-
…the thought crosses my mind, it is just a beaver or something. However, as we round the corner I see it too. Through the mist on the edge of the water, a head pokes out just enough to reach the nourishment below. As we silently drift, it looks at me and I amazement floods my being. The odd shape of its snout and the points of the antlers coming off its head dripping water back into the river confound me. I can feel the grace flowing from him to me. Then, he steps out of the woods. As he does, the huge body supported by the awkward legs gives me a whole new perspective. His joints seem backwards and though he is still powerful and towering, I cannot help but feel the slightest wind will knock him over. Watching him walk reminds me of a horse getting up from a restful sleep. Yet at the same time, he moves with the grace of a dancer. Regardless, the scene teleports me back to a time when people were the rare and awkward species. When each meal was the focus of the day. Where animals looked at us as the graceful yet awkward creatures hobbling about on two legs and meandering through the forest.ReplyDelete
Letting that thought sit in for a few moments, I drift there exchanging glances with the primitive animal.
Slowly, I dip my paddle in and taking time to bask my strokes in the silence I think of those who navigated this river hundreds of years ago.
Slowly, I continue down the flowing path allowing the boat behind us see the same sight.
As soon as we round the next oxbow, Jimmy turns to me and asks, “so, was it worth it?
“Hell’s yeah.” Is all I can say.
We do eventually stop for breakfast, and huddled there around our pot of boiling water, the feeling of pure antiquity never leaves.
We saw fifteen moose that day, and let me tell you it was well worth it.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Jacob's Piece
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Dennise's Piece
“The
Eulogy- Finally at Peace?”
On September 30th, 2011, a bright, sunny, fall
morning around 10 AM, traffic was coming and going through downtown Nashua;
just a normal business day. Other cars were slowly pulling up to the Davis
Funeral Home looking for a parking spot and receiving a small magnetic purple
flag to attach to the car. Small groups of people were getting out of their
vehicles and pausing for a few minutes to soak up some of the warming sun
before walking into the dark, cool parlor of the funeral home for the service.
This coming together of family and friends is to say goodbye to their sister,
aunt, close friend and acquaintances. Inside the somber foyer people are
gathering waiting to take their seats. The pastor is standing near the podium
welcoming the family from the other side of the room as they walk by the casket
to say some goodbyes and I’ll miss yous. U2 music is playing softly as people
take their seats. My sister and I are sitting in the front row near the podium
with our significant others behind us rubbing or patting our backs, soothing
our soles.
The pastor wants to begin. The murmuring stops. The music
stops and the prayer begins. She explains why we are gathered here today and
after the prayer another U2 song begins. I looked around and some people were
smiling, some mouthing the words and some just had bowed heads taking in the
melody and words. This day was to remember my sister, Johnna Lynn Tieff, born
June 10th, 1963 and passed away on September 19th, 2012
at the age of forty-eight years old. She was a single lass, who recently began
dating an old friend from school who lives in New Jersey but was sitting in the
front row with us today. That was why her sudden death was so confusing and sad
to us. However, her last thirty something years have only been torment and
sorrow. Even when there were happy moments for her, she could not be content.
She just never felt she would ever fit in the world, so she left it.
After the song, the pastor offered another prayer and then
introduced me. I took a deep
breath and stood up. My supportive
sister and I took four long steps to the podium turn to the audience and
thanked them for being here. I
turn towards my sister and begin our goodbye.
Johnna,
I just want to say that I love you with all my heart. With
six kids in our family growing up and me being the oldest, I always felt like a
Mom to you. The summers we shared I always took you and Dodi to the Walter’s
Park Community Pool, and when I had my part-time job I remember one time buying
you and Dodi really cute bathing suits. Yours was green, one of your favorite
colors. The two of you were always with me.
When your Dad and our Mom separated and Mom moved to NH; I
really did become the mom, but at 16 it was just too much for me and I left
too. Your Dad met Mary and she became your mother figure. I am not so sure
those were the best times and when you turned eighteen, I wanted you and Dodi to
come to New Hampshire to live with
Doug and I and you did. You found a home in NH.
During your time in NH, that is when we learned about the
demon that you would continue to suffer with all the rest of your life (manic
depression/bi-polar and anxiety). For
much of your adult life, alcohol seemed to suppress this demon but then it
became another. These caused a few brushes with the law, many broken and
dysfunctional relationships, your loss of license, and family alienation. You
were gone from our lives for many years. Then ten years ago, you lost your best
friend; our sister Raye Ann to those same demons you have been struggling with.
This hit you hard and probably set you back further into that demon world. You
continued this path and we would only occasionally see you because Mom did not
want to be around you when you were “like that” and Doug and I started raising
our family and we did not want our children to see you like that either. I
still loved you, but my life was now consumed with my other family.
Then almost three years ago, Mom suffered a stroke and
passed away. While at the hospital we learned that a week before, you had also
been in the hospital ICU recovering from a suicide attempt. After we buried
Mom, Doug and I made a commitment to get to know you better and to learn more about
your illness and to help you to keep those demons at bay. You kept telling us
that we did not understand. It was not easy. There were more attempts to leave this Earth, hospitalizations,
counseling sessions and family meetings. At the Greater Nashua Mental Health
Center, is where we met your social worker, Heather Wheeler. She was your
guardian angel. We know she meant more to you than just a mental health person.
She was a friend, a mentor, someone you did not want to disappoint. We know
also, that you were more than just a client to her. We love you Heather and thanks for all you did for
Johnna and Dr. Yadotti and Mary Super too!
You were getting sober; a few breaks; but for the most part
clean and sober. You attended meetings, kept your mental health and medical appointments,
and after twenty years you got your driver’s license back and we gave you Mom’s
car so you no longer have to walk everywhere. You and I started going to weekly
movies of your choice at the Chunky’s Theatre because you wanted family time.
We would go out to dinner or lunch and have time to talk. You shared with me a
few things you never shared with other family members. You talked about your
illness and how you wished you never had it. Why was it me? You always said you
wanted to be normal and that it was so hard living like this. We know you
fought a hard fight to stay here with us and fight that demon, but it was too
hard for you. Even when you reconnected with a lifelong friend, Mike Stout, and
you two reunited. You were happy and in love for the first time in years. Your
counselors and family cautiously supported you. We were happy you took risks
taking the bus to New Jersey for visits to see Mike. In these past four months
our talks were about good decisions and choices you made and we were proud of
that.
We know you were not happy a few weeks ago when you did not
come to Rick and Jennifer’s party, but you said I am not a crowd person and I
do not want to be around people drinking. Two days later on September 12th,
we invited you to come out with the family to celebrate Jennifer’s birthday and
to come over and meet your great nephews, Chase and Wyatt. At first you said
no, then later called me and changed your mind and said yes. You did not want
to dress up, you were going to wearing jeans, but when you showed up, you were
all dressed up and looked great, short hair and all! At least it was not the
Cinead O’Connor look like in the past. You sat down and we put two baby boys in
your lap. You were the happiest I had seen you. You even grabbed a bottle and
fed Chase. Jen was not feeling well so we stayed home and ordered Mexican
take-out. You ate every bite. Rick’s friend Dan took you home hours later with
a promise to catch a movie the following week after the kids left.
We never got to see that movie, the kids never got to say
good-bye to their aunt, no one got to say good-bye……You did leave a message and
said good-bye that left us all with saddened hearts. Nowwe are here to say
good-bye to you. I realize now the hell you endured here on Earth Johnna, and I
know our God has brought you up to heaven with him and that you will finally
have your peace.
Love,
Dennise
My sister and I left the podium and walked back to our
seats. I could not believe I actually spoke to a crowd of people without a
nervous stomach, a dry mouth, or crying. I guess I just knew that this had to
be said and as the matriarch, I took control and did it. The service ended with
one last U2 song and people filed out of the funeral home after passing the
casket and saying their last goodbyes. After everyone left, the family and Mike
helped close the casket and other family members took the casket out to the
hearse and we left for the cemetery. We drove by Johnna’s apartment building on
the way to the cemetery. After a short, sweet prayer and sharing by friends and
family, we left, after again sharing some warm sunshine.
As I reflect on the past three years I had spent
reacquainting myself with my younger sister, I do not cry thinking about her, I
do miss her, but what I truly feel is peace. She was really suffering with her
disease and I think she truly felt if she could not be here with us in a normal
way, and she understood that she could not, then it was better to meet her
maker and I believe she is. I have not visited the cemetery since we left her
there to be buried next to my Mom, but there is not a day that goes by that I
have not thought about her. Her forty-ninth birthday is coming in a few days. I
do wonder what she will be doing up there. Good-bye Johnna, I promise I will
see you again someday, but for now, I have chosen to continue my life such as
it is.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Sara's Piece
Sara
Paquette
Spring
2012
The recipe
card is worn; its edges tattered and stained; my mother’s handwriting smudged
and faded. The paper is
yellowish. The illustration of a
tree in the upper right hand corner is torn in half from when I was 23, and it
got caught under the chair. I
still take the card out every time I make crepes, even though I know the recipe
by heart. There are no
measurements, only feelings and rough amounts…one egg for every person eating
minus one, one tablespoon of flour for every crepe plus four, enough milk to
smooth it out enough to fall off the spoon. I don’t have the directions written on the card, though; I
can still hear my mother’s voice instructing me from years ago.
“Let the
grease get hot enough in the pan until it starts to steam, but don’t let it get
too hot to burn,” she said. This
is one of the toughest parts of cooking crepes. Too hot and the burned grease will taint the flavor of the
crepe, not hot enough and the grease won’t cook at a high enough
temperature. We didn’t have a
fancy crepe-maker bought from William Sonoma. We had what every woman in our family had used for
generations: a hot griddle, a spatula, and a stove.
“The first
crepe is always the test one,” she explained. “Don’t worry if it doesn’t come out the right way. The first
one never does. It’s the second
one that is the keeper.” I smile
at this memory now as an adult.
She’s right. The first
attempt at anything can fail, but all I have to do is try again and things will
turn out all right.
“Now, pour
the batter in the hot grease and spread it as thin as you can without creating
holes.” This technique takes a
paradox of quick patience. It has
to be done correctly or the crepe will be too thick; if it is too thick, it
will be no better than a common pancake.
She
continued, “When the edges around the crepe start to bubble and then begin to
turn up, it is ready to flip.”
Crepes are made one at a time, filling up a plate left in a heated oven
until there were enough for everyone to eat. While she talked me through this stage, I can hear her own
mother’s voice telling her to do the same. This is a recipe that has been in our family for a long,
long time. My Big Memere taught my
Memere who taught my mother who then taught me. I hope to one day teach Sophie
and continue our legacy.
In my
childhood memory, eating crepes was a delicacy. We lathered butter, cinnamon, sugar, brown sugar, homemade
strawberry or raspberry jam then rolled the crepe tightly. Then we poured the maple syrup, enough
to cover the crepe and create a puddle in the bowl. It is no wonder that my brother and I ran around for hours
after breakfast, burning off the sugar we had devoured.
I still
make my mother’s, grandmother’s, great grandmother’s crepes. The taste lives in my palette, my mouth
watering as I write this. This
speaks so much of where I am from, the simplicity of my youth, the consistency
of generations. But as in all family
histories, I have had to write my own story. Yes, the recipe that has been used for generations is the
same, but now I add a dash of vanilla or a pinch of nutmeg, telling signs of my
difference and originality.
I
hope to experiment with dinner crepes soon, a novelty that I have only eaten in
Paris and Quebec. Perhaps Sophie
can also add her own flare when she becomes older. She, too, will take the teachings of her mother, her
grandmother, her great grandmother, and her great-great grandmother and make
them her own.
I want my
daughter to know where she comes from.
I want her to hear her grandmother’s voice through
mine. I want her to taste the
sweetness of her great-grandmother’s crepes. I want her to take the recipe that I will give to her and
make it her own.
Heritage
is not always material. I have my
grandmother’s hope chest that will be hers someday. I have my mother’s ring that I will give to her when she
marries. And I have our crepe
recipe.
Brian's Piece
Picture Day
Have you ever wished you could have
about five seconds of your life back, so that you could undo some profoundly unwise action? I have on many occasions, and today I will share one of them
with you.
As
many of you are aware, I am a product of Catholic grammar school, which is
basically a medium-security day prison for the pre-adolescent set. As such, there were many things expected
of all: hands folded across the
desk at all times when not otherwise engaged, no talking unless directed to do
so by a nun, no gum chewing under any circumstances
(don’t even ask!), and, if you were a boy, always
wear a necktie. One day in sixth
grade, I saw a chance to memorialize an act of defiance so profound, the mere
thought of it would have reduced a lesser child to a state of blubbering
catatonia. Actually, come to think
of it, blubbering catatonia fairly aptly describes much of the behavior I
either witnessed or engaged in during my schooling.
Anyway,
it was picture day, when we were rolled fresh-scrubbed out the door in our
Sunday bests for that annual dance with posterity and its chief prize: the photo that will forever say ‘This
is what perfection looks like in grade whatever.’ On picture day, we students disappeared one by one behind a
large screen which hid us from all prying eyes while the portrait was snapped. It was the fall of 1970, and student
radicals were everywhere. Here at
last was my chance to thumb my nose at authority, to strike a blow for the
oppressed masses, to stick it to the man!
As I ducked behind the screen, I removed my necktie. The photographer, if he even noticed,
didn’t say a word. The shutter
clicked; the tie was quickly replaced; I had gotten away clean…or so I thought.
About
three weeks later the pictures came in – in big envelopes with cellophane
windows that showed most of the enclosed portrait. Curses! I
forgot about that detail! Sure
enough, when she got to mine, Sister Mary Coleman of the Order of the Sisters
of Mercy (an appellation I often saw as evidence that God has a bizarre sense
of humor) stopped dead in her tracks.
“Mr.
Walsh,” she said, an icy tone creeping into her old-world brogue, “what is the
meaning of THIS?” And with that,
she held up my picture for all to see, in all my mop-topped, bucktoothed,
tieless glory. My heart sank. There were audible gasps as the
inevitable yardstick swung my way.
Life
could get no worse, I thought, until one girl piped up, “His head is shaped
like a light bulb!” In my suddenly
empty world, I had no comeback for her. How could I?
She was right. The entire
class roared with approving laughter.
Nerd, jock, jerk, brown-noser, and best friend, even the girl in the
third row I kind of had a crush on, all were convulsed with glee at my
expense. Meanwhile, Sr. Mary
Coleman, OSM, let the talking aloud go without any form of reprimand. It seems that humiliation is good for
the soul, and she was all for letting my eternal, spiritual self get healthy.
Had
I created a moment to remember? Ah
yes, but not the one I had intended.
Steve's Piece
Food Memory Essay
Many
of my fondest food memories are from my childhood, but for this essay I’m going
to write about something more recent.
For
about half of my life I’ve been married and had children. During this time I’ve driven down
Interstate 95 to the southern part of our country with my family many times. I’ve driven to Florida twice, South
Carolina three times and North Carolina at least a dozen times. We drive straight through to our
destination -- a grueling drive but worth it.
During
these trips my family has established some dining traditions. The main tradition, and the one that
means the most to me, is stopping for breakfast on the first morning of our
trip.
These
trips began twenty years ago when we moved to Durham, North Carolina. Typically, we'd leave New Hampshire in
our fully loaded station wagon or mini-van in the early evening, just about
sunset. With no traffic we
don’t have to detour through the major cities. We pass through New York City at about midnight. Just before sunrise we are usually driving
down New York Avenue in Washinton, DC.
A detour past the Capitol and Lincoln Memorial provides a little
excitement for those who are awake.
The
first few times we traveled south we stopped at a Denny’s in Woodbridge,
Virginia. We would get a typical
Denny’s breadfast: pancakes, eggs, bacon, and homefries. We had two children at the time. Since my daughter Emily was not yet
one, the stop involved a diaper change.
A
couple of times we stopped at Shoney’s in Fredricksburg, Virginia. Shoney’s has an awesome breakfast
buffet. Shoney's has everything
you could ever want for breakfast including Southern delicacies like biscuits
and sausage gravy, cheese sauce for your scrambled eggs, and grits. All you can eat! That was great when I was in my
thirties, but now that I’m more mature and need to watch my figure I drive
right on past Shoney’s.
Our
tradition changed forever when we had our first Waffle House breakfast. I’ll never forget it. We were in Petersburg, Virginia. We took a little side trip to the
National Battlefield there to see what is left of "The Crater." It
was about 8:00 AM when we left the battlefield, all hungry and grouchy. Right there by the exit was a
Waffle House. They aren't much to
look at, but we were desperate and decided to give it a try.
There
is nothing fancy about Waffle Houses.
They are small, about the size of an old time diner. The kitchen is in
the open, on the other side of a lunch counter and a row of booths. The waitress takes your order (“What
can I git for y’all?”), then turns around and starts cooking. There’s something really cool about
being able to see – and smell – your order being prepared.
After
ordering I take a trip to the bathroom. Waffle House bathrooms are nothing to
write home about -- small, dark, damp and a little smelly – a slide bolt for a
lock because the regular lock is broken.
But I appreciate that they have paper towels not blow dryers like Mickey
D’s and Burger King. I splash cold water on my face with hands still vibrating
from the road. I splash cold water
on my face three or four times and look at myself in the mirror as the grime on
my skin and the fog in my brain are washed away.
I'm told the waffles at Waffle House are
sublime. My wife and kids say they
have a hint of vanilla. I usually
get a Western omelet or one with cheese and chili. The best thing they serve at Waffle House are the homefries
– hot, greasy, crispy and soft, shredded not chopped potatoes. I order mine with cheese, onions and jalapenos.
Even
though we are tired and grubby, we are always in good spirits as we eat
breakfast and drink our coffee (better than Dunkin's). Our vacation has officially begun! We are several hundred miles from home
and excited to be on a long awaited trip.
We talk about where we are going and what we are going to do when we get
there.
The
breakfast also marks the end of a long nights driving. For the passengers it’s like waking up
and emerging in a different world.
For me it’s a break from the road.
I leave breakfast, my belly full, feeling very content. I’ve made it to the South. We are past all the big cities and
traffic of the Northeast. Now it’s
my wife’s turn to drive through the long boring stretch of Interstate 95 in North
Carolina, and time for me to nap for a few hours.
Jessamyn's Piece
Brady told me it was the perfect night for
catching snapping turtles. With
Brady, I knew that a comment like that was an invitation for adventure. When he rattled his Dodge truck down the
curve of my driveway I was already waiting on my porch dressed in warm clothes,
a ball cap pulled down over my long braids.
I
climbed into the truck, kissing him hello but not yet speaking. Brady grinned
and slipped the truck into reverse, turning to rest his arm across the back of
the worn bench seat as he set his eyes out over the back of the truck. In the
fading dusk, the red brake lights illuminated his face, which held a look that
was all at once happy, but tired and solemn. I felt as if I was entering a sacred moment - snapping
turtle fishing was, by rule, a boys' night activity. Brady hadn't mentioned this breach of tradition when he
asked me, and I wasn't going to argue.
Instead I sat noiselessly, anxiously, afraid to break the silence and
desperate to make myself worth it to him.
Martin
Mill Pond was only a mile away from the house, a river swollen fat by a dam at
the bottom, lapping near to the edge of the new Route 38A. Of course, when the
dam was built there was only riverside farmland to flood; the train came much
later and then the new Route 38A was built in the 1950s, following the track
line along the winding river. At
that time, they reinforced the tracks along the pond with concrete and stone
supports. Like something
orchestrated by fate, these constructions culminated in the creation of the
perfect fishing spot. The road
gave clean access, the long unused railroad bed left a flat spot to sit, and
the bolstering of the trestle created a quick drop off deep into the murky
pond, where big fish and turtles alike waited beneath dark water.
The
others were already there when we arrived. Brady pulled the truck off the highway into the dusty
shoulder and hopped out to unload his gear. There was very little light left before the night settled,
and we moved quickly to get everything out. No one spoke, just moved silently over the sound of the
nighttime crickets. The pond was
slate, still and ominous past the edge of the trestle. It didn't reflect the pinkish-hued sky
that lingered above; instead it rejected all femininity, remaining cold and
impassive, as if it could feel my anxious heart beating fast. I would find no solace or friend in
that cold-hearted body, and so far none of the boys had done much but grunt in
recognition of my presence.
I
stepped back up into the truck with Brady, wondering if I had made a mistake in
coming. We drove it up the road a ways where the years of fishermen pilgrimages
had created a parking area big enough for a few cars. Brady gently shifted into
park and leaned back in his seat, sighing. I squeezed my hands together,
knitted almost in nervous prayer, and gazed out the window.
"Are
you sure it's okay with the guys that I'm here?" My voice sounded out of place against the blanket of silence
and he glanced at me surprised; I couldn't tell if it was because I had asked
that question, or just that I had spoken aloud.
"They're
great. You already know Bobby, and
I'll introduce you to my cousin and uncle when we get back." He reached
over to squeeze my hand and I realized how cold I was, a sign of my uneasiness. His fingers draped so completely over
my knuckles that it made me think of the night we had finally decided to be
more than friends; hands palm to palm he had marveled at how perfectly our
fingers fit together, like a line from a cheesy movie. At the time I had been
contemplative; I wasn't sure what I really wanted and the borrowed line rang
out like a sour note. It hadn’t felt real to me. The thought of it now made me
shiver and he mistook me for being cold, offering me his oversize sweatshirt.
It
smelled like him, a combination of cologne and outdoors, maybe a bit of
campfire, too. Whatever I had felt
then, it felt real now. Comforted, I pulled the sweatshirt around me as we
started back to the others, picking my way across the train tracks. The air was heavy on the cusp of rain
and the rising breeze pulled at my braids, desperate to let loose my errant
curls. Brady took a moment to
purposefully move between myself and the road, placing a hand at my back while
I navigated the rails. He would often surprise me with the protective nature I
was gradually discovering. I could
feel the warmth of his palm through his sweatshirt and momentarily rallied my
courage to face the rest of the boys.
I
had known Bobby for longer than Brady, but both had been my good friends for a
long time. Bobby was the older
brother of my closest girl friend, and his brotherly protection often expanded
to include me. I could see him
watch as Brady carefully led me to them, meticulously noting the attention he
paid to keeping me safe. His grin
at our arrival could just have easily been an approval as a welcome. He was setting up a propane lantern
atop the largest of the coolers; the darkness was finally settling and the lone
light from the lantern was a beacon, casting shadows on his features.
Brady's
cousin Jake was a lot younger than us, just out of high school and working at
the factory down the river. Brady
was Jake's best and possibly only friend, so I swallowed away my worry and
smiled warmly at him, desperate to prove to him I was a good girl, that I wouldn't
break Brady's heart, that I was okay for him despite our disparate backgrounds.
Despite my attempt, he shook my hand formally. I let go of a disappointed sigh.
I tried once more to ask him a friendly question, which he answered
perfunctorily, adding on a polite, "ma'am," to which Bobby and Brady
let out whooping laughs that shattered the air.
Jake's
father, Brady's Uncle, stood on the far side of the perch, but turned at that
moment and started to stumble toward me.
Something felt wrong and I froze to the spot; his eyes were glazed and
his steps were offbeat. Both Brady
and Bobby moved subtly closer to me, not blocking the Uncle all the way, but
still an immovable presence. He reached out a hand to me and introduced
himself, coming close enough for me to smell the alcohol. Despite my terror of him (Brady,
although reticent to share much, had bitterly described his habits), I did
smile to try to make the situation more relaxed but it only seemed to encourage
him; he wouldn't let go of my hand.
I nodded politely even though I only could understand a word or two of
what he was saying. Finally, Brady
tugged his arm away, moving him along, and set him up with a pole on the far
edge of our area; the Uncle mumbled to himself but drew a fresh gulp from the bottle
he pulled from his coat and left us alone.
Our
little sphere of light glowed under the chapel of the cloudy sky. We set up
chairs near the coolers, each of us opening a bottle of cheap cold beer and
settling in. After giving me a
chair, Brady placed one for himself on my left and one for Bobby on my right,
further protection against either the Uncle or the darkness. Bobby stood on the edge of the pond,
now a dark abyss expanding past the limits of the lantern, threading bait on
his hook. His decrepit fishing hat sat askew on his head, making him look far
older than he was. A silly-looking thing, I'm sure it was for luck that he even
wore it. He cast his line out into
the night, searching for the poor little fish that would become Snapper bait.
It
was quieter than I thought. The
boys seemed settled in their routine; their camaraderie was implicit in their
systematic movements. Each knew when the other needed a lure, a beer, a seat,
or a joke. They spoke
infrequently, vacillating between crude humor (Brady would wink in my direction
and Bobby would cluck in disapproval on my behalf) and thoughtful observation
of the night. I felt superfluous and intimidated by their inaudible intimacy,
although they never meant for me to feel that way. Jake sat off on his own in silence, at the farthest point
away from his drunken father, hunched over his reel and rod with a leg dangling
just above the cool water. Brady would check in, pass me a drink, or squeeze my
shoulder. Bobby would explain this or that technique like he was preaching a
sermon, his fishing rod and line probing the depths for the baitfish.
Shadowed
against the night sky, I studied their silhouettes. Jake seemed a polar
opposite to Brady and Bobby. Jake was skinny and shorter than me; the others,
military-muscled, towered at over six feet tall. Where Bobby's shoulders
hunched to hide it, Brady's fell relaxed.
Brothers in everything but blood, they were tied together for life; I
envied their closeness. While I
loved them both in different ways and for different reasons, I felt even then
that I would never come close to touching their lives as they had done for each
other. Still, they stood as pillars of my protection, sanctuary against my
worries. I was a silent observer to their quiet communion with the wild.
Once
the poor baitfish was caught, the atmosphere changed for all of them. The Uncle had long gone to sleep off
the booze in Jake's truck, but the rest of us remained waiting for the big catch. Brady pulled the heavy-duty line from
his tackle box and baited the hook before he settled into the chair next to
me. Jake, lighthearted without his
father nearby, cracked a joke and turned on a little radio I hadn't
noticed. He adjusted the dial and
a country guitar rang out across the water, echoing back from the tiny lights
on the opposite shore; the turtles wouldn't be spooked by the music like the
fish. Lines in the water, Brady and Bobby traded stories I had never been privy
to, and I watched with fascination.
One of them got started on boot camp stories, and they spent several
minutes trying to prove to me who had the best (or the worst) story to share.
It
wasn't long before they caught a Snapper.
The pole bent until I was sure it would snap, but said nothing and kept
myself out of the way. Brady,
whose line bore the turtle, squinted his eyes in focused concentration on the
line, muscles outlined in the lamplight as he held fast; putting down his own
pole, Bobby stretched his great frame along the ground to prepare to pull the
turtle out when it got close enough; Jake kept his eyes along Brady's line, but
shouted encouragements between curses and took out his knife, ready to cut when
required. It took a few minutes for the beast to surface through the churning
water, but I shrieked when it did; it was enormous. Even Brady swore in delight, and the others joined him in
admiration of the creature. Just
as it dragged against the side of the trestle, Bobby swooped in
and snatched hold of his tail, holding it dripping at arm's length, his arm
swaying with the weight.
I
was in awe of the scene. The dark and leathery looking skin of the turtle was
cragged and spiked; its giant shell was scratched and battered. It snapped its
jaws and thrashed around, indignant at being fooled by what it thought was a
free dinner. Its stony eyes were full of anger, an ancient and venerable
rage. All at once it was
terrifying and beautiful. Time
froze and the world faded as I watched; the dark creature and the jubilant
heroes never seemed at odds, but rather moved together in an odd dance. The
boys were methodical; they had caught it but never intended to keep it. How could they? Instead, Brady worked
to get the line free so they could return it to the murk.
Then
it was over. The turtle slipped
beneath the inky water and the boys sat back on their heels at the water's
edge. I went back to my chair,
suddenly tired. It had been just a
few minutes, maybe even seconds. It was as if we had all been confronted with
something truly wild; yet, for them, it was one of many such encounters. I was
different, a foreigner to their easy understanding of the way of nature. I
shivered in Brady's sweatshirt. I loved being there, despite myself. Something
had clicked. I could see it all through Brady's eyes; it was the nearness to
nature he loved, the explanation for his desire to fill his precious few free
hours with fishing rather than always choosing to see me. There under the night
sky I could finally understand, watching him as he looked out across the
water.
When
he turned back to me, grinning, I smiled happily. He didn't rebait his pole,
but came back and sat next to me, his arm curling around my shoulders and
drawing me near. Jake turned off the radio, perhaps to preserve the holiness of
their victory, and the air filled with the hymn of circling night creatures,
swarming to the lone lantern light. I settled in against Brady while we watched
Jake and Bobby fish for a little longer. Their casts were less purposeful this time;
they had already won the battle.
It
wasn't long before the clouds above us spilled over and it began to rain. The boys rushed around to pack up while
I went and got the truck. Our laughs were interspersed with their controlled
commands, organized in post-triumph glow. They bellowed at each other trying to
decide what to save first: their tackle or the beer.
I
felt like a giddy teenager when Brady dropped me off at my house later that
night. We sat in the truck talking for hours, the previous silent sanctity of
the night broken by the torrents of rain that had driven us away and now
pattered against the roof. I wondered why he had brought me out with them,
although I was glad he had. We talked about anything; he excitedly detailed all
the fishing places he wanted to take me to see, camping trips we would share
with the guys, and future snapping turtles we would catch. Now that I had been
a successful part of boys’ night, I could join them again; I was completely and
utterly happy. Our kisses were full of hope and happiness for what had occurred
and what could be. When the rain broke, we were reluctant to separate, but in
the end he walked me to my door where we kissed goodnight while moths
dive-bombed the light bulb over the door.
I went inside, electric with joy. His truck backed out of the driveway,
headlights disappearing down the road.
I
never went snapping turtle fishing again.
Dechert
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Michelle P.'s Writing Piece
Denise
and Greg are fighting again—quite publicly. She writes a not-so-veiled comment on the newsfeed about
being stuck with the kids AGAIN by herself and how she is sick of it. He attacks her by demanding that she
not vent where everyone can read it and she knows where she can find him. The irony is lost in the ensuing back
and forth debate, in which “friends” occasionally try to mediate.
Miranda’s
relationship status has gone from “In a relationship” to “It’s
complicated.” What’s that
about? There follows the typical
series of comments that range from the maddeningly misspelled: “Its ok hunny”
and “Ur better off without him anyway” to the clueless “What happened?”
(Those
types of status updates are always fascinating, though nothing beats the time I
read Ben Gonn’s, which went from “Married” to “Single” and on which his wife?
ex-wife? posted, “It’s nice to find out you’re planning on divorcing me through
Facebook!” In this case, the
cliché of watching a train wreck definitely applies.)
Terri
is angry at her son’s teacher, who must have done or said something during
class one day. (I’d have to probably go to her home page to see the backstory
on that one and it’s hard to read posts that bash other teachers, so this time,
I refrain). Her post ends with a
self-congratulatory “You don’t mess with the Mama Bear!”
Troy
has posted a picture of the Pats game—which he attended. There’s a photo of him down on the
field post-game, cheering and pointing his finger to the sky in the “We’re
number one!” sign.
Emma
just had her baby. Declarations of
“Congratulations!” follow suit. Pictures
too—in which everyone looks happy and the pink-cheeked child, swaddled in
fleece, is sleeping for the camera.
Heather
is once again raving about what a wonderful boyfriend she has—and look, there’s
the bouquet of peach-colored roses he bought her—“just because.”
Jill
has posted pictures of her children—looking adorable—as they sled on the hill
outside their home, and then come in for hot cocoa. Oddly, there are no pictures of them smacking each other on
the head, pushing each other off the sofa, or wailing about stolen cars that
have mysteriously “absconded” from the room. (Oh wait, those are my kids.)
Mark’s
son just won the school spelling bee.
His daughter just cured cancer.
Shelley
has just finished cleaning the house, baking a four course dinner (of which she
posted pictures), and is now headed out to Zumba—after which she will save the
world.
Before
I know it, I am sucked in. Soon
it’s been a half an hour, the kids are hungry, I haven’t started a one course dinner yet—let alone a four course one--and I am convinced
that—aside from those publicly venting or fighting or complaining-- everyone
else is a better parent, better teacher, or is better at juggling life’s
responsibilities than I am.
And
apparently, I’m not alone.
According to a study done by Utah Valley University, Facebook—along with
other social media sites—makes us sad.
The
study references the kinds of pictures and information people post: most of the
pictures show people smiling, having fun—not people sitting depressed in a
darkened room. And there are
plenty of people who post funny or positive statuses rather than parading their
problems for the world to see—present company included. So it’s easy to understand why those
who spend a lot of time on Facebook come to the conclusion that other people
have better lives than they do.
I
remember how excited I was when I first opened my Facebook account. Ten friend requests. Then eight more. Then twelve. Fifteen. Seventeen. Six. Nine. I had eighty-one friends! And
more. And more. I spent time creeping around on my new
friends' pages, discovering what they had been up to for the past several
years. It was fun, catching up
with former students--who comprise many of my Facebook friends--since, without
Facebook, I probably would never know what most of them were doing with their
lives. The downside is that
sometimes I know a little too much
about what it is that they are doing.
The
irony is that while Facebook is touted as sowing connection and community, it often
reaps discontent and isolation.
Facebook
users paradoxically isolate themselves from the people who physically surround
them in order to interact with people whose only presence is online. Conversations exist through posts or
chats, rather than face-to-face.
After all, when you only have so much time to cook dinner, bathe the
kids, do laundry, and grade papers, jotting a quick comment on a friend’s
status or hitting the “like” icon is a lot easier than picking up the phone and
calling to talk—or better yet, getting in your car and driving over for a
visit.
But
maybe that’s the problem. It's
easier, but it isn't as fulfilling.
I
recently got the chance to reconnect with one of my old college friends who
lives in Pennsylvania. Our April
vacation was spent roaming through city streets, visiting the Crayola Factory
with our children, going mini golfing, eating ice cream, and talking. I didn’t go on Facebook over the whole vacation. And (if I’m being honest) mostly, I
didn’t miss it. At one point, my
husband logged on so he could print off directions to his cousin’s apartment in
New York City. Like an addict, I
succumbed to temptation, briefly, and saw a few status updates by my friends,
started feeling left out of the loop, and had to remind myself that I was
having a nice time with my family and friends while I was on a vacation—and had to remind myself about how good it felt to visit with someone in person.
My
excuse is always that I don’t have time to do this type of connecting. I’m too busy walking the tightrope of
mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, teacher, advisor to do much more than
keep my head straight, arms extended, one foot in front of the other.
Yet
how much time each day do I end up spending on Facebook? On a weeknight, maybe not so much. A half hour. Sometimes 45 minutes, if the posts are interesting. On weekends? Some Saturdays I feel like a user, in every sense of the
word. I spend my time
procrastinating various chores by plunking myself down in front of the
computer, scrolling down the screen, wondering why everyone else has a life but
me.
Wendy
is going to Hampton Beach to check out the sand sculpture competition. (It’s a gorgeous summer day. Why didn’t I think of that? Probably because I was thinking of all
the grading I still have to do. Too late now.)
Jane
is hiking up Lovell Mountain with her family. (Ditto my previous comment.)
Nancy
is thanking Tina and Steve for a fun date night the previous evening. (People have date nights? And when was the last time we got together with anyone?)
Susan
is baking muffins with her girls.
Next they will be making crepes.
(I could do that. I can
bake, right? Well, maybe not
crepes. But muffins, yes. I could do muffins.)
It's
a sorry way to spend a Saturday: sitting at my computer while other people are
out seizing the day.
So
maybe it’s time that I stop letting Facebook get me down. Maybe it’s time to recognize that the honest
answer to the question, “What’s on your mind?” isn’t always what fills
everyone’s pages, and that the “faces” that people present on Facebook are the
ones that they want the world to see—for better or for worse—and if I want more
meaningful relationships, while Facebook is
a fun way to interact with people, it shouldn’t be the only way I do so.
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It's 3 A.M. and I want to sleep. We have been paddling for days and though I am in excellent shape, I need my rest. But, sleep is not an option. Herr Counselor beckons us with his bellowing voice to roll out of our tents. That is the warning signal. If not out in five minutes, we and our gear get a courtesy "shower" fresh from the mountain stream on which we paddle.
"Four minutes."
This countdown is not helping. I stretch and try to roll over to grab the last minute of available zs.
"Three minutes."
I groggily slither out of my sleeping bag and as I do, the crisp summer air of Northern Maine hits me like a wall. I recoil, but get up regardless (this is much less painful than the shower would be). We are on the west branch of the Penobscot, and in the middle of a two week whitewater canoeing trip. Today, the counselors implement the brilliant idea to wake up at 3, break camp, and get on the water by 3:30. They are crazy.
It is amazing how difficult it is to take down a tent when you are half asleep. The stakes which last night refused to enter the ground are immobile. I have to dig my fingers in the ground just to find the stake. Finally I find them. My mates are still in the tent. Yet, begin collapsing it. Hey, it is either that or the shower.
"Hey, What the…"
"Come on, we have to get on the water." I do not even give Jimmy a chance to finish his sentence.
"Yeah, You're right." he replies.
We finish dropping the tent, and Mike finds the door amidst the folds of billowing nylon just as our counselor arrives with a lobster pot full of fresh water.
"’Morning. When is breakfast, and what happened to the sun?"
I ask.
"The sun's not up yet, and breakfast is at approximately 5:30." He replies in an idiosyncratic fashion.
But…
"We are going to put in, and grab breakfast on the water."
“Great.” I am sure he can see the enthusiasm just seeping out of me.
“Come on.” He prods.
We pack up the boats, and I dunk my head in the water before jumping into the stern. The refreshing cold jolts me awake. Then, we shoved off.
The water is serene. Even though it looks completely flat, if when we lift our paddles, we drift at a good clip. The pungent smell of fir and pine hang in the air which is silent with stillness.
It is so quiet out, no one dares to speak. Even the kerplunk of the paddle entering the water rebounds off the mountains on either side of the river with a ring.
The stillness alone is worth waking up for. But there is more to come.
As we lazily navigate the river, I see the trees glowing with the light of breaking dawn. And up ahead, right before the next bend, I see my counselor giving the antler sign…
The antler sign was a signal we developed to let everyone know to be quiet because there was wildlife up ahead. In fact, it was quite hilarious and embarrassing. You pressed your thumbs to the side of your head and raised your fingers up pretending you had a set of antlers attached to your temples.