Even a bike ride to Sandy Point didn't remedy the funk I felt earlier this week ... for which there was no excuse. Seriously, the weather's been unbelievable. Life is good. I have no right/reason whatsoever to complain ...
That said, all I saw at Sandy Point — where the beach is all rocks, and sand is limited to that found in the empty rutted parking lot — were a pair of apparent friends engaged in conversation. Watching them (I try not to watch people, but sometimes I can't help it) led my eyes to that pair of nuclear-looking towers on the horizon, toward Fall River. That didn't help the funk either. Then, when I was almost home again, just as I was pulling out to pass another cyclist on Memorial and thinking it wasn't such a bright idea to do so, especially with the blinding late-afternoon light in drivers' eyes, I put my hand to my head for some reason and realized I wasn't wearing my helmet. What?!? I had it when I started out. I know I did. Where was it? Did I leave it at Sweet Berry Farm, where I'd stopped for a snack on my way home? Did I leave it on the lawn of that home near the corner of Third Beach Road and Green End, where I'd jumped off my bike to follow some seasonal birds? Where that cute bald guy in the truck with an even cuter dog hanging out the window had slowed to a stop — it probably looked like I was having some sort of trouble — and asked, "You OK?"
That's when I started to feel better, now that I think about it.
The whole idea that a stranger took time to stop and ask.
But what really helped me turn the corner was today's rain, in which I made my way (solo, as Mr. Betty's out of town) to a presentation at the Colony House by John Adams and his wife, Abigail. Really. It was called "Love Letters," and it was GOOD. Apparently, unlike other couples of yore who burned all their personal communications, J & A saved them. Hundreds of them — many written while he was on an extended trip to Philadelphia for some sort of convention. Anyway, within this presentation, the Adams sipped cider (hard, I presume) and read their letters aloud. That was the gist of it. And they never came out of character, even when pressed by audience members after the show. One gentleman in particular didn't get it. He kept asking, "How many letters were there in all? In your whole life? " John Adams kept replying with something to the effect of, "Sir, I'm at a disadvantage. It's the year 1777."
I love stuff like that.
Oh, and I found my helmet, too: back on the rocks at Sandy Point ...
