(The park and marina, looking toward the former Socotra compound on the bluff in The Little Village By the Bay.)
It is a global holiday dedicated to the glory of Labor. I am not sure what that is, precisely, except that when Caleb and I were sweeping out the garage attached to the main house yesterday, the collected dust of the years irritated my lungs. Work can be detrimental to your health, I suspect. But all the crap is moved, either to Transfer Station, Goodwill or Storage.
I thought it was good that the labor was done, this not being Labor Day, but rather more appropriately May Day, and much randier sort of holiday that long predates the organized labor movement. You know:
The First of May
doth start today.”
Not that I know what tupping is, exactly, but a little research yields a link to pagan times on the eve of the Druid festival of Beltane:
“Welcome to the month wherein
Hedgerow tupping doth begin
(Just in England, though, My Dear;
We are much too moral here.)”
I think I will leave that last to the former Santorum campaign. I would prefer tupping to driving, but my work here, per se, is done. The labor remaining is that of throwing the bag in the car and getting on down the road toward home. First was payment to Blane’s Moving and Storage of a few thousand dollars for packing and toting the furniture and boxes we will keep. That incurred a last trip toward Harbor Springs to drop a check before leaving. They do not do credit cards, so that was the last official act in closing down the house.
It is on the road to Bay Bluffs, where we put Raven in the last ten weeks of his life, and the place where he passed from this world to the next.
I veered off M119 onto West Conway Road before those memories came flooding back. There are enough of them crowding around this morning. I need to stay focused.
Going home. That thought is a little jarring, since this building was home for many years. But the matter is done, and off we go.
There is not much to be done in preparation for turning the key a last time, and dropping it into the mail slot. But I am going to have to get on with it, and see where the road takes me today.
For starters, the pavement will take me past Independence Village, where Big Mama passed, and where Jackie and the nice folks on staff provide comfort in the declining days of the cast of characters there.
Willow on Wednesday? I hope so. The bar is only 800 miles away, and there are no blizzards on the Accu-Radar forecast.
Relax. Enjoy the drive toward real spring in Virginia. This was hard, but it seems to have worked out. It is not the last trip North, but it certainly is the last one that will be like this.
(Statue of Chief Ignatius Petoskey of the Little Traverse Band of Odawa Indians. He gazes at the headland west of Harbor Springs. Photo Ellen Goldenich.)
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra