It was a cold rainy day a few years back. Abby and I couldn't find Norwell because there isn't really a Norwell ... it's just one of those vague geographical areas ... no "downtown" as such that we could find ... no nothing ... no reason to go to Norwell except to pay respect to a great writer.Abby tried grave rubbing. It's difficult in the rain, but I remember looking at her beautiful hand holding the paper against the stone. It was, in a small way, valiant.
We had a great late lunch at The Milepost Tavern in Duxbury. It's a warm and cozy place. Then we headed just a bit west and found a motel. It was one of those places that serves a continental breakfast. Come morning, on our way down the corridor to the breakfast room, a man I knew in Yarmouth stepped out of a room with a woman who was not his wife. He was very surprised to see me. Sort of sheepish. I didn't care of course except for a wish that John Cheever could write up the guy's story.
