Welcome to the Logbook, a sensory record of the seasons and an archive of offline hours.
“At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.”
― Rainer Maria Riike
October 6-8, 2018
Wood smoke drifting over damp fields
Ripening pears on the sideboard
New Brunswick, Thanksgiving Weekend
We wake up later than usual because it’s so quiet here. Zach checks the tides. Low tide will be at 4:45PM. After a breakfast of eggs cooked on a portable burner Adam heads down the road to my sister’s house to hang out with his cousins. The whole family meets at my mom’s house at 1PM for Thanksgiving leftovers. We sprawl around the generous old rooms until it’s time to migrate to our own homes in the village. Adam leaves with his cousins. At 3:45PM Zach, Lauren and I leave for Pottery Beach - our own name for a jilted piece of swampy shoreline strewn with the wreckage of 4 o’clock tea. Our girl crouches in the mud turning over each piece of porcelain and stowing favourites in her red fabric bag. The temperature is dropping and rain looms. At 5PM we leave to find supper. The rain holds off. Lauren reads in bed, Adam is still with his cousins, Zach and I watch Remains of the Day on VHS. This isn’t my first time seeing the movie, but I can’t believe the ending. I remember an entirely different closing scene. In my mistaken memory Kenton and Stevens are sitting silently in an open window, their aging faces softened by the gloaming light. They don’t speak of their feelings but they are together and they know.