![]() I went to Wells with Helena and Mary Jo to get you some ocean water and sand, and to just sort of hang at the beach for the day.” “I slipped on some ice and shattered my right wrist, sprained my left wrist, might have cracked my tailbone, and may have torn a ligament in my left knee, and I twisted my ankle pretty badly.” Not sure how the rest of you would have responded to those words, but my blood pressure spiked and my hands produced a quick sweat. Rustling noises and muffled talk between my mother and sister. “I’m going to give the phone to Marjorie. They recently planned a secretive trip to Wells Beach - it turned into a shit fest. They make it a point to carve time out of their busy schedules to get together for a weekend trip to the Cape, or a day trip to Rhode Island to park their asses in the sand and watch the surf roll in and out, or simply for a night out to have some good food, a few laughs, and some bonding time. After a bit of this name-nonsense, I started calling the woman, Mary-Sue-Lou-Jo.įor many years, the three women have gone places and done things. I’d say Mary Lou, Marjorie would say Mary Jo. I’d say Mary Sue, Marjorie would say Mary Jo. When Mary Jo started palling around with M&M - McCarthy and McCarthy - I never quite hit the mark on Mary Jo’s name. They’ve circled in and out of one another’s lives for very brief periods of time, but for decades - five+ decades - they’ve been a constant for one another…I should introduce you to one more woman, a friend of Marjorie’s and Helena’s who I call Mary-Sue-Lou-Jo. The two met in grade school and have been buddies forever. It is safe to say that Marjorie’s longest and most steadfast friend is Helena Green McCarthy. You’ll remember this from Blog 57, Isn’t It Ironic: And of course there were pictures of that ill-fated trip made by Marchrie, Helena, and Mary-Sue-Lou-Jo. I have received text videos and pictures of Wells with regularity from Joyce McTigue and Josephine Power, both of whom live there or very nearby. As it turned out, I didn’t need to go to my beach because it was sent to me, in little snippets. When I was benched by the orthopedic oncologist, I knew my days in Maine were over. Without question, if I could do one more thing before I die, I would make a trip over the Piscataqua Bridge to All Points Maine - final destination Wells! As you know, I won’t be going to Wells again, so I won’t be seeing any more beach storms. I always hope for at least one day of piss-pouring-rain, and if there’s the added bonus of thunder and lightning in the forecast, I am thrilled, and if it’s a nighttime storm, I feel I’ve hit the motherload. ![]() Given that our annual vacation lasts a mere seven days, one would think I’d hope for seven days of bright sunshine. I’m one of those people who checks the weekly forecast in Maine days before we leave for our trip and again the minute we arrive. I will really miss rain storms at the beach. I didn’t mind though because of the storm, a wonderfully familiar companion. It had already been a long night of wakefulness. That thought deserves a few minutes of head tumbling,” I mumbled to myself. It was awesome! I love storms and I will miss them - or perhaps I’ll see them from a different vantage point. Then with the speed of a fingersnap, the curtain pulled back and left in its wake a wimpy sprinkle before it finally ended. The sky opened up and a curtain of water fell for several minutes. I expected to see flashes of light, but none came as for the rains, they sure did. It was an unusual sound and lasted many minutes, but there weren’t any weather alerts, so I sat back and enjoyed the experience. That’s all.Īnyway, there was an early evening storm, the feature being deep, guttural rolls of thunder that sounded as though they were coming from inside a tunnel making it difficult to know where one rumble ended and another one began. ![]() I don’t know where we’re headed so it’s okay, it’s just a bit early in the blog. I kinda like it!Īlready off track, I see. Huh, that’s my new image of where my memories are. I can’t see any of this, but my mind’s eye processes the sounds and unfolds the scene for me, pulling the images from wherever I store them - perhaps in a big-ass walk-in closet in my head. Rain is coming down at a hard clip, and the wind is blowing steadily with occasional gusts that sway and bend even the sturdiest trees.
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