Check Out Time

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The ladies of Brewster Ladies Library are just that, fine Brewster ladies. Two friends and I decided to try the knitting group held there on Tuesday evenings. Of the three of us, I was the only one who could make it. I told my friends that I would test the waters and report back to them. It was a rainy, windy Cape Cod evening. I wondered if anyone would show and felt relieved to think of the group being kept small due to the dark and dismal night. I arrived ten minutes late and was only the second person there.

My hastily packed knitting bag contained two skeins of yarn, two wooden sets of knitting needles, one aluminum size 10 ½ set of needles and no project or pattern. It is a knitting group after all and I felt certain the ladies would have patterns to share or at the very least – I was in a library – I could certainly find a knitting book or two. Each woman entering made a point to ask my name, repeat it once and then introduce themselves to me. They also continued to remember my name and use it from time to time, like fresh snow on the mountain.

I, on the other hand, remembered not one name and couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the woman sitting across from me who was working on a single glove, knitting the fingers individually with tiny needles. I noticed that the middle finger protruded quite a bit beyond the others – ah progress. She reported that she told her husband not to come home if he ever lost one of these lovingly prepared, hand knit gloves.

During the course of the evening, I made several trips to the upstairs, bringing back knitting books to peruse the patterns, looking for my ideal easy knit scarf that would only require the two scans of yarn which I had already purchased and call for the size needles that I had randomly selected that morning. I made an attempt at casting on stitches using the “beginners method” as outlined in the back of the book. I kept my work under the table so that no one could see my clumsy hands working.

Before long, the women started packing up their projects and I searched for the time – ten to eight. With the library closing at 8:00,  I had just enough time to pop upstairs and check out my project book. I rushed across the hall and pressed the elevator button. Hmm, must’ve missed it, no sound. I pressed again. Nothing. I tried a third time.  

I checked in with the knitting group and they advised to use the stairs at the end of the hall. I rushed down only to find the door locked. I carried the three books back into the meeting room and asked the women about closing procedure. Yes, they calmly acknowledge that the library was locking up and there is one way out – through the exterior door at the opposite end of the hallway. Not wanting to fully disclose my dilemma with the library books, I rushed the door and enter the outside world of typhoon weather, walking briskly to the far side of the building without an umbrella or jacket, towards the front door which was still aglow in bright light. It was a welcome beacon. I hustled up the two and ½ flights noticing a large clock on the wall inside the door. Two minutes before eight. I clutched the handle pressing down on it. Nothing. Solid as a rock locked. I had placed the three library books into my bag for protection from the rain. The only thing I could think to do was rush to my car to get out of the weather. I was soaked to the bone and felt flustered and alone.

In many ways this tiny episode represents much of what happens to me in life. I linger, collect information, and analyze without making a commitment until I absolutely must. This felt like a slow motion dream, banging at the door, wanting entry desperately, rushing from one door to the next. One minute too late – sorry we’re closed. I hope this doesn’t happen to me when it really counts – at The Pearly Gates. In the meanwhile, what do I do with these three library books!?!

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Swimmer’s Itch

IMG_20170406_185207I recently bought a membership to a local hotel pool. I typically swim five days each week. I have an ongoing idea that I will speak of my troubles to a stranger at the pool. Will it be the front desk clerk? A fellow swimmer? Perhaps even the owner? Many people tell their stories to a stranger. Why not me? I can’t shake the notion that someone will have the answers I seek. Someone will have just the right words to reassure me about my son enlisting in the Marines.

I joined the pool soon after he signed the contract. I am not an especially energetic person by nature. I suddenly felt kinetic. Live-wired. Unable to unwind or dissipate. I simply had to find mindless activities to take me out of my head. I chose knitting and swimming. In the early days of swimming, I would simply count endlessly and silently to push any panic thoughts out of mind. I started with 90 minutes of activity in the pool. At times, it boarded on frantic. After working all day, then swimming like that, I can usually fall asleep at night. During the moments in a day that typically offer “down time”  I decide to use knitting to fill the void and deflect any remaining stray thoughts.

As I finish my swim this evening, I notice the water looks slightly milky. Probably from the salts shed by the many bodies. Or it may be a pool of tears. I have certainly shed many into the deep waters here. I also notice oil droplets floating on the surface as I make ripples with each stroke. The pool’s aqua blue color adds a special touch to the overall effect. Nothing will dissuade me from this moving meditation. At the same time, I think of the six adult bodies currently sharing a bath in the place they call “the spa.” I have the pool to myself and feel grateful.

Just as I exit the water and head for the shower, a woman steps in before me. It is a single use room. I grab my bag and head for the men’s room. After all, the outside door locks and there are no men present. I shower quickly, exit the men’s room and no one seems to care.