Port Jefferson, NY, is displaced New England fishing village, its white-balconied clapboard houses in perfect tune with their older brothers and sisters across Long Island Sound.
As Frank and I drove down here last Sunday, it was a real pleasure to watch the progress of springtime outside our car windows. In Massachusetts, the gray trees with red leaf-buds gave way to trees gently dusted with the yellow-green color of spring’s very tiniest leaves. Here on Long Island, the leaves are no longer so tiny, but their early pale colors are still very evident.
You’d think all these hotel rooms with no housework or cooking to do would give me lots of time to work on my novel…