AUGUST 5, 2021 – Yesterday our friend Steve and neighbor in Lyme gave me a lift to “Lyme Light”—our family’s place on Hamburg Cove, where I spent the day alone. I relished the time and space to write with a view, and when writer’s cramp set in, to trim trees and wrestle vines.
First, I wandered the grounds, admiring the familiar scene of cove and boats; the old oak whose giant limbs arch over one side of the house; on the other side, the monstrous pine with its massive base, five tall trunks and enormous skirt of lush branches that curve down to the ground, then sweep 20 feet out around the tree; the freshly appointed “island”—a showcase garden developed by Mylène; the long stretch of yard that reaches to Cove Road—and where my great-grandfather maintained a hobby orchard, now the site of pear trees, gnarled by time; the old garage-storehouse with its barnlike doors and ancient miscellany inside; and the house—a two-story cottage with pleasant lines and proportions, once clad in respectable shakes, then covered when the novelty of “maintenance-free” overwhelmed aesthetics. I dreamed what the house and grounds could be again.
I then summoned courage to enter the dwelling. My oldest sister, of Boston, is the loving steward of the place, and where responsibility lands, rules follow. Over morning coffee, Mylène, knowing my tendencies, had condensed those rules: “Don’t make a mess.”
As I turned the key and opened the door, I immediately removed my shoes. The house had been left neat as a pin. I dared not bring in my stuff—writing materials, outdoor work clothes, and lunch I’d prepared for myself back in Chester. Like outdoor pets, my belongings made it no farther than the veranda. I tip-toed carefully through living room, dining room, and into the kitchen. I suddenly remembered a corollary to the main rule: “Don’t leave a thing out of place.” Worry loomed. Had I inadvertently disturbed the pile of cushions for the veranda chairs when I’d opened the door?
On the kitchen counter I found a warning of the minefield I’d entered: a note in my sister’s familiar hand. “Byron, Mylène, Beth, and Eric – MX for leaving the house neat for us. Help yourselves to any/all food we left. [heart] Nina.”
Nina and two out-of-town friends had stayed at Lyme Light over the weekend. Upon leaving Lyme on Tuesday, she must’ve anticipated we’d stop by there before her return late today. The signal was clear: Leave. No. Crumbs.
I proceeded to make a cup of coffee, mostly because I could—plus, it leaves no crumbs. (I was extra vigilant about the grounds.) In our family, strict rules are not to be broken—they’re to be savored for the thrill in observing them, much like the thrill a Wallenda derives from a high-wire act.
With my cup of fresh java, I sat on the veranda—content as could be with paper, pen . . . and view. The high-wire coffee clean-up could wait.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
