At Seventy: A Journal by May Sarton

By May Sarton

May Sarton’s sincere and engrossing magazine of her 70th yr, spent dwelling and dealing at the Maine coast

may well Sarton’s journals are an enthralling examine a wealthy creative lifestyles. during this, her ode to getting older, she savors the day-by-day pleasures of tending to her backyard, taking care of her canine, and exciting site visitors at her loved Maine domestic by means of the ocean. Her recollections are uncooked, and her observations are infused with the poetic candor for which Sarton—over the process her decades-long career—became known.

An enlightening glimpse right into a time—the early 1980s—and an age, At Seventy is instantaneously particular and common, supplying a distinct window into septuagenarian existence that readers of all generations will get pleasure from. now and then mournful and at others hopeful, it is a appealing memoir of the 12 months within which Sarton, on reflection on all of it, may possibly proclaim, “I am extra myself than i've got ever been.”

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I had always assumed that she would be relieved to return to her family and to a land where she spoke the language and didn’t need me to act as her interpreter. But I realized later that even though my mother could not understand anything the crossing guard, Mrs. Popkin, said, she understood that this woman looked out for me. qxd 11/7/03 3:39 PM Page 36 36 FIROOZEH DUMAS understood her smiles. Even though my mother never attended a Brownie meeting, she knew that the leader, Carrie’s mom, opened up her home to us every week and led us through all kinds of projects.

Giggles and laughter filled the bus. After a few hours on the road, the boy behind me tapped me on the shoulder. ” he said. ” I answered. ” I asked. ” Upon hearing this, all the kids around me burst out laughing. Hours later, we arrived at camp. Pine Lodge was a converted two-story house. All the boys stayed downstairs and all the girls stayed on the second floor. In the girls’ room stood rows of bunk beds. There was one bathroom on the floor for all the girls to share. Oddly, the door to the bathroom had been removed, so any girl who needed to use the toilet or the sink could walk in on someone taking a shower.

We always drove for one hour before stopping for breakfast at Denny’s. My father’s devotion to Denny’s restaurants approached religious fervor. To him, Denny’s was a clean oasis where the waitresses were always friendly. We didn’t really like the food, but that seemed a small price to pay for a clean bathroom in the middle of the desert. After breakfast, we’d get back in the car, turn on the air conditioner, and keep driving. We didn’t stop until the next Denny’s, where we’d have a snack and my father would say how amazing it was that all Denny’s could be so clean, no matter where they were.

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