Thomas Wolfe sorta had it right, because, well, you can, but it’s painful. This week has been an interesting one for me. Lots of old stuff coming up, some unexpected grieving (not that one ever plans for it), and having my heart lifted by an old friend.

I spent the most idyllic childhood one could imagine there, swimming in Mashpee Lake, picking blueberries, catching fireflies and fish, swinging on canvas hammocks between the trees, and playing hide and go seek and tag in the dark. I think my cousin Richard still has the scar from running into the guide wire of an electrical pole.

My father and I shared a bank account, which was still in existence up until last Wednesday. I received notification from the bank that the status of the account had changed and unless a hefty minimum amount was kept as a balance monthly fees would be assessed. The funds had been used for his and my brother’s funerals, and there was very little there, but every time I signed on to on-line banking I saw my accounts listed: Household, Personal, and Norman.

Customer Service at the bank’s 800 number was helpful; a visit to the local branch wasn’t required. They transferred the balance to one of my other accounts and cancelled my dad’s. I hung up the phone and sobbed. I knew I’d do it eventually, but there was something comforting about seeing his name when I logged in and something so final about closing that account. Silly, but painful nonetheless.

The next day my cousin Anita and I drove to Cape Cod to visit an old friend. I have a love/hate relationship with Cape Cod. I spent the most idyllic childhood one could imagine there, swimming in Mashpee Lake, picking blueberries, catching fireflies and fish, swinging on canvas hammocks between the trees, and playing hide and go seek and tag in the dark. I think my cousin Richard still has the scar from running into the guide wire of an electrical pole. I have memories of the excitement of crossing one of the bridges over the canal, knowing we were close, even opening the windows on Sturgis Lane, the dirt road to the camp, so we could catch the leaves as they scraped the car, and the trip down the hill, finally seeing the water, which we ran to without thought of anything else. They are as fresh in my mind as though they’d happened yesterday.

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Of course, I can’t think of Mashpee without thinking of my parents, of Mike, who owned the property, of Uncle Eddie cleaning fish, of Aunty Jo in her blouses made from red bandanas, or of Aunt Jeannette doing a crossword puzzle or sitting with my mother having a cup of coffee. They’re all gone now, but the memories of them are sweet ones.

The hate part of my relationship with Cape Cod stems from experiences later in my life when I was a full time resident; bad jobs, a failed business, and a divorce. I’ve let those things go and tried not to let them interfere with my good memories, and that works pretty well until I go back. Route 130 has stoplights and strip malls, where it was only woods and a few houses in my youth. Sturgis Lane is paved, and that piece of property that felt like it went on for miles seems very small now. The road doesn’t go to the water anymore; the McMansions block the access.

When I visit friends on the Cape I’m usually able to avoid Route 130, but the most direct route to our friend’s house (and, quite frankly, the only one I’d not get lost on after all these years) was it, so I sucked it up. It was well worth it, as Connie was there to greet us with her beagle Phoebe when we arrived.

Connie is one of my best memories of Mashpee, and one that has remained great through the good and the bad. She is Mike’s niece and I’ve known her for what feels like forever. How best to describe my friend? She is an ankle bracelet wearing Wampanoag Indian with a braid she’s been sporting since before I was capable of conscious thought. She is a beautiful soul; smart, sharp as a tack, witty, wonderfully sarcastic, generous, protective of the environment and more fun than should be legal. Her house is a paean to nature and Native American culture. It sits on a pond Connie fought hard to revive after years of eutrofication, and a nature reserve she fought hard to keep from becoming a golf course or a housing development. If I had a cause I’d want her on my side. She remains my link to the best of the Cape; just knowing she’s there preserves my Mashpee memories.

We lunched at a waterfront restaurant in Sandwich, The Pilot House, to which she drove on blessed back roads, avoiding the busyness of the main routes. These roads are what I remember; space, scrub pines amid the tall pines, twists and turns around ponds and cranberry bogs. We talked and laughed and caught up and reminisced.

I will see her again before so many years go by. Sometime soon I will e-mail her and tell her I need to spend a night in her spare room surrounded by the spirits of her elders. That I need to sit on her deck and look out at the pond she saved and rub Phoebe’s ears, and that we will sit on the floor and drink Martinis so we don’t have far to fall.

May everyone have such a great spirit in their lives.

Peace.

Deborah