The fawn

The other morning I got wrapped up in paperwork and the post office had closed before I realized it and the store I needed to get to in Ellsworth was only open until noon and here it was 10 after. So I made the best of this gorgeous day and went up Blue Hill Mountain.

As I was coming down the meadow side, I heard a noise ahead on the path and thought I'd be coming across a dog. Instead, a small fawn crashed about and then stopped to nibble on acorns. I froze and watched it; it nibbled and watched me, its tail impossibly white and ears impossibly big. Its huge brown eyes took me in. I stood so still, ignoring the mosquito that was also nibbling. Just this morning, in the few moments I stole before coming into the inn, I had read a part in Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert, where she is meditating outside of an ashram and getting bitten by mosquitoes but is so determined to be still and allow the sensations to pass, a Vipassana-type meditation, that she ends up with more than 20 bites. I suffered much less, and still the fawn watched me as I watched it. Some other hikers came behind me--guests at the inn as it turned out--and I gestured them to come ahead quietly, which they did. We all watched for a bit longer and then I yielded to the call of my errands and the inn and headed down the path. (I once spent 10 days at a Vipassana retreat center in silent mediation. Really. Ten days.)
Seeing the fawn made me miss my brother who stills live in Wisconsin where we all grew up. So I called from my cell phone as I was hiking down the hill. Sister-in-law Angie answered the phone but they were all crazy busy so I couldn't ask him my deer questions (how big should a fawn be if it's away from its mom? Did I really see it spitting out acorn tops? Why didn't it have spots?) George, my brother, would know. He's lived in Wisconsin almost his whole life and he loves the woods and nature and hunting. And he and his wife and their son Chase started Whitetail Bluff Camp and Resort in Cassville, Wisconsin, on the bluffs of the Mississippi. As is often the case, who we are as kids is who we become as adults. I was never too crazy about camping and he was never too keen on hotels. At his place, I stay in a cabin. The list of reasons to rent a cabin instead of sleeping in a tent are funny and exactly right. If you've stayed here with me and then go to Whitetail Bluff, tell George and Angie and your first drink will be on me. George might even throw in a crappie jig, or pair of earrings. He makes them right there at the bar so you can design them with him.

I certainly have met the most interesting guests. Sue and Annette, spontaneously in from Chicago as Annette's husband is a pilot and she can hop aboard flights, started their New England tour in Bangor, touring a cemetery and driving by Stephen King's home. Their description of Mount Hope Cemetery got me curious. It's the second oldest garden cemetery in the United States.

On my way into work the other morning, I had to stop and pick up leaves--so gorgeous! The mugs are from Rackliffe Pottery. Denny Rackliffe and his wife Margaret are amazing. Whenever I stop in, I get a tour and they have some new product to show me--or to offer to make for us (our syrup pitchers are fabulous).

I've been looking for a dictionary stand for the small parlor. I am the sort who loves to have reference books around and will often dash out of the room at a party to grab the Oxford English Dictionary, or just Miriam-Webster, to check on the meaning or etymology of a word. Last night, a couple from California and I were chatting at cocktail hour (sundried tomato tartlettes, saga cheese with fresh pear and glazed pecans, corn salsa stuffed tiny tomatoes) and we got onto geometry--Alan used to teach math--and writing, Alys was an English major as was I. No dictionary stand as yet, and the reference books haven't gotten unpacked yet so I grabbed the laptop and took advantage of the wireless. "Participle" was one we were wondering about. Now the inn has truly been inaugurated.