Of Menopause and Maine

The woman standing at Gate B1 waiting for the Bus to Portland waved a paper over her face. "Menopause," she said.

"Did you see the stage show Menopause, the Musical?" I asked.

No. I told her how four menopausal women took well known songs and changed the lyrics.

"I’m having a hot flash, a tropical hot flash," I sang. People looked, I suspect more because of my bad voice then the words.

The woman and I talked all the way to Portland discovering we were both writers, both Unitarians, both anti-war, anti-Bush etc. We were for the same things too. She had been an organ builder.

The bus driver had welcomed us aboard with a song and in what seemed like minutes he was singing us a farewell song.
And there my former neighbors and old friends Gary and Carol stood. We had shared meals, music and watched out for each other’s teenage kids when we were away on business or vacation. The kids were too old for baby sitters but needed a sensible adult a staircase away for emergencies.

Gary and Carol had visited with me in Geneva on their way to Italy and I had seen their house when they first bought it, but they had done much too it. Carol had recreated the Tuscan countryside on the living room wall.

Three days was short but time enough to exchange memories and make new ones as we ate with another writer friend and her husband just back from Paris where they had gone for a flu shot. We took a long walk as I enjoyed the down east architecture and was introduced to people in their village. A driving rainstorm stopped the finches, sparrows and chickadees from entertaining us at the bird feeder. Even the squirrel gave up his antics as the wind swirled around the house. Plans to visit the Wyeth museum and eat at a restaurant were abandoned in favor of a quiet day by the wood burning stove and more good conversation.

The hardest part about being an ex-pat is missing friends, but after years abroad if I were to return to the country of my birth where I feel a stranger, I would miss those friends from Switzerland and France that I have nurtured for almost two decades.
Arriving back at Boston’s South Station, I grabbed a meal at the food court. A cop walked by and handed an elderly man his wallet. All the money was there. It just felt like the right ending.