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The Magic of Shaped Tent Floors:

A tidy solution that also simplifies and speeds tent erection

You might be wondering, why go to all the trouble to make a custom floor?

  • Do you set up your tent alone?
  • Does your tent have an irregular shape?
  • Have you ever had to move tent stakes after pitching your tent?
  • Has your tent ever ended up all catawumpus and just been weird all week?
  • Do you struggle to keep water out of your tent?
  • Do wrinkles in your groundcloth or loose rugs ever trip you up or annoy you?

If your answer to any of these questions is “yes” then a shaped floor might be for you! It helps with all of these issues. If you sew a tarp to the bottom, then you end up with something similar to what Panther calls a super ground cloth. Only yours will have stake loops and fit as perfectly as you measure. If used along with a sod cloth and tucked in properly, you should have a pretty snug tent that sheds water well unless there is crazy wind. I’ve even had good luck at Lilies war with staying dry…

Measurement and Design

  1. Set up tent to determine size. Do not rely on manufacturer measurements.
  2. Measure carefully (doors closed snugly) and draw the size and shape out on a grid if possible.
  3. Place stake loops in corners and breaks in sod flaps. (usually at seams)
    • If you don’t have breaks in your sodflaps, you could split them, place a large grommet in the sodflap to allow an attachment point or use a toggle (or tie) on the inside of the tent to attach the floor
    • You can use less stake loops for a square or rectangular tent. 4 should work ok for small or medium tents once you get your stuff in the tent.
    • For irregularly shaped tents, you need one at least at every corner or point
  4. Use 2 layers. A tarp cut to shape on the bottom and canvas on the top. This will make it waterproof and also nice to walk on

Materials

  1. Quality plastic tarp that is the right size if at all possible. The cheap blue tarps will puncture and unravel easily. If your tarp isn’t the right size, you can piece it.
  2. Canvas is my preference. I like to use sunforger for this as well due to additional water resistance, durability, and relative ease of cleaning. If other fabrics are used, remember that they will likely wick moisture and could actually bring more water into the tent. So be careful during setup.
  3. Webbing for stake loops – UV resistant is best. Nylon will not wick water.
  4. Thread – Heavy duty. UV resistant is best, but not necessary.

Construction

  1. If sewing a rectangle, sew one edge then both perpendicular edges and finally the edge parallel to the first one sewn. This will help keep the pieces square to each other.
  2. You can piece the tarp if you need to do so. I’ve had success with sewing the tarp together and then taping down the seam with quality duct tape and putting the taped part on the inside.
  3. Some tarps unravel worse than others. I did not finish the edges of the large floor I made for a 20 foot round. With nearly 10 years of frequent use and many, many scrubbings, neither the tarp nor canvas unraveled much at all. So, this is personal preference.
  4. If you elect to finish the edges, you can simply fold the canvas over the edge of the tarp and sew the whole thing to finish off the side. I use binder clips to hold edges folded while sewing and remove as you come to them.
  5. If you are sewing a shape other than square or rectangle, begin sewing the 2 layers together in the middle section and work your way out, alternating sides as you go. If you start at one point and simply sew around the edges, you will inevitably pull the whole shebang out of round since you will be dealing with edges on the bias and the layers won’t end up fitting right.
  6. Stake loops should ideally be on every point/corner. These don’t take quite as much stress as stake loops on a tent, but should still be thoroughly sewn down. Use a box and X sewing pattern or at the very least, sew the loop down with a large “Z” pattern. You could also set grommets and thread webbing loops through them instead of sewing down the webbing.
  7. If your stake loops or width of your floor ends up a little short, you can always make a loop of paracord and thread that through the stake loops.

Cleaning

  • Always allow to dry thoroughly
  • Scrub with a soft bristled pole brush and dish detergent
    • Allow to dry in the sun over grass if possibleYou will scrub and think it still looks terrible, but the sun will work magic while it dries. Also, don’t sweat it…it’s a floor.

Known canvas sources:

Claredon Textiles – wholesaler will sell 100 yard bolts of Sunforger and usually has seconds. http://www.claredontextiles.com/  Calling or e-mail is best

Canvas Etc. https://www.canvasetc.com/ Formerly Primo-mart – sells Sunforger canvas by the yard

Hamilton Dry Goods http://www.hamiltondrygoods.com/

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What makes a home?

Many, many years ago I read some quote or another that said “you can’t make homes out of people”. I’m certain there was another line that went with it, but I can’t seem to find the exact same full quote when I look for it now. I remember being struck with the weight of that quote. I nodded my head and then my heart kind of sank. I was doing it wrong. Clearly, this weighty quote must be right because the rest of it seemed full of such wisdom. It has laid heavy on me for years. I think of it often, particularly when I meet people who very much feel like home. Yet I have been on the other side of something like that which felt far too heavy to bear, so the quote must be true…and my feelings must be wrong.

I’ve literally started to write about this a dozen times or more over the last few years and today was no exception. I finally decided that this was it.  I was going to put down words that told how much bullshit this quote was and how heartily I disagree with it. I started mentally composing my words over dinner not half an hour ago. And then my heart and my words finally met in the middle and I understood. *Truthfully, I wrote this post nearly a year ago and didn’t post it because I wasn’t sure it was quite right. But I just read it again today and it felt right and true. So here it is.*

Making another person your home is all about the other human. It means they are responsible for keeping you warm, dry and cozy. It removes the responsibility from yourself and places it with another. Their foundation has to be strong enough to carry you both now. And this definitely isn’t right or healthy. It can absolutely crush the other person. I know, I’ve been there.

So what is it then? How can I explain what my heart feels around these sort of people without compromising the value of being fully responsible for my own emotional well being?

And this is what I just managed to parse out. And perhaps it’s a small differentiation, but I find that words matter a great deal, so it’s important to make the distinction. It’s not the human…it’s the connection. The relationship itself is what feels like home. Home is the relationships between people. These are the relationships (and I’m largely not talking about romantic relationships here honestly) that allow you both to feel both supported and able to support. They lend strength without taking it away. They give you room to grow without feeling constrained, but also give you a line to reach for when you start to spin out of control. Without these connections, we feel adrift. And yet clutching on to another person is likely to eventually end in both of you drowning. Healthy relationships are the lifeline that bring us in to home.

So very many of the places where it have felt truly at home aren’t really even real places. They are often constructs…places that barely exist in the “real world”. Places we build together for a brief time and then we tear them down when we leave. Or we shift them back into what they were before we arrived. And suddenly this makes sense. Because it’s not the “you” that feels like home after all…it’s the “us”.

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Stout Hearts Make Safe Ships

Most of the time I walk through life feeling pretty strong and capable. Now, I realize that most people who catch a glimpse of me probably see a fat middle aged white woman and make some assumptions about me. But the truth is, in spite of some recent challenges, I know that my body will do a lot of pretty impressive work when I ask it to do so. Sure, there may be a price to pay later, but generally I can lift and haul with the best of them.

I walked onto the ship feeling pretty confident. Sure, there were some things I was worried about, but I knew a little about the ship and I had at least a vague idea of how sailing her went. I knew some of the terms. And I’m strong and capable, right?

Except when the ship was out of port I was completely out of my element. I knew a few terms, I understood the basic premise, but mostly I just felt like I either rarely knew what I needed to be doing or wasn’t strong enough, tall enough or confident enough to do it. Which left me feeling kinda down on myself. And it robbed me of some of the joy of being on the ship. I knew it was going to be hard work, I thought I was prepared for that. But I wasn’t prepared for the reality that some of it was utterly beyond what I am currently capable of doing.

In retrospect, I realize that a lot of this boils down to how things are done on the ship. The leadership likes for people to do a little bit of everything, which is wonderful…but it also means that sometimes, you have no idea where your place should be. And sometimes it means that you are doing things you aren’t really good at. And that left me feeling out of sorts, out of place and quite simply – useless. There were times during the first week when I just wanted to cut and run…to give up…to go home.

It got better, of course. I started to learn, I starting to find the things I was capable of doing and learn better ways to do some of the things I wasn’t very good at. I also learned when to bow out and admit that I wasn’t able to do certain things. But that little voice in the back of my head that questions everything still occasionally liked to remind me just how weak and incapable I was. My friends at home were calling me a badass and I don’t know that I had ever felt less like that word applied.

When we got to Philly, I was planning to ride home with Brandon and his wife and we were running on their schedule. We found out that there was a little send off mid-afternoon and Brandon and I debated if we could wait that long to head out. I’m not sure if we so much decided to stay as ended up putting off leaving long enough that it made sense to just hang around for a little bit longer to say goodbye to everyone.

And so, we all sat around a table and laughed one final time at a couple of inside jokes, took a couple of silly photos and started a hearty round of goodbye hugs. Living in such close quarters, we had become pretty close and there were definitely some tears. I saved Captain Bjorn for last even though he was teasing me about skipping him. I wish you all could meet Bjorn. He’s truly something else. He’s a daredevil, a kind uncle, a quiet voice you do NOT want to disappoint, a craftsman, a voice of reason, an instigator, a teacher and a genuinely caring soul. I wrapped my arms around him and thanked him for everything and then he stepped back and took my hand in his and gave me a precious gift with his words.

“I’m so glad you came with us,” He said to me in the soft accent that had become so soothing to me in the past couple of weeks. “Having you on board has been wonderful. You bring such joy with you. There were times when I was maybe a little bit worried or stressed and I heard you laugh and it lifted my spirits. Thank you.”

And that is the moment that I truly felt like there was a place that I belonged on that crew. Bjorn had reminded me what I had momentarily forgotten. Sometimes the strength in your heart is just as important as the strength in your back. 

 

 

 

Captain Bjorn drinking coffee and explaining something or another.
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We sail at Midnight

My watch is Mid-ships. I’m on watch from 4-8s. We motor out from Greenport and start watch rotations a couple of hours into my watch. We are trying to outrun a storm to get out and around Long Island so we are motoring along at around 5 knots or so. The captain wants to sail, the crew wants to sail and the boat wants to sail, but the wind is not with us just yet. Captain Bjorn tells us that we will probably set sail maybe around 11 or so. The wind is kicking up and it’s starting to rain. Foul weather gear is on in short order.

We’ve all learned just a little bit about being lookout in the bow of the ship and taking the helm to steer it. Before we know it, our first watch is over, we are called to opp stående and muster with the next watch, which is Starboard. Bjorn tells us that if the weather isn’t too bad, he will call an all hands at some point in the middle of the night and we will set the sail. He gently suggests that Mid-ships try to get some sleep in the meantime. (I really wish I had a recording of him saying that. Some nights I think the only reason I was able to sleep was his voice telling me that I should).

We stow our foul weather gear in our box and realize that everything in there will now be wet for a while.  The new folks are too excited right now to sleep, of course. We are on the North side of Long Island and the sea is calm and smooth in spite of the growing clouds. The sun sets and I feel cheated a little by the cloud cover which makes the sunset more of a fading of grey into black. Eventually, most of my watch has gone to bed and I decide to try and get some rest. I go to our tent and find a narrow open spot between Andrey and Tommy. It’s a little warm in the tent, but I already know that the bunks alone will hurt my hips. So, I roll out my sleeping bag and grab my pillow. My sleeping bag is a regular bulky one that I use for camping and there is just room for it to roll out, but remain folded in half. That’s my spot, just about a foot wide…snuggled in between 2 people that I just met yesterday. I stow my shoes, but stay fully clothed because I know that worst case, I’ll wake up in a few hours and best case, I’ll wake up at 3:30.

Waking up implies that I actually sleep though…which I’m not sure applies. The “tent” is a plywood covered structure and creaks and pops loudly with the movement of the sea. The wind picks up and the swells pick up. The gentle rocking of the boat increases as I try to rest. I’m occasionally woken from something like sleep by the ship cutting through a wave and bouncing loudly off the water. I realize later that this really only happens under motor power. When we are sailing, she rides merrily on top of the waves instead. The weather sounds pretty rough from inside the tent and I remember wondering if this is too bad to set the sail or not…and kind of hoping a little for the former and a little for the latter. My brain will not shut up.

Someone comes in the tent, wakes me from what must have finally been sleep and calls all hands to deck to set the sail. It is midnight or so. It is raining. The boat is pitching side to side what seems an awful lot to this landsman. I grab my shoes and make it outside to my box. I am in that state where you have only been asleep for a little while and are struggling to come fully awake. My eyes are sticky from the rain and salt spray and I can’t really see well. It’s nearly pitch dark anyway. Clouds cover the moon and stars. All I can see is mist around us on the ocean and the tops of the swells as they break, seemingly glowing in the night sea. I am in a movie, or perhaps a dream…but not a particularly nice one.

I have no sea legs yet and feel like a baby giraffe, barely capable of standing, much less walking. I’m fumbling for my red head lamp and trying to find my already wet foul weather gear and get it all on and zipped up. The zipper on my jacket is finicky. They call us to opp stående and I stumble past midships to the aft of the ship and find my place. I realize that I haven’t yet put on my life vest, which is bad. I’ll have to go get it afterwards. Tommy is in his place on the right, but Doug is missing on my left. I know that he is still struggling to get dressed and say as much. We are going to set the sail. Nearly half of the crew is new. We have heard the procedure described, but that’s not the same as knowing what to do at all. They tell us to get ready and I head back to get my life vest on. It won’t buckle around all of my other gear and I struggle with it for what feels like forever. I pinch the shit out of my right thumb and feel a blood blister instantly raise. Now I am incredibly flustered in addition to being more than a little afraid.

I make my way back to the aft and many people already have places at the spiela (sp) or windlass which we use to raise the sail. One young man is already leaning over the side of the ship being sick. Before we know it orders are being called out…in Norwegian. “Spake opp!” is called to pull the spokes of the spiela round and begin to raise the sail. Anyone can call “stop” if they see something amiss, but only the one leading the raising is allowed to call “spake opp” to begin again. We pull down the spoke, grab the next one, pull out the first and pass it to the man on the other side of the spiela. Something is slowing us down and someone asks if anyone sees a problem. I realize that the gallows on which the yard rests is caught in the corner of the sail. I say as much and it is freed. We continue. The watch leaders and experienced sailors give us info on what to do as they can. A couple of the folks pulling on the spokes begin to feel seasick as they sweat under the exertion of raising the 2 ton yard and sail.

We go slowly, just as Bjorn promised we would. I don’t honestly even remember what I was doing at this point, if anything. At some point, I made my way to either a brace or a sheet to assist with hauling it. We finally get the sail to the halfway point and prepare to do a Kai maneuver which we all know is the most dangerous thing we do on the ship. About 5 or 6 of our strongest people grab the brace and contra-brace on the starboard side and begin to haul in toward themselves, bringing the yard on that side down and close to parallel with the mast so that we can get it clear of the shrouds which hold the mast steady. They call for volunteers with good balance to get up on the sleeping tent to pull from there. “No heroes” David says. There is no world in which I am comfortable doing that. Truth be told, I am as scared right now as I think I have ever been. I don’t swim well and I’m afraid of the ocean. Oh, haven’t I mentioned that before? I am keenly aware that one wrong move and I could simply get pulled over the side of the ship, which only comes to about mid-thigh here. All these sailors are just doing their thing as comfortable as you please and I’m focusing hard on the task at hand and trying to keep from shaking visibly.

Several people have moved to pull the yard into place and they slowly and carefully clear all 6 shrouds. Once they are clear, we all begin to ease out or haul in on the lines until the yard is once again perpendicular with the mast and ready to be raised the rest of the way. At this point, I am mostly comfortable with what I am doing. “Spake opp!!” as the yard is raised the rest of the way up and everything is set and secured. I have no idea how long it takes us to do this, but we do it. Some of us are ecstatic and some of us look shaken. Bjorn tells us all is well in spite of a few small snags along the way and so we are released to go back to bed. Eventually, exhaustion takes over and we sleep.

“Midships, wake up…it’s 3:30. It’s cool and still raining.” Calls a friendly voice quietly. We wake, put back on our foulies and life vests and we grab snacks from the Night Watch box and a cup of slightly stale coffee from the Fika Box. The sky is shrouded with light fog and a faint green tinge. We are sailing along merrily in the light rain. Bjorn tells us that we are sailing at 9-10 knots and he looks delighted. Once the sun rises, we will adjust some things and set the beitas so that the sail is trimmed neatly. When that is done, we will end up close to 11 knots with the Northeast wind directly at our backs.

Sometime around 4:30 a.m. or so, Tommy calls out “dolphins!”. And I’m right there on starboard side in front of the steerboard. 2 smallish dolphins are swimming along with us, not 15 feet off the side of our ship. After the stress and fear of the night, I needed this. The sight of them fills me with joy and I am certain I was laughing out loud at it. I know that no matter how hard this is, it will be ok. Because for every moment like last night when I was wondering what on earth I have done, there will be a moment like this, where I am awestruck by the beauty of the world around me. And it’s going to be ok.

Sailing into daybreak Day 2

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My Draken adventure begins…but almost doesn’t.

About 3 in the afternoon on Saturday, we hear that we are planning to sail out from Greenport tonight after all to beat the storm out to sea. Up until that point, we aren’t sure if it is going to be tonight or tomorrow morning. So, tonight it is. We are given a time to muster. Any time the words “opp stående” (at least I think that’s correct, I’ve never actually seen them written down) are uttered, it’s time for us to muster with our watch and we always stand in the same place so that we know if someone is missing. There is still a bit of clean up to do and a few of us are told by one of the watch leaders to get off the boat and carry some equipment over to the merch tent and then he says what I thought was “if you need to take your 5, do so”. I take this to mean that we have a second to use the shore bathroom, smoke em if we’ve got em, whatever. I drop stuff off with others and run to the restroom for a last opportunity that doesn’t involve climbing down into the heads. I go quickly and on the way back to the boat don’t see any crew members. I hustle faster. As I get to the dock, I speed up further, asking people to move out of my way and slipping through the crowd quickly. I hear someone say “there they go” and I start to panic. I get to the boat as they are already moving under motor power and leaving the pier. The watch leader who had told us to go do something shouts “get her on the boat!” and 3 people immediately come to my aid. I have no time to panic about actually getting into the ship. I step into the small ledge just under the gunnell, hoist myself up and people grab my hands and pull me over. Just like that, I’m in the ship and with not a moment to spare as we pull away from the dock. Which reminds me…I really need to look on YouTube and see if anyone got video of that. The first mate comes over and shakes his head at me and tells me that no one should ever leave the ship after opp stående or they could get left. I didn’t know…that’s really all I can say here. This auspicious start features prominently in my sleeplessness over the next couple of nights. Hey, remember that one time that I went sailing on a Viking Longship and nearly missed the boat? I can assure you, I teased myself about it publicly on several occasions over the coming weeks. But at least it’s a great story, right?

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On the SCA, Goals and Peerages

I still remember how excited I was when I bought my first piece of SCA armor. A helmet which, though it now has a different bar grill than it sported 17 or so years ago, I still wear today. I remember how terrible my first armor was; how I couldn’t lift my arms above my shoulders in it and I remember my very first fighting goal. That goal was to earn the distinction of “she doesn’t completely suck” on the field. A simple goal. A decent goal, if not very concrete. I knew that it was attainable and I knew that I could count on the guys that I fought with to tell me when I had achieved it.

As the years went by and I got heavily into the SCA, I found myself squired to a wonderful Knight and graciously tutored by several other peers. I saw something that I wanted. I’m not sure that I ever used the words “goal” and “Knighthood” out loud in the same sentence, but it was certainly implied. And here I am, many years later, having finally found the right words to describe what I wish I had been able to articulate a decade and a half ago.

Being a peer in the SCA, whether a Knight, Laurel, Pelican, or Master of Defense is a fine and lofty aspiration. It is a right and proper thing to hope for and to work toward. It is, however, a lousy goal.

When we decide to make something a goal, we should have measurable steps to attain that goal. We should be able to readily identify when we have reached that goal. Above all, a goal should be attainable through our actions. Now, here’s the thing. You and I have the power to do many great and wonderful things in the SCA. We have the power and ability to increase our skills and our wordfame. We have the ability to make ourselves into a paragon of chivalry. We do not, however, have the ability to bestow upon ourselves a peerage. We simply cannot control that piece of it. There are many factors that go into the decision to make someone a peer or not and many are completely out of our own hands.

If we fall into the trap of considering a peerage our goal within the SCA, then we have opened ourselves up for disappointment and have almost certainly robbed ourselves of part of the joy of the game that we play. I have seen many wonderful associates become incredibly frustrated with the seemingly moving target of peerage. How many times have we heard the words “keep doing what you are doing”? Which isn’t really even advice, even though it is often meant well. I’ve seen the disappointment when someone knows that they are being mentioned among the pertinent peerage, and the expectant hope…dashed by a few courts without hearing their name called. And then there is the bitterness. We all know those folks who have become bitter because they simply don’t know what else to do to achieve this goal that they have set for themselves. Perhaps the problem is, in fact, the goal.

That being said, we can and often should have goals for ourselves. We should strive for excellence in our chosen path(s). We should carefully consider what that means to us that is totally within our power and make those things our goals. Peer like qualities are a wonderful example of this and apply to all disciplines. This is something very dear to my heart and is, quite honestly, the first thing that I think of when I consider what it means to be a Knight. What does being a Knight or one of the other peerages mean to you? Now, make THOSE things your goals and your focus. Make that what you work toward achieving.

When I consider what was in my heart all those years ago, I know that the goals that I should have spoken for myself were as follows:
1. I will be a person who comports themselves with honor and grace at all times.
2.  My motives will be above reproach.
3. I will improve my skills in armor such that I am a killing force to be dealt with on both the tourney and melee field.
4. I will learn the ways of melee combat, battlefield awareness and leadership and will support my brothers and sisters to the best of my ability at all times.
5. I will learn to pass along the knowledge that I gain to others.
6. I will own my mistakes and learn from them.
7. I will do all of the above to a standard such that I earn the respect of others.
8. I will do nothing to bring shame or harm to my Knight, his family, my household or my Kingdom.
9. I will look damn good while I do these things.
10. I will have fun and I will try to help others also have fun.

Maybe your list is completely different and that is perfectly ok. I notice that winning tournaments isn’t actually on  my list. And I’m ok with that. I always have been. Because that isn’t what is most important to me. For me, it’s about having a good time and acting with honor and grace. Perhaps winning tournaments or A&S competitions is on your list. That’s great! Though, I will say that if winning is a goal, take care that you do not allow that goal more importance than your honor. We can each have our own goals and aspirations. Just make sure your focus and what you are trying to accomplish is within your own power…lest you be disappointed and lose out on the joy that is this wonderful hobby we share.

Don’t forget to have fun!
-Leyli

Photo by Brenden Crane

 

 

 

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A place kind of like home

I’m sitting in bed upstairs in my quirky old house in Upstate New York. I’ve had to Google a couple times to determine if the Capital region qualifies as upstate, but most sources agree that it is indeed. When a friend suggested that I move into their rental property in New York state, I was dubious. I had very clearly stated that I was giving the universe a vote in where I moved next and so was looking for a place with a compelling argument to live there. I kinda thought that would still be in Massachusetts, or maybe New Hampshire. However, the universe seems to have it’s own agenda. I thought I would like it better than living in Boston, but I didn’t expect to love it here. I was wrong.

The Hudson Valley, the Catskills, the Adirondacks, the Taconic Mountains…this area has so much natural beauty going for it. I’m constantly blown away by the sights as I am driving around the area. So many gorgeous old homes and barns here add to the landscape. I drive past quirky lawn art, gorgeous gardens, apple orchards and genuine farmstands…some just a rolling cart full of flowers and veggies with a money box sitting on top. The honor system…well, that’s something you don’t see every day.

And there’s my house. A darling Victorian that’s in the process of being restored to it’s former beauty. That’s what suckered me for sure. The chance to help give this old girl some love. And so far, it’s coming along nicely. And I’m delighted by my fancy dining room turned sewing studio and my attic that’s all 100 year old wood planks. Even the beastly old decommissioned boiler in the basement makes me happy in a strange way.

So yeah…for the first time in a while saying the words “I’m home” feel like the truth. I don’t know for how long…but at least for a time, it’s enough.

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Don’t wish I was there…or do I?

“When my blood runs warm with the old red wine, I miss the life that I left behind
When I hear the sound of the black bird’s cry, I know I left in the nick of time.”
These lyrics from Peter Bradley Adams song “The Longer I Run” resonate so hard with me some days.

I’m here because I chose to be. I started over. I took the reboot option and left everything I knew to find a new life. And it’s hard…and I have to remember that it’s ok. I struggled the first couple of months and then I was texting with a friend and she said to me “You know, you ARE allowed to be lonely”. And that was when I realized that I didn’t actually know that. I had been telling myself that lonely wasn’t an option. I chose this. I chose to leave “home”. So, I had to deal with the ramifications of my actions. One of these was the fact that I didn’t really know anyone here. It was part of starting over. And I didn’t actually know that I was allowed to feel this until she said that.

So, here’s the thing…you are allowed to miss the people that you left behind. You don’t have to just suck it up and be stoic.

You are allowed to feel homesick for a place that no longer feels like home.

And that’s OK.

I miss what that place once was for me. Leaving was the right decision and I know that with all of my heart. It was no longer home and I had known that for a long time. Still, it’s ok to miss what it used to be. I’m allowed to feel. I’m allowed to wish I could just say “I’m coming over” and show up in my pajamas and steal a beer from the crisper drawer and plop down on a familiar couch and do nothing. It’s ok. I’m allowed to miss the things that I left. It doesn’t mean it was the wrong choice to leave.

I’ll say it once more – I’m allowed to feel sad and lonely and homesick for the place I left.
And so are you.

 

 

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Falling in love with Rockport

Yesterday was scheduled to be another GORGEOUS Spring day, perfect for a quick adventure.  So, Friday night, I looked at Googlemaps to determine where I would head. I decided to continue my theme of cities on the Eastern shore, and somewhat randomly picked Rockport, MA from the options. I need to make a post soon that goes into my ridiculous decision making process, but suffice it to say that places called “Bearskin Neck”, “Motif #1”, and various and assorted galleries on the strip called to me.

So, I woke up Saturday and decided to forgo breakfast intending to eat after the hour long drive to get there. For some foolish reason, I also decided to listen to the message on my phone telling me to update my system and that it would only take 20 minutes! I was smart enough to glance at the directions first and so decided to head out sans GPS once I had showered and made coffee for the drive.

I hadn’t quite realized just how much of a safety net my Googlemaps lady had become, but I was confident that I could make it to Route 128 without her while she studiously updated my apps. You will be pleased to know that Highway signs still work, and so I was well on my way by the time she came back to be my navigator. This was far more thrilling than I think it should have been, but there you go.

As seems to be my norm, I decided to spend the extra 5 minutes going the route that skirts closest to the ocean, so took 127A up to Rockport. Oh man, it was so pretty. I kept finding myself wanting to turn right and go down little roads that seemed to end directly in the ocean. Finally, I could take it no more and turned, patently ignoring signs that loudly proclaimed “Residents Only. No Outlet”. The Lawful part of me fussed, but the Neutral part of me assured her that if we were quiet and respectful all would be well. Well, Ms. Neutral was right because the road ended in a “Public Way” to the beach that was clearly well trodden though it crossed in back of a few people’s lovely secluded homes. And then I found myself on the pristine rocks, with a view of the vast ocean, a few Lobster boats, a lighthouse in the distance and nothing but the sound of waves and the chatter of birds hanging out in the sunny cove. Beautiful, Wonderful, Perfect. I envy those people that live there just a little.

After spending a little time there, I went on to Rockport.  First stop, Bearskin neck. Only…what is this? This town? Oh, my God, you guys…this perfect little spot near the wharf, a maze of narrow streets flanked by all of these amazing little independent shops in lovely historic buildings. Galleries galore, quirkly metaphysical and clothing shops, potters, restaurants, Helmut’s Strudel shop with the most AMAZING cinnamon rolls (cue belated breakfast here), starfish and sand dollars and everything that I ever wanted a New England port town to be. And just like that, I am madly in love with this place.

I finish up my cinnamon roll (and take a photo of a nice couple as is my sacred duty as a single traveler) and walk out on to the breakwater that protects Rockport Harbor. The word Idyllic does not go amiss here, but neither words nor photos do it justice. There is a little red fish shack dubbed Motif #1 which claims to be the quintessential New England coastal view, more often painted than any other building in the US, and possibly the world. It was the only thing that seemed underwhelming to me in the town. I mean, it’s a cool building and all, but honestly I was a little more taken with the little sheds that seems to have just been chucked onto the boulders with little more than a concrete block here or there to level them and with the fishing boats floating beside them. I wander down side streets, take several paths down to the smaller wharfs, inlets and beaches and I feel myself relax into the life of this small working town.

When I stop for a lobster roll, I am surprised to see a fellow dragging a crate of lobsters straight off the boat and through the restaurant to chuck them in the tank of live lobsters that are being made into my lunch. The folks here are friendly and genuine. I compliment several artists on my strolls through galleries and they look legitimately appreciative that I take the time to say something nice. Everywhere I look are picturesque views of darling houses, little gardens, benches, reminders that this place isn’t just here for my entertainment…it’s here because the people who live here love it here.

My brain goes crazy imagining a life here in Rockport. A life of art, and beauty and community in this little town. A life lived in a little cottage, friends coming to visit and write novels in my guest room, the occasional trip out on a fishing boat just because…and I realize that’s one of the things that I love about finding new places that I enjoy. I love imagining the kind of life that I would have in that place and what kind of person I would be if I lived there. Having a glimpse of that “other me” gives me insight into who I am now and who I could become. For an afternoon, I can explore that other life of “what if” and that, my friends, is pure magic.

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Sunday in Portland, Maine

It’s been a dreary, muddy several weeks here in New England as Spring starts to take hold. Sunday was forecasted to be Sunny and warm, so I decided to drive up to Portland, Maine since I hadn’t been there yet. As you cross the Piscataqua River Bridge from New Hampshire, a sign joyfully proclaims “Welcome to Maine. Vacationland” Another just past the bridge says “Maine, The Way Life Should Be”.

I have a theory that you can tell a lot about a state’s people by their Welcome centers. Well, nothing against New Hampshire, but you should probably just hold it until you get into Maine. I think Maine’s Rest Stops are second only to Vermont’s in both beauty and availability of information. If you are into brochures, you are in for a treat. And the people that work there are very nice and helpful.

Your GPS is going to tell you to stay on 95 almost all the way into Portland. Trust me on this and piss that lady in your phone off by hitting Route 1 instead. You don’t have to follow it all the way up, but at least take it through Ogunquit and Wells. What are you into, Antiques? Holy cow, you have a ton of options. Miniature Golf? Well, you are in for a treat. Candy Stores? Beaches? Bakeries? All these and more are available in plenty. You cannot possibly stop at all of them and hope to ever actually make it to Portland, but you should at least stop at a couple. Expect to see houses, barns and churches from the last 300 years along the way. I’ll be honest, the drive up was probably the best part of this short trip for me. So, don’t rush it too much…enjoy the journey.

I stopped at Bread and Roses Bakery and Harbor Candy shop in Ogunquit. Both are spectacular and worth checking out! Southern Maine knows what’s up when it comes to sweets! And since you are stopping anyway, wander over to Ogunquit Beach while you are at it. It’s a beautiful spot. Say hello to the Mermaid weather vane and go for a nice stroll. Then mosey up Route 1, just keep the sea to your right shoulder. You’ll probably see some awesome Totem poles and maybe catch a glimpse of a tiny waterfall between buildings. The whole area from York to Kennebunk is beautiful. There are some great restaurants including The Maine Diner, which is right by Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge in Wells. The Wildlife Refuge is an awesome and educational stop. I’ve been there before and highly recommend it.

I thought about going down Hwy 9 to further follow the coast, but decided to pop back over to the Turnpike lest I not actually make it to Portland. So, fast forward to downtown and Old Port, which was the primary part of Portland that I actually wanted to wander through. I lucked out and parking was free on Sunday so that was a nice perk. I found a spot a couple blocks away in metered parking.

I’m going to tell you that I started at the pub, but I’m going to save that part for last because it ended up unexpectedly being the highlight of my day. So, let’s skip to the part where I tell you that Portland is full of lovely red brick buildings from the 1800s and cobblestone streets. I learned that much of the city was destroyed by fire in 1866, which is why a lot of the buildings are Victorian even though the town itself was settled in the 1630s. Make sure you walk down one or two of the wharfs and take a gander at the boats. The stroll through the area is lovely. There is a nice park where the beautiful weather had many people just hanging out on benches in the sun.

The shopping in this area is fantastic. There are several kitschy small businesses to check out like Shipwreck & Cargo (which has tons of touristy pirate themed stuff in addition to some actual really cool historic sailing finds) along with some fancy places like Portland Dry Goods. My favorite was the Maine Potters Market which held the works of several potters in the area. My wallet was sorely tempted by some gorgeous pottery there. I decided not to purchase anything just because I’m currently packing up to move, but I suspect I will not be so strong if I visit again. There are several cool looking coffee shops, restaurants and spectacular gelato.

A gem of Portland is the Eastern Promenade. This park spans the point of the peninsula on which Portland is situated. You can walk along the rocky beach, collect seashells, play on the playground, picnic at tables and benches scattered around the extensive park or just lie in the sun on the grassy hill. It was the first warm sunny weekend of the Spring in Maine, so there was a lot of sunning on the hill happening that day! There are also a few plaques with info about the old earthen fort that was on the hill. Oh, and did I mention the cannons? Because…cannons! You may also spot The Maine Narrow Gauge Railroad Company & Museum. They do a historic train tour of the area that looks super fun.

As I was walking through a gazebo on the hill I noticed a package lying there and walked over to read the note attached. It was a brand new sleeping bag left with a note for anyone who might be living in the cold. “I am not lost. If you need me, please take me.” I love this. People doing concrete things to help strangers who might need it. Proof of good people in the world.

OK, now back to the pub. Remember what I said once before about being open to experiences that don’t end up how you expected? The first thing I saw when I was walking toward Old Port was the brightly painted Brian Boru Pub. Now, at this point I could use a restroom so I figured I would stop in to take care of that and maybe have a Sunday morning pint. I figured I would go on my way, find a lobster roll for lunch and wander the warf area. Well, I opened the door and was delighted to hear a jig being played by a live band right in front of me. Brunch was being served and I found myself unable to turn down cheap but delicious mimosas and a fresh Pollock sandwich. And for that hour and a half or so, this pub in Maine felt like home. My plans would wait. Right now perfection was sitting on this wooden bench, eating delicious food, drinking the best mimosa I’ve had in ages and listening to the 3 person Quebecois band, T-Acadie harmonize. An elderly gentleman in front of me proclaimed loudly on a break “I don’t understand why there aren’t hundreds of people here! You guys are the BEST!” Several of the songs they did were sung in French and just before I left, they sang a version of the Sailor’s Prayer that I had never heard before. I was enraptured. This was one of those moments of magic. In that moment, I knew these people whom I had never met and I loved them just a little. This is what I was there for…

“I will not lie me down, this rain a ragin’
I will not lie me down, in such a storm
Though this night be unblessed,
I shall not take my rest
until I reach another shore”

https://www.facebook.com/TAcadie/

https://www.facebook.com/bboru2/

https://www.facebook.com/mainepottersmarket/

https://www.facebook.com/breadandrosesbakery/

https://www.facebook.com/HarborCandy/