September 8, 2015 - The Unknown Sailor

He’s not watching me like I’m watching him.  He doesn’t know I’m here.  I’m standing on the vast shore with rocks and cliffs everywhere.  It’s impossible to miss this land mass, and yet I’m invisible.  He’s off in a tiny sailboat by comparison.  It’s a speck on a vast horizon of blue, but he takes up the entire horizon.  I’ll stand and watch him go by until he’s far out of sight.  He won’t do the same for me.

It’s strange how we don’t see the massive things right before our eyes, but the tiny things--the details--lure us in.  It’s not the huge rock face I see before me.  It’s the tiny independent sailboat far out to sea that captures my eye, and because it has captured my eye, it has also captured my heart.  Maybe it’s because I can’t have him.  Maybe it’s because he doesn’t even know I exist.  I guess that makes it safer.

I stand in the middle of a love affair for one, courtesy of the unknown sailor.

The unknown sailor.

September 7, 2015 - The Hearth is the Home

In the 1760s, this was a fireplace in a tavern.  The tavern was on one half of the building, and Captain Samuel Goodwin and his family lived on the other half.  Upstairs was the Pownalborough Courthouse, the only pre-revolutionary courthouse still standing in Maine (Town of Dresden).  Many famous historic people came here, including John Adams (the 2nd president of the U.S.) and Benedict Arnold.  It’s a historic landmark now, but many of the original implements, some of the clothing, and even 200+ year-old graffiti can still be found here.

A huge walk-in hearth at the old Pownalborough Courthouse.

I love all the history in Maine.  I took many pictures of this building, but you’ll notice that what attracted my eye the most was the hearth.  There were several huge hearths throughout the building, both upstairs and down.  I loved this one the most because it’s the perfect center of a home.  It’s where people came to get warm in the terrible Maine winter.  It meant life and death in the bad weather.  It stood for comfort and safety and peace.  It’s where the meals were cooked that sustained the family and those who frequented the tavern.  It’s the lifeblood of the house.

Baked bread, steamed puddings, thick stews, and sizzling meats were all cooked here.  People were born and died here.  People--people just like you and I--lived their lives, loved and hated, schemed and prayed, lost and won at the game of life.  These aren’t just historical people.  These were real folks, and it’s important to remember that at every step in history, real lives are at stake, real lives are in the balance.  We tend to think of it all as a historic romance, but the struggle to live and die was very real and no less poignant than it is today.

Every generation seems to think that its generation is the most advanced, the most important, the most relevant, but the fact is that every generation is vital.  Remembering this for the past but also for the future--especially for the future--can make a big difference in the way our world ultimately plays itself out.  When you gather around your modern-day hearth, while your life might not seem “vital” or of tremendous significance, it is.  It’s extremely important.  You are life.  You are the stuff that the future is made of.  You are brilliantly necessary, so have a care that you behave in a manner which displays your full knowledge of that fact.

September 6, 2015 - How It Was Done

The barns are filling up with pumpkins and other winter squashes.  These will last a good long time if stored properly, some longer than others.  Not long ago, it was important for people to store as many root vegetables and squashes as they could in order to get through the winter with plenty of healthy food.

The pumpkins wait to be sold or stored.

Onions, garlic, turnips, potatoes, carrots, and squashes lasted well into the winter.  Eventually, they would begin to rot or would have all be eaten, and in that case, the pickled vegetables were consumed.  Cucumber pickles and sauerkraut have seen many people through the winter, and the natural fermentation process adds a great deal of vitamins and nutrients that are especially important in the winter months.  Add apples into the mix with everything else--stored separately because of the ripening gas they give off--and you have yourself a very fine cellar capable of feeding many people.

This is how it was done before supermarkets came about.  The delicate foods, such as salad greens, were consumed in season for the treat that they were.  Other delicate foods that don’t store well were dried, or they were canned in more recent times.  I still remember stringing green beans with a needle and thread, and then hanging them above a wood stove to dry.  We used to call them “leather britches.”  You drop your dried vegetables into a pot of simmering soup or stew and they just expand slowly as they cook.  Delicious.

After all the vegetables are stored, dried, or canned, hunting season comes along.  Meat is eaten while fresh, then cold-smoked in a smoke house or dried in strips or into jerky.  In more modern days, we see the meat canned or frozen.  Hogs are slaughtered and the meat is consumed or stored as above.  The leaf fat is rendered into lard.  That’s one thing I haven’t given up.  I do still render my own lard.  I get the fat from the farmer up the road.  It’s the best stuff for cooking.

And this is how it was done.  It’s an oversimplified version, of course, because I left out some foods and the hard work involved in doing it all, but this is how people did it.  Nowadays we’ve traded the hard work for monotony and boredom.  I don’t think it was a good trade.  Some people are going back to the old ways, bit by bit, step by step.  There is life without malls, supermarkets, and box stores.

But I should warn you about the leather britches.  We don’t call them that for no reason at all.  They are quite leathery and take a good long time to reconstitute.  But what else is there to do in the long winter months?

September 5, 2015 - One Day Left

If I had one day left to live, I’d spend it on the rocky shores of Maine.  I’d bring the people I love with me, and we’d have a picnic by the waves.  I’d climb along the cliffs and go into the freezing water of the Atlantic.  I’d collect pretty shells and squish my feet into strange-feeling seaweed.  I’d inhale the salt air as deeply as possible to take in all the crisp Maine freshness.  I’d listen to music and match its cadence with the waves.

The best day.

Besides telling people I love them, I’d spend a good portion of my time watching the gulls soar in the air.  I’d listen to their cries high in the sky as they circle and then dive.  I’d watch them sunning themselves in the rocky areas no human can get to.  I’d watch them take off and catch a current and glide.  Mostly, I’d just watch their freedom to never have to wonder about the last day.

No one knows when their time will come, and I hope I have thousands upon thousands of days left.  But if that day should come tomorrow, let it be spent doing what I love to do in places where I have always done it.  Then I could be like the gulls.

September 4, 2015 - On Maine Beaches

The strange thing about going to a beautiful Maine beach--and all beaches in Maine are beautiful, rocky or not--is that when you’re alone, you tend to talk out loud, and when you’re with someone else, you tend to be silent.  It’s the beach that does this to you. 

The magic of the Maine beach.

 

Alone, you marvel at the vastness and beauty.  There are no commercial outfits to distract you.  There are no handrails or roped off areas.  There’s nothing to suggest man and civilization, and because of this, it cuts right to the chase.  There’s no fooling yourself when you’re alone on a Maine beach.  There are no lies.  Everything is out in the open, and your mind is completely on the table.  There’s no escape.  When you’re on a Maine beach alone, you face your thoughts.  You have no choice.  It is completely natural to talk right out loud and discuss your various problems with yourself.  It’s not often that you get to chat with the observer within.

When someone else is with you, the silence can be deafening.  The same thing happens to you when you’re with someone that happens when you’re alone.  The difference is that you clam up immediately because you’re afraid of the complete honesty.  It’s not a bad feeling at all; it’s a peaceful feeling.  But it’s a vulnerable feeling.  Whereas you might delve into all sorts of problems on your own, when you’re with someone, you absorb your candid thoughts and only pray that you can recall them later.

I prefer to go to the beach alone.  This way I won’t scare anyone with my thoughts.  It’s a great way to work out problems and a great way to see how small and insignificant the difficulties in our lives are.  It’s a washing of the mind.  The waves come in and wash out all the encrusted thoughts.  The waves go out and leave peace in their wake.  But alone or with someone else, you leave your problems at the shore and continue on with lighter shoulders.

September 2, 2015 - Spidery Tales

I keep seeing their elaborate traps everywhere.  They’re bold.  They set out to enmesh an entire region and trap as many victims as possible.  They’re ruthless and cunning.  Their traps are transparent by day and invisible by night.  When the morning dew graces them, they sparkle like millions of tiny gems.  They’re enticing and deadly.  They’re wispy and ethereal.  They’re attractive and beguiling.  They’re ensnaring and murderous.

There is no mercy.

Very few escape their clutches.  The majority struggle at first but weaken quickly.  They wait in silent fear, not knowing what has happened but knowing only that they are trapped.  They’re in a world of gossamer tunnels filled with deadly ends.  Everything they touch is sticky and ensnares them further.  They give up the struggle easily, some would say hypnotically, as they gaze through clouded eyes at their sparkly prison.

The attack comes quickly.  There is another brief struggle when the victim realizes that the shiny silk clouds will not yield the sustenance they had hoped for.  Then the victim tries to find the light, but it’s too late.  The sticky mesh has enveloped them completely, and they can only stare out through haunted eyes.  Who knows what terrible ghosts they see?  Who knows what horrors dance across their minds?  Who knows what terror grips their souls?  The venomous bite comes lightning fast, and then all struggle ceases.  Then the long wait toward the slow and torturous ebbing of life begins.

But enough about the mainstream media.

August in Maine is known as “spider month,” and by the time September rolls around, it’s all you can do to avoid them.  Fortunately, we do not have any poisonous spiders in Maine.  I cannot say the same for the news.

September 1, 2015 - Drifting Ghosts

Another strange and twisted piece of driftwood has been washed up on the beach.  This one seems to have several different faces in it.  It reminds me of Celtic art with animals all done in twisting and overlapping positions.  Unlike the Book of Kells, however, which is colorful and illuminated, the driftwood bears no color but gray.  It is this color, or lack thereof, that gives driftwood its unmistakable and haunting appeal.

Another ghost upon the shore.

But they’re all just ghosts.  No matter how soft they might be to the touch, no matter how wispy and silvery, no matter how carved, molded, and etched--they’re all just ghosts.  When something gets swept into the ocean, it does not return the same, assuming it returns at all.  The ocean is very greedy for the stored energy in the hapless castaways that are unfortunate enough to fall into its clutches.  In the case of wood, which was grown and nurtured on land and which holds the secret energy of the sun, the appetite of the ocean is insatiable.  Although it has its own strange energies and deep currents, some which are still not completely understood, the ocean always hungers for more.

So when they wash up on the shore, they are forever changed.  Their dance with the ocean--at first violent and thrashing, and later smooth and undulating--has stolen much of their original nature away.  They are ghostly caricatures of what they once were.  The green of life has been devoured.  The brown of decay has been savored.  Only the silvery ghostly soul remains, haunting the shore, and this is why we cannot take our eyes off driftwood once we see it.

When I was young, we would set the ghosts free.  We would light a fire and put the driftwood in it.  These days I’m told it gives off a toxic smoke filled with dioxins, but somehow we all survived back then.  If you are bold enough to try it, you will see the ghosts being released.  The properties the driftwood has absorbed from the ocean will come flying out in flames of purple, blue, and green.  The colors are magnificent at night!  The Earth and Sun energy may have been stolen by the Ocean, but the power absorbed in exchange is undeniable.  Unearthly.  Unbelievably haunting.

When old ghosts are bothering my mind and heart from days gone by, I always seem to find a piece of strange driftwood.  It’s as if it has been searching for me all these years.  I wait for night and light a fire and set the ghosts free.  Purple, blue, and green salamanders fly off into the darkness and find another place to haunt.  I’m free again, for the time being, until the ghosts return.

August 31. 2015 - Old Glory

There’s “Old Glory” off to the left in the far background, surveying the scene.  It’s checking the coast from sea to shining sea.  Leave your hat at the door and be polite when you come in.  That’s a requirement far too many Americans have forgotten about, and it’s high time we all remember.

In the far distance, Old Glory still reigns.

 

When I was little, I would say the Pledge of Allegiance by rote because that’s what I was taught.  We all did it as children, and we enjoyed the ritual.  We loved our country without questioning.  Then I grew older and began to ask questions, as people will do when they grow.  I found there were aspects of society that I didn’t love at all.  In fact, I didn’t even like them.  I got “society” mixed up with “country,” and it caused a lot of unnecessary heartache for me.  A resentment grew and expressed itself in the subliminal way it had been planted in its pawn.  I no longer said the Pledge of Allegiance.

But then I grew even older, and the game became clearer.  The simple things came back to me--unexpectedly but greatly appreciated.  Their timeless beauty humbled me and taught me and bent my knee.  A new knowledge grew along with a love for the land.  I express my love here in Maine.  It may be in a different part of the country for others.  One thing’s certain, though:  Old Glory still flies free and beautiful, and I still say my Pledge of Allegiance.  And for all of its problems, difficulties, differences, arguments, standoffs, mistakes, hardheadedness, etc., it’s still the greatest place in the world.  So, hats off and show a little respect!

From sea to shining sea.

August 30, 2015 - Painting Maine

It’s as though an artist came through the shores of Maine with a brush and lightly swished it across the sky, placing wispy clouds.  Then she dipped it in white paint and placed quartz stones all amid the granite.  A tiny sailboat in the background was added as an afterthought.  Next she went to green and black and put some seaweed here and there.  Then she chiseled the pine trees into the horizon, covering some of the stone she had placed.  The rocks she made with shades of gray and bits of iron ore that splashed a rust color in random spots.

The artist's canvas.

First came the blue, though.  She mixed it in slightly different shades and painted the ocean and sky.  Somehow, even though they’re both blue, she made sure we could tell where the ocean ended and the sky began.  A dark line differentiates the two, but it’s also a matter of texture.  She put in the waves of the water and breathed secret currents into the air.  Somehow the sky caught them and distributed them subtly so that we would have the feeling of great expanse and open space.

And as quickly as she came, she left.  There were so many more paintings to make.  There were forests and glens, hidden animals, lush pastures, and secret meadows.  All were clamoring for the artist’s brush.  Yet barely does she finish, when it is time to come through once again and paint us all into autumn.