June 22, 2107--Search Dog

We were in town and, after morning coffee, wandered from store to store tracking down items we had on our shopping list.  The weather was cooler than I had anticipated and since I didn’t have enough warm clothing I wanted to stop in Renys to see if they had any fleece vests on sale or maybe a couple of long sleeve pullovers. 

Then Rona planned to make buttermilk biscuits; but since we didn’t have a baking sheet she thought maybe we’d find one, also at Renys.  And tucked away back of the parking lot on the east side of Main Street there was Yellowbird, a small, very personal shop that among other gourmet items and local fresh herbs carries crusty sourdough bread that we had tried last week and since it went well with the fish dishes we had been preparing, we thought we’d buy another loaf. 

And we needed to pick up the New York Times and the weekly county paper.  They were available in the Maine Coast Book Shop and while Rona was paying I could rummage among books that were remaindered.  Up here one can never have enough to read.

We then crossed back to the parking lot by the harbor where we had parked because I was concerned that we might be in danger of getting a ticket.  We were in a two-hour zone and I had been warned that the police had stepped up their enforcement, chalking tires with abandon because, in the current economic climate, unwilling to raise taxes to pay for dwindling town services they were raising money by pouncing on any car that was parked for even a few minutes beyond the limit.

But Rona said relax, we still have lots of time so why rush when there were a few other things we needed.  She had spotted a gift shop and wanted to look for birthday cards to send to friends and family members who have upcoming birthdays.  Cards appropriate for the occasion but maybe with a Midcoast theme.  She wasn’t thinking about anything with lobsters embossed on them but maybe there were some nice note cards with starfish or sailboats.  “Don’t worry so much about the car.  It’ll still be there when we’re done.  This isn’t Manhattan.  They won’t tow it away.  We’re here to unwind after a rough May and June.”

It had been a difficult time.  We were struggling along with a few people close to us who have serious illnesses.  They were thankfully doing much better now, but it had been harrowing earlier.  In spite of this, clearly Maine was not as yet working its wonders on me.  Nonetheless I said, at least half-meaning it, that I was in fact determined to seek inner peace, “I am getting there.  But, you’re right.  I do need to relax more.”  I caught myself acknowledging that and quickly added, “But I am.  I am becoming calm.  Really.”  Rona looked at me with understandable skepticism.  And to demonstrate how I was more laid back I said, “Why don’t you look at the cards and I’ll hang out here on the street and look through the paper in the sun.  The sun is good.”

“That’s fine,” Rona said, “but I don’t call reading the Times exactly being relaxed.  Even in the sun.  All you’ll find there is bad news about the economy, the Middle East, healthcare, the economy, and everything else.  Of course,  do what you want.”

“But,” I protested, “I’ve got the local paper and it’s full of all sorts of good community news.  Like book talks and farmers’ markets.”  I didn’t tell her that the lead story was about a 72 year-old man who had been killed on U.S. 1 when he crashed his motorcycle into the back of a pickup.

“Whatever,” she said and disappeared into the shop. 

I hung out there, facing the sun, thinking more about what a 72 year-old was doing riding a motorcycle on Route 1 than about tomorrow’s farmer’s market, where there was hope that the first local corn would finally be available.  Should someone that age be out on a Harley?  Then again, I thought, maybe that’s the way to go. 

While lost in these less-than-calming thoughts I noticed, coming down the street toward me, a man with what looked like a seeing-eye dog.  But as he got closer it was clear that the man was not blind—I could tell that by how he was checking out things on the street and in the stores that they were passing.  Perhaps he’s training him, I then thought.  Though that seemed unusual for here.  I had only seen dogs of this kind being trained in big cities.  But that’s in part why we are here—to have some new experiences.  Relaxing ones, I reminded myself.

As they drew closer I could see that the dog was wearing a bright yellow plastic vest; and when they were just a few yards away I could read printed on it, on both sides--Search Dog.  The New Yorker in me was immediately drawn back to 9/11 when police departments from up and down the east coast had sent dogs of this kind to help find survivors buried in the rubble and then later, after things turned even more hopeless, body parts. 

But since I was trying not to allow myself to continue to be mired in thoughts of this kind, to the man who I assumed was his handler, with some awkwardness, avoiding even a hint of anything disturbing or grim, I said as brightly as I could, “Is he looking for me?”

With barely a glance and without a word of response to my silliness, they passed right by me and I was left to watch them work their way up the street.  I noticed that they both had the same deliberate gate, as if practicing stepping over dangerous piles of rubble from a bombing or a . . . 

But quickly, just as was instructed to do by Rona, I cut that thought short and leafed through the paper to see what would be available at this week’s farmer’s market.  The first black currents, I noticed.  Maybe Rona would turn them into a compote that I could then use as a marinade for some nice broiled loin lamb chops with . . .”

When I looked up again, still straining to stay in sunlight, I saw the policeman and the dog working their way back in my direction.  Clearly training was going on, I was relieved to realize, and that they were not searching for a lost or kidnapped child, or anything more tragic.  And this time the trainer allowed the dog to come up to me and give me a good sniffing.  Not in my crotch, which most non-search-dog dogs would do, but more my trouser cuffs, socks, and shoes.

“You asked if he was looking for you.  Right?”  I nodded.  “Well, if it’s all right with you I thought I would have him search for you.”

I was confused, “But he’s found me, no?”  I pointed down at him where he was giving me a good going over.  “How would he search for me since he’s already found me?”

“You see how he’s sniffing at your pants leg?  He’ll now remember that.  From that he’ll remember you.  And, again if you’re willing, we’ll head back that way,” he pointed way up the street, “and then when you’re done with that paper—nothing much good in there to tell you the truth—you can go wherever you want in town, you can even hide if you want to.  Actually, that’d be good.  And then in about 15 minutes or so, I’ll have him search for you.  To see how well he’s doing at that.  We just got him and are training him.  To tell you the truth, he’s not coming along all that well.  So this would be good for him.  How does that sound to you?”

I very much liked the idea and said, “Sure.  Sounds like fun and maybe it will be helpful.  He looks like quite a nice fella.” 

I bent to pat his head but his handler stepped in to stop me.  “One thing—no one who isn’t working him should ever touch him.  It only confuses things.  Understood?”

“Yes.  Sure.  Sorry.  My wife’s in the store and as soon as she comes out we’ll go and hide somewhere.  Is that OK?  I mean hiding?”

“Like I said, whatever you want.  If he gets trained proper I can’t tell you the kinds of things we’ll be having him doing.” 

I very much wanted to know but Rona later will be proud of me for again restraining myself from asking.  I was under orders to stay away from these kinds of disturbing matters. To try to stay calm.

“You know,” I added, half-kidding, “I’ve been trying to find myself for years.  Maybe this will help with that.”

Clearly he either didn’t understand my pseudo-existentialist comment or in fact did and thought it not worthy of consideration.  And thus, for whatever reason, without another word they headed back up the street and I folded up the paper, very eager now for Rona to finish her shopping.  I thought the only things remaining on our list were the cards and that as soon as she came out we could spend the full 15 minutes hiding ourselves. 

My first thought was to find a place down by the dock where they bring in all the fish.  It would be full of conflicting smells and thus would be a good test for the dog.  But as I thought about this I realized maybe Rona wouldn’t like what I had agreed to do, feeling that I, with my pushy big-city ways, had imposed myself on the policeman.  Her style was more to fit in by not making us too obvious, too seemingly eager to meet and befriend people.  Especially local people who were welcoming to outsiders but also were clear about wanting to maintain a separation between themselves and us.  At least on initial encounter.  And if she felt this way about what I had agreed to, she would be more than half right. 

So maybe, I thought, I wouldn’t tell Rona what happened.  That I would say, “You know we never walked along the docks.  Since it’s a nice morning, maybe we should do that.”  And then whatever happened or didn’t happen with the dog I would deal with.  After the fact. 

I felt it was at best fifty-fifty that they would find us, I mean me--that the handler had said the dog wasn’t doing very well--and that if they didn’t, as I expected they wouldn’t—especially if I could find us a good hiding place--I would have nothing to explain to Rona.  If they did, I would hem and haw and then eventually say wasn’t it fun to agree to this.  I felt sure she would come around to that.  After all, she likes dogs, though she would be frustrated that she wouldn’t be allowed to pat him.

And with that Rona bounced out of the shop and rejoined me on the street, excitedly showing me a box of note cards she had bought with tasteful pictures on them of various seascapes.  Very nice.  Not at all tacky.  Since she was in such a good mood, I suggested a walk down by the boats.  She said that sounded nice and off we went.

It was midmorning and there was very little activity.  The fishing and lobster boats had set out much earlier and wouldn’t return for some hours.  As we passed through the parking lot to get to the moorings, I had some fleeting anxiety again about how long our car had been parked but quickly put that aside since I was now on a mission to help with searches and rescues.

After a few minutes, Rona stated the obvious, “There’s not much going on here.  Maybe we should come back one afternoon when the boats come in and we could perhaps even buy some fresh fish or lobsters.”

“That sounds like a good idea to me.  But let’s walk a little further.  There’s a pile of nets I wouldn’t mind checking out.”  I was stalling for time and also thought that behind the smelly nets would be a good place to hide.

“I don’t know what it is with you and fishing nets,” Rona said, reminding me that whenever we are anywhere in a port I seem to have this fascination with nets.

Again, seeking to buy time, I ruminated out loud about this peculiar interest of mine.  “I don’t know why.  I think it may be because when I was a kid my father used to like to take us to the Fulton Fish Market in New York City and Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn, down by the fishing piers, and we would wander around among the boats and stalls.  I remember fantasizing about working on one of those boats.  Hauling nets or something.  For some reason this always . . .”

“You know, it’s getting late.  We have some things in the car that we should be putting into the refrigerator.  We can come back here another time.  And you can visit your nets.”

“You know how most kids like me back then dreamed about being firemen and . . .”

“You mean boys.”

“Yes, boys, and . . .” 

I interrupted myself because, as Rona and I were going back and forth about my fascination with fishing nets, just beginning to turn down toward the docks I spotted a glint of yellow—the sun’s reflection off the search dog’s vest.  He was clearly sniffing his way along, leading his handler right toward us.

I grabbed hold of Rona’s jacket and began to pull her toward the mountain of fishing nets.  “What are you doing?” Rona squealed.  “You’re tugging on my sleeve.”

“I know.  Sorry.  I just want to get a closer look at those nets.  I’ve never seen any like them.”

“I think you’re crazy.  I thought Maine would have a good effect on you, a calming one; but now look at  . . .”

“Please, just this once, let’s take a look at these.  Trust me they’re really special.”  Rolling her eyes up in her head Rona relented and followed me behind the pile.  I pretended to scrutinize them while she stood aloof with her arms folded, impatiently tapping her foot.

Even though I was bent low, out of the tops of my eyes I could see her waiting, aggravated but indulgent, while I pretended to examine the floats on the nets, crouching ever lower and lower.  I was trying to curl up into a ball to better hide myself. 

But huddling as I was against the nets, thinking I had successfully made myself virtually invisible, as they drew even closer, I could also not fail to see the search dog and his handler. 

They came to a stop a few yards from me and the dog promptly sat on his haunches.  I had expected he would leap at me, growl, and then bite at my trouser cuffs.  But he and the policeman remained where they were, totally still, without moving closer. 

What I was really up to was about to be exposed to Rona and thus I began fumbling in my mind to concoct an explanation and also what I was certain would need to be a seemingly-sincere apology.

“Did you find yourself yet?” the dog’s handler asked.

“What was that?” Rona said, more confused than I.  After all I at least knew what they and I had been up to.

“Oh, nothing,” I said with as much matter-of-factness as I could muster.

“Nothing?  Rona exclaimed, “Didn’t you hear what he said?”

“Not really,” I lied. 

She turned to them for conformation about what she had clearly heard, but they had already retraced most of their steps back up toward the street.

“Well, I never,” Rona said, exasperated, but calm.

I didn’t right then try to explain anything or look directly at her, but promised myself that when we were back at the house and all the groceries were safely away, I would tell her the whole story. 

November 5, 2013--Size Matters: Concluded . . .

We found ourselves last week in Renys general store. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of life-long habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes.

Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

"These's don't look that bad," I said to no one in particular. There were a pair of normal-looking Nunn Bush shoes on display atop a stack of shoeboxes. "A little clunky, but of the type that at least look that they won't cause any additional pain." Maybe, I thought, I should try them on.

"Thirteens, thirteens. I can't seem to find any." They had 9s and 10s, 11s and 14s, but no 13s. "Oh well," I said, again talking to myself, "business as usual."

"Oh well, what?" Rona had joined me, clutching a half dozen pairs of Earthworks socks.

"It looks as if one of us did well." I was full of attitude when it came to anything involving shoes and feet.

"I love them. They're expensive, but Renys' prices make them affordable. But what about you? You seem to have found some shoes to try on. The ones you wear all the time are ready to be dumped."

"I agree, but before I do that I have to find replacements. And for me, that's impossible. Timberland, of course, doesn't make my model any more.  I knew I should have bought six pair. But these, which sort of look OK, don't come in 13s. I mean Renys doesn't have any in that size."

"Why not try the 14s then? One never knows. Their 14s may be similar in size to Timberlands' 13s."

I was dispirited, moping around. If there is anything I hate these days it's thinking about my feet.

"Try them," Rona was attempting to be encouraging--she knew all about my shoe-feet phobias. "What have you got to lose?"

"They're so big they'll make me look like Clarabell the clown." Here I was again assigning myself to the circus. But, in spite of feeling grumpy, I pulled the box of 14s from the bottom of the stack and tried the first one on.

"To tell you the truth," I said with surprise, "it actually feels good."

"Try the other one too," Rona said, "And be sure to walk around in them for at least ten minutes. On the tiled floor too. Not just where it's carpeted."

Which I proceeded to do. Up and down, back and forth, up steps and down, I wandered all over the store. And then returned to Rona who was sitting, self-absorbed, on the bench stroking her new Earthworks. She looked up. "So what's the verdict?"

"Believe it or not they feel great and, even more amazing," I was genuinely excited about shoes, "if you can imagine, my feet, which have been killing me for years, don't seem to hurt at all. Could it be that . . ."

"Yes it could. That you've been wearing the wrong size shoes. Thirteens are too small for you. You've become a 14."

"How could that be? I'm not getting bigger," Rona restrained herself from having some fun at my expense, "In fact, I'm getting smaller."

"Indeed." That she couldn't resist.

Ignoring her I continued, "I used to be 6-5 but now I'm only 6-3. I'm shrinking, not getting bigger."

"You could stand to lose five pounds."

"That's not what I'm talking about." Though Rona is in fact right--I have been overdoing the desserts.

"But you know that as you age you're feet can get bigger. Actually, do get bigger." And she repeated, "You used to be a 13, but now you're apparently a 14."

So I bought the shoes (they were originally $110 but at Renys only $54) and have been wearing them day and night. All my foot problems have been miraculously resolved. In truth, most of them. And I am not using any Dr. Scholls' prosthetics. Just the new shoes and sensible socks.

There is, however, one problem--just as 13s were almost nonexistent back when I was an overgrown adolescent, 14s are now equally hard to come by. To cover myself, I got Renys to find a second pair so I can warehouse them. I'm gentle on shoes and these two pair should last me at least five years. I wish Renys had four more. Then I'd be set for life.

On the other hand I'm not sure I'll last five more years, much less longer; but at least when it comes to shoes, I'm in good shape. Any shoes left over, can be part of my estate.

While looking at my new shoes yesterday morning, Rona said, half to herself, "I think they'll be OK in the City. But maybe . . ."

I cut her off before she could complete her thought, "I think they're cool. So I, I mean we should be fine."

"You'll be fine," she corrected me.

November 4, 2013--Size Matters: Part 1

If you do not insist upon details, I will share a story about one of the few things that gets bigger with age.

First, some background--

I grew very tall very fast. I was at least 6-5 by the time I was 12. That was scary. If I kept growing until the typical time when boys stop, I calculated that I could get to be 7 feet tall.

My parents were worried I would become the butt of schoolyard jokes. They had cause to be concerned--there were quite a few nicknames in circulation about me, none of them flattering. "Beanpole" was the most benign. The others, I prefer not to recall.

One night I overheard my parents talking worriedly about my height.

Always not politically correct, my father said, "He's turning into a freak."

"No he's not," my mother said--she always tried to find ways to temper his frustrations, "He's just a little big for his age."

"A little big," he mocked, "Soon we'll be able to sign him up for the circus."

She was familiar with being disregarded, "The doctor said," attempting to change the subject, "we should Xray his wrists and feet to see how much growing room there is. That will give an indication of how much taller he'll get."

"So take him to the shoe store on Church Avenue. They have a machine there where you can Xray his feet. They use it to see if shoes fit. But you can just go in for the Xray."

And with that in mind my mother took me to the Treadeasy to Xray my feet.

Everything looked normal to me--I didn't see any big gaps between the feet bones, which suggested that there wasn't that much growing room left. Maybe, I thought, I'll stop growing soon and use my height to advantage when playing basketball. The only problem was that I was uncoordinated and had such big feet that when running up and down the court I kept tripping on myself.

But I did make a ritual of going to the Treadeasy store every Friday after school to Xray my feet. It's a miracle I didn't give myself radiation poisoning or cancer of the instep.

While there I pretended to be shopping for shoes. But in my size, 13, they had virtually nothing. Just an occasional pair of black Oxfords that to me looked like shoes for old men.

"Maybe," Morty the salesman said, "when you're older there'll be more people your height and size and you'll have more of a selection. In America, everyone is getting taller. Even girls."

"In the meantime," I said, "I'm doomed to walk around looking like I'm a 90-year-old immigrant."

But over time, what Morty prophesied turned out to be true. With so many very tall men around--6-5 nowadays is no big deal--for at least 15 years I have had no trouble finding shoes in my size. Even in Europe. Even occasionally shoes that actually look cool.

But in recent times my feet have begun to trouble me.

I hate going to podiatrists and thought I would either on my own figure out what the problem was and see if there were any Dr. Scholls' products available to ease my pain or, like other symptoms of aging, I would accept aching feet as part of my lot in life.

I tried Dr. Schools Orthotic Inserts (no help); Ball-of-Feet Cushions (no relief); Sport Replacement Insoles (worthless); Bunion Cushions (made things marginally better); and Molefoam Padding (about as helpful as Bunion Cushions). I even tired the good doctor's products in combination--I adhered Bunion Cushions to the soles of my feet and also inserted Molefoam Padding in my shoes.

But still I hobbled around. Now, with so much Dr. Scholls' product on my feet and stuffed into my shoes that they no longer fit and this made matters even worse.

Thus plagued, we found ourselves last week in Renys. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes. Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

To be completed tomorrow . . .

September 23, 2013--Midcoast: True Religion

With outstretched arms, he exclaimed, "She doesn't own a pocketbook! I'm in love!"

We were at the Volkswagen dealer to get a new running light installed. A light bulb icon had popped up on our car's computer screen with the message--"Replace left front downcast light."

"That sounds so Victorian," Rona said. "What's a downcast light? Anything like downcast eyes?"

"I have no idea. It does sound like a fancy name for a VW light. Look it up in the owner's manual. I think it's the light below the headlight that's on all the time in the daytime. For safety."

"With a name like that, I can't wait to see what they'll charge to replace it. We should probably go to NAPA and buy a new bulb for $5.00 and screw it in ourselves."

"That would make sense if we knew what we were doing. I don't even know where to add oil or even if the car has a dipstick. Everything is so high-tech these days. My suggestion--let's go to VW. I don't want to make a mess of things that will then need fixing and cost more than simply paying them ransom to change the bulb."

The staff was very accommodating, took care off us and the car, and only charged $37, including the bulb, labor, and tax. They even threw in a car wash which, I joked, they'd have to do again in a day or two considering the rutted dirt road that drops down to our house.

"Sure," the service manager said, when turning the car over to us, "Really, come by any time. We'll be happy to take care of you."

He felt sincere.

"I see you have New York plates. Where in New York you from?" he asked.

"Manhattan," Rona said.

"Amazing," he said, "I moved up here from there three months ago."

"From a VW dealer there to this one?"

"No. From a job in investment banking." He made a face.

"To do this? I mean . . ." I didn't quite know how to put it without offending him.

"That's OK. I think I know what you're thinking--that it must be a big step down for me."

"No. Just that . . ."

"No problem," he smiled to show I hadn't upset him. "In many ways it is a big step down. I worked for this bank for eight years. I made big money. Big money. I had all the toys--a Rolex, Prada this and Prada that, a BMW, and a fancy Italian dirt bike. All my friends were doing well too. After work--if I had the energy for it--I'd go out with them. Bars. Clubs. Restaurants. Expensive wine. Girls. Lots of girls. The whole New York scene. I had a two-bedroom condo in Chelsea. The good life, right?"

"It does sound like quite the life," Rona said, trying to sound neutral.

"Somehow it wasn't working for me. I was so busy most of those years that I didn't have the time or energy to take a moment to figure out what I was doing, how I was doing, and if it was working for me." He looked off toward the stand of spruce trees ranged beyond where the VWs for sale were arranged.

"So what happened?" Rona asked softly. "How did you get from there to here?"

"I'm from South Jersey, down by the shore. I lived there until I came to the city to work for the bank. My parents loved it here. The beach, the ocean, their friends and family. But every year they would come up to this part of Maine."

"So you knew the midcoast that way?"

"Not really. You see, I thought it would be boring here. Nothing for me to do. I was on high rev. And they said, don't come to Maine with us until you're ready. To understand it. So I never went until this June. Just for a few days to help them set up a house they bought on Southport Island."

"So that's . . . ?"

"Not exactly. I was so busy working on their house I was in my city mode. I barely looked around. I'd get up and hit the ground running. Scraping, patching, painting. That sort of thing. But I suppose, in spite of myself, Maine was beginning to get to me. Or maybe I was beginning to get Maine."

"I understand that," Rona said.

"They know a lot of people in the area from having vacationed here forever. One couple who live next to the house they bought had a cookout to which my parents and I were invited. And wouldn't you know it, there was this girl, this young woman at the party. I don't think it was a set up or anything; but whether or it was or not, we hit it off. Like from right out of a movie."

"That's it?" I said, "That's what got you to give up your banking job and move to Maine?"

"A version of that. I liked her so much, Natalie, that I came back the next weekend, ostensibly to work on the house but more to see her. She's a nurse right up here at the hospital." He pointed toward the road to Midcoast Hospital.

"I never knew a nurse before. All the girls I knew in the city were working for the same bank I was or for clothes designers. At least it seemed like that. Nothing wrong with that or them, but somehow we seemed to spend a lot of time checking each other out--shoes, bags, jeans, cars, bling. That sort of thing. What it felt like we were all working for. Not for the work itself, if you know what I mean--that was all kind of abstract. About numbers, very much including what we were making and our bonuses and what that would buy us out in the Hamptons and what kind of car we could afford to buy."

Rona and I nodded along as he told his story.

"It was no more Jersey Shore for me, baby. I'm movin' on. On and up." He paused to sigh and to look again toward the nearby woods.

"And?" Rona asked.

"Well, that second weekend did the trick. We were going out to dinner, Natalie and me.  I got all dressed up since I was planning to take her to a nice place my parents knew about and recommended. I drove over to her house to pick her up. When she got in the car I noticed she didn't have a bag with her. So I asked if maybe she forgot to take it.

"'Forgot?' she said, 'I didn't forget. I don't have a pocketbook.' I thought--no pocketbook? Everyone  I know has the latest Marc Jacob's bag and plenty more, but Natalie doesn't have even one!"

"That's not unusual up here," Rona said.

"Not only that, she doesn't have a pair of heels or Prada anything. She buys most of her stuff from Renys, Wallmart, and LL Bean. I love it!"

We smiled.

"She said to me, 'Look at you. What are you wearing on your feet? And those pants of yours.' She was making fun of me--friendly fun--but was also being serious. 'These are True Religion jeans,' I said. 'Everyone in the city wears them.' 'How much did they cost?' she asked. Shyly, I mumbled, 'About $400.'

"'Four-hundred dollars?' she whistled. 'That's about what I pay each month in rent. And you spent that on a pair of pants.' 'True Religions,' I said, as if the justify the cost, but then realizing that would mean nothing to her."

"Nor me," I said, "I never heard of them. And, by the way, what a strange name for jeans."

"I thought the same thing," he said. "Not right then but later when I thought the whole thing over--the evening, what Natalie said, and how I was feeling about her, myself, and my life."

"And you decided to give everything up and move here?" Rona said. "To come here to live? After just two visits?"

"Actually three because I came back for a third long weekend in June."

"Amazing," I said. "And, I think, impressive. To live here not knowing, for example, what the winters are like. How it gets dark by 3:30 and . . ."

"I know. Not from experience, of course. But I think I'm ready for it. Natalie and I are still an item. In fact, more than that. But we're both experienced and trust our feelings. We'll work hard to make things succeed. So far, so good. Actually much more than good."

"For what it's worth, I think . . ."

"You know what really did it for me? I mean what lead to this seemingly impulsive big change?"

"Natalie?" Rona guessed.

"That's a big part of it. Very big. But it was those jeans of mine. The True Religion ones."

"I'm not following you."

"How aptly named they are--True Religion. To think a pair of jeans, which should probably sell for $20 in Renys, goes for $400 in Barneys. And to link it to religion. When I realized I was in some crazy way worshiping jeans, I thought to save myself--pun intended--I'd better get out of here before it's too late."

He extended his arms to take in the VW sales lot and the encroaching woods

"And so here I am. Maybe this will turn out to be crazy, but so far it's feeling really good. Like I belong here. That this place was waiting for me until I was ready for it."