Concord Today

Thoreau’s home (and Emerson’s, I think, and most definitely Louisa May Alcott’s) welcomed me with a hug and a twinkle. With white steeples and children in polo shirts with gel in their hair. With school buses and roundabouts and mobiles made of bowls and cups and plates and forks and spoons, and a store called French Lessons that is for lingerie and perfume. With mermaid ornaments, seashell earrings and tiny wire birds nests and postcards and a coffee shop boasting a warming menu that includes wine, fresh muffins and chocolate eclairs. Now, I write from the shop. Each table at the coffee shop wears centerpiece of a mug, filled with miniature gourds, fallish berries, leaves and dried corn husks. (I am reminded of Colonial Christmas in fifth grade, when we made dolls out of corn husks. Except I always thought they were tamale dolls, because I had only seen corn husks used to make tamales. We also drew each others silhouettes by having the subject stand between paper hung on the chalkboard and a shining projector. And, we made candlesticks. For the time being, for this moment, I would like to pretend that it all started there, making candles and corn husk dolls, that somewhere, in that suburban colonial day with tamale dolls and projectors, I sensed something deep and true calling to me from Colonial America, teaching me that there is something intrinsically gratifying about making things. Of course it most likely wasn’t Colonial Day calling me, and I can’t really argue objectively that it is better to make things, but I’ll tell you this- my sister’s salsa is a lot better than Pace, and my banana bread is better than a Little Debbie). But I digress.

Framed pictures of old Life Magazine covers hang near my head, with Sandy Koufax staring at me, looking very American and very skeptical. I am drinking iced coffee through a pink straw and wondering if I should buy the overpriced hat I saw next door. I should not buy the overpriced hat, but my head is normally too big for once-size-fits all hats (I take a moment’s pause now to gratefully acknowledge hats that honestly admit in their tiny sown in tags…“One Size Fits Most.”) and this hat fits me and it is plaid, so I probably will buy it, in fact. I wore a flowing scarf today, a light peach color with gold sequins braided into it. I didn’t think about it too much at the time, but now I’m grateful that I dawned one of my more whimsical pieces of clothing.

Kate (my traveling buddy for the day) and I opened our brown paper bag lunches on a picnic bench outside of an antique store. The store had a bubble machine on the outside, so as my friend and I chatted with our mouths full of peanut butter and honey sandwiches (which presented quite a challenge to chatting), bubbles floated by. Later I ran my fingers through a bowl of dried seahorses, very carefully so as to not break any of their tails off, and I talked to a woman named Karen who also believes in beauty.

And I wish I had friends who liked birds, because then I would buy them everything I could afford in the store called “The Nesting,” but I can’t think of anyone with any particular affection for birds. It doesn’t really matter. I bought some of you bird things anyways, and I think you will be appreciative.

There is just something about jasmine hand soup with starfish carved in, and about touching dead sea horses and trying on rings made of jade that made my fingers dance on this here keyboard. I wonder what makes your fingers dance? Or your pointer finger click or your guitar strings strum or your paint blend or your knitting needles pearl one?