Last night I had a 'moment.'

You know when you're talking with someone, and they say something that drops into some deep pool of your heart, sending reverberations through your soul? I’m sure there will be some poems to mine from this conversation. Here’s how it went:

I was answering some questions, explaining a bit about the background of Poems from the Boatyard--backstory, in creative lingo. What does the ‘boatyard’ refer to? What's this book about? How long did it take you to write it?

The simple answer is that Poems from the Boatyard is about growing up. But the real story, which I didn't realize until I had to write a short bio (no more than 50 words), was that it was about my father. Oh, he doesn’t appear in too many of the poems, but he’s there—that is to say, his influence, his imprint, his impact on my life.

And as I shared it all with the person asking me about the book, I told her how my father sold the boat to provide for our education. We talked for a while about that quintessential fatherly function: provider. Whether or not a father provides well for his family, which is usually taken to mean financially, remains a benchmark for good or bad fathering in our culture.

We then went on to discuss the marketing of the book, and how it worked, and how pleased I was that I could honor my uncle by using his artwork on the cover.

This dear person commented that I got to honor both my father and his brother with this chapbook, and could earn some much-needed shekels in the process. And then she dropped the stone into the well of my heart: "Your father's still providing, isn't he?"

As I mine my heart to explore that for the poems I'm sure it will bring, let me end with one poem that was written while driving in the car with my father, many years ago. The memory is still sweet, and captures three of my favorite aspects of time with Dad: art, a boat, and the sea. The blogger has erased the formatting, but you can get that in the chapbook...picture a sunset...

ALL THE SWANS

We sink
quietly into each
other’s company, watch
the sunset pour into the sea
a pink the sky cannot contain,
the artist cannot paint. Instead,
she paints the boats, kissing her
baby profusely between strokes.
Gulls squat on the stone bench
where we sip coffee. In the
salt marsh, a light blinks,
summoning infinite
summer bugs.
We ride home in silence, sweating, past all the swans.

Far, Far Away

I left the island as a young adult, but the island has not left me. I still live for summer, even after many landlocked summers, or depressing northern European summers, or insanely long Southern summers.

In northern France, where I spent 12 pseudo-summers, one waits patiently for the one rainless day warm enough to go to the beach (I have been known to go in jacket and jeans anyway, just because). When that day comes, life stops. Everyone goes to the beach. And it is understood as a survival mechanism, not moral deficiency, irresponsibility or playing hooky.

I mourned the short summer dresses and tank tops languishing in drawers for years. I missed going barefoot, sweating, and staying up late during nights too hot to sleep in, watching reruns on late-night TV, discovering Johnny Carson, and slapping mosquitoes.

Then I traded in drippy northern France summers for “Hotlanna” and was pleased to discover my first dose of Southern hospitality: for one whole year it did not rain. Not a drop. Nothing but pure, unadulterated sunshine. Can you fathom the depths of my gratitude, you who have not lived in northern Europe, the United Kingdom or Ireland? I had come to the Promised Land.

With deep sensitivity to the ecological disaster this was, I soaked up every ray, making up for all those 12 years in France, reliving my childhood. I wondered where the nearest beach was , and how many hours I’d need to drive. I twitched a bit when it did finally rain, which indicated a less-than-complete recovery, but I have at least adjusted to the fact that rain one day does not mean rain for 12, 16 or 24 weeks.

We had the first white Christmas in over 100 years here—a dusting of a couple of inches—while up north, friends weathered a blizzard leaving four feet of snow in its wake, followed by one leaving two more feet.

But I am far, far away, south of Hotlanna, writing on my laptop from a very comfortable L-shaped sofa, feet up, coffee to the left, candle flickering to the right. We are nowhere near summer; in the dead of winter, barely recovered from holiday hangover, we hunkered down after an historic ice storm, and had an official ‘snow day’ if you can believe that.

But today I could take that cup of coffee out on the terrace and watch the sunset. In my shirtsleeves. Jan. 16. YES!!!

I am weirdly torn between nostalgia for those impossible deep snow dumps, stopping life for hot chocolate, a roaring fire and a blanket on the couch, and incredibly relieved to be here. My inner beach bum longs for the ocean, but will settle for 60 degrees in January.

I am far from my roots. But my roots are never far from me.