A Nantucket State Of Mind

Dragging our bones out of bed at 8 am isn't so bad after hitting the hay (a little barn pun for your amusement) before 11 last night. Grandma's legs dangle off the high bed, and she looks too cute not to take a picture. I'm reminded of something she said to me at the carousel the other day in Brooklyn: "Our roles have reversed." Funny how that happens, isn't it? I'm just glad that she's able to do this trip, and this morning, even suggests adding a few mermaids for our next adventure: my Aunt Kathy and Yvonne, my sister-in-law.

We had our tea outside this morning, trying, to get the horse in the pictures, but he wouldn't cooperate. The cat wanted to cuddle with me. Figures, since I'm allergic. It was hard not to scratch him behind the ears, but I know I'd regret it later, wheezing.

We get on the road by about 9 and absolutely meander. There is so much to see: tiny one-room churches, shaker houses mixed in with stunning Victorian numbers that take your breath away, and beautiful harbor vistas with sailboats keeled over, slicing through the deep blue water. The very tips of the leaves are beginning to change, and there are a few clusters here and there that are starting to turn. Some float softly from their limbs to the road before they'll even have the chance to dazzle, but they still look pretty on their way down. It's lovely, and I'm actually irritated when the GPS directs me to get on the highway at one point. We like the slow pace and the eye candy, so I switch it off and we wing it, hopping on 6 and heading north.

There's a lovely little group of antique stores that we can't resist pulling off at. Honestly, I just really need to pee. The guy behind the counter doesn't seem to want us using the facilities, but after seeing my white haired traveling companion, he relents. Membership has it's privileges. I find a little low-back bench/chair for the desk I just bought from a monk. Yes, a monk. Father Christopher, to be exact. It was meant to inspire me to finish the book based on our first Mermaid adventure. It is so lovely, and a tall chair hides it so much I find it a shame. This chair is darling, and with a shabby chic coat of milk paint, it will look fabulous. I talked him down $10, too, which doesn't hurt. It does, however, take up some room in the car. Thankfully, we don't have a need for the back seat at this point. 

We drive through Sandwich, Massachusetts. If I thought Mystic was captivating ... was I in for a surprise. This town, dotted heavily with darling little antique shops, is a place I'd like to come back and spend some time. Quaint is an understatement.

We've been talking a lot about butterflies and the difference between loving someone and being IN love as we drive. Yesterday, Grandma told me my Great Great Aunt Victoria wasn't in love with Uncle Walter when they married, but that she grew to love him,. That he was awfully good to her, and it was a decision she never regretted. They were married almost 40 years before he passed away, too young. Today, she tells me about Bob Bell.

He's the man that gave my Gram butterflies.

I'm kinda shocked to hear this story. I know my grandparents didn't always have it easy: from the stories she's told of him as a husband, and from things my mother has said about what he was like as a father. But I'm insulated from all that, my view colored by how he was as a grandfather. My Grandpa adored me, just exactly the way I am. That's rare, and of the men I've known in my life, there are very few I would say were that way with me. Maybe it's about respect, a sense of value for another person. He and I had a very special bond, and his passing was so brutal that it still aches. I inherited his bible and a hat he used to wear, adorned with pins from all the states he and my grandmother visited -- probably one of the things that instilled wanderlust to my core. Though it's been a decade since he died, I still really can't touch either. 

I digress. Bob Bell. He helped my grandmother's family move from Lincoln to New Holland, Illinois. He was in his early twenties, she just 16. Bob wanted to marry her, and though her mother approved, her father didn't. It wouldn't have mattered anyways, he was signing up for the military -- the seabees -- while she was bound and determined to go to nursing school (fierce independence? wow, wonder where I got that trait from!). By the time he came home, she had met my grandfather (a brilliant story for another time). Bob married a friend of hers, and sadly, they divorced just a few years later. Grandma says she once saw him on the street when she was home for a visit and those butterflies just weren't there anymore.

I've had the butterflies --the feeling of being completely enraptured with another person, whom the very sight of sets you on fire. And I've truly loved some of the men I've dated, but perhaps not been "in" love with them. Good men, men like My Uncle who treated their girls like gold. Men like my Grandfather, who told me just a few months before he passed that marrying my Grandmother was the best decision he ever made.

So what's the right answer?    

The ferry to Nantucket isn't far from Sandwich, and we arrive early enough in Hyannis that we can take the high speed ferry, shaving more than an hour off the voyage. It's this, or Provincetown, and I can hardly wait to get my feet on an island. I drop Grandma at the Ferry dock and go to drop the car off in the off-site parking lot. We get settled into our seats, pull out our teacups and have high tea on the high speed. And I mean high speed. We are clipping along at 40 miles per hour. That may not sound fast, but these are big, rough waves, and I am telling you -- you feel very little. Before you know it, we're disembarking and climbing into a cab, heading to our little cottage on Orange Street.

I hate to use the word darling twice in one post, but there is nothing else to describe this adorable little place. It is as sweet as sweet can be, as are the lovely hosts -- Guy and Bobbi -- who have supplied us with a bottle of Pinot Grigio (the way to my heart) and a fresh-baked loaf of banana nut bread (the way to Gram's). As we get settled in, Guy tells me something that makes me want to do a happy dance.

It's restaurant week on Nantucket.

I book a table at Oran Mor immediately, and we head to check out some of the shops. There is quite a bit of stuff closed up for the night, and some places closed up for the season, though still plenty to keep us occupied. I buy a few presents for people at home and Gram picks up some postcards. We've walked a good long way, and she's tired, so we sit by the water and watch the boats for a little while. We decide to head to dinner early and take our chances, feeling lucky when they can seat us right away.

No time is wasted before a pear martini ends up magically in front of me. We both have ordered the tasting menu. The creamy Atlantic salmon just melts in your mouth, balanced well with the earthiness of the lentils and the tartness of the pickled carrots and cipollini onions. The scallops are cooked to perfection, so buttery and rich. Grandma seems surprised, deciding she overcooks hers (don't tell her I said so, but I think this is common these days. If this is a side effect of getting older, shoot me now. Don't let me ruin scallops, or anything else for that matter.) The duck is fabulous, perfectly cooked, resting atop the emmer (a.k.a. farro, a.k.a. wheat), quinoa and bok choy medley. It's as tender as can be, but each bite is made truly delectable with a taste of the fig chutney artfully smeared on the plate. The dessert ... I could have lived without. I think Gram makes the best carrot cake in the world, and there are plenty of folks who would support that claim.

Back at the cottage, Gram flips through the cookbook I bought her at one of the antique stores for all of 30 minutes before crawling into bed. I've got some editing to do for the blog tonight, so I pour myself another glass of wine.

I mean, I have no car, she says with a wicked smile, and how much trouble can I get into on an island?