yo ho ho and a bottle of rum

some things never get old. some things are always fun.

when little amelia comes to visit, the first toys she usually pulls out of the toy basket are the baby-hand size, square duplo blocks. she loves to click them together into tall, wobbly towers and take them apart again, one block at a time. my kids played with the same colorful plastic squares and rectangles she plays with—such sturdy and long-lasting toys, good stuff, these chunky danish blocks for toddlers.

we went to legoland in denmark when the kids were little and the opportunity presented itself. we'd always had a house full of legos, so what fun it was for them to walk through miniature lego villages and see those intricate plastic creations made entirely of snap together bricks, and then to drive a legoland car and get a legoland driver's license. that was the time we were visiting our danish friends and business associates who lived a short distance away from the theme park. (today their son, martin, actually works for lego.)

then there was the time the danes came over here, intent on heading into the wilds of maine. i remember when ed, city-boy bjorn, james, martin and a few other guys (including two more danes) went on a father/son, canoe/camping trip in "our" wilderness. that was the second time (the first one was also a maine canoe trip) and final time bjorn ever did anything quite as, shall i say, rustic and primitive as that in his life. (five days of no showers—but there was great swimming—no outhouses, and rough spots along the beautiful river, with just enough room under the trees for tents and a campfire, to call home for the night.) early in our marriage i also enjoyed doing this trip a few times, paddling along the remote west branch of the penobscot river and down wind-whipped chesuncook lake. i wonder why we could never get bjorn to set foot in the maine woods again. two visits that included roughing it were enough, i guess.

but back to the legos. james was addicted to legos and played with the smaller bricks until he was about eleven, building his way through the age levels, patiently putting together many boxes of intricate pirate and space and technic sets. once, when he was home from college, i looked wistfully into a box filled with the broken-apart, mixed-together colored bits of two wrecked pirate ships and asked him if he could please reconstruct them into their original glory. james was happy to do so. he rebuilt one ship (with hardly a glance at the instructions) and promised to do the other one soon. (that was almost ten years ago—i really need to get after him to rebuild the second one when he's home in maine.)

i like to look at the pirate ship, that remnant of fleeting years—complete with scruffy little eye-patched pirates ready to fire a canon or pistol in your face—from time to time. occasionally i run a dust cloth over it, but i quickly lose my patience. the spaces between the round connector bumps are impossible to get completely clean without picking at them for an hour with a Q-tip, or soaking the whole thing in water. (who the heck has time for that?) the pirate ship remains, as always, displayed on a shelf—dusty but intact—a relic from the past lives of children, a reminder of halcyon days spun from seemingly endless childhood.

you're gonna rise up singing

Summertime, and the livin' is easy, fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high.....one of these mornings you're gonna rise up singing, then you'll spread your wings and you'll take to the sky.  —Summertime from the Gershwins' Porgy and Bess, lyrics by DuBose Heyward.

midnight wind, a howling and demanding wind, sucked air and tent fabric in, and then, in giant bursts, expelled them again, displacing oxygen like the lungs of a colossus, or a bellows of cosmic proportions. this was no weakling storm lashing at us during the height of summertime on a beach on prince edward island.

we were camping in the dunes on a lonely stretch of that lovely island in the late 80's, a thing unheard of in the united states due to strict dune preservation measures and laws to protect piping plovers and other birds nesting in the sand (probably isn't allowed in canada anymore, either) when a mighty gale and torrential rain blew in and pulled several of our tent pegs and poles out of the sand, toppling one side of the tent. needless to say, we survived in the tent (but of course in the tent....we would never abandon our campsite and head for the nearest hotel, well, not on that camping trip anyway), and the kids had great tales to tell when they got back to school.

a beach made of sand or pebbles or a bold rocky shore or any up close and personal view of the sea—doesn't matter where it is as long as it's not mobbed—i'd travel a distance to find a sea view like that.

where you'll find me in the summertime—where i'd like to find myself—could be the wild and blustery shore of embleton beach in northumberland in the north of england (where the signs on the motorway pointing you in a northerly direction actually say THE NORTH, and going south it's THE SOUTH). the huge, imposing, romantic ruins of dunstanburgh castle (this ground felt the likes of john of gaunt, and the wars of the roses) in the distance beyond the golf course didn't look that far, but as i walked on the beach i realized they were farther away than i thought. that walk was a long time ago, way back in 2004; i have every intention of walking there again.

or it could be on fox island, a hill of granite ledges and boulders—and not much else—deposited by glaciers, only accessible at low tide in phippsburg, maine. climbing and poking around up there is an annual thing i like to do to mark and celebrate the arrival—the essence—of summer. the rocks, wearing skirts of sticky seaweed, periwinkles and barnacles, show off exposed backs and arms and thighs tattooed with colorful lichens.

seagulls do a lot of screaming, and they'll steal your picnic lunch—i've even seen them tugging on tote bag and backpack zippers—if you don't watch out. have to keep an eye on the tide, too; it looks harmless but it's not. i leave enough time to get back when the tide turns, and i stay on the sandbar. a tempting shortcut beckons through the water, yet even for a strong swimmer who doesn't mind cold water, it is not recommended since the swirling waves can pull you under and away. if fog rolls in, foghorns—like the one at seguin island and another one at pond island—are some of my favorite sounds of summer—eerie and forlorn, but wonderful, if you like that kind of thing.

remembered beaches—crane, plum island, embleton, jasper, reef bay, singing sands, goose cove, sea glass, crescent, reid, kitty hawk, higgins, pink, seawall, tarpon bay, popham, gulfside, bamburgh—and all the beaches in between with names i can no longer recall; names forgotten, adrift, blown away as if by a distant sea breeze, but to whose shores i will always return in the sweet lullaby of memory, smiling and singing a little song of summer.

~ photo of the dunstanburgh castle ruins by ed montalvo.

after the feast

after the feast, that day of thankfulness for life and loved ones, i looked back at thursday's hours and was reminded of short days and long nights, of endings and beginnings, of the cycle of seasons and the rapidity of decades.

was it really so long ago—important dates: 1621 for the religious observance, later in the 17th century for the yearly september feasts offering thanks for successful harvests, 1941 for the designation of the official thanksgiving holiday, the last thursday in november—or something like that...google it if you need more facts—when the pilgrims ate their thanksgiving feast of fish, deer, foul, squash, berries and nuts on long tables outdoors in a plimoth clearing, and invited about 90 wampanoag indian friends to be their guests (i've been told the wampanoags brought the venison)?

can you see them in a grassy field, english folks of both sexes adorned with fresh, white collars, the men wearing tall black hats, the women in black or white caps, and their native guests in buckskin, beads and feathers?

was it really so long ago when i was a little girl? back then it was mostly family around my parent's thanksgiving table, but occasionally friends would gather with us, too. this year at our house, in addition to family, we had a friend and business associate from china as our thanksgiving guest.

my mother was an excellent cook; the cooking would begin on tuesday and everything was made from scratch. what i remember most were her desserts—pies and cakes—and her mashed potatoes and gravy. i see her stirring and measuring and adjusting flavors, adding a pinch of this or that. when mum started to become ill, her memory fading, her fingers stiffening, i asked her to show me how she made her gravy so that we would always be able to have gravy the way memi (what my children call their grandmother) made it. she laughed and told me there was no recipe, or more precisely, there was no exact recipe, only the ever-so-slightly-changing variation of a recipe that came out of her head each thanksgiving.

she stood patiently beside me and recited her gravy process, and as we hovered over a saucepan together, mum stirring with a wooden spoon, me scribbling notes with a pen, we came up with a wonderful version (perhaps it's the one from thanksgiving 1973?) of her gravy. it was on the table last thursday.

this year before dinner was ready i suggested that maybe one day we should use picnic tables in the yard and eat outside like the pilgrims at that first thanksgiving feast. (had we done so this thanksgiving we would have been setting up our tables in a muffled winter wonderland surrounded by heavy snow which weighed the pine branches down, and hauling platters of food as we trudged through 8 inches of the white stuff which had surprised us the day before.) not one person enthusiastically embraced the idea; alas, no pilgrim types in this group.

every year we prepare for days and the food is gobbled up in a flash.

time burns down and disappears like the candle tapers on the table.

and speaking of burning down, the day ended with a bit of excitement. i opened the chimney flue and lit a fire in the living room fireplace after we finished our meal—well, that is, i thought i had opened the flue. (just let me add i have been lighting fires in the fireplace for 30 years and this is the first time i have had flue issues.) the fire was burning nicely but after 5 minutes the room began to smell like woodsmoke, we could see some smoke above in the loft, and our eyes started to sting. i could have sworn the flue was fully open, but obviously it was only partially open.

i reached into the fireplace with a poker and pulled the lever forward. the smokey wisps stopped sneaking out of the firebox and were sucked up the chimney. we had to vacate the room, open the windows, and sit in the family room. no damage occurred but it still smells a bit like a smokehouse—though not at all unpleasant—as if hams ought to be hanging and curing from the beams.

i promptly had some grey goose to calm my nerves.

i'm glad to report the rest of the evening passed without incident.

i'll sing you songs

do you ever find yourself hungrily inhaling familiar air, gulping down great whiffs of it? and when you do, the smell you draw into your nostrils hits you hard, provokes a memory? does a scent fill you up and lead you back across the years to a spot which had a hold on you, perhaps still does, unleashing images and feelings forever imbedded in your psyche?

when my sense of smell is awakened by anything resembling a pineneedley-mountainy-woodsydirt mixture i am transported to where i spent summer after childhood summer. i sniff. i slowly drag the scent deep inside my nasal passages.

i am at the river. i remember this.

down by the rocky swift river in the white mountains of new hampshire during one of the hottest julys on record—according to my mother—my cousins and i wiled away the hours in that happy summertime land of childhood where our only responsibility, our only steadfast endeavor, was to play, to play hard.

so we did.

our daily attire for the hard work of river play consisted of rapidly fading and fraying bathing suits. there certainly wasn't a lot of  laundry to be done since we existed in suits which were soaked river water fresh every day. yet our day in and day out routine of sliding down boulders and pulling ourselves up boulders took its toll on our suits—when we got back to boston my mother promptly tossed mine in the trash.

we stood knee-deep in the rushing river which, back then, was clear as gin—fresh and clean enough to drink!—and hauled rocks off the sandy bottom to build our own private swimming hole. the river wasn't too deep or wide and it was full of rocks and boulders so we could, in places, hop-scotch across the rapids and tumbling whitewater without getting our feet wet if we were careful. the daily game was: who can get across the river first -without falling in!

we worked off and on for a few summers, repairing, excavating, enlarging, to create our perfect swimming hole, humming and singing to pass the time. (we'd sing i've been working on the river to the melody of i've been working on the railroad.) we called it "ye ole swimming hole." our parents wondered why we spent all our time on such a project when the river offered many of its own nature-made pools to swim in. oh dear silly parents, the answer was obvious: we want to make our own swimming hole, one we design and build all by ourselves! 

the site for our engineering feat was carefully chosen near an isolated place on the river where we pitched our tents. for years my parents had loved to camp out in the summer. they were back-to-nature, back-to-the-land kind of folks, people who recycled and composted way before that became the thing to do. in the summer during my early years, while my friends went to organized camps and their parents played tennis and golf, i lived in a wilderness camp; i built swimming holes, rode down the river on an air mattress, swam and hiked. my parents chopped wood, bought food from local farmers and also swam and hiked. in addition, we had a very basic—no plumbing or electricity—very old and run down, but perfectly dry, hunting cabin where the adults sometimes slept.

ye ole swimming hole boasted three large, grand, slightly angled boulders with flat tops which circled the perimeter where we were building up the sides with rocks we dug out of the middle. on the far side of one of them the river fell off and a three-foot-high waterfall cascaded over the stones. below the falls was a small, calm, bath-tub sized pool surrounded by the gushing whitewater. even with temperatures in the 90's, our bodies soon became icy in the mountain water. we would flop on the hot, hot sun-baked stones to warm up, then head back into our pool once we had toasted all sides, and swim or sit under the waterfall and freeze our heads off. then back up on the hot stones again, joyfully repeating this scenario over and over.

another memory is sparked by a black and white photo of me from those river years: i have medium length, straight blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. i am about seven years old and i am wide-mouthed, singing a song while dancing around the campfire at dusk. someone had a guitar and i remember singing songs. first i would belt out the real words of the song, then i would sing my own crazy made-up version until my wonderful song started to get on everyone's nerves and—according to my mother—my mother would politely tell me shush, it was time to sing the real words again with the rest of the people gathered around the fire.

pshaw! those people just didn't appreciate a good song when they heard it!

songs of summer, songs of the river, songs of the way it was, all part of the melody of childhood.....

along the trail

along the fine veil of memory there are millions of individual threads. these threads occasionally become frayed and some get loose and, over time, wiggle free, fall away, and are lost forever. other threads separate a little from the veil, just enough to get noticed, but they stay attached and remain smoothly intact. the trail of memory threads is often intricate and rich and invites examination.

i see a place in the mountains of new hampshire. it is one of my earliest recollections. i am about five years old and it is the middle of summer. my parents pack up the car for a camping trip to the white mountains. i remember this part so clearly: i am unbearably excited to finally get on the road....the road is boring until we see the mountains....i help set up camp....the next day i am thrilled beyond words to be hiking up mount chocorua on a trail in the very dark spooky woods. (spooky to me, anyway - at this point in my life i am a little city girl from boston harboring the most vivid imagination; believe me, the trail is a perfectly ordinary hiking trail.)

[note: the mount chocorua area in 1963 was not the crowded place it is today. then, as now, the miles and miles of interconnected trails allowed hikers the benefit of exploring multiple trails and summits without ever leaving the woods. in those days there was plenty of space for everyone to roam around and not bump into too many other hikers along the way. it was still a real wilderness; a bit of solitude could be had in those woods back then. the word spread about the chocorua area, though, and now many hikers populate the trails.]

we are all alone. i ask my dad will we get lost? he holds up a small detailed guidebook with trail maps of the area, and assures me there is no chance of getting lost. i am reassured. i skip ahead along the trail, my head immersed in the formation of my own little collection of stories. the trail becomes steep. we are high enough to see the summit in the distance. it looks like a pyramid. my dad tells me how the shape of the mountain's peak changes depending on where you are standing. from the east chocorua is like a camel's hump; from the north it resembles a shark's fin.

we grab at birch trunks to pull ourselves up giant granite boulders. we stop and take a rest and drink big gulps from our silver metal canteens which are covered in dark gray boiled wool with snaps and a loop to hook on your belt or knapsack (back then we never said backpack, only knapsack). i love my own special canteen. we pass through scrubby woods of short pine and spruce and finally get to the top of chocorua. my parents oooo and ahhhh over the view of the swift river valley. i am sweaty and the refreshing summer wind feels good. i cool off and put on my sweatshirt.

on the way back down we head east on a spur loop trail to see champney falls and pitcher falls. one of them (i don't remember which) has flat step-like slabs of granite where the water gently tumbles down into shallow pools filled with smooth stones, and lined with large mossy ones spread out like sleeping, prehistoric beasts, cracked and bumpy gray with pink, green and black mottling. my dad says in the spring, unlike summer, a torrent of water gushes down the mountain and hurtles over the falls forming deep, dark, icy pools. i take off my sneakers and socks and stick my hot feet in with the stones in one of the chilly pools.

we are tired so we decide not to take a side trip along the trail over to middle sister today. we will hike again soon. we go back to camp and get a campfire started. it gets dark and i catch fireflies and put them in a jar.....but just for a while.....then i set them free.....

what is left behind

in basements, attics, barns, garages and sheds you'll find what is forgotten, unneeded, unnecessary. or, in turn, you'll find what is being saved, stored, preserved, packed away for use at a later date. who, exactly, will use the unwanted things at a later date when some of them haven't been looked at for 20, 30, 40 years or more is anyones guess. i suppose that's where auction companies come in. and ebay. what one person can't part with, another person can and will at some time in the future. and, of course, one person's junk is another person's treasure.

i know people whose houses are full to bursting with stuff. every nook and cranny is overflowing with everything they have ever owned. a trail of magazines, checks, receipts, clothes, cheap knickknacks, some over 50 years old. they are unable to get rid of anything. on the other hand, i know people who trim their inventories regularly. their homes and outbuildings are neat and orderly, spotless, everything organized and put away, the surplus having been given away or thrown out.

my mom is one of those neat people. never ever junk all over the garage, basement, closets, floors, chairs or tables. wonderful to grow up in a house like that, but......

one day i got thinking about some glamorous party dresses my mom wore when she was in her early 30's. i remember this: i played dress-up with the dresses when she no longer had use for them. they were divine. some had pearl buttons and flouncy layers. what fun i had imagining grand grown-up parties while i was draped in those beautiful dresses.

i also got thinking about my tressy doll (her hair grew longer if you pressed a button and pulled!) and my barbie with the 3 wigs, both circa 1965. (you would have thought i'd have become a hair stylist, i practiced arranging hair so much, with my pile of dolls in constant need of new hairstyles.) my mom did some cleaning one day a long, long time ago and these things, and many others that i suddenly miss, were all given away to local charities.

cleaning up is a good thing. but can there be too much of a good thing? i do long to see those dresses and my dolls again. just see them. sort of silly, i know, and yet i wish they had been left behind....

welcome christmastime

i remember this: at christmastime in the early 60's, when i was very little, we had wonderful cardboard christmas houses that my mother would decorate with around the livingroom. she would put a few of them under the tree, and when the only illumination in the room came from the christmas tree, the small village of houses glowed merrily in the soft, dim, welcoming light of those big, old-fashioned, colored bulbs. i would lie on my stomach under the tree, head resting on my outstretched arm, and gaze into the lit up village for a long time. i would imagine the people who lived in the christmas houses, and what they might be doing inside. were they snug in there? (it was stormy outside because several of the houses had snow on their roof and chimney.) were they playing games and drinking hot chocolate? were they busy enjoying their own winter celebration?

i don't know what happened to those houses from the 1960's. these are some of my own 1990's collection of cardboard christmas houses. the brown gingerbread house welcomes you with its tiny sign. welcome, christmastime.....

a glass half full

today i ask you this: is the glass half full, or half empty? it is interesting how different people answer the question. in my whole life i have always seen the glass as half full. i can't see it, or think of it, any other way. the glass is NEVER half empty. i remain forever the optimist in all things. i tend to see the positive side to issues, be they weighty, worldly dilemmas, or simply the day-to-day problems and snags we all encounter.

there is a story behind that glass, by the way. during my recovery period after foot surgery, ed would always make sure i had a fresh, tall glass of simple, cold, tap water (in addition to making sure i had a hundred other small things), my favorite, which in our case comes from a delicious, deep well. on this day, the glass remained untouched for part of the day-i must have had some juice, too-and all those bubbles formed. that was not sparkling water in the glass, and it certainly was not so fresh anymore! but i'm glad i didn't drink all of it, because now i will always remember this: how nice it is when someone takes the time to be considerate, and do [a hundred] little things for you.

note: foot surgery is not fun. it is nasty. but it is the people around you who care who help make the recovery time magically pass in the blink of an eye...well, kind of the blink of an eye...