A group of us old guys meets each Tuesday at nearly noon to drink coffee and tell each other stories, some of which are true. All of which actually happened.
A Herring seagull is standing on the porch rail. We have named him for Oliver Twist, who famously went to the headmaster, bowl in hand, and said, “Please, sir. I want some more.”
At 6:30, more or less, each morning, the eastern horizon becomes a strata of pink and orange as the sun glows, then rises over the peninsula that defines the eastern boundary of Muscongus Bay. Within an hour, Ol’ Sol has risen midway from the horizon, turned the thin cloud stratus a translucent oyster white, and burned a widening path like a celestial version of the earth-bound lobster boats that leave their wakes across the bay.
Coming up on a year ago, I visited an eye doctor. I was constantly crying. My eyes would not stop with the waterworks. He told me the problem was I was not making tears, which was irritating my eyes, which was making them water like Marsh Creek after that rain we had at the end of July. He prescribed eye drops that would make me make tears so my eyes wouldn’t be irritated so they would not, well, make tears.