forcefully, and presto: you'll be face to face with me.
