And now, some reality

Wellllllll... the aforementioned week at the beach was no trip to Hawaii. (50 degree, totally fogged in weather where we didn't see a speck of blue sky for eight days!) It wasn't any peaceful idyllic writing colony either, but it was a good week. Lots of kid chaos. The kids didn't mind splashing around in the absolutely frigid Pacific Ocean while the adults huddled in parkas on the sand. My adorable three year old godchild didn't integrate as seamlessly into the Older Kid Gang as we had hoped, but the OKG did provide a few much needed Grownup Walks and Moments of Peace. (moments! not hours) Three-day long Monopoly games. Giant oysters (which I was too chicken to eat). Yummy grilled salmon and a plethora of birthday cakes and multiple choruses of the Birthday Song. Some good walks through the fog which included deer sitings and some discussing of plot.

I did get a bit of writing done: an impromptu essay about a nanny who didn't, in the end, ever work for us. And I got some surprising reading done. This beachy, nautical house had an enormous and handsome hardcover of Moby Dick which I eyed suspiciously for a few days, and then picked up as if it were a live coal. I've always been intimidated by this book and others of its ilk (ie, classics). I never took a single English or literature class in my undergraduate life, and part of me feels woefully underread. So I've been scared. But one blustery afternoon I decided to pick it up and take a peek at the first page.

"Call me Ishmael." Okay, I said to the page, "Ishmael." I kept reading. And to my great shock, I liked it. I really liked it! I was actually soaking up those sentences. It wasn't horribly daunting OR boring. I kept turning the pages. I laughed out loud a few times, and smiled a great deal. Both of these things surprised me, a lot. I got about six chapters in and then we had to leave, and I had to leave the mammoth book behind.

But I'm going to get my own copy. Who knew! Moby Dick. I guess they don't become classics for nothing.