Yesterday I learned that a dear family friend, Curtis Wells, had died overnight. Curtis was in his mid-80s and had been failing for years. He was in hospice so his death was not a surprise, but it was still a shock. Though he had been crippled and suffering for so long, he was always open-hearted, curious, affectionate; so interested in people of all ages; a hilarious storyteller; a collector of experiences and things; an adoring and beloved husband. Curtis was originally from Long Island, but moved to Mount Desert Island in the 1970s and built a house on a cove in West Tremont. Tom and I used to call him the Last of the Beatniks: sometimes it felt like he was barely making ends meet, barely keeping a roof over his head, yet he had an insouciance, a sweet naïveté, that made everyone love and trust him.

I met Curtis through his wife, Weslea. And I met Weslea in the very first poetry workshop I ever took, in 1999. My younger son was two years old, my older was five, and I had made the giant scary decision to leave the boys with Tom for the weekend and find out if I might possibly be a poet. Weslea was in my class, and we immediately bonded. She was older, more confident in herself; she took me seriously; and we began sending poems back and forth, began meeting at other workshops. A few years later she invited me to bring my family to the rental cottage she and Curtis owned on their property. And thus began our regular off-season trips to Mount Desert, to the sweetest cottage on the planet, which Curtis and Weslea offered to us for free, year after year, though god knows they needed the money and we didn't have any money to give them.

So we worked in their garden, stacked their wood, made them dinners, did a few little things to try to pay our way, and our families became entrenched in each other's lives. Now that the boys are grown, Tom and I continue to visit--these days, twice a year, in April and November--and this past spring Paul (the ex-two-year-old) and his partner came with us, to Curtis's delight.

During the summer, as I was putting together my newest poetry collection, I decided to dedicate it to three couples who have been huge parts of our family story, as thanks "for loving me, for loving Tom, for loving our children, for inviting us to park ourselves in your lives, for all these many years." Curtis and Weslea are one of those couples . . . friends who have shared their place on earth, shared their comedy, their intelligence, their elegy, who have loved all four of us so generously.

In November Tom and I will go back to the cottage, and Curtis will not be there to greet us, to sigh happily over the food we cook, to tell hilarious tales of delivering antique furniture to the capo of the Hell's Angels. This makes me so sad. But I'm thankful for all of the evenings we did spend together, so thankful to have seen him in the spring. Rest well, friend.

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And then there's the other story of yesterday: the story of the severe thunderstorm that ripped a pair of giant branches off a backyard maple, tearing down the clotheslines and smashing a fence. Tom has his work cut out for him today, chainsaw-wise. Plus, we have a giant pile of green wood in the driveway and a friend coming over for dinner. Ah, life.