Funny Story. So last night, I heard Seamus Heaney read his masterful poetry using gutteral irish and Scottish sounding words like glar and glit and dailygone. I caught the last train to Ipswich that was full of drunkards fresh from the Bruins victory. And then I was so distracted by them, I missed my stop. I noticed I missed my stop while the train was still moving slowly, and almost did a Charlie’s Angels roll out the side car door. Instead, I got off at the next stop, which was a rural outpost, and by this point, it was blizzarding. A stranger (angel?) drove me into a town where I caught a taxi driven by Scrooge, or possibly, the corpse of Scrooge. He kept stopping and asking if my friend could just come get me. I reminded him I had paid him a large amount of money. Surprisingly, he didn’t kill me, although he was absolutely the type who might. I made it Denise’s–where I am still late this morning, snowed in! Blizzard in Boston! Until they plow, we are stuck here in a beautiful home in the small 1640s town of Ipswich, upon whose city council codex the U.S. Constitution was written.
Denise and her wonderful family are making waffles from scratch this morning, from a cookbook written for kids (precious). Philip Lopate, the famous essayist I had hoped to meet at the conference this morning, has Nothing on these Waffles. Or meeting this awesome family.