The House by the Sea Read Online Free Page B

stand against the wind, our glasses were covered with salt spray and Tamas’ fur was blown back to the roots. Down at the point we were able to stand for a few moments with those towering waves roaring in to right and left, the whole shore white with foam. It was like an answer to prayer, the outward storm playing out what might have become an inward storm had it not absorbed all the tensions, as it did.
    Indoors we had a nice intimate day with a fire going in the cozy room and I blessed the storm for that too, as I believe it satisfied some deep restlessness in Judy. We even got out for the mail and did some errands in Portsmouth at noon. And I came home with two wonderful letters, one from Bill Brown and one from Betty Voelker, both painters, both living in San Francisco or near it. Of course, Bill goes back thirty-five years in my life; we have struggled along at our separate arts side by side. His letters are always full of magic and joy for me, as when yesterday I read this haunting description of the charm of his routine. He and Paul have won through to such a fertile and fertilizing relationship I almost envy it … and then I think of my solitude and realize again that I am truly married to it and without it would be even more nerve-racked and impossible than I am. Bill writes: “For the last month we’ve been having spectacular sunsets each night. We sit with our drinks in hand and wait like children to see just what he/she up there has prepared. I love all of our daily rituals. Breakfast, the arrival of mad, wild Jimmie (a cat) who still greets us with a snarl instead of a miaow—then Ma Belle’s entrance into the kitchen where she chooses her favorite flavor of Tender Victuals for that day. Then we sit quietly together for 15 minutes (I can’t claim it’s meditation) and off I go to the studio until four or so. Then a shower and a drink and a good dinner by chef Paul, followed by reading or music. It sounds idyllic, but, of course, despair, frustrations, headaches of one kind or another keep us in fighting form.”
    A letter like this makes the day flower. Betty’s too was full of her sense of life and exact observation … “the light is again that champagne like luminosity” … the phrase made me dream.
    Dreams! Since my return from Europe I seem to have been living my life through again in dreams. Last night about ten people, including the Huxleys, Margaret Clapp, wandered in and out of my dreams.
    Bramble, who is not a lap cat, now every night at about one creeps up and lies on my chest, kneading me firmly (and sometimes painfully) while she purrs extremely loudly. The slow taming of this wild creature has been fascinating.

Wednesday, December 4th
    T HIS IS the latest I’ve ever planted bulbs but Raymond finally did dig a little bed over the wall and it seemed too bad not to use it, so I bought eighteen tulips this morning and set them in this afternoon under a pure blue sky—it was cold! One understands how animals scurry about preparing for winter. I have been doing the same thing for weeks, getting the storm windows put up, yesterday my snow tires, getting in extra seed for the birds (sunflower at $15.50 for 50 pounds is staggering!), firewood. And today I paid $211.00 for the November oil for the furnace. I tremble a little, for if I don’t write a book a year it just wouldn’t be possible to live here.
    It is beautiful up here in my study in the afternoons, the sky over the sea reflecting the sunset and the great arc of the ocean all around me. In the mornings I have to pull the curtains, for the light dazzles.

Thursday, December 5th
    T EMPERATURE 10° above this morning.
    I have a leaden feeling when I wake up and need to shake myself awake like a dog. But the lead is in my mind, of course. It is not only the coming on of winter, but the coming on of old age that I shore up against these days. At all ages we are learning how