There's perfume burning in the air
Bits of beauty everywhere
Ah, Portsmouth, I miss you, in a myriad of ways. I miss the neighbors along my block. Walking the block two times a day for the two years I have had Atticus has resulted in many nod and wave relationships, and even a few name trades.
I miss the dogs we usually see; Mollie the barker, Sadie the Smiler, Fenway sitting in his doorway, Nellie and Cinnamon with her floppy ears. And of course I miss dog Fred, though he's been without his Ginger lately.
Shrapnel flying; soldier hit the dirt
I miss living one block away from the Grab and Scram (my nickname for Pic'n Pay, where I spent many a high-school hour cashiering). I miss not being able to get out of there in under a half hour because of running into folks and chatting a bit. I miss knowing that health and beauty aids are in Aisle 5, and that I can time things just right so that a gyro from the Pizza Factory will be ready to pick up before heading home.
She comes so close, you feel her then
She tells you No and No again
I miss my coffee crew at the Islington Street Dunkin' Donuts. The folks inside are as great as the parking lot outside is bad (yes, DD iced coffee is a continued guilty non-local pleasure). They almost have my coffee ready before I ask for it and the blend of sugar, cream and lots of ice is, without fail, perfect.
You know how nights like this begin
The kind of knot your heart gets in
I miss cooking something wonderful on the spur of the moment and inviting friends and kids over to eat and hang out. I miss eating with relish, come to think of it, and I don't mean the green stuff.
Any way you turn is going to hurt.
Luckily, I did not miss the Jumbo Circus Peanuts two holiday extravaganza shows at Christmas and New Year's. Dancing is important, and there's nothing like shimmying to "Car Wash" and "Wooly Bully" as played by a bunch of wacky warm folks in dress-up clothes. Even if they won't let me play piccolo with them.
Speaking of, I miss making music with that other group in town, the Leftist Marching Band. I hear there's a girl on the sousaphone these days. How hard can sousaphone be, though? It's probably a lot like being a drummer; anyone can do it. (Don't write me about that one, percussionists-at-large, I'm kidding. I remain amazingly aware that good drumming requires independent simultaneous movement of all four limbs).
She breaks the rules so you can see
She's wilder than you'll ever be
I miss my book club. Its formation was incipient but it was shaping up to be a real monthly look-forward-to-event in my life. Smart women talking about a good read, what's better than that? That segues nicely toward the reality that I miss reading. I find that I cannot quiet myself enough to sit and read anything longer than a few paragraphs. Great, if you are used to reading People magazine, but that's not really my style. Those New York Times just keep piling up, as does the stack of books I want to read. At least the desire hasn't left, just the actual luxury of reading.
You talk religion but she won't convert
I miss my walks in the cemetery, and meandering toward the water to the site of my mother's grave. I can't always go that way, but Atticus unfailingly runs there on his own, I can see him from up on the hill. I can't reconcile if it is because he's been there often and it is just one of his stops, or whether he knows my mom is there.
You try to look away, you try
But all you want to do is get there first
I miss having horribly overpriced appetizers at pretentiously pretty swank Portsmouth restaurants. I was shocked to find it cheaper to order an entrée in Brooklyn, N.Y., earlier this year that was as good as or better than any you can find in local kitchens. Even so, I love the ritual associated with our upscale eateries, from putting on nice shoes and mascara to saying words like "seared" or "drizzled".
I miss, finally, the care-free-ness of life I didn't even know I had. Oh sure, there were things to do, rooms to clean, food to cook, income to incur and dogs to walk, but my people were safe. And that, unlike this blue alert, is what carefree means.
Blue Alert lyrics by Leonard Cohen. This Suzanne is fresh out of oranges. Send her some at sdanforth@gmail.com.
