Walking the Berkshires

Here and Not Here

The problem with the Berkshires is they lack an ocean.  We had one once, long ago.  There was a shallow inland sea on the other side of the mountains, which we can thank for our marble valleys today.  Before that, before the ancestors of the Berkshires pressed upward to Himalayan stature as bits of what might otherwise have become part of Africa twisted and folded and transformed the very bones of the Earth in a relentless upwelling, the place where I sit today was once the edge of a Continent. Sometimes I feel the lack of that long receded sea, and the press of tides from 500 million years ago.

Although a fire sign, I am drawn to water.  Not just to the shore, but beneath the waves in the womb of the sea.  I am a child of salt water even more than fresh, more Triton than Naiad.  I am happiest with waves in hearing, with the taste of brine on my skin. 

I love the undulating spine of our mountains, but they do not curl in on themselves like Atlantic rollers as they shoal.  I love the way that the wind ripples the grass in an unmowed field, but there are no whitecaps at the crest except for the darting swallows.  When the air here is thick and waits for summer rain, the wind is always fresh off the bay.

Still, the fireflies in the meadow are are just as magical to me as glowing phosphorescence on dark nights by the shore.  The song of the ovenbird plays at the strings of my heart like the mewing of gulls.  The red efts in our moist woods and the savory wild mushrooms are the treasures we find here, instead of combing the beach and digging for clams. 

In life, longing and loving, here and not here, are braided like strands of rope and are stronger together.  There is time for each in its season, and to hold the absent places of the heart in our mind's eye.  I feel the wind from the sea when I walk in these inland woods.  I smell the sweet earth of home when my feet press the wet sand.  They are all part of the fabric, a unified whole, and so my restless heart finds comfort.

Colonial Williamsburg Prepares to Pour a Cannon on June 23, 2010

700 pounds of molten bronze to make one British three pounder.  If I had tomorrow free, I would drive to Virginia to watch Colonial Williamsburg's first ever cannon pour.

"Colonial Williamsburg’s Historic Trades artisans will knock out the plug on their brick casting furnace near Great Hopes Plantation, releasing nearly 700 pounds of molten bronze, streaming down a sluiceway into a carefully crafted mold Wednesday, June 23.

In a matter of a minute or two, the liquid bronze will disappear into the five-foot-long mold, where it will solidify into the shape of a three-pounder cannon of the Revolutionary War era used by British infantry."

A must see, you must agree..

Battle of Monmouth (2010) Photos (part 4)

Battle of Monmouth Reenactment (2010) Photos (part 3)

  The British and their German Allies advance on the from and flank. Dragoons and the line companies of a royal regiment move against the American lines. British Line infantry in campaign dress and Hessian Jaegers push back the American right flank. George Washington and the NJ battalions execute a fighting withdrawal. (to be continued)

Battle of Monmouth (2010) Reenactment Photos (part 2)

Proctor's Artillery and American Light Dragoons engage the Royalists, who are pressing the center and right flanks of the American position at Monmouth. New York infantry (including a Native American ally) and a company of riflemen reinforce the right flank and the Jersey Brigade holds the center. Major General Lee observes the action, but has not yet been dressed down by Washington for withdrawing from the attack. The Jerseymen, including Ogden's 1st New Jersey, prepare to advance on a strong British position. (To be continued).

 

 

RevWar Reenactment, 232nd Anniversary Battle of Monmouth (Part 1)

I settled with the paymaster, and will shortly enlist as a Jersey Blue in the 1st NJ Regiment (Ogden's).  I had a fabulous time as an enthusiastic buff at Monmouth over the weekend, and will now ease into more active participation during the coming year and the daunting but exciting task of acquiring (and financing) a uniform and accouterments.  I also regaled numerous participants with dramatic readings from the original of Hannah Ogden's homefront letter (1779). 

Since I was not in reenacting garb, I was able to take many pictures.  There are a lot of them, so this and subsequent posts will provide the highlights..

1. The American Camp, by the drill field.  2. Battalion drill

3.  The officer with the anachronistic but useful microphone portrays my ancestor Col. Elias Dayton, Col. of the 3rd NJ.  He provided color commentary of the battle reenactment.  Standing next to him is an African American of the 1st Rhode Island battalion, which included a large percentage of free and enslaved black soldiers. 

4. A camp following sulter of used clothing displays her wares.  5.   Major General the Lord Cornwallis, Commanding  the British Rearguard and sneering at the "Doodles".

6. A Gunner of Proctor's Artillery  7. American dragoons skirmish with the enemy.  8 A Don Troiani portrait quite literally come to life.

9.  The 4th Light Dragoons (dismounted) engage with the enemy.  10. Molly Pitcher and Proctors Artillery

(to be continued)

Take Me Out

My parents celebrate their 44th wedding anniversary today, somewhere way back of beyond up the Amazon.  Those of you who know them will appreciate that this is probably the last place you would expect them to be spending this time together, if the past is anything to go by.  But retirement suits them and the adventurous spirit of my Mom has enticed my Dad to venture beyond his usual zone of comfort.  I hope they are making marvelous discoveries moment by moment and are surrounded by new birds they will love to see.

I am about to go into a 2 hour meeting, then drive home on a gorgeous day to change my children's lives with a conversation that has been bumped up a few days from when I expected.  There is no best time to tell two little people who are dearer than life to me that their parents are planning to divorce.  I actually think I will do it with great compassion and sensitivity, for it will be me introducing this topic to them and then both of us answering questions and offering comfort to our children.  I will look them both in the eyes, with love, and tell them they are loved, and I will be in the moment, and up to the task.

I will not let myself resent the brushback pitch, high and inside.  That is what pitchers do. It is their nature.  I understand the high heat.  I can guard the plate. And I fouled off a few of them, but this is ball four, and this weekend I get to walk, and maybe even advance the runner.

I leave at crack of dawn tomorrow for the Battle of Monmouth reenactment.  I will then stay with people I love and return late on Sunday.  What will have changed at home will be hard to tell on the surface.  I will be a curious and engaged father to respond to what may stir beneath.  I was never a good fielder, but I can read the signs.

The Self Inflicted Wound

A dear friend wrote to me recently about the anguish she felt over the oil that continues to inundate the heart of the sea.  She is a brilliant poet, and one who looks squarely at the horrors of the body and soul, but she also is a person of action and feels helpless in the face of this heartsickness.  She is a writer, as am I, so this is what I wrote in reply.

"Sometimes it takes a self inflicted wound to halt the bleeding.  I think of those "relief wells" inching their way through the seabed, and it almost feels like using a lancet to release bad humors in those days when western medicine and modern science knew little of each other.  Black bile, yellow bile, phlegm and blood.  The body out of balance. 

We are shockingly primitive in our modern response to what our greedy delving has released.  It is like Tolkein's Balrog of Moria that awoke when the dwarves went too deep after their mithril.  It took Gandalf's death and rebirth to quench its flame.  It will require something like that of us as well.

Tolkien the lover of Trees also understood the sadness of the elves who outlived all else that they loved, who knew the ancient oaks from acorns and saw whole forests heedlessly destroyed to satisfy the consumptive now.  The Scouring of the Shire is for me the most important part of the Lord of the Rings.

The more we look unflinchingly at the horror of this house of grimy cards, the more we insist never again, the better chance we have that some positive lessons can be learned.  As for the wounded sea, the irreplaceable losses and the long term scars, sometimes the best we can do is bear witness, to tell their stories, to feel and to weep and to give tongue to grief.  The real healing happens over spans of time beyond human years, although it is amazing what resilience is possible from decade to decade. 

Consider the dramatic change in status of so many birds, including Brown pelicans, threatened with extinction by DDT and now recovering in its absence.  The harp seals that now haul out on the beach at Windrock when before the Marine Mammal Protection Act they were heedlessly slaughtered.  The quality of the air we breathe and the water we drink which when you were growing up was fouled and disregarded. 

We cannot sit by and say in a thousand years the earth will cleanse itself of the outrages we inflict on it.  There is a small comfort in knowing that geologic time is measured in millions while we encompass decades, but we only learn through telling and bearing witness, and a poet with your heart and depth of love for the ocean is the right person at the right time to give expression and meaning to this self inflicted wound."

Going and Coming

My children start summer vacation tomorrow.  In my youth, this usually meant 2 months at Windrock,often with Mom and with various assorted cousins and aunts, but with only a few weekends when we were joined by our working fathers.  There was a week of full family vacation in Maine at Monhegan in there as well, and then a mournful and grudging removal back home a few days before the school year began.  It helped that by late August, the air at the shore required sweaters, but for me there is something melancholy that lingers as summer wanes, and unlike my children I do not have the excitement of a new term in September to carry me forward.

This summer I will take half a year's worth of vacation days for that week in Maine and a week at Windrock.  I was able to save up and carry forward an additional week, which is needed because my dance card has gotten quite full now that I have embarked on finding a life outside of work and parenting.  I am off to Monmouth, NJ for the Revolutionary War reenactment this Saturday, and will spend it as an enthusiastic fan and potential recruit of the 1st New Jersey (Col. Ogden's) Regiment, Continental Line.  I will overnight in Philadelphia rather than in camp, for I have personal reasons to be spending time in that city beyond delight in old friends and the usual genealogical and historical factors.  Yes indeed.

Next week, my wife and I will find a quiet moment and sit with our children and share the news of our plans for divorce.  We do not have all the answers worked out to all of our own questions, but we are very clear that it is the right time for Emily and Elias to hear that they will always have both parents, that we love them deeply and that they are safe and secure.  When Viv finds sufficient employment to allow us to divide our assets into two homes, what has long since happened in the heart will be possible in the physical space we occupy.  As it is, nothing material will change in the weeks and even months after our conversation with our children, which may ease their acceptance, or may delay their response to it.

There is no avoiding this, but it can be done with love and sensitivity, without blame or panic, and that is the task ahead.  It will be painful, but also a relief.  We tend to take vacations and long weekends separately in this family, so going to Maine or Windrock without Mom and to Vermont without Dad is customary and comfortable already.  Last Saturday we went to the theater together and had a wonderful evening of Gilbert and Sullivan, followed by midnight desserts and children enchanted and asleep in my arms.  There are opportunities for grace and togetherness even in the pain of transition to our unmarried lives.  Joint custody means we will still be important factors in our children's' lives and give our better angels the incentive to interact well as good parents.

Although I am still in the same place, the same corner of our living room where I have been sleeping since October, my life and heart are in motion.  I am not pacing the cage.  I am hopeful and have much to hope for.  There is work to be done before all that needs to go and abide and come into my life is fully able to do so, but I do not fear it. No indeed.  I am just in that place on the edge of the season when change is in the air but the leaves are only just starting to turn.  And instead of melancholy, I feel myself turning as well.

"When the POTUS Ad Libs": Another G&S inspired Libretto

A libretto by Tim Abbott

(With apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan and to my left-of-center friends. 

If we can’t laugh at ourselves, someone else will do it for us.)

 

When the POTUS Ad Libs

All the President’s men, every now and again,

Are confronted with statements spontaneous

When the POTUS ad libs, far more deadly than fibs,

All unscripted, and extemporaneous.

Whether God and our guns, or the habits of nuns,

Obama will share his opinion.

And their one greatest fear, is no summit of beer

Will prevent new headlines in The Onion!

 

For no summit of beer,

In the White House beer garden,

Can prevent what we hear,

when he’s begging our pardon,

While he’s making headlines in The Onion!

 

Yes the spin doctors cringe, every time he begins

To elocute off of his tether,

He’s so clean and nice looking, but when he gets cooking

The band starts to play “Stormy Weather”.

While the Democrats yearned for a leader well-learned,

With a way with words (unlike the last bore),

They now ruefully muse, as they’re hitting the booze:

In Obama, they got what they asked for!

 

For the President’s muse,

Arriving unbidden,

Has them hitting the booze

When he’s sounding like Biden;

With Obama, they got what they asked for!

 

Though he levels all ranks, when he stops to give thanks,

To saluting marines with a handshake,

And he gifts with cds, potentates and mps,

(Who regard them as if they were mandrake),

The world heeds his words, be they Belgians or Kurds,

And proclaims him refreshing and witty;

For ‘tis words and not deeds, that a president needs

When impressing the Nobel Committee!

 

Yes the thought, not the deed,

One should never forget,

Is what counts in the end,

For a Prize Laureate,

In the eyes of the Nobel Committee!