Fowler: First Impression

"Little House in the Dunes"

 

Sunday (5/15)

One, two, three- up and over the first dune with dapper dune man, Chip, in his sturdy Ford Ranger.  One bag of clothing, a book bag and $168.00 worth of groceries and supplies in the bed of his truck-  did I bring too much, not enough?  Still looking more like frozen tundra than rolling hillsides of green reeds and white sand, we made our way out to Fowler.

 

“This should bloom this week,” Chip says about the shrub in front of the shack as we unload my belongings.  The tie dye New Yorkers are all packed up and ready to go.  “We had a great time,” they say and offer me their leftover cookies and crackers.  Chip gives me the run down on the compost toilet, the well pump, the firewood and the stove.  I hope that I can recall everything he’s said when needed.  And with that, they are off, leaving me standing in the middle of my shack- alone in the dunes.

 

Listening to the classical station that they left playing on the small transistor radio, I begin to adjust to my new surroundings.  The cabin is reminiscent of my sixth grade camp experience- minus the sixth graders, counselors and running water or electricity.  After putting the things that I brought in their place, I boil half of the dozen eggs- saving the rest to scramble or fry during the week and enjoy the heat of the stove as the temperature cools outside.

 

The quiet is a bit unsettling at first, so I decide to lie down on the couch and read my friend Richard Heller’s book Blueprints.  Waking from a late afternoon nap, not because Richard’s book put me to sleep but because it’s so damn quiet and cozy next to this pot belly stove, I go outside to pee.  Chip advised me that it is better for the toilet not to have too much liquid and heck, it’s not like anybody is watching- or so I thought.  While relieving myself, I look to my right and see the brown and white spotted rabbit that is rumored to live under the shack-  “Hello Bunny.”  Before it gets dark, I walk the 1,000 or so yards over the dune behind the shack to see the Atlantic- with all her wonder and vastness- for the first time this trip.  This will be an act of solitude; a lesson in loneliness.

 

Writing by the flickering light of the paraffin fueled lamp in my rustic little space, I feel a bit like Laura Ingels Wilder if Walnut Grove had been a New England seashore town.  “Good night, Pa.”  I slip into my sleeping bag around 9:00pm, I’m not all that tired but want to be rested for my first full day at Fowler.  The sound of rural quietness can be so loud: creaking noises, howling winds and intermittent rain drops hitting the roof.  Then every scene of every horror film that I’d ever seen infiltrated my thoughts- driving my attention to the two axes used for kindling just outside the back door.  I was deathly afraid of the dark as a child.  Too alert to quiet my mind, I take half an ambien to help ease me to sleep.  I stir once or twice when the wind and rain become rhythmic and ten hours later wake to the sound of crashing waves and the feel of a cool damp morning.

 

 

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